Unnatural Causes

by P. D. James

  The third way of access to the beach was by Sinclair’s steps. These were only some fifty yards from the bottom of Tanner’s Lane and they led to a small secluded cove where the cliffs, taller here than at any other point, had been crumbled and eroded by the sea into a gentle curve. This was the only part of the beach where the killer—if killer there were—could have worked on the corpse without fear of being watched either from the north or south. Only in the unlikely event of one of the local inhabitants deciding to take a late walk along the shore would there be danger of discovery; and in this place, once dusk had fallen, the countryman did not choose to walk alone on the shore.

  Priory House was behind Dalgliesh now and he had come to the thin beech wood which fringed Tanner’s Lane. Here the earth was brittle with fallen leaves and through the lattice of the bare boughs there was a haze of blue which could have been sky or sea. The wood ended suddenly and Dalgliesh clambered over a stile and dropped into the lane. Immediately before him was the squat, red-bricked cottage where Sylvia Kedge had lived alone since the death of her mother. It was an ugly building, as uncompromisingly square as a doll’s house with its four small windows, each heavily curtained. The gate and the front door had been widened, presumably to take the girl’s wheelchair, but the change had done nothing to improve the proportions of the house. No attempt had been made to prettify it. The diminutive front garden was a dark patch cut in two by a gravel path; the paint on doors and windows was a thick, institutional brown. Dalgliesh thought that there must have been a tanner’s cottage here for generations, each built a little higher up the lane until it too crumbled or was swept away in the great storms. Now this square, red, twentieth-century box stood firm to take its chance against the sea. Obeying an impulse, Dalgliesh pushed open the garden gate and walked up the path. Suddenly his ears caught a sound. Someone else was exploring. Round the corner of the house came the figure of Elizabeth Marley. Unembarrassed, she gave him a cool glance and said: “Oh, it’s you! I thought I heard someone snooping around. What do you want?”

  “Nothing. I snoop by nature. Whereas you, presumably, were looking for Miss Kedge?”

  “Sylvia’s not here. I thought she might be in her little dark room at the back but she isn’t. I’ve come with a message from my aunt. Ostensibly she wants to make sure that Sylvia’s all right after the shock of last night. Really, she wants her to come and take dictation before Oliver Latham or Justin nab her. There’s going to be great competition for La Kedge, and I’ve no doubt she’ll make the most of it. They all like the idea of having a private secretary on call for two bob a thousand words, carbons supplied.”

  “Is that all Seton paid her? Why didn’t she leave?”

  “She was devoted to him, or pretended to be. She had her own reasons for staying, I suppose. After all, it wouldn’t be easy for her to find a flat in town. It’ll be interesting to know what she’s been left in the will. Anyway, she enjoyed posing as the loyal, overworked little helpmeet who would be so happy to transfer to auntie if only it didn’t mean letting poor Mr. Seton down. My aunt never saw through it, of course. But then, she’s not particularly intelligent.”

  “Whereas you have us all neatly catalogued. But you’re not suggesting that someone killed Maurice Seton to get his shorthand typist?”

  She turned on him furiously, her heavy face blotched with anger. “I don’t care a damn who killed him or why! I only know that it wasn’t Digby Seton. I met him off that train Wednesday night. And if you’re wondering where he was on Tuesday night, I can tell you. He told me on the drive home. He was locked up in West Central Police Station from eleven o’clock onwards. They picked him up drunk and he came before the Magistrate on Wednesday morning. So, luckily for him, he was in police custody from eleven o’clock on Tuesday night until nearly midday on Wednesday. Break that alibi if you can, Superintendent.”

  Dalgliesh pointed out mildly that the breaking of alibis was Reckless’s business, not his. The girl shrugged, dug her fists into her jacket pockets and kicked shut the gate of Tanner’s Cottage. She and Dalgliesh walked up the lane together in silence. Suddenly she said: “I suppose the body was brought down this lane to the sea. It’s the easiest way to where Sheldrake was beached. The killer would have had to carry it for the last hundred yards, though. The lane’s much too narrow for a car or even a motorcycle. He could have got it by car as far as Coles’s meadow and parked the car on the grass verge. There were a couple of plainclothes men there when I came past, looking for tyre marks. They won’t get much joy. Someone left the gate open last night and Coles’s sheep were all over the lane this morning.”

  This, as Dalgliesh knew, was not unusual. Ben Coles, who farmed a couple of hundred unproductive acres on the east of the Dunwich road, did not keep his gates in the best of repair and his sheep, with the blind perversity of their kind, were as often in Tanner’s Lane as in their own meadow. At tripper time the lane became a shambles when the bleating flock in full cry mingled with the herd of horn-happy motorists frantically trying to edge each other out of the only parking space in the lane. But that open gate might have been highly convenient for someone; Coles’s sheep in their happy scamperings might have been following an old local tradition. It was well known that, in the smuggling days, the flocks were driven nightly along the sheep paths which crossed the Westleton marshes so that all traces of horses’ hoofs were obliterated before the Excise Officers made their morning search.

  They walked on together until they came to the stile which gave access to the northern half of Monksmere Head. Dalgliesh was pausing to say goodbye when the girl suddenly blurted: “I suppose you think I’m an ungrateful bitch. She makes me an allowance, of course. Four hundred pounds a year in addition to my grant. But I expect you know that. Most people here seem to.”

  There was no need to ask whom she meant. Dalgliesh could have replied that Celia Calthrop was not the woman to let her generosities go unremarked. But he was surprised by the amount. Miss Calthrop made no secret of the fact that she had no private income—”Poor little me. I’m a working girl. I earn every penny I get”—but it was not therefore assumed that she lacked money. Her sales were large and she worked hard, incredibly hard by the standards of Latham or Bryce who were apt to assume that dear Celia had only to lean back in a comfortable armchair with her tape recorder on and her reprehensible fiction would gush forth in an effortless and highly rewarding stream. It was easy to be unkind about her books. But if one were buying affection, and the price of even a reluctant toleration was a Cambridge education and £400 a year, much might be necessary. A novel every six months; a weekly stint in Home and Hearth; appearances whenever her agent could get them on those interminably boring television panels; short stories written under one name or another for the women’s weeklies; the gracious appearances at church bazaars where the publicity was free even if the tea had to be paid for. He felt a spasm of pity for Celia. The vanities and ostentations which were such a source of amused contempt to Latham and Bryce suddenly appeared no more than the pathetic trappings of a life both lonely and insecure. He wondered whether she had really cared for Maurice Seton. And he wondered, too, whether she was mentioned in Seton’s will.

  Elizabeth Marley seemed in no hurry to leave him and it was difficult to turn away from that resolutely persistent figure. He was used to being a confidant. That, after all, was part of his job. But he wasn’t on duty now and he knew well that those who confided most were apt to regret it soonest. Besides, he had no real wish to discuss Celia Calthrop with her niece. He hoped the girl didn’t intend to walk all the way to Seton House with him. Looking at her he could see where at least some of that £400 allowance went. Her fur-lined jacket was real leather. The pleated skirt of thin tweed looked as if it had been tailored for her. Her shoes were sturdy but they were also elegant. He remembered something he had once heard Oliver Latham say, he couldn’t remember when or why: “Elizabeth Marley has a passion for money. One finds it rather engaging in this age when we’re
all so busy pretending to have minds above mere cash.”

  She was leaning back against the stile now, effectively blocking his way. “She got me to Cambridge, of course. You can’t do that without either money or influence if you’re only moderately intelligent like me. It’s all right for the alpha people. Everyone’s glad to get them. For the rest of us it’s a matter of the right school, the right crammers and the right names on your application form. Aunt could manage even that. She has a real talent for making use of people. She’s never afraid of being a vulgar nuisance which makes it easier of course.”

  “Why do you dislike her so much?” enquired Dalgliesh.

  “Oh, it’s nothing personal. Although we haven’t much in common, have we? It’s her work. The novels are bad enough. Thank God we haven’t the same name. People are pretty tolerant at Cambridge. If, like the waterman’s wife, she was a receiver of stolen property under guise of keeping a brothel no one would care a damn. And nor would I. But that column she writes. It’s utterly humiliating! Worse even than the books. You know the kind of muck.” Her voice rose to a sickly falsetto. “Don’t give in to him, dear. Men are only after one thing.”

  In Dalgliesh’s view men, including himself, frequently were but he thought it prudent not to say so. Suddenly he felt middle-aged, bored and irritated. He had neither wanted nor expected company and if his solitude had to be disturbed he could have named more agreeable companions than this peevish and dissatisfied adolescent. He hardly heard the rest of her complaint. She had dropped her voice and the words were blown from him on the freshening breeze. But he caught the final mutterings. “It’s so completely amoral in the real sense of the term. Virginity as a carefully preserved bait for eligible males. In this day and age!”

  “I haven’t much sympathy with that point of view myself,” Dalgliesh said. “But then, as a man, your aunt would no doubt consider me prejudiced. But at least it’s realistic. And you can hardly blame Miss Calthrop for dishing out the same advice week after week when she gets so many letters from the readers wishing they’d taken it in the first place.”

  The girl shrugged: “Naturally she has to adopt the orthodox line. The hag rag wouldn’t employ her if she dared to be honest. Not that I think she knows how. And she needs that column. She hasn’t any money except what she earns and the novels can’t go on selling for ever.”

  Dalgliesh caught the note of anxiety in her voice. He said brutally: “I shouldn’t worry. Her sales won’t fall. She writes about sex. You may not like the packaging but the basic commodity will always be in demand. I should think your £400 is safe for the next three years.”

  For a moment he thought she was going to smack his face. Then surprisingly, she gave a shout of laughter and moved away from the stile. “I deserved that! I’ve been taking myself too seriously. Sorry for boring you. You’re on your way to Seton House, I suppose?”

  Dalgliesh said that he was and asked if he should give any message to Sylvia Kedge if she were there.

  “Not to Sylvia. Why should you pimp for Auntie? No, it’s to Digby. Just to say that there will be meals for him at the cottage until he gets fixed up if he cares to come. It’s only cold meat and salad today so he won’t be missing much if he can’t make it. But I don’t suppose he’ll want to depend on Sylvia. They hate each other. And don’t get any wrong ideas, Superintendent. I may be willing to drive Digby home and feed with him for a day or two. But that’s as far as it goes. I’m not interested in pansies.”

  “No,” said Dalgliesh. “I wouldn’t suppose that you were.” For some reason she blushed. She was turning away when, prompted by no more than mild curiosity, Dalgliesh said: “One thing intrigues me. When Digby Seton telephoned to ask you to meet him at Saxmundham, how did he know you weren’t at Cambridge?”

  She turned back and met his gaze without embarrassment or fear. She didn’t even appear to resent the question. Instead, to his surprise, she laughed. “I wondered how long it would be before someone asked that. I might have known it would be you. The answer’s simple. I met Digby in London, quite by chance, on Tuesday morning. At Piccadilly Underground to be precise. I stayed in London that night and on my own. So I probably haven’t an alibi … Are you going to tell Inspector Reckless? But of course you are.”

  “No,” replied Dalgliesh. “You are.”

  11

  Maurice Seton had been fortunate in his architect and his house had that characteristic of all good domestic building: it seemed indigenous to its site. The grey stone walls curved from the heather to buttress the highest point of Monksmere Head, with a view north over Sole Bay and south over the marshes and the bird reserve as far as Sizewell Gap. It was an unpretentious and agreeable building, double-storeyed and L-shaped, and built only fifty yards from the cliff edge. Presumably, these elegant walls, like those of Sinclair’s sturdy bastion, would one day crumble into the North Sea, but there seemed no immediate danger of it. The cliffs here had a strength and height which gave some hope of permanence. The long arm of the L faced south-east and was composed almost entirely of double-glazed windows which opened on to a terrace of paved stones. Here Seton had taken a hand in the planning. Dalgliesh thought it unlikely that the architect had chosen to set up the two ornate urns which marked the ends of the terrace and in which a couple of bushes, their boughs contorted by the cold winds of the Suffolk coast, were failing to thrive, nor the pretentious sign swinging between two low posts on which the words “Seton House” were carved in Gothic lettering.

  It didn’t need the car parked at the terrace edge to tell Dalgliesh that Reckless was there. He could see no one, but he knew that his approach was being watched. The tall windows seemed full of eyes. One of them was ajar. Dalgliesh drew it open and stepped into the living room.

  It was like walking onto a stage set. Every corner of the long, narrow room was warm with light as if bathed in the glare of arc lamps. It was a modern set. From centre back an open staircase curved to the upper storey. Even the furniture—contemporary, functional and expensive-looking—added to the air of impermanence and unreality. Almost the whole of the window space was taken up with Seton’s desk, an ingeniously designed fitment with a complex of drawers, cupboards and bookcases spreading each side of the central working surface. It had probably been made to the owner’s specification, a functional status symbol in light polished oak. On the pale grey walls there were two popular Monet prints unimaginatively framed.

  The four people who turned to watch unsmiling as Dalgliesh stepped over the window sill were as immobile and carefully disposed about the room as actors who have taken up their pose ready for the curtains to rise. Digby Seton was lying on a couch placed diagonally across the centre of the room. He was wearing a mauve dressing gown of artificial silk over red pyjamas and might have looked more the part of romantic lead had it not been for the cap of grey stockinette which fitted close to his head and came down level to his eyebrows. The modern method of bandaging is effective but scarcely becoming. Dalgliesh wondered whether Seton had a temperature. He would hardly have been discharged from hospital unfit and Reckless, who was neither inexperienced nor a fool, would have telephoned the doctor to make sure that the man was fit to be questioned. But his eyes were unnaturally bright and a red moon burnt high on each cheekbone so that he looked like a gaudy circus clown, a bizarre focus of interest against the grey couch. Inspector Reckless sat at the desk with Sergeant Courtney by his side. In this morning light Dalgliesh saw the boy clearly for the first time and was struck by his pleasant good looks. He had the type of honest, open face which looks out of advertisements extolling the advantages of a career in banking for the intelligent and ambitious young man. Well, Sergeant Courtney had chosen the police. In his present mood Dalgliesh thought it rather a pity.

  The fourth player was hardly on stage. Through the open door which led to the drawing room Dalgliesh caught a glimpse of Sylvia Kedge. She was sitting at the table in her wheelchair. There was a tray of silver in front of her and she was en
gaged in polishing a fork with as little enthusiasm as a bit player who knows that the attention of the audience is elsewhere. She lifted her eyes momentarily to Dalgliesh and he was shocked by the misery in her drawn face. She looked very ill. Then she bent again to her task. Digby Seton heaved his legs from the couch, walked deliberately to the dining-room door and prodded it gently shut with his stockinged foot. None of the policemen spoke.

  Seton said: “Sorry and all that. Don’t want to be rude, but she gives me the willies. Damn it all, I’ve said I’ll pay her the £300 Maurice left her! Thank God you’ve come, Superintendent! Are you taking over the case?”

  It could hardly have been a worse beginning. Dalgliesh said: “No. It’s nothing to do with the Yard. Surely Inspector Reckless has explained to you by now that he’s the officer in charge?”

  He felt that Reckless deserved that snide innuendo. Seton protested: “But I thought they always called in the Yard to tricky cases of murder?”

  “What makes you think this is a case of murder?” asked Reckless. He was slowly sorting out papers from the desk and did not turn to Seton as he spoke. His voice was quiet, unemphatic, almost uninterested.

  “Well, isn’t it? You tell me. You’re the experts. But I don’t see how Maurice could have cut off his own hands. One perhaps, but hardly two. If that’s not murder, then what is it? And damn it all, you’ve got a Scotland Yard chap on the spot.”