“Yes. Well, Thomas is anyway. I don’t think Jane said she did see the locket; just something gold, which she thought was the locket. That’s how I remember what she said.”
“Thomas saw something gold too though, didn’t he, when Rosie straightened up after bending down over Lady Anne’s body? That was when Rosie took the locket, wasn’t it, Lady Robinson, leaving that scratch mark on Lady Anne’s neck, which Detective Constable Butler told us about last week?”
“No. She left it in the bathroom in Chelsea when she was up for the flower show. Then we all went down to the coast together on the Saturday, and so no one was in the bathroom again until I used it in the middle of the following week. Peter stayed down in Flyte after the murder.”
“But why did you use that bathroom? It’s at the top of the house, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s on the third floor, not the fourth, and the cleaner was in the downstairs lavatory when I used it.”
“Yes, I understand that, but why not use your own bathroom in the basement? That would be nearer, wouldn’t it, if you were working on the ground floor?”
“I don’t know. I can’t explain that. Maybe because the bathroom upstairs is nicer than the one in the basement. Maybe I just felt like a change of bathroom.”
“And that made it worth climbing three flights of stairs instead of going down one, did it?”
“I guess so.” Greta shrugged.
“You never found that locket in any bathroom, did you, Lady Robinson? You got it from Lady Anne’s killer.”
“Why would I want it? It’s not exactly the most valuable of the Sackville jewels, is it, Mr. Sparling?”
“Because you wanted it as a trophy. The locket and the photograph inside it were a symbol of your employer’s marriage, and now Lady Anne was dead and you could marry Sir Peter.”
“So I put it in the desk and waited for someone to find it,” said Greta mockingly. “That makes a lot of sense.”
“No, you hid it in the desk in a secret recess. Lady Robinson, I must remind you that I’m not here to answer your questions. It’s the other way round. You’re here to answer mine.” Greta looked away from Sparling toward the jury and smiled. The barrister turned a page of his notes and asked her his next question.
“Why didn’t you tell Sir Peter about the locket?”
“Because I didn’t want to upset him.”
“But it was already a week after the murder when he got back to London. Surely it would have been a comfort to him to have the locket. It showed how much Lady Anne cared about him, didn’t it? That she should have been wearing a locket containing a picture of him only a couple of days before her death; that she took it to London with her.”
“I didn’t see it that way.”
“But you thought it was important, didn’t you? That’s why you put it in the secret recess.”
“I thought it would be safe there.”
“So why didn’t you give the locket back to Sir Peter after he had calmed down?”
“Because I forgot about it. I had a lot on my mind. You seem to forget that I was arrested on the day of Lady Anne’s funeral, Mr. Sparling.”
“You forgot about it even though you had taken the trouble to put it in such a safe place and had decided not to speak to Sir Peter about it because you thought it would upset him. That doesn’t make much sense, does it, Lady Robinson?”
“I don’t know whether it makes sense or not, Mr. Sparling. All I can tell you is that last summer was one of the most stressful periods of my life. I got arrested for murder. My employer had lost his wife. And his son was conducting a witch-hunt against both of us, aided and abetted by the Suffolk police. Personally I’m not that surprised that I forgot about the locket.”
“But I suggest that you did not forget about it, Lady Robinson. You knew it was there. You just didn’t expect anyone to find it.”
“I forgot about it.”
“Mr. Sparling,” said the judge. “I notice that we are fast approaching one o’clock. Do you have much more, or would this be a convenient time to stop for lunch?”
“I have only one more question, my Lord. Perhaps it would be better if I asked it now rather than waiting.”
“Certainly, Mr. Sparling. Carry on.”
“Lady Robinson, I put it to you that you received this locket from the man called Rosie, who visited you in your flat in April of last year and killed Lady Anne at the end of May. The same Rosie who returned to the House of the Four Winds two weeks ago, when he referred to you by name. You conspired with him to commit murder and to divide the spoils between you.”
“I conspired with no one,” said Greta. “And what’s more, I don’t know anyone called Rosie or anyone with a name remotely like that. I’ve already told you that, Mr. Sparling.”
“My Lord, I have no more questions,” said the prosecution barrister. He wished he could have done more with Greta, but she seemed — just like Matthew Barne had said — to have an answer for every question. Repeating his questions would only make them sound weaker. Sparling felt the case slipping out of his grasp. It filled him with angry frustration, and he looked down at his papers to ensure that none of the jurors would be able to read the irritation written so plainly on his face.
“Mr. Lambert, do you have any other witnesses?” asked the judge once Greta had resumed her seat in the dock.
“One more, my Lord. My client’s husband, Sir Peter Robinson.”
“Well, we’ll hear from him at two o’clock then. Enjoy your lunch, members of the jury,” said the judge, avoiding the eye of the furious forewoman. She looked at that moment like she wanted to attack someone with her black leather handbag. Judge Granger felt grateful that he didn’t have to have his lunch with her.
Chapter 26
Afterward Thomasnever knew how they managed to get through the two hours that they had to wait in the cafeteria of the Family Records Office. It was torture watching the second hand of the big clock on the wall making its rounds while the evidence went on at the Old Bailey and Andrew dealt with the priority collections of those sensible enough to have made their applications earlier on the day before. He was visible through the window in the door of the cafe, and several times Matthew had to restrain Thomas from rushing out to physically attack the collections clerk.
It was in fact 12:17 when their number came up on the screen and 12:19 when Thomas snatched the certificates from Andrew’s hand. He and Matthew then left the building almost at a run so that there was no opportunity for Matthew to see if Andrew had finally had to resort to his buzzer.
Out on the sidewalk Thomas opened the envelope with trembling hands. The red birth certificate came out first, but he barely glanced at the document, handing it to Matthew while he unfolded the green marriage certificate and began to read.
“‘Certificate No. 38. Married on the twenty-sixth day of November 1989 at the Register Office in Liverpool. Jonathan Barry Rowes aged twenty-one years, Bachelor, to Greta Rose Grahame aged eighteen, both residents of Manchester.’ “
“Give me the birth certificate, Matt, quick,” said Thomas. His excitement made both his hand and his voice shake as he compared the two documents.
“Father’s name and surname: George Reynolds Grahame. Occupation: Factory worker. Name and surname of father: George Reynolds Grahame. Occupation: retired. They’re the same, Matt. We’ve got her now. We’ve got the murdering bitch.” Thomas’s voice was hysterical, filled with all the emotions that he had tried to keep suppressed for so long.
“All we need now is a taxi,” said Matthew. But a taxi was nowhere in sight. It took them ten minutes to find one, and it was past one o’clock when Thomas and Matthew arrived at the Old Bailey and went in search of
