by P. D. James
Dalgliesh asked: “Did you trouble to find out who she was, exchange names?”
“I told her I was Ronny McDowell. It seemed as good a name as any. She said she was Dora Meakin. I don’t suppose that more than one of us was lying.”
“And that’s all, not where she lived or worked?”
“She said she worked at the sugar-beet factory and lived in a cottage near the ruined engine-house on Hunter’s Fen. That’s about three miles from Manea. She said she was a widow. Like a little gentleman, I dropped her at the bottom of the lane leading to Hunter’s Fen. If she wasn’t telling me a yarn, that should be enough to find her.”
Chief Superintendent Mercer said grimly: “I hope for your sake that it is. You know what this means for you, of course?”
Doyle laughed. It was a surprisingly light-hearted sound. “Oh I know, all right. But don’t let that worry you. I’m handing in my resignation, and from now.”
Dalgliesh asked: “Are you sure about the lights? The Lab was in darkness?”
“I shouldn’t have stopped there if it hadn’t been. There wasn’t a light to be seen. And although I admit I was somewhat preoccupied for a minute or two, I could swear that no one came down that drive while we were there.”
“Or out of the front door?”
“That would be possible, I suppose. But the drive isn’t more than forty yards long, I’d say. I think I’d have noticed, unless he slipped out very quickly. I doubt whether anyone would have risked it, not if he’d seen my headlights and knew that the car was there.”
Dalgliesh looked at Mercer. He said: “We’ve got to get back to Chevisham. We’ll take in Hunter’s Fen on the way.”
7
Leaning over the back of the Victorian chaise longue, Angela Foley was massaging her friend’s neck. The coarse hairs tickled the back of her hands as, firmly and gently, she kneaded the taut muscles, feeling for each separate vertebra under the hot, tense skin. Stella sat, head slumped forward in her hands. Neither spoke. Outside, a light scavenging wind was blowing fitfully over the fens, stirring the fallen leaves on the patio, and gusting the thin, white woodsmoke from the cottage chimney. But inside the sitting room all was quiet, except for the crackling of the fire, the ticking of the grandfather clock and the sound of their breathing. The cottage was full of the pungent, resinous aroma of burning apple wood, overlaid with the savoury smell from the kitchen of beef casserole reheated from yesterday’s dinner.
After a few minutes Angela Foley said: “Better? Would you like a cold compress on your forehead?”
“No, that’s lovely. Almost gone in fact. Odd that I only get a headache on those days when the book has gone particularly well.”
“Another two minutes, then I’d better see about dinner.” Angela flexed her fingers and bent again to her task.
Stella’s voice, muffled in her sweater, suddenly said: “What was it like as a child, being in local authority care?”
“I’m not sure that I know. I mean, I wasn’t in a Home or anything like that. They fostered me most of the time.”
“Well, what was that like? You’ve never really told me.”
“It was all right. No, that’s not true. It was like living in a second-rate boarding house where they don’t want you and you know that you won’t be able to pay the bill. Until I met you and came here I felt like that all the time, not really at home in the world. I suppose my foster parents were kind. They meant to be. But I wasn’t pretty, and I wasn’t grateful. It can’t be much fun fostering other people’s children, and I suppose one does rather look for gratitude. Looking back, I can see that I wasn’t much joy for them, plain and surly. I once heard a neighbour say to my third foster-mother that I looked just like a foetus with my bulging forehead and tiny features. I resented the other children because they had mothers and I hadn’t. I’ve never really outgrown that. It’s despicable, but I even dislike Brenda Pridmore, the new girl on our reception desk, because she’s so obviously a loved child, she’s got a proper home.”
“So have you now. But I know what you mean. By the age of five you’ve either learned that the world is good, that everything and everyone in it stretches out towards you with love. Or you know that you’re a reject. No one ever unlearns that first lesson.”
“I have, because of you. Star, don’t you think we ought to start looking for another cottage, perhaps nearer Cambridge? There’s bound to be a job there for a qualified secretary.”
“We’re not going to need another cottage. I telephoned my publishers this afternoon, and I think it’s going to be all right.”
“Hearne and Gollingwood? But how can it be all right? I thought you said …”
“It’s going to be all right.” Suddenly Stella shook herself free of the ministering hands and stood up. She went into the passage and came back, her duffel coat over her shoulder, her boots in hand. She moved over to the fireside chair and began to pull them on. Angela Foley watched her without speaking. Then Stella took from her jacket pocket a brown opened envelope and tossed it across. It fell on the velvet of the chaise longue.
“Oh, I meant to show you this.”
Puzzled, Angela took out the single folded sheet. She said: “Where did you find this?”
“I took it from Edwin’s desk when I was rummaging about for the will. I thought at the time that I might have a use for it. Now I’ve decided that I haven’t.”
“But, Star, you should have left it for the police to find! It’s a clue. They’ll have to know. This was probably what Edwin was doing that night, checking up. It’s important. We can’t keep it to ourselves.”
“Then you’d better go back to Postmill Cottage and pretend to find it, otherwise it’s going to be a bit embarrassing explaining how we came by it.”
“But the police aren’t going to believe that; they wouldn’t have missed it. I wonder when it arrived at the Lab. It’s odd that he took it home with him and didn’t even lock it up.”
“Why should he? There was only the one locked drawer in his desk. And I don’t suppose anyone, even his father, ever went into that room.”
“But Star, this could explain why he was killed! This could be a motive for murder.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. It’s just a gratuitous bit of spite, anonymous, proving nothing. Edwin’s death was both simpler, and more complicated, than that. Murder usually is. But the police might see it as a motive, and that would be convenient for us. I’m beginning to think I should have left it where it was.”
She had pulled on her boots and was ready to go. Angela Foley said: “You know who killed him, don’t you?”
“Does that shock you, that I haven’t rushed to confide in that extraordinarily personable Commander?”
Angela whispered: “What are you going to do?”
“Nothing. I’ve no proof. Let the police do the work they’re paid for. I might have had more public spirit when we had the death penalty. I’m not afraid of the ghosts of hanged men. They can stand at the four corners of my bed and howl all night if it pleases them. But I couldn’t go on living—I couldn’t go on working, which amounts to the same thing for me—knowing that I’d put another human being in prison, and for life.”
“Not really for life. About ten years.”
“I couldn’t stand it for ten days. I’m going out now. I shan’t be long.”
“But, Star, it’s nearly seven! We were going to eat.”
“The casserole won’t spoil.”
Angela Foley watched silently as her friend went to the door. Then she said: “Star, how did you know about Edwin practising his evidence the night before he had to go into the box?”
“If you didn’t tell me, and you say that you didn’t, then I must have invented it, I couldn’t have learnt it from anyone else. You’d better put it down to creative imagination.”
Her hand was on the door. Angela cried out: “Star, don’t go out tonight. Stay with me. I’m afraid.”
“For yourself, or for me?”
“For both of us. Please don’t go. Not tonight.”
Stella turned. She smiled and spread her hands in what could have been a gesture of resignation or a farewell. There was a howl of wind, a rush of cold air as the front door opened. Then the sound of its closing echoed through the cottage, and Stella was gone.
8
“My God, this is a dreary place!”
Massingham slammed the car door and gazed about in disbelief at the prospect before them. The lane, down which they had bumped in the fading light, had at last ended at a narrow iron bridge over a sluice, running grey and sluggish as oil, between high dikes. On the other bank was a derelict Victorian engine-house, the bricks tumbled in a disorderly heap beside the stagnant stream, the great wheel half visible through the ruined wall. Beside it were two cottages lying below water level. Behind them the scarred and sullen acres of the hedgeless fields stretched to the red and purple of the evening sky. The carcass of a petrified tree, a bog oak, struck by the plough and dredged from the depths of the peat, had been dumped beside the track to dry. It looked like some mutilated prehistoric creature raising its stumps to the uncomprehending sky. Although the last two days had been dry with some sun, the landscape looked saturated by the weeks of rain, the front gardens sour and waterlogged, the trunks of the few stunted trees sodden as pulp. It looked a country on which the sun could never shine.
As their feet rang on the iron bridge a solitary duck rose with an agitated squawking, but otherwise the silence was absolute.
There was a light behind the drawn curtains of only one of the cottages, and they walked between wind-blown clumps of faded Michaelmas daisies to the front door. The paint was peeling, the iron knocker was so stiff that Dalgliesh raised it with difficulty. For a few minutes after the dull peremptory thud there was silence. Then the door was opened.
They saw a drab, shallow-faced woman, aged about forty, with pale anxious eyes and untidy straw-coloured hair strained back under two combs. She was wearing a brown checked crimplene dress topped with a bulky cardigan in a harsh shade of blue.
As soon as he saw her, Massingham instinctively drew back with an apology, but Dalgliesh said: “Mrs. Meakin? We’re police officers. May we come in?”
She didn’t trouble to look at his proffered identity card. She hardly seemed surprised even. Without speaking she pressed herself against the wall of the passage and they passed before her into the sitting room. It was small and very plainly furnished, drearily tidy and uncluttered. The air smelt damp and chill. There was an electric reflector fire with one bar burning, and the single pendant bulb gave a harsh but inadequate light. A plain wooden table stood in the middle of the room, with four chairs. She was obviously about to start her supper. On a tray there was a plate of three fish fingers, a mound of mashed potato and peas. Beside it was an unopened carton containing an apple tart.
Dalgliesh said: “I’m sorry that we’re interrupting your meal. Would you like to take it into the kitchen to keep it warm?”
She shook her head and motioned them to sit down. They settled themselves round the table like three card players, the tray of food between them. The peas were exuding a greenish liquid in which the fish fingers were slowly congealing. It was hard to believe that so small a meal could produce so strong a smell. After a few seconds, as if conscious of it, she pushed the tray to one side.
Dalgliesh took out Doyle’s photograph and passed it across to her. He said: “I believe you spent some time on Wednesday evening with this man.”
“Mr. McDowell. He’s not in any trouble is he? You’re not private detectives? He was kind, a real gentleman, I wouldn’t like to get him into trouble.”
Her voice was low and rather toneless, Dalgliesh thought, a countrywoman’s voice. He said: “No, we’re not private detectives. He is in some trouble, but not because of you. We’re police officers. You can help him best by telling the truth. What we’re really interested in is when you first met him and how long you were together.”
She looked across at him. “You mean, a sort of alibi?”
“That’s right. A sort of alibi.”
“He picked me up where I usually stand, at the crossroads, about half a mile from Manea. That must have been about seven. Then we drove to a pub. They nearly always start off by buying me a drink. That’s the part I like, having someone to sit with in the pub, watching the people, hearing the voices and the noise. I usually have a sherry, or a port, maybe. If they ask me, I have a second. I never have got more than two drinks. Sometimes they’re in a hurry to get away so I only get offered the one.”
Dalgliesh asked quietly: “Where did he take you?”
“I don’t know where it was, but it was about thirty minutes’ drive. I could see him thinking where to go before he drove off. That’s how I know he lives locally. They like to get clear of the district where they’re known. I’ve noticed that, that and the quick look round they give before we go into the pub. The pub was called The Plough. I saw that from the illuminated sign outside. We were in the saloon bar, of course, quite nice really. They had a peat fire and there was a high shelf with a lot of different coloured plates round it and two vases of artificial roses behind the bar, and a black cat in front of the fire. The barman was called Joe. He was ginger-haired.”
“How long did you stay there?”
“Not long. I had two ports and he had two doubles of whisky. Then he said we ought to be going.”
“Where did he take you next, Mrs. Meakin?”
“I think it was Chevisham. I glimpsed the signpost at the crossroads just before we got there. We turned into the drive of this big house and parked under the trees. I asked who lived there, and he said no one, it was just for Government offices. Then he put out the lights.”
Dalgliesh said gently: “And you made love in the car. Did you get into the back seat, Mrs. Meakin?”
She was neither surprised nor distressed at the question. “No, we stayed in the front.”
“Mrs. Meakin, this is very important. Can you remember how long you were there?”
“Oh yes, I could see the clock on the dashboard. It was nearly quarter past nine when we arrived and we stayed there until just before ten. I know because I was a bit worried wondering whether he’d drop me at the end of the lane. That’s all I expected. I wouldn’t have wanted him to come to the door. But it can be awkward if I’m just left, miles from home. Sometimes it isn’t easy to get back.”
She spoke, thought Massingham, as if she were complaining about the local bus service.
Dalgliesh said: “Did anyone leave the house and come down the drive while you were in the car? Would you have noticed if they had?”
“Oh yes, I think so. I should have seen if they’d gone out through the space where the gate used to be. There’s a street light opposite and it shines on the drive.”
Massingham asked bluntly: “But would you have noticed? Weren’t you a bit occupied?”
Suddenly she laughed, a hoarse, discordant sound which startled them both. “Do you think I was enjoying myself? Do you suppose I like it?” Then her voice again became toneless, almost subservient. She said obdurately: “I should have noticed.”
Dalgliesh added: “What did you talk about, Mrs. Meakin?”
The question brightened her. She turned to Dalgliesh almost eagerly. “Oh, he’s got his troubles. Everyone has, haven’t they? Sometimes it helps to talk to a stranger, someone you know you won’t ever see again. They never do ask to see me again. He didn’t. But he was kind, not in a rush to get away. Sometimes they almost push me out of the car. That isn’t gentlemanly; it’s hurtful. But he seemed glad to talk. It was about his wife really. Not wanting to live in the country. She’s a London girl and keeps nagging him to get back there. She wants him to leave his job and go and work for her father. She’s at home with her parents now and he doesn’t know whether she’ll come back.”
“He didn’t tell you he was a police officer?”
“Oh no! He said he was a
dealer in antiques. He seemed to know quite a lot about them. But I don’t take much notice when they tell me about their jobs. Mostly they pretend.”
Dalgliesh said gently: “Mrs. Meakin, what you are doing is terribly risky. You know that, don’t you? Some day a man will stop who wants more than an hour or so of your time, someone dangerous.”
“I know. Sometimes when the car slows down and I’m standing there waiting at the side of the road, wondering what he’ll be like, I can hear my heart thudding. I know then that I’m afraid. But at least I’m feeling something. It’s better to be afraid than alone.”
Massingham said: “It’s better to be alone than dead.”
She looked at him. “You think so, sir? But then you don’t know anything about it, do you?”
Five minutes later they left, having explained to Mrs. Meakin that a police officer would call for her next day so that she could be taken to make a statement at Guy’s Marsh station. She seemed perfectly happy about this, only asking whether anyone at the factory need know. Dalgliesh reassured her.
When they had crossed the bridge, Massingham turned to look back at the cottage. She was still standing at the door, a thin figure silhouetted against the light. He said angrily: “God, it’s all so hopeless. Why doesn’t she get out of here, move to a town, Ely or Cambridge, see some life?”
“You sound like one of those professionals whose advice to the lonely is always the same: ‘Get out and meet people, join a club.’ Which, come to think of it, is precisely what she’s doing.”
“It would help if she got away from this place, found herself a different job.”
“What job? She probably thinks that she’s lucky to be employed. And this is at least a home. It takes youth, energy and money to change your whole life. She hasn’t any of those. All she can do is to keep sane in the only way she knows.”
“But for what? To end up another corpse dumped in a clunch pit?”
“Perhaps. That’s probably what she’s subconsciously looking for. There’s more than one way of courting death. She would argue that her way at least gives her the consolation of a warm, brightly lit bar and, always, the hope that, next time, it may be different. She isn’t going to stop because a couple of intruding policemen tell her that it’s dangerous. She knows about that. For God’s sake let’s get out of here.”
