An Expert in Murder

‘That might be best, but shall I give her your regards?’

‘Yes, please do,’ he said, and left without giving his name.

On his way down Gray’s Inn Road, Terry looked back at the building’s facade. Without question, it was one of the finest nursing homes London could offer and places like that didn’t come cheap. He knew now why Fleming was desperate for money and understood, too, why he had spat out those words of recrimination so bitterly. No wonder the actor was adamantly opposed to going on tour: how could he leave his wife when he didn’t know if she’d still be alive when he got back? Then, with a feeling of absolute horror, Terry recalled the lie he’d told Fleming yesterday.

He could have had no idea at the time what it meant to Fleming, but now he realised all too clearly what was at stake. If Aubrey sacked him, that would be the end of his wife’s treatment. Now Aubrey was dead. What had that one reckless lie led Fleming to do?

The cold oak of the pew was hard against his forehead and his legs had lost all feeling, but still Lewis Fleming did not get up.

‘ There is no soundness in my flesh because of thine anger,’ he prayed. ‘ Neither is there rest in my bones because of my sin.’

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Never before had he felt beyond forgiveness but neither, in the past, had he pushed God’s mercy so far. Today, as his wife screamed in pain, barely aware of his presence, he had known the true meaning of hell. It was the moment he had feared the most, the sudden deterioration of her condition, and he knew that it had come as punishment for his transgression. How else could he interpret it when one seemed to follow so swiftly on the other? What he could not understand, though, was why his sins were being weighed against her suffering, why his inner corruption should be reflected not in his own body but in hers.

There was a noise from the back of the nave, and he looked up to see the beginnings of a congregation for the next service. He must go. This time, his prayers were a private matter between him and God, and not something that should be allowed to taint a public act of worship.

‘ For I am ready to halt, and my sorrow is continually before me,’ he whispered, anxious to find some comfort in the familiar words before he left the church. ‘ I will declare mine iniquity; I will be sorry for my sin. ’

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Thirteen

As Penrose left the interview room and walked out to the Derby Street entrance of the Yard, where a car had been brought round for him, he could barely contain his anger. Lydia Beaumont had telephoned with a message about Hedley White but the officer who had taken the call had been so keen to go off duty that he had forgotten to mention it to the day shift, and the news only filtered through when the man posted at White’s digs called to see why no back-up had arrived. The mistake could have been disastrous: nearly three hours had passed, and that was more than enough time for a frightened boy to have changed his mind. Penrose cursed the errant constable and, less reasonably, Lydia for not having insisted on speaking to him herself. She must have known how important it was.

‘At least tell me it was Bravo,’ he muttered to Fallowfield. ‘I’d rather have two cock-ups from one idiot than feel like the whole force is turning a blind eye to murderers and felons. Any more of this and I’ll think Bravo and White are in it together.’

‘If it’ll make you feel better, Sir, I’m sure it was Bravo. Shall I drive?’

Penrose was about to retort that they had enough trouble already without throwing a road accident into the mess when he remembered how proud his sergeant was of his driving.

Reluctantly, he took the passenger side and tried to concentrate on White. Why had he decided to give himself up, he wondered? Of course, he wasn’t to know that the police were nowhere near catching him and he might have thought things would look better for him if he handed himself over first but, even so, it took courage, whether he was innocent or guilty. He tried to fit White 203

into the story of Arthur’s death. Obviously he was far too young to have been involved in the war, but he could be a relative of the murderer. A son might kill to protect his father, for example – such a motive might even pass Marta Fox’s rigorous criteria – but that was pure speculation. In fact, although he had looked at the deaths again from every angle since his conversation with Josephine, he had to admit that everything was pure speculation.

Sunday morning was an uncluttered time for the city and Fallowfield kept to the main thoroughfares. He had suggested that they send a team to bring White in while he and the Inspector continued with McCracken, but Penrose had been keen to see the boy in his digs, to get a sense of his personality from where he lived.

And, in truth, Penrose had wanted to do the job himself; he readily acknowledged that he had a problem with delegation which might one day impede his progress up the force, but he would not be happy until he had White sitting in front of him.

The street was unattractive, a long stretch of dignified but tired bricks and mortar given over almost entirely to boarding houses, and uniformly faded. The door to Number Three was standing slightly ajar, and Penrose and Fallowfield climbed the stairs to the attic rooms which White apparently shared with Swinburne. As he looked back down the stairwell, Penrose saw that they were being watched through a crack of one of the doors on the second- floor landing – a crack which was hurriedly closed when the observer realised he had been spotted. This might not be the most glamorous part of town, but it was still an area unaccustomed to visits by high-ranking policemen; the residents must be wondering what evil lurked unsuspected in their midst.

PC Bartlett was standing outside the room on the left-hand side of the stairs and Penrose could see past him through the open doorway to where his quarry sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. White stood up as soon as he heard them come in and held out his hand half-heartedly, as if uncertain whether it would be grasped in a formal handshake or cuffed to the iron bedstead.

Penrose did neither, but simply nodded politely and asked him to resume his place on the bed, then looked round for another seat.

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Finding his options somewhat limited, he took a battered old chair with rush seating from the corner of the room and placed it just close enough to the boy to be intimidating rather than threatening.

Fallowfield remained standing at the door.

The room was chilly, but not without comfort. Two of the walls were decorated with theatrical posters of recent productions – presumably those on which White had worked at Wyndham’s and the New – and the monastic