by P. D. James
Dalgliesh said, “But it isn’t the whole story, is it? Saul Oliver wasn’t old and presumably he was strong, but even if he could carry three young men one by one down all those stairs and to the harbour, how did he manage to scuttle the boat and row back in the darkness unaided? Wasn’t there someone on the island with him?”
Miss Holcombe picked up the brass poker and levered it under the log. The fire leapt into life. She said, “He had taken the child Nathan with him, and another man, Tom Tamlyn, Jago’s grandfather.”
Dalgliesh said, “Has Nathan Oliver ever spoken of this?”
“Not to me and, as far as I know, not to anyone. If he had remembered what happened I think that, somehow, he would have made use of it. After the boat had been scuttled and most of the evidence destroyed, Saul and Tom returned to Combe and later, with the child, set out for the mainland. By then it was dark. Tom Tamlyn never reached shore. It was a stormy night and a bad journey. A lesser sailor than Saul wouldn’t have made it. His story was that Tamlyn, helping to control the boat, fell overboard. The body was washed up six weeks later further down the coast. There wasn’t enough of it to yield much information, but the back of the skull had been smashed. Saul claimed that this happened during the accident, but the coroner returned an open verdict, and the Tamlyns have always believed that Tom was murdered by Oliver. The motive, of course, was to conceal what had happened on the island.”
Dalgliesh said, “But at the time it could have seemed a justifiable act of war, particularly if Saul had alleged that he was threatened by the Germans. They were, after all, armed. If Tamlyn was murdered, there must have been a stronger reason. I wonder why Saul Oliver insisted in the first place on being last on the island. Surely the steward would have ensured that the house was secure. And what did they do with the boy, a four-year-old, while they were disposing of bodies? They could hardly have left him to roam about unattended.”
Miss Holcombe said, “Saul told me that they locked him in my nursery at the top of the house. They left milk and some food. There was a small bed there, and plenty of toys. Saul lifted him onto my old rocking horse. I remember that horse. I loved Pegasus. It was immense, a magical beast. But it went with much else to be sold. There would be no more Holcombe children. I’m the last of my family.”
Was there a note of regret in her voice? Dalgliesh thought not, but it was difficult to tell. She gazed into the fire for a moment, then went on. “When they returned, the boy had slipped off it and had crawled over to the window. They found him fast asleep, or perhaps unconscious. He was kept below, in the cabin, during the voyage back to the mainland. According to his father, he remembered nothing.”
Dalgliesh said, “There’s still a difficulty about motive. Did Saul Oliver confess to you that he had murdered Tamlyn?”
“No. He wasn’t drunk enough for that. He stuck to the story of the accident.”
“But he did tell you something else?”
And now she looked him full in the face. “He told me that it was the boy who set the straw alight. He was playing with a box of matches he’d found in the house. Afterwards, of course, he panicked and denied he’d been near the lighthouse, but Saul told me he’d seen him.”
“And you believed him?”
Again she paused. “I did at the time. Now I’m not so sure. But, true or not, surely it’s irrelevant to Nathan Oliver’s death. Raimund Speidel is a civilised, humane and intelligent man. He wouldn’t take revenge on a child. Jago Tamlyn has made no secret of his dislike of Nathan Oliver, but if he wanted to murder him he’s had plenty of opportunity over the last few years. That’s if Oliver was murdered, and I suppose you know by now, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Dalgliesh. “We know.”
“Then the reason may lie in the past, but not in this past.”
The recital had tired her. She leaned back again in her chair and sat in silence.
Dalgliesh said, “Thank you. It explains why Speidel wanted to meet Nathan Oliver in the lighthouse. That puzzled me. After all, it isn’t the only secluded place on Combe. Did you tell Dr. Speidel everything you have told me?”
“Everything. Like you, he couldn’t believe that Saul Oliver had acted alone.”
“He knew that Oliver claimed that his son had lit the fire?”
“Yes, I passed on everything Saul had told me. I thought Dr. Speidel had a right to know.”
“And the rest of the island? How much of this is known to others on Combe?”
“None of it, unless Jago has spoken, which I think unlikely. How could he know? Nathan Oliver was told nothing by his father and has never spoken about his life on Combe until seven years ago, when he suddenly decided, apparently, that a comparatively deprived and motherless childhood on an island would be an interesting addition to the little he allowed to be known about his life. It was then that he began taking advantage of the clause in the Trust deed which allowed him to come here whenever he wished. He respected the convention that those who come here never reveal the existence of Combe, until April 2003, when he was interviewed by a journalist from one of the Sunday broadsheets. Unhappily the story was taken up by the tabloid press. They didn’t make much of it, but it was an irritating breach of confidence and certainly didn’t add to Oliver’s popularity here.”
And now it was time to go. Rising from the chair, Dalgliesh was for a second overcome with weakness, but he grasped the back of the chair and the moment passed. The ache in his arms and legs was worse, and he wondered whether he would be able to make it to the door. Suddenly he was aware that Roughtwood was standing in the doorway, Dalgliesh’s coat over his arm. He put out a hand and switched on a light. In the harsh brightness Dalgliesh felt for a second dazzled. Then their eyes met. Roughtwood was looking at him with no attempt to conceal his resentment. He escorted Dalgliesh to the door of the cottage as if he were a prisoner under escort, and his “Good night, sir” sounded in Dalgliesh’s ears as menacing as a challenge.
9
* * *
He had no memory of walking back across the scrubland. It seemed that his body had been transported, mysteriously and instantaneously, from Emily Holcombe’s fire-lit sitting room to this stone-walled monastic emptiness. He moved over to the fireplace, holding chair backs for support, and knelt and put a match to the kindling. There was a puff of pungent smoke and then the fire took hold. Blue-and-red flames flared from the crackling wood. He had been overheated in Atlantic Cottage; now his forehead was wet with globules of cold sweat. With careful art he placed small twigs around the flames, then built a pyramid of larger sticks. His hands seemed to have no relation to the rest of his body, and when he held out his long fingers to the comfort of the strengthening fire, they glowed translucent red, frail disembodied images incapable of feeling heat.
After a few minutes he stood upright, glad that he was now firmer on his feet. Although his body was responding with painful clumsiness to his will, his mind was clear. He knew what was wrong: he must have caught Dr. Speidel’s influenza. He hoped that he hadn’t infected Miss Holcombe. So far as he could remember, he hadn’t sneezed or coughed while in the cottage. He had touched her hand only briefly on arriving and had sat distanced from her. At eighty she must have built up a healthy resistance to most infections, and she had been given her annual anti-flu injection. With luck she would be all right. He devoutly hoped so. But it would be sensible to call off the meeting with Kate and Benton, or at least keep away from them and make it short.
Because of his meeting with Miss Holcombe, the nightly get-together had been arranged later than usual, at ten o’clock. It must already be that now. No, his watch showed nine-fifty. They would be coming across the scrubland. He opened the door and moved out into the darkness. There were no stars, and the low cloud-base had hidden even the moon. Only the sea was visible, stretching faintly luminescent and peaceful under a black emptiness, more threatening and elemental than the absence of light. It would be easy to believe that even breathing could become difficu
lt in this thickened air. There were no lights in Chapel Cottage, but Combe House showed pale rectangles like signals from a distant ship on an invisible ocean.
But then he saw a figure emerging like a wraith out of the darkness, making unerringly for the door of Chapel Cottage. It was Adrian Boyde coming home. He was carrying a long narrow box on his right shoulder. It looked like a coffin, but no heavy object could be carried so lightly—almost, it seemed, with gaiety. And then Dalgliesh realised what it must be. He had seen it earlier in Mrs. Burbridge’s sewing room. This surely was the box with the embroidered cope. He watched while Boyde put it gently down and opened the door. Then he hesitated and after a moment picked up the box and made off towards the chapel.
And then Dalgliesh saw a different light, a small pool like a grounded moon, which gently wavered towards him over the scrubland, was lost for a moment in a thicket of bushes and then reappeared. Kate and Benton were on time. He went back into the cottage and arranged three chairs—two at the table, his own against the wall. He placed a bottle of wine and two glasses on the table and waited. He would pass on to Kate and Benton what Miss Holcombe had told him, and that would be all for today. After they’d gone he would have a hot shower, make a milk drink, take some soluble aspirins and sweat out the infection. He’d done it before. Kate and Benton could do the legwork, but he had to stay well enough to direct the investigation. He would be well enough.
They came in, peeling off their coats and dumping them in the porch. Looking at him, Kate said, “Are you all right, sir?”
She was trying to keep the concern out of her voice. She knew how much he disliked being ill.
“Not entirely, Kate. I think I’ve caught Dr. Speidel’s flu. Take these two seats and don’t come any closer. We can’t all get sick. Benton, see to the wine, will you, and put some more logs on the fire. I’ll tell you what I’ve learnt from Miss Holcombe, and then we’d better call it a day.”
They listened to him in silence. Sitting back, distanced, he saw them as if they were strangers or actors in a play, their contrived and deliberate scene carefully composed—Kate’s fair hair and her face ruddied by the firelight; Benton’s dark gravity as he poured the wine.
When he finished talking Kate said, “It’s interesting, sir, but it doesn’t really get us much further except to strengthen Dr. Speidel’s motive. But I can’t see him as Calcraft. He came to try and find out the truth of his father’s death, not to wreak revenge for something a kid might or might not have done over sixty years before. It doesn’t make sense.”
Benton said, “It’s strengthened Jago’s motive. I suppose he must know the rumour that old man Oliver killed his grandfather on that trip together.”
Dalgliesh said, “Oh yes, he knew it from childhood. Apparently most of the sailing fraternity in Pentworthy knew it or else suspected. They won’t have forgotten.”
Benton went on, “But if he was planning revenge, why wait until now? He could hardly have chosen a worse time, with the island half-empty. And why the lighthouse and that bizarre hanging? Why not just fake another accident when he’d got Oliver on the boat. There’d be a certain justice in that. We get back to that every time. Why now?”
Kate said, “Isn’t it a bit odd that Saul Oliver wanted to come back to the island? Do you think there was something valuable he wanted to steal, or perhaps hide here until after the war, when he’d retrieve it? Maybe he and Jago’s granddad arranged it between them and Oliver killed him so that he wouldn’t have to share the loot. Or am I being fanciful?”
Benton objected, “But even if true that doesn’t help us. We’re not investigating the possible murder of Jago’s granddad. Whatever happened on that last trip, we’re not going to learn the truth of it now.”
Dalgliesh said, “I think that this murder has its roots in the past, but not in the distant past. We have to ask ourselves the same question. Did something happen between Nathan Oliver’s last visit, in July of this year, and his arrival last week? What caused one or more people on this island to decide that Oliver must die? I don’t think we can get any further tonight. I want you to go and speak to Jago first thing tomorrow morning, then come and report to me. It may be distressing for him, but I think we’ve got to learn the truth about the suicide of his sister. And there’s another thing. Why was he so anxious that Millie shouldn’t join in the search for Oliver? Why shouldn’t she help? Was he trying to protect her from seeing that hanging body? When he was called to help search, did he already know what they were going to find?”
BOOK FOUR
* * *
Under Cover of Darkness
1
* * *
Kate knew where to find Jago—in his boat. As she and Benton made their way down the steep pebbled path to the harbour shortly before eight o’clock on Tuesday morning, they could see his stocky figure moving about the launch. Beyond the calm of the harbour the sea was frisky. The wind was rising, bringing with it the compounded smells of the island: sea, earth, the first faint trace of autumn. Frail clouds moved like tattered paper across the morning sky.
Jago must have seen them coming, but he gave only one quick upward glance until they were on the quayside. By the time they were alongside the launch, he had disappeared into the cabin. They waited until he chose to reappear, carrying a couple of cushions which he flung on the seat in the stern of the boat.
Kate said, “Good morning. We’d like a word.”
“Then make it brief.” He added, “No offence, but I’m busy.”
“So are we. Shall we go to your cottage?”
“What’s wrong with here?”
“The cottage would be more private.”
“It’s private enough here. People don’t come messing about when I’m on the launch. Still, it’s all the same to me.”
They followed him along the quay to Harbour Cottage. Kate wasn’t sure why she preferred the interview not to be on the launch. Perhaps it was because the boat was uniquely his place; the cottage, still his, but more like neutral ground. The door stood open. Sunlight laid patterns over the stone floor. Kate and Benton hadn’t entered the cottage on their previous visit. Now, mysteriously, as if she had known it for years, the room imposed its atmosphere upon her: the bare scrubbed table and the two Windsor chairs, the open fireplace, the corkboard almost covering one wall with a large-scale map of the island, the tide timetable, a poster of bird life, a few notes stuck in with drawing pins, and beside it an enlarged sepia photograph, wooden-framed, of a bearded man. The resemblance to Jago was unmistakable. Father or grandfather? Probably the latter: the photograph looked old, the pose unrelaxed.
Jago made a movement towards the chairs and they sat down. This time Benton, after a glance at Kate, didn’t take out his notebook.
Kate said, “We want to talk about what happened in the lighthouse in the early months of the war. We know that three German soldiers died there and that their bodies and the boat they came in were dumped out to sea. We’re told the person responsible was Nathan Oliver’s father, Saul, and that Nathan Oliver himself was on the island at the time. He must have been four years old, little more than a toddler.”
She paused. Jago looked at her. “You’ve been speaking to Emily Holcombe most likely.”
“Not only to her. Dr. Speidel seems to have discovered much of the story.”
Kate glanced at Benton, who said, “But Oliver’s father couldn’t have done that unaided, surely. Three grown men to be carried down the lighthouse stairs and onto the boat, their bodies then weighted with rocks presumably, the boat to be scuppered. And then Saul Oliver’s own boat would’ve had to be alongside to take him back to shore. Was there someone with him? Your grandfather?”
“That’s right. Granddad was here. He and Saul Oliver were the last off Combe.”
“So what happened?”
“Why ask me? You got it from Miss Holcombe, seemingly, and she must have got it from Saul. He was boatman here when she was a child. There’s not much he wouldn’t
have told Miss Holcombe.”
“How did you know about all this?”
“Dad got to know when he grew up. He told me. Got most of it out of Saul Oliver when he was drunk. And there were one or two old ’uns in Pentworthy who knew about Saul Oliver. There were stories.”
Benton said, “What stories?”
“Granddad never got back to Pentworthy alive. Saul Oliver killed him and threw his body overboard. He said it was an accident, but folk knew. My granddad wasn’t a man to have an accident on board a boat. He was a better seaman than Oliver. Nothing was proved, of course. But that’s what happened.”
Kate said, “How long have you known these facts, if they are facts?”
“They’re facts all right. Like I said, nothing could be proved at the time. A body with a smashed skull but no witnesses. The police did try to talk to the boy, but he’d nothing to tell. Either that or he was in shock. But I don’t need proof. Nathan Oliver’s father killed my grandfather. It was well enough known in Pentworthy—still is, by the few like Miss Holcombe who’re still living.”
There was a silence, then Jago said, “If you’re thinking I had a motive for killing Nathan Oliver, you’re right. I had a motive all right. I’ve had a motive since I was first told the tale. I was about eleven then, so if I wanted to avenge Granddad I’ve had close on twenty-three years to do it. And I wouldn’t have strung him up. I’ve had him on that launch alone often enough. That would’ve been the way to do it. Let him go overboard like Granddad. And I wouldn’t have chosen a time when the island was quarter-empty.”
Kate said, “We now know that Oliver must have died shortly after eight, when you say you were testing the launch. Tell us again which direction you took.”
