Not surprisingly on a Saturday, Newton Macklefield was out of London with his family at his country house in Sussex. Their conversation was businesslike, punctuated by children’s voices and the barking of dogs. After expressions of shock and personal regret which sounded more formal than heartfelt, Macklefield said, “Naturally I’ll do all I can to assist the investigation. You say you’ll be at Sanctuary Court tomorrow morning? You’ve got a key? Yes, of course, she would have had it with her. I’ve none of her private keys in the office. I could come up and join you at ten-thirty, if that time is convenient. I’ll call in at the office and bring the will with me, although you’ll probably find a copy in the house. I’m afraid that there’s little more I can do to help. As you’ll know, Commander, a relationship between a solicitor and his client can be close, particularly if the solicitor has acted for the family, perhaps for some generations, and has come to be regarded as a confidant and friend. That wasn’t the case here. Miss Gradwyn’s relationship with me was one of mutual respect and trust and, certainly on my part, of liking. But it was purely professional. I knew the client but not the woman. I take it, by the way, that the next of kin has been informed.”

Dalgliesh said, “Yes, there’s only her mother. She described her daughter as a very private person. I told her I should want access to her daughter’s house and she had no objection to that or my taking away anything that might be helpful.”

“Nor, as her solicitor, have I. So—I’ll see you at her house at about ten-thirty. Extraordinary business! Thank you, Commander, for getting in touch.”

Snapping shut his mobile, Dalgliesh reflected that murder, a unique crime for which no reparation is ever possible, imposes its own compulsions as well as its conventions. He doubted whether Macklefield would have interrupted his country weekend for a less sensational crime. As a young officer he, too, had been touched, if unwillingly and temporarily, by the power of murder to attract even while it appalled and repelled. He had watched how people involved as innocent bystanders, provided they were unburdened by grief or suspicion, were engrossed by homicide, drawn inexorably to the place where the crime had occurred in fascinated disbelief. The crowd and the media who served them had not yet congregated outside the wrought-iron gates of the Manor. But they would come, and he doubted whether Chandler-Powell’s private security team would be able to do more than inconvenience them.

Chapter 12

12