A Banquet of Consequences (21 page)

“If there were no drugs present,” Barbara said, “why would they go further? It all looks straightforward, doesn’t it?”

“It does, unless you consider that the death might have been caused by something that a simple screening doesn’t show but a more complex analysis would. That would involve blood, urine, and tissue samples. Gas chromatographs and mass spectrometers. It would also involve a large expense which can be avoided if the obvious conclusion is”—here he looked to the part of the report that indicated the forensic pathologist’s conclusion—“sudden heart arrhythmia causing a violent seizure causing death.”

“But that
is
what happened.”

He removed his spectacles, folded them, and returned them to his pocket. “Yes. But if there’s a question at all about the death, it should deal with what could have
caused
those two events. This”—he tapped his fingers on the autopsy report –“depended upon the forensic pathologist’s curiosity and, unfortunately, his funding. With no indication at the scene that anyone messed her about, there would be no reason for him to delve once he could assign a cause of death.”

“It would take a second autopsy then, wouldn’t it?” Barbara said.

“It would,” he told her. “Not a simple thing to arrange in these circumstances in which nothing at all seems untoward.”

Barbara considered this. She thought about the likelihood of a second autopsy being ordered merely at the request of Clare Abbott’s friend. It would take the participation of solicitors and magistrates and coroners and God only knew who else. But perhaps with a nudge from the Metropolitan Police . . . ? Surely something more efficient could be effected if the Met got involved.

She said thoughtfully, “I think it’s what we need.”

“The second autopsy? With not a single sign that anything was amiss at the scene, Barbara—”

“A locked door,” she said. “Between adjoining rooms.”

“Hardly earthshaking.”

“I know. But this woman, sir? This Rory Statham? I get the impression Clare Abbott was like her only family or she was like Clare’s only family or something like that, but the point is . . . if it can set her mind at rest . . . I expect that Clare Abbott’s estate would even pay for it, if it came to that. And then Rory wouldn’t have to go through the rest of her life wondering why and how and who and what. She’d know. That’s worth something, isn’t it?”

She knew this last wasn’t entirely fair, not the fact of it but the saying of it. The why of Lynley’s own wife’s death was shrouded in the silence of a young boy who would not name the individual who’d been with him in Eaton Terrace on the day of Helen’s murder. Thus, Lynley did not know why the young boy had shot Helen. Chances were, he would never know.

He nodded without speaking. He took up the autopsy report and laid it on the floor next to his chair. They tucked into their meals.

“Thank you, Inspector,” Barbara said to him.

SHAFTESBURY

DORSET

I
ndia didn’t inform Nat that she was going to attend Clare Abbott’s funeral. She assured herself that this was because she couldn’t adequately explain to
herself
why she was going, so she wouldn’t be able to explain it to him. The truth, however, was something different. During the last ten days, she and Nat had seen each other four times and on two occasions, he’d brought up Charlie. They hadn’t quarreled, but the mention of Charlie’s name produced a tension between them that wasn’t easily diffused.

Part of her understood that she was playing a game with herself, one in which if she made no decision, she wouldn’t have to face consequences that were at present unknown. But another part of her knew very well that not to make a decision
was
in fact making a decision. And the consequence of that was going to be watching Nat Thompson eventually walk out of her life.

“He wants you back,” Nat had said. “He wants your sympathy, and sometimes, India, people mistake sympathy for love.”

“I don’t” had been her reply. Yet what she didn’t add was that Charlie’s suffering had always touched her. When this happened, her father’s lifelong advice about cutting her losses seemed not good sense but rather the easy way out of a relationship in which she’d had expectations that had gone unmet.

But that, Nat would have told her had she revealed to him what was causing her to temporise, was exactly what Charlie wanted her to feel. Yet India didn’t see things that way. Instead she saw that, having lost her, Charlie was doing his best to recover from a blow that might have felled him. She couldn’t ignore that, for they shared history together.

His request that she go to Clare Abbott’s funeral with him hadn’t been unreasonable. He felt duty-bound to go for his mum’s sake as she’d been on a business trip with Clare when the feminist died, he explained. She’d been badly shaken by the discovery of Clare’s dead body and by everything that had followed that discovery: the arrival of the police, the questions she’d had to answer, the loss of her friend and employer. Then there was also the not small matter of Alastair’s having an affair with Sharon Halsey . . .

India hadn’t known about that. An affair?
Alastair
, of all people?

“Who would have thought it, eh?” Charlie said. “It’s been going on for a while. Mum wants her sacked, but he won’t do it. Calls her ‘essential to the business.’ I’ve been down a few times since Will’s memorial trying to broker peace between them, but it’s no go.”

He went on to explain that with all this piled on Caroline’s head, it was likely that there would be drama either at the funeral or afterwards. It was that he wished to avoid, and with India as his companion needing to be back in London, he knew he could put in an appearance and then depart. He needed to be able to do that, anyway, he admitted. He had eight clients now, and two of them had appointments the morning after the funeral. He didn’t want to cancel them. India
did
know he was seeing clients again, didn’t she?

She couldn’t remember if he’d told her. She was, admittedly, too taken up with Nat to remember much at all. But Charlie sounded so like the Charlie of old, and she was drawn to him. Not in the old way, but still the pull was there.

Thus she found herself in St. Peter’s Church just off the market square in Shaftesbury. It was a disappointing place in which to hold a funeral, she decided, as a well-meaning church committee with who-knew-what in mind had at some point in time decided to “modernise” the interior of the medieval structure. So it was brightly lit,
floored in hardwood instead of stones, and its vestibule looked more like a secondhand bookshop than the entrance to an edifice of worship. There was none of the wonderful musty stone smell of old churches either, although in this case whatever stony scent there might have been was overpowered by the flowers, which were everywhere.

If the flower arrangements were anything to go by, Clare Abbott had been much loved. It wasn’t just her coffin that was draped with blooms. Enormous pedestal baskets stood intermittently along the central aisle of the nave and the chancel was fairly stuffed with them. There was also a great crowd of mourners: fellow feminists, along with individuals representing the dead woman’s publishing and academic life, as well as her life here in Shaftsbury, including the well-hatted women from the Women’s League whom India recognised from the dedication of Will’s memorial in the summer.

Thinking of that event, she looked around. Lily Foster wasn’t there. Any potential drama that might have developed from her presence would, India concluded with relief, be avoided.

This was good, for from the moment she and Charlie met up with his mum at her house outside of town, India had reckoned that the makings for some sort of commotion were roiling round Caroline’s head. These, she learned, sprang from two sources. The first was the delay in cremating Clare Abbott, due to a second autopsy being ordered. This was unseemly and unnecessary, Caroline had declared, yet another desecration of a corpse brought about at the whimsy of
one
individual who couldn’t come to grips with the fact of Clare’s sudden death. “It’s that Rory Statham behind all of it,” Caroline had informed them. “She’s gone to someone and made an issue of things, and they jumped to do what she wanted.” To Charlie’s careful “I don’t think it quite works that way, Mum,” Caroline snapped, “What do
you
know about it?” And then quickly, as she apparently clocked the expression on his face, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that, Charlie. I’m in bits, at the absolute breaking point.”

That breaking point was the second part of the makings for future commotion. It consisted of Rory Statham’s having “descended upon Clare’s house like some sort of bloody avenging angel.” She’d changed the locks and announced that the house would remain off-limits to
everyone until, as literary executrix of Clare’s estate, she had the opportunity to go through and catalogue every single item in it. Clare’s papers—which she’d left to her college library at Oxford University—had to be sifted through, and as to everything else inside the place, it was all Rory Statham’s now as Clare had left her the house and its contents in her will. Her London house would go to her college. Her fortune—“whatever it is,” Caroline said—would go to Rory as well.

“Got what
she
wanted,” Caroline said. “Aside from you-know-what from Clare.” As for Caroline herself, Clare had left her nothing. “No shock to me,” Caroline added. “There are things about Clare Abbott that most people don’t know, and her stingy nature is only one of them.”

Whatever the other unknown areas were, Caroline didn’t elaborate on prior to the funeral and, if India had her way, she wouldn’t be in Shaftesbury to hear any of them once the funeral was finished, as it now was. There would be no graveside service since Clare’s body was soon to be consigned to the fires of the nearest crematorium and her ashes would be deposited according to her wishes, which Rory Statham had not revealed. A swelling of music—thankfully not some lugubrious pop song, which was becoming too prevalent in religious services these days—indicated the service had come to an end. Everyone stood as the coffin was wheeled back down the aisle.

India didn’t see the representatives of Clare Abbott’s family until this point. Then, they followed the coffin towards the exit. She recognised Clare’s friend Rory who, accompanied by her ever-present dog, walked at the head of the group, and immediately behind her two men of similar age to Rory’s, each with a woman on his arm. India heard whispers of former husbands and their wives, and she thought this quite nice. Apparently there had been no bad blood between Clare Abbott and the men to whom she’d once been wed.

People mingled outside St. Peter’s Church. The wind had come up and word went round quickly that next door at the Mitre a reception was waiting with food, drink, and shelter from what looked to be a coming rainstorm.

“We’ll just put in an appearance and be gone,” Charlie said to her. “A sandwich or something so we needn’t stop on the way back to town?”

This was reasonable, India reckoned. So they joined the group moving in the direction of the old inn just beyond the church, where Rory had arranged a buffet. When they got inside, a queue had already formed. Mourning was a hungry business.

Rory Statham stood just inside the entrance. With her were the two men who’d followed her out of the church. She introduced them as people passed and greeted her: Mr. Weisberg was one. Mr. Tart was the other. She gave no other elaboration.

Charlie’s mum and Alastair were just behind them in the group entering the Mitre, so India heard the brief exchange between Rory and Caroline that followed the introduction to Misters Weisberg and Tart. Since Clare’s body was being cremated, Rory said to Caroline, she was wondering if a second plaque might be added to the large stone at the spring in Breach Lane where Will Goldacre’s name had been placed.

Caroline raised a hand to her chest. She said politely, “What d’you mean?”

Rory said, “A second plaque, Caroline, on the memorial stone,” with an expression that indicated no elaboration could possibly be necessary since a plaque was a plaque after all.

“Something saying that Clare placed the stone for Will?” Caroline asked.

India glanced at her. It seemed she was being deliberately obtuse. Charlie appeared to feel likewise, for he said, “Mum, something for Clare herself.”

“
For
Clare?” Caroline said. “D’you mean with her name and the dates and all the rest? On Will’s stone?”

Her neck had taken on a ruby colour, which Alastair apparently took note of because he put his hand on her elbow as if to urge her towards the buffet. Caroline shot him an irritated look. She said, “That won’t be possible, Rory. True, it’s miles from my home, and I can’t get there as often as I’d like but be that as it may, the stone belongs to Will.”

Rory’s lips parted. But she said nothing, merely nodding. Caroline moved along, heading to the buffet. Alastair said, “Sorry,” to Rory in reference either to Caroline or to Clare’s death, God only knew which.

India and Charlie allowed several other mourners to make a barrier
between themselves and Caroline in the queue at the buffet. India said to him quietly, “What on earth was she thinking? What possible difference could it make? The stone’s enormous. There’s room for another plaque. And even to mention its distance from her house . . .”

Charlie cast a glance towards Caroline before saying, “Will. A funeral. Mentioning his name. It brings it all back.”

“That’s absurd. It’s a
stone.
”

Charlie gave her a look. It wasn’t at all like India to criticise anyone, let alone her mother-in-law. She was, after all, the woman who’d spent a good few years altering her appearance till she was mousy enough to please Caroline Goldacre. She repeated, “It
is
absurd, and you know it. She’s been using Will as an excuse for her behaviour for ages. Why do you put up with it? Why does Alastair?”

“She’s my mum. I c’n hardly trade her in for another.”

“Well, that doesn’t explain Alastair.”

“It does go a distance towards explaining Sharon Halsey, though. After Mum, she must be quite an enormous relief. Just a bloody good bonk. That’s what most men want at the end of the day.”

“Is it?” she asked.

“I did say
most
men, darling.” The term of affection had slipped out, it seemed. They stared at each other. Charlie quickly went on. “She’s just not
aware
, India. She’s like most people, more or less stumbling along without understanding the effect their words have on others.”

“Most people recognise that a funeral requires a certain awareness of others’ grief,” India pointed out. “Most people know that a funeral isn’t the place for anything at all save sympathy and—if one must—diplomacy. Rory Statham’s upset and she wants to do something to remember Clare, and even if your mum
didn’t
want Will’s stone polluted or whatever, she could have said, ‘Let’s speak later, dear.’”

“You’ll get no argument from me.”

“Then . . .”

He raised an eyebrow. “Then what?”

That was indeed the question. Not only for Charlie in his dealings with his mum but also for her. What came next?

A quick meal, apparently, which they took at a table to which
Caroline waved them. India fixed a polite expression on her face. It wouldn’t take long to down her ham-and-tomato sandwich, after all.

It turned out that whatever emotion had driven Caroline’s words had receded. As they sat, she said, “I was completely out of order. Please forgive me. I’ll apologise to Rory before I leave. It was the mention of Will. And everything else that’s happened.”

“Rough times, pet,” Alastair murmured.

“Will you stay for supper?” Caroline said to her son and India. “Perhaps for the night? Tomorrow we can go to Will’s stone. There’s a gorgeous little tree nearby where people have begun hanging ribbons, Charlie. Remembrance ribbons, they’re being called. Thin little strips of satin in blue or pink. People print the name of their loved one on them, and hang them on the tree. It’s very sweet. I’d be so pleased if you’d stop so that we can go there tomorrow.”

India was the one to speak. “It’s down to me, I’m afraid. I’ve got to be back for early appointments tomorrow at the clinic. And I think Charlie’s got . . . ?” She looked in his direction encouragingly, but she saw that he was gazing out of the window which faced onto the street. She followed the direction of his gaze. Lily Foster was just outside.

As before, she was all in black. She wore a hood over her hair against the rain, and it was part of a cape that draped to her ankles. But there was no mistaking her or her intentions. She could hardly be in violation of her ASBO if she happened to be on a public thoroughfare when Caroline Goldacre also happened to be there.

Charlie roused himself and said, “Wish I could stay, Mum, but it’s an early morning for me as well. Clients popping up everywhere. It feels bloody good to be back at work.” For good measure, he covered India’s hand with his own.