In Pursuit of the Proper Sinner by Elizabeth George
“Which was what?”
“We were lovers, if that's what you're asking.”
“In the normal sense?” Hanken asked.
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“The girl was shaved. It suggests … a certain sexual whimsicality to the relationship you had with her.”
Ugly colour flared in Julian's face. “She was quirky. She waxed herself. She had some body piercings done as well. Her tongue. Her navel. Her nipples. Her nose. That's just who she was.”
She didn't sound like a woman who'd be the prospective bride of the impoverished landed gentry. Lynley wondered how Julian Britton had come to think of her as such.
Britton, however, appeared to read the direction Lynley's thoughts were taking. He said, “It doesn't mean anything, all that. She just was who she was. Women are like that these days. At least women her age. As you're from London, I'd expect you know that already.”
It was true that one saw just about everything on the streets of London. It would be a myopic investigator who judged any woman under thirty—or over thirty for that matter—on the basis of waxing herself hairless or allowing holes to be needled into her body. But all the same, Lynley wondered at the nature of Julian's comments. There was an eagerness to them that wanted probing.
“That's all I can tell you.” Having made that remark, Julian opened the record book that his cousin had brought to him. He flipped to a section behind a blue divider and turned several pages until he found the one he wanted. He turned the book round so that Lynley and Hanken could see it. The page was labelled Cass in large block letters. Beneath her name were documented the times of each puppy's delivery as well as the times that parturition had begun and ended.
They thanked him for the information and left him to continue his work with the harriers. Outside, it was Lynley who spoke first.
“Those times were written in pencil, Peter, the lot of them.”
“I noticed.” Hanken nodded in the direction of the manor house, saying, “Make quite a team, don't they? ‘Julie’ and his cousin.”
Lynley agreed. He just wondered what game the team was playing.
CHAPTER 8
arbara Havers was relieved to be able to leave the claustrophobic confines of the Met headquarters. Once Winston Nkata requested that she get onto the Battersea address of Terry Cole, she wasted little time in dashing for her car. She took the most direct route possible, heading for the river, where she followed the Embankment to Albert Bridge. On the south bank of the Thames she consulted her battered A to Z until she found the street she was looking for sandwiched between the two Bridge Roads: Battersea and Albert.
Terry Cole's digs were in a forest-green brick-and-bay-windowed conversion set among other similar conversions in Anhalt Road. A line of buzzers indicated that there were four flats in the building, and Barbara pressed the one that had Cole/Thompson taped next to it. She waited, glancing round at the neighbourhood. Terraced houses, some in better condition than others, were fronted by gardens. Some were neatly planted, some were overgrown, and more than one appeared to be used as a dumping place for everything from rusting cookers to screenless televisions.
There was no answer from the flat. Barbara frowned and descended the steps. She blew out a breath, not wanting to face another few hours at the computer, and considered her options as she studied the house. A spate of breaking and entering definitely wasn't going to cut the mustard, and she was thinking about a retreat to the nearest pub for a heaped plate of bangers and mash, when she noticed a curtain flick in the bay window of the ground floor flat. She decided to have a go at the neighbours.
Next to flat number one was the name Baden. Barbara pressed the buzzer. A tremulous voice came through the speaker almost at once in reply, as if the person in the corresponding flat had been preparing for a visit from the law. Once Barbara identified herself—and cooperatively held up her warrant card so that it could be observed at a distance through the ground floor window—the lock on the door was released. She pushed it open and found herself inside a vestibule that was the approximate size of a chess board. It was chess board in decoration as well: red and black tiles across which innumerable footprints were smudged.
Flat number one opened to the right of the vestibule. When Barbara knocked, she found that she had to go through the procedure all over again. She held her warrant card to the peep hole in the door this time. When it had been studied to the occupant's satisfaction, two dead bolts and a safety chain were released and the door opened. Barbara was faced with an elderly woman who said apologetically, “One can't be too careful these days, I'm afraid.”
She introduced herself as Mrs. Geoffrey Baden and quickly brought Barbara up to speed on the particulars of her life without being asked. Twenty years a widow, she had no children, just her birds—finches, whose enormous cage occupied one complete side of the sitting room—and her music, the source of which seemed to be a piano that occupied the other side. This was an antique upright and its top held several dozen framed pictures of the late Geoffrey while its music rack displayed enough hand-scored sheet music to suggest that Mrs. Baden might be channelling Mozart in her free afternoons.
Mrs. Baden herself suffered from tremors. They affected her hands and her head, which shook subtly but unceasingly throughout her interview with Barbara.
“No place to sit in here, I'm afraid,” Mrs. Baden said cheerfully when she was done sharing her personal particulars. “Come through to the kitchen. I've a fresh lemon cake, if you'd like a piece.”
She would have loved a piece, Barbara told her. But the truth was that she was looking for Cilia Thompson. Did Mrs. Baden know where Cilia might be found?
“I expect she's working in the studio,” Mrs. Baden replied, confiding, “They're artists, the two of them. Cilia and Terry. Lovely young people, if you don't mind their appearance, which I myself never do. Times change, don't they? And one must change with them.”
She seemed such a gentle, kind soul that Barbara was reluctant to tell her of Terry's death immediately. So she said, “You must know the two of them well.”
“Cilia's rather shy. But Terry's a dear boy, always popping round with the little gift or surprise. He calls me his adopted Gran, does Terry. He sometimes does the odd job when I need him. And he always stops to ask if I want something from the grocery when he pops out for his shopping. Neighbours like that are hard to come by these days. Don't you agree?”
“I'm lucky that way myself,” Barbara said, warming to the old woman. “I've good neighbours as well.”
“Then count yourself among the fortunate, my dear. May I say what a lovely colour your eyes are, by the way? One doesn't see such a pretty blue that often. I expect you've some Scandinavian in your blood. Ancestrally, of course.”
Mrs. Baden plugged in the electric kettle and pulled a packet of tea from a cupboard shelf. She spooned leaves into a faded porcelain pot and brought two mismatched mugs to the kitchen table. Her tremors were so bad that Barbara couldn't imagine the woman wielding a kettle of boiling water, and a few minutes later, when the kettle clicked off, she hastened to make the tea herself. For this activity Mrs. Baden thanked her graciously. She said, “One keeps hearing that young people have become virtual savages these days, but that's not been my experience.” She used a wooden spoon to stir the tea leaves round in the water, then she looked up and said quietly, “I do hope dear Terry's not in some sort of trouble,” as if she'd expected the police to come calling for quite some time, despite her earlier words.
“I'm awfully sorry to tell you this, Mrs. Baden,” Barbara said, “but Terry's dead. He was murdered in Derbyshire several nights ago. That's why I'd like to talk to Cilia.”
Mrs. Baden mouthed the word dead in some confusion. Her expression became stunned as the full implication behind that word made its way past her defences against it. “Oh my goodness,” she said.
“That lovely young boy. But certainly you can't think that Cilia—or even that unfortun
Barbara filed away the information about the unfortunate boyfriend for future reference. No, she told Mrs. Baden, she actually wanted Cilia to let her inside the flat. She needed a look round the place to see if there was anything that might give the police a clue why Terry Cole had been murdered. “He was one of two people killed, you see,” Barbara told her. “The other was a woman—Nicola Maiden, she was called—and it may well be that the killings happened because of her. But in any event, we're trying to establish whether Terry and the woman even knew each other.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Baden said. “I understand completely. You have a job to do, as unpleasant as it must certainly be.” She went on to tell Barbara that Cilia Thompson would be in the railway arches that fronted Portslade Road. That was where she, Terry, and two other artists pooled their resources to have a studio. Mrs. Baden couldn't give Barbara the exact address, but she didn't think the studio would be difficult to find. “One can always ask along the street in the other arches. I expect the proprietors would know whom you're talking about. As to the flat itself …” Mrs. Baden used a pair of silver tea tongs—their plate worn through in spots—to capture a sugar cube. It took her three tries because of the shaking, but she smiled with real pleasure when she managed it and she dropped the cube into her tea with a satisfied plop. “I do have a key, of course.”
Brilliant, Barbara thought, and she mentally rubbed her hands together in anticipation.
“It's my house, you see.” Mrs. Baden went on to explain that when Mr. Baden had passed on, she'd had the house converted as an investment, to provide her with income in her twilight years. “I let out three flats and live in the fourth myself.” And she added that she always insisted on keeping a key to each of the flats. She'd long ago discovered that the potential of a landlord's surprise visit always kept her tenants on their toes. “However,” she concluded, sinking Barbara's ship with a nonetheless fond smile, “I can't let you in.”
“You can't.”
“I'm afraid it would be such a violation of trust, you see, to let you in without Cilia's permission. I do hope you understand.”
Damn, Barbara thought. She asked when Cilia Thompson generally returned.
Oh, they never kept regular hours, Mrs. Baden told her. She'd be wisest to run by Portslade Road and make an appointment with Cilia while she was painting. And by the way, could Mrs. Baden talk the constable into a slice of lemon cake before she left? One loved to bake but only if one could share one's creations with someone else.
It would balance the chocolate donut nicely, Barbara decided. And since immediate access to Terry Cole's flat was going to be denied her, she thought she might as well continue towards her personal dietary goal of ingesting nothing but sugar and fat for twenty-four hours.
Mrs. Baden beamed at Barbara's acceptance and sliced a wedge of cake suitable for a Viking warrior. As Barbara fell upon it, the older woman made the sort of pleasant chitchat at which her generation so excelled. Buried within it was the occasional nugget about Terry Cole.
Thus, Barbara gleaned that Terry was a dreamer, not entirely practical—to Mrs. Baden's way of thinking—about his future success as an artist. He wanted to open a gallery. But, my dear, the thought that someone might actually want to buy his pieces … or even those done by his colleagues … But then, what did an old woman know about modern art?
“His mother said that he was working on a big commission,” Barbara noted. “Had he mentioned it to you?”
“My dear, he did talk about a big project …”
“But there wasn't one?”
“I'm not quite saying that.” Mrs. Baden made the point hastily. “I think, in his mind, there truly was.”
“In his mind. You're saying that he was delusional?”
“Perhaps he was … just a little overly enthusiastic.” Mrs. Baden gently pressed the tines of her fork against a few cake crumbs and looked reflective. Her next words were hesitant. “It does seem like speaking ill of the dead …”
Barbara sought to reassure her. “You liked him. That's obvious. And I expect you want to help.”
“He was such a good boy. He couldn't do enough to help those he cared for. You'll be hard-pressed to find anyone who'll tell you differently.”
“But … ?” Barbara tried to sound encouraging.
“But sometimes when a young man wants something so desperately, he cuts corners, doesn't he? He tries to find a shorter and more direct route to get to his destination.”
Barbara seized on the final word. “You're talking about the gallery he wanted to open?”
“Gallery? No. I'm talking about stature,” Mrs. Baden replied. “He wanted to be someone, my dear. More than money and goods, he wanted a sense of having a place in the world. But one's place in the world has to be earned, hasn't it, Constable?” She set her fork by her plate and dropped her hands into her lap. “I feel terrible saying such things about him. He was, you see, so good to me. He gave me three new finches for my birthday. And only this week, some nice piano music … Flowers on Mothering Sunday as well. So considerate a boy. So generous, really. And helpful. He was so truly helpful when I needed someone to tighten a screw or change a bulb …”
“I understand,” Barbara reassured her.
“It's just that I want you to know he had more than one side to him. And this other part—the part in a hurry—well, he would have outgrown that as he learned more about life, wouldn't he?”
“Without a doubt,” Barbara said.
Unless, of course, his hunger for stature was directly related to his death on the moor.
Upon leaving Broughton Manor, Lynley and Hanken stopped in Bakewell for a quick pub meal not far from the centre of town. There, over a filled jacket potato (Hanken) and a ploughman's lunch (Lynley), they sorted through their facts. Hanken had brought with him a map of the Peak District, which he used to make his major point.
“We're looking for a killer who knows the area,” he said, indicating the map with his fork. “And you can't tell me some lag fresh out of Dartmoor prison took a crash course in trek-and-track in order to get revenge on Andy Maiden by killing his daughter. That kite won't fly.”
Lynley studied the map dutifully. He saw that hiking trails snaked all across the district, and destinations of interest dotted it. It looked like a paradise for a hiker or camper, but a huge paradise in which the unwary or unprepared walker could easily become lost. He also noted that Broughton Manor was of enough historical significance to be indicated as a point of interest just south of Bakewell and that the manor's land abutted a forest which itself gave way to a moor. Both across the moor and through the forest were a series of footpaths for the hiker, which led Lynley to say, “Julian Britton's family have been here for a few hundred years. I expect he's familiar with the area.”
“As is Andy Maiden,” Hanken countered. “And he has the look of someone who's been out and about on the land a fair amount. I wouldn't be surprised to learn his daughter inherited her penchant for trekking from him. And he found that car. All night out scouring the whole blasted White Peak, and he managed to find that bloody car.”
“Where was it, exactly?”
Hanken used his fork again. Between the hamlet of Sparrowpit and Winnat's Pass stretched a road that formed the northwest boundary of Calder Moor. A short distance from the track leading southeast towards Perryfoot, the car had been parked behind a dry-stone wall.
Lynley said, “All right. I see that it was a lucky shot—”
Hanken snorted. “Right.”
“—to find the car. But lucky shots happen. And he knew her haunts.”
“He did indeed. He knew them well enough to track her down, do her in, and dash back home with no one the wiser.”
“With what motive, Peter? You can't hang guilt on the man on the strength of his keeping information from his wife. That kite won't fly either. And if he's the killer, who's his accomplice?”
“
“Not unless Andy Maiden has undergone a transformation in personality since moving here. Peter, he was one of the best.”
“Don't like him too much,” Hanken warned. “He may have called in markers to get you sent up here for one very good reason.”
“I could take offence at that.”
“My pleasure.” Hanken smiled. “I've a fancy for seeing a nob cheesed off. But mind you, don't think too highly of this bloke. That's a dangerous place to be.”
“Just as dangerous as thinking too ill of the man. In either case, the vision goes to hell.”
“Touché” Hanken said.
“Julian has a motive, Peter.”
“Disappointment in love?”
“Perhaps something stronger. Perhaps an elementary passion. A base one at that. Who's this chap Upman?”
“I'll introduce you.”
They finished their meal and returned to the car. They headed northwest out of Bakewell, climbed upwards, and traversed the northern boundary of Taddington Moor.
In Buxton they cruised along the High Street, finding a place to park behind the town hall. This was an impressive nineteenth-century edifice overlooking The Slopes, a tree-shaded series of ascending paths, where those who once had come to Buxton to take the waters had exercised in the afternoons.
The solicitor's office was further along the High Street. Above an estate agent and an art gallery featuring water colours of the Peaks, it was reached by means of a single door with the names Upman, Smith, & Sinclair printed on its opaque glass.
As soon as Hanken sent his card into Upman's office in the hands of an ageing secretary in secretarial twin set and tweeds, the man himself came out to greet them and to usher them into his domain. He'd heard about Nicola Maiden's death, he told them somberly. He'd phoned the Hall to ask where he should send Nicola's final wages for the summer, and one of the dailies there had given him the news. The previous week had been her last in the office.