Alison Douglas protested when Gemma rang her early the next day. “But, Sergeant, how can I possibly ask the ushers to come in this morning when they worked last night? And some of them have other jobs or school.”
“Do the best you can. The alternative is having them down to the Yard, which I doubt most of them would be too keen on.” Gemma tried to keep the irritation out of her voice. A restless night and a drive back to London in the thick of the commuter traffic had left her feeling shirty, but that was no excuse for taking it out on Alison. And it was not the most reasonable of requests, after all. “I’ll be there before noon,” she told Alison, ringing off.
Replacing the receiver in its cradle, she surveyed with distaste the paperwork swamping Kincaid’s desk. She felt none of her usual satisfaction in having appropriated his office, but rather the same discomfort that had kept her awake into the wee hours. Something had been different about Kincaid last night-at first she had only been aware of a rather feverish quality to his behavior, but as she tossed and turned through the night she came to the conclusion that his responses to her had altered as well. Had she only imagined the easy companionship of the previous evening in London? He had sought her out. Had his delight in her flat and evident enjoyment of her company caused her to drop her barriers a dangerous notch too far?
She shrugged and rubbed her eyes, trying to massage away the fatigue, but she couldn’t erase the fleeting thought that the change in Kincaid’s manner had something to do with his visit to Julia Swann.
In the end, Alison managed to bring in four of the ushers, and they sat cramped together on folding chairs in her office, looking disgruntled but curious.
Gemma introduced herself, adding, “I’ll try not to keep you any longer than necessary. Do any of you know Tommy Godwin, the Wardrobe Manager? Tall, thin, fairish man, very well dressed?” Looking at them, she wasn’t hopeful that sartorial elegance had a place in their vocabularies. The three young men were neat but ordinary, and the girl had managed what Gemma recognized as low-budget dressing with a bit of flair. “I want to know if anyone saw him last Thursday evening.” The young men glanced sideways at one another from blank faces. Behind them Alison stood with arms crossed, leaning lightly against the wall, and Gemma saw her mouth open slightly in surprise.
Shaking her head slightly at Alison, Gemma waited, letting the silence stretch.
Finally, the girl spoke. “I did, miss.” Her voice held a trace of West Indian cadence, probably acquired from parents or other family members who were first-generation immigrants, thought Gemma.
Letting out the breath she’d been unconsciously holding, Gemma said, “Did you? You’re sure it was Thursday evening, now? Pelleas and Melisande, right?” She hadn’t really expected such a positive result, still didn’t quite trust it.
“Yes, miss.” The girl smiled as if she found Gemma’s doubt amusing. “I see all the productions-I can tell which is which.”
“Good. I’m glad one of us can.” Gemma smiled, silently kicking herself for sounding patronizing. “What’s your name?”
“Patricia, miss. I’m a design student-I’m interested in costumes, so sometimes I help out a bit with Wardrobe. That’s how I know Mr. Godwin.”
“Can you tell me about Thursday evening?”
The girl glanced round at Alison as if seeking permission from the nearest authority. “Go ahead, Patricia, tell the Sergeant. I’m sure it’s quite all right,” responded Alison.
“Mr. Godwin came into the lobby from the street doors. Usually I stand just inside the auditorium and listen to the performance, but I’d just come back from the Ladies’ and was crossing the lobby myself. I called out to him, but he didn’t hear me.”
Gemma didn’t know whether she felt relief or disappointment-if Tommy had been telling the truth about watching the performance, he couldn’t have been in Wargrave with Connor. “What did he do then, did you see?”
“Went in the next aisle over. Roland’s,” she added with a sideways glance at the best-looking of the young men.
“Did you see him?” asked Gemma, turning her attention to him.
He smiled at her, comfortable with the sudden attention. “I can’t say for sure, miss, as I don’t know him, but I don’t remember seeing anyone of that description.”
At least he hadn’t called her “madame.” Gemma returned the smile and turned her attention back to Patricia. “Once you’d gone back to your post in the auditorium, did you see him again?”
The girl shook her head. “The mob started out just after, and I had my hands full.”
“Intermission so soon?” asked Gemma, puzzled.
“No.” Patricia shook her head more forcefully this time. “Final curtain. I’d only realized I needed to go for a pee”-she sent a quelling glance at the young men-“just in time.”
“Final curtain?” Gemma repeated faintly. “I thought you meant he’d come in just after the performance began.”
“No, miss. Five minutes, maybe, before the end. Just before eleven o’clock.”
Gemma drew in a breath, collecting herself. So it might have been Tommy in the Red Lion after all. “Did you see him later on, Patricia, when you were clearing up?”
“No, miss.” Having entered into the spirit of things, she sounded as if she genuinely regretted having nothing more to offer.
“Okay, thanks, Patricia. You’ve been a great help.” Gemma looked at the men. “Anyone else have anything to add?” Receiving the expected negatives, she said, “All right, clear off, then, the lot of you.” Patricia trailed out last, looking back a little shyly. “Bright girl,” said Gemma as the door closed.
“What is all this about Tommy, Sergeant?” asked Alison, coming to sit on the edge of her desk. She brushed absently at the wrinkles in her brown wool suit. The fabric was the same soft tone as her hair and eyes and made her look, thought Gemma, like a small brown wren.
“Are you quite sure you didn’t see him until you went to Gerald’s dressing room?”
“I’m positive. Why?”
“He told me he was here in the theater during the entire performance that night. But Patricia’s just contradicted that, and she seems a reliable witness.”
“Surely you don’t think Tommy had anything to do with Connor’s death? That’s just not possible. Tommy is… well, everyone likes Tommy. And not just because he’s witty and amusing,” Alison said as though Gemma had suggested it. “That’s not what I mean. He’s kind when he doesn’t have to be. I know you wouldn’t think it from his manner, but he notices people. That girl, Patricia-I imagine he gave her some encouragement. When I first started here I tiptoed around everything, terrified of making a mistake, and he always had a kind word for me.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” said Gemma, hoping to soothe Alison’s hostility, “but there is a discrepancy here, and I must follow through on it.”
Alison sighed, looking suddenly weary. “I suppose you must. What can I do to help?”
“Think back to those few minutes in Sir Gerald’s dressing room. Did you notice anything at all unusual?”
“How can I tell?” asked Alison, her feathers ruffling again. “How can I be sure my recollection’s not distorted by what you’ve told me? That I’m not making something out of nothing?” When Gemma didn’t respond, she went on more quietly. “I have been thinking about it. They stopped talking when I came into the room. I felt as if I’d put my foot in-you know?” She looked at Gemma for confirmation. “Then after that awkward bit, they seemed a bit too hearty, too jolly, if you know what I mean. I think now that’s why I only stayed a minute, just long enough to offer the usual congratulations, although I didn’t consciously realize it at the time.”
“Anything else?” Gemma asked, without too much anticipation.
“No. Sorry.”
“That’s okay.” Smiling at Alison, Gemma made an effort to overcome the lethargy that seemed to be creeping into her limbs. “I will have to talk to him again, and he’s proving rather elusive. This morning I’ve tried his flat, LB House, and here, with no joy. Any suggestions?”
Alison shook her head. “No, he ought to be around.”
Seeing the spark of concern in Alison’s eyes, Gemma said thoughtfully, “I hope our Mr. Godwin won’t prove too difficult to find.”
High Wycombe CID had obligingly made room for Kincaid at an absent DI’s desk, and there he had spent the morning, going through report after inconclusive report. He stretched, wondering if he should have another cup of dreadful coffee, or give it up and have some lunch.
Duty and coffee were grudgingly in the lead when Jack Makepeace put his head round the door. “Anything?”
Kincaid pulled a face. “Sod all. You’ve read them. Any word from the team in Wargrave?”
Makepeace grinned evilly. “Two crushed lager cans, some foil gum wrappers, the remains of a dead bird and a half-dozen used condoms.”
“A popular parking spot, is it?”
“It marks the beginning of a footpath that runs along the river for a bit, then loops around the churchyard. Parking there isn’t strictly legal, but people do it anyway, and I dare say a spot of midnight necking goes on as well.” Makepeace fingered his mustache for a moment. “The forensic lads say the gravel’s much too soft and messed about for tire casts.”
“I expected as much.” Kincaid regarded him thoughtfully. “Jack, if the body went in the river at Wargrave, could it have drifted downstream to Hambleden by morning?”
Makepeace was shaking his head before Kincaid had finished. “Not possible. River’s too slow, for one thing, and there’s Marsh Lock, just past Henley, for another.”
Thinking of Julia’s brief escape from the gallery, he said, “Then I suppose the same would be true of Henley, if he’d gone in along the River Terrace?”
Makepeace levered his bulk away from the door frame and walked over to the area map on the office wall. He pointed a stubby finger at the twisting blue ribbon representing the River Thames. “Look at all these twists and turns, all making places where a body might catch.” Turning back to Kincaid, he added, “I think your body went in within a few hundred yards of where it was found.”
Kincaid pushed back the creaky chair, stretched out his legs and laced his fingers behind his neck. “I’m afraid you’re right, Jack. I’m just clutching at straws. What about the houses along the river, above the lock? House-to-house turn up anything?”
“Either they were all sleeping like babies by ten o’clock,” Makepeace said sarcastically, laying his cheek against the back of his hand, “or they see talking to us as an excuse to trot out their own pet phobias. Remember that flat conversion at the beginning of the weir walkway? Old biddy in one of the riverside flats says she heard voices sometime after the late news finished. When she looked out her window she saw a man and a boy on the walkway. ‘Poofters,’ she says. ‘Queers sinning against the Lord.’ And motorcycle hoodlums to boot.” Makepeace’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “It seems the boy had longish hair and wore leather, and that was good enough for her. Before my PC could get away, she asked him if he’d been saved by Jesus.”
Kincaid snorted. “Doesn’t make me miss my days on the beat. What about access from south of the river, then? Through the meadows.”
“Need a Land Rover, or something with a four-wheel drive. Ground’s like glue after all this rain.” Makepeace studied Kincaid’s face, then said sympathetically, “Bad luck. Oh”-he patted the file tucked under his left arm-“here’s something might cheer you up-final report from pathology.” He handed it across to Kincaid. “Spot of lunch?”
“Give me ten minutes,” Kincaid said with a wave, then dug into the file.
After a cursory read-through he picked up the phone and eventually managed to reach Dr. Winstead in his lair. “Doctor,” he said when he had identified himself, “I know now what time Connor ate-nine, or shortly thereafter. Are you sure he couldn’t have died as early as ten?”
“Meat and potatoes, was I right?”
“Steak, actually,” Kincaid admitted.
“I’d put it closer to midnight, unless the fellow had stomach acid that would’ve stripped paint.”
“Thanks, Dr. Winnie. You’re a dear.” Kincaid rang off and contemplated the scattered reports. After a moment he swept them into a pile, pulled up the knot on his tie and went in search of more pleasant prospects.
When Gemma returned to the Yard, she found a message on her desk that read simply, “Tom Godwin called. Brown’s Hotel, three o’clock.”
She went in search of the duty sergeant. “Was that all, Bert? Are you sure?”
Affronted, he said, “Have you ever known me to make a mistake with a message, Gemma?”
“No, dear, of course not.” She patted his grizzled head affectionately. “It’s just odd, that’s all.”
“That’s what the gentleman said, verbatim,” said Bert, slightly mollified. “The guv’nor wants to see you, by the way.”
“Oh, terrific,” she muttered under her breath, and received a sympathetic glance from Bert.
“He hasn’t eaten anyone since lunch, love.”
“Ta, Bert,” said Gemma, grinning. “That makes me feel ever so much better.”
Still, she went along the corridor in some trepidation. In truth, Chief Superintendent Denis Childs was known to be fair with his staff, but there was something in his pleasant and courteous manner that made her want to confess even imagined misdeeds. His door stood open, as was his policy, and Gemma tapped lightly before entering. “You wanted to see me, sir?”
Childs looked up from a file. He had recently adopted granny-style reading glasses, and they looked so incongruous perched on his massive moon-shaped face that she had to bite her lip to stifle a giggle. Fortunately, he took them off and dangled them daintily from thumb and forefinger. “Sit down, Sergeant. What have you and Kincaid been up to the past few days-tiddlywinks? I’ve had a prod from the assistant commissioner, wanting to know why we haven’t produced the expected brilliant results. Apparently Sir Gerald Asherton has put quite a flea in his ear.”
“It’s only been four days, sir,” Gemma said, stung. “And the pathologist only got round to the PM yesterday. Anyway,” she added hurriedly, before Childs could trot out his dreaded maxim-results, not excuses-“we have a suspect. I’m interviewing him this afternoon.”
“Any hard evidence?”
“No, sir, not yet.”
Childs folded his hands across his belly and Gemma marveled, as she always did, that for all his bulk the man radiated such physical magnetism. As far as she knew, he was happily married and used his appeal for nothing more sinister than keeping the typists working to order.
“All the teams are out just now-we’ve had a regular rash of homicides. But as badly as I need the two of you, I don’t think we want to let the AC down, do you, Sergeant? It’s always in our best interest to keep the powers-that-be happy.” He smiled at her, his teeth blindingly white against his olive skin. “Will you pass that along to Superintendent Kincaid when you talk to him?”
“Yes, sir,” Gemma answered, and, taking that as dismissal, beat a hasty and grateful retreat.
When Gemma returned to Kincaid’s office, bars of sunlight slanted into the room. They looked solid enough to touch, the quality of the light almost viscous. Not quite trusting the phenomenon, she went to the window and peered through the blinds. The sky was indeed clear and as blue as it ever managed with the city smog. She looked from the window to the paperwork, lying haphazardly where she’d left it. The angle of the light across the desk revealed streaks of dust and several perfect fingerprints-smiling, Gemma walked over and wiped them away with a tissue. Remove the evidence-that was the first rule. Then she grabbed her bag from the coat stand and made for the lift before anyone could stop her.
She cut through St. James Park, walking quickly, taking in great breaths of the cool, clear air. The English have an instinct for sunshine, however brief its duration, she thought, like a radar early-warning system. The park was busy with others who had heeded the signal, some walking as quickly as she was, obviously on their way somewhere, others strolling or sitting on benches, and all looking oddly out of place in their business clothes. The trees, which in the past few days’ drizzle had looked drab as old washing, showed remnants of red and gold in the sunlight, and pansies and late chrysanthemums made a brave showing in the beds.
She came out into the Mall, and by the time she’d made her way along St. James Street to Piccadilly she could feel her heart beating and warmth in her face. But it was only a few more blocks along Albemarle Street, and her head felt clear for the first time that day.
Although she had timed it accurately, arriving a few minutes early, Tommy Godwin was there before her. He waved at her, looking as at home in the hotel’s squashy armchair as he might in his own parlor. She made her way over to him, suddenly aware of her windblown hair and pink cheeks, and of her unfashionably sensible low-heeled shoes.
“Do have a seat, my dear. You look as if you’ve been exerting yourself unnecessarily. I’ve ordered for you-I hope you don’t mind. Stuffy and old-fashioned as it is”-he nodded at the room, with its wood-paneled walls and crackling fire-“they do a proper tea here.”
“Mr. Godwin, this is not a social occasion,” Gemma said as severely as she could while sinking into the depths of her chair. “Where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”
“I paid a visit to my sister in Clapham this morning. A gruesome but regular family necessity, one which I fear most of us are subject to-unless one has had the good fortune to come into the world via test tube, and even that has ramifications that don’t bear thinking of.”
Gemma tried to straighten her back against the chair’s soft cushion. “Please don’t take me round the mulberry bush, Mr. Godwin. I need some answers from you-”
“Can’t we have tea first?” he asked plaintively. “And call me Tommy, please.” Leaning toward her confidentially, he said, “This hotel was the model for Agatha Christie’s At Bertram’s Hotel-did you know that, Sergeant? I don’t believe it’s changed much since her day.”
Curious in spite of her best intentions, Gemma looked round the room. Some of the little old ladies seated nearby might have been Miss Marple’s clones. The faded prints of their dresses (covered by sensibly wooly cardigans), harmonized with the faded blues and violets of their hair rinses, and their shoes-Gemma’s comfortable flats weren’t even in the same realm of sensibleness as their stout brogues.
What an odd place to appeal to Tommy Godwin, she thought, studying him covertly. She pegged today’s navy jacket as cashmere, his shirt was immaculate pale gray broadcloth, his trousers charcoal and his silk tie a discreetly rich navy and red paisley.
As if reading her mind, he said, “It’s the prewar aura I can’t resist. The Golden Age of British manners-vanished now, much to our loss. I was born during the Blitz, but even during my childhood there were still traces of gentility in English life. Ah, here’s our tea,” he said as the waiter brought a tray to their table. “I’ve ordered Assam to go with the sandwiches-I hope that’s all right-and a pot of Keemun later with the pastries.”
Tea in Gemma’s family had run to Tetley’s Finest teabags, stewed in a tin pot. Not liking to admit that she had never tasted either, she pounced on his previous remark. “You only think that time must have been perfect because you didn’t live it. I imagine the generation between the wars saw Edwardian England as the Golden Age, and probably the Edwardians felt the same way about the Victorians.”
“A good point, my dear,” he said seriously as he poured tea into her cup, “but there was one great difference-the First World War. They had looked into the mouth of hell, and they knew how fragile our hold on civilization really is.” The waiter returned, placing a three-tiered tray on their small table. Finger sandwiches filled the bottom tray, scones the middle, and pastries the top, the crowning touch. “Have a sandwich, my dear,” said Tommy. “The salmon on brown bread is particularly nice.”
He sipped his tea and continued his lecture, a cucumber sandwich poised in his fingers. “It’s fashionable these days to pooh-pooh the Golden Age crime novel as trivial and unrealistic, but that was not the case at all. It was their stand against chaos. The conflicts were intimate, rather than global, and justice, order and retribution always prevailed. They desperately needed that reassurance. Did you know that Britain lost nearly a third of its young men between 1914 and 1918? Yet that war didn’t physically threaten us in the same way as the next-it stayed safely on the European Front.”
Pausing to down half the cucumber sandwich in one bite, he chewed for a moment, then said sadly, “What a waste it must have seemed, the flower of Britain’s manhood lost, with nothing to show for it but some newspaper headlines and politicians’ speeches.” He smiled. “But if you read Christie or Allingham or Sayers, the detective always got his man. And you’ll notice that the detective always operated outside the system-the stories expressed a comforting belief in the validity of individual action.”
“But weren’t the murders always clean and bloodless?” Gemma asked rather impatiently through a mouthful of sandwich. She’d felt too tired and unsettled to eat lunch, and her walk had left her suddenly ravenous.
“Some of them were in fact quite diabolical. Christie was particularly fond of poisoning, and I can think of no less civilized way to commit murder.”
“Are you suggesting that there are civilized methods of murder?” Such as drowning your victim in a convenient river, she thought, wondering at the bizarre turn the conversation seemed to be taking.
“Of course not, my dear, only that I’ve always found the idea of poison especially abhorrent-such suffering and indignity for one person to inflict upon another.”
Gemma drank a little more of her tea. She rolled it around on her tongue, deciding she liked the rich, malty taste. “So you prefer your murders quick and clean, do you, Tommy?”
“I don’t prefer them any way at all, my dear,” he said, glancing up at her as he poured more tea into her cup. He was playing with her, teasing her, she could see it in the suppressed laughter in his eyes.
Time for a little dose of reality, she thought, licking egg salad from her fingertips. “I’ve always thought drowning would be quite horrible myself. Giving in at last to that desperate need to draw air into the lungs, then choking, struggling, until unconsciousness comes as a blessed relief.”
Tommy Godwin sat quite still, watching her, his hands relaxed on the tabletop. What beautiful hands he had, thought Gemma, the fingers long and slender, the nails perfectly kept. She found quite inconceivable the idea of him fighting like a common ruffian, using those hands to choke and squeeze, or perhaps to hold a thrashing body under water.
“You’re quite right, my dear,” he said softly. “It was tasteless of me to go on that way, but crime novels are rather a hobby of mine.” He picked up a watercress sandwich and looked at it a moment before returning it to the plate. The eyes that met hers were a surprisingly dark blue, and guileless. “Do you think poor Connor suffered?”
“We don’t know. The pathologist didn’t find evidence indicating he’d inhaled river water, but that doesn’t rule it out.” She let the silence stretch for a heartbeat, then added, “I was hoping you might tell me.”
His eyes widened. “Oh, come now, Sergeant. You can’t think-”
“You lied to me about attending the opera that night. One of the ushers saw you come in from the street just minutes before the performance ended. And I have a witness who can place you in a pub in Wargrave, having a not-too-friendly dinner with Connor Swann,” she said, tendering her bluff with all the authority she could manage.
For the first time since she had met him, Tommy Godwin seemed at a loss for words. As she studied his still face, she saw that most of his attractiveness lay not in his individual features, but in the expression of alert, humorous inquisitiveness that usually animated them. Finally, he sighed and pushed away his empty plate. “I should have known it was no use. Even as a child I was never any good at lying. I had meant to attend the performance that night-that much at least was true. Then I had an urgent message from Connor on my answer phone, saying he needed to see me. I suppose he must have been looking for me when he came to the theater that afternoon.”
“He asked you to meet him at the Red Lion?”
As Tommy nodded the waiter brought their second pot of tea. Lifting the pot, Tommy said, “You must try the Keemun, my dear. What would you like with it?”
Gemma had started to shake her head when he said, “Please, Sergeant, do have something. This was to be a special treat for you-I thought hardworking policewomen probably didn’t have too many opportunities to take afternoon tea.”
She heard Alison’s words again, and she found that no matter what else Tommy might have done, she couldn’t reject this small act of kindness. “I’ll have a scone then, please.”
Having taken a scone for himself, he poured tea into her cup from the fresh pot. “Taste your tea. You can put milk in it if you like, but I’d advise you not to.”
Gemma did as instructed, then looked up at him in surprise. “It’s sweet.”
He looked pleased. “Do you like it? It’s a north China Congou. The best of the China blacks, I think.”
“Tell me about Connor,” Gemma said, spreading clotted cream and strawberry jam on her scone.
“There’s not much to tell, really. I met him at the Red Lion, as you said, and from the beginning he behaved quite oddly. I’d never seen him like that, although I’d heard stories about the weeks after he and Julia first separated. He had been drinking, but I didn’t think he’d had enough to account for his manner. It was… I don’t know… almost hysterical, really.”
“Why did he want to see you?”
Tommy washed down a bite of scone with tea. “I found out soon enough. He said he’d decided he wanted his old job back-that he’d had enough of dealing with two-bit, small-town accounts, and he wanted me to intercede for him.”
“Could you have done it?” asked Gemma in some surprise.
“Well, yes, I suppose so. I’ve known the firm’s senior partner for years. In fact, it was I who encouraged him to go after the ENO account in the first place.” He looked at Gemma over the cup he held cradled in both hands. “It’s unfortunate that we can’t foresee the consequences of our actions. If I had not done that, Connor would never have met Gerald and Caro, and through them, Julia.”
“But you refused Connor’s request.”
“Politely at first. I told him that my reputation would ride on his performance, and that considering his previous conduct, I didn’t feel I could risk it. The truth of the matter is,” he added, setting down his cup and looking away from Gemma, “I never liked him. Not the thing to say when one is suspected of foul play, is it, dear Sergeant?” He smiled, teasing her once more, then said reflectively, “I can remember their wedding day quite clearly. It was a June wedding, in the garden at Badger’s End-I know you won’t have seen it, but it can be quite lovely that time of year. All Plummy’s doing, although Julia used to help her quite a bit when she had the time.
“Everyone said how perfect Julia and Connor looked together, and I have to admit they did make a handsome couple, but when I looked at them I saw only disaster. They were completely, utterly unsuited for one another.”
“Do stick to the point, Tommy, please,” said Gemma, wondering how she could impress the gravity of the situation upon him with her mouth full of scone.
He sighed. “We argued. He became more and more abusive, until finally I told him I’d had enough. I left. That’s all.”
Moving her plate out of the way, Gemma leaned toward him. “That’s not all, Tommy. The barman came out just after you and Connor left the pub. He says he saw you fighting down by the river.”
Although she wouldn’t have believed that a man with Tommy Godwin’s poise and experience could blush, she could have sworn his face turned pink with embarrassment.
There was a moment’s pause as he refused to meet her eyes. Finally, he said, “I’ve not done anything like that since I was at school, and even then I considered any form of physical violence both undignified and uncivilized. It was the accepted way to get on in the world, beating what one wanted out of someone else, and I made a deliberate choice to live my life differently. It got me labeled a pansy and a poofter, of course,” he added with a hint of the familiar, charming smile, “but I could live with that. What I couldn’t live with was the thought of abandoning my principles.
“When I found myself locked in a ridiculous schoolboy scuffle with Connor, I simply stopped and walked away.”
“And he let you?”
Tommy nodded. “I think he’d run out of steam himself by that time.”
“Had you parked your car on the gravel by the river?”
“No, I’d found a spot on the street, a block or two up from the pub. Someone may have seen it,” he added hopefully. “It’s a classic Jaguar, red, quite distinctive.”
“And then, after you’d returned to your car?”
“I drove to London. Having agreed to see Con, against my better judgment, I’d spoiled my evening, and I felt he’d rather made a fool of me. I thought I’d try to salvage as much of my original plan as I could.”
“Five minutes’ worth?” asked Gemma, skeptically.
He smiled. “Well, I did my best.”
“And you didn’t make a point of stopping by Sir Gerald’s dressing room in order to establish an alibi?”
Patiently, he said, “I wanted to congratulate him, as I told you before, Sergeant.”
“Even though you hadn’t actually seen the performance?”
“I could tell by the audience’s response that it had been particularly good.”
She searched his face, and he returned her gaze steadily. “You’re right, you know, Tommy,” she said at last. “You are an awful liar. I suppose you went straight home from the theater?”
“I did, as a matter of fact.”
“Is there anyone who can vouch for you?”
“No, my dear. I’m afraid not. And I parked in back of my building and went up in the service lift, so I didn’t see anyone at all. I’m sorry,” he added, as if it distressed him to disappoint her.
“I’m sorry, too, Tommy.” Gemma sighed. Feeling suddenly weary, she said, “You could have put Connor’s body in the boot of your car, then driven back to Hambleden after the performance and dumped him in the lock.”
“Really? What an extraordinarily imaginative idea.” Tommy sounded amused.
Exasperated, she said, “You do realize that we’ll have to impound your car so that the forensics team can go over it. And we’ll have to search your flat for evidence. And you will have to come down to the Yard with me now and make a formal statement.”
He lifted the delicate porcelain teapot and smiled at her. “Well, then you had better finish your tea, my dear Sergeant.”