He spoke without bitterness. There was no trace of apology, justification or excuse; he was simply stating a fact.
Dalgliesh asked: “How did you meet your first wife?”
It was hardly a relevant question, but Cummins showed no sign of resenting it.
“In the cafeteria of the National Gallery. It was very busy and Venetia was at a table for two. I asked if I might share it. She said yes, but hardly looked up at me. I don’t suppose either of us would have spoken if a young man passing hadn’t jerked our table and spilled her wine. He didn’t apologize. She was angry at his bad manners and I helped by mopping up the mess and getting her another glass. After that we talked. I was teaching in London at the time at a comprehensive, and we spoke about the job, about the problems of discipline. She didn’t tell me she was a lawyer but she did say that her father had been a schoolmaster. Oh, and we talked a bit about the pictures. Not much about ourselves. She was the one who suggested that we might meet again, I wouldn’t have had the nerve. We were married six months later.”
Dalgliesh asked: “Did you know that she’s left you a bequest? Eight thousand pounds.”
“The solicitor rang to tell me. I wasn’t expecting it. I don’t know whether it’s a reward for marrying her or an insult for leaving her. She was glad when the marriage ended, but I think she would have liked to have been the one who walked out.” He was silent for a moment, then said: “We thought at first that we’d refuse the bequest. I suppose you can refuse?”
“That might be awkward for the executors, but you don’t have to use the money for yourselves if you’ve got scruples.”
“That’s what Anna thought, but I expect we shall take it in the end. One gets these fine ideas but there are usually second thoughts, aren’t there? Anna does need a new kiln.”
They walked on in silence for a few minutes, then he said: “How far is my wife involved in all this? I don’t want her upset or bothered, particularly now, with the baby coming.”
“I hope that she won’t be. We’ll probably need a statement.”
“So you’ll come back?”
“Not necessarily. Two of my colleagues may.”
They were on the ridge of the field now and stood together looking down on the patchwork countryside. Dalgliesh wondered if Anna Cummins was watching them from the window. Then Cummins answered a question that Dalgliesh hadn’t asked.
“I was glad to give up teaching, at least in London, glad to be rid of noise and violence and staff-room politics, and the constant fight to keep order. I was never any good at it. I do a little supply teaching here, it’s different in the country. But mostly I do the garden and the studio accounts.” He paused and then said quietly: “I didn’t believe that anyone could be so happy.”
They walked down the field together, this time in a silence which was curiously companionable. Approaching the studio, they could hear the whirl of the wheel. Anna Cummins was bent over a pot. The clay spun, rose and curved under her hands and, as they watched, her fingers delicately touched the rim, forming the lip of the vase. But suddenly, apparently without reason, she brought her hands together and the clay, like a living thing, twisted and collapsed into a slimy lump as the wheel slowed to a stop. Looking up at her husband, she laughed.
“Darling, your mouth! It’s all smeared. Purple and red. You look like Dracula.”
A few minutes later Dalgliesh said his goodbyes. Husband and wife with the child between them stood unsmilingly to see him off. He sensed that they were glad to see the last of him. Glancing back as they turned together into the studio, Dalgliesh felt the weight of a fleeting melancholy tinged with pity. That tranquil studio, the pots so unthreatening in design and execution, the small attempt at self-sufficiency represented by the garden and the hen-house: didn’t they symbolize an escape, a peace as illusory as the dignified order of the eighteenth-century courts of the Temple, as illusory as all human seeking after the good, the harmonious life?
He felt no temptation to meander through the villages. Getting onto the main roads as soon as possible, he drove at speed. His pleasure in the beauty of the day was replaced by a dissatisfaction, partly with the Cumminses, but mostly with himself, which irritated him by its irrationality. If Anna Cummins had been telling the truth, and he thought that she had, there was at least one cause for satisfaction. The inquiry had progressed significantly. The time of death could now be placed between seven-forty-five, when Mrs. Buckley had rung Chambers, and eight-fifteen, when Venetia Aldridge had failed to appear to open the Judges’ Gate in Devereux Court.
Some of Mrs. Cummins’s evidence could be checked. Before leaving, he had taken the name and address of the friend who owned the flat at Waterloo and the name of the neighbour, but Luke Cummins had been unable to provide confirmation that he had been at the pottery. No customers had, in fact, called. Then there was the red-haired man Anna Cummins had seen entering and leaving the Temple. If she could positively identify Simon Costello, then it would be interesting to hear his explanation.
One question above all intrigued him: neither Luke Cummins nor his wife had asked whether the police had got anywhere with their inquiries, nor had they shown any curiosity about the identity of the killer. Was that really because they had deliberately distanced themselves from the unhappiness of the past and the violence of the present, from all that threatened their self-contained world? Or was it because they had no need to ask what they already knew?
After an hour’s driving he drew into a lay-by and rang the incident room. Kate wasn’t there but he spoke to Piers and they exchanged news.
Piers said: “If it was Costello Mrs. Cummins saw going into the Temple through the door from Devereux Court and then returning after a minute, it puts him in the clear. He would hardly have had time to get to Number Eight, let alone kill Aldridge. And if he’d killed her earlier he’d be a fool to return to the scene. Are you going to bring Mrs. Cummins up to London, sir, for a formal identification?”
“Not yet. First I’ll speak to Costello and I’ll see Langton at the same time. It’s strange that he made no mention of attending that rehearsal. What did his two domestic helpers say?”
“We had a word with them, sir, at the antique shop they keep. They both say that Mr. Langton was later than usual on Wednesday but they can’t say by how much. Their story is that they really can’t remember. It’s nonsense, of course. They were cooking dinner; they must have known almost to the minute how late he was. But he’s an unlikely suspect, surely?”
“Very unlikely. Langton seems to be worried and I think it’s personal, but if he has anything on his conscience I doubt it’s the murder of Venetia Aldridge. Were you able to see Brian Cartwright?”
“Yes sir. He condescended to fit us in for five minutes after lunch at his club. No joy there, I’m afraid. He said that nothing happened after his trial at the Bailey and that Miss Aldridge seemed perfectly normal.”
“Did you believe him?”
“Not altogether. I had a feeling he was holding something back, but, then, I may be prejudiced. I took against him. He was flirtatious with Kate and arrogant with me. But I did get the feeling, near the beginning of our interview, that he was weighing up whether it would be to his advantage to oblige the police by passing on information or prudent not to get involved. Prudence won. I don’t think we’ll get anything out of him now, sir. We can try again, be more pressing, if you think it’s important.”
Dalgliesh said: “It can wait. Your interview with Miss Elkington was interesting. You were right to send a couple of officers to Hereford. Let me know as soon as they report. Any news on Drysdale Laud’s alibi?”
“That seems firm, sir, as far as it goes. We’ve checked at the theatre. The play began at seven-thirty and the interval was at eight-fifty. He couldn’t have got to Chambers before nine. The foyer was never unattended and the box-office manager and doorman are both sure that no one left the theatre before the interval. I think the alibi holds, sir.”
?
??That’s if he went to the theatre at all. Did he remember the number of his seat?”
“The end of the fifth row of the stalls. I saw the plan for Wednesday night and there was a single seat there sold, but the girl couldn’t remember whether it was to a man or a woman. I suppose we could show her a photograph of Laud, but I doubt we’d get any joy. It was an odd thing to do, though, wasn’t it, going to see a play alone?”
“We can hardly arrest a man because he has an eccentric need of his own company. What about Desmond Ulrick’s alibi?”
“We checked at Rules, sir. He was certainly there by eight-fifteen. He hadn’t booked but he’s a regular and they found him a table after only five minutes’ wait. He checked in his coat and a copy of the Standard but no briefcase. The doorman was quite definite about it. He knows Ulrick well and they spent time chatting while he waited for his table.”
“Right, Piers, I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”
“There’s one other thing. An extraordinary little man turned up an hour ago wanting to see you. Apparently he knew Aldridge when she was a girl, worked as a teacher at a prep school kept by her father. He arrived clutching a large flat package to his chest, rather like a child with a present which somebody might snatch away from him. I suggested he talk to me or Kate, but he was adamant that he had to see you. You’re tied up with the Commissioner and at the Home Office on Monday morning and there’s the inquest in the afternoon. I know it’s a formality and we’ll ask for an adjournment, but I wasn’t sure whether you’d want to be there. Anyway I told him to come along at six o’clock on Monday. It’ll probably be a waste of your time but I thought you might want to see him. The name’s Froggett. Edmund Froggett.”
4
The squad had been working a sixteen-hour day since the murder but Saturday, with most of the suspects out of London for the weekend, was quieter, and Dalgliesh, Kate and Piers took Sunday as a rest day.
None of the three confided in the others how they proposed to spend it. It was as if they needed a respite even from their colleagues’ interest or curiosity. But with Monday the calm was broken. After a morning of meetings, a press conference was called in the early afternoon which Dalgliesh, greatly disliking them, attended because he thought it unfair not to take his turn. The intrusion of murder into the very heart of the legal establishment and the celebrity of the victim had a piquancy which ensured that media interest was intense. But somewhat to Dalgliesh’s surprise, and greatly to his satisfaction, the news of the wig and the blood hadn’t been leaked. The police said little more than that the victim had been stabbed and that no arrest was imminent. Any more detailed information at present would only hamper inquiries, but further news would be issued as soon as there was anything to report.
After the brief formality of the adjourned inquest which interrupted the late afternoon, he had temporarily forgotten his six o’clock visitor. But precisely on the hour Edmund Froggett was shown up, accompanied by Piers, not to a small interview room but to Dalgliesh’s office.
He sat down on the chair which Dalgliesh had indicated, placed the large flat package, done up with string, carefully on the desk, took off his woollen gloves and laid them beside it, and began unwinding a long knitted scarf. His hands, delicate as a girl’s, were white and very clean. He was an unprepossessing little man, but neither ugly nor repulsive, perhaps because of his air of quiet dignity, that of a man who expected little of the world but whose meek acceptance held nothing of servility. He was enveloped in a heavy coat of rough tweed, well cut and obviously originally expensive, but too large for his meagre frame. Below the sharply pressed edge of the gaberdine trousers the shoes were highly polished. The over-heavy coat, the thinner trousers and pale summer socks gave him an ill-assorted look, as if he and his clothes had been put together from the leavings of others. Now, having carefully folded his scarf over the back of the chair, he gave his attention to Dalgliesh.
Behind the pebble glasses his eyes were shrewd but wary. When he spoke his voice was high with an occasional stammer, a voice which it would be disagreeable to listen to for any length of time. He made no excuses or apologies for his visit. Obviously he felt that his insistence on seeing a senior officer would be justified.
He said: “You have been told, Commander, that I have come about the murder of Miss Venetia Aldridge, QC. I should explain my interest in this matter, but I expect you will first need my name and address.”
“Thank you,” said Dalgliesh, “that would be helpful.”
Obviously he was expected to write it down. He did so, his visitor leaning forward to watch as if doubtful of Dalgliesh’s ability to record it accurately. “Edmund Albert Froggett, 14 Melrose Court, Melrose Road, Goodmayes, Essex.”
The surname was almost ludicrously appropriate to that long, downturned mouth, those exophthalmic eyes. No doubt in childhood he must have suffered from the cruelty of the young and had somehow grown his defensive carapace of self-regard and slight pomposity. How else could the unfortunate of the world survive? Come to that, thought Dalgliesh, how could anyone? We none of us present ourselves psychologically naked to the barbs of the world.
He said: “You have some information about Miss Aldridge’s death?”
“Not directly about her death, Commander, but I have information about her life. With murder the two are indissolubly linked, but I don’t need to tell you that. Murder is always a completion. I thought I owed it to Miss Aldridge, and to the cause of justice, to provide information which otherwise might not come your way, or which it would be time-consuming for you to obtain by other means. How far it is likely to prove useful is for you to say.”
It was likely to be time-consuming to obtain it from Mr. Froggett at the present rate of progress, but Dalgliesh was capable of a patience which occasionally surprised his subordinates, except with the arrogant, the incompetent or the wilfully obtuse. Already he recognized in himself the familiar twinge of uncomfortable pity, a pity he half-resented and had never learned to discipline, but which with part of his mind he knew was a safeguard against the arrogance of power. This was likely to be a long session, but he was incapable of brutally hustling his visitor.
“Perhaps you could tell me from the beginning, Mr. Froggett, what information you have and how you came by it.”
“Of course. I mustn’t take up too much of your time. I said that I knew Miss Aldridge as a child. Her father—perhaps you already know this—kept a boys’ prep school, Danesford in Berkshire. I was for five years his deputy headmaster, responsible for teaching English and history to the older boys. It was in fact intended that I should eventually take over the school, but events dictated otherwise. I have been interested in the law all my life, particularly criminal law, but I’m afraid I lack those physical and vocal attributes which contribute so much to success at the criminal Bar. But the study of the criminal law has been my main hobby and I used to discuss cases of particular forensic and human interest with Venetia. She was fourteen when we began our lessons. She showed even then a remarkable talent for analysing evidence and seizing on the fundamentals of the case. We used to have interesting discussions in her parents’ drawing-room after dinner. They would sit listening to our arguments but took little part. It was Venetia who entered with real imagination and enthusiasm into these debates. Of course I had to be a little careful: not all the details of, for example, the Rouse case were suitable for a young girl to hear. But I have never known so good a judicial mind in one so young. I think I can say without conceit, Mr. Dalgliesh, that it was I who was chiefly responsible for making her a criminal lawyer.”
Dalgliesh asked: “Was she an only child? We’re not aware of any relations and her daughter says there are none. Children, of course, don’t always know.”
“Oh, I think that’s correct. She was certainly an only child and so, I believe, were both her parents.”
“A lonely childhood, then?”
“Very lonely. She attended the local high school but I had an idea that
her friends, if she had any, weren’t welcomed at Danesford. Perhaps her father thought that he saw enough of the young during his working day. Yes, I think you can say that she was a lonely child. Perhaps that is why our sessions together meant so much to her.”
Dalgliesh said: “We found a volume of the Notable British Trials series in her room in Chambers. The Seddon case. It has her and your initials on the title page.”
The effect on Froggett was extraordinary. His eyes brightened and his face glowed pink with pleasure. “So she kept it. And in Chambers. That is really gratifying, very gratifying. It was a small goodbye present when I left. The Seddon case was one we often discussed. I expect you remember Marshall Hall’s words: ‘The blackest case I have ever been in.’”
“Did you keep in touch after you left the school?”
“No, we never met again. There was never an opportunity, for one thing, and, for another, it wouldn’t have been appropriate. We lost touch entirely. But that isn’t really accurate; she lost touch, I never did. Not unnaturally, I have taken a lively interest in her career. I’ve made it my business to follow it closely. You could say that Miss Venetia Aldridge’s career has been my hobby for the last twenty years. And that brings me to why I came. This parcel contains a cuttings book in which I have pasted such information as I have been able to obtain on all her important cases. It occurred to me that the mystery of her death might lie with her professional life: a disappointed client; someone she had successfully prosecuted; an ex-prisoner with a grievance. Perhaps I could show you?”
Dalgliesh nodded into eyes which now held a mixture of pleading and excitement. He couldn’t bring himself to say that any information the police needed could be obtained from records in Chambers. Mr. Froggett had needed to show his book to someone who might be expected to have an interest in his achievement, and Venetia Aldridge’s death had at least given him an excuse. Dalgliesh watched as the neat little fingers busied themselves with a surely unnecessary number of knots. The string drawn from the parcel was carefully wound into a skein. The treasure was revealed.