Chapter 8 #2
On the other hand, if Creighton had been involved in the planning or execution of the murder, he and Daphne Talmadge would surely have concocted a credible story.
In that case, he only had to worry about her remembering the details correctly.
It would have been easiest to cover as brief a period as possible.
So if Creighton presented an alibi covering only luncheon, that would seem to point to his guilt, or at least to knowledge of his mistress’s guilt.
“We met at eleven,” he said, “or a few minutes after. Mrs. Talmadge took a taxi to New Bond Street and I was waiting when she arrived.”
“New Bond Street?”
“Yes, we went to a preview of an auction at Sotheby’s. As you may be aware, Sarah Bernhardt died last year. Her collection is to come under the hammer, including the manuscripts
of the two plays she herself wrote. Here.” He took a catalogue from under the book on the table beside him, and handed it to Alec. “You’ll see my notes on the various items.”
Alec riffled through the pages. “I see, sir, but I’m afraid this doesn’t prove that you were there today. Did you see anyone you know?”
“Most people one knows go in the afternoon.”
“So no one can confirm your whereabouts.”
“Oh, I expect Truscott, their theatre expert, will remember me. I spoke to him. I thought you meant the sort of people one knows.”
“Truscott.” Alec wrote down the name. “An auction room seems an odd place for a rendezvous with a lady.”
“Daph—Mrs. Talmadge is as great an aficionado of the theatre as I am. She found the preview fascinating. Her husband, alas, is not interested, so I take her to a matinee now and then. She is an old friend.”
“You went to a matinee this afternoon?”
The tapping finger stilled. Alec guessed the questions racing through Creighton’s mind: Did Daphne go straight home? What time did she get there, and do the police know it? What time did Raymond Talmadge die? What time did Raymond Talmadge die?
Unless, of course, he was actually thinking: How did they know it wasn’t an accident or suicide? What went wrong?
Creighton played for time, the tapping finger resuming its betrayal. “Let’s take things in their proper order. When we had seen enough at Sotheby’s, we decided to lunch, although it was still rather early.”
“Where did you go?”
“We strolled up to Oxford Street and popped into the first restaurant which appealed to her.”
“Which was … ?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea, Chief Inspector. I seldom eat in that part of town and I didn’t notice the name of the establishment. Nor can I recall what we ate. She … We had a great deal to talk about.”
Murder? “I see, sir. Well, I dare say we can find the place. And which theatre did you go on to?”
“The New Theatre, to see Shaw’s Saint Joan. A superb play, well worth seeing twice. Mrs. Talmadge had missed the first night.”
“Did she enjoy it?”
“She …” A pause, then Creighton rose and stepped forward to stand facing the window, his fists clenched at his sides. The silence stretched.
“The truth is generally the best policy,” Alec said gently.
A long sigh followed, as if squeezed from Creighton’s lanky frame like lava from a volcano, by intolerable internal pressures.
Yet, as he turned back to Alec, he managed an ironic comment: “I notice you say ‘generally,’ not always, Chief Inspector. However, being uncertain what lie may serve in the circumstances, which remain unclear to me, I find myself driven back upon the truth. Mrs. Talmadge did not attend the theatre with me.”
Alec’s sigh was silent. He had manoeuvred Lord Henry into a position where he had either to lie about the theatre or to confine himself to the feeble lunchtime alibi. Choosing the latter might mean that he was aware of the time of death—or it might mean that he was innocent and felt that
a lie was likely to be disproved and therefore to arouse unwarranted suspicion.
In either case, Alec was convinced that his lordship was concealing something more than an illicit relationship with a married woman. Otherwise a man of his social rank would surely not have answered with such patience questions he must regard as impertinent.
“One of my men will be speaking to Mr. Truscott at Sotheby’s, sir, and of course we’ll be trying to find the restaurant you patronized. I don’t suppose you have a photograph you could let me have, of you and Mrs. Talmadge?”
“Only a very old … one of myself. I’ll fetch it.” He hurried out through the nearer door.
There were plenty of recent photos on the wall, though Creighton might be reluctant to part with one.
So his pause and quick recovery meant he had kept a photo of the two of them, probably from before her marriage, which argued that he had at least a deep affection for her.
Deep enough to try to protect her, knowing she was a murderess?
Deep enough to murder her husband for her sake?
Creighton returned with a faded, blurred photo of a school cricket team. He had to point out to Alec his own likeness, standing in the back row.
“Useless for identification, I’m afraid, sir. Perhaps you could spare me one of these?” Alec gestured at the theatrical wall.
For the first time, Creighton showed annoyance. “One of my collection?”
“I’ll do my best to see it’s not damaged. We’ll make copies to show around and return the original to you.”
“Oh, very well, if you must.” He chose an unsigned photograph
of himself with an actor who had enjoyed a brief success three or four years ago, before sinking back into obscurity.
A passion for the theatre might be the link between him and Daphne Talmadge, but Alec wasn’t prepared to bet on which he’d pick if forced to choose between his beloved and his memorabilia.
“Thank you, sir.” Alec started towards the entrance hall. “We’ll take good care of it. I may have some more questions for you later, so if you leave London I’d be grateful if you’d let me know your whereabouts.”
“I’m not going anywhere. Is … is Mrs. Talmadge greatly distressed?”
“Naturally.” His hand on the front-door knob, Alec turned to observe Creighton’s reaction as he continued, “As any woman would be having found her husband’s murdered body.”
“My God! I must—”
“Mrs. Talmadge is under heavy sedation, sir,” Alec added with some satisfaction. “I’m afraid it’s no good your trying to see her.”
It was frustrating not to be able to question his chief suspect, but at least the second on his list couldn’t speak to her either.