The Skull Beneath The Skin

Roma said:

'You sound as though you don't want it solved.'

'Without having strong feelings on the matter, I should prefer to have it solved. It would be tedious to spend the rest of one's life as a suspected murderer.'

'It'll bring in the summer tourists though, won't it? People love blood and horror. You'll be able to show the scene of the crime -for an extra twenty pence, of course.'

Ambrose said easily:

'I don't pander to sensationalism. That's why summer visitors don't get shown the crypt. And this is a murder in poor taste.' 'But aren't all murders in poor taste?'

'Not necessarily. It would make a good parlour game, classifying the classical murder cases according to their degree of tastelessness. But this one strikes me as particularly bizarre, extravagant, theatrical.'

Roma had drained her first cup of tea and was pouring a second. 'Well that's appropriate enough.' She added:

'It's odd that we've been left here alone, isn't it? I thought that there'd be a plain-clothes underling sitting in and taking a note of all our indiscretions.'

'The police know the limit of their territory and of their powers. I've given them the use of the business room and, naturally, they've locked the two guest-rooms. But this is still my house and my library and they come in here by invitation. Until they decide to charge someone, we're all entitled to be treated as innocent. Even Ralston, presumably, although as husband he has to be elevated to chief suspect. Poor George! If he really loved her this must be hell for him.'

Roma said:

'My guess is he'd stopped loving her six months after the wedding. He must have known by then that she wasn't capable of fidelity.'

Ambrose asked:

'He never showed the least sign, did he?'

'Not to me, but then I hardly ever saw them. And what could he do, faced with that particular insubordination? You can hardly deal with an unfaithful wife as if she were a recalcitrant subaltern. But I don't suppose he liked it. But if he didn't kill her and I don't for one moment believe that he did, he's probably not entirely ungrateful to whoever did. The money will come in useful to subsidize that Fascist organization he runs. The Union of British Patriots, UBP. Wouldn't you know from the name that it's a Fascist front?'

Ambrose smiled:

'Well, I wouldn't expect it to be full of Trots and International Socialists certainly. It's harmless enough. A Boys' Own Paper mentality and a geriatric army.'

Roma slammed down her cup and began again her resdess pacing. 'My God, you're good at deceiving yourselves, aren't you? It's nasty, it's embarrassing and most unforgivable of all, the people concerned actually take themselves seriously. They really believe in their dangerous nonsense. So let's all laugh at it, and perhaps it will go away. When the chips are down, who do you think this geriatric army are going to be defending? The poor bloody proles? Not likely!'

'I rather hope they'll be defending me.'

'Oh, they will, Ambrose, they will! You and the multi-national corporations, the establishment, the Press barons. Clarissa's money will do its bit towards keeping the rich man in his castle, the poor man at his gate.'

Ambrose said mischievously:

'But don't you get some of the money? And won't it come in useful to you?'

'Of course, money always does. But it isn't important. I'll be glad enough of it, I suppose, when it actually comes, but I don't need it. It certainly isn't important enough to kill for. Come to that, I don't know what is.'

'Oh, come on, Roma, don't be naive! A cursory read of the daily papers will tell you what people find important enough to kill for. Dangerous and destructive emotions, to begin with. Love, for example.'

Munter was at the door. He coughed, rather, thought Cordelia, like a stock butler in a play, and said:

'The pathologist, Dr Ellis-Jones, has arrived, sir.'

Ambrose looked for a moment distracted as if wondering whether he was expected formally to greet the newcomer. He said:

'I'd better come, I suppose. Do the police know he's here?' 'Not yet, sir. I thought it right to inform you first.' 'Where is he, the pathologist?' 'In the great hall, sir.'

'Well, we can't keep him waiting. You'd better take him to Chief Inspector Grogan. I suppose there are things he may need. Hot water, for example.'

He looked vaguely around as if expecting a jug and basin to materialize from the air. Munter disappeared.

Ivo murmured:

'You make it sound like childbirth.'

Roma swung round, her tone was a mixture of the peevish and appalled. 'But surely he's not going to do the post-mortem here!' They all looked at Cordelia. She thought that Ambrose must surely know the procedure, but he too gazed at her with a look of bland, almost amused inquiry. She said:

'No. He'll just do a preliminary examination at what they call the scene-of-crime. He'll take the temperature of the body, try to estimate the time of death. Then they'll take her away. They don't like to move the body until the forensic pathologist has seen it and certified that life is extinct.'

Roma Lisle said:

'What a lot of curious information you have acquired for a girl who calls herself a secretary-companion. But of course, I forgot. Ambrose tells us that you're a private eye. So perhaps you'll explain why we've all had to have our fingerprints taken. I found it particularly offensive, the way they take hold of your fingers and press them down on the pad. It wouldn't be so repulsive if you were allowed to do it yourself.'

Cordelia said:

'Didn't the police explain the reason? If they find any prints in Clarissa's room they want to be able to eliminate ours.'

'Or identify them. And what else are they doing, apart from grilling George? God knows they've brought enough men with them.'

'Some of them are probably scientific officers from the forensic science laboratory. Or they may be what are called scene-of-crime officers. They'll collect the scientific evidence, samples of blood and body fluids. They'll take away the bedclothes and the cup and saucer. And they'll analyse the dregs of tea to find but if she was poisoned. She could have been drugged before she was killed. She was lying very peaceably on her back.'

Roma said:

'It didn't need a drug for Clarissa to lie peaceably on her back.'

Then she saw their faces. Her own went scarlet and she cried: 'I'm sorry! I shouldn't have said that. It's just that I can't

really believe it; I can't picture her lying there, battered to death.

I haven't that kind of imagination. She was alive. Now she's

dead. I didn't like her and she didn't like me. Death can't alter

that for either of us.' She almost stumbled to the door.

'I'm going for a walk. I've got to get out of this place. If Grogan wants me he can come and find me.'

Ambrose refilled the teapot and poured himself another cup; then seated himself leisurely next to Cordelia.

'That's what surprises me about political commitment. Her cousin, the woman she was practically brought up with, is messily done to death and will shortly be carted off to be scientifically carved up by a Home Office pathologist. She's shocked, obviously. But basically she cares as little as if she'd been told that Clarissa was inconvenienced by a mild attack of fibrositis. But one mention of poor Ralston's Union of British Patriots and she's hysterical with outrage.'

Ivo said:

'She's frightened.'

'That's obvious, but what of? Not that pathetic bunch of amateur warriors?'