by P. D. James
“Can he?”
“He can stop it being kept open. It’s the same thing. Don’t let anyone know I’ve told you. As I’ve said, it’s not official yet but, after all, you’ve worked here for eight years. I think you have a right to be warned.”
Tally managed to keep her voice steady. “Thank you for telling me, Muriel. No, I won’t say anything. When do you think it will be definite?”
“It’s as good as definite now. The new lease has to be signed by the fifteenth of November. That gives Mr. Marcus and Miss Caroline just over two weeks to persuade their brother to change his mind. He’s not going to change it.”
Two weeks. Tally murmured her thanks and made for the door. Walking back to the cottage she felt that her ankles were shackled, her shoulders bending under the physical weight. Surely they couldn’t throw her out in two weeks? Reason quickly took hold. It wouldn’t be like that, it couldn’t be. There would surely be weeks, probably months, even a year, before the new tenants moved in. All the exhibits and the furniture, their destination settled, would have to be moved out first, and that couldn’t be done in a hurry. She told herself that there would be plenty of time to decide what to do next. She didn’t deceive herself that any new tenants would be happy for her to stay in the cottage. They would need it for their own staff, of course they would. Nor did she deceive herself that her capital sum would buy her even a one-bedroom flat in London. She had invested it carefully but, with the recession, it was no longer increasing. It would be sufficient for a down payment but how could she, over sixty and with no assured income, qualify for or manage to afford a mortgage? But others had survived worse catastrophes; somehow she would too.
14
Nothing significant happened on Thursday and nothing was officially said about the future. None of the Dupaynes appeared and there was only a thin stream of visitors who seemed to Tally’s eyes a dispirited and isolated group who wandered around as if wondering what they were doing in the place. On Friday morning Tally opened the museum at eight o’clock as usual, silenced the alarm system and reset it, then switched on all the lights and began her inspection. As there had been few visitors the previous day, none of the first-floor rooms needed cleaning. The ground floor, which had the heaviest wear, was Ryan’s job. Now there were only finger-marks on some of the display cabinets to be eradicated, particularly in the Murder Room, and table-tops and chairs to be polished.
Muriel arrived as usual promptly at nine o’clock and the museum day began. A group of six academics from Harvard were due to come by appointment. The visit had been arranged by Mr. Calder-Hale who would show them round, but he had little interest in the Murder Room and it was usual for Muriel to be with a group for this part of the tour. Although he accepted that murder could indeed be both symbolic and representative of the age in which it was committed, he argued that this point could be made without dedicating the whole room to killers and their crimes. Tally knew that he refused to explain or elaborate on the exhibits to visitors and was adamant that the trunk should not be opened merely so that the supposed bloodstains could be examined by visitors avid for an additional shiver of horror.
Muriel had been at her most repressive. At ten o’clock she came to find Tally, who was behind the garage discussing with Ryan what shrubs ought to be cut back and whether Mrs. Faraday, still away, should be phoned for advice. Muriel had said, “I’ve got to leave the desk temporarily. I’m wanted in the Murder Room. If you’d only agree to have a mobile phone I could be sure of reaching you when you’re not in the cottage.”
Tally’s refusal to have a mobile phone was a long-standing grievance but she had stood firm. She abominated mobiles, not least because people had a habit of leaving them turned on in galleries and museums, and shouting meaningless chatter into them while she was on the bus sitting peacefully in her favourite seat at the front of the upper deck looking down on the passing show. She knew that her hatred of mobile phones went beyond these inconveniences. Irrationally but inescapably their ringing had replaced the insistent sound which had dominated her childhood and adult life, the jangling of the shop doorbell.
Sitting at the desk and issuing the small stick-on tickets that were Muriel’s way of keeping a toll of numbers, and hearing the subdued buzz of voices from the picture gallery, Tally’s heart lightened. The day reflected her mood. On Thursday the sky had pressed down on the city, impervious as a grey carpet, seeming to absorb its life and energy. Even on the edge of the Heath the air had tasted sour as soot. But by Friday morning the weather had changed. The air was still cold, but livelier. By midday a fresh wind was shaking the thin tops of the trees, moving among the bushes and scenting the air with the earthy smell of late autumn.
While she was at the desk, Mrs. Strickland, one of the volunteer helpers, arrived. She was an amateur calligrapher and came to the Dupayne on Wednesday and Friday to sit in the library and write any new notices required, fulfilling a triple purpose since she was competent to answer most of the visitors’ questions about the books and manuscripts as well as keeping a discreet eye on their comings and goings. At one-thirty Tally was called again to take over the desk while Muriel had her lunch in the office. Although the stream of visitors had thinned by then, the museum seemed livelier than it had for weeks. At two there had been a small queue. As she smiled a welcome and handed out change, Tally’s optimism grew. Perhaps after all a way of saving the museum would be found. But still nothing had been said.
Shortly before five o’clock all the visitors had gone and Tally returned for the last time to join Muriel on their tour of inspection. In old Mr. Dupayne’s time this had been her sole responsibility, but a week after Muriel’s arrival she had taken it on herself to join Tally, and Tally, instinctively knowing that it was in her interests not to antagonize Miss Caroline’s protégée, had not objected. Together as usual they went from room to room, locking the doors of the picture gallery and library, looking down into the basement archives room, which was always kept brightly lit because the iron staircase could be dangerous. All was well. No personal possessions had been left by the visitors. The leather covers over the glass exhibit cases had been conscientiously replaced. The few periodicals set out on the library table in their plastic covers required only to be put together in a tidier display. They turned the lights out after them.
Back in the main hall and gazing up at the blackness above the stairs, Tally wondered as she often did at the peculiar nature of the silent emptiness. For her the museum after five became mysterious and unfamiliar, as public places often do when everyone human has departed and silence, like an ominous and alien spirit, steals in to take possession of the night hours. Mr. Calder-Hale had left in late morning with his group of visitors, Miss Caroline had left by four and shortly afterwards Ryan had collected his day’s wages and set off on foot for Hampstead underground station. Now only Tally, Muriel and Mrs. Strickland remained. Muriel had offered to give Mrs. Strickland a lift to the station and by five-fifteen, a little earlier than usual, she and her passenger had left. Tally watched as the car disappeared down the drive, then set off to walk through the darkness to her cottage.
The wind was rising now in erratic gusts, stripping her mind of the optimism of the daylight hours. Battling against it down the east end of the house, she wished she had left the lights on in the cottage. Since Muriel’s arrival she had taught herself to be economical, but the heating and lighting of the cottage were on a separate circuit from the museum and, although no complaint had been made, Tally knew that the bills were scrutinized. And Muriel was, of course, right. Now more than ever it was important to save money. But approaching the dark mass she wished that the sitting-room light was shining out through the curtains to reassure her that this was still her home. At the door she paused to look out over the expanse of the Heath to the distant glitter of London. Even when darkness fell and the Heath was a black emptiness under the night sky, it was still her beloved and familiar place.
There was a rustle in the
bushes and Tomcat appeared. Without any demonstration of affection, or indeed acknowledgement of her presence, he ambled up the path and sat waiting for her to open the door.
Tomcat was a stray. Even Tally had to admit that no one would be likely to acquire him by choice. He was the largest cat she had ever seen, a particularly rich ginger with a flat square face in which one eye was set a little lower than the other, huge paws on squat legs and a tail which he seemed doubtfully aware was his since he seldom used it to demonstrate any emotion other than displeasure. He had emerged from the Heath the previous winter and had sat outside the door for two days until, probably unwisely, Tally had put out a saucer of cat food. This he had eaten in hungry gulps and had then stalked through the open door into the sitting-room and taken possession of a fireside chair. Ryan, who had been working that day, had eyed him warily from the door.
“Come in, Ryan. He’s not going to attack you. He’s only a cat. He can’t help his looks.”
“But he’s so big. What are you going to call him?”
“I haven’t thought. Ginger and Marmalade are too obvious. Anyway, he’ll probably go away.”
“He doesn’t look as if he means to go away. Aren’t ginger cats all toms? You could call him Tomcat.”
Tomcat he remained.
The reaction of the Dupaynes and the museum staff, voiced as they encountered him over the next few weeks, had been unenthusiastic. Disapproval had spoken plainly in Marcus Dupayne’s voice: “No collar, which suggests he wasn’t particularly valued. I suppose you could advertise for the owner but they’ll probably be glad to have seen the last of him. If you keep him, Tally, try to ensure that he doesn’t get into the museum.”
Mrs. Faraday had viewed him with the disapproval of a gardener, merely saying that she supposed it would be impossible to keep him off the lawn, such as it was. Mrs. Strickland had said, “What an ugly cat, poor creature! Wouldn’t it be kinder to put it down? I don’t think you should encourage it, Tally. It might have fleas. You won’t let it near the library, will you? I’m allergic to fur.”
Tally hadn’t expected Muriel to be sympathetic, and nor was she. “You’d better see that he doesn’t get into the museum. Miss Caroline would strongly dislike it and I’ve enough to do without having to keep an eye on him. And I hope you’re not thinking of installing a cat-flap in the cottage. The next occupant probably won’t want it.”
Only Neville Dupayne seemed not to notice him.
Tomcat quickly established a routine. Tally would feed him when she first got up and he would then disappear, rarely to be seen again until the late afternoon, when he would sit outside the door waiting to be admitted for his second meal. After that he would again absent himself until nine o’clock, when he would demand to be let in, occasionally condescending to sit briefly on Tally’s lap, and would then occupy his usual chair until Tally was ready for bed and would put him out for the night.
Opening the tin of pilchards, his favourite food, she found herself unexpectedly glad to see him. Feeding him was part of her daily routine and now, with the future uncertain, routine was a comforting assurance of normality and a small defence against upheaval. So, too, would her evening be. Shortly she would set off for her weekly evening class on the Georgian architecture of London. It was held at six o’clock each Friday at a local school. Every week, promptly at five-thirty, she would set out to cycle there, arriving early enough for a cup of coffee and a sandwich in the noisy anonymity of the canteen.
At half-past five, in happy ignorance of the horrors ahead, she put out the lights, locked the cottage door and, wheeling her bicycle from the garden shed, she switched on and adjusted its single light and set off cycling energetically down the drive.
BOOK TWO
The First Victim
FRIDAY 1 NOVEMBER–TUESDAY 5 NOVEMBER
1
The neat handwritten notice on the door of Room Five confirmed what Tally had already suspected from the absence of people in the corridor: the class had been cancelled. Mrs. Maybrook had been taken ill but hoped to be there next Friday. Tonight Mr. Pollard would be happy to include students in his class on Ruskin and Venice at six o’clock in Room Seven. Tally felt disinclined to cope even for an hour with a new subject, a different lecturer and unfamiliar faces. This was the final and minor disappointment in a day which had begun so promisingly with intermittent sunshine reflecting a growing hope that all might yet be well, but which had changed with the onset of darkness. A strengthening erratic wind and an almost starless sky had induced an oppressive sense that nothing would come to good. And now there was this fruitless journey. She returned to the deserted bicycle shed and unlocked the padlock on the wheel of her machine. It was time to get back to the familiar comfort of the cottage, to a book or a video; back to Tomcat’s undemanding if self-serving companionship.
Never before had she found the ride home so tiring. It wasn’t only that the gusting wind caught her unawares. Her legs had become leaden, the bicycle a heavy encumbrance which it took all her strength to push forward. It was with relief that, after waiting for a short procession of cars to pass along Spaniards Road, she crossed and began pedalling down the drive. Tonight it seemed endless. The darkness beyond the smudge of the lights was almost palpable, choking her breath. She bent low over the handlebars, watching the circle of light from her bicycle lamp sway over the tarmac like a will-o’-the-wisp. Never before had she found the darkness frightening. It had become something of an evening routine to walk through her small garden to the edge of the Heath, to savour the earthy smell of soil and plants intensified by the darkness and watch the distant shivering lights of London, more harshly bright than the myriad pinpoints in the arc of the sky. But tonight she would not go out again.
Turning the final bend which brought the house into view, she braked to a sudden stop in a confusion of horror—sight, smell and sound, combining to make her heart leap and begin thudding as if it would explode and tear her apart. Something to the left of the museum was burning. Either the garage or the garden shed was on fire. And then for a few seconds the world disintegrated. A large car was driving fast towards her, the headlights blinding her eyes. It was upon her before she had time to move, even to think. Instinctively she clutched the handlebars and felt the shock of the impact. The bicycle spun from her grasp and she was being lifted in a confusion of light and sound and tangled metal to be flung on the grass verge under the bicycle’s spinning wheels. She lay for a few seconds temporarily stunned and too confused to move. Even thought was paralysed. Then her mind took hold and she tried to shift the machine. She found to her surprise that she could, that arms and legs had power. She was bruised but not seriously hurt.
She got with difficulty to her feet, clutching the bicycle. The car had stopped. She was aware of a man’s figure, of a voice that said, “I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”
Even in that moment of stress his voice made its impact, a distinctive voice which in other circumstances she would have found reassuring. The face bending down to hers was distinctive too. Under the dim lights of the drive she saw him clearly for a few seconds, fair-haired, handsome, the eyes alight with a desperate appeal.
She said, “I’m perfectly all right, thank you. I wasn’t actually riding and I fell on the grass.” She reiterated, “I’m all right.”
He had spoken with passionate concern but now she couldn’t miss his frantic need to get away. He barely waited to hear her speak before he was gone, running back to the car. At the car door he turned. Gazing back at the flames which were leaping higher, he called back to her, “It looks as if someone’s lit a bonfire.” And then, in a rush of sound, the car was gone.
In the confusion of the moment and her desperate anxiety to get to the blaze, to call the Fire Brigade, she didn’t ask herself who he could be and why, with the museum shut, he was there at all. But his last words had a dreadful resonance. Speech and image fused in a moment of appalled recognition. They were the words of the murderer Alfred Arth
ur Rouse, walking calmly away from the blazing car in which his victim was burning to death.
Trying to mount, Tally found that the bicycle was useless. The front wheel had buckled. She flung the machine back on to the grass verge and began running towards the blaze, her thudding heart a drumbeat accompaniment to her pounding feet. She saw even before she reached the garage that here was the seat of the fire. The roof was still burning and the tallest flames came from the small group of silver birch trees to the right of the garage. Her ears were full of sound, the gushing wind, the hiss and crackle of the fire, the small explosions like pistol shots as the top branches cast off burning twigs like fireworks to flame for a moment against the dark sky before falling spent around her feet.
At the open door of the garage she stood rooted in terror. She cried aloud, “Oh no! Dear God no!” The anguished cry was tossed aside by a renewed gust of wind. She could gaze only for a few seconds before closing her eyes, but the horror of the scene could not be blotted out. It was imprinted now on her mind and she knew it would be there forever. She had no impulse to dash in and try to save; there was no one there to save. The arm, stuck out of the open car door as stiff as the arm of a scarecrow, had once been flesh, muscle and veins and warm pulsing blood, but was so no longer. The blackened ball seen through the shattered windscreen, the fixed snarl of teeth gleaming whitely against the charred flesh, had once been a human head. It was human no more.
There came into her mind a sudden vivid picture, a drawing once seen in her books about London, of the heads of executed traitors stuck on poles above London Bridge. The memory brought a second of disorientation, a belief that this moment was not here and now but a hallucination coming out of the centuries in a jumble of real and imagined horror. The moment passed and she took hold of reality. She must telephone for the Fire Brigade, and quickly. Her body seemed a dead weight clamped to the earth, her muscles rigid as iron. But that too passed.
