The Lighthouse

by P. D. James

  Kate said, “Maybe not at the time, but after Mr. Oliver’s death surely you realised that this was vital information. Withholding it was close to an offence, obstructing the police in their investigation. You’re not stupid. You must know how it looks.”

  “I thought Dr. Speidel would tell you himself when he turned up. And he did, didn’t he? What the visitors do, who they meet and where, is none of my business.”

  Benton said, “You said nothing earlier this afternoon, when you were all being questioned as a group. You could have spoken then, or come to see us in private.”

  “You asked me if I’d seen Mr. Oliver either the previous night or this morning. I hadn’t seen him and neither had Millie.”

  Kate said, “You know perfectly well it was information you should have passed on at once. So why didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t want anyone getting at Millie. She hasn’t done anything wrong. Life on Combe isn’t altogether easy for the kid. And it would have been pointing the finger at Dr. Speidel, wouldn’t it?”

  “And you didn’t want to do that?”

  Jago said, “Not in front of the whole lot of them, not without him being there. I don’t care who killed Nathan Oliver, if he was killed. And I reckon you wouldn’t be here if he topped himself. It’s your job to find out who strung him up. You’re paid to do it. I’ll not lie, but I’m not in the business of helping you either, not by pointing the finger at other people and landing them in the shit.”

  Benton said, “You hated Mr. Oliver that much?”

  “You could say so. Nathan Oliver may have been born on this island, but both his mum and dad were incomers. None of them were Cornish, not Nathan nor his parents, whatever he may have chosen to say. Maybe he didn’t realise that we have long memories in these parts. But I’m not a murderer.”

  He seemed about to say something more but, instead, bent again to his flowerpots. Kate glanced at Benton. There was nothing else to be heard from Jago at present. She thanked him, not without irony, and they left him to his pruning.

  10

  * * *

  Maycroft had offered Dalgliesh the use of bicycles while the team was on the island. There were four of them kept ready for the use of visitors, but Kate, although she knew that they were working against time, said that she and Benton-Smith would walk to Atlantic Cottage. There was something almost risible in the thought of the two of them pedalling away down the lane to interview a murder suspect. Dalgliesh, she knew, was unlikely to be worried about losing face and would probably have been amused by the unorthodox method of transport. Kate, while regretting that she hadn’t his self-confidence, preferred to walk. It was, after all, only about half a mile. The exercise would do them good.

  For the first hundred yards the path was close to the cliff edge, and from time to time they would pause briefly to gaze down on the cracked and layered granite, the jagged teeth of the rocks and the sluicing tide. Then the path swerved to the right and they were walking down a grassy lane bounded on the right by rising ground and protected by a low hedge of brambles and hawthorn. They walked without speaking. If Kate had been accompanied by Piers Tarrant they would, she knew, have been discussing the case—their first reactions to the people, the curious knot on the noose—but now she preferred not to speculate aloud until Dalgliesh held his usual get-together, which could be last thing tonight. And by midday tomorrow, Dalgliesh would have received Dr. Glenister’s report and with luck they would know with certainty that they were investigating a murder. She knew that already Dalgliesh had no doubt, and neither had she. She supposed that Benton felt the same, but some inhibition, not altogether related to her seniority, held her back from asking his opinion. She accepted that they would have to work closely together. With only three of them on the island and no immediate prospect of the usual paraphernalia of a murder investigation—photographers, fingerprint experts, scene-of-crime officers—it would be ludicrous to be punctilious about status or the division of tasks. Her problem was that their relationship, however apparently formal, had to be harmonious; the difficulty was that there was no relationship. He had worked with her as a member of the team only on one previous occasion. Then he had been efficient, not afraid to speak his mind, bringing an obvious intelligence to bear on the case. But she simply hadn’t begun to know him or to understand him. He seemed to be surrounded by some self-erected palisade with Keep Out notices hung on the wire.

  And now Atlantic Cottage was in view. She had observed from the air that it was the largest of the stone cottages and the one closest to the cliff edge. Now she saw that there were two cottages, the larger to the right with a tiled porch, two bay windows either side and two above under a stone roof. The smaller was flat-fronted and low-roofed with four smaller windows. In front of both ran a flowerbed some three feet wide bounded by a stone wall. Small red flowers and trailing plants drooped from the crevices, and a tall fuchsia bush was flourishing to the right of the porch, its petals littering the pathway like specks of blood.

  Roughtwood opened the door to Kate’s knock. He was of medium height but broad-shouldered, with a square, somewhat intimidating face, full-lipped, the blue-grey eyes deep-set, their paleness in contrast to the fading but still-remarkable yellow hair and eyelashes, a colour Kate had seldom seen on a man. He was wearing a formal black suit, a sober striped tie and a high collar, which gave him the look of an undertaker’s assistant. Was this, she wondered, his usual garb in the early evening, or had he changed into what he considered a more appropriate suit for an island in mourning? But was it in mourning?

  They moved into a small square hall. The door opening to the left gave a glimpse of the kitchen, and the room on the right was obviously the dining room. Beyond the gleaming top of an oblong table, Kate saw a whole wall patterned with the spines of leather books.

  Roughtwood opened the door at the end of the hall, and said, “The police have arrived, madam. They’re six minutes early.”

  Miss Holcombe’s voice—strong, authoritative and upper-class—came to them clearly. “Then show them in, Roughtwood. We would not wish to be accused of non-cooperation.”

  Roughtwood stood aside and announced with formality, “Inspector Miskin and Sergeant Benton-Smith, madam.”

  The room was larger than a first sight of the cottage would suggest. In front of them were four windows and a glass-topped door to the terrace. The fireplace was on the left, with a small table set before it and two chairs. A Scrabble game was obviously in progress. Kate, resisting the temptation to display any unseemly curiosity by letting her eyes wander, had an impression of rich, deep colours, polished wood, rugs on the stone floor, oil paintings and one wall which, like that in the dining room, held leather-bound volumes from ceiling to floor. A wood fire was burning in the grate, filling the room with its pungent autumnal smell.

  Miss Holcombe did not rise from her seat in front of the Scrabble board. She looked younger than Kate had expected: the strong-boned face was almost unlined, and the immense grey eyes were still unclouded by age under the curved brows. The steel-grey hair with strands of silver was brushed back and intricately wound into a heavy bun above the nape of the neck. She was wearing a flared skirt in black, grey and white tartan, and a turtleneck white jumper, with a heavy amber necklace, the stones as large as marbles. Her long-lobed ears were studded with intricately wrought amber earrings. She made a slight motion towards Roughtwood, who seated himself opposite her, then looked at him fixedly for a moment as if anxious to reassure herself that he wouldn’t move. She turned to Kate.

  “As you will see, Inspector, we’re just finishing our Saturday game of Scrabble. It’s my turn to play and I have seven letters left. My opponent has—how many have you to play, Roughtwood?”

  “Four, madam.”

  “And the bag is empty, so we shan’t be delaying you for long. Please sit down. I’ve a feeling that there’s a seven-letter word on my rack but I can’t get it. Too many vowels. An O, two I’s, and an E. M is the only consonant exc
ept for two S’s. It’s unusual to have them left at the end of a game, but I’ve only just picked one up.”

  There was a pause while Miss Holcombe studied her tiles and began rearranging them on the rack. The joints of her slender fingers were distorted with arthritis, and on the back of her hands the veins stuck out like purple cords.

  Benton-Smith said quietly, “MEIOSIS, madam. The third line from the top on the right.”

  She turned towards him. Taking her interrogatory lift of the eyebrows as an invitation, he moved over to study the board. “If you place it so that the second S is on the double over LACK, you get another twenty-two points for SLACK. Then the M is on the double-letter square for six, and the seven-letter word is also on a double.”

  Miss Holcombe made the calculations with surprising speed. “Ninety-six in total, plus my two hundred and fifty-three.” She turned to Roughtwood. “I think that puts the result beyond cavil. You take the score for your four away, Roughtwood, and what does that leave you with?”

  “Two hundred and thirty-nine, madam, but I register an objection. We have never said that help is permissible.”

  “We’ve never said it isn’t. We play by our own rules. Whatever is not forbidden is allowable. That is in accordance with the sound principle of English law that everything is permissible unless legally prohibited, compared with the practice in mainland Europe, where nothing is permitted unless legally sanctioned.”

  “In my view, madam, the sergeant has no status in the game. No one asked him to interfere.”

  Miss Holcombe obviously recognised that the conversation was veering towards an uncomfortable confrontation. Beginning to gather up the tiles and replace them in the bag, she said, “All right, we’ll take the last score. That still leaves me the winner.”

  “I’d prefer, madam, for the game to be declared null and void and not recorded in the monthly total.”

  “All right, since you’re being difficult. You don’t seem to consider whether I might not very well have found the word myself if the sergeant hadn’t interfered. I was close to it.”

  Roughtwood’s silence was eloquent. He reiterated, “The sergeant had no right to interfere. We should make a new rule. No help.”

  Benton-Smith spoke to Miss Holcombe. “I’m sorry, but you know how it is with Scrabble. If you spot a seven-letter word it’s impossible to keep quiet about it.”

  Miss Holcombe had decided to make a common cause with her butler. “When it’s not your game, a more disciplined mind would attempt to. Well, it’s certainly brought the contest to a swift conclusion, which is no doubt what you intended. We usually have a glass of wine after Scrabble. I suppose it’s no use offering you one. Isn’t there some rule about not compromising yourselves by drinking with suspects? If Mr. Dalgliesh is over-punctilious about this he is likely to have an uncomfortable stay on Combe Island: we pride ourselves on our cellar. But I don’t suppose either of you will be suborned by a cup of coffee.”

  Kate accepted the offer. Now that there was a hope of getting on with the interview, she was in no hurry. Miss Holcombe could hardly suggest that they had outstayed their welcome when they were drinking her coffee, and at their own pace.

  Roughtwood went out, showing no apparent resentment. When the door had closed behind him, Miss Holcombe said, “As Roughtwood and I are likely to provide each other with alibis, we’d better defer any questions until he returns. That way we’ll all save time. While you’re waiting for the coffee you might like to go outside on the terrace. The view is spectacular.”

  She continued to gather up the Scrabble tiles, making no movement to show them out. They got up and moved together to the terrace door. The top half was glass-panelled but the door was heavy, the glass obviously thick, and it took Benton some strength to pull it open. The door itself had clasps fitted for shutters, and Kate saw that there were wooden shutters fitted to each of the four windows. The edge of the cliff was less than five feet away, bounded by a waist-high stone wall. The roar of the ocean pounded in their ears. Instinctively Kate recoiled a step before moving to gaze over the wall. Far below them, the spray rose in a white mist as the waves broke in thunderous explosions against the cliff face.

  Benton-Smith moved beside her. He shouted against the roar, “It’s wonderful. Nothing between us and America. No wonder Oliver wanted this place.”

  Kate heard the awe in his voice but didn’t reply. Her thoughts went to that distant London river beneath her windows, the strong brown pulsating Thames, pricked and dazzled with the lights of the city. The tide seemed at times to move as sluggishly as a muddy pond but, gazing out at the water, she would give a shiver of apprehension and would picture its latent power suddenly surging into life to sweep away the city, and bear on its turbulent surface the debris of her flat. It wasn’t a fanciful imagining. If the ice cap melted, not much of riverside London would remain. But to think of her flat was to remember Piers, the bed warmed by his body, his hand reaching for her in the morning. What, she wondered, was he doing now? How much of that night together had he intended? Was she as much in his mind as he was in hers? Did he regret what had happened or was it, for him, the last in a line of easy conquests? Resolutely she put that uncomfortable thought out of mind. Here, where the cottage itself seemed to have grown out of the granite cliff, was a different power, infinitely stronger, potentially far more dangerous than the Thames. How odd that the river and this ocean shared the same element, the same salt taste on the tongue, the same tangy smell. A small splash of spume alighted on her cheek and dried before she could raise a hand to wipe it away.

  Minutes passed, then, as if simultaneously realising that they were here for a purpose, they re-entered the cottage. The turbulence of wind and ocean was instantly muted. They re-entered peaceful domesticity to the smell of freshly brewed coffee. The Scrabble table had been folded away. Roughtwood moved to station himself beside the door leading to the terrace as if to prevent any further explorations, and Miss Holcombe was seated in the same chair, but now turned towards them.

  She said, “I think you’ll find that sofa comfortable. I don’t think this will take more than a few minutes. I assume you’d like to know what we were doing at the time Nathan Oliver was presumed to have died. What time is that?”

  Kate said, “We can’t be sure, but we’re told he was seen leaving Peregrine Cottage at about seven-twenty this morning. He had an appointment to give blood in the surgery at nine o’clock but didn’t turn up. I expect you’ve been told all that. We need to know where everyone was between the time of his last sighting yesterday night and ten o’clock this morning, when the body was found.”

  “That’s easily answered as far as we’re concerned. I dined here, so I didn’t see him last night. Roughtwood brought me early-morning tea at six-thirty and served breakfast an hour later. I didn’t see him again until he came into the cottage to collect the breakfast things and my silver for cleaning. He does that next door, in his own cottage, as I detest the smell of the polish.”

  The ornaments on the small round table to the right of the fireplace were certainly gleaming, but that didn’t necessarily mean that they had recently been cleaned. Kate suspected that they were usually pristine; probably only a rub with a soft cloth would have brought up the shine.

  “And that was when, Miss Holcombe?”

  “I can’t be precise about the time. As I couldn’t foresee being part of a murder investigation, I wasn’t keeping a record. I think it was sometime between eight-fifteen and eight-thirty. I was on the terrace at the time with the sitting-room door open. I heard him but didn’t see him.”

  Kate turned to Roughtwood. “Can you be more precise, Mr. Roughtwood?”

  “I’d put it closer to eight-fifteen, Inspector, but, like Madam, I was not keeping note of the time.”

  Miss Holcombe went on, “I didn’t see him again until about nine o’clock, when I looked in on my way up to the surgery to have my anti-flu jab.”

  Kate said, “And neither of you
went out this morning until you, Miss Holcombe, left for the surgery?”

  “I certainly didn’t, except onto the terrace. You’d better answer for yourself, Roughtwood.”

  “I remained in my cottage, madam, in the kitchen cleaning the silver. My telephone rang a little time after Madam had left. It was Mr. Boyde telling me that Mr. Oliver was missing and asking me to join the search.”

  Benton-Smith said, “But you didn’t in fact go?”

  “No. I wanted to finish the job I was doing, and I reckoned there was no great hurry. Enough people would be looking for Mr. Oliver. Visitors to the island like taking long walks, and they don’t expect people to go chasing after them. I couldn’t see why there was such a panic. Anyway, I work for Madam, not for Mr. Boyde or the big house.”

  Kate said, “But later you did go to the lighthouse?”

  “I did when Madam returned and told me Mr. Oliver had been found dead. Madam asked me to go to the lighthouse to see if there was anything I could do. I got there in time to help with the stretcher.”

  Kate said, “Would either of you have known if the other had left their cottage this morning?”

  “Not necessarily. We lead largely independent lives. You say Oliver was seen leaving Peregrine Cottage at about seven-twenty. It could have taken him about fifteen minutes to get to the lighthouse. If Roughtwood had been in the lighthouse at eight o’clock murdering him—which I take it is what you’re suggesting—he would hardly have been back here by eight-thirty at the latest estimate, when he came in to collect the silver. As you’ve probably discovered, we’re half a mile from the big house and only a little less from the lighthouse.”

  Benton-Smith said, “Surely Mr. Roughtwood has a bike?”

  “So now the suggestion is that he cycled to and from the lighthouse? Are you also suggesting that he carried me perched on the bicycle basket?”