The Murder Room

  “It’s unlikely. She’s been dead some time and they’ve only been in the museum for an hour. Get rid of them with as much tact and as little fuss as possible. We’ll question Mr. Calder-Hale later. Mr. Ackroyd should leave with them, but I doubt whether you’ll shift Calder-Hale. Come back here as soon as you’ve seen them out.”

  This time the wait was longer. Although the trunk was closed, it seemed to Kate that the smell intensified with every second. It brought back other cases, other corpses, and yet was subtly different, as if the body were proclaiming its uniqueness even in death. Kate could hear subdued voices. Benton-Smith had closed the door of the Murder Room behind him, muffling all sound except a high explanatory voice which could have been Ackroyd’s and, briefly, the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Again she waited, her eyes on the trunk. Was it, she wondered, actually the one that had held Violette Kaye’s body? Up until now, whether or not it was genuine, it had held no particular interest for her. But now it stood, black and a little battered, seeming to challenge her with its ominous secrets. Above it the eyes of Tony Mancini stared defiantly into hers. It was a brutal face, the eyes darkly fierce, the large mouth obstinately set in a stubble of hair; but then the photographer hadn’t set out to make him look appealing. Tony Mancini had died in his bed because Norman Birkett had defended him, just as Alfred Arthur Rouse had been hanged because Norman Birkett had appeared for the Crown.

  Benton-Smith had returned. He said, “Pleasant people. They made no trouble and they have nothing to tell except that they had noticed the stale smell in the room. God knows what stories they’ll take back to Toronto. Mr. Ackroyd went under protest. He’s avid with curiosity. Not much hope of his keeping quiet, I should say. I couldn’t shift Mr. Calder-Hale. He insists there are things he needs to do in his office. Mr. Dalgliesh was in a meeting but he’s leaving now. He should be here in twenty minutes or so. Do you want to wait, ma’am?”

  “No,” said Kate. “I don’t want to wait.”

  She wondered why it was so important that it was she who opened the trunk. She squatted and, with her right hand swathed in the handkerchief, slowly lifted the lid and threw it back. Her arm seemed to have grown heavy but its upward movement was as graceful and formal as if this action were part of a ceremonial unveiling. The stink rose up so strongly that her breath caught in her throat. It brought with it, as always, confused emotions of which only shock, anger and a sad realization of mortality were recognizable. These were replaced by resolution. This was her job. This was what she had been trained for.

  The girl was crammed into the trunk like an overgrown foetus, the knees drawn up together, her bent head almost touching them over folded arms. The impression was that she had been neatly packed like an object into the cramped space. Her face wasn’t visible, but strands of bright yellow hair lay delicate as silk over her legs and shoulders. She was wearing a cream trouser suit and short boots in fine black leather. The right hand lay curved above her left upper arm. Despite the long nails lacquered in a vivid red and the heavy gold ring on the middle finger of the right hand, it looked as small and vulnerable as the hand of a child.

  Benton-Smith said, “No handbag and I can’t see the mobile phone. It’s probably in one of the pockets of her jacket. At least it will tell us who she is.”

  Kate said, “We won’t touch anything else. We’ll wait for Mr. Dalgliesh.”

  Benton-Smith bent lower. “What are those dead flowers sprinkled over her hair, ma’am?”

  The small flowerlets still held a trace of purple and Kate recognized the shape of the two leaves. She said, “They are—or were—African violets.”

  2

  Dalgliesh was relieved that Miles Kynaston, when telephoned at his teaching hospital, had been found beginning a lecture and was able to postpone it and be immediately available. As one of the world’s most eminent pathologists, he might well have been already crouched over some malodorous corpse in a distant field, or called to a case overseas. Other Home Office pathologists could be called, and all were perfectly competent, but Miles Kynaston had always been Dalgliesh’s pathologist of choice. It was interesting, he thought, that two men who knew so little of the other’s private life, had no common interest except in their work and who seldom saw each other except at the site of a dead and often putrefying body, should meet always with the comfortable assurance of instinctive understanding and respect. Fame and the notoriety of some highly publicized cases hadn’t made Kynaston a prima donna. He came promptly when called, eschewed the graveside humour which some pathologists and detectives employed as an antidote to horror or disgust, produced autopsy reports which were a model of clarity and good prose, and in the witness-box was listened to with respect. He was indeed in danger of being regarded as infallible. The memory of the great Bernard Spilsbury was still green. It was never healthy for the criminal justice system when an expert witness had only to step into the witness-box to be believed.

  Rumour said that Kynaston’s ambition had been to train as a physician but that he had to change course at registrar level because of his reluctance ever to have to watch human suffering. Certainly as a forensic pathologist he was spared it. It wouldn’t be he who would knock at unfamiliar doors, steeling himself to break the dreaded news to some waiting parent or partner. But Dalgliesh thought the rumour unfounded; an aversion to encountering pain would surely have been discovered before undertaking medical training. Perhaps what drove Kynaston was an obsession with death, its causes, its manifold manifestations, its universality and inevitability, its essential mystery. Without religious belief as far as Dalgliesh knew, he treated each cadaver as if dead nerves could still feel and the glazed eyes could still entreat his verdict of hope. Watching his stubby latex-clad hands moving over a body, Dalgliesh sometimes had the irrational thought that Kynaston was administering his own secular Last Rites.

  For years he had seemed unchanged, but he had visibly aged since their last meeting, as if he had suddenly dropped to a lower level on the continuum of physical decline. His solid frame was more cumbersome; the hairline above the high speckled forehead had receded. But his eyes were still as keen and his hands as steady.

  It was now three minutes after midday. The blinds had been earlier drawn down, seeming to disconnect time as well as shutting out the surly half-light of late morning. To Dalgliesh the Murder Room seemed crowded with people, yet there were only six present in addition to Kynaston, himself, Kate and Piers. The two photographers had finished their work and were beginning quietly to pack up, but there was still one high light shining down on the body. Two fingerprint experts were dusting the trunk and Nobby Clark and a second scene-of-crime officer were meticulously prowling over ground which, on the face of it, offered little hope of yielding physical clues. Clad in the garb of their trade, all moved with quiet confidence, their voices low but not unnaturally muted. They could, thought Dalgliesh, be engaged on some esoteric rite best hidden from public view. The photographs on the walls were ranged like a line of silent witnesses, infecting the room with the tragedies and miseries of the past: Rouse, sleek-haired with his complacent seducer’s smile; Wallace in his high collar, mild-eyed beneath the steel spectacles; Edith Thompson in a wide-brimmed hat, laughing beside her young lover under a summer sky.

  The corpse had been lifted from the trunk and now lay beside it on a sheet of plastic. The merciless glare of the light shining directly on her drained away the last traces of humanity so that she looked as artificial as a doll laid out ready to be parcelled. The bright yellow hair showed brown at the roots. She must have been pretty in life with a fair kittenish sexuality, but there was no beauty or peace in this dead face. The slightly exophthalmic pale blue eyes were wide open; they looked as if pressure on the forehead would dislodge them and they would roll like glass balls over the pale cheeks. Her mouth was half open, the small perfect teeth resting in a snarl on the lower lip. A thin trickle of mucus had dried on the upper lip. There was a bruise on either side of the delicate neck wh
ere strong hands had crushed the life out of her.

  Dalgliesh stood silently watching as, crouching, Kynaston moved slowly round the body, gently spread out the pale fingers and turned the head from left to right, the better to scrutinize the bruises. Then he reached in the old Gladstone bag he always carried for his rectal thermometer. Minutes later, the preliminary examination complete, he got to his feet.

  “Cause of death obvious. She was strangled. The killer was wearing gloves and was right-handed. There are no fingernail impressions and no scratching, and no signs of the victim trying to loosen the grip. Unconsciousness may have supervened very quickly. The main grip was made by the right hand from the front. You can see a thumb impression high up under the lower jaw over the cornu of the thyroid. There are finger-marks on the left side of the neck from the pressure of the opposing fingers. As you can see, these are a little low down along the side of the thyroid cartilage.”

  Dalgliesh asked, “Could a woman have done it?”

  “It would have needed strength, but not remarkable strength. The victim is slight and the neck fairly narrow. A woman could have done it, but not, for example, a frail woman or anyone with arthritic hands. Time of death? That’s complicated by the fact that the trunk is practically airtight. I may be able to be more precise after the PM. My present estimate is that she’s been dead at least four days, probably nearer five.”

  Dalgliesh said, “Dupayne died at about eighteen hundred hours last Friday. Is it possible that this death occurred at approximately the same time?”

  “Perfectly possible. But even after the PM I couldn’t pinpoint as accurately as that. I’ve a free slot tomorrow morning at eight-thirty and I’ll try to get a report to you by early afternoon.”

  They had found the mobile, one of the most recent designs, in her jacket pocket. Moving to the far end of the room and with gloved hands, Piers pressed the buttons to discover the source of the call, then called the number.

  A male voice answered. “Mercer’s Garage.”

  “I think we just missed a call from you.”

  “Yes sir. It’s to say that Celia Mellock’s car is ready. Does she want to collect it, or shall we deliver it?”

  “She said she’d like it delivered. You have the address, presumably?”

  “That’s right, sir, forty-seven Manningtree Gardens, Earl’s Court Road.”

  “On second thoughts, better leave it. You’ve just missed her and she might prefer to collect it. Anyway, I’ll let her know it’s ready. Thanks.”

  Piers said, “We’ve got the name and address, sir. And we know now why she didn’t come by car to the museum. It was at the garage. Her name’s Celia Mellock and the address is forty-seven Manningtree Gardens, Earl’s Court Road.”

  The girl’s hands had been mittened in plastic, the red nails shining through as if they had been dipped in blood. Dr. Kynaston gently raised the hands and folded them on the girl’s breast. The plastic sheet was folded over the body and the body bag zipped up. The photographer began dismantling his lamp and Dr. Kynaston, gloveless now, was removing his overall and stuffing it back in his Gladstone bag. The mortuary van had been summoned and Piers had gone downstairs to await its arrival. It was then that the door opened and a woman came purposefully in.

  Kate’s voice was sharp. “Mrs. Strickland, what are you doing here?”

  Mrs. Strickland said calmly, “It’s Wednesday morning. I’m always here on Wednesdays from nine-thirty to one, and on Fridays from two to five. Those are the times I have set aside. I thought you knew that.”

  “Who let you in?”

  “Miss Godby, of course. She perfectly understood that we volunteers have to be meticulous about our obligations. She said that the museum was closed to visitors, but I’m not a visitor.”

  She moved without apparent repugnance towards the body bag. “You’ve a dead body in there, obviously. I detected the unmistakable smell the moment I opened the library door. My sense of smell is acute. I was wondering what had happened to Mr. Ackroyd’s group of visitors. I was told that they would visit the library and I put out some of the more interesting publications for them to see. I take it, now, that they won’t be coming.”

  Dalgliesh said, “They’ve left, Mrs. Strickland, and I’m afraid I have to ask you to leave.”

  “I shall in ten minutes, my time will be up. But I need to put away the display I arranged. That was a waste of time, I’m afraid. I wish someone had told me what was going on. And what is going on? I assume this is a second suspicious death as you’re here, Commander. No one from the museum, I hope.”

  “No one from the museum, Mrs. Strickland.” Dalgliesh, anxious to get rid of her but not to antagonize her, kept his patience.

  She said, “A man, I suppose. I see you haven’t a handbag. No woman would be found without a handbag. And dead flowers? They look like African violets. They are violets, aren’t they? Is it a woman?”

  “It is a woman, but I must ask you to say nothing about this to anyone. We need to inform the next of kin. Someone must be missing her, worried where she is. Until the next of kin are told, any talk might hamper the investigation and cause distress. I’m sure you will understand that. I’m sorry we didn’t know you were in the museum. It’s fortunate you didn’t come in earlier.”

  Mrs. Strickland said, “Dead bodies don’t cause me distress. Living ones do occasionally. I’ll say nothing. I suppose the family know—the Dupaynes I mean?”

  “Miss Dupayne was here when we made the discovery, as was Mr. Calder-Hale. I’ve no doubt one or both of them will have telephoned Marcus Dupayne.”

  Mrs. Strickland was at last turning away. “She was in the trunk, I suppose.”

  “Yes,” said Dalgliesh, “she was in the trunk.”

  “With the violets? Was someone trying to make a connection with Violette Kaye?”

  Their eyes met but there was no hint of recognition. It was as if that hour of confidence in the Barbican flat, the shared wine, the intimacy, had never been. He could have been talking to a stranger. Was this her way of distancing herself from someone to whom she had been dangerously confiding?

  Dalgliesh said, “Mrs. Strickland, I must insist that you leave now so that we can get on with what we have to do.”

  “Of course. I’ve no intention of obstructing the police in the execution of their duty.” Her voice had been ironic. Now she walked towards the door, then turned and said, “She wasn’t in the trunk at four o’clock last Friday, if that’s any help.”

  There was a silence. If Mrs. Strickland had wanted to leave on a high dramatic note, she had succeeded.

  Dalgliesh’s voice was calm. “How can you be sure of that, Mrs. Strickland?”

  “Because I was here when the trunk was opened by Ryan Archer. I suppose you want to know why.”

  Dalgliesh had to resist the ridiculous impulse to say that he wouldn’t dream of asking. Mrs. Strickland went on: “It was pure curiosity—perhaps impure curiosity would be more appropriate. I think the boy had always wanted to see inside the trunk. He had just finished vacuuming the corridor outside the library. It wasn’t a convenient time, of course, it never is. I find it difficult to concentrate with that disagreeable background noise and if there are visitors he has to stop. Anyway, there he was. When he switched off the vacuum cleaner he came into the library. I don’t know why. He may have fancied some company. I’d just finished writing some new labels for the Wallace exhibits and he came over to look at them. I mentioned that I was taking them to the Murder Room and he asked if he could come with me. I saw no reason why he shouldn’t.”

  “And you’re sure about the time?”

  “Perfectly sure. We came into this room just before four. We stayed about five minutes and then Ryan left to collect his wages. I left soon after five. Muriel Godby was on the desk and, as you know, she offered to give me a lift to Hampstead underground station. I waited while she and Tally Clutton checked the museum. I suppose it was about five-twenty when we finally drove off
.”

  Kate asked, “And the trunk was empty?”

  Mrs. Strickland looked at her. “Ryan is not the most intelligent or reliable of boys, but if he had found a body in the trunk I think he would have mentioned the fact. Apart from that, there would have been other indications, that is if she’d been there any length of time.”

  “Do you remember what was said between you? Anything significant?”

  “I believe I told Ryan that he wasn’t supposed to touch the exhibits. I didn’t reprove him. His action seemed to me perfectly natural. I believe he did say that the trunk was empty and that he didn’t see any bloodstains. He sounded disappointed.”

  Dalgliesh turned to Kate. “See if you can find Ryan Archer. It’s Wednesday, he should be here. Did you see anything of him when you arrived?”

  “Nothing, sir. He’ll probably be somewhere in the garden.”

  “See if you can find him and get confirmation. Don’t tell him why you’re asking. He’ll know soon enough, but the later the better. I doubt whether he could resist spreading the story. The priority now is to notify the next of kin.”

  Mrs. Strickland turned to go. She said, “By all means get confirmation. I shouldn’t frighten the boy though. He’ll only deny it.”

  And then she was gone. Running down the stairs, Kate saw her re-entering the library.

  At the front door Benton-Smith was standing guard. He said, with a nod towards the office, “They’re getting impatient. Miss Dupayne has been out twice to ask when the Commander will be seeing them. Apparently she’s needed at the college. They’ve got a prospective student and her parents coming to look over the place. That’s why Lady Swathling phoned earlier.”

  Kate said, “Tell Miss Dupayne it won’t be long now. Have you seen anything of Ryan Archer?”

  “No ma’am. What’s up?”

  “Mrs. Strickland says that she was in the Murder Room with Ryan at four o’clock last Friday and he opened the trunk.”