Текст книги "An Expert in Murder"
Автор книги: Nicola Upson
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Классические детективы
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‘Can you say when it was taken?’
‘Not long ago. The tiniest measure can cause death in a few minutes. In animals, it has much the same effect as hydrocyanic acid –
a quarter of a drop can kill; for a man, one or two drops will be fatal. Exposure to nicotine in small doses through smoking or chewing tobacco can build up a tolerance to the toxic effects, and he obviously was a smoker, but nobody’s immune. A lethal amount would be the equivalent of absorbing all the nicotine in three or four cigarettes. That’s all, but what was it Goethe said?
“There’s no such thing as poison – it just depends on the dose.”’
‘Nicotine is used as an insecticide, isn’t it? I remember it as a child. My father swore death to the aphids on his roses, but he used to throw a blue fit if I went within fifty yards of the stuff.’
‘Yes, every gardener has some tucked away. It’s a fairly simple chemical process to extract the neat stuff from tobacco leaves, but there’s no need to go to all that trouble now – it’s readily available.
You could walk into a shop and buy more than enough to manage this, and the toxicologist will be able to tell us the likely brand.
You know, it’s becoming an increasingly fashionable way to do yourself in. I’ve had three times as many suicides from a dose of nicotine over the last twelve months as in the previous year. It’s a nasty way to oblivion, but it has the advantage of being a quick one. Is that what you’re looking at here? Suicide?’
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‘I’d be surprised,’ he said. ‘The door was locked from the outside and, in any case, it doesn’t fit with what I know of him. He was intelligent enough to find a less painful way if he wanted to kill himself. He could have taken it without being aware of it, I suppose?’
‘Absolutely. I’ve known several cases of people drinking insecticides by accident. In its natural state, it’s a sort of colourless, oily liquid but it soon changes on contact with air and looks remarkably like whisky. Of course, it takes so little to kill you that even if you realised what you’d done it would be too late. One swig would do it. An easy mistake, but an expensive one.’
‘In that case, there’s a decanter and glass downstairs that he drank from just before he died. It’s in the scene dock.’
‘Fine, we’ll go there next.’
‘So it could be murder?’
‘Well, it’s not a common choice for a planned killing, I have to say. I only know of one other case – a French count who killed his brother-in-law by forcing him to ingest nicotine – but that was nearly a hundred years ago. It’s usually self-inflicted or a practical joke gone wrong – snuff in beer, ridiculous amounts of cigars smoked in a row for a bet, that sort of thing. I had a child not long back who blew bubbles for an hour through an old clay pipe and died. There’s no reason why it couldn’t be murder, but it’s unusual.’
‘What are the symptoms?’
‘He would have collapsed almost immediately. If you’re right about that decanter, he did well to make it up the stairs at all.
Death would have followed in anything from five to thirty minutes.’
‘And in between?’
‘Briefly, the nicotine will have acted as a stimulant, but that will have given way to a depression of the central nervous system, lowered blood pressure, slowed heart rate and death from paralysis of the respiratory muscles.’
‘So he suffocated? That’s the cause of death?’
‘Asphyxia, yes. Along the way, he’ll have gone through nausea, 151
abdominal pain, heart palpitations and increased salivation; he’ll have experienced a burning sensation in the mouth, mental confusion and dizziness. Everyone is affected slightly differently, but you don’t need a post-mortem to tell you some of what he went through; it’s all too obvious here.’
‘And his eyes?’
‘I’m impressed, Archie. Yes, nicotine poisoning often affects the eyes – that’s true of a heavy smoker, not just these extreme cases.
It’s known as tobacco blindness – the sudden appearance of a rapidly growing dark patch in the field of vision, not dissimilar to alcohol.’
‘There was a lot of it in the trenches.’
‘Exactly. It was very common then, mostly because of home-grown or badly cured tobacco. That stuff often has a lower com-bustion temperature than properly prepared tobacco, so less of the nicotine is destroyed.’
‘If I told you that Bernard Aubrey spent his war underground and was clinically claustrophobic as a result, what would you say?’
Spilsbury stepped out of the way as his colleagues prepared to remove Aubrey’s body from the room. ‘Well, he died not being able to breathe or, in all probability, to see, so with the possible exception of being buried alive – which presents obvious practical difficulties – I’d say he had the worst death imaginable.’ He gestured to the desk where the bayonet had been found. ‘Are you linking this to the girl on the train?’
Penrose nodded. He had two deaths and two victims which, on the face of it, could not have been more different: a young girl and a man facing old age; a stabbing with relatively little suffering and an agonising, degrading end. But he was starting to see more connections and, although the theatre was the most obvious link, the past seemed to him more significant. Aubrey had died surrounded by reminders of the war – a war which was also the backdrop to an illegal and inevitably painful adoption. And even the causes of death, apparently so contrasting, had in common a spiteful appropriateness to their victim: Elspeth’s murder had undermined every-152
thing that mattered to her, had scorned her innocence; Aubrey, a man of wealth and authority all his life, had been physically humiliated and had died gasping for air. In both crimes, there was a terrifying lack of humanity, a mockery of the dead which chilled him even more than the loss of life itself.
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Eleven
Penrose stood at the door to the Green Room, and was not surprised to see that his cousins’ efforts to comfort everyone with tea and brandy had had very little effect: Lydia was dreadfully pale and clearly shocked to the core, while Josephine and the woman to whom he had been introduced earlier were united in solicitous concern for her. It was Marta who spoke first.
‘What the hell has happened, Inspector?’ she asked with a flash of anger which took him by surprise. ‘How can you have allowed her to walk in on something like that? You should have gone to find him, not Lydia.’
‘I’m truly sorry you’ve had to go through this,’ he said to Lydia with genuine compassion, ‘and I don’t want to cause anybody any further distress, but I do need to talk to you briefly about what happened tonight.’ He turned to the others in the room. ‘And to anybody else who saw or spoke to Bernard Aubrey in the last twenty-four hours.’
Marta was not so easily dismissed. ‘Can that really not keep until the morning? Right now, I’d like to take Lydia home to get some rest. She’s had enough.’
Penrose, who had already missed out on one vital interview that evening through having been made to wait, had no intention of letting it happen again, but he was saved the discourtesy of insisting.
‘It’s fine, darling, honestly it is,’ said Lydia, taking Marta’s hand.
‘I’d rather do it now. The sooner I stop having to talk about it, the sooner I can start trying to get that image out of my head.’ She smiled unconvincingly, as if recognising the naivety of her words, and turned to Penrose. ‘Although somehow I don’t think it will be 155
that easy, do you Archie? Can I still call you Archie, by the way, or does it have to be Inspector now that this is official?’
‘Archie’s fine. And I won’t keep you any longer than I have to.’
‘All right, but can I have a minute to pull myself together?’ She looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror which ran along one wall. ‘I know it’s not the time to mention it, but I feel worse now than I ever have on my deathbed. I just need to pop to my dressing room for a moment.’
Penrose nodded, trying not to look too impatient. As soon as Lydia had left the room, accompanied by a seething Marta, Lettice took the seat opposite her cousin.
‘Can we tell you about our encounter with Aubrey before they get back,’ she whispered, nodding towards the door and glancing conspiratorially at Josephine, who understood immediately what she was getting at. ‘Something happened that would only upset Lydia even more, and I’d rather not mention it in front of her tonight.’
‘Go on. Josephine told me it wasn’t exactly an amicable meeting.’
‘No, not at all. In fact, it couldn’t have been frostier.’ She gave an uncharacteristically succinct account of the afternoon’s meeting, missing out many of the more entertaining asides which had been shared with Josephine over dinner, but leaving Penrose in no doubt as to how unpopular Aubrey had made himself.
‘So, by the time the meeting was over, Terry was put out, to say the least?’
‘Oh, face like a slapped arse, dear,’ confirmed Ronnie. ‘He was absolutely furious.’
‘But powerless to do anything about it, presumably.’ And impo-tence had a habit of making people dangerous, he thought. He had seen that quality in Terry’s performance earlier – a barely suppressed anger which had made his portrayal of the increasingly vulnerable Richard all the more convincing. But was it enough to drive him to murder? And did he have it in him to kill so mali-ciously? Arrogance, yes, he could believe that was in character, but spite? He turned to Josephine. ‘How serious do you think it is for Terry to miss out on a film like that?’
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She shrugged. ‘It’s hard to say, really. Artistically, it could take his career in a whole new direction, but I’m not sure he’d want that long-term. He’d be starting at the bottom again, you see, whereas on stage he’s so established and highly thought of that he can do virtually what he likes. There are very few people who’d dream of standing in his way in the theatre.’ And one of those was now dead, Penrose thought as Josephine continued. ‘Financially speaking, though, it’s a different matter. There’s simply no comparison between the money he could make in a film and what he gets for a stage role. And the girls were saying earlier that he seems more money-driven these days. I don’t know why that should be. He’s never struck me as the greedy type, except for praise, of course.’
‘That’s useful to know, but I don’t quite see why you were so reluctant to tell me all this in front of Lydia. What does she have to do with Terry?’
‘Oh, it’s not that,’ Lettice said quickly. ‘We just didn’t want Lydia to find out about Aubrey’s plans for her – or rather the lack of them.’ She stopped guiltily as the door opened again, but it was only Fallowfield.
‘Aubrey’s address, Sir,’ he said, handing Penrose a piece of paper. ‘His wife’s expecting you, and there’s a car waiting outside.’
‘Thanks, Sergeant. How did she take it?’
‘Calmly, I’d say, Sir. I don’t mean she wasn’t shocked, but she didn’t strike me as the type to go in for hysterics. She insisted she didn’t need anybody to wait with her until you got there, but there’s a maid in the house, so she’s not on her own.’
‘All right. I’ll get over there now, but wait here a minute – this is interesting.’ He turned back to Lettice. ‘Go on, but be as quick as you can.’
‘It’s only that Lydia isn’t in line for a part in the film either, and she’ll be devastated when she hears about it. I didn’t think she needed that news on top of everything else.’
‘Are you absolutely sure she didn’t know?’
‘Archie, for God’s sake!’ Josephine looked horrified. ‘You surely can’t be suggesting that Lydia had anything to do with this? That’s not what Lettice meant at all.’
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‘I’m not suggesting anything,’ he said, as Lettice put her finger to her lips and nervously checked the corridor outside. ‘I just need to establish who knows what. How about Marta? Could she have got wind of it?’
‘No, I really don’t think so,’ Josephine continued. ‘We had a long chat this evening about Lydia and the future, and I’m sure she would have mentioned it if she’d known.’
‘I can hear someone coming,’ said Lettice from the doorway.
‘Time for us to go.’ She passed Ronnie her gloves. ‘That’s all right, isn’t it Archie? I thought we’d go back to 66 and get a bit of supper ready for everyone. We all need to keep our strength up.’
‘That’s fine. You’ll get one of my lot to see you over when you’re ready to go?’ he asked Josephine. She nodded and, although he wouldn’t have wished the night’s events on anyone, he was pleased to see that she seemed now much less defiant about his concerns for her.
Lettice looked worried as she allowed Fallowfield to help her on with her coat. ‘I do hope I haven’t landed anyone in it,’ she said.
‘Don’t be silly, dear, of course you haven’t. It’s Archie’s job to make a Judas of us all.’ Ronnie’s smile was sweet and deadly.
‘Judas? I don’t like the sound of that.’ Lydia had returned looking considerably more composed, and Penrose was relieved to see that she was alone.
‘I’m afraid so, dear,’ Ronnie said, deliberately ignoring Lettice’s frantic attempts to catch her eye. ‘Detective Inspector Penrose has been quite ruthless in his interrogations and we’ve had to snitch on Josephine to save our own skins.’ For once, her sarcasm defused the tension in the room. ‘Seriously, though, we were just saying that Aubrey’s behaviour of late hasn’t made him very popular with any of us.’
‘That’s true enough,’ Lydia acknowledged, kissing Ronnie and Lettice goodbye and settling down next to Josephine on the settee.
‘And before you have the embarrassment of asking, Archie, that includes me. We had a very frank discussion only the other day in which he made it quite clear that my top billing days were nearly over.’ She took a sip from the glass of wine that she had brought in 158
with her. ‘It must have been torture for him, mustn’t it? I’ll never forget his face. All that pain, and no one there to help him. I can’t think of anything worse than to leave this world alone like that.
How did he die, Archie? Do you know? Can there really have been two murders in two days?’
‘We can’t be sure of what’s happened at the moment,’ he said, non-committally, ‘but I amsorry that it was you who found his body. I know you and Aubrey were close.’
‘Yes, we were. He was a good man, you know. But how were you to know what was waiting for me at the top of those stairs?
Don’t think badly of Marta. I’m sorry she was angry with you but this is the first crisis we’ve had and you know what that’s like in a relationship. She’s just being protective.’
‘I understand. Where is she now?’
‘In self-imposed exile in my dressing room. She said she couldn’t trust herself to be civil so she’d wait there until I was free to go.’
Penrose took Lydia gently through the period between the end of the play and the discovery of Aubrey’s body, but learned nothing that Fallowfield had not already discovered in his earlier brief conversation with the actress. ‘I suppose I should have come to fetch you when I realised that the door was locked,’ she said.
‘Something was obviously not right, but you do things instinctively, don’t you? I just opened it without even thinking what might be on the other side.’
‘You’re absolutely sure that the door waslocked, aren’t you, and not just stuck or difficult to open?’
‘I’m positive. I tried the handle once, turned the key and tried again. The door opened, and I saw him right away. I know it’s odd, but that’s how it was.’
‘Did you go into the room?’
‘No more than a couple of steps. It was obvious that I was too late to help him. A part of me couldn’t believe what I was seeing, but most of all I just wanted to get away.’
‘You told Sergeant Fallowfield about some unpleasantness amongst the cast after the show. What had Aubrey done to upset everyone so much?’
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‘Well, Esme McCracken has always hated him just for being successful, but it’s got worse since he refused to accept her play for production. I don’t know about Lewis Fleming; he and Johnny have always hated each other, and that’s about rivalry and social background as much as anything, but I’ve never known Lewis to show Bernie anything other than respect until today. As for Johnny, I think he was simply starting to outgrow what Bernie could offer him. He’s always been restless, but he’s sick to the back teeth of this play and Bernie is – was – determined to hold him to his contract. And there’s the Swinburne issue, of course. Johnny was set on having him – in all senses of the word, probably – for Bothwell in Queen of Scots, but Bernie preferred Fleming. At least, I thought he did. Perhaps he’d changed his mind. That might explain Fleming’s behaviour, but not Johnny’s.’
‘Aubrey hadn’t changed his mind about Bothwell,’ Josephine said. ‘Apparently he was still very keen this afternoon on hiring Fleming.’
Lydia gave an involuntary shudder. ‘You know, I’ve just remembered what Johnny said when he made the toast tonight: “To memorable exits.” He couldn’t have known, could he? Surely he wouldn’t . . .’ she tailed off, unable to bring herself to say the words.
‘I thought you said you wouldn’t keep her long, Inspector?’
Marta stood in the doorway, calmer now, but no less protective.
Penrose looked up at her and said, politely but firmly, ‘There are a couple more questions. Please take a seat, though, I’ll be as brief as I can.’ Marta moved across to be near Lydia, but remained standing. ‘Now, the tray of drinks for this ritual,’ Penrose continued, ‘who got that ready today?’
‘Hedley made sure everything was there before the matinee. At least, that’s what usually happens. McCracken was on duty tonight, so she’ll have put the drinks in place.’
‘And do those two get on? White and Miss McCracken, I mean.’
‘I don’t think you could honestly say that McCracken gets on with anyone – except Johnny, perhaps. He actually thinks she can write. But Hedley isn’t the confrontational type and he has to work with the woman, so he puts up with all her nonsense and just 160
gets on with it. How is Hedley, by the way? I didn’t realise until Josephine told me tonight that it was his girlfriend who was killed yesterday. I can’t believe I met her at the station and didn’t make the connection. He’ll be devastated. He was so in love with her, you know, it was really very sweet. And of course Bernie had become like a father to him over the last few months. It’ll feel like his whole world has collapsed when he finds out what’s happened now.’
‘Actually, we’re having a bit of trouble getting hold of Mr White,’ Penrose said, with an edge in his voice which was lost on neither Lydia nor Marta. ‘I don’t suppose you have any idea where he might be, do you?’
‘I haven’t seen him since the matinee,’ Lydia said, and Penrose was interested to note that her tone had lost some of its warmth.
‘If I had, I’d have no qualms about telling you. He wouldn’t do anything wrong, Archie. He’s just a boy.’
Fallowfield spoke up for the first time. ‘He had done something wrong, though, hadn’t he, Miss? The stage doorman says he was supposed to report to Mr Aubrey after the matinee this afternoon for some sort of disciplinary, but he never showed up. Do you know what that was about?’
‘I’ve really no idea, Sergeant, but I can’t imagine it was a matter for the police.’ She accepted the cigarette that Marta held out to her, and paused while it was lit. ‘He shares digs with Rafe Swinburne over the river. If he’s not there, I’ve no idea where you’ll find him, but I just hope he’s all right.’
‘Rafe Swinburne – you mentioned him earlier,’ Penrose said.
‘Why is Terry so keen on him?’
‘Well, partly out of sheer stubbornness. He hates Fleming so much that anyone who has some talent and fits the same sort of roles would be preferable. And Swinburne is talented – he’s made quite a success of things in Sheppeyat Wyndham’s, helped along no doubt by his looks. Johnny’s a fool for a pretty face.’
At the mention of Wyndham’s Theatre, Penrose looked across at Fallowfield. ‘And does Rafe Swinburne want to take this role as much as John Terry wants to give it to him?’
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‘Oh, I don’t think there’s any doubt about that. He’s very ambitious. I’ve seen him work the room a couple of times now, and he certainly knows how to pull out all the stops.’
Marta made no attempt to disguise the contempt in her voice.
‘Has the world really come to that, Inspector? Are we all so shal-low now that we’ll kill for a part in a play? Whatever happened to the good old-fashioned motives that people used to murder for? At least they were a little more convincing.’
Protective Marta might be, but Penrose was beginning to lose patience with her sarcasm. He stood up, aware that Aubrey’s widow would be waiting for him. ‘My officers will be in the theatre for the rest of the night,’ he said. ‘You’re all welcome to stay here as long as you want to, but I’d be grateful if you didn’t go anywhere else in the building. When you’re ready to leave, the constable at stage door will call for a car to take you home.’ He reserved a smile for Josephine on his way out of the room, and paused at the door. ‘Last year, I had to investigate the murder of a young woman in Pimlico,’ he said, looking back at Marta. ‘She was a secretary in a large firm of solicitors, and she was strangled because she was allocated a desk that somebody else wanted. Not a very old-fashioned motive, I agree, Miss Fox, but I’m sure it seemed convincing enough to the woman who hanged for it.’
Penrose heard four bolts being shot back from their sockets and the jangle of keys in a lock before a maid opened the front door to admit him to the imposing house on Queen Anne’s Gate. What a shame, he thought, that Bernard Aubrey hadn’t shown the same concern for security in his theatres as he clearly had at home.
‘Mrs Aubrey’s upstairs, Sir,’ the woman said, with a balance of civility and economy born of many years in domestic service. ‘I’ll show you to the drawing room, and she’ll join you shortly.’
The room in which Penrose was asked to wait was of similar proportions to Aubrey’s office at the theatre and showed the same exquisite taste in its décor and furnishings, but the signs of everyday living which had personalised his study were entirely absent from the domestic space that he had shared with his wife. It was, 162
in fact, the sort of room in which no object was permitted to serve the purpose for which it had been created: the sofa – an elegant Chesterfield – was attractive but uninviting; the fireplace was beautifully polished but far too clean to have known much warmth; and the handful of books in a corner cabinet seemed chosen more to offset the light browns of the walnut than to entertain.
He had little doubt that, were he to take one down, he would find some of its gilt-edged pages still uncut. The masculine traces of cigarette smoke, so dominant in Aubrey’s office, were replaced here by a faint, violet-scented fragrance; by now, he was not surprised to trace its origin to a vase of irises, dark purple and all in full bloom, and so uniform in their display that only their perfume proved them to be the work of nature rather than man.
Just above the flowers hung an oil painting, and Penrose wondered if it had been chosen out of a spontaneous love for its beauty or merely with a shrewd eye to its future value. From what he knew of the man, Aubrey was capable of either. It was a beach scene, centred, he guessed, on one of those French coastal resorts that had become so fashionable in the second half of the last century. The foreground was dominated by men with elaborate bathing paraphernalia and women sporting crinolines and para-sols – all very different from the easy-going holidaymakers of his own age – and even the children were dressed in the finest of clothes and hats, with no prospect, it seemed, of venturing into the tame sea beyond. Penrose didn’t need to look at the signature to know that the painting was by Eugène Boudin: studying in Cambridge, he had been lucky enough to have the Fitzwilliam’s fine collection of Impressionism on his doorstep and he had always been drawn to these small, quietly beautiful paintings, much preferring them to the louder canvases of Boudin’s more famous con-temporaries.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it? It was my husband’s favourite painting. The beach is at Trouville in Normandy, and he used to spend his summer holidays there as a child. Unfortunately, his more recent memories of France were less happy.’
The words were spoken softly but carried authority, and he 163
turned to greet a woman whose appearance was in perfect harmony with her voice. Grace Aubrey was tall and elegant, with an intelligence in her face that the lines of age had only served to intensify.
Unusually for a woman in her sixties, and perhaps only because of the hour, she wore her hair long and loose, making it easy for Penrose to imagine how she had looked in her youth, before the deep browns were tinged with grey. Without question, she was still beautiful and – despite his professional instinct to question appearances – Penrose found it hard to reconcile the Aubreys’ visual com-patibility with their reputed marital differences.
‘You know, after the war he could hardly bear to look at it any more,’ she said, her eyes still on the painting. ‘I suppose it’s not right to mourn such a thing when so many people didn’t come back at all, but it seems to me that the loss of a sense of beauty is as tragic as the loss of life.’ She sat down at one end of the settee and invited Penrose to take the other, brushing his condolences efficiently aside.
‘This has come as a great shock to me, Inspector, but I’m not going to waste your time by pretending that relations between my husband and I were anything other than habitual. I’m sorry he’s dead, of course I am. We all hope for the privilege of hanging on until our last natural moment, and no human being should die as he did – your sergeant was very diligent in his efforts to spare my feelings, by the way, but I can’t imagine any poison being painless.
That said, it would be ridiculous to claim a grief which I simply don’t feel.’
Penrose doubted that anyone had ever had cause to think Grace Aubrey ridiculous. ‘When did you last speak to your husband?’ he asked, confident now that he would be told everything he needed to know with a frankness which was refreshing, if a little disconcerting.
‘This morning, at breakfast. He left for work as usual at about half past nine. I wasn’t surprised that he hadn’t come home by the time I went to bed. He often stays out late, either working or socialising, so I didn’t expect to see him until tomorrow morning.’
‘And you didn’t speak on the telephone?’
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‘No. We led very separate lives, Inspector. There was little enough to talk about when we were in each other’s company, and certainly nothing important enough to warrant a telephone call.’
‘How long had you been married?’
‘It would have been forty-one years next month, although we stopped marking anniversaries a lifetime ago.’
‘That’s a long time to stay together if you were both unhappy.’
‘Are you married, Inspector?’
‘No.’
‘I thought not. The idea that you stay together if you’re happy and part if you’re not tends to be one held by single people. It wasn’t as straightforward as that. I can’t speak for Bernard, but I don’t remember ever actually being unhappy. We were both privileged to start off with, and he always worked hard to make sure we stayed that way, so we never wanted for anything, materially speaking.
And it wasn’t that we didn’t get on – it’s just that we never created that spark of joy in each other’s lives that makes everything else irrelevant. It’s a terrible thing to admit, but any of the pleasures that I did take from our life together would not have been lessened had he not been there to share them.’ She looked down at her hands, and gently touched her wedding ring. ‘I was a little harsh on you just then, Inspector. I’m sorry, and perhaps you’re right; perhaps if we had been unhappy rather than merely bored we might have separated and looked for happiness elsewhere. But when you’re neither one thing nor the other, time slips away before you realise that there might be something more.’
Guessing that Aubrey’s widow would despise any form of pre-varication, Penrose decided to make his questions as direct as possible. ‘Were you always faithful to each other?’
‘Yes, absolutely.’
‘You seem very sure. Can you speak so certainly for your husband?’
‘I can afford to be sure, if only for the simple reason that I wouldn’t have minded if he had strayed. There would have been no need for him to lie about it. I might even have been relieved, although of course you never know when jealousy will strike. No, 165
we were both too lazy to have an affair.’ She took a cigarette from the silver box on the table beside her and paused to light it.
‘Do you have any children?’
‘A son, Joseph. He lives in Gloucestershire. He and Bernard were never very close – they were far too much alike to get on well, and Bernard always resented the fact that Joe didn’t want anything to do with his precious theatres. And thank God he didn’t, bearing in mind what’s happened to his father.’
‘Did he have enemies, then?’
‘Clearly he did, Inspector. I would have thought that much was obvious.’
‘But specifically within the theatre? You seem to blame his work for his death.’
‘Bernard was a powerful man. He made careers and he destroyed them. His decisions were invariably right but often ruthless, and he made them with no thought for sentiment or even loyalty. And he was found poisoned in the private area of his theatre.
You’re the detective, of course, but the evidence does seem to point in that direction.’
Penrose resisted the temptation to return the charge of seeing things too simply. ‘I believe your husband’s death is connected to another murder which took place on Friday. Does the name Elspeth Simmons mean anything to you?’
She thought for a moment. ‘The girl who was killed at King’s Cross? I read about it in the paper tonight but I’d never heard of her before that. What makes you think Bernard’s death had anything to do with hers?’