The Language of the Dead (28 page)

The wall above the desk was filled with a dozen framed exhibits of bugs stuck to black felt backgrounds with straight pins—butterflies, beetles, bees, wasps, hornets, spiders. None were labeled. Lamb estimated that the exhibits contained several hundred specimens. Peter had arranged the exhibits in three neat rows of four each. The only anomaly was a framed photograph of the dead tree that stood at the top of the hill. The photo was centered beneath the second and third exhibit—butterflies and spiders—of the bottom row. The photograph had been taken from the bottom of the hill on a cloudy day. The barren branches of the tree stood out against the gray sky like the black, crooked legs of an insect.

Lamb spent several minutes searching the cottage's corners and crannies for something with which Peter might have hit Emily Fordham and Will Blackwell in the head, but found nothing.

He returned to the desk and gently searched the mess of papers, portfolios, books, and paints, making sure that he replaced everything in the way it had been. He opened a leather-bound portfolio and found that it contained a dozen crayon sketches of butterflies. Each was beautifully and richly rendered down to the tiniest markings and variation in color.

He heard a scraping noise by the window. He went to the window and peered into the yard but saw nothing amiss. He stood still and listened. The back door stood open. His first thought was that Pembroke had come down the path and caught him rummaging through Peter's things. He heard what he thought sounded like someone moving from the cottage up the hill. He went to the door but saw no one.

“Peter?” he said.

No one answered.

WALLACE HAD SPENT THE PAST TWO HOURS LABORIOUSLY HUNTING
and pecking away at the reports on the Blackwell and Fordham killings for Harding, hating every minute. He was nearly finished when he realized suddenly that Lamb was standing by his desk. He immediately moved to hand to Lamb what he'd thus far typed, as proof that he hadn't dawdled away the morning.

“I was just about to deliver this bloody mess to you,” he said, smiling.

Lamb glanced at the papers for a couple of seconds, then handed them back to Wallace. “I'll read them later,” he said, to Wallace's consternation.

Lamb had just finished reading Winston-Sheed's report on Emily Fordham's autopsy, which he'd found on his desk when he'd returned to the nick from Brookings. She had been struck on the head and
knocked cold with a blunt object. The killer then had bludgeoned her in the head until she was dead. She showed no sign of other injury or sexual violation. And she indeed had been pregnant—seven weeks.

Even though he still had very little to go on, he could sense cracks opening.

He told Wallace that Pembroke had confirmed Lydia Blackwell's identification of the boy in the photo as Thomas Bennett, that Thomas had quarreled with Donald Fordham, and that Pembroke had sent the boy back to Basingstoke at the suggestion of the orphanage's director.

“I think this boy knows something, just as Peter does,” Lamb said. “We need to speak with the director of the orphanage and, hopefully, with Thomas himself. I'm going there now and I want you to come with me.” He smiled. “Save you from your bloody typing.”

“Does the director know we're coming?” Wallace asked as he grabbed his jacket.

Lamb popped a butterscotch into his mouth. “Of course not.”

The Resurrection Home for Boys was housed in an ancient, somewhat decrepit manor house. Lamb and Wallace entered a wide, high-ceilinged foyer. In the middle of the foyer, a small sign atop a metal stand informed visitors that the office was to the right.

The office was housed in what had been the sitting room. A wall had been constructed to divide the room into a small outer office and waiting room and a rather large inner office. As they entered the outer office, a middle-aged woman looked up at them from behind a small desk. She was a good-looking woman, Lamb thought. Her hair was blond streaked with a touch of gray, which showed her age. But she maintained the attributes of classic beauty: high cheeks, large eyes, and an aristocratically slender neck and shoulders.

She smiled at Lamb and Wallace. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she said. “May I help you?”

Lamb introduced himself and Wallace. The woman smiled again and offered them her hand. “My name is Mrs. Langdon,” she said. Her gesture surprised Lamb; he wasn't used to secretaries and clerks introducing themselves.

“A pleasure, madam,” Lamb said, shaking her hand. “I wonder if we might have a word with Mr. Pirie?”

“I'll see,” Mrs. Langdon said brightly. She got up and disappeared into the inner office. A minute later, she returned. “Go right in,” she said.

Gerald Pirie's office comprised the better half of the former sitting room. Behind the wide mahogany desk at which Pirie sat, a trio of high windows looked onto what once had been the estate's east lawn but now was a playing field on which a group of small boys were kicking about a football. Pirie was one of those men whose age Lamb found it difficult to gauge; he guessed that Pirie was in his mid-forties, though he might be older. He was of medium height and slightly overweight, with a round face, plump hands, and dark eyes that radiated melancholy. He wore a dark blue suit that had the look and quality of a railway conductor's uniform; all it needed was brass buttons. He came out from behind his desk to greet them.

“Good afternoon,” he said, offering them his hand. His accent was Scottish. “This is a surprise, I must say. I hope one of my boys isn't in trouble.” He looked at Lamb with his chin slightly raised, expectant.

“Nothing like that—though I would like to speak to one of your boys,” Lamb said. “May we sit?”

Pirie gestured for Lamb and Wallace to take the two chairs that faced his desk. He returned to his place behind his desk. “To which of the boys would you like to speak?”

“Thomas Bennett,” Lamb said.

“Thomas?”

“Yes.”

“Why Thomas, if I might ask?”

“His name has come up in connection with a murder inquiry.”

“A murder inquiry? Thomas?” Pirie hesitated for a couple of seconds, then placed his hands on his desk. “But I'm afraid Thomas is no longer with us, Chief Inspector.”

Lamb waited for Pirie to elaborate. When Pirie didn't, he asked, “Where is Thomas?”

“He was adopted.”

“When?”

“Six or seven months ago. May I ask how Thomas is involved in your inquiry?”

“His photograph was found in the wallet of a young woman named Emily Fordham, who was bludgeoned to death near the village of Lipscombe. Miss Fordham worked on Lord Jeffrey Pembroke's estate in the summers with the boys from your institution. He told me that Thomas ran away from the estate last summer.”

“That is true, yes.”

“Did Lord Pembroke say why Thomas had run away from the estate?” He wanted to see if Pirie's version of events matched Pembroke's.

“Thomas had gotten into some sort of trouble with one of the boys down there who work on the estate. I'm afraid I didn't press Lord Pembroke on the matter; I merely took his word that he was satisfied with its resolution.”

“And Thomas did not return to the estate?”

“Yes.”

“Was that because you forbade him?”

“Yes. I didn't think it wise to send him back.”

“Did he ever mention the names of Donald or Emily Fordham to you after his return?”

“I gathered that Donald Fordham was the boy with whom Thomas had the trouble. He never mentioned anyone named Emily.”

“Did you inform Lord Pembroke of Thomas's adoption?”

“I must have told him, yes.”

“But you don't remember?”

“I must have done.” He smiled again. “I'm sorry, Chief Inspector, but as you might imagine I have my hands rather full here. I have learned to avoid trying to manage every detail. Otherwise, I fear I'd go mad. As it is, I've given my life to this place. My main concern is that the boys are getting what they need.”

“Do you know Peter Wilkins?” Lamb asked.

“Of course. He was one of our boys before Lord Pembroke became his guardian.”

“Has Peter tried to contact you recently?”

“No. Peter has a great amount of difficulty communicating.”

“Lord Pembroke is one of the orphanage's primary benefactors, I suppose?” Lamb asked.

“Yes.”

“So you must please him, then?”

Pirie straightened in his chair, in mild defiance. “I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I don't follow you.”

“I'm only saying that Lord Pembroke must exercise influence in how the orphanage is operated—perhaps even in the decisions you make.”

Pirie's face reddened. “I'm sorry, Chief Inspector, but I must say that I resent any insinuation of improprieties on Lord Pembroke's part, or on mine. As I've already told you, I have dedicated my life to this place. I can't even imagine what you might be implying. And if you are indeed implying something, I'd prefer that you just state it outright.”

“I apologize,” Lamb said. “I was merely trying to better understand your relationship with Lord Pembroke.”

Pirie's injured expression softened. “It is a relationship dedicated to helping the boys—to seeing that we give them the best that we can offer them.”

“May I know the name of the people who adopted Thomas?” Lamb asked.

“It's irregular. As you can well imagine, we do our utmost to protect the privacy of our boys. We are privately funded and therefore are under no obligation to release such confidential information.”

“I was hoping that, under the circumstances, you might make an exception. I could get a warrant, of course.”

Pirie thrust out his chin. “Then I'm afraid you must do so, though I can't think on what grounds. I'm sorry, but I can't be party to your bothering Thomas. For the first time in his life, he's in a secure situation. I can personally assure you that he had nothing to do with this mess to which you refer. He's only eleven.”

“This
is
related to a murder inquiry,” Lamb reminded Pirie.

“I understand. But I can only say once again that I'm certain that Thomas had nothing to do with it.”

“How can you be so certain, sir?” Wallace interjected.

“For one, he's merely eleven; for another, he lives in Glasgow.” He lowered his brow and peered at Wallace. “Now, I ask you, Sergeant, do you really believe it possible for a boy of eleven to hop on a train in Glasgow, travel to the south of England, commit murder, then hop back on the train for home, especially under the circumstances in which we presently find ourselves?”

“No one said he committed murder, sir,” Wallace said. “We merely said we found his photograph in a wallet.”

“But that's what you're implying, certainly,” Pirie said. “That he's involved in some way with this young woman's death.”

Lamb abruptly stood, startling Pirie. “Very good, Mr. Pirie,” he said. He made the displeasure evident in his tone. “I suppose there's nothing left for Sergeant Wallace and me to do but to thank you for your time. We will return with a warrant.”

Pirie did not rise. “I trust you can see yourselves out,” he said.

Mrs. Langdon waved at the two of them as they left. “Good-bye, gentlemen,” she said.

They returned to Lamb's Wolseley.

“He was moving along rather nicely until you jabbed him,” Wallace said.

“Yes.”

Lamb peered at the boys who were kicking the soccer ball around the vast field. He was beginning to believe that his latest flight of fancy might be correct.

That night, Wallace went straight to Delilah's and rapped on her door. Delilah opened the door a crack, just wide enough for Wallace to see her. She was in her sleeping gown. Her eyes were still hideously bruised.

“David, you shouldn't have come,” she said. Despite the heat, she hugged herself, as if cold. She didn't open the door wider and invite him in.