The Saltwater Murder Read online

  ‘Ah, Posie. Nice of you to join us. Better late than never, eh?’

  Richard Lovelace, Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard, closed a door firmly behind him and stepped into the red-carpeted room. He was holding a strange grey contraption which Posie recognised immediately as an old gas mask from the trenches of the Great War. The Inspector was well known to Posie, and the pair had worked on several cases together, but today she fancied he looked especially pale beneath his smattering of coppery freckles, fatigued.

  However, Lovelace proved to be on form, as ever, and his keen green eyes took in Posie’s crumpled purple outfit from the day before, her soft suede dancing shoes, and her lack of any make-up. He raised an eyebrow mock-comically.

  ‘Good night out, was it?’

  Posie gulped, smoothing down her mussed-up hair, then held her smart silver notepad and pencil just a little bit higher than was quite necessary, like a shield. ‘I came just as soon as I got your telephone message at the office. I jumped in a motor-cab and sped over here. I know you must have rung my flat beforehand but if truth be told I haven’t been home yet.’

  ‘Really? You don’t say!’ The Inspector laughed for a split-second, raking his fingers through his thick red hair. ‘Well, it’s none of my business where you spend your nights, Posie.’

  He didn’t add or with whom. But the notion hung palpably in the air between them.

  ‘You said in your message that this was about Amyas Lyle, sir?’

  ‘So I did.’

  ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Posie clicked her tongue, resisting panic, halting the tides of fear and guilt which threatened to break over her. ‘But dash it all, what a coincidence! I saw Amyas very briefly yesterday in the park. You probably saw me get up and greet him? I take it something is amiss, hence your presence here. You suspect foul play?’

  ‘Absolutely. It was murder.’

  Posie exhaled, pulling on her professional mantle. ‘And this is where Amyas worked?’

  The Inspector gestured around him. ‘Yes. He was Head of Chambers here, the big boss. Amyas Lyle ran the place like a tight ship, apparently. He was in charge of about twenty barristers, and some clerks. Apparently Mr Lyle also had a small flat here, above us, on the very top floor. Perk of the job.’

  Lovelace stopped suddenly, puzzled. ‘But surely you know all of this? Wasn’t the fella some sort of pal of yours? It certainly looked that way yesterday…’

  ‘No, we’d lost touch.’

  ‘I see.’

  Posie crossed her arms, defensive now. ‘Is that why you called me in, sir? Because you hoped I knew Amyas Lyle in a personal capacity? Or is it because you need my help on the detecting front? Whichever it is, I’m not finding my position with you very clear-cut.’

  For a split-second Richard Lovelace looked away, out through the long sash windows to the green magical light in Old Square beyond. There was a flicker of pain, twisted with amusement, playing briefly on his face. When he spoke his voice was very low:

  ‘Since when has your position with me ever been clear-cut, Posie? Not just today. And I don’t mean only with work.’

  Posie felt trapped, as if all the air in the room was being used up. She rushed on desperately, ignoring him. Please, not this, not now.

  ‘Where did Amyas die, sir?’ She gestured behind him. ‘In there? Was that his office?’

  Her eyes darted to the room Lovelace had exited. The closed door.

  Lovelace nodded without giving any further explanation. There were muffled banging sounds coming from within which were getting louder now and proving hard to ignore. The scene-of-crime chaps were busy: Posie had seen their ominous black vans parked outside, awkwardly grouped together around the tree at the centre of Old Square.

  There had been a man standing under the tree, too, dressed like a tourist in a straw boater hat, watching. You always had weird hangers-on at a new crime scene. Posie had been running in so fast, fearful of being later than she already was, that she hadn’t looked at him properly.

  But something else was odd here. Why was Lovelace standing, sentry-like, in front of Amyas’ office door? Normally Posie would have been given access by now.

  ‘Shall we go in? So I can see the crime scene as it still stands?’

  There was a grimness in the Inspector she had never witnessed before. ‘No. I don’t advise it.’

  ‘Really? That’s a first, sir.’

  Posie had seen many terrible things. Her work as an ambulance driver on the Western Front during the Great War had toughened her up no end, and she knew Inspector Lovelace normally relied on her for her strong stomach and her nerves of steel.

  At his continued silence she shrugged. ‘Well, it must be bad, then.’

  ‘Yes, it is. Worst thing I’ve ever dealt with, Posie. By far. The Forensics chappies are crawling over everything, and Dr Poots the Pathologist is in there now, practically speechless. He concurs: worst scene of crime he’s worked on.’

  She held her nerve. ‘A mess then. Shot gun? Sawn-off barrel? Poor Amyas.’

  ‘I wish it was only that. Although the result’s the same: the fella’s lost most of his head. No, this was downright nasty. Someone sent Mr Lyle a metal box filled with poison. Of the liquid variety.’

  ‘And he was stupid enough to drink it?’

  ‘No. It was clever. It was white nitric acid. The poison needs to be carried, or diluted, in another liquid in order to work. Simply opening the box on a hot summer’s day like yesterday was a death sentence in itself. The stuff is lethal apparently: it reacts with heat. It starts to fizz and foam and causes a loss of consciousness if you as much as catch a whiff, not to mention causing heart and multiple organ failure. Amyas Lyle most likely died in his seat before he toppled head-first into the concoction.’

  Posie gasped at the horror of the thing. ‘How dreadful.’

  ‘It is dreadful. Mr Lyle is barely recognisable, and the wooden office desk he was sitting at has also been burnt away quite fearsomely. It’s a bally mess in there.’

  Posie fought back unprofessional tears. ‘Who found him, sir? It strikes me there’s nobody about.’

  ‘George, the Head Clerk. He found Amyas sitting here dead this morning, about seven-thirty. That’s when he called us. He’s had a helluva shock. I’ve stationed Sergeant Rainbird with him, in a quiet room along the corridor, with plenty of strong tea and a tot of brandy.’

  ‘And did George know anything about the mysterious box of poison?’

  ‘Yes, he did, as it happens. It came with a note.’ And Lovelace flicked open his black leather notebook. ‘See here? I copied down the words. Old Poots wouldn’t let me take the real note away for love nor money. It was still clamped tightly in Amyas’ hand. One of the only things left intact.’

  Lovelace moved closer to Posie. So close she could smell the tang of sandalwood shaving soap on his skin.

  Posie frowned as she read the short message, uncomprehending.

  A lifetime of tears is what you caused me.

  A gallon of saltwater will be your undoing.

  Just wait and see.

  ‘Tears, sir? A gallon of saltwater?’

  She read it again, puzzled. ‘I don’t understand. What’s all this got to do with how Amyas died? With nitric acid?’

  ‘You tell me. Although George the Head Clerk said the box smelt of seawater. It’s possible that the liquid carrying the nitric acid was exactly that: a gallon of saltwater. We may have a very literal murderer on our hands, eh? But we’ll have to wait for the test results. And George says he recognised the black handwriting on the envelope. Apparently Amyas Lyle has been receiving the same notes all year long. We got George to search Amyas Lyle’s office with us briefly for any more of the notes, but there was nothing to be found. Nothing personal at all, in fact. We couldn’t even find Mr Lyle’s wallet or his keys. No safe, no locked cupboard. Bally odd, what?’

  Lovelace broke off suddenly as the door to Amyas’ office open
ed again and a party of five gas-masked men in thick oil-cloth aprons stumbled out, carrying black boxes and cases. A police photographer laden down with his camera, tripod and flash equipment, shuffled behind them, shaking his head in disbelief.

  Posie craned her neck to see what was happening inside the room. Fat little Dr Poots, immaculate in his usual black suit and red dickie bow-tie, was well known to Posie, and he was pacing back and forth, also masked, shouting at a couple of undertaker’s men as they tiptoed about, trying to load their grisly cargo onto a stretcher. Posie was quite relieved she couldn’t see the actual corpse, or the desk at which Amyas had been sitting.

  She bit her lip nervously.

  Inspector Lovelace’s voice cut into her thoughts: ‘I can’t figure you out, Posie, old girl. You seem jittery as hell about this fella’s murder but you claim not to have known him well. What’s the story? Are you upset at his death? Personally, I mean? Too upset to work the case with me?’

  ‘Upset?’ Posie thought how the word sounded so trite. ‘Golly, of course I’m upset, sir. But most of all I feel guilty.’

  They turned to watch in respectful silence as the mortal remains of Amyas Lyle were carried solemnly out of the Chambers, the undertaker’s men having wrapped the body on the stretcher carefully in black rubber sheeting. From outside in Old Square came the sudden sounds of the slamming of doors, and men shouting. An engine started up, vehicles moved away. Posie peered out, but there was no-one standing under the tree anymore. No more ghoulish spectators.

  The Inspector perched against the window-sill, visibly more relaxed now that the body had gone. ‘Enlighten me, if you feel you can. Why do you feel guilty?’

  Posie sighed, vaguely aware of the Inspector lighting up a Turkish cigarette and taking a deep drag, envious of its easy comfort.

  ‘Yesterday was the first time I’d seen Amyas Lyle in about fifteen years.’

  She stopped, but the Inspector stayed silent, smoking out of the half-open window, allowing her time to tell the story in her own way.

  ‘Amyas Lyle was at school with my brother, Richard, but they were never friends. In fact, from what my brother said, I’d be surprised if Amyas Lyle had any friends. He was hated, and nicknamed “the Vampire”. Amyas was known to be the worst sort of competitive boy: boastful, sneering, not patient of anyone else’s weaknesses. He wasn’t a boy to work as part of a team; a real loner. It wasn’t surprising to my brother that Amyas had set his cap at becoming a barrister, where he could work all alone on legal cases, every day of the year.’

  The Inspector raised his eyebrow. ‘Your brother seems to have known the murder victim quite well, for one who wasn’t his pal. How’s that?’

  ‘Every year at the school there were a handful of scholarship boys, perhaps only four or five in total. Boys who were outstandingly clever but whose parents couldn’t afford the fees. My brother Richard and Amyas Lyle were both scholarship boys, so they were lumped together for everything, and the hatred grew and grew. You might remember that my father was a none-too-wealthy Vicar, and I believe Amyas’ father was a small-time lawyer, but of the provincial sort; certainly not a London lawyer who could afford to pay big fat school fees.’

  ‘So how come you met up with Mr Lyle fifteen years ago? A Romeo and Juliet story, was it? Similarly ill-fated?’

  Posie found she was flushing red; wished she’d had the presence of mind to stick some good thick pan-stick and lipstick on her face before hurrying over.

  ‘Sort of. It wasn’t my finest hour, sir, if I’m honest. I literally bumped into Amyas in Cambridge. It was October, some years before the Great War, and I was down with my father visiting Richard at the University for the weekend. I had a couple of hours to myself on the Saturday morning, and I remember I was wearing a new mauve autumn hat and coat, and I felt very grown-up; ready for a romance. I was only eighteen and very impressionable. Richard and Amyas were both almost twenty-one. Impossibly old…’

  Her voice tailed off, and Lovelace studied her face, beautiful with not a scrap of make-up on it, and he saw how she was peeling back the years, placing herself back in the surrounds of that Cambridge autumn day.

  Posie smiled sadly. ‘I was in a bookshop on Trinity Street, Heffers, killing time and sheltering from the rain, when suddenly this wonderfully handsome man with honey-coloured eyes appeared alongside me, and it was Amyas! He asked me to join him for afternoon tea. I felt swept up by the whole thing, like I was a character in a novel. I said yes immediately and then rushed back to my hotel to get ready.’

  ‘Even though your brother hated him?’

  ‘Perhaps because of that. Forbidden fruit, you know? Besides, I said that Amyas was hated, but that was just by the boys at school. He was incredibly handsome, sir. More than handsome. I’d always spied him at speech-days and been intrigued. Those sort of dark good-looks don’t go unnoticed by bored teenage girls, I can tell you! And when I saw him again in Cambridge he’d grown even more handsome: he looked like a film star. I could see the way other women were looking at him, catching their breath. I wanted to be part of that, no matter his character. To be honest I was flattered he had asked me out. Flattered he noticed me. That he remembered me.’

  Lovelace grinned. ‘So how did it go? This tea with the Vampire?’

  ‘It didn’t.’

  Posie grimaced. ‘That’s why I feel guilty. Still. As I was about to leave my lodgings my brother arrived, and upon hearing where I was going, he promptly banned me. Richard went crazy: telling me that Amyas would be the worst thing that ever happened to me, that he had no moral compass, that he held people and their lives very cheaply. That Amyas would ruin me. I didn’t understand it at the time and I confess I still don’t understand it, but Richard must have had some reason for saying those things, surely? He wasn’t the dramatic sort. Richard said he’d send Amyas a note to say I was sick. Looking back I think I should have lied to my brother about where I was going. I’m ashamed to say I regret my honesty.’

  ‘I sense a tragedy looming. Did Richard send the note?’

  ‘No.’ Posie shook her head in disbelief. ‘I loved my brother, and I miss him terribly now he’s gone. But there are one or two things he did which I still can’t quite forgive, and that is one of them. I’m sure Amyas Lyle had women queuing up left right and centre for his attentions at Cambridge University, but the thought of him standing there, at the Copper Kettle, which is where we agreed to meet, looking up and down King’s Parade in the rain, checking his watch, waiting for a silly girl who didn’t come… it still makes me feel ashamed.’

  She cleared her voice which had gone husky for a second, aware her face was still very flushed and pink. ‘I’d hoped, when I saw him yesterday, to try and explain, after all these years, what had happened that afternoon; to apologise for Richard’s bad manners. But in those few moments I somehow couldn’t bring it up. When Amyas said he wanted to speak to me again about a legal thing, I resolved I would clear it all up when we met again, once and for all. I was supposed to have called his office, you see. It seemed important, almost urgent.’

  Lovelace kept his face entirely blank. ‘You do know that Amyas Lyle was married?’

  He looked down again at his notepad, as if checking the price of some rather boring till receipts. ‘He married one Antonia Roade. Lady Antonia Roade, as was, it says here. She has kept her title. The daughter of Lord Justice Roade, the famous High Court Judge. You’ll have heard of him, eh? He’s a “hanging” Judge; famous for always whipping out the old black hat and sentencing those found guilty in his Courts to death. Dreadful fella.’

  Posie nodded. ‘I’ve heard of him. Hasn’t he got some gallows-humour nickname?’

  Lovelace grinned. ‘You mean “End of the Road, Roade”? Yep, that’s quite right.’ He sighed. ‘I gather Lady Antonia is currently in Paris, watching the Olympics with their twin boys. She’s been contacted already by one of my lads. We’re expecting her back in London this afternoon.’

  Posie waited, sensi
ng the Inspector was weighing up some delicate situation.

  ‘I’d like you to be with me when we speak to Lady Antonia. But a word of advice: don’t mention the Romeo and Juliet connection with her husband, will you? I’ve been told Lady Antonia is “jittery” by nature, whatever that means. Who knows what sort of state the woman’s in after hearing the news this morning? Your little story might just send her over the edge.’

  Posie blushed again. ‘I didn’t mean to rekindle a romance which never was, sir. There was never anything between us; no story, no connection, just one lost encounter. I dare say Amyas Lyle never gave me another thought. Let alone mentioned me to his wife.’

  ‘And the legal thing he wished to speak to you about urgently? What was that?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I sensed he needed help.’

  ‘Mnnn.’ Lovelace looked thoughtful, and ground out his smoke on the outside window-ledge. ‘Could be something, but could be nothing, eh?’

  The Inspector sat, cracking each knuckle in turn, a habit he only indulged in at points of the highest tension, and which Posie secretly loathed. ‘I’ve already told you that this is the worst case I’ve ever dealt with, Posie. But in addition, I’m going to have to work quickly, solve the case neatly. I’m under a certain amount of time pressure from my Superintendent.’

  ‘I’ll help you, sir. I owe it to Amyas, and in a way to myself.’

  Richard Lovelace fixed Posie with a haunted stare. ‘I need to warn you about the level of danger you may be getting yourself into by agreeing to come on board in this investigation, Posie. The person or persons who killed Amyas Lyle have no boundaries. What we are up against here is pure evil. They are not like us, Posie. Are you sure you’re still wanting to help?’