Original Sin (5 page)

“A trifle morbid, perhaps, but barbaric is going a little far. After all, this isn’t the Athenaeum. It probably does some of the older members good to be reminded of the natural end of their previous professional activities. Would you still be a detective if we hadn’t abolished hanging?”

“I don’t know. Abolition doesn’t help with that particular moral dilemma as far as I’m concerned, since personally I would prefer death to twenty years in prison.”

“Not death by hanging?”

“No, not that.”

Hanging, for him, as he suspected for most people, had always held a particular horror. Despite the reports of Royal Commissions on capital punishment which claimed for it humanity, speed and the certainty of instantaneous death, it remained for him one of the ugliest forms of judicial execution encumbered with horrifying images as precisely lined as a pen drawing: mass victims in the wake of triumphant armies, the pathetic, half-demented victims of seventeenth-century justice, the muted drums of the quarterdecks of ships where the navy exacted its revenge and issued its warning, women convicted in the eighteenth century of infanticide, that ridiculous but sinister ritual of the small black square formally placed atop the judge’s wig, the concealed but ordinary-looking door leading from the condemned cell to that last brief walk. It was good that they
were all part of history. For a moment the Cadaver Club was a less agreeable place in which to lunch, its eccentricities more repugnant than amusing.

The Snug at the Cadaver Club is well named. It is a small basement room at the rear of the house with two windows and a French door opening on to a narrow paved courtyard bounded by a ten-foot ivied wall. The yard could comfortably accommodate three tables, but the members of the club are not addicted to dining outside, even in the occasional hot spell of an English summer, apparently regarding the habit as a foreign eccentricity incompatible with the proper appreciation of food or the privacy necessary to good talk. To dissuade any member who might be tempted to this indulgence, the courtyard is furnished with terracotta pots of various sizes planted with geraniums and ivy, and space further restricted by a huge stone copy of the Apollo Belvedere propped in the wall against the corner and rumoured to be the gift of an early member of the club whose wife had banished it from their suburban garden. The geraniums were still in full bloom and the bright pinks and reds glowed through the glass enhancing the immediate impression of welcoming domesticity. The room had obviously once been the kitchen and one wall was still fitted with the original iron grate, its bars and ovens polished now to ebony. The blackened beam above was hung with iron cooking instruments and a row of copper pans, battered but gleaming. An oak dresser ran the whole length of the opposite wall, serving as a receptacle for the display of the gifts and bequests of members which were deemed unsuitable for, or unworthy of, the library cabinet.

Dalgliesh remembered that the club had an unwritten law that no offering from a member, however inappropriate or bizarre, should be rejected and the dresser, like the whole
room, bore witness to the idiosyncratic tastes and hobbies of the donors. Delicate Meissen plates were ranged in incongruous proximity to Victorian ribbon-decorated souvenirs bearing pictures of Brighton and Southend-on-Sea, a toby jug which looked like a fairground trophy stood between a Victorian Staffordshire flatback, obviously original, of Wesley preaching from a double-decker pulpit, and a fine Parian bust of the Duke of Wellington. An assortment of coronation mugs and early Staffordshire cups was suspended in precarious disorder from the hooks. Beside the door hung a painted glass picture of the burial of Princess Charlotte; above it a stuffed elk’s head with an old Panama hat slung on its left horn gazed glassy-eyed with lugubrious disapproval at a large and lurid print of the Charge of the Light Brigade.

The present kitchen was somewhere close; Dalgliesh could hear small agreeable tinklings and from time to time the thud of the food lift descending from the first-floor dining room. Only one of the four tables was set, the linen immaculate, and Dalgliesh and Ackroyd seated themselves beside the window.

The menu and wine list were already to the right of Ackroyd’s place. Taking them up, he said: “The Plants have retired, but we’ve got the Jacksons now, and I’m not sure that Mrs. Jackson’s cooking isn’t even better. We were lucky to get them. She and her husband used to run a private nursing home but they got tired of the country and wanted to return to London. They don’t need to work but I think the job suits them. They’ve kept on with the policy of having only one main dish a day at luncheon and dinner. Very wise. Today, white bean and tuna fish salad followed by rack of lamb with fresh vegetables and a green salad. Then lemon tart and cheese to follow. The vegetables will be fresh. We still get all the vegetables and eggs from young
Plant’s smallholding. Do you want to see the wine list? Have you a preference?”

“I’ll leave that to you.”

Ackroyd cogitated aloud while Dalgliesh, who loved wine but disliked talking about it, let his gaze range appreciatively over the muddle of a room which despite, perhaps because of, its air of eccentric but organized chaos was surprisingly restful. The discordant objects, not carefully placed for effect, had through time achieved a rightness of place. After a lengthy discussion on the merits of the wine list in which Ackroyd apparently expected no contribution from his guest, he fixed on a chardonnay. Mrs. Jackson, appearing as if in response to some secret signal, brought with her the smell of hot rolls and an air of bustling confidence.

“Very nice to meet you, Commander. You’ve got the Snug to yourself this morning, Mr. Ackroyd. Mr. Jackson will be seeing to the wine.”

After the first course had been served, Dalgliesh said: “Why is Mrs. Jackson dressed as a nurse?”

“Because she is one, I suppose. She used to be a matron. She’s a midwife too, I believe, but we’ve no call for that here.”

Not surprisingly, thought Dalgliesh, since the club didn’t admit women. He said: “Isn’t that goffered cap with streamers going a bit far?”

“Oh, do you think so? I suppose we’ve got used to it. I doubt if the members would feel at home if Mrs. Jackson stopped wearing it now.”

Ackroyd wasted no time in coming to the purpose of the meeting. As soon as they were alone he said: “Lord Stilgoe had a word with me last week in Brooks’s. He’s my wife’s uncle, incidentally. Do you know him?”

“No. I thought he was dead.”

“I can’t think how you got that idea.” He prodded at his bean salad irritably and Dalgliesh remembered that he resented any suggestion that someone he knew personally could actually die, and certainly not without the prior knowledge of himself. “He isn’t even as old as he looks, not eighty yet. He’s remarkably spry for his age. Actually he’s publishing his memoirs. The Peverell Press are bringing them out next spring. That’s what he wanted to see me about. Something rather worrying has happened. At least his wife finds it worrying. She thinks he’s had a direct threat of murder.”

“And has he?”

“Well, he’s received this.”

He took some time in taking the small oblong of paper from his wallet and passing it over to Dalgliesh. The words had been accurately typed on a word processor and the message was unsigned.

Do you really think it wise to publish with Peverell Press? Remember Marcus Seabright, Joan Petrie and now Sonia Clements. Two authors and your own editor dead in less than twelve months. Do you want to be number four?

Dalgliesh said: “More mischievous than threatening, I should have thought, and the malice directed against the Press rather than Stilgoe. There’s no doubt that Sonia Clements’ death was suicide. She left a note for the coroner and wrote to her sister telling her that she intended to kill herself. I don’t recall anything about the first two deaths.”

“Oh, they’re straightforward enough, I should have thought. Seabright was over eighty and had a bad heart. He died from an attack of gastroenteritis which brought on a heart attack. Anyway, he was no loss to Peverell Press. He hadn’t produced
a novel for ten years. Joan Petrie killed herself driving to her country cottage. Accidental death. Petrie had two passions, whisky and fast cars. The only surprise is that she killed herself before she killed someone else. Obviously the poison pen dragged up these two deaths as makeweights. But Dorothy Stilgoe is superstitious. She takes the view, why publish with Peverell when there are other publishers?”

“And who is actually in charge now?”

“Oh Gerard Etienne. Very much so. The last chairman and managing director, old Henry Peverell, died in early January and left his shares in the business in equal parts to his daughter Frances and to Gerard. His original partner, Jean-Philippe Etienne, had retired about a year previously, and not before time. His shares also went to Gerard. The two older men ran the firm as if it was their private hobby. Old Peverell always took the view that a gentleman inherited money, he didn’t earn it. Jean-Philippe Etienne hadn’t taken an active part in the firm for years. His moment of glory, of course, was in the last war where he was a hero of the Resistance in Vichy France, but I don’t think he’s done anything memorable since. Gerard was waiting in the wings, the crown prince. And now he’s well onstage and we’re likely to see action if not melodrama.”

“Does Gabriel Dauntsey still run the poetry list?”

“I’m surprised you need to ask, Adam. You mustn’t let your passion for catching murderers put you out of touch with real life. Yes, he’s still there. He hasn’t written a poem himself for over twenty years. Dauntsey’s an anthology poet. The best is so good that it keeps reappearing, but I imagine most readers think he’s dead. He was a bomber pilot in the last war so he must be well over seventy. It’s time he retired. The poetry list at Peverell Press is about all he does nowadays. The other three partners are Gerard’s sister Claudia Etienne, James de Witt, who’s been
with the firm since he left Oxford, and Frances Peverell, the last of the Peverells. But it’s Gerard who runs the firm.”

“What is he planning, do you know?”

“Rumour has it that he wants to sell Innocent House and move to Docklands. That won’t please Frances Peverell. The Peverells have always had an obsession about Innocent House. It belongs to the partnership now, not to the family, but any Peverell thinks of it as the family home. He’s already made other changes, some staff sacked including Sonia Clements. He’s right, of course. The firm has got to be dragged into the twentieth century or go under, but he’s certainly made enemies. It’s significant that they had no trouble at the Press until Gerard took over. That coincidence hasn’t escaped Stilgoe, although his wife is still convinced that the malice is directed against her husband personally, not the firm, and against his memoirs in particular.”

“Will Peverell lose much if the book is withdrawn?”

“Not a great deal, I imagine. Of course they’ll hype the memoirs as if their disclosures could bring down the Government, discredit the Opposition and end parliamentary democracy as we know it, but I imagine that, like most political memoirs, they’ll promise more than they deliver. But I don’t see how it can be withdrawn. The book is in production, they won’t let it go without a struggle, and Stilgoe won’t want to break the contract if it means publicly explaining why. What Dorothy Stilgoe is asking is, was Sonia Clements’ death really suicide and did someone interfere with Petrie’s Jag? I think she’s satisfied enough that old Seabright died from natural causes.”

“So what am I expected to do?”

“There must have been inquests in the last two cases and presumably the police carried out an investigation. Your people could take a look at the papers, have a word with the officers
concerned, that sort of thing. Then, if Dorothy could be assured that a senior Metropolitan detective has looked at all the evidence and is satisfied, she might give her husband, and Peverell Press, some peace.”

Dalgliesh said: “That might serve to satisfy her that Sonia Clements’ death was suicide. It will hardly content her if she’s superstitious, and I don’t see what will. The essence of superstition is that it isn’t amenable to reason. She’ll probably take the view that an unlucky publisher is as bad as a murderous one. I suppose she isn’t seriously suggesting that someone at Peverell Press put an unidentifiable poison in Sonia Clements’ wine?”

“No, I don’t think she’s going as far as that.”

“Just as well or her husband will have his profits eaten up by a libel action. I’m surprised he didn’t go straight to the Commissioner or to me direct.”

“Are you? I’m not sure. It would have looked—well, shall we say a little timid, a trifle overconcerned. Besides he doesn’t know you, I do. I can understand why he spoke to me first. And of course, one can hardly see him calling in at the local nick, joining the queue of lost-dog owners, assaulted wives and aggrieved motorists and explaining his dilemma to the duty sergeant. Frankly I don’t think he believed it would be taken seriously. His view is that, having regard to his wife’s concern and that anonymous note, he’s justified in asking the police to take a look at what is happening at the Peverell Press.”

The lamb had arrived, pink and succulent and tender enough to be eaten with a spoon. In the few minutes of silence which Ackroyd thought a necessary tribute to a perfectly cooked meal, Dalgliesh recalled the first time he had seen Innocent House.

His father had taken him to London for his eighth birthday treat; they were to spend two whole days sightseeing and stay overnight with a friend, who was a parish priest in Kensington,
and his wife. He could remember lying in bed the night before, fitfully sleeping and almost sick with excitement, the cavernous immensity and clamour of the old Liverpool Street Station, his terror of losing his father, of being caught up and swept along with the great army of grey-faced marching people. In the two days in which his father had intended to combine pleasure with education—to his scholarly mind the two were indistinguishable—they had perhaps inevitably tried to do too much. The visit had been overwhelming for an eight-year-old, leaving a confused memory of churches and galleries, restaurants and unfamiliar food, of floodlit towers and the dancing reflection of light on the black creased surface of the water, of sleek, prancing horses and silver helmets, of the glamour and terror of history made manifest in brick and stone. But London had laid on him her spell which no adult experience, no exploration of other great cities had been able to break.