‘You need to get yourself in hand, Woolgar,’ Darbishire said, not unkindly. He sent his sergeant off to the lavatories to do a better job of it. Lord Seymour was a VIP. For the sake of the Met, they need to look their best.
The minister lived with his wife and servants in a large house on Smith Street, a gentle stroll from Westminster Abbey and the political cut and thrust of Whitehall. When Darbishire and Woolgar knocked at the polished front door, it was answered by a butler who took their hats and showed them upstairs to a book-lined room, lit by a large Georgian window, with the promise that the minister would be with them shortly.
‘Not bad, sir,’ Woolgar pronounced, giving the walnut bookcases and antique carriage clock an approving eye.
‘All right if you can afford it,’ Darbishire admitted.
Seymour had inherited a family business and a small property empire, which he had made bigger by investing in car parks after the war, buying up old bomb sites and exploiting them in ways no one else had thought of. All this while rising rapidly through the ranks of the Conservative Party. It was widely thought that Mr Macmillan had great plans for him.
He had avoided meeting the police for two weeks since the auction house leaked news of the tiara, citing travel abroad and urgent Government business. Darbishire expected someone lofty and dismissive, but the man who arrived two minutes later was smooth and smiling, warm in his handshake, keen to look you in the eye. He apologised profusely for the delay in seeing them and asked them to make themselves comfortable in a couple of club chairs. Ashtrays were placed beside them by the butler before he withdrew. Seymour offered them cigarettes. Darbishire refused, but he could see why this man had gone so far in politics.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you while you’re so busy, sir.’
‘You’re not disturbing me at all, Chief Inspector. Only too happy to help.’
Seymour crossed one immaculate, pinstriped leg over the other. His face bore faint traces of a suntan, his jowls a hint of good living – but he’d retained much of his youthful attractiveness. His eyes were friendly behind wire-framed spectacles and something about his high forehead suggested a keen intelligence. Or perhaps it was all those leatherbound volumes behind him. Anyway, Darbishire found himself thinking it wouldn’t be hard to vote for the man.
If he hadn’t strangled a tart to death and stabbed and garrotted her companion, obviously.
‘As you know, I’m investigating the events of the night of the thirty-first of March. You’ve been good enough to give us an account of your whereabouts that night . . .’
‘Of course, I’m only sorry that I need to explain at all. Awful business, awful.’
Darbishire ran through the minister’s alibi for the early part of the evening, which had been corroborated by fellow ministers and staff at the House of Lords.
Seymour gave a light laugh. ‘There’s many people who will lie for you in life, Chief Inspector . . .’
‘It’s just Inspector,’ Darbishire corrected him. He’d let it go the first time, but if it was an attempt at flattery or bribery, it was important the minister understood that Fred Darbishire didn’t work that way.
‘Really? Is it?’ Seymour seemed stumped for a moment. ‘I do apologise, Inspector. As I was saying, many people will lie for you, but not the barmen of the House of Lords. Nor the policeman at the gate. I have no memory of when I left, exactly, but if they say it was twenty past eleven, then you can be certain that’s when it was.’
‘Quite. However, you say you walked home. When you got here, fifteen minutes later or thereabouts, there were only John Richards, who I assume is the man who greeted us at the door, and your wife to vouch for you. And they, I might say . . .’
‘. . . Are less reliably dispassionate,’ Seymour finished for him. ‘What can I tell you? Richards has been with us for twenty years. He would certainly lie without a second thought, if he believed it was in my best interests. My wife, on the other hand, is pure as the driven snow. She wouldn’t lie if her life depended on it, to save me or to sink me, but you have only my word for that.’ He smiled again. ‘You’re very welcome to meet her and judge for yourself. She’s out this morning, but at your disposal in general terms.’
‘Thank you. I will,’ Darbishire said. For all the good it would do. He already knew what Lady Seymour would say, and whether or not it was true, she couldn’t be compelled to give evidence against her husband in court, so it wasn’t a rabbit he intended to spend much time chasing.
There was also the fact – though Darbishire didn’t raise it now – that even if Seymour had caught a cab and raced to Chelsea, for which they had no evidence, he would only have had five or ten minutes before the dean and his guests had arrived at Cresswell Place. There was no way Seymour could have conducted the bloody murders and cleaned up in time, and no evidence of him and the dean knowing each other or colluding.
On the other hand, Seymour could easily have hired someone else to do the dirty deed while he was at the House. The perfect alibi. What Darbishire needed was a motive.
‘Did you know Dino Perez?’ Darbishire asked.
‘As I told you in my statement, I did not,’ Seymour said. ‘I never met the man, or heard of him.’
‘And Gina Fonteyn?’
This time, Seymour cocked his head. He coughed. ‘I knew of her. I might as well give you full disclosure. Her popularity at Raffles was hardly a national secret.’
Bravo, Darbishire thought. Because he’d done his homework. He knew Seymour was a valued client of the agency. He appreciated all the good old conversation they offered the discerning gentleman. He would certainly have heard of Miss Fonteyn, and to deny it would be foolish. It appeared the Minister for Technology was not foolish.
‘But you never met?’
‘Never. She wasn’t my, er, type.’
‘Do you know any of the men she saw?’
Seymour raised his eyebrows and shifted in his chair.
‘Really, Inspector. I have no idea. I’m not in the habit of questioning my friends about their nocturnal escapades.’
‘But you say Miss Fonteyn’s popularity was well known.’
He looked uncomfortable. ‘It was talked about in the club, you know, in general terms. Unfortunate banter, when some men had had too much to drink.’
‘Which club?’
‘White’s.’
‘Not the Artemis?’
‘I don’t think so. I haven’t been there in a while.’
‘So, you have no idea how she came to be wearing the diamond tiara you bought last year.’
‘None at all, as I said in my statement. The tiara was taken, and I can only assume that whoever took it gave it to her to use, for reasons I can’t begin to imagine.’
‘You must admit, that seems unlikely,’ Darbishire persisted.
Seymour’s gaze was frank. He smiled slightly. ‘I do admit it, certainly. I realise what a position I’m in. But it’s the truth.’
‘Do you mind showing us the safe?’
‘With pleasure.’
Seymour was about to get up, when Darbishire raised a hand.
‘I’m sorry. One more question first.’
‘Yes?’
‘Have you ever visited Cresswell Place? You neglected to mention it in your statement.’
There was a flicker in Seymour’s eyes, and Darbishire saw him hesitate and calculate. It was the first time he’d done this. He inclined his head.
‘Yes. Once. I . . . went there with another escort from Raffles. I wanted somewhere low-key. They suggested number forty-four. That was several months ago.’