He found Manda living nearby this structure in a penthouse flat in Maida Vale, albeit in quite a different part of that community from the one in which Sarah lived. The flat was modern, in that polished-industrial-steel way St. Just particularly disliked. It looked the perfect place for alien medical experiments to be carried out on unsuspecting humanoids.
Manda herself was a surprise, not matching any of the various mental pictures sorted under the general category of “mistress” which he carried in his mind. For such, Ruthven’s treasure trove of a laptop had revealed, she was, or had been.
She wore her thin hair cropped as short as a man’s. On another woman it might have been youthful, pixyish; capping Manda Croom’s somewhat heavy features it looked as if a large black spider clung to her head for dear life. And, why, oh why, did all these modern young women dress as if they were setting out either to sue someone or attend a funeral? Perhaps she was in mourning; as she led him into the flat he could hear an all-news radio broadcast rehashing the sensational news about the murder of the famous mystery writer’s son. But she did not seem unhappy. Her face as she turned to him was composed, her manner businesslike.
She had, he saw, alert, dark-gray eyes behind steel-framed glasses that matched the furnishings. Her pronounced overbite became more pronounced when she pursed her lips with displeasure, which was often during the interview. He was reminded of a rodent listening for the approach of the neighborhood tomcat. What could Ruthven have seen in this pudding-plain woman? Simply a change from Lillian—and St. Just was willing to admit, a change from Lillian seemed perfectly justified—or something more?
But if Manda reminded him of anyone, it was Chloe, albeit a younger, slimmer version. Had not Ruthven noticed the similarities?
“I really don’t see how I can help you, Inspector, and I don’t have much time, anyway,” she said by way of greeting. She walked over and turned off the radio, cutting off the announcer in mid-gasp. “It’s quite a busy time for me. I’ve summoned the staff for a meeting tomorrow morning. To announce redundancies, I’m afraid.”
St. Just thought she didn’t look in the least afraid. The excited blinking behind the glasses, the arch delivery, spoke more of relish than reluctance.
Since he had not been invited to sit down, he did so, fearing immolation as he gingerly lowered himself into the shining arms of the steel-framed leather sofa, but finding it surprisingly comfortable.
“Even in spite of what has happened to Mr. Beauclerk-Fisk?”
“Especially in light of that. Life must go on, Inspector. Ruthven would have wanted me to forge ahead. I would say it’s the least I can do to honor his memory.”
If she was aware of any irony or anything misplaced in these sentiments, she didn’t show it. She regarded him steadily, willing him to leave. He sat as far back as the chair would allow, displaying his intention to settle in for a nice long chat.
Discounting this, she walked over to the dining table in the large, open-plan room and began sorting papers into a large leather briefcase. Talking over one shoulder, she said:
“One doesn’t just walk in and discharge people, Inspector, you know, so I’ve quite a lot of paperwork to attend to. One has to be prepared.”
Again, he parsed her words for signs of either humor or compassion. Again finding none, he said:
“I’m relieved to know such things are not just done on the spur of the moment.”
“Oh, no! There are many solicitors involved.”
St. Just reflected that he and Miss Croom had so much in common in their professional lives—solicitors jamming the doorways at all hours. He would have spoken the thought aloud, but it was evident that banter was not going to be one of Manda’s strong suits.
“It is often helpful in a murder investigation, Miss Croom,” he said patiently, “to gain some insight into the state of mind of the victim. I believe, as Ruthven’s right hand, so to speak, you can be of help to us there. You mentioned the need for redundancies. Were there any business problems he was worried about?”
“There are always business problems, Inspector.” She sat down at the dining table (as far across the room as she could get from him without actually jumping out the window), made a minute and unnecessary adjustment to the alignment of the folders at her elbow, pushed her glasses higher on her nose, and folded her hands in a “Will that be all?” manner. St. Just found himself bristling. Given what he knew about her relationship with the deceased, he would have expected to see a tear, some show of emotion. Beneath the woman’s cold exterior was, apparently, a colder interior. He said, slowly, carefully, in a way that Sergeant Fear would have recognized as pre-volcanic:
“I meant, was there anything in particular that may have been preying on his mind—something related to the business?”
“I wouldn’t be able to divulge proprietary information.”
Christ.
“In a murder investigation, you would do well to divulge whatever I tell you to divulge, Miss Croom. A charge of obstructing justice would bring about an unwanted and perhaps unhealthy dose of publicity for your organization, don’t you think? With only you to thank for it.”
“Ms.,” she said automatically. Still, it thawed her. By a minute amount, a mere drop of sweat on the ice cube, but she was clearly weighing the consequences of answering his questions now against the inconvenience of not getting this over with so she could get on with her business. That her business seemed to consist of little more than routine rounds of redundancy announcements made no difference. He was getting in the way of progress. Her efficiency expert, no doubt, would have advised her to throw him a crumb. She went with that advice.
“All right, although I don’t see how this could possibly be of interest. The truth, Inspector, is that we’re in somewhat bad shape. Shockingly bad, in fact. The economy, the stock market, the dwindling audience for print products—it’s all been a disastrous climate for the publishing industry for some years. The old formulas don’t work. So we tinker with the formulas. That doesn’t help, so we tinker some more. We’ve asked more and more of our employees, the ones who are left. Those who can’t put in the extended hours required to keep the ship afloat are let go. Still, it’s not enough.
“Mr. Beauclerk-Fisk was not unaware of all of this. It preyed on his mind, the sinking profits, and the effect it would have on our long-planned merger. What it could have to do with his murder, I couldn’t say.”
And couldn’t care less—was he expected to believe that? Ruthven’s death meant more for her to cope with, and that was all? On the other hand, his death created some job security for her, however temporary, so that was all to the good—someone, after all, had to pick up the slack left by his demise. The rest of her speech could be translated as: People with lives outside their jobs are out.
It’s making matters worse, but stockholders have to be deluded into believing that it helps. If we don’t have an act, we can at least wear a costume.
“What about Mr. Beauclerk-Fisk’s personal life, outside the office? Any problems there?”
To his utter astonishment, she blushed violently at that. Not a soft, pink, maidenly blush, but a blotch of red that spread like sunrise from her throat, engulfing her face.
My, my, he thought. All that could be hoped for by way of a reaction.
“Now that, I really wouldn’t know.” She riffled the folders at her elbow, not willing to meet his eyes. She checked her watch, as she probably did a hundred times a day, and began twisting the cap of a pen. He was definitely putting a crimp in her composure; her redundancy speech might not go as smoothly as it should, despite all the rehearsals. Good.
“He was, of course, married.”
“I know that,” she snapped.
“Happily, would you say?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Inspector. What do you imagine? That he and I sat around swapping love stories? It was a business. We operated on a businesslike level. I’ve no idea what his personal life was like, apart from what I read in the papers. Like everyone else.”
That there was more going on than a business-like relationship, he already knew. That she had harbored hopes of something more permanent than their clandestine relationship, judging by her reaction, he no longer doubted. Was it possible there actually had been more, on Ruthven’s side as well—or had he only led her to believe so? Had she removed her glasses one night as they pored together over the spreadsheets and, seeing her sharp little eyes, had he suddenly been overcome by unquenchable passion? Had he realized then that of all the people in the world, he had most in common with Manda Croom?
No, it was absurd. And perhaps therein lay the problem. She must have enough self-awareness to know it was absurd, hopeless, that she would never receive more from Ruthven than a pat on the head for being so convenient—such a good assistant in every way. His wife’s income from a trust established by her father, St. Just had learned, was small by Beauclerk-Fisk standards, but reliable; no doubt Ruthven had come to count on it during the downswings. But it appeared such practicalities hadn’t stopped Manda’s daydreams.
Yet another feature of his job St. Just disliked, he reflected now, was reading other people’s love letters, which he had occasion to do with astonishing frequency. They were—with a few exceptions, when they were chilling—so boringly, predictably the same.
Manda’s letters, once the I.T. expert had broken Ruthven’s laptop code so the police could read them at their leisure, proved to be simply painful to read. Manda wrote like a woman pleading for her life. Ruthven, it seemed, was her life. The earlier letters were either coy or beseeching, desperate, numbingly repetitive. So much so, St. Just imagined Ruthven had not bothered to read them after the first half dozen or so and clearly had not bothered to reply. The later ones were manipulative, calculated, and at times threatening, implying rather than stating that she had a tale to tell his wife, if she chose. The most recent had reached an agonizing pitch: a screed of vituperation, followed by abject, abasing apology.
St. Just didn’t want to admit to her he had read every word, but he didn’t see another way to cut quickly through the line she was feeding him.
“Miss Croom,” he began.
“Ms.”
“Ms. You were having an affair with Ruthven Beauclerk-Fisk.”
She pulled off her glasses, the better not to see him.
“Whoever told you that?” The attempt at indignant outrage was one of the poorer efforts St. Just felt he had ever witnessed.
“Er. Certain letters—e-mails—you sent him have come to our attention.”
She froze for a long moment, no doubt sorting out the possible responses. But at last her shoulders slumped, as if a puppet master had cut the strings tying her to the controller.
“You had no right,” she murmured. She fumbled her glasses back in place but wouldn’t look him in the eye; her gaze focused on nothing as she, no doubt, recalled certain choice words and phrases that she’d sent over the Internet for all the world, and the police, to see.
He trotted out the stock phrase:
“In a murder investigation, you will find we have quite a few rights. We obtained his wife’s permission to search his belongings, in any event.”
“Lillian? You didn’t—”
“There was no need for her to see them, no. This, Miss—Ms.— Croom, is, again, a murder investigation. We’re not interested in spreading gossip or stirring up trouble to no purpose. We’re interested in the truth. Your e-mails to the murdered man …”
“Yes, I can imagine what you thought after reading them. So I’m the prime suspect, now, am I?”
“You need to be eliminated as a suspect, it would be more accurate to say.”
“By all means, let’s be accurate. ‘Where were you on the night of the sixth?’—is that it?”
“Yes. I enjoy speaking in clichés wherever possible. So, Ms. Croom, where were you?”
“I’ll need to speak with my solicitor,” she said, all business again.
“Why? Does he know where you were?”
“Inspector …”
“Detective Chief Inspector St. Just.”
“All right, DCI St. Just, my solicitor is Reginald Carr-Galbraith, Esq. And I am certain he would advise me to arrange a time at our mutual convenience for me to talk with you in his presence.”
“You’re not under arrest, Ms. Croom.”
“But I am a suspect, Inspector, by your own admission.”
By
my
own admission? Just who was being questioned here?
Still, he felt he’d learned what he came to know. She had no real alibi, or she’d have come out with it. The blameless telly-watching alibi was his guess. And despite everything, he believed that was even quite possibly true. Possibly.
“Tomorrow morning, eight
AM
, Cambridgeshire Constabulary, then,” he said, handing her his card.
“Eight
AM
? You must be mad. There’s no way we can arrive that early. And I have a meeting with—”
He shrugged.
“Then face a charge of refusing to cooperate with the police, Ms. Croom,” he said rising. “It’s all the same to me. Eight
AM
sharp.”
But it was an appointment he was destined not to keep.
_______________________
BY SIX PM, MRS.
Romano was concerned. By seven, she knew something was wrong. As the clock edged closer to eight, she knew something was very, terribly wrong.
At five she had followed long-established custom and surged her leisurely way to the door of Sir Adrian’s study, bearing a tray with a silver tea service and a Waterford decanter of whiskey. She knocked. No response. Knocked again. This time there was a bark. At least, a bark is what it sounded like. On reflection, she realized the bark was human: Sir Adrian, demanding to know what she wanted.
What she wanted?
What she wanted?
Every evening at five the ritual was the same: tea with a drop of whiskey for Sir Adrian, against doctor’s orders—Sir Adrian followed no one’s orders—and a half-hour or so of conversation, usually on banal topics like the weather, Watter’s lack of progress on the garden, or the wide-ranging folly of elected public officials. Only rarely did the conversation veer to the personal; that was not Mrs. Romano’s style, nor Sir Adrian’s. But these chats were Sir Adrian’s reward to himself for another day of isolation at his desk, a decompression period before his solitary dinner, or before cocktails in the drawing room with visitors, as tonight.