Death of a Prosecutor Page 8

  ‘Blimey,’ Riley heard Barton say as he walked away, leaving the door open. ‘Wouldn’t want to get on his lordship’s wrong side today.’

  ‘How was the chief inspector last night, sir?’ Salter asked, grinning. ‘The lads gave him a hard time on his first day back, from what I hear, all but mocking him to his face. They knew they’d get away with it.’

  ‘He brought it on himself, Jack. It will be a good lesson in humility because he knows that he will now have to earn their respect rather than throwing his weight about and expecting his orders to be followed.’

  Salter looked up from some papers he’d been perusing and scowled. ‘I hope you don’t feel sorry for him.’

  ‘No, not sorry precisely. As I say, he’s his own worst enemy. But he does have a large family to support and I fail to see why they should suffer for their father’s vices. No, Danforth will either weather the storm or cut his losses. He can’t afford to do the latter, so he’ll just have to put up with being mocked until they get bored and turn their attention elsewhere.’

  ‘And you don’t feel just the tiniest bit smug to see him hoisted by his own petard, so to speak?’

  Riley flex a brow. ‘I was not aware that you read Shakespeare.’

  ‘It ain’t the sole preserve of your lot, you know.’ Salter gave a sheepish grin. ‘Actually, my oldest has got involved in it with the local chapel. She reads it aloud at home all day long and fancies herself as quite the authority on the Bard’s works.’

  ‘Good for her! Nothing wrong with a little culture, Jack. You might even get to appreciate it.’ Riley chuckled. ‘But to answer your question, I try never to be smug.’ He stood. ‘I think we have kept Mr Glover waiting for long enough. Shall we?’

  Riley thrust open the door to the dingy room where Norman Glover had been made to wait beneath the impassive eye of a uniformed constable. The young man looked dishevelled, as though he had thrown on his clothes in a great hurry with no particular thought of making a favourable impression. He was unshaven, his hair uncombed and his eyes bloodshot. An unprepossessing sight.

  ‘I say, what’s the meaning of this, Lord Riley?’ Glover’s head shot up from the scarred table, upon which his folded arms had been used as a substitute for a pillow. ‘It’s deuced inconvenient being dragged down here like a common criminal. I thought you were a friend of Father’s. A fine way you choose to show it, I must say. Mother and the girls were distraught by the intrusion.’

  Riley nodded to the constable, who left the room, closing the door behind him. He took his time pulling out a chair on the other side of the table and making himself comfortable. Salter, as was normal, leaned against the door, arms folded across his chest, regarding Glover with a look of mild distaste.

  ‘Perhaps no intrusion, as you put it, would have been necessary,’ Riley suggested mildly, crossing his legs and idly removing a spec of lint from his trousers, ‘had you not lied to me.’

  ‘Lied?’ Glover jerked upright. ‘I say! There’s no call for insults.’ But his eyes darted from side to side like a caged animal looking for an escape.

  ‘It’s not an insult, Mr Glover, it’s merely a statement of fact,’ Riley replied with his usual implacable calm. ‘You told us that you spent the night and early morning of your father’s death in Dorothy Sinclair’s bed.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t put it quite so bluntly, but that’s about the size of it,’ Glover replied, looking more confident again.

  ‘And yet Mrs Sinclair tells us you had left her by seven in the morning.’

  Glover blinked. ‘What of it? I wasn’t keeping a close watch on the time.’

  ‘You returned home after eleven. We were there and we saw you, so you don’t need to trouble yourself about getting that time right.’ Riley leaned forward and treated the now cowering young man to a high intensity glare. ‘And so you are quite without an alibi for the time that your father was killed.’

  ‘I…but that’s ridiculous!’ Glover pulled himself up to his full height. ‘Why on earth would I want to kill my own father?’

  ‘What is your occupation?’ Salter’s voice, deep and earthy, cut through the tense silence that Riley had allowed to develop.

  ‘Occupation? What do you mean by occupation?’

  ‘What do you do for a living is what I mean. What’s the matter? Question too hard?’ Salter asked in what was, for him, a reasonable tone. But to Glover, who wasn’t acquainted with Salter’s down to earth methods, it probably sounded highly threatening. He sniffed, folded his arms and looked off to one side.

  ‘I don’t have an occupation, as you put it, but I am thinking of becoming an engineer.’

  ‘Just like that?’ Salter nodded and shot the young man a scathing glance. ‘You’ll wake up one morning and tell the world you’re an engineer now. Let’s hope the world responds with a nice round of applause. But until that happens you scrounge off your old man.’

  ‘Scrounge! That is an insult and I demand that you take it back. Lord Riley, can you not control this…this individual? If I must be here at all, I deserve some civility at the very least. My father just died under violent circumstances, in case you had forgotten.’

  ‘It seems to me it’s you that’s forgot.’ Salter slammed the palm of his hand on the table top, causing Glover to flinch. Riley, who had anticipated it since it was one of Salter’s favourite ploys, only just prevented himself from flinching too. ‘Your father’s been dead less than twenty-four hours, but instead of staying home to comfort your mother and sisters you’re out all night, drinking and ploughing away at your fancy piece like some rutting pig.’

  ‘I was not—’

  ‘Don’t give me more of your lies,’ Salter sneered. ‘I know you was out because the maid told me you’d only just got home.’

  ‘Perhaps he was out celebrating,’ Riley said in a speculative tone, addressing the comment to Salter.

  ‘That’s outrageous! Slanderous and quite uncalled for!’ Glover half-rose from his chair. ‘Take it back at once.’ Salter walked round behind Glover, took his shoulders and sat him back down in his chair without ceremony.

  ‘We’ll get to your reasons for celebrating in due course,’ Riley replied, ‘even though they seem fairly self-evident. But first, you have not yet explained the four-hour interval between leaving Mrs Sinclair’s bed and returning home on the morning of your father’s murder.’

  ‘I don’t see why I should have to explain anything to you,’ Glover replied, sounding like the sulky, overindulged individual Riley suspected him of being. Riley wondered, not for the first time, why Sir Robert, himself a slave to hard work, had allowed the situation to develop. He knew he had tried repeatedly to interest his only son in a gentleman’s career, but his efforts had been spurned, partly because Lady Glover always took her son’s side.

  Meanwhile Salter lowered his face to within a few inches of Glover’s. ‘I’ll tell you why you have to explain things to him then, shall I?’ he pointed to Riley and spoke to Glover as if addressing a backward child. ‘You have to explain things to him because he is a detective inspector with Scotland Yard. He’s a policeman. With me so far? Good. You have to explain to him where you were the morning of your father’s murder because if you don’t we might charge you with said murder and sometimes the hangman makes a miscalculation and pulls the head right off the body…’ Salter stopped at a gesture from Riley.

  ‘You are now our prime suspect,’ Riley continued in a conversational tone, his voice a stark contrast to Salter’s. Riley had rarely interviewed a suspect who’d seemed guiltier. Could it be that the case would be solved that easily? ‘We know that you and your father argued constantly. You refused to earn your own living, so he cut off your allowance.’

  ‘How did you…’

  Glover abruptly closed his mouth, but the damage had already been done. Riley’s hunch had paid off.

  ‘I know because your father and I were friends. He despaired of you ever doing anything wor
thwhile with your life and wondered how to make you understand that money does not grow on trees.’ Riley readjusted his legs, stretching them to one side and crossing them at the ankle. ‘It was me who suggested restricting your access to the money he slaved to bring in, hoping it would make you see reason. I did not suppose that it would encourage you to resort to murder.’

  ‘I did not murder anyone.’ Glover let out an exasperated sigh that was almost convincing, but he was unable to completely disguise his terror as he gave Salter a sideways look, the sergeant’s words obviously still echoing through his mind. ‘My father and I did not see eye to eye, I’ll grant you that much, but I was not so desperate to be rid of him that I resorted to murder. Frankly, I wouldn’t have the guts.’

  That Riley did believe. ‘Talk to me about your relationship,’ Riley said. ‘Why were you so constantly at odds?’

  Glover gave another sigh and did not immediately respond. Riley wondered if the effeminate young man, with his wild curls and long, curling eyelashes would actually do so, or whether it would require more of Salter’s tactics to loosen his tongue. Before he could indicate to his sergeant that he could take over the questioning again, Glover started to speak.

  ‘I was not like him,’ he said softly. ‘I tried to be. I looked up to him, admired him, when I was small. When we saw him, that is. His work always took priority and he was seldom at home. He never had much time for us. He seemed to prefer the company of larcenists and murderers and lawyers. Anyway, he sent me off to face the brutal realities of public school.’

  Riley nodded. ‘You went to Winchester and had a miserable time of it?’

  ‘You would understand. I’m sure you went through it too—at Eton, I would imagine. Still, you know what I’m talking about. Only the fittest survive. I was neither clever enough nor popular enough to stand a chance.’

  ‘You were bullied?’

  Glover turned away, but not so quickly that Riley could miss the pain that flitted through his eyes. And then he understood. He knew where Glover had gone after leaving Mrs Sinclair and why he wouldn’t admit to it. What he had done was against the law and Riley was a policeman.

  ‘Did your father know?’ he asked, not unkindly.

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘Don’t play games with me, Norman. I’m trying to help you. I know how damaging the harsh regime of a public school can be. It is supposed to shape a boy for his life ahead, and sometimes manages that a little too well.’ Riley allowed a significant pause. ‘Mrs Sinclair is your friend, not your lover. A cover for your true predilections.’

  ‘So arrest me.’ He gave a casual shrug. ‘You seem determined to dishonour my father’s memory, so do your worst.’

  ‘I don’t care what you do, Norman, or with whom,’ Riley replied. ‘It is my duty to catch the person who killed your father, and if you want your name crossed off the list of suspects then I suggest very strongly that you start being honest with me.’

  ‘Very well.’ Glover turned to face Riley, sat a little straighter and gave him his full attention. ‘I had been out with a group of friends but left with Dorothy. She is a widow who—shall we say—understands my dilemma.’

  ‘She prefers her own sex too?’ Salter asked quietly.

  Glover shrugged. ‘So it would seem. It’s not the sort of thing one discusses with a lady. Anyway, we use one another and no one in our set suspects a thing. Dotty is saved from the attentions of some of our friends because they all think she is with me. She doesn’t have a live-in maid so is not averse to my friend and me occasionally using her apartment for our own purposes. But her maid comes in at seven-thirty each morning, so we have to leave before she sees us.’

  ‘So where did you go?’ Riley asked.

  ‘My friend and I left separately but we met up shortly afterwards, making it seem like a chance encounter in Covent Garden. We had some breakfast and enjoyed one another’s company. They will remember us in the coffeehouse there.’ He folded his arms, as though defying them to condemn his behaviour. ‘Now you know the truth. What do you intend to do about it?’

  ‘I shall need his name,’ Riley said, ‘but you can rely upon my discretion.’

  Glover nodded, looking miserable. ‘James Boland.’ He reeled off his address, which Salter noted down.

  ‘Did your father know?’ Riley repeated his earlier question.

  ‘Ha! If he did he was hardly in a position to judge.’ Riley wondered what Glover meant by that cryptic comment, but having got him to open up and express his feelings, he was reluctant to interrupt the flow. ‘He sent a sensitive young boy into a harsh environment where he knew what happened to the weakest. Those unable to fight their own battles, or who lacked sufficient friends to protect them. I am not proud of being a weakling, Lord Riley. It’s just the way things are. But, to answer your question, Father suspected. He asked me several times, but of course I denied it. He was already disappointed in me. To know for a certainty that I had unnatural tendencies would have made matters ten times worse.’

  ‘But things are looking up for you now,’ Salter said. ‘The man you hold responsible for your tendencies is dead and you stand to inherit his fortune. You will have to look after your mother and sisters, with whom you probably have a better relationship, but apart from that you can do as you please.’

  ‘If you don’t arrest me.’

  ‘What can you tell me about the dagger your father keeps in his study?’ Riley asked, clearly surprising Glover with the sudden change of subject.

  ‘Nothing, why…don’t tell me it was used to…’ He shook his head, looking terrified, appalled, as realisation dawned. Riley watched him carefully and decided that his shock seemed genuine.

  ‘When did you see it last?’ Salter asked.

  ‘There was some sort of kerfuffle about it, now that you mention it. The maid accidentally knocked it to the floor when she was dusting and the sapphire in the wolf’s-head eye came loose. I think it was taken to have the setting repaired.’

  ‘Whose responsibility would that have been?’ Riley asked.

  Glover shrugged. ‘Father would have asked his clerk to deal with it, I expect. We only keep one maid and a cook, so anything of that nature is taken care of by Price.’ Salter made another note. ‘I have freely admitted that I am not the cleverest of chaps, Lord Riley, but if Father was killed with a dagger that few people have access to, me being one of them, I am not so mutton-headed that I would leave it behind after committing the crime.’

  ‘Very likely not.’ Riley inclined his head. ‘Even so, stranger things have been known to happen. Planning a murder is one thing. Pulling it off and keeping a cool head immediately afterwards is entirely another. People tend to panic, get interrupted, or forget the most basic things.’

  ‘Well, if you are looking for suspects perhaps you should speak to Father’s ladybird.’

  Riley and Salter were so astonished by the casual remark that their professional personas briefly slipped.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Riley asked, recovering first.

  ‘What I say. Father, that bastion of proper behaviour, kept a doxy.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘For the past few months he has never dined at home on a Wednesday. Mother was incurious about his whereabouts, but I was not. So I followed him from chambers one day. He took a cab to Gower Street and disappeared into an apartment building. There was no porter, no names on the bells, so I couldn’t discover whom he had gone to visit, but I stood outside and saw him in an upstairs window, embracing a female.’ He gave a disgusted look. ‘They didn’t even bother to pull the curtains.’

  Which Riley thought rather remiss of them. If Mrs Barchester was so keen to keep her relationship with Sir Robert secret from her husband…well, Norman Glover had seen them. Barchester could just as easily have done so. That embrace had probably been an innocent greeting between father and daughter, but Glover had misinterpreted it and a jealous man of Barches
ter’s ilk would most certainly reach the same conclusion. Barchester had just gone to the top of Riley’s list of suspects.

  ‘If he supported the lady, what reason would she have to kill him?’ Salter asked.

  Glover shrugged. ‘I lost my temper during my last fight with Father and told him he was a hypocrite.’

  ‘He was aware that you knew his secret?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Glover didn’t share Riley’s disinclination for smugness, as evidenced by his current expression. It was obvious that he had seldom enjoyed the pleasure of getting the better of his father.

  ‘When was this?’ Riley asked.

  ‘A week or so ago. Not exactly sure which day. But if he decided he didn’t want his reputation sullied, perhaps he broke it off with her. She felt slighted and…well, women have killed for less.’

  A week or more ago. Sir Robert would have seen Mrs Barchester again since then, but if he had intended to stop visiting her and told her why, she had neglected to mention it. Riley was inclined to think that Sir Robert didn’t have the first intention of being dictated to by a son who so disappointed him by cutting a daughter in whom he had immense pride, but it would still have to be checked.

  ‘I take it your friend Boland doesn’t work,’ Riley said.

  ‘Oh, he does, but yesterday morning he had errands to run before going into chambers.’

  ‘Chambers?’ Riley became more alert. ‘He is a barrister?’

  ‘Merely a clerk at present, but he has ambitions. Anyway, I met him at a party thrown by all the Lincoln’s Inn chambers that Father made me attend. We hit it off right away and Father encouraged our friendship. He had finally accepted that I had neither the wits nor the desire to follow in his footsteps but was keen for me to clerk for him with a view to one day taking over Price’s position. He said that he needed someone in whom he could depend absolutely.’

  Glover quirked a brow indolently when Riley failed to conceal his surprise. ‘Yes,’ he said, chuckling, ‘that’s what I thought, too. Father insisted that we would make a formidable team. I think he believed it too, or wanted to. He hated failing at anything and I…well, I hadn’t shaped up to parental expectations. And still couldn’t, even when he offered me an easy option, such as clerking. Well, easy provided one is willing to turn oneself out of bed at cockcrow and slave away all day in a dreary office.’ Glover yawned. ‘It sounded exhausting and I would have been terrible at it. I just couldn’t commit myself when I knew it would end in disaster, so I disappointed him yet again. That was what we argued about. I couldn’t think of a justifiable excuse—’