See No Evil, page 8
Gabriel got up as though to stretch his legs and took a closer look at Emma’s desk. He doubted she had sat and written down anything in years, possibly ever; the blotting pad was fresh and had never been used, there were squeaky-clean pens and an unopened ink pot. The whole arrangement was an affectation, a strange attempt at making the room look as though it belonged to a much-younger person, even a child who might come home with a satchel full of prep to do before the morning; or perhaps it was supposed to make the bedroom look more like an old-fashioned lady’s boudoir. Either way, the desk was almost insulting. Gabriel could hardly imagine Emma sitting there copying out a Latin exercise or writing a carefully crafted letter of thanks for an invitation to a dinner dance.
“Who will care for my baby if they hang me?” asked Emma to Gabriel’s back. “I’m still nursing.”
“Emma, I think you should label that tin,” suggested Gabriel, turning to look at her. “You wouldn’t want anyone to take it by accident, thinking it belongs to someone else.”
“Yes, I suppose I should,” answered Emma, moving effortlessly from the subject of babies to biscuits. “I like biscuits.”
Gabriel went back to the desk and inked a pen for her, then offered it to her. Emma took the pen in her left hand and scrawled her name untidily across the top of the package, the brown paper absorbing the ink messily so that the letters spread out in thick, spiky lines over the fibres of the paper. “Thank you, Emma,” he said, taking back the pen. “Let me help you with that.”
“It wasn’t a sin, it was justice,” said Emma softly, as Gabriel prepared to leave. “I only married to escape.”
“Emma, where is your husband?” asked Gabriel.
“Waiting for me at home,” Emma explained. “I’d best be getting home, really. It’s nice to chat, but I’ve so much to do before Reggie gets home from work.”
Gabriel gave Emma a little bow and left, hoping he had not unsettled the poor woman too badly. He thought he might not tell Verity anything about their meeting, other than that she had liked Paul’s biscuits.
6
Gabriel was going to have to find himself another mode of transport. If it had been hair-raising skidding down the winding roads to the nursing home, it was a purgatorial nightmare trying to cycle up them again, especially when the heavens opened near the top of the hill, where there was absolutely no shelter, and he was soaked to the skin. By the time he reached something resembling civilisation again, Gabriel could almost see Dante’s avenging angels queuing up to hurl stones at him to purify him of his pride.
Not that it was easy to hold on to one’s pride—or dignity, or self-respect—for very long in the presence of His Majesty’s police force. Gabriel left his bicycle propped up against the railings outside the constabulary and staggered inside, dripping wet and out of breath. “Good God, you look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards!” boomed PC Stevens from behind his desk.
“It’s always backwards, isn’t it?” puffed Gabriel, leaning against the counter for support. “I might have been dragged through the famous hedge forwards, resisting volubly.”
Stevens grinned amiably. He was a good-natured man in his forties who had spent a quiet war mostly in barracks in Aldershot, with just enough time spent shooting at various Germans in France to earn himself a medal and a few good stories at the pub. “You’ll catch your death like that, you know.”
“It’s all right, Stevens, I’ll go straight home and get a change of clothes,” said Gabriel. “I just need to take a look at Victor Gladstone’s file. It’s quite urgent.”
“Victor who?”
“The man who was found dead early this morning. I need to check something.”
“You’ll be lucky, Father; they’re only now finishing their report. Inspector—”
“Oh no, is Inspector Applegate on the case already? I rather hoped . . .”
Gabriel was distracted by the clang of a door opening, and almost on cue, Inspector Applegate swept into view. “Walked into a bog, have you?” asked Applegate, which made a nice change from references to hedges.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” said Gabriel, and he was trying hard to pretend he really didn’t mind.
“I wish I could say the same of you,” Applegate retorted. “I’m presented with a nice open-and-shut case of a deranged woman bumping off her old man, and Count Dracula jumps in to wreck everything. What do you want?”
“Nothing,” said Gabriel, calmly. “I simply wanted to tell you that Emma Caufield is innocent.”
Applegate maintained his poker face with admirable professionalism. “What?”
“That’s it; Emma Caufield is innocent.”
“I know she is; she’s insane.”
“That’s not what I mean. She couldn’t possibly have done it.”
Applegate’s calm demeanour never held up for very long; he grabbed Gabriel by the arm and propelled him in the direction of his office. “Five minutes, mate, all right? Five minutes. That should be long enough for you to hurl a few grenades in the direction of my case.”
Gabriel brushed Applegate off and walked into an office that had become quite familiar over the past few months, though not familiar enough for him to risk sitting down. “If it’s such an open-and-shut case, why are you investigating at all?” asked Gabriel. “You must have your own suspicions.”
“None whatsoever,” answered Applegate, settling himself at his desk. He snatched up a couple of sheets of paper that were lying in wait for him in his tray and gestured for Gabriel to take a seat, observing him warily as he sat down. “I’m just here to cross the t’s and dot the i’s. A violent death is still a violent death, and it has to be investigated.”
“Good, an investigation. I could help you with that.”
Applegate glanced over the report. “It’s all exactly as I was informed,” said Applegate casually. “The woman was found in the near vicinity of the body. There was blood on her clothing. Just in case she couldn’t make it easy enough for us, she was heard shouting, `I’ve killed him! Sweet Jesus, I’ve killed him!’ You were one of the witnesses, I gather?”
“You haven’t taken a statement from me yet,” answered Gabriel. “Would you like to interview me now?”
Applegate looked steadily across the desk at Gabriel. “What do you want? If you’re worried about Emma Caufield, you needn’t be. She’ll not be brought to trial; she’ll go nowhere near the hangman. We’ll find her a place in an asylum, and no one will ever trouble her again.”
“Inspector, that’s all well and good, but she didn’t do it.”
“She confessed to it, she was found at the scene of the crime and she had motive.”
Gabriel sighed, wondering if Emma had repeated the same feelings of diabolical loathing to the inspector as she had to him earlier. He repeated an earlier observation in the hope it would lend some support to his position. “Sadly, there are many men and women in this world who grow up to hate their fathers. Most do not turn into murderers.”
“Most,” repeated Applegate. “Emma is the exception to the rule then.”
“I don’t believe she is, Inspector,” said Gabriel cautiously. “I think she was wandering around, lost and frightened. Somehow or other, she stumbled upon her father’s body, and in her confusion, she imagined she had killed him. Perhaps she had imagined killing him before, many, many times, and when she saw him it was easy for her to think herself responsible. Remember, she is an extremely impressionable person.”
Applegate shifted in his chair, a sure sign that the interview was nearing its end, whether Gabriel liked it or not. “Don’t you think it rather a coincidence that a woman walks out of her nursing home on a morning she knows nobody is likely to find her quickly, then an hour later her hated father is found dead? Even if she hadn’t been found howling the place down, it doesn’t look very good for her, does it?”
Gabriel shook his head impatiently. “How could she have known her father was there? She barely knows what day of the week it is! When I spoke with her this morning, she thought it was years ago and her daughter was still a nursing infant!”
“You’ve been to see her?”
Gabriel chose to ignore the accusatory tone. “Yes, and that’s why I know she didn’t do it. She said she pushed him, but that’s not how the killer brought him down. It was a blow to the head.”
“Father, there’s been no postmortem—”
“I saw a gash on the side of his head that looked different to his other injuries. Of course, he might have struck his head on a stone or a branch on his way down, but I thought—”
“Yes, he might have done. None of this makes any sense.”
“And the injury was on his left-hand side. It was dealt by a right-hander. Emma’s left-handed.”
Applegate looked impassively at Gabriel for what felt like an age before answering. “Father, until I have substantive evidence to the contrary, I can neither confirm nor dismiss anything you say. There is simply no point in speculating like this until we have the results of the postmortem.”
It was the answer for which Gabriel had the least respect, so slippery, so unwilling to take sides. “How long will it be before the postmortem?” he asked.
There was a thunder of feet and muffled voices some distance away, causing the two men to stop talking. The door flew open, revealing Bron looking very much the worse for wear. “Has my sister been accused?” he demanded, completely ignoring Gabriel’s presence in the room. “This is not a police matter. The woman is seriously ill, has been for years. If you have any doubt about that at all—”
“I’m well aware of that, sir,” Applegate broke in. “I can assure you that my constables were very gentle with her, and there was no attempt made to have her taken into custody. She has been returned to her nursing home for the time being.”
“For the time being?” echoed Bron. “Please tell me you’re not suggesting Emma could be held to account for this? She might not have had anything to do with it!”
“Bron, is your sister left-handed?” asked Gabriel. “Sorry if it sounds like a silly question.”
“It’s a ridiculous question!” blustered Bron, looking at Gabriel as though he had two heads. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“Exonerating your sister, possibly,” he answered. “Was she left-handed?”
Bron shook his head in confusion. “Well . . . well, as a matter of fact she was, Father, and extremely bitter she was about it too. She never let the rest of us forget that she was forced to write with her right hand all the way through school. No other child has ever been forced to write with the correct hand in the history of education. She made a huge fuss about writing as she pleased ever after. Why do you ask?”
Gabriel gave Applegate the sort of smile that was as close as he could get to saying “I told you so,” but Applegate had other matters on his mind. “I don’t wish to be rude, gentlemen,” said Applegate wearily, “but I wonder if I might get on?”
“Without wishing to be rude, Inspector,” countered Bron, “I should like some assurance that my sister will not come to any harm as a result of this unfortunate business.”
Applegate gave Bron his very finest professional smile, the effect of which was completely lost on Bron. “Sir, I can give you that assurance. In spite of what was said at the scene, there is no reason to believe that your father’s death was anything other than a tragic accident. Until the results of the postmortem are available, I will continue to treat this as an accident.”
“Thank you, Inspector,” answered Bron, before leaving the room without pausing to close the door behind him. Applegate got up and moved towards the door, watching until he was sure Bron had left the police station, and then turned on Gabriel so aggressively that Gabriel crossed his hands in front of his face to shield himself.
“You blithering idiot, he might have done it!” growled Applegate. “Didn’t it occur to you that if your own ridiculous theory is true, then we have no way of knowing who killed Victor Gladstone?”
“I thought you didn’t really think anyone killed him,” said Gabriel, lowering his hands. “Frankly, you didn’t seem to think very much of my theory at all.”
“This may come as a surprise to you, Father, but I like to keep an open mind, and I was as unwilling to dismiss this as an unfortunate accident as you were. I’ll thank you not to go around blabbing to suspects.”
“You don’t honestly think that a man like Bron would be capable of murder?”
Applegate snatched a file from his tray and threw it open, giving every possible signal that he wished Gabriel to leave. “In my opinion, if there is no obvious suspect, then everyone’s a suspect, including terribly nice gentlemen who have just bent the knee to Rome.” Gabriel winced. “No need to pretend you don’t have an ulterior motive; I’ve heard that the charming Auberon Gladstone has been dragged kicking and screaming into your church. It counts for nothing.”
“I would never be foolish enough to pretend that no Catholic ever commits a crime,” said Gabriel quietly.
“Except, of course, if he had committed a murder and confessed to you, you wouldn’t tell me, would you?”
“Couldn’t, no.”
Applegate gave Gabriel the benefit of his favourite smirk. “Let’s hope he doesn’t confess to you and then frame you for the crime—you wouldn’t be able to defend yourself, would you?”
Gabriel smiled. “It’s an old conundrum, Inspector. It would depend upon whether it were a bona fide confession, of course. A lot of people forget that; but if it were, and the only way to save my life was to break the seal, then yes, I would have to surrender my neck to the hangman. But if it were a genuine confession, the penitent would be unlikely to allow me to hang.”
Gabriel waited for Applegate to respond, but he had lost interest in the conversation and was looking intently at his file, apparently too rivetted to wish him good day. Gabriel bowed to Applegate’s lowered head and left the room. He nodded to Stevens as he left the station and ventured out into the chill of the street, almost colliding with the waiting Bron.
“Why didn’t you wait at the station?” enquired Gabriel. “You must be freezing, standing on this corner. It’s a wind tunnel.”
Bron began to walk in the direction of the High Street and clearly expected Gabriel to follow him, which he did without thinking about it. “Mind if we have a few words?” he asked, glancing discreetly over his shoulder, but Gabriel suspected that this was for effect. “I’d suggest we return to Kingsway, but I’m not sure my humble abode is quite suitable for visitors at the moment. And it’s some way off. Might I treat you to afternoon tea?”
Gabriel had a weakness for tea and cake, which he tried hard to conceal. “If it’s private enough for conversation, I’m happy enough to go to Rosie’s.”
“I’d sooner go to the pub myself,” answered Bron. “I’m in great need of a stiff drink.”
“Well,” ventured Gabriel, “perhaps we should be grateful for the licensing laws.”
They turned right when they reached the post office and walked steadily down the High Street. The main street of the town was built on a hill—of which there were many in this part of the world—and they were both forced to slow down as they walked downhill to avoid slipping. They passed several closed pubs, a greengrocer and the Acropolis picture house before turning down a cobbled side road, which until recently had housed the town’s air-raid shelter—mercifully never used.
Rosie’s tearooms boasted the only powerful splash of colour on the entire road, with a large, bright-red hand-painted sign decorated with teapots and flowers, and red gingham curtains tied back at the windows. As soon as they opened the door and stepped inside, Gabriel was happily caressed by the aroma of Earl Grey. Bron immediately walked towards the most private corner of the tearooms, tucked away from any passerby who might hear through the steamy windows.
“Thank you for joining me, Father,” said Bron, removing his coat. “I hope you won’t think it rude of me to ask why you were at the police station? I’m afraid I’m rather at my wits’ end about all this.”
Bron hardly had the demeanour of a man at his wits’ end, but men at that age very rarely did. He was a man who was ageing well, thanks partly to his tendency to look after himself. He had the look of a man who would never have dreamed of leaving the house without being immaculately turned out, his suit carefully pressed, not a single dark hair out of place. Though he had clearly suffered financially because of his estrangement from his father, he had not lost his sense of style, and his effortless charm made him easy to get on with. “Not rude at all, Bron,” said Gabriel. “You’ve every right to ask. I went to see your sister earlier. I hope you don’t mind, but I was rather concerned for her.”
“Not at all, it was good of you to go to her,” said Bron, signalling for the waitress. “How was she?”
“As expected, I suppose, though of course I’ve no idea what she’s normally like. I mean, when she hasn’t just had a shock. She was very confused, talking as though Verity were still a baby. Very contrite about what she had done.”
“Except you don’t think she did it, do you?”
The two men went quiet as a waitress appeared at the table. The management insisted upon the staff at the tearooms dressing like Victorian servants, complete with frilly Mrs Mop hats and lace-trimmed pinnies which were looking a little frayed at the edges. This particular waitress, a girl aged no more than eighteen, clearly did not appreciate the look. “What can I get for you gentlemen?” she asked, giving Bron a manufactured smile as though she instinctively knew he would be paying the bill.
