‘And you went out on the roof!’
Denton, his back still to the policeman, was fingering a green cord that held back the velvet curtain. The cord was twisted like a rope, the surface shiny, but as his fingernail ran over it, individual fibres separated: the green silk was a kind of sheath that surrounded a stronger, more prosaic fibre. ‘Did your Evans go over the roof?’ he said to Munro.
‘He broke the locks. He’d sent a constable over that gate — it didn’t take a bloody genius to see he’d come out of that open window.’
‘Then you don’t need anything from me.’ Denton was holding a shiny green fibre up to the gaslight and studying it. ‘I didn’t push the dead man out the window, and I didn’t destroy any evidence anywhere, so I don’t see what you’re on about.’ He turned to face Munro. ‘Was it Mulcahy?’
‘Of course it was.’
‘And was it suicide?’
Munro gave him a shrewd look, then shook his head, perhaps in disgust, perhaps in disbelief. ‘Evans likes the suicide idea. So does Willey; Evans called him in as soon as I told him about the dead woman in the Minories. If there’s no other evidence, Evans will go for a coroner’s verdict of suicide while temporarily insane.’ He stared up at Denton. ‘Is there any other evidence I should know about?’
Denton dropped the green cord. ‘Munro, I swear —
‘The coroner will sit on this on Saturday. You’ll be called, and you’ll by God testify. Under oath!’
‘Fair enough.’ It was Tuesday. ‘You’ll get your truth. Under oath.’
Munro shook his head again. ‘You’ve got something; I know you’ve got something; and you won’t tell me because you think it’ll get to Georgie. Well, I’ll admit he’s behaved like a right ass, but that doesn’t justify you withholding
‘Do you believe Mulcahy killed himself?’
‘Do you?’
Denton took two steps to the bookcase and back. ‘Will Guillam?’
‘Georgie’ll be pleased as peaches and cream. Another crime that isn’t the Ripper.’
‘Mulcahy confessed in a suicide note?’ He knew perfectly well what the note in the Inventorium said, but he wanted to see what Munro would say. Munro screwed his mouth up, looked up at Denton through shaggy brows and shook his head.
‘You’re damned devious,’ Munro said. He drank some of the beer. In other words, just in case Denton actually hadn’t been inside the Inventorium and seen the note, he wasn’t saying anything, either.
Denton pulled the hassock closer to the green armchair in which Munro was sitting and lowered himself to it, putting himself in an apparently subservient, almost pleading position at Munro’s knees. ‘If Mulcahy murdered the girl and killed himself, who broke in here and tried to kill me?’
‘Georgie will say it was a burglar and that’s that.’
‘What do you say?’
Munro eyed him, held up his glass to the light as if to look for lees, and said, ‘I think that’s a damned violent burglar. Even for London.’
‘So you don’t believe Mulcahy killed her.’
‘I don’t say that. Mulcahy’s mind was unhinged — you said as much the night he came here.’
‘With terror, not murder.’
‘Your impression. Look, Denton-’ Munro bent forward with the glass between his hands; the two men’s heads were almost together and his voice fell very low. ‘I know what you’re thinking — it serves Willey’s and Guillam’s and even Evans’s purposes to have Mulcahy the murderer. But that’s not my way. I’m in this because you pulled me in. Now, look here — I’ll keep your counsel until the inquest if you’ll tell me what you have. Because by God, man, I know you have something.’
It was a kind of declaration of friendship, as real as if they had touched. Denton felt a lurch of memory, thought of his response to Janet Striker’s story of her life: a desire to answer like with like. To accept what had been offered. When he spoke, his voice was even lower than Munro’s, a conspiratorial rumble. ‘I’ve nothing but an idea, and you already know that. That Mulcahy didn’t kill her, and somebody else did,’ he said. ‘But no evidence.’
Munro was staring into his eyes. They were close enough to have kissed. His voice fell to match Denton’s, almost a whisper. ‘Why do you want to hold off until Saturday, then?’
‘I was with a couple of young tarts who knew Stella Minter today. They told me a few things.’ The man’s eyes stared into his. Denton murmured, ‘She’d been at a place called the Humphrey — unwed mothers. I’m trying to get in there to ask about her. Her real name was Ruth. She had a sister, younger. She seemed “educated”. That’s it — that’s all of it.’ He looked down at his own glass, swirled it, met Munro’s eyes again. ‘Give me until Saturday. And don’t tell me to give the information to Willey or Guillam. They’ll pitch it in a wire basket.’ He put a finger on Munro’s coat sleeve. ‘You want to do something, look for evidence that Mulcahy was tortured.’
‘
‘Had he pissed himself? Was there shit in his trousers?’
‘After falling four storeys, what do you think?’
‘I think a man who was tortured would have soiled himself.’
‘You’re weaving stories, Denton.’
‘You asked me what I think.’ He waited. ‘There going to be a post-mortem?’
‘Evans won’t ask for anything fancy. The man fell four storeys and he’d been down there a couple of days, at least.’ Munro looked shrewd, one eybrow raised. ‘What kind of torture?’
‘Something that wouldn’t show up easily after a four-storey fall.’
Their heads remained together, their breath mingling, the mixed smell of brandy and beer thick between them. After several seconds, Munro grunted, leaned back, drained his glass and put it down with a knock against the table. He threw himself back in the armchair. ‘Torture! That would put the cat among the pigeons.’ He sniffed, pressed on his eyes with thumb and fingers. ‘I’m not even sure there’ll be a post-mortem. Some local doc, if there is. Evans won’t want to stir things up.’ He stuck a fist under his chin. ‘Your “burglar” breaks into Mulcahy’s place, waits for him, then tortures him. Just to sign a suicide note?’
‘To find out where he’s been and who he’s talked to.’
‘Which is how he gets to you. Then — what? He tortures Mulcahy until he signs the suicide note and then throws him out of the window? Is that your tale?’
‘Something like that.’
‘What does he think Mulcahy told you?’
‘I wish I knew. Not that wild tale about them being kids together.’
‘Where is he now, your torturer?’
‘Gone to ground.’
Munro tapped his fist against his chin and stared at the ceiling and abruptly burst into laughter. ‘They’ll say it’s one of your novels, Denton!’
Denton shrugged. ‘It’s what I think, anyway.’
Munro struggled out of his chair and put a hand on Denton’s shoulder. ‘I’ll try to put a bee in Evans’s bonnet about a careful PM. I can’t float an idea of torture past him; he’d see that as interfering and he’d go into his shell. Evans is a plodder, workmanlike but sensitive as Bunthorne’s bride. That’s the best I can do. Maybe drop a hint if he’s in a good mood. As for where the girl had her baby and her name and all-’ He shook his head. ‘Willey’s got access to the same tarts you have; let him find out for himself. How’d you connect up with them, anyway?’
‘A woman I know.’
Munro stared at him, tossed his head, pulled down his waistcoat as if straightening himself before leaving. Denton, still seated on the hassock, said, ‘What do you think “educated” means to the girls who knew Stella Minter?’
‘Not at the Varsity, I expect.’ He was looking around. ‘What the hell has your man done with my things?’
‘Look in the alcove — up at the other end-’ As Munro stamped off, Denton raised his voice to say, ‘More schooling? Could she have got more schooling? Some sort of public school for girls?’
