by P. D. James
“But it could still be overheard by the person on the board.”
“If he plugged in, I suppose it could.”
Dalgliesh said: “Miss Bolam told Cully late in the afternoon that she was expecting Mr. Lauder and she may have mentioned the visit to other people. We don’t know. No one will admit to having been told except Cully. In the circumstances, that isn’t perhaps surprising. We’re not going to get much further with it at present. What I must do now is to find out what Miss Bolam wanted to tell Mr. Lauder. One of the first possibilities to be considered in a place like this must be blackmail. God knows that’s continuing and it’s serious enough.”
The medical director did not speak for a moment. Dalgliesh wondered whether he was contemplating a further remonstrance, selecting appropriate words to express concern or disbelief. Then he said quietly: “Of course it’s serious. There’s no point in wasting time discussing just how serious. Obviously, having thought up this theory, you have to carry through your investigation. Any other course of action would be most unfair to the members of my staff. What do you want me to do?”
“To help me select a victim. Later, perhaps, to make some telephone calls.”
“You appreciate, Superintendent, that the case records are confidential?”
“I’m not asking to see a single case record. But if I did, I don’t think either you or the patient need worry. Shall we get started? We can take out our class one patients. Perhaps you would call out the codes for me.”
A considerable number of the Steen patients were in class one. Upper-class neuroses catered for only, thought Dalgliesh. He surveyed the field for a moment and then said: “If I were the blackmailer, would I choose a man or a woman? It would depend on my own sex, probably. A woman might pick on a woman. But, if it’s a question of a regular income, a man is probably a better bet. Let’s take out the males next. I imagine our victim will live out of London. It would be risky to select an ex-patient who could too easily succumb to the temptation to pop into the clinic and let you know what was going on. I think I’d select my victim from a small town or village.”
The medical director said: “We only coded the country if it were an out-London address. London patients are coded by borough. Our best plan will be to take out all the London addresses and see what’s left.”
This was done. The number of cards still in the survey was now only a few dozen. Most of the Steen patients, as might be expected, came from the county of London. Dalgliesh said: “Married or single? It’s difficult to decide whether one or the other would be most vulnerable. Let’s leave it open and start on the diagnosis. This is where I need your help particularly, Doctor. I realize this is highly confidential information. I suggest that you call out the codes for the diagnoses or symptoms which might interest a blackmailer. I don’t want details.”
Again the medical director paused. Dalgliesh waited patiently, metal rod in hand, while the doctor sat in silence, the code book open before him. He seemed not to be seeing it. After a minute he roused himself and focused his eyes on the page. He said quietly: “Try codes 23, 68, 69 and 71.” There were now only eleven cards remaining. Each of them bore a case-record number on the top right-hand margin.
Dalgliesh made a note of the numbers and said: “This is as far as we can go with the diagnostic index. We must now do what I think our blackmailer did, have a look at the case records and learn more of our prospective victims. Shall we go down to the basement?”
The medical director got up without a word. As they went down the stairs, they passed Miss Kettle on her way up. She nodded to the medical director and gave Dalgliesh a brief, puzzled glance as if wondering whether he were someone she had met and ought to recognize. In the hall Dr. Baguley was talking with Sister Ambrose. They broke off and turned to watch with grave, unsmiling faces as Dr. Etherege and Dalgliesh made their way to the basement stairs. At the other end of the hall the grey outline of Cully’s head could be seen through the glass of the reception kiosk. The head did not turn and Dalgliesh guessed that Cully, absorbed in his contemplation of the front door, had not heard them.
The record room was locked, but no longer sealed. In the porters’ restroom Nagle was putting on his coat, evidently on his way out to an early lunch. He made no sign as the medical director took the record-room key from its hook, but the flash of interest in his mild, mud-brown eyes was not lost on Dalgliesh. They had been well observed. By early afternoon everyone in the clinic would know that he had examined the diagnostic index with the medical director and then visited the record room. To one person that information would be of crucial interest. What Dalgliesh hoped was that the murderer would become frightened and desperate; what he feared was that he would become more dangerous.
Dr. Etherege switched on the light in the record room and the fluorescent tubes flickered, yellowed and blazed into whiteness. The room stood revealed. Dalgliesh smelt again its characteristic smell, compounded of mustiness, old paper and the tang of hot metal. He watched without betraying any emotion while the medical director locked the door on the inside and slipped the key in his pocket.
There was no sign now that the room had been the scene of murder. The torn records had been repaired and replaced on the shelves, the chair and table placed upright in their usual position.
The records were tied together with string in bundles of ten. Some of the files had been stored for so long that they seemed to adhere to each other. The string bit into the bulging manilla covers; across their tops was a thin patina of dust. Dalgliesh said: “It should be possible to tell which of these bundles have been untied since the records were weeded out and brought down for storage. Some of them look as if they haven’t been touched for years. I realize that a bundle may have been untied to extract a record for a perfectly innocent purpose but we may as well make a start with files from those bundles which have obviously been untied within the last year or so. The first two numbers are in the eight thousand range. These seem to be on the top shelf. Have we a ladder?”
The medical director disappeared behind the first row of shelves and reappeared with a small stepladder which he manoeuvred with difficulty into the narrow aisle. Looking up at Dalgliesh as the detective mounted, he said: “Tell me, Superintendent. Does this touching confidence mean that you have eliminated me from your list of suspects? If it does I should be interested to know by what process of deduction you came to that conclusion. I can’t flatter myself that you believe me incapable of murder. No detective would accept that, surely, of any man.”
“And no psychiatrist possibly,” said Dalgliesh. “I don’t ask myself whether a man is capable of murder, but whether he is capable of this particular murder. I don’t think you’re a petty blackmailer. I can’t see how you could have known about Lauder’s proposed visit. I doubt whether you’ve either the strength or skill to kill in that way. Lastly, I think you’re probably the one person here whom Miss Bolam wouldn’t have kept waiting. Even if I’m wrong, you can hardly refuse to co-operate, can you?”
He was deliberately curt. The bright-blue eyes were still gazing into his, inviting a confidence which he did not want to give but found it difficult to resist. The medical director went on: “I have only met three murderers. Two of them are buried in quicklime. One of the two hardly knew what he was doing and the other couldn’t have stopped himself. Are you satisfied, Superintendent, with that solution?”
Dalgliesh replied: “No man in his senses would be. But I don’t see how that affects what I’m trying to do now: catch this murderer before he—or she—kills again.”
The medical director said no more. Together they found the eleven case records they sought and took them up to Dr. Etherege’s room. If Dalgliesh had expected the medical director to make difficulties over the next stage of the investigation, he was agreeably surprised. The hint that this killer might not stop at one victim had struck home. When Dalgliesh explained what he wanted, the medical director did not protest.
Dalgliesh said:
“I’m not asking for the names of these patients. I’m not interested in what was wrong with them. All I want you to do is to telephone each of them and ask tactfully whether they rang the clinic recently, probably on Friday morning. You could explain that someone made a call which it’s important to trace. If one of these patients did ring, I want the name and address. Not the diagnosis. Just the name and address.”
“I must ask the patient’s consent before I give that information.”
“If you must,” said Dalgliesh. “I leave that to you. All I ask is to get that information.”
The medical director’s stipulation was a formality and both of them knew it. The eleven case records were on the desk and nothing but force could keep the addresses from Dalgliesh if he wanted them. He sat at some distance from Dr. Etherege in one of the large, leather-covered chairs and prepared to watch, with professional interest, his unusual collaborator at work. The medical director picked up his receiver and asked for an outside line. The patients’ telephone numbers had been noted on the case records and the first two tries at once reduced the eleven possibles to nine. In each case the patient had changed his address since his attendance. Dr. Etherege apologized for disturbing the new subscribers to the numbers concerned and dialled for the third time. The third number answered and the medical director asked if he might speak to Mr. Caldecote. There was a prolonged crackling from the other end and Dr. Etherege made the appropriate response.
“No, he hadn’t heard. How very sad. Really? No, it was nothing important. Just an old acquaintance who would be driving through Wiltshire and hoped to meet Mr. Caldecote again. No, he wouldn’t speak to Mrs. Caldecote. He didn’t want to distress her.”
“Dead?” asked Dalgliesh, as the receiver was replaced.
“Yes. Three years ago, apparently. Cancer, poor fellow. I must note that on his record.”
He did so while Dalgliesh waited. The next number was difficult to get and there was much talk with the exchange. When at last the number was rung, there was no reply.
“We seem to be having no success, Superintendent. It was a clever theory of yours, but, it appears, more ingenious than true.”
“There are still seven more patients to try,” said Dalgliesh quietly. The medical director murmured something about a Dr. Talmage whom he was expecting, but referred to the next file and dialled again. This time the patient was at home and, apparently, not in the least surprised to hear from the medical director of the Steen. He poured out a lengthy account of his present psychological condition to which Dr. Etherege listened with patient sympathy and made appropriate replies. Dalgliesh was interested and a little amused at the skill with which the call was conducted. But the patient had not recently telephoned the clinic. The medical director put down the receiver and spent some time noting what the patient had told him on the case record.
“One of our successes, apparently. He wasn’t at all surprised that I telephoned. It’s rather touching the way patients take it for granted that their doctors are immensely concerned for their welfare and are thinking of them personally at all times of the day and night. But he didn’t phone. He wasn’t lying, I assure you. This is very time-consuming, Superintendent, but I suppose we must go on.”
“Yes, please. I’m sorry, but we must go on.”
But the next call brought success. At first it sounded like another failure. From the conversation Dalgliesh gathered that the patient had recently been taken to hospital and that it was his wife who had answered. Then he saw the medical director’s face change, and heard him say: “You did? We knew that someone had telephoned and were trying to trace the call. I expect you’ve heard about the very dreadful tragedy that we’ve had here recently. Yes, it is in connection with that.” He waited while the voice spoke at some length from the other end. Then he put down the receiver and wrote briefly on his desk jotting pad. Dalgliesh did not speak. The medical director looked up at him with an expression half puzzled, half surprised.
“That was the wife of a Colonel Fenton of Sprigg’s Green in Kent. She telephoned Miss Bolam about a very serious matter at about midday last Friday. She didn’t want to talk to you on the phone about it and I thought it better not to press her. But she’d like to see you as soon as possible. I’ve written down the address.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” said Dalgliesh and took the proffered paper. He showed neither surprise nor relief, but his heart was singing.
The medical director shook his head as if the whole thing were beyond his understanding. He said: “She sounds rather a formidable old lady and very formal. She said that she would be very glad if you would take afternoon tea with her.”
Just after four o’clock Dalgliesh drove slowly into Sprigg’s Green. It revealed itself as an undistinguished village lying between the Maidstone and Canterbury roads. He could not remember having passed through it before. There were few people about. The village, thought Dalgliesh, was too far from London to tempt the commuter and had no period charm to attract retired couples or artists and writers in search of country peace with a country cost of living. Most of the cottages were obviously lived in by farm workers, their front gardens clumped with cabbages and brussels sprouts, straggly and stem-scarred from recent pickings, their windows shut close against the treachery of an English autumn. Dalgliesh passed the church, its short flint-and-stone tower and clear glass windows only half-visible behind the surrounding chestnut trees. The churchyard was untidy but not offensively so. The grass had been mown between the graves and some attempt made to weed the gravel paths. Separated from the churchyard by a tall laurel hedge stood the vicarage, a sombre Victorian house built to accommodate a Victorian-size family and its appendages. Next came the green itself, a small square of grass bounded by a row of weather-boarded cottages and faced by a more than usually hideous modern pub and petrol station. Outside the King’s Head was a concrete bus shelter where a group of women waited dispiritedly. They gave Dalgliesh a brief and uninterested glance as he passed. In spring, no doubt, the surrounding cherry orchards would lend their charm even to Sprigg’s Green. Now, however, there was a chill dampness in the air, the fields looked perpetually sodden, a slow, mournful procession of cows being driven to the evening milking churned the road verges to mud. Dalgliesh slowed to a walking pace to pass them, keeping his watch for Sprigg’s Acre. He did not want to ask the way.
He was not long in finding it. The house lay a little back from the road and was sheltered from it by a six-foot beech hedge which shone golden in the fading light. There appeared to be no drive and Dalgliesh edged his Cooper Bristol carefully onto the grass verge before letting himself in through the white gates of the garden. The house lay before him, rambling, low built and thatched, with an air of comfort and simplicity. As he turned from latching the gate behind him, a woman turned the corner of the house and came down the path to meet him. She was very small. Somehow this surprised Dalgliesh. He had formed a mental picture of a stout, well-corseted colonel’s wife condescending to see him, but at her own time and place. The reality was less intimidating and more interesting. There was something gallant and a little pathetic in the way she came down the path towards him. She was wearing a thick skirt and a tweed jacket and was hatless, her thick white hair lifting with the evening breeze. She wore gardening gloves, incongruously large with vast gauntlets which made the trowel she carried look like a child’s toy. As they met she pulled off the right glove and held out her hand to him, looking up at him with anxious eyes which lightened, almost imperceptibly, with relief. But when she spoke, her voice was unexpectedly firm.
“Good afternoon. You must be Superintendent Dalgliesh. My name is Louise Fenton. Did you come by car? I thought I heard one.”
Dalgliesh explained where he had left it and said that he hoped that it would not be in anyone’s way.
“Oh, no! Not at all. Such an unpleasant way to travel. You could have come by train quite easily to Marden and I would have sent the trap for you. We haven’t a car. We both disli
ke them very much. I’m sorry you had to sit in one all the way from London.”
“It was the fastest way,” said Dalgliesh, wondering if he should apologize for living in the twentieth century. “And I wanted to see you as soon as possible.”
He was careful to keep the urgency from his voice, but he could see the sudden tensing of her shoulders.
“Yes. Yes, of course. Would you like to see the garden before we go in? The light is fading but we might just have time.”
An interest in the garden was apparently expected and Dalgliesh acquiesced. A light east wind, rising as the day died, whipped uncomfortably around his neck and ankles. But he never hurried an interview. This one promised to be difficult for Mrs. Fenton and she was entitled to take her time. He wondered at his own impatience even as he concealed it. For the last two days he had been irked by a foreboding of tragedy and failure which was the more disturbing because it was irrational. The case was young yet. His intelligence told him that he was making progress. Even at this moment he was within grasp of motive, and motive, he knew, was crucial to this case. He hadn’t failed yet in his career at the Yard and this case, with its limited number of suspects and careful contriving, was an unlikely candidate for a first failure. Yet he remained worried, vexed by this unreasonable fear that time was running out. Perhaps it was the autumn. Perhaps he was tired. He turned up his coat collar and prepared himself to look interested and appreciative.
They passed together through a wrought-iron gate at the side of the house and entered the main garden. Mrs. Fenton was saying: “I love the garden dearly but I’m not much good at it. Things don’t grow for me. My husband has the green fingers. He’s in Maidstone Hospital at present having an operation for hernia. It’s all been very successful, I’m happy to say. Do you garden, Superintendent?”
