by P. D. James
This was the part of the investigation Kate most enjoyed and looked forward to, the quiet moments, usually at the end of every day, when progress was assessed and future plans laid out. This hour of talk and silence with the cottage door still open to the night, the dancing gules of light from the fire on the stone floor and the smell of the wine and coffee was as close as she would ever get to that comfortable, unthreatening domesticity she had never known as a child, and which she imagined must be at the heart of family life.
AD had spread on the table his map of the island. He said, “We can, of course, take it that we are investigating murder. I’m reluctant to use that word to anyone on Combe until we get confirmation from Dr. Glenister. With luck that should be by midday tomorrow. Let’s state the facts as we know them so far, but first we’d better find a name for our presumed murderer. Any suggestions?”
Kate knew the chief’s invariable practice. He had an abhorrence for “chummy” or other soubriquets currently being used. She should have been prepared, but she found herself without an idea.
Benton said, “We could call him Smeaton, sir, after the designer of the lighthouse at Plymouth Hoe. The one here is a copy.”
“That seems tough on a brilliant engineer.”
Benton said, “Or there’s Calcraft, the nineteenth-century hangman.”
“Then Calcraft it is. Right, Benton, what do we know?”
Benton pushed his wine glass a little to one side. His eyes met Dalgliesh’s. “The victim, Nathan Oliver, came to Combe Island regularly each quarter, always for two weeks. On this occasion he arrived on Monday with his daughter, Miranda, and secretary, Dennis Tremlett. This was usual. Some of the facts we know depend on information which may or may not be accurate, but his daughter says that he left Peregrine Cottage at about seven-twenty this morning and without his usual cooked breakfast. The body was discovered at ten a.m. by Rupert Maycroft, who was quickly joined by Daniel Padgett, Guy Staveley, Jago Tamlyn, Millie Tranter and Emily Holcombe. The apparent cause of death is strangulation, either in the room under the lantern of the lighthouse or on the circular platform above. Calcraft then fetched the climbing rope, knotted it round Oliver’s neck, tied the rope to the railings and heaved the body over. Calcraft must therefore have sufficient strength, if not to carry Oliver’s dead weight up one short flight of stairs, at least to push him over the railings.
“Dr. Speidel’s evidence, you said, sir, struck you as being less than complete. He wrote a note requesting a meeting in the lighthouse at eight o’clock this morning. This note was given to Millie Tranter, who says she delivered it by putting it in the letterbox at Peregrine Cottage. She admits that she told Jago about the assignation. Miranda Oliver and Tremlett could have read the note, as could anyone who had access to the buggy. Did Oliver ever receive it? If not, why did he go to the lighthouse? If the meeting was to be at eight o’clock, why was he on his way as early as seven-twenty? Was the time on the note altered, and if so by whom? Eight couldn’t easily be changed to seven-thirty except by crossing out and writing the revised time above. But surely that would be ludicrous. It would only give Calcraft thirty minutes to meet Oliver, get to the top of the lighthouse, do his killing and get away, and that’s assuming Oliver arrived on time. Of course, Calcraft could have destroyed the original note and substituted another. But it would still be ridiculous to alter the time of assignation by only thirty minutes.
“Then there’s the evidence of the lighthouse door. Speidel says it was locked when he arrived. That means someone was inside—Oliver, his murderer or both. When he returned about twenty minutes later, the door was open and he noticed that the rope was missing. He heard nothing, but, then, would he, some hundred feet down from a killing chamber? But Speidel could have been lying. We’ve only his word that the lighthouse was locked and that he never met Oliver. Oliver could have been waiting for him as planned, and Speidel could have killed him. And we’ve only Speidel’s evidence confirming the time of death. But why choose the lighthouse for the assignation? We know he lied to Mr. Dalgliesh about lighthouses being his hobby.”
Kate said, “You were supposed to be giving us the facts. You’ve strayed into supposition. There are other things we definitely know. Oliver was always a difficult visitor, but this time he seems to have been more unreasonable than usual. There was the scene at the harbour when he learned that his blood sample had been lost, his subsequent complaint to Maycroft, his reiterated demand to have Emily Holcombe turned out of Atlantic Cottage and the scene during dinner on Friday. And then there’s Miranda’s engagement to Tremlett. The behaviour of all three of them was pretty odd, wasn’t it? Oliver returns home late after dinner, when Miranda is in bed, and leaves before she gets up. It looks as if he was determined not to see her. And why did he order the launch for that afternoon? Who was that for? Do we believe Miranda’s story that he was reconciled to the marriage? Does it seem a likely reaction in a man so selfishly devoted to his work that nothing was allowed to interfere with his convenience? Or does the motive lie much further back in the past?”
Dalgliesh said, “If it does, then why did Calcraft wait for this weekend? Oliver came regularly to the island. Most of our suspects had ample time and opportunity to take revenge before now. And revenge for what? It’s an unpropitious weekend to choose, with only two other guests, part-time staff on the mainland, all possible suspects reduced to a total of thirteen. Fifteen, if we add Mrs. Plunkett and Mrs. Burbridge.”
Benton said, “But it could work both ways, sir. Fewer people to become suspects, but a better chance of moving about unseen.”
Kate said, “But it does look as if Calcraft may have had to act this weekend. So what’s changed since Oliver’s previous visit? Two people have arrived who weren’t here when Oliver last visited, three months ago, Dr. Speidel and Dr. Yelland. There’s the incident of the lost blood which led to Oliver threatening to live here full-time. And then there’s the engagement between Tremlett and Miranda. It’s difficult to see her as a murderess, but she might have planned it with Tremlett. It’s obvious she’s the stronger of the two.”
Dalgliesh said, “Let’s look at the map. Calcraft could have gone to the lighthouse either because he’d made a separate appointment with Oliver—which seems an unlikely coincidence, although we’ve known more unbelievable ones—or because he read the note and changed the time, or because, fortuitously, he saw Oliver on his way and followed him. The obvious route is by the lower cliff. The people who could most conveniently use that are those in the house or in the cottages on the south-west side of the island: the Staveleys, Dan Padgett, Roughtwood and Miss Holcombe. There’s also an under-cliff on the east side, extending beyond Chapel Cottage, but it’s broken by the harbour. We have to remember that the note was delivered the previous night. Calcraft could have gone to the lighthouse on Friday night under cover of darkness and been there waiting early on Saturday morning. There’s also the possibility that he didn’t worry about being seen since at that time his intention wasn’t murderous. The killing could have been unpremeditated, manslaughter rather than murder. At present we’re working largely in the dark. We need Dr. Glenister’s report on the autopsy, and we have to interview Dr. Speidel again. Let’s hope he’ll be well enough.”
An hour later, it was time for speculation to stop. Tomorrow would be a busy day. Dalgliesh got to his feet and Kate and Benton followed. He said, “I’ll see you after breakfast to set out the programme. No, leave the glasses, Benton. I’ll see to them. Sleep well.”
13
* * *
The wine glasses had been washed and put away and the fire was dying. He would listen to some Mozart before bed. He chose Act Two of The Marriage of Figaro, and Kiri Te Kanawa’s voice, controlled, strong and heart-stoppingly lovely, filled the cottage. It was a CD he and Emma had listened to in his flat above the Thames. The stone walls of the cottage were too enclosing to contain such beauty, and he again opened the door to the headland and let the Countess’s yearnin
g for her husband swell out under the stars. There was a seat against the cottage wall, and he sat listening. He waited until the act was finished before returning to switch off the CD player, then went out for a final look at the night sky.
A woman was walking across the headland from Adrian Boyde’s cottage. She saw him and paused. He had known immediately from the confident stride and the transient glint of starlight on the fair hair that it was Jo Staveley, and now, after a moment’s hesitation, she came towards him.
He said, smiling, “So you do occasionally walk out at night.”
“Only when I have a purpose. I thought Adrian ought not to be left alone. This has been a pretty ghastly day for all of us, but for him it’s been hellish, so I went to share the osso buco. Unfortunately, he’s teetotal. I could do with a glass of wine if it’s not too much trouble. Guy will be in bed and I don’t like drinking alone.”
“No trouble at all.”
She followed him into the cottage. Dalgliesh opened the second bottle of red and brought it to the table with two glasses. She was wearing a red jacket, the collar upturned to frame her face, and now she slipped it off and hung it on the back of her chair. They sat opposite each other, neither speaking. Dalgliesh poured the wine. At first she gulped it as thirstily as if it were water, then replaced her glass on the table, stretched her legs and sighed her satisfaction. The fire was dying, with one frail wisp of smoke curling from the last blackened log. Relishing the quietude, Dalgliesh wondered if visitors occasionally found the silence and solitude too much for them and returned promptly to the seductive glamour of their testosterone-fuelled lives. He put the question.
She laughed. “It’s been known, or so I’m told, but it’s rare. They know what they’re in for before they come. It’s the silence they’re paying for, and believe me it doesn’t come cheap. Don’t you ever feel that if you have to answer another question, hear another phone ring or see another face you’ll go screaming mad? And then there’s the security. What with terrorists and the threat of kidnapping it must be bliss to know you can sleep with doors and windows open and no security guard or police watching your every move.”
Dalgliesh said, “Won’t Oliver’s death put an end to that illusion?”
“I doubt it. Combe will recover. The island has forgotten worse horrors than putting an end to Nathan Oliver.”
He said, “The general dislike of Oliver seems to have been caused by something more serious than his uncooperative behaviour as a guest. Did something happen between him and Adrian Boyde?”
“Why ask me?”
“Because Mr. Boyde is your friend. You probably understand him better than do the other residents. That means you’re the one most likely to know the truth.”
“And the one most likely to tell you?”
“Perhaps.”
“Have you asked him? Have you spoken to Adrian?” She was drinking the wine more slowly now and with obvious appreciation.
“No, not yet.”
“Then don’t. Look, no one—not even you—really believes that Adrian had anything to do with Oliver’s death. He’s no more capable of murder than you and I are, probably a bloody sight less. So why cause him pain? Why stir up the past when it’s got nothing to do with Oliver’s death, nothing to do with why you’re here or your job?”
“I’m afraid stirring up the past is part of my job.”
“You’re an experienced detective. We know about you. So don’t tell me that you see Adrian as a serious suspect. Aren’t you just grubbing out the dirt for the fun of it—the power, if you like? I mean, it must give you some satisfaction, this asking questions which we have to answer. If we don’t, we look guilty; if we do, someone’s privacy is violated. And for what? Don’t tell me it’s all in the cause of justice or truth. What is truth? said jesting Pilate; and would not stay for an answer. He knew a thing or two, did Pilate.”
The quotation surprised him, but why should he assume that she hadn’t read Bacon? He was surprised too that she could be so passionate and yet, despite the vehemence of her words, he felt no personal antagonism. He was merely a substitute. The real enemy had passed for ever beyond the reach of her hatred.
He said gently, “I haven’t time for a quasi-philosophical discussion about justice and truth. I can respect confidences but only up to a point. Murder destroys privacy—the privacy of the suspects, of the victim’s family, of everyone who comes into contact with the death. I’m getting rather tired of telling people this, but it has to be accepted. Most of all, murder destroys the privacy of the victim. You feel you have a right to protect your friend; Nathan Oliver is beyond anyone’s protection.”
“If I tell you, will you accept what I say is the truth and leave Adrian alone?”
“I can’t promise that. I can say that if I know the facts it will be easier for me to question him without causing unnecessary distress. We’re not in the business of causing pain.”
“Aren’t you? OK, OK, I accept that it’s not deliberate. God knows what you’d be like if it were.”
He resisted the temptation to retort, and it wasn’t difficult. He recalled what he had been told in that high room at New Scotland Yard. Her husband had caused the death of an eight-year-old boy. It had been clinical error, but local police may have been marginally involved. It would have needed only one over-zealous officer to account for her bitter resentment.
She pushed her empty glass towards him and he poured the wine. He said, “Is Adrian Boyde an alcoholic?”
“How did you know?”
“I didn’t. Tell me what happened.”
“He was administering at some important service, Holy Communion. Anyway, he dropped the chalice, then fell down dead drunk. Or he fell down dead drunk, dropping the chalice. He’d taken over at the church where Mrs. Burbridge’s husband was previously the vicar, and one of the churchwardens knew that Mrs. Burbridge had moved here and had probably been told something about Combe. He wrote to our previous secretary and suggested he should give Adrian a job. Adrian’s perfectly competent. He already knew how to use a computer and he’s numerate. At first it went well. He’d been here, perfectly sober, for more than a year, and we’d hoped he could stay sober. And that’s when it happened. Nathan Oliver came for his quarterly visit. He asked Adrian to supper one night and gave him wine. That was fatal, of course. All that Adrian had achieved here was undone in one night.”
“Did Oliver know that Boyde was an alcoholic?”
“Of course he knew. That’s why he invited him. It was all planned. He was writing a book with a character who was a drunkard and he wanted to witness exactly what happened when you feed wine to an alcoholic.”
Dalgliesh asked, “But why here? He could witness descent into a drunken stupor in a dozen London clubs I could name. It’s not exactly uncommon.”
She said, “Or on the streets any Saturday night. Oh, but that wouldn’t be the same, would it? He needed someone who was trying to fight his demons. He wanted time and privacy to control the situation and watch every minute of it. And I suppose it was important to have his victim available at short notice when he’d reached that stage in his novel.”
Dalgliesh saw that she was shaking. She emanated a moral outrage so powerful that he felt it as a physical force bouncing against the unyielding stone walls and recoiling to fill the room with concentrated hate. He waited for a moment, then said, “What happened next?”
“Someone—either Oliver with that copy-editor of his or the daughter—must have carried Adrian to his cottage. It took a couple of days for him to sober up. We didn’t even know what had happened, only that he had been drinking. It was thought that somehow he’d got hold of some wine in the house, but we couldn’t see how. Two days later, he went with Jago to get the weekly supplies, and disappeared. I went to my London flat later that month, and one night I found him on the doorstep, paralytic. I took him in and looked after him for a few weeks. Then I brought him back here. End of story. While we were together, he told me wha
t had happened.”
“It can’t have been easy for you.”
“Or for him. I’m not everyone’s idea of an ideal flatmate, especially when I’m on the wagon. I realised that London would be impossible, so I took an isolated cottage near Bodmin Moor. The season hadn’t started, so it wasn’t difficult to find something cheap. We stayed there for six weeks.”
“Did anyone here know what was happening?”
“I phoned Guy and Rupert to say I was all right and that Adrian was with me. I didn’t tell them where I was, but I did tell Jago. He used to come over and relieve me when he had a weekend off. I couldn’t have done it without him. One or other of us didn’t let Adrian out of our sight. God, it was boring at the time, but, funnily enough, looking back on it, I seem to have been happy, happier perhaps than I’d been for years. We walked, talked, cooked, played cards, spent hours in front of the TV looking at the videos of old BBC serials, some of them—like The Jewel in the Crown—used to go on for weeks. And, of course, we had books. He was easy to be with. He’s kind, intelligent, sensitive and amusing. He doesn’t whine. When he felt the time was right we came back here. No one asked any questions. That’s how they live here. They don’t ask questions.”
“Was it the alcoholism that made him leave the church? Did he confide in you about that?”
“Yes, as far as we could communicate at that level. I don’t understand religion. Partly it was the alcoholism, but mainly because he’d lost faith in some of the dogma. I can’t understand why that worried him. I thought that that was the thing about the dear old C of E: you can believe more or less what you like. Anyway, he came to believe that God couldn’t be both good and all-powerful; life’s a struggle between the two forces—good and evil, God and the devil. That’s some kind of heresy—a long word beginning with M.”
