Vertigo 42 Read online

  Mrs. Sturgis sniffed. “Indeed not. I wish I had been. I’d’ve sorted it.”

  ____

  And probably she would have, thought Jury, taking his leave.

  Tom, of course, would have been in his study a few times over the years since Tess’s death, but if he had found this page of her writing, Jury was sure he’d have mentioned it. Jury expected no revelation other than the one about “Mackey.”

  He parked, got out of the car, and hastened up the outer steps, unlocked the door and ran up the broad staircase to Tom’s study.

  The large desk that Mrs. Sturgis still polished to a glitter was covered with small stacks of papers. There were two of the “spears” she had mentioned, pinioning small and large pieces of papers. A lot were receipts, a few were bills. Tom would not have had the electricity, gas, or central heating cut off, despite his rare appearances here.

  Jury flipped through the papers on one of the needlelike metal spears, found nothing, started through the papers fixed on the other. Halfway down, he found it—the page of stationery that had sat here between a bill from a roofer and an electric bill.

  There were only two lines of writing at the top of the page:

  But you, Tom, you were the thrill

  of them all.

  Love always,

  Tess

  Jury looked at the thin spear that had punctured this page and felt it like a penknife in the heart.

  It was just as well Tom hadn’t found it, for how could he have read it and not thought of suicide, even though such a fall was too uncertain a method for suicide?

  Jury called Brian Macalvie.

  ____

  Macalvie wanted to see the end of Tess’s letter and drove from Exeter.

  They were standing by his car when he read it.

  “I knew it wasn’t suicide. Someone bent on suicide isn’t going to hit on such an uncertain method. At the very least you’d come out of it with all manner of cuts, bruises, and possibly broken bones. So you’d just mess yourself up and you’d still be alive, only messed up. There was a gun in the house; there were pills; there was poison. And don’t forget the car, which has always been popular because of its accident potential. No, you don’t choose a fall down stairs.”

  “Yet many people settled for ‘accident.’ ”

  “Yeah. If it had been an accident, we certainly would have seen more signs of defensive wounds. One of the most common in that scenario is a broken wrist, because you automatically put out a hand to break your fall. And she wouldn’t have gone far before the momentum slowed. She’d have landed maybe halfway down those stairs.”

  “Tom Williamson assumed you thought it was an accident.”

  “I know. I let him think that. If he knew I agreed with him that she was murdered, it would have driven him crazy because the investigation wasn’t turning up evidence to prove murder.”

  “But he still thinks it was.”

  “But there’s no real evidence. So he knows it’s a guess.”

  “If you thought it was murder, who did you think did it?”

  “One of them.”

  “The kids?”

  Macalvie nodded.

  “Why?”

  “I told you I’d never worked out a motive. But I’m sure it had something to do with that day at Laburnum twenty-two years ago.”

  “Macalvie, all she was doing was protecting one of them: John McAllister.”

  “Maybe one of the others worked out what had really happened and didn’t like it. Someone might have been fanatically jealous. I think it’s interesting that she died in much the same way as Hilda Palmer.”

  “But how did the killer do it?”

  “Maybe with a gun to her head or maybe just by getting behind her and pushing her. That would have created a force she couldn’t have managed by herself. And finished off the job with a blow to the head that mimicked hitting her head on that marble pediment.”

  “Forensic would have been able to tell the difference between those two events, though.”

  “Well, forensic didn’t, in this case. There were arguments on both sides about the kind of skull fracture, the force of the blow, and so on.” Macalvie opened the car door, started to climb in.

  He stopped when Jury said, “Tess Williamson told her husband that their not having children was because she couldn’t. I spoke to the doctor they’d consulted.”

  “And he said she could.”

  “He wouldn’t tell me, of course. Patient confidentiality. But he did hint at the truth: he said she always put her husband first.” Jury paused. “The thing is, three of those children at Laburnum were adopted.”

  “Four.”

  “No, three: John McAllister, Arabella Hastings, Madeline Brewster.”

  “Four. Kenneth Strachey.”

  Little Chef, M5

  Wednesday, 3:00 P.M.

  48

  * * *

  As Jury sat in a Little Chef on the M5, he called Wiggins. “Ring the D’Sousas and tell Veronica I have a few questions. This afternoon, if possible. I’ll be there in two or three hours.”

  “Right. Me, I’ve been back to Strachey, sir. You’re right about him. For one thing, he knows just a bit too much about that tower. He claims he got it from newspapers, but I’ve been through every major one and I can’t find the details Strachey mentioned about the room at the top, the window she fell from, et cetera. I can take this to a magistrate and get a warrant, I’m pretty sure. But I’ve got to specify exactly what it is we’re looking for.”

  “Clothes. A dress. I think he bought the Givenchy for her and I’ve an idea he bought more than one dress. As backup. He wanted her to look sensational, and since he could hardly take her on a buying spree, he’d have wanted more than one dress.”

  “You think there’s a relationship between this vertigo girl and Tess Williamson?”

  “Yes. I think Belle Syms knew something about Tess’s death.” Jury picked up a piece of toast, inspected the burned places. They never did that at the Happy Eater. “In the meantime, I want you to check hospitals, private clinics in particular, where a woman might go to have a baby. Someplace near London in the early seventies. See if there’s any record of a Tess Hardwick being admitted. Hardwick was her maiden name.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to ask her husband?”

  “Not if he doesn’t know she had a child before they were married. I don’t know that she did; little Hilda Palmer was rumoring it about, though.”

  Wiggins said, “You’re thinking she was the mother of one of them?”

  “It’s possible. McAllister is probably the best bet, given her intense feelings for him. He was ten at the time, so we’re talking twenty-two years later. He’s thirty-two now. You can walk that back and get the year. Same for the other three: Mundy Brewster, Arabella Hastings, and Kenneth Strachey.”

  “Strachey? But he’s got parents.”

  “Not the original ones. Apparently he’s adopted.”

  “Well, but he doesn’t know it, does he?”

  “Oh, he knows it, Wiggins. When I commented on his relation to Lytton Strachey, he said, ‘Not I. Pop seems to forget that.’ His tone is sardonic whenever he talks about his father.”

  “Yeah, now I recall, he said something to me about his relationship to this Lytton Strachey that didn’t follow.”

  When Wiggins started to ask another question, Jury said, “Ah! Here comes my breakfast. I’m in a Little Chef on the M5. We’ll talk when I get back.”

  “Wish I was there, guv.” Wiggins loved motorway restaurants, especially the Happy Eater, but that chain had been taken over by Little Chef. “Incidentally, you got a funny message from Madeline Brewster: ‘Check out Paris.’ What’s she mean?”

  Jury pondered this. He said, “The dress, Wiggins. Givenchy. So check it out.”

&n
bsp; “Must be a thousand places there.” Wiggins grumbled this out.

  “Quite possibly. Listen. If you can set it up, I’ll go to the D’Sousas.”

  “Right. I’ll tell them five-ish? That gives you a couple of hours. Is that enough time?”

  “Five sounds good. Teatime.”

  “Lots of luck with that, sir.” Wiggins gave a huffy laugh and hung up.

  Clapham

  Thursday, 5:00 P.M.

  49

  * * *

  Mrs. D’Sousa,” said Jury, standing at the front door. “I’m Superintendent Richard Jury. I believe my sergeant rang you.”

  Colleen was not happy with either of them—sergeant or superintendent. “I don’t understand what you could possibly want. We’ve told police everything we know.”

  “To the extent that you think you know it, Mrs. D’Sousa.”

  This rather runic reply seemed to convince her that he wasn’t going away until he’d asked what he wanted to ask. He’d been standing outside while Colleen filled the doorway. Her shoulders drooped, her mouth along with them, as if she’d lost a battle, if not a war. “Oh, very well. Come in.”

  “Thank you.” Jury stepped into a foyer that had once been largely a coat cupboard (he bet), and she preceded him into the living room, where sat Veronica D’Sousa with a black cat, or rather beside a black cat, as the cat didn’t seem to be interested in Veronica.

  Jury was left on his own to guess who this young woman was, as Colleen didn’t introduce him.

  “Miss D’Sousa? I’m Superintendent Jury, New Scotland Yard. I’d just like to ask you a few follow-up questions to those Sergeant Wiggins put to you when he was here last Saturday.”

  Veronica repeated a version of her mother’s “I don’t understand” by saying “Well, I can’t imagine what questions would be left to ask. That Sergeant Wiggins covered everything that happened that day at Laburnum.” She stroked the cat, who moved out from under her hand to the other end of the sofa.

  Colleen had ensconced herself in an armchair, covered in a cold blue that matched the sofa. Left to sort out his own seating arrangement, Jury sat down beside the cat. The cat promptly rubbed against his coat sleeve, purring.

  “Not necessarily everything. You had a particular fondness for Kenneth Strachey, is that right?”

  Veronica looked at him dumbly. “Why ever would you say that?”

  “Because somebody said it to me. Both you and Arabella Hastings were fond of him.”

  “Oh, her,” said Veronica dismissively until she suddenly remembered that Arabella was dead and took another line. “Poor Arabella. What rotten luck!”

  “You think it was just bad luck that landed her at the bottom of that tower? That it wasn’t intended?”

  “Intended? You mean she threw herself off? She did it on purpose?”

  “Or somebody else did.”

  Veronica, in a stage gesture, put her hand to her face.

  Colleen gasped. “Are you saying the girl was murdered? But that’s impossible!”

  “Unfortunately, it isn’t. Arabella Hastings presented a problem to someone. I was hoping you might assist me in understanding what sort of problem.” Jury smiled. The cat was stretched out along its whole length, lying against him. The fire was out. The room was cold. He wondered how often the fire was lit and the cat got to lie in front of it.

  “Me? But I haven’t seen Arabella in absolutely years.”

  “As a child, what was she like? You were friends.”

  “She was just—a regular girl, I suppose.” Veronica shrugged.

  “Was she happy?”

  “Happy? I expect so.”

  “Why would you expect so? She was an orphan; her only family, aside from the uncle who took her in, was an aunt in Northamptonshire. Did she get on with the rest of you all right?”

  Veronica frowned slightly. “Well, yes, or more or less.”

  “The ‘less’ might have been because she resented you, you being so much prettier.” Which she wasn’t; indeed they had much the same coloring.

  This left Veronica at sea as to how to respond to a compliment from a Scotland Yard detective. “Well, in a way—”

  “And jealous too, since she was attracted to Kenneth Strachey.”

  “Good heavens, Superintendent! Nicki and Arabella were only eight and nine years old,” put in Colleen.

  “And Kenneth was thirteen. All the more understandable he’d look good. When you were playing hide-and-seek, Kenneth was the first one you discovered, right? Did you keep your eyes open until you saw where he went?”

  Veronica first looked surprised then guilty, casting her eyes down. She didn’t answer.

  Jury said, “When you found him behind that huge rock, did you stay for a minute or two?”

  She looked quickly at Jury, then away.

  “Were you kissing?”

  “Superintendent!”

  “Pardon me, Mrs. D’Sousa, but if you continue to interrupt, I’ll have to insist that I speak to your daughter alone. Veronica?”

  “Nicki. Why do you think that? That we’d be kissing? I was just a little girl.”

  Her mother looked smug.

  “Little children are fascinated by sex, Nicki. Because he was handsome and you were pretty. And you haven’t said no.”

  She was silent. Her mother opened her mouth but shut it again when Jury shot her a look.

  “Anyway,” said Veronica, “why would you be interested in all that?”

  “Good question. I’m interested because I’m trying to sort out the relationships among you all. For example, all of you disliked Hilda Palmer.”

  “That’s no secret. She was trouble.”

  “She knew things—or thought she did—that she’d use to blackmail people.”

  “She drove a teacher to resign, is what she did.”

  “I heard about that.”

  Veronica suddenly turned to her mother and said, “Mum, you haven’t offered Mr. Jury anything. I bet he’d like a coffee.” She gave Jury a questioning glance.

  “I really would, if it’s not too much trouble.” He didn’t want coffee, but he did want to get her out of the room without appearing to threaten her. Wiggins had been right about his interview.

  Colleen stood. “Cream and sugar?” she asked, as if it were a dare.

  “Both.”

  She mumbled something and left the living room.

  When she was out of earshot, Veronica said, “I didn’t want to say this in front of my mother because she’d demand to hear every last detail.”

  “Good. You can say it to me and I’ll demand to hear every last detail.” Jury smiled, winningly enough that he could see her beginning to melt a little.

  “Well, Hilda Palmer claimed she knew something about Mrs. Williamson.”

  “What?”

  “That before she got married she had a baby.”

  Jury feigned astonishment and said, “What was Hilda going to do with this knowledge?”

  “If Mrs. Williamson tried to do anything to her, Hilda would tell her husband.”

  “But how did Hilda find this out?”

  “Listening to people talking. She was always listening outside of doors and things. I don’t know. Hilda was just good at finding things out. Really, she was dangerous. She knew something else too about Mrs. Williamson. That she went to a ‘baby doctor.’ Well, that’s what she called it. I expect she meant a gynecologist.”

  “Many women do. Nothing shocking in that.”

  “She overheard Mrs. Davies talking to her mother. What she said she heard was that Mrs. Williamson couldn’t have children. And she didn’t think that was true because of what she said she knew.”

  “Couldn’t Hilda simply have been lying? Showing off?”

  “Yes, she could have been. I’
d guess she lied a lot.” Veronica looked puzzled. “The thing is, how do you know something’s a lie until you know the truth of it?”

  “A good point.”

  “And enough of what she said did turn out to be true.”

  “It certainly sounds as if people hadn’t much privacy with Hilda around. What about Arabella?”

  “Why are you so interested in her?”

  “Because she’s dead,” said Jury.

  “Oh. Sorry. Arabella was all right. She didn’t run and tell on you if you did something wrong. But the trouble with her was she was kind of cling-y. You know?”

  Jury nodded. “Meaning she’d stick to you and you couldn’t scrape her off ?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Anyone she’d especially cling to? You?”

  “No. Kenneth. You could tell he hated it.”

  Approaching footsteps told them Colleen was coming back. She entered, carrying a small tray that Jury rose to help her with, but she merely set it on the coffee table and told him to help himself to milk and sugar, which he did. He said to Colleen, “I was told the parents of the children at Laburnum were quite friendly with one another. Is that true?”

  “No. If you mean by that sharing a social life, no.”

  “You didn’t get together for coffee or drinks or meals?”

  “Oh, the occasional coffee, I suppose.”

  “Did any of the others?”

  “Not so far as I knew, and one can generally tell if people have struck up a friendship that goes beyond seeing one another when the children are together. We were perfectly pleasant, though; we did talk. Especially Gilbert Strachey. He had a way of going on about his forebears. ‘Descended from Lytton Strachey’ he was fond of reminding us. I said to him that would be rather difficult, as Lytton Strachey had no children. He was—” Quickly she flicked a look at her daughter and then returned her gaze to Jury. “—You know.”

  “I don’t know, Mum. I don’t even know who Lytton Strachey was.”

  Jury put in, “He was a famous nineteenth-century writer and critic.”