by P. D. James
He said, “Mark Yelland. I only got the answer-phone message about Oliver’s death when I returned to Murrelet Cottage for lunch. I take it that the purpose of this meeting is to try to fix the time of death.”
Dalgliesh said, “I’m asking if you saw Mr. Oliver after dinner last night or at any time this morning.”
Yelland’s voice was surprising, a little harsh and with a trace of an East London accent. “You’ll have been told of our altercation at the dinner table. I didn’t see anyone, dead or alive, today until I came into this room. I can’t be more helpful about timing than that.”
There was a silence. Maycroft looked at Dalgliesh. “Is that all for now, Commander? Then thank you, everyone, for coming. Please make sure that I or one of Mr. Dalgliesh’s team know where we can find you when you’re wanted.”
The company, all but Mrs. Burbridge, got up and began to file out with the dispirited air of a group of mature students after a particularly unsuccessful seminar. Mrs. Burbridge rose briskly, glanced at her watch and delivered a parting shot at Maycroft as she passed him at the door.
“You handled that very competently, I thought, Rupert, but your admonition to be loyal and discreet was hardly necessary. When has anyone on this island been other than loyal and discreet during the time we’ve been here?”
Dalgliesh spoke quietly to Yelland as the latter reached the door. “Could you wait, please, Dr. Yelland?” When Benton-Smith had closed the door on the last of the departing residents, Dalgliesh said, “I asked you to stay because you didn’t reply when I asked whether you had spoken to Mr. Oliver after nine-thirty last night. I would still like an answer to that question.”
Yelland looked at him steadily. Dalgliesh was struck again by the power of the man.
Yelland said, “I don’t enjoy being interrogated, particularly in public. That’s why I took my time coming. I didn’t see or speak to Oliver this morning, which would surely be the relevant time unless he chose late at night to launch himself into the final darkness. But I did see him after dinner. When he left I followed him out.”
And that, thought Dalgliesh, was a fact that neither Maycroft nor Staveley had thought worth telling him.
“I followed him because we had had an argument which had been more acrimonious than illuminating. I only booked in for dinner because I’d checked that Oliver would be there. I wanted to challenge him about his new book, to make him justify what he’d written. But I realised that I’d been directing at him anger that had its cause elsewhere. I found there were still things I needed to say to him. With some people I wouldn’t have bothered. I’m inured to ignorance and malice—well, not inured perhaps, but for most of the time psychologically I can cope. With Oliver it was different. He’s the only modern novelist I read, partly because I haven’t much time for recreational reading, but mainly because time spent in reading him isn’t wasted. He doesn’t deal in trivialities. I suppose he provides what Henry James said was the purpose of a novel: to help the heart of man to know itself. A bit pretentious but, if you need the sophistry of fiction, there’s some truth in it. I wasn’t setting out to justify what I do—the only person I need to convince in the end is myself—but I did want him to understand, or at least part of me did. I was very tired and I had drunk too much wine at dinner. I wasn’t drunk, but I wasn’t thinking clearly. I seem to have had two opposing motives—to make some kind of peace with a man whose total dedication to his craft I understood and admired, and to warn him that if he interfered again with my staff or my laboratory I would apply for an injunction. I wouldn’t, of course. That would have provided the very publicity we have to avoid. But I was still angry. He stopped walking when I drew up and at least turned in the darkness to listen.”
There was a pause. Dalgliesh waited. Yelland went on, “I pointed out that I might use—and the word is appropriate—five primates in the course of a particular experiment. They would be well looked after, properly fed, exercised, played with—loved even. Their deaths would be easier than any death in nature, and those deaths could help eventually alleviate, perhaps cure, the pain of hundreds of thousands of human beings, could put an end to some of the most distressing and intractable diseases known to man. Doesn’t there have to be an arithmetic of suffering? I wanted to ask him one question: if the use of my five animals could save the lifetime suffering, or even the lives, of fifty thousand other animals—not humans—wouldn’t he see the loss of those five as justifiable, in reason and in humanity? So why not humans? He said, ‘I’m not interested in the suffering of others, human or animal. I was engaging in an argument.’ I said, ‘But you’re a great humane novelist. You understand suffering.’ I remember clearly what he replied. ‘I write about it; I don’t understand it. I can’t vicariously feel it. If I could feel it, I couldn’t write about it. You’re wasting your time, Dr. Yelland. We both do what we have to do. There’s no choice for either of us. But it does have an end. For me the end is very close.’ He spoke with an intense weariness, as if he had passed beyond caring.
“I turned away and left him. I believed I had spoken to a man who was at the limit of his endurance. He was as caged as one of my animals. I don’t care what contra-indications to suicide there may be; I am convinced Nathan Oliver killed himself.”
Dalgliesh said quietly, “Thank you. And that was the end of the conversation and the last time you saw or spoke to him?”
“Yes, the last time. Perhaps the last time anyone did.” He paused and then added, “Unless, of course, this is murder. But I’m being naÏve. I’m probably attaching too much importance to Oliver’s last words. The Met wouldn’t send their formidable poet-detective to investigate a putative suicide on a small offshore island.”
If the words weren’t meant as a taunt they succeeded in sounding like one. Kate was standing next to Benton, and she thought she detected a low growl, like that of an angry puppy. The sound was so ridiculous that she had to restrain a smile.
Yelland went on, “Perhaps I should say that I had never met Nathan Oliver until dinner last night and our encounter afterwards. I respected him as a novelist but I didn’t like him. And now, if you’ve nothing else to ask, I’d like to get back to Murrelet Cottage.”
He left as quickly as he had arrived.
Benton said, “That was a rum do, sir. First he admits that he only booked in for dinner to provoke a row with Oliver, then he follows him out either to propitiate him or threaten him further. He doesn’t seem sure which, and he’s a scientist.”
Dalgliesh said, “Even scientists are capable of irrationality. He lives and works under a constant threat to himself and his family. The Hayes-Skolling Lab is one the animal-liberation people have particularly targeted.”
Benton said, “So he comes to Combe and leaves the wife and family unprotected.”
Kate broke in. “We can’t know that, but one thing’s certain, sir. Given Dr. Yelland’s evidence, no one would be convinced that this is murder. He was pretty determined to persuade us that Oliver killed himself.”
Benton said, “Perhaps because he genuinely believes it. After all, he hasn’t seen those marks on Oliver’s neck.”
“No, but he’s a scientist. If he made them he must know that they would be there.”
7
* * *
Miranda Oliver said on the telephone that she was ready to be interviewed if Commander Dalgliesh would come now. Since he would be interviewing a presumably grieving daughter, Dalgliesh thought it would be tactful to take only Kate with him. There were things he needed Benton to do—the distances between the cottages and the lighthouse to be checked, and photographs taken of the lower cliff, particularly of places where it would be comparatively easy for people to climb or slither down. The lower cliff was always going to present a problem. Overhung as it was with bushes, there seemed little doubt that people living in the cottages on the western coast of the island could walk the final quarter-mile or so to the lighthouse unseen.
Peregrine Cottage was larger t
han it had seemed from the air, when it had been dwarfed by Combe House, and even by its neighbour, Seal Cottage. It lay in a shallow hollow, half-hidden from the path, and was farther from the cliff edge than the other cottages. It was built to the same pattern, stone-walled with a porch, two ground-floor windows and two above under a slate roof, but there was something slightly desolate, even forbidding, about its stark conformity. Perhaps it was the distance from the cliff and the seclusion of the hollow ground which gave an impression of deliberate isolation, of a cottage designed to be less attractive than its neighbours.
The curtains were drawn across the lower windows. There was a plain iron knocker, and the door opened almost at once to Kate’s gentle knock. Miranda Oliver stood aside and, with a stiff gesture, motioned them in.
Dalgliesh had taken half a minute to check the salient facts about Nathan Oliver from Who’s Who before leaving his office and knew that he had married in 1970 and had been thirty-six when his daughter was born. But the young woman who now looked at him composedly appeared older than her thirty-two years. She was high-busted and with the beginning of a matronly stateliness. He saw little resemblance to her father except for the strong nose and high forehead, from which copious light-brown hair was drawn back and pulled through a woollen loop at the nape of her neck. Her mouth was small but firm, between slightly marsupial cheeks. Her most remarkable features were the grey-green eyes, which now calmly appraised him. They showed no signs of recent weeping.
Dalgliesh made the introductions. This was a moment he had experienced many times during his career as a detective and he had never found it easy, nor indeed did any other officer he had known. Formal words of condolence had to be spoken, but to his ears they always sounded insincere at best and mawkishly inappropriate at worst. But this time he was forestalled.
Miranda Oliver said, “Of course my loss is the greatest. After all, I am his daughter and I’ve been his close working companion for most of my adult life. But my father’s death is also a loss to literature and to the world.” She paused. “Is there anything I can offer you? Coffee? Tea?”
The moment seemed to Dalgliesh almost bizarre. He said, “Nothing, thank you. I’m sorry to have to disturb you at a time like this, but I’m sure you’ll understand the need.” Since no offer of a chair had been made, he added, “Shall we sit down?”
The room stretched the length of the cottage, the dining area near a door leading to what Dalgliesh presumed was the kitchen, and with Oliver’s study at the far end. There was a heavy oak desk in front of the window, which looked out seaward, a square table beside it with a computer and copier, and oak shelves ranged along two of the walls. The dining area also served as a small sitting room, with two upright chairs on each side of the stone fireplace and a sofa set under the window. The general impression was of comfortless austerity. There was no detectable smell of burning, but the grate was filled with blackened paper and white ash.
They seated themselves at the dining table, Miranda Oliver as composedly as if this were a social call. It was then that they heard laborious footsteps coming slowly down the stairs and a young man appeared. He must have heard their knock, must have known they had arrived, but his eyes moved from Dalgliesh to Kate as if startled by their presence. He was wearing blue jeans and above them a dark-blue Guernsey sweater, its chunkiness emphasising his fragility. Unlike Miranda Oliver, he looked devastated, with either grief or fear, or perhaps with both. He had a youthful, vulnerable-looking face, the skin of his lips almost colourless. His brown hair was cut in a regular and very short fringe above deep-set eyes, giving him the appearance of a novice monk. Dalgliesh almost expected to see a tonsure.
Miranda Oliver said, “This is Dennis Tremlett. He was my father’s copy-editor and secretary. I think I should tell you that Dennis and I are engaged to be married—but maybe my father mentioned it at dinner last night.”
“No,” said Dalgliesh, “we haven’t been told.” He wondered whether he should congratulate the couple. Instead he said, “Will you please join us, Mr. Tremlett?”
Tremlett walked to the table. Dalgliesh saw that he had a slight limp. After a moment’s hesitation he took a chair next to Miranda. She gave him a look, possessive, a little minatory, and stretched her hand towards his. He seemed uncertain whether to take it but their fingers briefly touched before he placed both hands under the table.
Dalgliesh asked, “Was your engagement recent?”
“We knew that we were in love during Daddy’s last visit to the States. It was in Los Angeles, actually. We didn’t become formally engaged until yesterday, and I told my father yesterday evening.”
“How did he take the news?”
“He said that he’d suspected for some time that we were growing fond of each other, so it wasn’t a surprise to him. He was happy for us, and I spoke briefly about our future plans, how we could live in the London flat he bought for Dennis’s use, at least until we had a home of our own, and that we would ensure that he was looked after and that Dennis and I still saw him every day. He knew he couldn’t manage without us, and we were going to make sure that he didn’t have to, but of course it would mean some change in his life. We’ve been wondering since whether he was only pretending to be pleased for us, that he was more worried than we realised about the prospect of living alone. He wouldn’t have had to, of course—we were going to find a reliable housekeeper and we’d be there during the day—but the news might have been more of a shock than I realised at the time.”
Kate said, “So it was you who broke the news. You didn’t confront your father together?”
The verb was perhaps unfortunate. Miranda Oliver’s face reddened and she snapped out her reply through tight lips. “I didn’t confront him. I’m his daughter. There was no confrontation. I told him my news and he was happy about it, at least I thought so.”
Kate turned to Dennis Tremlett. “Did you speak to Mr. Oliver at any time after your fiancée had given him the news?”
Tremlett was blinking as if trying to hold back his tears, and it was obviously with an effort that his eyes met hers. “No, there wasn’t a chance. He had dinner at the house and came home after I’d left. When I arrived this morning he’d already gone out. I didn’t see him again.”
His voice shook. Kate turned to Miranda Oliver. “How has your father been since you arrived on the island? Did he seem distressed, worried, in any way not himself?”
“He was very quiet. I know he was worried about growing old, worried that his talent might be fading. He didn’t say so, but we were very close. I sensed that he was unhappy.” She turned to Tremlett. “You felt that, didn’t you, darling?”
The endearment, almost shocking in its unexpectedness, was brought out self-consciously, a word newly acquired and not yet familiar, less a caress on the tongue than a small note of defiance. Tremlett seemed not to notice.
He turned to Dalgliesh and said, “He didn’t confide in me very much; we weren’t really on those terms. I was just his copy-editor and secretary. I know that he was concerned that the last book wasn’t as well received as the previous ones. Of course, he’s become part of the canon now; reviewers are always respectful. But he himself wasn’t satisfied. The writing was taking longer and the words didn’t come as easily. But he was still a wonderful writer.” His voice broke.
Miranda Oliver said, “I expect Mr. Maycroft and Dr. Staveley and the others will tell you that my father was difficult. He had every right to be difficult. He was born here, and under the Trust deed they couldn’t stop him visiting whenever he liked. He should have had Atlantic Cottage. He needed it for his work and he had a right to it. Emily Holcombe could easily have moved, but she wouldn’t. And then at first there was a difficulty because Daddy insisted that Dennis and I should be here with him. Visitors are supposed to come on their own. Father took the view that if Emily Holcombe could have Roughtwood, he could bring Dennis and me. He had to anyway; he needed us. Mr. Maycroft and Emily Holcombe run this place between
them. They don’t seem to understand that Daddy is—was—a great novelist. Silly rules didn’t apply to him.”
Dalgliesh said, “Did you feel that he was depressed enough to take his own life? I’m sorry, but this is something I have to ask.”
Miranda glanced at Dennis Tremlett, as if this were a question more appropriately asked of him than of her. He was sitting rigidly, looking down at his clasped hands, and didn’t meet her eyes. She said, “That’s a terrible suggestion, Commander. My father wasn’t the kind of man who kills himself, and if he had been he wouldn’t have done it that horrible way. He was repelled by ugliness, and hanging is ugly. He had everything to live for. He had fame, security, and his talent. He had me. I loved him.”
It was Kate who broke in. She was never unfeeling and only rarely tactless, but she was never inhibited by over-sensitivity from asking a direct question. She said, “Perhaps he was more upset by your decision to marry than he let on. After all, it would have meant a major disruption to his life. If he had other worries that he didn’t confide to you, this may have seemed the last straw.”
Miranda turned to her, her face flushed. When she spoke, her voice was barely under control. “That’s a horrible thing to say. What you are implying is that Dennis and I were responsible for Daddy’s death. That’s cruel, and it’s also ridiculous. Do you think I didn’t know my father? We’ve lived together since I left school, and I’ve looked after him, made his life comfortable for him, served his talent.”
Dalgliesh said gently, “That’s what Inspector Miskin had in mind. You and Mr. Tremlett were obviously determined that your father shouldn’t suffer, that you would go on taking responsibility for his care and that Mr. Tremlett would continue as his secretary. But your father may not have realised how much thought you’d given to it. Inspector Miskin was asking a reasonable question which was neither cruel nor insensitive. We have evidence that the evening after you had broken the news your father dined in the main house—which was unusual—and was certainly upset. He also ordered the launch for this afternoon. He didn’t actually say he proposed to leave the island, but that was implied. Did he tell either of you that he intended to leave?”
