Enter Pale Death(108)

“So James finds himself in undisputed sole possession of the plentiful resources. Hmm … Ah, well. Rather dashes one of my theories to the ground. I’ve been going through the account books. All the same—that’s something we needed to know. Another piece of the jigsaw. One more piece of blue sky but the picture builds.”

Joe must have sounded despondent. Ralph hurried on, in a voice trying to suppress a triumphant chortle: “But there is something more. Perhaps even the four corner pieces? Something old Brewer let slip right at the end when he shouldn’t have. Something in response to a remark I made with a dash of low cunning as I thanked him and signed off. That’s when pompous prats let their defences down, I find. Right when they think they’re getting shot of you and you’ve sportingly admitted defeat. That’s the moment! What I do is think of my best judgement on the situation and then I completely reverse it, however ludicrous it may seem. I make a throw-away remark on these lines, assuming the bloke I’m conning is in the know, as am I.”

“I think I follow. Not trying some mind trick out on me are you, Ralph?”

“Never! Usually I get a stunned silence while they work it out and the length of that can be revealing. Other times I get an outraged denial and correction. Even better. But just occasionally, I get a wondering agreement and a spluttering: ‘Now how the devil did you know that? Our Police are getting to be a force to be reckoned with!’ This was one of those occasions. It’s word for word the response I got from Mr. Brewer when I flew a very chancy kite in his face!… Just finishing, darling!… Now—listen to this, Joe!”


JOE REPLACED THE receiver and instantly reconnected with the operator. He looked anxiously at his watch. Cyril Tate was probably well into his second dry sherry at the Cock in Fleet Street. But no. He was still at headquarters and Joe’s call had him on the line in seconds.

“Of course I’m here! It’s still Ascot weekend down here in the Metropolis. Another hour’s copy to write up before I dash off to the next event—tea with a duchess. Make it quick, Joe.”

Matching Joe’s own urgency, Cyril answered his questions with the curt, pared-down sentences of the airman he had once been and ditched the society commentator’s persiflage. “In the last year? I’m fishing my diary from my pocket as we speak. It takes me back as far as last January.”

Joe heard pages rustle and he pictured Cyril thumbing through his large-sized, heavily scrawled over and full-to-bursting record of social engagements. “February … here we are … You’ll have to depend on my memory for this one. The birthday ball out in Wiltshire of Amanda Seacombe … As well as the many royal cousins clustering round, there was present your person of interest: Dorothy Despond. Attending with her father. Don’t ask me why. I didn’t write down the whole guest list but I’m pretty sure the Trueloves were there. James and Lavinia.”

“Evidence of this? I can’t afford to get it wrong, Cyril. Lives at stake.”

“Make that ‘certain’ then. I can send you the shots if you like. Otherwise a back copy of Tatler will confirm. Hang on! Come to think of it … skipping on a bit … Here she is again in March. Literary and Arty jamboree in Hertfordshire.” Cyril flinched at the memory. “One of those god-awful shows where they expect you to roll your sleeves up and paint a watercolour, write an ode and stuff an owl. All in the space of one wet weekend.”

“What was Miss Despond doing there?”

“Leading a snappy little art appreciation group, if you can believe it. Subject: ‘Dada and all the other -isms … How to hold your own conversational end up when all about are losing their marbles’ sort of stuff. James Truelove was not only a fellow guest—he was in the front row, lapping it up! Without the missus, this time. Ho, ho! I see where you’re going with this! You clever old sod! Those two knew each other before the wife died. Good enough, Joe?”

“It’ll do, Cyril. Many thanks!”

“Have I just hammered a nail in some poor sod’s coffin?”

“No, no! But you may just have saved a girl from a fate worse than death—a life with James Truelove. I owe you a pint in the Cock when I get back to civilisation, old mate!”


THE PHONE RANG as he left the room. Joe looked about for Styles, then, thinking it might be his superintendent ringing him back with an afterthought, Joe closed the door and picked up the receiver himself.

“Hello. This is Melsett Hall here,” he said carefully.

A young woman answered. “That’s not Mr. Styles,” she said in a voice slow with suspicion.