“Yes, I’ve finished with him. I’ll have a word with your men as soon as I’ve seen Miss Easterbrook. But ask one of the sergeants to come up in ten minutes to pack up the mallet for the Yard Lab, will you? The chopper pilot will want to get back.”
They spoke a few more words about the liaison arrangements with the local Force, then Mercer left to supervise the removal of the body. He would wait to introduce Dalgliesh to his seconded officers; after that, his responsibility would end. The case was in Dalgliesh’s hands.
6
Two minutes later Claire Easterbrook was shown into the laboratory. She entered with an assurance which a less experienced investigator than Dalgliesh might have mistaken for arrogance or insensitivity. She was a thin, long-waisted woman of about thirty, with a bony, intelligent face and a cap of dark curling hair which had been layered by an obviously expert, and no doubt expensive, hand to lie in swathes across the forehead and to curl into the nape of her high-arched neck. She was wearing a chestnut-brown sweater in fine wool belted into a black skirt which swung calf length above high-heeled boots. Her hands, with the nails cut very short, were ringless and her only ornament was a necklace of large wooden beads strung on a silver chain. Even without her white coat the impression she gave—and no doubt intended—was of a slightly intimidating professional competence.
Before Dalgliesh had a chance to speak she said, with a trace of belligerence: “I’m afraid you’ll be wasting your time with me. My lover and I dined last night in Cambridge at the Master’s Lodge of his college. I was with five other people from eight-thirty until nearly midnight. I’ve already given their names to the constable in the library.”
Dalgliesh said mildly: “I’m sorry, Ms. Easterbrook, that I had to ask you to come up before we were able to remove Dr. Lorrimer’s body. And as it seems impertinent to invite you to sit down in your own laboratory, I won’t. But this isn’t going to take long.”
She flushed, as if he had caught her out in a social solecism. Glancing with reluctant distaste at the shrouded, lumpen shape on the floor, at the stiff protruding ankles, she said: “He’d be more dignified if you’d left him uncovered. Like this he could be a sack of rubbish. It’s a curious superstition, the universal instinct to cover up the recently dead. After all, we’re the ones at a disadvantage.”
Massingham said lightly: “Not, surely, with the Master and his wife to vouch for your alibi?”
Their eyes met, his coolly amused, hers dark with dislike.
Dalgliesh said: “Dr. Howarth tells me you’re the Senior Biologist now. Could you explain to me, please, what Dr. Lorrimer was doing here last night? Don’t touch anything.”
She went at once over to the table and regarded the two exhibits, the files and the scientific paraphernalia.
She said: “Would you open this file, please?”
Dalgliesh’s gloved hands slipped between the covers and flipped it open.
“He rechecked Clifford Bradley’s result on the Pascoe case. The mallet belongs to a sixty-four-year-old fen labourer called Pascoe whose wife has disappeared. His story is that she’s walked out on him, but there are one or two suspicious circumstances. The police sent in the mallet to see if the stains on it are human blood. They aren’t. Pascoe says that he used it to put an injured dog out of its misery. Bradley found that the blood reacted to anti-dog serum and Dr. Lorrimer has duplicated his result. So the dog it was that died.”
Too mean to waste a bullet or send for a vet, thought Massingham savagely. It struck him as odd that the death of this unknown mongrel should, for a moment, anger him more than the killing of Lorrimer.
Miss Easterbrook moved over to the open notebook. The two men waited. Then she frowned and said, obviously puzzled: “That’s odd. Edwin always noted the time he began and finished an analysis and the procedure he adopted. He’s initialled Bradley’s result on the Pascoe file, but there’s nothing in the book. And it’s obvious that he’s made a start with the clunch pit murder, but that isn’t noted either. The last reference is five forty-five and the final note is unfinished. Someone must have torn out the right-hand page.”
“Why do you suppose anyone should do that?”
She looked straight into Dalgliesh’s eyes and said calmly: “To destroy the evidence of what he’d been doing, or the result of his analysis, or the time he’d spent on it. The first and second would be rather pointless. It’s obvious from the apparatus what he’s been doing, and any competent biologist could duplicate the work. So it’s probably the last.”
So the appearance of intelligence wasn’t misleading.
Dalgliesh asked: “How long would he take checking the Pascoe result?”
“Not long. Actually, he’d started on that before six and I think he’d finished when I left at six-fifteen. I was the last to leave. The junior staff had gone. It isn’t usual for them to work after six. I usually stay later, but I had to dress for the dinner party.”
“And the work he’s done on the clunch pit case—how long would that have taken?”
“Difficult to say. I should have thought it would have kept him busy until nine or later. He was grouping a sample of the victim’s blood and the blood from the dried stain by the ABO blood group system, and using electrophoresis to identify the haptoglobins and PGM, the enzyme phosphoglucomutase. Electrophoresis is a technique for identifying the protein and enzyme constituents of the blood by placing the samples in a gel of starch or agar and applying an electric current. As you can see, he’d actually started the run.”
Dalgliesh was aware of the scientific principle of electrophoresis, but didn’t think it necessary to mention the fact. He opened the clunch pit file, and said: “There’s nothing on the file.”
“He would write up the result on the file later. But he wouldn’t have started the analysis without noting the details in his book.”
There were two pedal bins against the wall. Massingham opened them. One, plastic-lined, was obviously for laboratory waste and broken glass. The other was for waste paper. He stirred the contents: paper tissues, a few torn envelopes, a discarded newspaper. There was nothing which resembled the missing page.
Dalgliesh said: “Tell me about Lorrimer.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Anything which could throw light on why someone disliked him enough to smash in his skull.”
“I can’t help you there, I’m afraid. I’ve no idea.”
“You liked him?”
“Not particularly. It’s not a question I’ve given much thought to. I got on all right with him. He was a perfectionist who didn’t suffer fools gladly. But he was all right to work with if you knew your job. I do.”
“So he wouldn’t need to check your work. What about those who don’t know their jobs?”
“You’d better ask them, Commander.”
“Was he popular with his staff?”
“What has popularity to do with it? I don’t suppose I’m popular, but I don’t go in fear of my life.”
She was silent for a moment, then said in a more conciliatory tone: “I probably sound obstructive. I don’t mean to be. It’s just that I can’t help. I’ve no idea who could have killed him or why. I only know that I didn’t.”
“Had you noticed any change in him recently?”
“Change? You mean, in his mood or behaviour? Not really. He gave the impression of a man under strain; but then, he was that kind of man, solitary, obsessional, overworked. One rather odd thing. He’s been interesting himself in the new CO, Brenda Pridmore. She’s a pretty child, but hardly his intellectual level, I should have thought. I don’t think there was anything serious, but it caused a certain amount of amusement in the Lab. I think he was probably trying to prove something to someone, or, perhaps, to himself.”
“You’ve heard about the telephone call to Mrs. Bidwell, of course?”
“I imagine the whole Lab knows. It wasn’t I who rang her, if that’s what you’re thinking. In any case, I should have known that
it wouldn’t work.”
“How do you mean, it wouldn’t work?”
“It depended, surely, on old Lorrimer not being at home yesterday. After all, the caller couldn’t rely on his not noticing that Edwin hadn’t come home last night until he didn’t get his early tea brought to him. As it happens, he went off to bed quite happily. But the hoaxer couldn’t have known that. Normally, Edwin would have been missed much earlier.”
“Was there any reason to suppose that old Mr. Lorrimer wouldn’t be at the cottage yesterday?”
“He was supposed to be admitted to Addenbrooke’s hospital in the afternoon for treatment of a skin complaint. I think the whole Biology Lab knew. He used to telephone often enough, fretting about the arrangements and whether Edwin would get time off to drive him there. Yesterday, just after ten, he rang to say that the bed wouldn’t be available for him after all.”
“Who took the call?”
“I did. It rang in his private office and I took it there. Edwin hadn’t returned from the clunch pit autopsy. I told him as soon as he arrived.”
“Who else did you tell?”
“When I came out of the office I think I said something casually about old Mr. Lorrimer not having to go into hospital after all. I’m not sure of the actual words. I don’t think anyone made a comment or took much apparent notice.”
Suddenly she lost her composure. She flushed and hesitated, as if realizing for the first time where all this was leading. The two men waited. Then, angry with herself, she burst out, clumsily defensive: “I’m sorry, but I can’t remember. You’ll have to ask them. It didn’t seem important at the time and I was busy. We were all busy. I think everyone was there, but I can’t be certain.”
“Thank you,” said Dalgliesh coolly. “You’ve been remarkably helpful.”
7
Mrs. Bidwell arrived at the door as the two attendants from the mortuary van were carrying out the body. She seemed to regret its disappearance and looked at the chalk outline marked by Massingham on the floor as if this were a poor substitute for the real thing.
Gazing after the covered metal container, she said: “Poor devil! I never thought to see him carried out of his lab feet first. He were never popular, you know. Still, I don’t suppose that’s worrying him where he is now. Is that one of my dust sheets you’ve had over him?”
She peered suspiciously at the sheet, now folded neatly at the end of one of the benches.
“It came from the laboratory linen cupboard, yes.”
“Well, as long as it’s put back where you found it. Come to that, it had better go straight into the soiled linen. But I don’t want any of your chaps taking it away. Laundry disappears fast enough as it is.”
“Why wasn’t he popular, Mrs. Bidwell?”
“Too particular by half. Mind you, you’ve got to be these days if you want to get any work done. But from what I hear he was too fussy for his own good. And he’d been getting worse, no doubt about that. And very odd he’d been lately, too. Nervy. You heard about the unpleasantness in the reception hall the day before yesterday, I suppose? Oh well, you will. Ask Inspector Blakelock. Just before lunch it was. Dr. Lorrimer had a real old tussle with that barmy daughter of Dr. Kerrison’s. Nearly pushed her out of the door. Screeching like a banshee, she was. I came into the hall just in time to see it. Her dad isn’t going to like that, I said to Inspector Blakelock. He’s crazy about those kids. Mark my words, I said, if Dr. Lorrimer doesn’t take a hold of himself there’ll be murder done in this Lab. I said the same to Mr. Middlemass.”
“I want you to tell me about the telephone call this morning, Mrs. Bidwell. What time was it?”
“It was near enough seven o’clock. We was eating breakfast and I just filled the teapot for second cups. Had the kettle in me hand when it rang.”
“And who answered it?”
“Bidwell. Phone’s in the hall and he got up and went out to it. Cursin’ he was ’cos he’d just settled down to his kipper. He hates cold kipper, does Bidwell. We always has kippers on Thursday on account of Marshall’s fish van coming from Ely Wednesday afternoons.”
“Does your husband usually answer the phone?”
“He always answers the phone. And if he’s not in I lets it ring. I can’t abide the dratted things. Never could. Wouldn’t have it in the house if our Shirley hadn’t paid to get it put in. She’s married now and lives Mildenhall way and she likes to think we can ring her if we want her. Fat lot of use that is. I can’t never hear what anyone says. And the ring is enough to put the fear of God in a soul. Telegrams and phone rings. I hate ’em both.”
“Who at the Lab would know that your husband always answered the phone?”
“Best part of them, more than likely. They knows I won’t touch the thing. There’s no secret about that. We’re all as the good Lord made us and some of us a sight worse. Nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Of course not. Your husband’s at work now, I expect?”
“That’s right. Yeoman’s Farm. Captain Massey’s place. Tractor work mostly. Been there twenty years, near enough.”
Dalgliesh nodded almost imperceptibly to Massingham and the Inspector slipped out to have a quiet word with Sergeant Underhill. It would be as well to check with Mr. Bidwell while his memory of the call was fresh. Dalgliesh went on: “What happened then?”
“Bidwell came back. Said that I wasn’t to go to the Lab this morning because Mrs. Schofield wanted me over at Leamings particular. I was to bike there and she’d run me and the bike home afterwards. Sticking out of the back of that red Jaguar she’s got, I suppose. I thought it was a bit of a cheek seeing as I’m due here mornings but I’ve nothing against Mrs. Schofield and if she wanted me I wasn’t above obliging. The Lab would just have to wait, I said to Bidwell. I can’t be in two places at once, I said. What don’t get done today will get done tomorrow.”
“You work here every morning?”
“Except weekends. Gets here as near eight-thirty as makes no odds, and works till about ten. Then back at twelve in case any of the gentlemen wants their lunch cooking. The girls mostly manage for themselves. Afterwards I washes up for them. I reckons to get away by two-thirty most days. Mind you, it’s light work. Scobie—he’s the Lab attendant—and I sees to the working labs but all the heavy cleaning is supposed to be done by the contractors. They comes on Mondays and Fridays only, from seven until nine, a whole van full of them from Ely, and does the main hall, the stairs and all the heavy polishing. Inspector Blakelock gets here early those mornings to let them in and Scobie keeps an eye on them. Not that you’d know they’d been most days. No personal interest, you see. Not like the old days when me and two women from the village did the lot.”
“So what would you normally have done as soon as you arrived if this had been an ordinary Thursday? I want you to think carefully, Mrs. Bidwell. This may be very important.”
“No need to think. I’d do the same as I does every day.”
“Which is?”
“Take off me hat and coat in the downstairs cloakroom. Put on me overalls. Get cleaning bucket and powder and disinfectant from the broom cupboard. Clean the toilets, male and female. Then check dirty laundry and get it bagged up. Put out clean white coats where wanted. Then dust and tidy Director’s office and general office.”
“Right,” said Dalgliesh. “Let’s do the rounds then, shall we?”
Three minutes later a curious little procession made its way up the stairs. Mrs. Bidwell, clad now in a navy-blue working overall and carrying a plastic bucket in one hand and a mop in the other, led the way. Dalgliesh and Massingham followed. The two lavatories were on the second floor at the rear opposite the Document Examination Room. They had obviously been converted from what had once been an elegant bedroom. But now a narrow passage leading to the single barred window had been constructed down the middle of the room. A mean-looking door gave entry to the women’s cloakroom on the left and, a few yards down, a similar door led to the men’s washroom on the ri
ght. Mrs. Bidwell led the way into the left-hand room. It was larger than Dalgliesh had expected, but poorly lit from a single round window with pivoting opaque glass set about four feet from the floor. The window was open. There were three lavatory cubicles. The outer room contained two handbasins with a paper-towel dispenser and, to the left of the door, a long Formica-covered counter with a glass above it which apparently served as a dressing table. To the right were a wall-mounted gas-fired incinerator, a row of clothes hooks, a large wicker laundry basket and two rather battered cane chairs.
Dalgliesh said to Mrs. Bidwell: “Is this how you would expect to find it?”
Mrs. Bidwell’s sharp little eyes peered round. The doors to the three lavatories were open and she gave them a quick inspection.
“No better nor no worse. They’re pretty good about the toilets. I’ll say that for them.”
“And that window is usually kept open?”
“Winter and summer, except it’s bitter cold. That’s the only ventilation you see.”
“The incinerator is off. Is that usual?”
“That’s right. Last girl to leave turns it off at night, then I puts it on next morning.”
Dalgliesh looked inside. The incinerator was empty except for a trace of carbon ash. He went over to the window. Rain had obviously driven in sometime during the night and the dried splashes were clearly visible on the tiled floor. But even the inside pane, where no rain could have splashed, was remarkably clean and there was no discernible dust around the sill.
He said: “Did you clean the window yesterday, Mrs. Bidwell?”
“Of course I did. It’s like I told you. I cleans the lavatories every morning. And when I cleans, I cleans. Shall I get on with it now?”
“I’m afraid there’ll be no cleaning done today. We’ll pretend you’ve finished in here. Now what happens? What about the laundry?”
The laundry basket contained only one overall, marked with the initials C.M.E.