The Blood Royal(122)

Chapter Thirty-Five




It was uncomfortable. It was demeaning. He was a high-ranking officer, for God’s sake! He could have this girl shorn of her epaulettes and buttons and stuck away in the Tower or somewhere quiet in five minutes, no questions asked. He owed her nothing. She was eminently dispensable. Why was he sitting behind his desk, at bay, hesitating to meet her eye?

Because, for a start, the wretched girl had – foolishly but bravely – put herself in bodily danger to single-handedly unearth evidence it had taken a squad of men days to piece together. Sandilands didn’t shoot sitting ducks, carrier pigeons or game out of season. And he didn’t undermine effective officers. Fair was fair. And besides, although, for old-fashioned reasons, he’d advised against the involvement of a woman at the outset, it had become very clear that this one, at any rate, had considerable talents. Talents they still had need of. They hadn’t finished with her yet, he told himself firmly. One last job to do. He thought hard and decided there was no risk involved for her. No risk at all.

And those damned eyes were hard to meet when you weren’t entirely sure that what you were telling them was the truth. Too big. And too grey. You might just as well try fibbing to the goddess Minerva. Or your nanny.

Joe fidgeted with his blotter and launched into his account. Always give the good news first. He tried for a positive tone, picking out the first favourable aspect of this whole murky affair that came to mind. ‘Well, it seems that Hopkirk and I had it right all along. A common domestic murder, not an assassination, is what we had to deal with. And what has triumphed in the end is – as you noted – good old regular police work. The superintendent has done some ferreting around in Sussex and reported back to me. He’s banged on doors and interviewed bank managers in the time-honoured way.’

He pulled a page of notes from under the telephone and glanced at them briefly. ‘Frog’s Green, that’s the village. Sebastian Marland’s motor business is not as healthy as we had been led to believe … managers sacked, disappointing trials … though banking records reveal no evidence that he is actually in debt yet. And he has an alibi for the night of the killing, if not a watertight one. His housekeeper, who appears devoted to the chap, declares he went to bed early and was still abed when she took him his early morning cup of tea. She’s the kind of lady whose evidence would stand up wonderfully in court … you can imagine?’

‘No mention of a phone call in the night?’

Joe smiled at her perception. ‘No. She reports that, after a hasty breakfast, the young master made two phone calls and screeched off in his car, claiming he was responding to an emergency.’

‘But didn’t Cassandra imply that she’d spoken to him in Sussex straight after the murder? I’m sure she told us she had.’

‘It was vaguely phrased to lead us astray. I don’t believe Cassandra has any idea that records of trunk calls are available to us. I checked. Many calls were made from her telephone that night, but none to Sussex. I don’t think we could make an accusation stick. He could certainly have sneaked off up to London. He could have loitered in evening dress in Melton Square or anywhere in Mayfair and not raised an eyebrow. He certainly wouldn’t have been bothered by the beat bobbies. As you say, upper-class drunks are ten a penny on a Saturday night. And, as the cabby observed, steady gun hand, unsteady on his pins. He could have done it. Hired the Irishmen and hung around to make sure they did the job. But we run into another factor that would get me a clip round the ear if I approached the Director of Public Prosecutions with a request for arraignment. There’s no kind of motive – financial, I mean – that would stand up and convince. He inherits a modest lump sum from his uncle and a yearly retainer for supervising the boys, and he had foreknowledge of that, but it’s a long way short of a fortune. No judge in the land would accept it as an incitement to murder.’

‘But if he were to marry Cassandra, sir?’

‘Ah. Then we have a different scenario entirely. The widow has money of her own and a good slice of the admiral’s wealth comes to her too. But it would be assuming quite a lot, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Yes. And to take the risk, he’d have had to be able to count on gaining her affection?’

‘Exactly. Quite a gamble.’

Lily frowned and took a deep breath. ‘What I’m thinking is – there was no gamble. He already had it, sir. Her affection, I mean.’

‘Explain yourself, Wentworth.’

‘I didn’t have the impression that he was the kind of man who would kill a close family member for an uncertain source of cash. We know that he’s a man hardened and made ruthless by his wartime experience – he’s used to shooting people, to put it bluntly. But I think it would take a much stronger reason than financial gain to make the man I saw this afternoon pull a trigger in cold blood.’