'Yes, but why did they decide to kill her now, after all those years?' ‘I reckon they'd thought they could rely on her keeping her mouth shut for her own sake. She seemed to be co- operating all along the line. When Waggs confronted her with Cissy's story, she probably contacted Partridge who passed it on to the funny buggers. Waggs had enough sense to protect his back so they offered him a deal. Go along with Marsh's original story about the blood, which had never come up at the trial, remember? Cissy would be let loose under safeguards, the Partridge scandal would be kept quiet, and hopefully Westropp would be long dead before she got anywhere near him.' 'So why kill Marsh now?' persisted Pascoe. 'You came along, lad,' said Dalziel. 'Sticking your neb in. Asking questions, looking at photos. That was probably the turning-point, when they heard her asking you to look at the photo that linked her and Pip Westropp.' 'They heard…?' 'You don't imagine the place isn't bugged? And once this naughty nanny starts dropping little hints to a clever copper, well, someone's got to go.
Lucky it wasn't you, lad. Except you still knew nowt, whereas they were beginning to wonder just how much Nanny Marsh really did know.'
About what? wondered Pascoe desperately. What could be worse than having a peripheral member of the royal family suspected of killing his wife? 'Got there yet?' asked Dalziel, telepathic as always. 'Think of the year nineteen sixty-three.' 'Got it,' said Pascoe. 'It was Westropp who shot Kennedy.' It was meant as a joke, in rather poor taste perhaps, but they were the kind Dalziel usually liked. But, incredibly, absurdly, far from being amused, the Fat Man was nodding encouragement. 'Warm,' he said. 'You're getting warm. January 'sixty- three, Philby dropped out of sight in Beirut, turned up in Moscow in July. In the autumn the funny buggers fingered Anthony Blunt's collar for the first time. Him they did a deal with. Why? Mainly because he helped clean the pictures at Buck House or something! So how do you think they were going to react if – ' ' – if Westropp, if a Royal, turned out to be another Communist agent. Bloody hell!' 'Well done, Peter. But it's been like squeezing Eskimo Nell out of a nuns' chorus.
You'll need to be sharper than that if you're going to be Queen of the May.' In fact Dalziel's lofty reproof came close to equivocation.
True, he had worked it out, but only after a series of nods and winks which made his own hints to Pascoe look like leaves from the Sibyl.
Westropp was eager, almost desperate to talk. It was, Dalziel decided later, the deathbed confession he was scared he might make to Marilou.
So when Dalziel said, 'You weren't just one of our spooks, you were a bloody commie spy too!' his wasted face had contorted in a congratulatory grin which wouldn't have been out of place in a horror film. 'And they knew about it back in 'sixty-three?' 'They were very suspicious, though of course they simply didn't want to believe it, which helped. I think it was Tony Blunt who gave them the positive confirmation. Oddly, it was Scott Rampling who first came right out with it. No royalist inhibitions, you see. "You know, James," he said,
"It wouldn't surprise me one little bit if you didn't turn out to be one of these Cambridge commies too." I smiled and said, "Indeed? And what would you do about it, assuming it were true?" He said, "Hell, if I got the proof, I'd do nothing. I could use it to jerk you and that bunch of amateurs you work for any which way I like, couldn't I?" He was right, that was the only professional response, but fortunately he didn't get anything like proof till it was far too late. Loquacity is the American disease. Didn't he imagine that my friends would give me something to shut him up with?' 'So what did the funny buggers do with you after Mickledore Hall?' asked Dalziel. 'They whisked me away out of sight. They'd have done that anyway. It's a knee-jerk damage limitation exercise when someone in my position looks like they might get too much publicity. I was in no state to resist, not after Emily's death. It was clear that they didn't give a damn what had really happened, they weren't even particularly interested whether or not I'd actually murdered Pam, they just wanted to be sure I came across as the sympathetic figure, the betrayed friend, widowed husband, bereaved father. They knew about me and Cissy, of course. In a way, what I know now was her lunatic act of loyalty worked out to her benefit…'
'Benefit!' exclaimed Dalziel. ‘Indeed. As Mickledore's mistress, she was safe, well, fairly safe. If she'd been tempted to broadcast that she was mine, I fear that other measures might have been taken to silence her. It wasn't till after the trial and poor Mick's execution that they came to me and put it bluntly – no pun – that I was a Russian agent. I, of course, cooperated fully – I had surprisingly little to tell them – but when they suggested they should put me back on station and work me as a double double, I took off. I'd had enough, you see.' 'That'd not please them.' 'How true,' said Westropp. 'Had I met with, or even put myself within reach of, a simple accident in the years that followed, there'd have been few regrets. But though life was a pretty grey thing to me then, grey is a colour a man can live with, so I kept on the move, until one day in Mexico City I ran into Marilou, and suddenly there was colour in my greyness once more. Since my undergraduate days, I have been a devious bastard, Mr Dalziel. It was part of my job description, it eventually became part of my being.
You cannot imagine the joy I got, and still get, from Marilou's utter openness. I had no right to marry her, I had no resources not to marry her.' 'And you came to settle here? Bit exposed, weren't you? Like a turkey taking refuge in a butcher's shop just before Christmas.
Especially if Rampling had sussed you out way back.' 'On the contrary, Scott was my main reason for being so willing to settle here,' said Westropp gleefully. 'He was by now powerful enough to offer protection.' 'For old time's sake?' said Dalziel sceptically. 'Of course not. Because I had it in my power to undermine him.' Dalziel thought a moment, then said, 'You mean this thing your foreign mates gave you to shut him up with? Something to blackmail him with, it must have been. Christ, I've put men with cleaner hands than you lot away for life!' 'Do I detect a note of disapproval? Of what, precisely?' said Westropp. 'Of someone like you betraying his country for a start,' exclaimed the Fat Man. 'I can thole most things, but not a traitor, especially not one with your fancy background.' ‘It was my background that first got me thinking about the condition of the West, Mr Dalziel. If patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel, perhaps treason is the first resort of an honest man. Take a look out of the window. This town is preserved the way it is because the Americans want to honour their past and their ancestors who fought for their freedoms. My ancestors back in England called these people traitors too.' 'Oh aye? You reckon a hundred years from now folk'll be paying money to gawk at the bed you died in, do you?' Westropp laughed and said, 'You really should have gone into the Diplomatic, Dalziel! I'll tell you what. I had planned to let Rampling off my little hook when I died. I've made him executor of my will and intended that he should find my little prophylaxis among my effects. But having discovered today for the first time how far he has inveigled Pip into his ranks, I begin to wonder if Scott deserves such consideration.' 'You knew the lad worked for the CIA, then?' 'Yes. It amused me to think this was the last stage in his Americanization, but I am not amused to learn how far Scott has got him involved in my affairs.' 'I'd say it were likely the lad volunteered to get involved, 'cos he were worried in case I meant any harm to you,' said Dalziel. 'A touching picture.
Perhaps you're right. So I'll tell you what. As you seem to fancy yourself as a moral arbiter, I'll pass this on to you and leave you to decide what to do with it.' 'And he handed me this old buff envelope,' said Dalziel. 'What was in it?' demanded Pascoe impatiently. 'A photo.