by P. D. James
Staveley said quietly, “He was terrified.”
Maycroft went on, “There was one rather odd thing. It looked to me as if Oliver had burnt some papers before he went out this morning. There was a heap of ash and some blackened remnants in the sitting-room grate.”
Emily said, “Did Miranda or Tremlett mention it? Did you?”
“No, it didn’t seem the right time, particularly as they said nothing.”
Emily said, “I doubt whether the police will allow them to be so uncommunicative.”
Guy Staveley made no comment. After a few seconds, Maycroft spoke to Emily Holcombe. “Miss Oliver insisted on seeing the body. I tried to dissuade her but I didn’t feel I had the right to forbid her. The three of us went to the sickroom together. Guy pulled back the covering sheet to just under the chin, so that the mark of the rope was concealed. Miss Oliver insisted that he pull it down further. She looked at the marks intently and then said ‘Thank you’ and turned away. She didn’t touch him. Guy covered him up again and we left.”
Emily said, “The police may feel that you should have been firmer.”
“No doubt. They have authority I lack. I agree that it would have been better if I’d been able to dissuade her, but I don’t see how. He looked . . . Well, you know how he looked, Emily. You saw.”
“Only briefly, thank God. What I should like some advice on is how we respond to questioning. Obviously we tell the truth, but how much of the truth? For example, if Commander Dalgliesh asks whether Miranda Oliver’s grief for her father is genuine, what do we reply?”
Here Maycroft felt he was on firmer ground. “We can’t speak for other people. Certainly he’ll see her. He can make up his own mind, he’s a detective.”
Emily said, “Personally I don’t see how it can be. The girl was a slave to her father—so was Tremlett, if you ask me, but the relationship there is somewhat more complex. He’s supposed to be a copy-editor and personal assistant, but I think he does a great deal more than copy-editing. Oliver’s last novel, The Gravedigger’s Daughter, was respectfully but unenthusiastically received. Hardly vintage Nathan Oliver. Wasn’t that the book he finished while Tremlett was in hospital, when they were trying to do something about his leg? Incidentally, what’s wrong with it?”
Staveley’s voice was curt. “Polio when he was a child. It left him lame.”
Maycroft turned to Emily Holcombe. “You’re not suggesting that Tremlett writes the novels?”
“Of course he doesn’t write them. Nathan Oliver does. I’m suggesting that Tremlett fulfils a more important role in Oliver’s life than copy-editing, however meticulously, that and dealing with his fan letters. Gossip has it that Oliver refused ever to be edited by his publishers. Did he need to be? He had Tremlett. And what about Oliver himself? Surely there’s no point in pretending that he was a welcome or agreeable guest. I doubt whether there’s anyone on the island who actually wishes he were still alive.”
Guy Staveley had been silent. Now he said, “I think it would be sensible to defer discussion until Jo arrives. She shouldn’t be long. Adrian will tell her we’re meeting here.”
Emily Holcombe said, “Why do we need her? This was supposed to be a meeting of the permanent residents other than supporting staff. Jo hardly qualifies as a full-time resident.”
Guy Staveley said quietly, “She qualifies as my wife.”
“Also in a somewhat part-time capacity.”
Staveley’s grey face suffused with scarlet. He shifted in his chair as if about to rise but, at an appealing glance from Maycroft, sank back.
Maycroft said quietly, “We won’t get anywhere if we’re at each other’s throats even before the police arrive. I asked Jo to be with us, Emily. We’ll give her another five minutes.”
“Where is she?”
“At Peregrine Cottage. I know that Miranda said that she wanted to be left alone, but Guy and I both felt that she might like to have a woman with her. There could be delayed shock. After all, Jo is a trained nurse. She’ll go straight back there after we’ve talked if she feels there’s anything she can do to help. Miranda might like her to stay in the cottage tonight.”
“In Nathan’s bed? I hardly think so!”
Maycroft persisted. “Miranda ought not to be alone, Emily. I did suggest when Guy and I went to break the news that she might like to move into the house. We’ve got the two empty suites. She was vehemently against the idea. It’s a problem. She may agree to let Jo stay. Jo has said she wouldn’t mind spending the night in an armchair in the sitting room if it would help.”
Emily Holcombe held out her glass. Maycroft went over to the sherry decanter. “I’m grateful you didn’t think of calling on me to provide feminine consolation. Since I take the view that this island—which is my chief concern—will be happier without the periodic intrusion of Nathan Oliver, I would have found it difficult to voice the customary insincerities.”
Maycroft said, “I hope you won’t express that view so bluntly to Commander Dalgliesh.”
“If he’s as clever as by reputation he’s reported to be, I won’t need to.”
It was then that they heard footsteps. The door opened and Joanna Staveley was with them. For Maycroft, as always, she brought with her an enlivening inrush of confident sexuality which he found more appealing than disturbing. The thick blonde hair with its narrow strip of darker roots was bound back with a blue silk scarf, giving the tanned face a look of naked guilelessness. Her strong thighs were tightly enclosed in blue jeans, her denim jacket was open over a tee-shirt enclosing unencumbered breasts. Beside her vitality her husband looked a discouraged, ageing man, and even the fine bones of Emily’s handsome face looked as stripped and sharp as a death’s-head. Maycroft remembered something Emily had said when Jo returned to the island. “It’s a pity we don’t go in for amateur theatricals. Jo is typecast as a blonde, golden-hearted barmaid.” But Jo Staveley did have a heart; he was less sure of Emily Holcombe.
Jo plonked herself down in the empty armchair and stretched out her legs with a sigh of relief. She said, “Thank God that’s over. The poor kid didn’t really want me there, and why the hell should she? It’s not as if we know each other. I’ve left two sleeping pills and told her to take them tonight with a warm milky drink. She won’t leave the cottage, she was adamant about that. Is that bottle your usual Merlot, Rupert? Pour it for me, will you, ducky? Just what I need.”
Pouring a glass of the wine and handing it to her, Maycroft said, “I’ve just been saying that I’m not happy for her to be alone in that cottage tonight.”
“She won’t be. She says Dennis Tremlett will move in with her. She’ll sleep in her father’s bed and he’ll have hers.”
Emily said, “If that’s what she wants, it’s a solution. In the circumstances this is hardly a time for proprieties.”
Jo laughed. “They’re not worried about proprieties! They’re having an affair. Don’t ask me how they manage it, but they are.”
Staveley’s voice sounded unnaturally sharp. “Are you sure, Jo? Did they tell you?”
“They didn’t need to. Five minutes in the same room with them and it was obvious. They’re lovers.” She turned to Emily Holcombe. “It’s a pity you didn’t go with the chaps to break the news, Emily. You’d have seen the situation quickly enough.”
Emily said dryly, “Very likely. Old age has not entirely blunted my perceptions.”
Watching them, Maycroft caught the quick glance between them—one, he thought, of amused female complicity. The two women could hardly be more different. He had thought that if either had a strong feeling about the other it would have been of dislike. Now he realised that if the four of them in the room should disagree the two women would be allies. It was one of those moments of insight into the unexpected vagaries of personality to which he had rarely been sensitive before coming to the island, and which still had power to surprise him.
Emily said, “It’s a complication, of course, for them if not for us. I wond
er if they told Oliver. If they did, it could be a motive.”
The silence that followed lasted only seconds but it was absolute. Jo Staveley’s hand froze, the wine glass halfway to her lips. Then she replaced it on the table with careful deliberation, as if the slightest sound would be fatal.
Emily Holcombe seemed unaware of the effect of that one unwelcome accusatory word. She said, “A motive for Oliver’s suicide. Jo told me about that extraordinary scene at dinner yesterday. It wasn’t normal behaviour even for Nathan at his worst. Add to that the fact that his last novel was a disappointment and he’s facing old age and the draining away of his talent, and one can understand why he felt it was time to make his quietus. It’s obvious that he depended almost entirely on his daughter, and probably as much on Tremlett. If he had just learned that they proposed to desert him for more conventional satisfactions, it could have been the catalyst.”
Jo Staveley said, “But if Tremlett married Miranda, Oliver wouldn’t necessarily lose him.”
“Maybe not, but there might well be a change in Tremlett’s priorities which I imagine could be unwelcome. Still, I agree that it isn’t our business. If the police want to explore that fascinating bypath, let them discover it for themselves.”
Staveley spoke slowly, as if to himself. “There are contra-indications to suicide.”
Again there was silence. Maycroft resolved that it was time to put an end to speculation. The talk was becoming dangerously out of control. He said, “I think we should leave all this to the police. It’s their job to investigate the facts, ours to cooperate in every way we can.”
Jo said, “To the extent of telling them that two of their suspects are having an affair?”
Maycroft said, “Jo, no one is a suspect. We don’t yet know how Oliver died. We must avoid that kind of talk. It’s inappropriate and irresponsible.”
Jo was unrepentant. “Sorry, but if this was murder—it has to be a possibility, Guy has more or less said so—surely we’re all suspects. I’m just asking how much we should volunteer. I mean, do we tell this commander that the deceased won’t be universally mourned, that as far as we’re concerned he was a pain in the butt? Do we let on that he was threatening to move in permanently and make all our lives hell? More to the point, do we tell him about Adrian Boyde?”
Maycroft’s voice was unusually firm. “We answer his questions and do so truthfully. We speak for ourselves and not for others, and that includes Adrian. If anyone feels that they’re at risk of being compromised, they have the right to refuse to answer any further questions except in the presence of a lawyer.”
Jo said, “Which I take it can’t be you.”
“Obviously not. If this is a suspicious death I shall be as much a suspect as anyone. You’d have to send for a solicitor from the mainland. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“And what about the other two guests, Dr. Yelland and Dr. Speidel? Have they been told that Oliver’s dead?”
“We’ve still not been able to contact them. When they learn the news they may want to leave. I don’t think in the normal course of things that Commander Dalgliesh can prevent them. After all, the island will hardly be a haven of peace and solitude with the police milling round. I suppose he’ll need to question them before they leave. One of them may have seen Oliver going into the lighthouse.”
Emily Holcombe said, “And are this commander and his officers proposing to stay on the island? Are we expected to offer hospitality? Presumably they won’t be bringing their own rations. Are we expected to feed them and at the Trust’s expense? Who are they?”
“As I’ve said, only the three. Commander Dalgliesh, a woman detective inspector, Kate Miskin, and a sergeant, Francis Benton-Smith. I’ve consulted Mrs. Burbridge and Mrs. Plunkett. We thought we could accommodate the two subordinates in the stable block and give Commander Dalgliesh Seal Cottage. They’ll be treated as any other residents. Breakfast and lunch will be provided in their quarters, and they can join us in the dining room for dinner or have it in their quarters, as they prefer. I take it that’s acceptable?”
Emily said, “And the weekly staff? Have they been warned off?”
“I managed to reach them by telephone. I told them to take a week’s paid leave. No boat will go to Pentworthy on Monday morning.”
Emily said, “Acting under instructions from London, no doubt. And how did you explain this sudden and atypical beneficence?”
“I didn’t. I told them that with only two guests they wouldn’t be needed. The news of Oliver’s death will be given tonight, probably too late for the Sunday papers. Miss Oliver has agreed the timing and that we don’t want the local media to get in first.”
Emily Holcombe moved to the table. “Murder or no murder, I shall need the launch on Monday morning. I’ve a dental appointment in Newquay at eleven-thirty.”
Maycroft frowned. “It will be inconvenient, Emily. The media may be waiting.”
“Hardly in Newquay. They’ll be on the quay at Pentworthy Harbour if they’re anywhere. And I can assure you that I’m more than competent to deal with the media, local or national.”
Maycroft made no further objection. He felt that, on the whole, he had handled the meeting more effectively than he had feared. Guy had been little help. The man seemed to be emotionally distancing himself from the tragedy. Perhaps it wasn’t surprising: having escaped from the responsibilities of general practice, he was probably determined to avoid any others. But this dissociation was worrying. He had rather depended on Guy’s support.
Emily said, “If any of you want to eat, you’d better grab a sandwich now. The police should be here soon. Then I’ll go back to Atlantic Cottage, if that’s all right by you, Rupert. I suggest we leave this to the men, Jo. A reception committee of two is adequate. We don’t want to encourage our visitors’ self-importance. They’re hardly the most distinguished people we’ve welcomed to Combe. And you can count me out of the group in the library. If the Commander wants to see me he can make an appointment.”
The door opened and Adrian Boyde came in. A pair of binoculars was slung round his neck. He said, “I’ve just sighted the helicopter. The police are on their way.”
2
* * *
The Twin Squirrel helicopter rattled over southern England, its shadow printed on the autumnal fields like an ominous ever-present harbinger of potential disaster. The uncertain and unseasonable weather of the past week was continuing. From time to time the black clouds curdled above them, then dropped their load with such concentrated force that the helicopter seemed to be bumping through a wall of water. Then suddenly the clouds would pass and the rain-washed fields lay beneath them bathed in sunshine as mellow as midsummer. The unfolding landscape had the neatness of a needlework collage, the clusters of woodland worked in knots of dark-green wool, the linen fields, some in muted colours of brown, pale gold and green, and the winding side roads and the rivers laid out in strips of glistening silk. The small towns with their square church towers were miracles of meticulous embroidery. Glancing at his companion, Dalgliesh saw Benton-Smith’s eyes fixed in fascination on the moving panorama and wondered whether he saw it similarly patterned and contrived, or whether in imagination he was passing over a wide, less verdant and less precisely domesticated landscape.
Dalgliesh had no regrets about his choice of Benton-Smith for the Squad, judging that he brought with him the qualities Dalgliesh valued in a detective: intelligence, courage and common sense. They were not often found together. He hoped that Benton-Smith also had sensitivity, but that was a quality less easy to assess; time, no doubt, would tell. A minor worry was how well Kate and Benton-Smith would work as a team now that Piers Tarrant had left. He didn’t need them to like each other; he did require them to respect each other, to cooperate as colleagues. But Kate was intelligent too. She knew how destructive open antagonism could be to the success of an investigation. He could safely leave it in her hands.
He saw that she was reading a sl
im paperback, The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, with a resolute intensity which he understood. Kate disliked helicopters. A winged fuselage at least gave one the subconscious reassurance that this birdlike machine was designed to fly. Now they were tightly encased in a noisy contraption which looked less designed than put together in a mad attempt to defy gravity. She was keeping her eyes on the book, but only occasionally turning a page, her mind less occupied with the exploits of Alexander McCall Smith’s gentle and engaging Botswanan detective than with the accessibility of her life jacket and its certain ineffectiveness. If the engine failed, Kate expected the helicopter to drop like a stone.
Now, in this noisy interlude between summons and arrival, Dalgliesh closed his mind to professional problems and confronted a personal and more intractable fear. He had first told Emma Lavenham of his love, not by mouth but by letter. Hadn’t that been an expedient of cowardice, the wish not to see rejection in her eyes? There had been no rejection. Their time together, contrived from their separated and over-busy lives, was a concentrated and almost frightening happiness: the sexual intensity; the varied and uncomplicated mutual passion; the carefully planned hours spent with no other company needed in restaurant, theatre, gallery or concert; the informal meals in his flat, standing together on that narrow balcony, drinks in hand, with the Thames lapping the walls fifty feet below; the talks and the silences which were more than the absence of words. This was the weekend they should be having now. But this disappointment wasn’t the first time that his job had demanded priority. They were inured to the occasional mischance, which only increased the triumph of the next meeting.
But he knew that this weekend-dominated life wasn’t living together, and his unspoken fear was that Emma found it enough for her. His letter had been a clear proposal of marriage, not an invitation to a love affair. She had, he thought, accepted, but marriage had never afterwards been mentioned between them. He tried to decide why it was so important to him. Was it the fear of losing her? But if their love couldn’t survive without the tie of a legal commitment, what future had it? What right had he even to attempt to bind her? He hadn’t found the courage to mention marriage, excusing cowardice with the thought that it was her prerogative to set the date. But he knew the words he dreaded to hear: “But, darling, what’s the hurry? Do we have to decide now? Aren’t we perfectly happy as we are?”
