by P. D. James
Which was all very well, thought Buckley, but in these cases if the criminal statistics were to be believed, it usually was the husband. Grogan might be keeping an open mind but he had no doubt whose name featured at the head of his list. He said: “They’ve got a cosy little set-up here, the Munters.”
“Haven’t they just? Nothing to do but fuss around Gorringe while he knocks up his little savouries, polish the antique silver and wait on each other. But he lied about at least one thing. Look back to that interview with Mrs. Chambers.”
Buckley thumbed back through his notebook. Mrs. Chambers and her granddaughter had been two of the first interviewed since the woman had demanded that she be returned to the mainland in time to cook her husband’s supper. She had been voluble, aggrieved and pugnacious, viewing the tragedy as one more trick of fate designed to cause domestic inconvenience. What chiefly concerned her was the waste of food; who, she had demanded, was going to eat a supper prepared for over a hundred? Buckley had been interested, thirty minutes later, to watch her waddling down to the launch with her granddaughter both lugging a couple of covered baskets. Some of the food, at least, would find its way down the gullets of the Chambers family. She and her granddaughter, a cheerful seventeen-year-old, apt to giggle in moments of emotion, had been busy, for the most part together or with Mrs. Munter, for the whole of the critical time. Buckley privately thought that Grogan had wasted too much time on them and had resented having to record the woman’s spate of irrelevances. He found the page at last and began to read, wondering if the old man was checking up on the accuracy of his shorthand.
“ ‘It’s disgusting, that’s what it is! I always say there’s nothing worse than being killed away from home and by strangers. There never was anything like this when I was a girl. It’s them mods on their motorcycles, that’s who it is. Great crowd of them came roaring into Speymouth last Saturday with their noisy smelly machines. Why don’t the police do something about it, that’s what I want to know? Why don’t you take their machines away and chuck them off the end of the pier, and their trousers too. That’d put a stop to it fast enough. Don’t you waste time interviewing decent law-abiding women. Go after them motorcycling mods.’ ”
Buckley broke off.
“That’s where you pointed out that even mods could hardly motorcycle to Courcy Island, and she replied darkly that they had their little ways, they were that cunning.”
Grogan said: “Not that part. A little earlier when she was rabbiting on about the domestic arrangements.”
Buckley flipped back a couple of pages.
“ ‘I’m always happy to oblige Mr. Munter. I don’t mind coming to the island for the odd day and bringing Debbie if wanted. And it wasn’t the girl’s fault if the glasses were smeary. They’ve no right to send them out like that. And Mr. Munter had no call to go on at Debbie like he did. It’s always the same when Lady Ralston’s here. He gets his knickers in a twist when she’s about, no mistake. We were here last Tuesday for the dress rehearsal and you never heard such goings on. Asking for this, asking for the other, nothing quite to her ladyship’s liking. And forty of the cast for lunch and tea, if you please. Everything had to be just so even if Mr. Gorringe wasn’t here. Took himself off to London, Mr. Munter said, and I don’t know as I blame him. Anyone would think she was mistress here. I said to Mr. Munter, I don’t mind helping out this time but if you’re going to be stuck with this palaver next year you can count me out. That’s what I said. Count me out. And he said not to worry. He reckoned that this would be the last play Lady Ralston would appear in on Courcy Island.’ ”
Buckley stopped reading and looked at Grogan. He told himself that he should have remembered that piece of evidence. He must have taken it down in a fugue of boredom. Black mark. His chief said quietly: “Yes, that’s it. That’s the passage I wanted. I’ll be asking Munter for an explanation of that remark when the time’s right, but not yet. It’s as well to keep a few unpleasant shocks in hand. I’ve no doubt that Mrs. Munter will be equally discreet when she obligingly confirms her husband’s story. But we’ll let the lady wait. I think it’s time to hear what Miss Lisle’s host has to say for himself. You’re a local man, Sergeant. What do you know of him?”
“Very little, sir. He opens the castle to visitors in the summer, but I imagine it’s a ploy to get tax relief on the maintenance. He keeps himself to himself, discourages publicity.”
“Does he now? He’ll get a bellyful of it before this case is finished. Put your head outside and ask Rogers to summon him with, of course, the usual compliments.”
6
Buckley thought that he had never seen a murder suspect as much at ease under questioning as Ambrose Gorringe. He sat back in the chair opposite Grogan, immaculate in his dinner jacket, and gazed across the desk with bright, interested eyes in which Buckley, occasionally glancing up from his notetaking, thought he could detect a gleam of amused contempt. Admittedly Gorringe was on his own ground, sitting, in fact, in his own chair. Buckley thought it rather a pity that the chief hadn’t deprived him of this psychological advantage by bundling the lot of them off to Speymouth station. But Gorringe was too calm for his own good. If the husband didn’t kill her, then here for his money was a close runner-up.
Now being formally questioned for the first time, he repeated without discrepancies the facts he had first briefly told them when they arrived on the island. He had known Miss Lisle from childhood—both their fathers had been in the diplomatic service and had been stationed for a time at the same embassies—but they had lost touch in recent years and had seen very little of each other until he had inherited the island from his uncle in 1977. The next year they had met at a theatrical first night and she had been invited to the island. He couldn’t now remember whether the suggestion had come from him or from Miss Lisle. From that visit and her enthusiasm for the Victorian theatre had flowed the decision to stage a play. He had known about the threatening messages since he had been with her when one of them was delivered, but she hadn’t confided that they were still arriving, nor had she told him that Miss Gray was a private detective, although he had suspected that she might be when she had confronted him with the woodcut pushed under Miss Lisle’s door. It had been their joint decision not to worry Miss Lisle either with that or with the news that the marble limb had been stolen. He admitted without apparent concern that he had no alibi for the crucial ninety-odd minutes between one-twenty and the discovery of the body. He had lingered over his coffee with Mr. Whittingham, gone to his room at about one-thirty, leaving Whittingham on the terrace, had rested for about fifteen minutes until it was time to change, and had left his room to go to the theatre shortly after two. Munter had been backstage and they had checked over the props together and discussed one or two matters relating to the after-show supper party. At about two-twenty they had gone together to meet the launch bringing the cast from Speymouth and he had been backstage in the male dressing room until about two-forty-five.
Grogan said: “And the marble limb? That was last seen by you when?”
“Didn’t I tell you, Chief Inspector? By me at about eleven-thirty last night when I went to check the tide timetable. I was interested to estimate how long the launches would take on Saturday afternoon and returning to Speymouth that night. The water can run strongly between here and the mainland. Munter saw it in place just after midnight. I found that it was missing and the lock forced when I went to the kitchen at six-fifty-five this morning.”
“And all the members of the house party had seen it and knew where it was kept.”
“All except Simon Lessing. He was swimming when the rest of the party were shown round the castle. As far as I know, he has never been near the business room.”
Grogan said: “What is the boy doing here, anyway? Shouldn’t he be at school? I take it that Miss Lisle—Lady Ralston—was buying him a privileged education, that he isn’t a day boy at the local comprehensive.”
The question could have sounded offens
ive, thought Buckley, if the carefully controlled voice had held a trace of emotion.
Gorringe replied, equally calmly.
“He’s at Melhurst. Miss Lisle wrote for special weekend leave. She may have thought that Webster would be educational. Unfortunately, the weekend has proved educational for the boy in ways she could hardly have foreseen.”
“A proper little mother to him, was she?”
“Hardly that. Miss Lisle’s maternal sense was, I should have thought, undeveloped. But she genuinely cared for the boy within her capacity. What you must understand about the victim in this case was that she enjoyed being kind, as indeed most of us do provided it doesn’t cost us too much.”
“And how much did Mr. Lessing cost her?”
“His school fees primarily. About £4,000 a year I suppose. She could afford it. It all began, I imagine, because she had a conscience about breaking up his parents’ marriage. If she did, it was quite unnecessary. The man had a choice presumably.”
“Simon Lessing must have resented the marriage, on his mother’s account if not his own. Unless, of course, he thought a rich step-mama a good exchange.”
“It was six years ago. He was barely eleven when his father walked out on him. And if you’re suggesting, without much subtlety I may say, that he resented it enough to bash in stepmama’s face, then he waited long enough to do it and he chose a singularly inappropriate time. Does Sir George Ralston know that you suspect Simon? He probably considers himself the boy’s stepfather. He’ll want to take steps to see that the boy’s interests are safeguarded if you’re going on with that somewhat ridiculous idea.”
“I never said that we suspected him. And, in view of the boy’s youth, I have agreed with Sir George that he shall be present when I speak to the boy. But Mr. Lessing is seventeen. He’s no longer a juvenile in law. I find these concerted measures to protect him interesting.”
“As long as you don’t find them sinister. He was extremely shocked when I broke the news to him. His own parents are dead. He was devoted to Clarissa. It’s natural that we should wish to minimize his pain. After all, you’re hardly here in the capacity of child-care officers.”
Grogan had scarcely glanced at his witness during this exchange. The unlined notepad which he preferred to the normal police issue was on the desk blotter in front of him, and he was sketching with his fountain pen. A careful oblong shape with two doors and two windows took shape under the huge speckled hand. Buckley saw that it was a representation of Clarissa Lisle’s bedroom, something between a plan and a drawing. The proportions of the room were carefully to scale but small objects were being inserted, over-large and carefully detailed as a child might draw them; the jars of cosmetics, a box of cotton, wool balls, the tea tray, the alarm clock. Suddenly and still without looking up, he asked: “What made you go to her room, sir?”
“Just after Miss Gray went to call her? Merely a chivalrous impulse. I thought that, as her host, it would be seemly if I escorted her to her dressing room. And there were things to be carried. Her makeup case for one. As we haven’t much dressing-room accommodation and she was having to share with Miss Collingwood who plays Cariola, Miss Collingwood had undertaken to be dressed and out before the star wanted the room, but Miss Lisle wasn’t going to risk anyone borrowing her greasepaint. So I went to carry the box and to escort the lady.”
“In the absence of her husband who would normally perform that service.”
“Sir George had just come in to change. We met at the top of the stairs as I’ve already explained.”
“You seem to have taken a lot of trouble for Miss Lisle.” He paused and added, “One way or another.”
“Walking her two hundred yards from her room to the theatre hardly counts as trouble.”
“But putting on the play for her, restoring the theatre, entertaining her guests. It must have been an expensive business.”
“I’m not a poor man, happily. And I thought that you were here to investigate a murder, not to inquire into my personal finances. The theatre, incidentally, was restored for my satisfaction, not Miss Lisle’s.”
“She wasn’t hoping that you might partly finance her next professional appearance? What’s the theatrical jargon, be her angel?”
“I’m afraid you’ve been gossiping to the wrong people. That particular angelic role has never attracted me. There are more amusing ways of losing money. But if you’re trying tactfully to suggest that I may have owed Miss Lisle a favour, you’re perfectly right. It was she who gave me the idea for Autopsy, my best seller, in case you’re one of the half-dozen who haven’t heard of it.”
“She didn’t write it for you, by any chance?”
“No, she didn’t write it. Miss Lisle’s talents were varied and egregious but they didn’t extend to the written word. The book was fabricated rather than written, by an unholy triumvirate of my publisher, my agent and myself. It was then suitably packaged, promoted and marketed. No doubt there are sins to be laid to Clarissa’s charge, but Autopsy isn’t one of them.”
Grogan let his pen drop from his hand. He leaned back in his chair and looked Gorringe full in the face. He said quietly: “You knew Miss Lisle from childhood. For the last six months or so you’ve been intimately concerned with this play. She came here as your guest. She was killed under your roof. However she died—and we shan’t know until after the post-mortem—the killer almost certainly used your marble to bash in her face. Are you sure that there is nothing you know, nothing you suspect, nothing she ever said to you that can throw any light on how she died?”
Put it any plainer, thought Buckley, and you’d have to be administering an official caution. He half expected Gorringe to reply that he would say nothing until he had seen his lawyer. But he spoke with the calm unconcern of a disinterested party who has been asked for his considered opinion and has no objection to giving it.
“My first thought—and it remains my theory—was that a trespasser had somehow gained access to the island knowing that my staff and I would be busy with preparations for the play and that the castle would be, as it were, undefended. He climbed up the fire escape, perhaps out of mischief or devilment and with no clear idea of what he meant to do. It could have been a young man.”
“The young usually hunt in gangs.”
“Several young men, then. Or a couple if you prefer it. One of them gets in with the general idea of a prowl round while the house is quiet. That supposes a local boy, one who knew about the play. He creeps into Miss Lisle’s room—she had forgotten to lock the communicating door or had thought the precaution unnecessary—and sees her apparently asleep on the bed. He is about to make his exit, with or without the jewel case, when she takes the pads off her eyes and sees him. In a panic he kills her, seizes the box and makes his escape the same way as he came in.”
Grogan said: “Having thoughtfully provided himself in advance with the marble hand, which according to your evidence must have been taken from the display case between midnight and six-fifty-five this morning.”
“No, I don’t think he came provided with anything except a general intention of mischief. My theory is that he found the weapon ready to hand—forgive the atrocious pun—on the bedside chest together, of course, with the quotation from the play.”
“And who are you suggesting put them there? The door to that room was locked, remember.”
“I don’t think there’s much mystery about that, surely. Miss Lisle did.”
Grogan said: “With the object of frightening herself into hysteria, or merely providing any potential murderer who might drop in with a convenient weapon?”
“With the object of providing herself with an excuse if she failed in the play. As I’m afraid she almost certainly would. Or she may have had more devious reasons. Miss Lisle’s complex personality was something of a mystery to me as it was, I suspect, to her husband.”
“And are you suggesting that this young, impulsive, unpremeditating killer then replaced the pads over his victim
’s eyes? That argues we have two complex personalities to elucidate.”
“He could have done. You’re the expert on murder, not I. But I could think of a reason if pushed. Perhaps she seemed to be staring up at him and his nerve broke. He had to cover those dead accusing eyes. The suggestion is a little over-imaginative perhaps, but not impossible. Murderers do behave oddly. Remember the Gutteridge case, Chief Inspector.”
Buckley’s hand jerked on his shorthand pad. He thought: “My God, is he doing it on purpose?” The small audacity must surely have been deliberate. But how could Gorringe have learned of the chief’s habit of referring to old cases? He glanced up, not at Grogan, but at Gorringe and met only a look of bland innocence. And it was to him that Gorringe spoke: “Long before your time, Sergeant. Gutteridge was the police constable shot by two car thieves in an Essex country lane in 1927. An ex-convict, Frederick Browne, and his accomplice, William Kennedy, were hanged for the crime. After killing him, one of them shot out both his eyes. It is thought that they were superstitious. They believed that the dead eyes of a murdered man, fixed on the killer’s face, will bear his visage imprinted on the pupils. I doubt whether any murderer willingly looks into his victim’s eyes. An interesting feature of an otherwise dull and sordid case.”
