Death of an Expert Witness

by P. D. James

  “Yes, sir.”

  “They’re working on the 1976 and ’75 registrations now, so you’d better start getting out the 1974 series and any earlier years they want.”

  He took his eyes from the files and looked directly at her for the first time. “Dr. Lorrimer left you some money, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, sir. One thousand pounds for books and apparatus.”

  “You don’t need to call me sir. Dr. Howarth will do. You liked him?”

  “Yes. Yes, I did.”

  Dr. Howarth had lowered his eyes again and was turning over the pages of the file. “Odd, I shouldn’t have thought that he would have appealed to women, or women to him.”

  Brenda said resolutely: “It wasn’t like that.”

  “What wasn’t it like? Do you mean he didn’t think of you as a woman?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, I didn’t think that he was trying to …” Her voice broke off.

  Dr. Howarth turned a page. He said: “To seduce you?”

  Brenda took courage, helped by a spurt of anger. She said: “Well, he couldn’t, could he? Not here in the Lab. And I never saw him anywhere else. And if you’d known anything about him at all, you wouldn’t talk like that.”

  She was appalled at her own temerity. But the Director only said, rather sadly she thought: “I expect you’re right. I never knew him at all.”

  She struggled to explain. “He explained to me what science is about.”

  “And what is science about?”

  “He explained that scientists formulate theories about how the physical world works, and then test them out by experiments. As long as the experiments succeed, then the theories hold. If they fail, the scientists have to find another theory to explain the facts. He says that, with science, there’s this exciting paradox, that disillusionment needn’t be defeat. It’s a step forward.”

  “Didn’t you do science at school? I thought you’d taken physics and chemistry at ‘O’ level.”

  “No one ever explained it like that before.”

  “No. I suppose they bored you with experiments about magnetism and the properties of carbon dioxide. By the way, Miss Foley has typed a paper on the ratio of staffing to workloads. I want the figures checked—Mrs. Mallett will do it with you—and the paper circulated to all Directors before next week’s meeting. She’ll give you the list of addresses.”

  “Yes, sir. Yes, Dr. Howarth.”

  “And I’d like you to take this file to Miss Easterbrook in the Biology Lab.”

  He looked up at her, and she thought for the first time that he looked kind. He said, very gently: “I know how you feel. I felt the same. But there’s only a white outline on the floor, just a smudge of chalk. That’s all.”

  He handed her the file. It was a dismissal. At the door Brenda paused. The Director said: “Well?”

  “I was just thinking that detection must be like science. The detective formulates a theory, then tests it. If the facts he discovers fit, then the theory holds. If they don’t, then he has to find another theory, another suspect.”

  Dr. Howarth said drily: “It’s a reasonable analogy. But the temptation to select the right facts is probably greater. And the detective is experimenting with human beings. Their properties are complex and not susceptible to accurate analysis.”

  An hour later Brenda took her third set of files into Sergeant Underhill in the Director’s office. The pleasant-looking detective constable leaped forward to relieve her of her burden. The telephone rang on Dr. Howarth’s desk, and Sergeant Underhill went over to answer it. He replaced the receiver and looked across at his companion.

  “That’s the Met Lab. They’ve given me the result of the blood analysis. The mallet was the weapon all right. There’s Lorrimer’s blood on it. And they’ve analysed the vomit.”

  He looked up, suddenly remembering that Brenda was still in the room, and waited until she had left and the door was closed. The detective constable said: “Well?”

  “It’s what we thought. Think it out for yourself. A forensic scientist would know that the Lab can’t determine a blood group from vomit. The stomach acids destroy the antibodies. What they can hope to say is what was in the food. So all you need to do, if it’s your vomit and you’re a suspect, is to lie about what you ate for supper. Who could disprove it?”

  His companion said: “Unless …”

  Sergeant Underhill reached again for the phone. “Exactly. As I said, think it out for yourself.”

  3

  After the last few days of intermittent rain and fitful autumn sunlight, the morning was cold but bright, the sun unexpectedly warm against their necks. But even in the mellow light, the Old Rectory, with its bricks the colour of raw liver under the encroaching ivy and its ponderous porch and carved overhanging eaves, was a depressing house. The open iron gate to the drive, half off its hinges, was embedded in a straggling hedge which bordered the garden. The gravel path needed weeding. The grass of the lawn was pulled and flattened where someone had made an inexpert attempt at mowing it, obviously with a blunt machine, and the two herbaceous borders were a tangle of overgrown chrysanthemums and stunted dahlias half choked with weeds. A child’s wooden horse on wheels lay on its side at the edge of the lawn, but this was the only sign of human life.

  As they approached the house, however, a girl and a small boy emerged from the porch and stood regarding them. They must, of course, be Kerrison’s children, and as Dalgliesh and Massingham approached the likeness became apparent. The girl must, he supposed, be over school age, but she looked barely sixteen except for a certain adult wariness about the eyes. She had straight dark hair drawn back from a high, spotty forehead into short dishevelled pigtails bound with elastic bands. She wore the ubiquitous faded blue jeans of her generation, topped with a fawn sweater, loose-fitting enough to be her father’s. Round her neck Dalgliesh could glimpse what looked like a leather thong. Her grubby feet were bare and palely striped with the pattern of summer sandals.

  The child, who moved closer to her at the sight of strangers, was about three or fours years old, a stocky, round-faced boy with a wide nose and a gentle, delicate mouth. His face was a softer miniature model of his father’s, the brows straight and dark above the heavily lidded eyes. He was wearing a pair of tight blue shorts and an inexpertly knitted jumper against which he was clasping a large ball. His sturdy legs were planted in short red wellington boots. He tightened his hold on his ball and fixed on Dalgliesh an unblinking disconcertingly judgemental gaze.

  Dalgliesh suddenly realized that he knew virtually nothing about children. Most of his friends were childless; those who were not had learned to invite him when their demanding, peace-disturbing, egotistical offspring were away at school. His only son had died, with his mother, just twenty-four hours after birth. Although he could now hardly recall his wife’s face except in dreams, the picture of those waxen, doll-like features above the tiny swathed body, the gummed eyelids, the secret look of self-absorbed peace was so clear and immediate that he sometimes wondered whether the image was really that of his child, so briefly but intently regarded, or whether he had taken into himself a prototype of dead childhood. His son would now be older than this child, would be entering the traumatic years of adolescence. He had convinced himself long ago that he was glad to have been spared them.

  But now it suddenly occurred to him that there was a whole territory of human experience on which, once repulsed, he had turned his back, and that this rejection somehow diminished him as a man. This transitory ache of loss surprised him by its intensity. He forced himself to consider a sensation so unfamiliar and unwelcome.

  Suddenly the child smiled at him and held out the ball. The effect was as disconcertingly flattering as when a stray cat would stalk towards him, tail erect, and condescend to be stroked. They gazed at each other. Dalgliesh smiled back. Then Massingham sprang forward and whipped the ball from the chubby hands.

  “Come on. Football!”

  He began dribb
ling the blue and yellow ball across the lawn. Immediately the sturdy legs followed. The two of them disappeared round the side of the house and Dalgliesh could hear the boy’s high, cracked laughter. The girl gazed after them, her face suddenly pinched with loving anxiety. She turned to Dalgliesh.

  “I hope he knows not to kick it into the bonfire. It’s almost out, but the embers are still very hot. I’ve been burning rubbish.”

  “Don’t worry. He’s a careful chap. And he’s got younger brothers.”

  She regarded him carefully for the first time. “You’re Commander Dalgliesh, aren’t you? We’re Nell and William Kerrison. I’m afraid my father isn’t here.”

  “I know. We’ve come to see your housekeeper, Miss Willard, isn’t it? Is she in?”

  “I shouldn’t take any notice of anything she says if I were you. She’s a dreadful liar. And she steals Daddy’s drink. Don’t you want to question William and me?”

  “A policewoman will be coming with us to talk to you both, sometime when your father’s at home.”

  “I won’t see her. I don’t mind talking to you, but I won’t see a policewoman. I don’t like social workers.”

  “A policewoman isn’t a social worker.”

  “She’s the same. She makes judgements on people, doesn’t she? We had a social worker here after my mother left, before the custody case, and she looked at William and me as if we were a public nuisance which someone had left on her doorstep. She went round the house too, poking into things, pretending to admire, making out it was just a social visit.”

  “Policewomen—and policemen—never pretend that they’re just paying a social visit. No one would believe us, would they?”

  They turned and walked together towards the house. The girl said: “Are you going to discover who killed Dr. Lorrimer?”

  “I hope so. I expect so.”

  “And then what will happen to him, the murderer, I mean?”

  “He’ll appear before the magistrates. Then, if they think that the evidence is sufficient, they’ll commit him to the Crown Court for trial.”

  “And then?”

  “If he’s found guilty of murder, the judge will pass the statutory penalty, imprisonment for life. That means that he’ll be in prison for a long time, perhaps ten years or more.”

  “But that’s silly. That won’t put things right. It won’t bring Dr. Lorrimer back.”

  “It won’t put anything right, but it isn’t silly. Life is precious to nearly all of us. Even people who have little more than life still want to live it to the last natural moment. No one has a right to take it away from them.”

  “You talk as if life were like William’s ball. If that’s taken away he knows what he’s lost. Dr. Lorrimer doesn’t know that he’s lost anything.”

  “He’s lost the years he might have had.”

  “That’s like taking away the ball that William might have had. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just words. Suppose he was going to die next week anyway. Then he’d only have lost seven days. You don’t put someone in prison for ten years to repay seven lost days. They might not even have been happy days.”

  “Even if he were a very old man with one day left to him, the law says that he has a right to live it. Wilful killing would still be murder.”

  The girl said thoughtfully: “I suppose it was different when people believed in God. Then the murdered person might have died in mortal sin and gone to hell. The seven days could have made a difference then. He might have repented and had time for absolution.”

  Dalgliesh said: “All these problems are easier for people who believe in God. Those of us who don’t or can’t have to do the best we can. That’s what the law is, the best we can do. Human justice is imperfect, but it’s the only justice we have.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to question me? I know that Daddy didn’t kill him. He isn’t a murderer. He was at home with William and me when Dr. Lorrimer died. We put William to bed together at half past seven and then we stayed with him for twenty minutes and Daddy read Paddington Bear to him. Then I went to bed because I’d got a headache and wasn’t feeling well, and Daddy brought me up a mug of cocoa which he’d made specially for me. He sat by me reading poetry from my school anthology until he thought I’d gone to sleep. But I hadn’t really. I was just pretending. He crept away just before nine, but I was still awake then. Shall I tell you how I know?”

  “If you want to.”

  “Because I heard the church clock strike. Then Daddy left me and I lay there in the dark, just thinking. He came back to look in at me again about half an hour later, but I still pretended to be asleep. So that lets Daddy out, doesn’t it?”

  “We don’t know exactly when Dr. Lorrimer died but, yes, I think it probably does.”

  “Unless I’m telling you a lie.”

  “People very often do lie to the police. Are you?”

  “No. But I expect I would if I thought it would save Daddy. I don’t care about Dr. Lorrimer, you see. I’m glad he’s dead. He wasn’t a nice man. The day before he died William and I went to the Lab to see Daddy. He was lecturing in the morning to the detective-training course and we thought we’d call for him before lunch. Inspector Blakelock let us sit in the hall, and that girl who helps him at the desk, the pretty one, smiled at William and offered him an apple from her lunch box. And then Dr. Lorrimer came down the stairs and saw us. I know it was he because the Inspector spoke to him by his name and he said: ‘What are those children doing in here? A lab isn’t a place for children.’ I said: ‘I’m not a child. I’m Miss Eleanor Kerrison and this is my brother, William, and we’re waiting for our father.’ He stared at us as if he hated us, his face white and twitching. He said: ‘Well, you can’t wait here.’ Then he spoke very unkindly to Inspector Blakelock. After Dr. Lorrimer had gone, he said we’d better go but he told William not to mind and took a sweet out of his left ear. Did you know that the Inspector was a conjurer?”

  “No. I didn’t know that.”

  “Would you like to see round the house before I take you to Miss Willard? Do you like seeing houses?”

  “Very much, but I think perhaps not now.”

  “See the drawing room anyway. It’s much the best room. There now, isn’t it lovely?”

  The drawing room was in no sense lovely. It was a sombre, oak-panelled, over-furnished room which looked as if little had changed since the days when the bombazine-clad wife and daughters of the Victorian rector sat there piously occupied with their parish sewing. The mullioned windows, framed by dark-red, dirt-encrusted curtains, effectively excluded most of the daylight so that Dalgliesh stepped into a sombre chilliness which the sluggish fire did nothing to dispel. An immense mahogany table, bearing a jam jar of chrysanthemums, stood against the far wall and the fireplace, an ornate edifice of marble, was almost hidden by two immense saggy armchairs, and a dilapidated sofa.

  Eleanor said with unexpected formality, as if the room had recalled her to her duty as a hostess: “I try to keep at least one room nice in case we have visitors. The flowers are pretty, aren’t they? William arranged them. Please sit down. Can I get you some coffee?”

  “That would be pleasant, but I don’t think we ought to wait. We’re really here to see Miss Willard.”

  Massingham and William appeared in the doorway, flushed with their exercise, William with the ball tucked under his left arm. Eleanor led the way through a brass-studded, green-baize door and down a stone passage to the back of the house. William, deserting Massingham, trotted behind her, his plump hand clutching ineffectively at the skin-tight jeans. Pausing outside the door of unpolished oak, she said: “She’s in here. She doesn’t like William and me to go in. Anyway, she smells, so we don’t.”

  And taking William by the hand, she left them.

  Dalgliesh knocked. There was a rapid scrabbling noise inside the room, like an animal disturbed in its lair, and then the door was opened slightly and a dark and suspicious eye looked out at them through the narro
w aperture.

  Dalgliesh said: “Miss Willard? Commander Dalgliesh and Inspector Massingham from the Metropolitan Police. We’re investigating Dr. Lorrimer’s murder. May we come in?”

  The eye softened. She gave a short, embarrassed gasp, rather like a snort, and opened the door wide.

  “Of course. Of course. What must you think of me? I’m afraid I’m still in what my dear old nurse used to call my disability. But I wasn’t expecting you, and I usually have a quiet moment to myself about this time of the morning.”

  Eleanor was right, the room did smell. A smell, Massingham diagnosed after a curious sniff, composed of sweet sherry, unfresh body linen and cheap scent. It was very hot. A small blue flame licked the red-hot ovals of coal briquettes banked high in the Victorian grate. The window, which gave a view of the garage and the wilderness which was the back garden, was open for only an inch at the top despite the mildness of the day, and the air in the room pressed down on them, furred and heavy as a soiled blanket. The room itself had a dreadful and perverse femininity. Everything looked moistly soft, the cretonne-covered seats of the two armchairs, the plump row of cushions along the back of a Victorian chaise longue, the imitation fur rug before the fire. The mantelshelf was cluttered with photographs in silver frames, mostly of a cassocked clergyman and his wife, whom Dalgliesh took to be Miss Willard’s parents, standing side by side but oddly dissociated outside a variety of rather dull churches. Pride of place was held by a studio photograph of Miss Willard herself, young, toothily coy, the thick hair in corrugated waves. On a wall shelf to the right of the door was a small woodcarving of an armless Madonna with the laughing Child perched on her shoulder. A night light in a saucer was burning at her feet, casting a soft glow over the tender drooping head and the sightless eyes. Dalgliesh thought that it was probably a copy, and a good one, of a medieval museum piece. Its gentle beauty emphasized the tawdriness of the room, yet dignified it, seeming to say that there was more than one kind of human loneliness, human pain, and that the same mercy embraced them all.