Having appropriated Gemma's desk, Melody leaned back in the chair and prepared to enjoy her disclosures. Although Kristin Cahill had apparently thrown away the card that came with the flowers, Mrs. March had remembered the name on the florist's delivery van.
It was indeed an upmarket floral design shop in Knightsbridge, and Melody had put on her best posh voice when she made the phone call, the accent she tried her best to rub out of her daily existence. When she explained her mission, the salesclerk, sounding decidedly frosty, informed her that they were not in the habit of giving out their customers' private information.
Melody explained, very politely, that they could of course get a warrant, but that would entail disrupting the business considerably, and that the presence of the police would certainly be of interest to the shop's clientele. And besides, she added, who was to say that the recipient of the bouquet in question hadn't told a friend or coworker who had sent them?
Having been assured of discretion, the florist hesitated. 'How do I know you are who you say you are?' she asked. 'You could be some journalist prying into our clients' private lives.'
The thought made Melody smile, but she schooled her expression back into earnest sincerity and asked the woman to ring her back at the station number. That done, the florist reluctantly gave her the name.
Melody stared at the name she had scribbled, her eyes wide, then began checking references on the Internet. When she was satisfied and had printed a photo, she rang Gemma.
'His name,' she said, 'is Dominic Scott. His grandfather was Joss Miller, a financier who made his fortune rebuilding London after the Blitz, often using less than respectable methods.
'Kristin Cahill was definitely dabbling outside of her sphere-or stratosphere might be more accurate. Dominic Scott's mother, Ellen, who goes by the awkward hyphenate of Miller-Scott, has devoted herself to turning her father into a saint through philanthropy and arts patronage, especially now that she no longer has to reckon with the old man himself. He died two years ago from liver cancer.'
'So what about the grandson?' asked Gemma.
'Dominic, on the other hand, has a bit of a rep as a bad boy. A few run-ins on minor charges-public intoxication, creating a disturbance, that sort of thing. But it doesn't seem to amount to more than spoiled rich-boy antics.'
'And this was Kristin's mysterious boyfriend?' asked Gemma, sounding suitably impressed.
'Unless Dominic Scott was sending flowers to a stranger.'
*** Gavin took the bus to Bloomsbury, not being able to bear the thought of sweltering on the tube. He sat on the top deck by an open window, watching the spring green of Hyde Park, then the bustle of Oxford Street, and by the time he alighted at Tottenham Court Road, his head had cleared. A breeze picked up as he walked the last few streets to the museum, drying his damp hair and collar.
The Reading Room itself was dark and cool, an oasis from the unrelenting glare of the sun. This was an unfamiliar world to Gavin, and as he looked round the curving vault, its walls lined with a bulwark of books, the lamps in the cubicles illuminating heads bent over books and papers, a wave of inadequacy swept over him. David Rosenthal had been like these men, educated, a scholar. How could he, Gavin, have entertained, even for a moment, the fantasy that Erika Rosenthal could fancy him, a plodding policeman?
But plod he was, and he had a job to do. Although the librarian agreed to show him the cubicle that David Rosenthal had used, he assured him that he would find nothing personal of interest.
'The cubicles are used by more than one reader,' the librarian explained, 'and David was always careful to take his materials with him.'
'Nevertheless, I'd like to see it,' Gavin had insisted.
But the librarian had been right. Having been led halfway round the room, then left on his own, Gavin contemplated the empty chair, the scarred but clean surface of the desk, the darkened lamp. There was nothing here, no hiding places, no secret messages, no trace of the man who had spent his precious free time here instead of with his wife.
Gavin turned his attention to the man working in the next cubicle, his dark head bent over a rat's nest of papers illuminated by his green-shaded lamp.
'Excuse me,' said Gavin, stepping nearer. The man pulled his attention from his work with obvious reluctance, then his gaze sharpened as he looked Gavin over. He was younger than Gavin had realized. With his curly dark hair and rather delicate, pointed face, he made Gavin think of a faun.
'Can I help you?' he asked in perfect, unaccented English, and Gavin realized he had unconsciously assumed the man was foreign.
Introducing himself, Gavin asked, 'I was wondering if you knew David Rosenthal? Do you work often in this particular cubicle?'
'Abraham Krumholtz.' The man half stood and shook Gavin's hand. 'Yes, I knew David. At least as well as anyone could say they knew David, I suspect.' Krumholtz kept his voice just above a whisper, so as not to disturb the other readers.
Gavin pulled up the empty chair and sat near enough that the pool of light from Krumholtz's lamp spilled onto his knees.
Krumholtz, however, seemed not to mind the invasion of his space, and went on quietly. 'A constable came round yesterday, asking about his things. That was the first we knew. I still can't quite believe he's gone. I've worked beside him, on and off, since the end of the war. I'm a Yiddish scholar,' he added, seeing Gavin's curious look at his papers. 'That's what comes of being a second-generation immigrant-I'm fascinated by things my parents and grandparents took for granted.'
'And David,' asked Gavin, 'what was David working on?'
'A memoir of his last years in Germany, and I think perhaps his escape from Germany as well. He never actually said, you understand. This I deduced over the years from bits of conversation.'
'He never showed you the manuscript?'
'Oh, no. David was very…possessive…about his work.'
'Do you think that David might have been naming names in his book? Some of his colleagues at work believed he had connections with some sort of vengeance organization.'
It was difficult to be certain in the green-tinged light, but Gavin thought Krumholtz paled. 'Look, I'm not political,' he said, sounding wary. 'I stay well out of these things. But David did hint, more than once, that there were many Germans who were guilty but were never implicated as collaborators. But he couldn't have intended to publish such things…'
'Why not? Surely if that were the case, the truth should be told.'
Krumholtz leaned forward until their heads almost touched, and Gavin smelled peppermint on his breath. 'Our government would never allow it, for one. No one wants to disturb the status quo with Germany.' For the first time his voice held a bitter note. 'Nor do they want anything to call into question the Home Office's record of rescuing Jews. Things are touchy enough these days with Palestine.'
Gavin considered this and didn't like the implications. 'Last Saturday, did David say or do anything unusual?'
Krumholtz started to shake his head, then stopped, putting a finger to the tip of his nose. 'Now that you mention it, there was one thing. David had a newspaper with him, as he usually did. But as we were both tidying up, at closing time, I heard a ripping sound. When I looked over, I saw that David had torn out part of a page. When he saw me, he folded the fragment and put it into his satchel, along with the rest of the paper.'
'And you didn't ask him what it was?'
'Of course not.' Krumholtz smiled. 'You didn't know David. One didn't ask questions. And besides, there was something a bit furtive about it. I said good night and left.'
'And you didn't notice which paper he had that day?'
'No. Sorry.' Krumholtz glanced back at his desk, as if his attention had been drawn too long from his work. 'And there was no real pattern to what he bought-David read them all, highbrow and low.'
