“You think Mr Jacob was planning to meet up with someone? A female companion, perhaps? He’d left his wife and family at home in Norwich. He didn’t sign in as Mr Smith, did he?” The detective’s friendly smile was designed to relax.
“Mr Jacob didn’t look like an adulterer, if that’s what you mean,” she replied. “You can usually recognize them.”
“Oh?” May cocked an eyebrow, obviously intrigued. “How?”
“Small things. Their clothes are too sharp. You know, dressed up for a date.” She recalled some of the guests she had checked in. “Often they’re not at ease in a smart hotel. They don’t tip at the standard rate, usually go over. Mr Jacob wasn’t like that. He was old school.”
“How do you know that?”
Jerry shifted in her chair, trying to visualize the man who had walked toward her across the lobby last Friday. “He had a club tie, done up with a small knot. Very neat. Starch in the shirt. A wet-razor shaver.” She shrugged, hoping she didn’t sound foolish. “Well, it was late afternoon when he arrived, and he didn’t have any stubble. Short hair, brilliantined. Expensive shoes, carefully polished. Ex-military, I imagine. He had the look.”
“You don’t miss much, do you, Miss Gates?” May smiled again, and re-examined his notes. Jerry wished she could see what he had written down.
“Let’s move on to Monday. You say he was sitting in the lobby for about half an hour. Did you see anyone approach him in that time?”
“No one. It was raining heavily, and hardly anyone came in or went out.”
“Before he fell asleep with the paper over him, did anything happen that was out of the ordinary? Anything at all?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You seem like a bright young lady, so I’ll let you into a secret.” May beckoned her closer with his fingertips. “I have reason to believe that your guest did not die a natural death.”
Jerry had not considered the possibility of murder. The concept seemed so alien and theatrical. “I thought he just had a heart attack,” she explained. “I didn’t know what to do.”
“Try to recall the evening in the light of what I’ve just told you, and see if you can think of anything else that happened. Mr Jacob came downstairs, sat down in the chair, and died half an hour later. Knowing what we do, something else must have occurred. Take your time about it.”
Jerry thought for a minute, pleased that the detective had clicked off the tape until she was ready to answer.
“There was something wrong with the lights. They kept flickering. Because of the storm, I suppose. It didn’t disturb Mr Jacob.”
“Anything else?”
“Wait a minute – I think he went to the washroom,” she said suddenly. “He wasn’t gone for long.” She hadn’t mentioned this in her statement to the policewoman who had interviewed her yesterday. “I guess it’s not the sort of thing you really register,” she added lamely.
“I quite understand,” said May. “Under normal circumstances it’s far too commonplace an event to take note of.” He had clicked the tape recorder back on. “Can you recall any change in Mr Jacob’s behaviour when he returned? Try to imagine him sitting back in the armchair…”
“He was scowling,” said Jerry, surprising herself. “Fidgeting about. I remember looking up from the duty book several times. And he kept scratching his neck.”
“Thank you very much for your time, Miss Gates,” said May, closing his notebook with another twinkling smile and rising.
The abruptness of his leavetaking unsettled her. Having witnessed such a grotesque departure from life, she was anxious to know more, and to see what the police would do next. To them, it was just another unexplained death. To her, it was a window to a world she had no way of understanding.
? Seventy-Seven Clocks ?
5
Malacca
Thursday dawned with an unnatural hazy warmth, steam rising from the soaked streets of East London to form dragons of morning mist. Arthur Bryant paid the cab driver and dug into his jacket for his pocketbook, checking the Hackney address of Peregrine Summerfield. He was thinking that it would help to list his acquaintances in alphabetical order, when the art historian found him.
“Up here, Bryant!” came a booming voice from above. He looked up to see Summerfield balancing at the top of an extended ladder, his rotund form leaning precariously out to hail the passing detective. The ladder was propped against the end wall of a decrepit terraced house, where Summerfield was supervising the painting of an enormous mural. So far, only the lower third of the picture had been filled, but the full scene was already discernible. Half a dozen schoolchildren armed with brushes and paintpots were working on the lowest portion of the design. Summerfield came thumping down the ladder, causing the surrounding scaffolding to tremble. He pumped Bryant’s hand with both of his, transferring a considerable amount of indigo paint in the process. “This is a pleasant surprise.” He turned to the children.
“That’s enough, you lot. Back to the shed for brushwashing. You’ve done enough damage for one day.” There was a collective moan. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he said, indicating his clothes, which were smothered in every colour imaginable. “It’s a community project. I didn’t choose the subject matter.”
The wall showed a thirty-foot-high psychedelic nuclear explosion, around which strikers marched with banners and clenched fists. “It’s the lack of imagination I find depressing, but the council reckons it’ll encourage community spirit.” Summerfield lost his hand within his bushy paint-flecked beard and gave his chin a good scratch. “I suggested a nice abstract, colours reminiscent of lakes and trees, plenty of natural shapes, something to cheer urbanites up a bit. They told me I was being reactionary.”
“Why are the banners blank?” asked Bryant, studying the mural in puzzlement.
“That’s so local people can write in their own grievances against the Heath government. Interactive art. Some bright spark in the planning department came up with that one, I suppose. We’ve already had a few people write things in.
“Hmm. I think I prefer your idea of the abstract,” agreed Bryant. “Can we go somewhere to talk?”
“Certainly.” Summerfield examined the paint on his hands. “Give me five minutes to get the lads cleaned up.” He threw Bryant a set of keys. “I live over the road, number 54, the one with the sunrise gate. Make yourself a cup of tea.”
¦
Summerfield’s house was cramped and cluttered, and surprisingly devoid of paintings. A great number of reference books were stacked in untidy piles throughout the ground floor. The historian’s knowledge of Victorian art placed him among the country’s top experts, and he was frequently called in to help organize national exhibitions, but Summerfield had eschewed a permanent post in favour of educating young minds at the local primary school. Arthur had always appreciated his directness and lack of pretension when discussing art. He had just located a battered kettle beneath a pile of old newspapers when the historian returned.
“I can’t spare much time today, Arthur,” he apologized. “I’ve a life class at eleven. Their usual Christ is off sick, so I’m standing in. I’ve got the beard for it, you see. I don’t mind, but it gets a bit tiring on the arms after a while.” He approximated the crucifixion, then searched around for a tea towel. “Sorry about the mess. I haven’t been able to sort myself out much since Lilian left.”
“I had no idea you two were separated,” said Bryant, looking for clean cups. “My condolences.”
“Oh, none needed. We always had our differences. She was sick of me mixing paint in her Tupperware. I presume this visit concerns the vandalized Waterhouse painting?”
“That’s right. You helped put the exhibition together, didn’t you?”
“Indeed, and it was a pleasure to do so, just to spite the cynics.”
“How do you mean?” Bryant watched as Summerfield poured mahogany-coloured tea into a pair of mugs and led the way from the kitchen.
