Four Thousand Days, page 8
‘Was the cause of death apparent?’ She leaned forward.
‘Not at the time, but they did a post-mortem on her on the Sunday afternoon. The local quack wasn’t keen either, but it isn’t good for a genteel seaside place to have dead bodies scattered over its beaches, so they put a move on. Just as well it’s not the season.’
‘Hardly scattered,’ Margaret murmured.
Reid coughed and then smiled. His smile transformed him and Margaret saw the naughty schoolboy he carried inside him peering out. ‘There were rumours,’ he said. ‘Heaven only knows how these things begin.’
‘Heaven only knows indeed.’ She smiled back. ‘So … cause of death?’ She hoped it would be poison, but that seemed unlikely.
‘Although … er … putrefaction had set in in the warmer months … I should have said, they estimate she had been dead for around two months or more … there was enough soft tissue to tell that she had died from strangulation. Well, that and the scarf tied tightly around her neck.’ He arched an eyebrow. ‘I did say their methods leave a little to be desired. I had to point it out to the idiot doing the autopsy.’
‘You attended?’ Margaret was impressed.
‘Well,’ the ex-inspector preened, ‘I am Inspector Dier, when all is said and done.’ He put his hat on his head and gave it a decisive tap. ‘Now’ – he extended an elbow – ‘shall we?’
Edmund Reid didn’t need telling about the rivalry between King’s and University College. He had been in the thick of things – though latterly more in a role of looking on from an upstairs window – in various clashes over the years. University College had been set up with no nod in the direction of a particular denomination, hence the ‘Godless Institution’. King’s, on the other hand, was up to its academic neck in the Church of England and the Duke of Wellington, no less, had been a prime mover – as well as prime minister – when it was opened. University College had been gunning for them ever since. He and Margaret agreed without discussion that it would probably be better in the first instance if he did the talking. Margaret, loyal to her fingertips to the Godless Institution, turned her nose up at the rather dark and gloomy entranceway that led from the Strand and Reid nudged her and almost knocked her over when she ran a gloved finger over a balustrade to check for dust.
‘Dr Murray,’ he hissed. ‘Any more of it and I am going to have to send you home.’
In any other mouth it would be an empty threat, but somehow from Reid it wasn’t. Margaret duly fell into step behind him and tried to be good.
Reid tapped on an anonymous door and Margaret touched his sleeve.
‘Are we in the right place? We need to see the Almoner or someone, don’t we? How do you know …?’
He fixed her with a glare. ‘Madam,’ he said, drawing himself up to make what he could of his height, ‘I know every building in London, outside and in. As well as the people.’ He stopped and looked thoughtful. ‘The people I am possibly a few months out of date on, but the interiors, no. The chapel, should you feel the need, is up the stairs to your right. The refectory, if required, is down the stairs, that way; but I wouldn’t recommend it – too near the river.’
Margaret Murray was a kind woman, but she did feel a weasel of hope that he would have chosen the wrong door. She hugged it to her as they listened for a voice telling them to enter.
‘Come in.’ A contralto trill came through the mahogany and Reid turned the handle, peering round the door. ‘Edmund!’ The trill went up the scale and Margaret Murray quietly strangled the weasel. ‘How lovely! They didn’t say it was you.’ He pushed the door open and revealed Margaret from behind him, like, almost literally, a conjuror producing a rabbit from a hat. ‘And Miss Murray! Well, this is a wonderful way to start a week, I must say!’
The woman who had risen from behind a palatial desk was a head taller than Reid and several taller than Margaret. She was, nonetheless, graceful, dressed from head to toe in elegantly cut fine tweed. Lace frothed at her neck, snowy and starched to within an inch of its life and a small fragment of it was wound into the curls at the nape of her neck. Margaret, never much bothered by the sartorial, felt the weasel stir.
Reid basked in the woman. Recently widowed or no, there wasn’t a man alive who could not feel the warmth of her. Grasping her hand, Reid turned to his companion. ‘Margaret, may I introduce Miss Rosa Stone, Almoner of King’s. There is just nothing that this lady doesn’t know about this college.’
‘Rosa Stone?’ Margaret raised an eyebrow.
‘I know!’ The Almoner released Reid’s hand and grasped Margaret’s. ‘What were my parents thinking? Still, I suppose after a hundred and one years, the joke is a bit old by now.’
Damn the woman! She even had archaeological facts at her perfectly manicured fingertips.
‘Do sit down, both of you.’ Miss Stone resumed her place at the desk and pulled a clean piece of paper and a pencil towards her, ready to make notes. ‘How may I help? I assume neither of you has come to enrol?’ The laugh trilled up the scale again.
Margaret took a deep breath and Reid hacked her ankle with his highly polished shoe. ‘We would like to ask a delicate question, Rosa, if we may. For reasons I can’t divulge, we need to ask if you are missing any lady students at the moment.’
Rosa Stone tapped the desk with the end of her pencil. ‘Rather a redundant question on a Monday, Edmund, if you don’t mind my saying so. Until Tuesday, I could not claim to have a full complement of either sex, but the women do seem to like a lie-in rather more than somewhat on a Monday. Especially when the weather is inclement. It makes their hair frizz, I suppose.’ She shot a wry glance at Margaret, who prevented herself from patting her own hair only by a supreme act of will. There was something about this woman that made her feel like a guttersnipe.
‘Not just missing today,’ Reid specified. ‘Missing since before the beginning of term.’
‘Well, if she was missing from before the beginning of term, then she isn’t a student here, is she?’ Miss Stone was pernickety, you had to say that for her.
Reid bowed his head in acquiescence. ‘She has been on your roll for a year or two, I would imagine. She may even be post-graduate.’ He arched an eyebrow and looked hopeful.
Rosa Stone pushed her chair back and turned to reach a low filing cabinet behind her. ‘I think I may be able …’ She rummaged for a moment. ‘Yes, here we are.’ She pulled out a sheet of paper and spun round again, pulling herself back up to the desk. ‘Miss … erm … Miss Emmeline … but I believe she went by Emma … Miss Emmeline Barker. She was indeed post-graduate. She was in the Archaeology faculty.’
She looked up at Margaret’s indrawn breath.
‘I see we have the right person. But she isn’t missing. She has simply … well, she’s given up, it seems. Not everyone has your tenacity, Miss Murray.’
‘Given up?’ Margaret couldn’t see what harm a simple question could do but moved her ankles out of range even so.
‘Yes.’ Miss Stone pushed the sheet of paper across the table for them to read but kept her finger on it, so they had to lean forward.
They both scanned it. It was typewritten, by someone with little skill at the machine, if the oddly spaced rows and irregular spaces and pressure on certain letters were any guide.
‘Read it out, Dr Murray,’ Reid said. ‘I have left my glasses in my other coat.’
‘“Dear Miss Stone,”’ Margaret read, and stopped. ‘There doesn’t seem to be a sender’s address. Do you not find that odd?’ She looked up and locked eyes with the Almoner.
‘I assumed she had written it from her parents’ home,’ the woman said and pushed the paper forward just a touch. She didn’t have all the time in the world, unlike a retired policeman and some kind of woman lecturer.
Margaret continued. ‘“I have been thinking things over through the summer vacation and have concluded that I do not wish to pursue an academic career any further. I have met a wonderful gentleman who has done me the honour of asking me to be his wife and I cannot do justice to that exalted position when also giving time to my research. My abject apologies for the short notice.”’ Margaret sat upright. ‘“Yours, et cetera.”’ She looked at the Almoner again. ‘And you didn’t query this?’
‘Why should I? It is signed and all perfectly in order. Women students fall by the wayside every day, Miss Murray, you must know that. Why, this very year, when we mustered for the new term, one young flibbertigibbet walked in on the arm of some chinless wonder, took one look and turned tail and fled. She holds the record, actually; until this term, it stood at five hours.’ She pulled the letter back towards her and folded it in half. ‘Can I help you with anything else?’
‘No,’ Reid said, standing up and tapping Margaret on the shoulder to follow suit. ‘I think that’s all. I would like her family address, if you have it. So that the Kent police can let her parents know.’
‘Know?’ Rosa Stone’s perfect eyebrow seemed poised for flight. ‘Know what?’
‘Why, that she’s dead, of course.’ He let the words hang in the air.
‘Emma? Dead? I …’ For one of the very few times in her life, Rosa Stone was lost for words.
‘Obviously,’ Reid said, tapping his hat in place in his usual decisive way, ‘I can’t go into any details. But I dare say I can get the Kent police to get in touch directly with you, Rosa, if you prefer …’ He turned the statement into a question and looked at Margaret for direction. But before she could concur, Rosa Stone had an answer.
‘My dear Edmund! There is absolutely no need for anything like that!’ Having a celebrity like Reid in her office was one thing; a load of Kentish oafs lumbering about in their size twelves was quite another. ‘I have a box of Emma’s effects here.’ She touched a bell on her desk and a door to her right immediately sprang open. ‘Umm … Felicity. Could you bring Miss Barker’s box through, please?’ She turned to Reid. She had decided to wipe Margaret from her field of view. She found that she could do that to most women without turning a hair.
‘I believe it’s in the basement, Miss Stone.’ The downtrodden little factotum could hardly raise the energy to speak. Living in Rosa Stone’s shadow was a cold place to be.
Rosa sighed, her breasts heaving and struggling beneath the tweed and reminding Edmund Reid of the tide coming in over the humped sands of Margate. ‘Then … then take this gentleman and … er … lady down with you, give them the box and show them the quickest way out. The river entrance, almost certainly.’ She turned back to Reid and managed a ghost of a smile. ‘So I can leave it all to you, can I, Edmund?’
‘Indeed you can, Rosa. Indeed you can.’ He tapped the brim of his hat and turned to Felicity. ‘Shall we?’ he said, extending his elbow.
Margaret tapped the weasel sharply on the nose. She now had the moral high ground, as well as a box which might solve the problem. Magnanimity could now be her middle name for a while. She smiled at Rosa Stone and swept out, leaving the Almoner reaching for the Amontillado. With a dash of gin, to give it body.
The box had held very little, some papers which looked as though they had been bundled in in some haste, as indeed they had been, and a more formal letter, which was addressed to ‘Miss E. Barker, The Limes, Canterbury’ and which told her in a few lines that she had gained a place at King’s College. The letter was, by definition, several years old, but Reid and Margaret hoped that might still be the parental address. Margaret had taken a glance at the clock on the tower of St Clement Danes and dashed off with a squawk; she was late for a tutorial. She didn’t add ‘again’ but would have been well within her rights had she done so. Reid raised his hat, pocketed the letter and strolled off back to his hotel.
Edmund Reid had given parents and other sundry loved ones bad news more times than he could remember. It was never easy, but some were easier than others. One widow always stood out for him. Her husband had been cut in half by the 2.23 to Penge and the news had travelled faster than the train. When he got to the dead man’s house, his widow was already in the throes of selling his clothes to three Jewish dealers from Petticoat Lane and her only regret, it seemed, was that he had been wearing his best trousers when he caught the train, making her profit somewhat smaller. But she was unusual, a vanishingly small minority. When he and Margaret had discovered Emma Barker’s name and address from Rosa Stone at King’s, he had telephoned the Kent Constabulary, as represented in Herne Bay.
‘Herne Bay police.’ The voice was deep and rumbling and belonged to someone who very much did not want to be stuck on the front desk answering the telephone.
‘Hello.’ Reid could tell this was a time to keep things simple. ‘I found a body on the beach at the weekend …’
‘I must remonstrate with you, sir.’ Reid was staggered to find that the owner of the voice knew a word that long. ‘Bodies are no joking matter. When you find one, you must report it at once.’ The noise of a wet constabulary tongue licking a pencil came clearly down the line. ‘Now, when and where did you find this alleged body?’
‘No, no,’ Reid sighed, and ran a hand through his hair, what was left of it. ‘I already have reported it. I’m—’
‘I see.’ The voice was cold. ‘One of them ghouls, are you? Well, all I can say, sir, is …’
‘Can we start again?’ So much for keeping it simple. ‘I am Edmund Reid. Late of Scotland Yard. And I came in and reported the body. It was along by the dunes, if you recall. The inquest was on Monday. Adjourned.’
There was a huge silence.
‘Hello? Are you still there?’
‘I’m here, sir. I was just wondering why you are calling.’
Reid sensed that the man was no longer alone and could imagine his wild gesticulations as he called over someone more senior who could deal with prank callers.
‘I’m calling because I know who she is.’
The voice became smug. The whole police station had been sure that the ex-copper had known more than he was letting on. Found it by accident; in a pig’s ear. ‘You didn’t say, sir.’
‘I didn’t know then. I have found out this afternoon. She was Emmeline Barker, a student at King’s College in London.’
There were noises off now, including a snatch of whispered conversation and the next voice was a new one.
‘Inspector Reid. Inspector Morrison here. Now, how may I help you?’
Reid sighed. ‘Good afternoon, Inspector. I’m just calling to let you know I have identified the poor unfortunate girl whose body I found on the beach.’
‘Ah. May I ask how?’
‘A friend of mine had been making enquiries about her – before the finding of her body, of course – and had discovered she may have been a student at King’s College. I happen to know the Almoner there.’ Reid waited for the sound of a knowing tut and was not disappointed. ‘She was able to identify the girl. The circumstances are rather unusual and I will write them all down and let you have them in due course, but I thought that perhaps you might like to inform her parents.’
‘What of?’
‘Um … that their daughter is dead.’
‘You can’t be sure, though, can you?’ Morrison was being pedantic.
‘Of course not,’ Reid snapped. ‘Without a proper identification, of course not. But unless we tell the – let’s call them putative parents, we’ll never get that, will we? And we’ll go round in circles for ever.’
‘No point in upsetting good folks for nothing.’ Morrison was feeling altruistic.
‘No point in letting her lie in an unmarked grave either.’ Reid was feeling caustic.
‘I still think—’
‘Really?’ Reid was at the end of his tether. It hadn’t been Morrison’s head that Emmeline Barker’s mortal remains had landed on, when all was said and done.
‘There’s no need to be like that, Inspector,’ Morrison complained. ‘We’re very busy here, as you well know. I can’t go chasing all over the country on wild goose chases just because you think you might have identified a body.’
Reid was staggered that Morrison couldn’t hear how wrong that sounded, but it took all sorts to make a world. ‘The parents live in Canterbury.’
‘Very pleasant little town, or so I understand. Never been there, myself.’
‘It’s nine miles.’
‘As much as that?’ Morrison was vindicated. Who would want to make that sort of journey? After all, there was a war on.
Reid tapped his fingers restlessly on the table. The telephone at the Tambour House Hotel was in a discreet ante-room off the lobby and he could have screamed with frustration had he been so inclined, but he settled for a tap. ‘Could you send someone, perhaps? If you don’t want to go yourself?’
‘Very busy, here, Inspector, as I think I may have mentioned. So …’
‘Would you like me to go?’ The Tambour House Hotel thought of everything and there was a Bradshaw’s on the shelf above the apparatus. Reid pulled it down and flicked through it. It was too late today, but tomorrow would work very well.
‘Oh, I don’t know, sir.’ Morrison was suddenly on his mettle. ‘You being a member of the public and all.’
‘A member of the public who found their daughter’s body.’
‘Alleged.’
‘What?’ Reid was getting confused.
‘Their alleged daughter’s body.’
‘All right, if you insist. Alleged. But I will be able to tell when I get there. She sent a letter to the college about having gone home to get married. If she isn’t there, or isn’t married, then surely …’ Reid had no idea how much this long conversation would have added to his bill, but he was sure he could have eaten in the dining room quite royally several times for the same money.
Morrison came to a decision. After all, when it turned out that this student woman – something with which he heartily disagreed anyway – was alive and well, then it wasn’t him who would look an idiot. ‘If you are willing to shoulder the responsibility for any complaints, Inspector Reid, then I don’t see why you can’t visit these people. But in my opinion …’
