by P. D. James
“I went out to sea about half a mile. That was enough to test the engine.”
“From that distance you must have had a clear view of the lighthouse. The fog didn’t come up thickly until shortly before ten. Surely you must have seen the body.”
“Might’ve done if I’d looked. I’d enough to do managing the boat without scanning the shore.” He got up. “And now, if enough’s been said, I’ll get back to the boat. You know where to find me.”
Benton said, “That isn’t good enough, Tamlyn. Why did you try to stop Millie joining the search? Why order her to stay in the cottage? It doesn’t make sense.”
Jago looked at him with hard eyes. “And if I did see him dangling, what could I do about it? It was too late then to save him. He’d be found soon enough. I had my job to do.”
“So you admit you did see Mr. Oliver’s body hanging from the railings?”
“I’m admitting nothing. But there’s one thing you’d best keep in mind. If I was in the launch at eight o’clock, I couldn’t be in the lighthouse stringing him up. And now I’d like to get back to the launch if you’ll excuse me.”
Kate said as gently as she could, “There’s one other thing I have to ask. I’m sorry if it brings back distressing memories. Didn’t your sister hang herself some years ago?”
Jago bent on her a look of such black intensity that for a second Kate thought he might strike her, and Benton made a spontaneous movement, quickly checked. But Jago’s voice was calm, although his eyes never left Kate’s.
“Yeah. Debbie. Six years ago. After she was raped. That was no seduction. It was rape.”
“And did you feel the need to take revenge?”
“I took it, didn’t I? Got twelve months for GBH. Didn’t anyone tell you that I’d got a record before you came here? I put him in hospital for three weeks, give or take a day. Worse for him, the local publicity didn’t do his garage business much good and his wife left him. I couldn’t bring Debbie back, but by God I made him pay.”
“When did you attack him?”
“The day after Debbie told me. She was just sixteen. You can read about it in the local paper if you’re interested. He called it seduction but he didn’t deny it. Are you saying you thought it could’ve been Oliver? That’s daft.”
“We needed to know the facts, Mr. Tamlyn, that’s all.”
Jago’s laugh was hoarse. “They say revenge is a dish best served cold, but not that cold! If I wanted to kill Nathan Oliver he’d have been overboard years ago, same as my granddad was.”
He didn’t wait for them to get up but strode at once to the door and disappeared. Moving into the sunshine, they watched him leaping easily aboard the launch.
Kate said, “He’s right, of course. If he wanted to kill Oliver, why wait for over twenty years? Why choose the most unpropitious weekend, and why that method? He doesn’t know the whole story about the lighthouse, does he? Either that or he’s not saying. He didn’t mention that the kid himself could have started that blaze.”
Benton said, “But would that have worried him, ma’am? Would anyone take vengeance on an elderly man because of something he’d done as a four-year-old? If he hated Oliver—and I think he did—it must be for something more recent, perhaps something very recent, which gave him no choice but to act now.”
It was then that Kate’s radio beeped. She listened to the message, then gazed at Benton. Her eyes must have told him all. She watched his face change, shock, disbelief and horror mirroring her own.
She said, “That was AD. We’ve got another body.”
2
* * *
On the previous night, after Kate and Benton had gone, Dalgliesh locked the door, more from the habit of ensuring privacy and security than from any thought that there was danger. The fire was dying, but he placed the guard in front of it. He washed the two wine glasses and replaced them in the kitchen cupboard, then checked the cork on the wine bottle. It was half-empty, but they would finish the wine tomorrow. All these small actions took an inordinate time. He found himself standing in the kitchen trying to remember what he was there for. Of course, the hot drink. He decided against it, knowing that the smell of the heated milk would sicken him.
The stairs seemed to have become very steep, and he grasped the rail and dragged himself painfully upstairs. The hot shower was an exhausting ordeal rather than a pleasure, but it was good to get rid of the sour smell of sweat. Lastly, he took two aspirin from the first-aid cupboard, drew back the curtains from the half-open window and climbed into bed. The sheets and pillowcases were comfortingly cool. Lying on his right side, he stared into the darkness, seeing only the rectangle of the window printed palely against the blackness of the wall.
It was first light when he awoke, his hair and the pillow hot and dank with sweat. The aspirin had at least brought down his temperature. Perhaps all would be well. But the ache in his limbs was worse, and he was possessed of a heavy weariness which made intolerable even the effort of getting out of bed. He closed his eyes. A dream remained, trailing faint tatters of memory like soiled rags across his mind, half dissolving but still clear enough to leave a legacy of unease.
He was marrying Emma, not in the college chapel, but in his father’s Norfolk church. It was a blazing-hot day in midsummer, but Emma was wearing a black dress, high-necked and long-sleeved, its heavy folds trailing behind her. He couldn’t see her face, because her head was covered with a thick patterned veil. His mother was there, plaintively complaining that Emma should be wearing her own wedding dress—she had saved it carefully for his bride. But Emma refused to change. The Commissioner and Harkness were there in formal uniform, braid glistening on their shoulders and caps. But he wasn’t dressed. He was standing on the rectory lawn wearing only a singlet and underpants. No one seemed to think it remarkable. He couldn’t find his clothes and the church bell was tolling and his father, fantastically robed in a green cope and mitre, was telling him that everyone was waiting. They were crossing the lawn to the church in droves—parishioners he had known from childhood, the people his father had buried, murderers he had helped to send to prison, Kate in bridesmaid’s pink. He had to find his clothes. He had to get to the church. He had somehow to silence the sound of the bell.
And there was a bell. Suddenly wide awake, he realised that the phone was ringing.
He stumbled down the stairs and picked up the receiver. A voice said, “Maycroft here. Is Adrian with you? I’ve been trying to reach him, but there’s no answer from the cottage. He wouldn’t have left for work yet.”
The voice was insistent, unnaturally loud. Dalgliesh wouldn’t have recognised it as Maycroft’s. And then he recognised something else—the unmistakable urgency of fear.
He said, “No, he’s not here. I saw him coming home at about ten last night. Perhaps he’s taking a morning walk.”
“He doesn’t usually. He sometimes leaves his cottage by eight-thirty and takes his time arriving, but it’s too early for that. I’ve some urgent and distressing news for you both. I need to speak to him.”
Dalgliesh said, “Hold on, I’ll take a look.”
He went to the door and looked out over the scrubland towards Chapel Cottage. There was no sign of life. He would have to go to the cottage, and perhaps look in the chapel, but both seemed mysteriously to have distanced themselves. His aching legs felt not to belong to him. It would take time. He went back to the telephone.
“I’ll see if he’s in his cottage or the chapel.” He added, “It may take a little time. I’ll ring back.”
His rainproof jacket was hanging in the porch. He tugged it on over his dressing gown and urged his naked feet into outdoor shoes. A frail morning mist rose from the headland, promising another fine day, and the air smelled sweetly damp. Its freshness revived him, and he walked more steadily than he had thought possible. The door of Chapel Cottage wasn’t locked. He opened it and gave a shout, which made his throat ache, but it evoked no response. Crossing the sitting room, he clambe
red up the wooden stairs to check the bedroom. The counterpane was stretched over the bed and, turning it back, he saw that the bed was made up.
He had no memory of crossing the fifty yards of stone-littered grass to the chapel. The half-door was closed and, briefly, he leaned against it, glad of the support.
And then, raising his eyes, he saw the body. He had no doubt, even as he unlatched the door, that Boyde was dead. He was lying on the stone floor, a foot from the improvised altar, his left hand protruding from the edge of the cope, the white fingers stiffly curved as if beckoning Dalgliesh forward. The cope had been thrown or placed over the whole of the rest of the body, and through the green silk he could see the dark stains of blood. The folding chair had been opened, and the long cardboard box rested on it, the tissue paper spilling out.
And now he was acting from instinct. He must touch nothing until he was wearing his gloves. Shock revitalised him, and he found himself half running, half stumbling back to Seal Cottage, oblivious of pain. He paused for a few seconds to calm his breathing, then picked up the receiver.
“Maycroft, I’m afraid I have shocking news. We have another death. Boyde has been murdered. I’ve found his body in the chapel.”
There was a silence so absolute that he could almost believe the line was dead. He waited. Then Maycroft’s voice again. “You’re sure? It’s not an accident, it’s not suicide?”
“I’m sure. This is murder. I shall need everyone on the island brought together as soon as possible.”
Maycroft said, “Hold on, will you. I’ve got Guy here.”
Then there was Staveley’s voice. He said, “Rupert was ringing with a message for you both. I’m afraid it’s going to make your job doubly difficult. Dr. Speidel has SARS. I thought it was a possibility when I transferred him to Plymouth, and the diagnosis has now been confirmed. I’m not sure that it will be possible for you to bring in reinforcements. The sensible thing would be for the island to be quarantined, and I’m in touch with the authorities about this. Rupert and I are ringing everyone to let them know, and later we’ll get them together so that I can explain the medical implications. There’s no need for anyone to panic. Your news turns a difficult situation into a tragedy. It will also make the medical situation much more difficult to manage.”
It sounded like an accusation, and perhaps it was. And Staveley’s voice had changed too. Dalgliesh had never heard it so calmly and reassuringly authoritative. He stopped speaking, but Dalgliesh could catch the mutter of voices. The two men were conferring. Staveley came back on the line. “Are you all right, Commander? You must have inhaled Speidel’s breath when you helped him after he collapsed and went with him back to his cottage. You—and Jo, who nursed him—are the two most at risk.”
He didn’t mention himself; he didn’t need to. Dalgliesh asked quietly, “What are the symptoms?”
“Initially much the same as flu—high temperature, aching limbs, loss of energy. There may not be a cough until later.”
Dalgliesh didn’t reply, but his silence was eloquent. Staveley’s voice was more urgent. “Rupert and I will bring up the buggy. Meanwhile, keep warm.”
Dalgliesh found his voice. “I have to call my colleagues urgently. They’ll need the buggy. I can walk.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. We’ll be on our way.”
The receiver was put down. All his limbs ached, and he could feel the energy draining from his body as if even his blood were flowing sluggishly. He sat down and got Kate on her radio.
He said, “Are you with Jago? Come here as quickly as you can. Commandeer the buggy and don’t let Maycroft or Staveley stop you. Say nothing to Jago, of course. We have another body—Adrian Boyde.”
The pause was only momentary. Kate said, “Yes, sir. We’re on our way.”
He clicked open his case and put on his search gloves, then went back to the chapel, walking with his eyes on the ground, watching for unusual marks. There was small hope of identifiable footprints on the sandy turf, and he saw none. Inside the chapel, crouching at the head of the body, he gently lifted the neck of the cope. The lower part of Boyde’s face had been smashed to a pulp, the right eye invisible under a swollen carapace of congealing blood. The left had disappeared. The nose was a splinter of bones. Gently he felt the neck and then the outstretched fingers of the left hand. How could human flesh be so cold? The hand was rigid, as were the muscles of the neck. Rigor mortis was well established; Boyde must have died last night. The killer could have been waiting for him in the chapel, have been outside in the occlusive darkness, watching and listening, or could have seen Boyde leaving Combe House and followed him across the scrubland. One thought was particularly bitter for Dalgliesh. If he had only stood at the door of Seal Cottage for a few more minutes last night watching Boyde arriving home, he might have seen a second figure emerging from the darkness. While he had been conferring with Kate and Benton, the killer could already have been at work.
Painfully he got to his feet and stood at the foot of the body. The silence was numinous, broken only by the sound of the sea. He listened to it, not in the sense of being aware of the rhythmic crash of the waves against the unyielding granite, but letting the perpetual sound enter into some deeper level of consciousness so that it became an eternal lament for the unhealable anguish of the world. He supposed that anyone who had seen him so motionless would have thought that he was bending his head in reverence. And so in a sense he was. He was filled with a terrible sadness fused with the bitterness of failure, a burden which he knew he had to accept and live with. Boyde should not have died. It was no comfort to tell himself that there had been no evidence to suggest that after Oliver’s death anyone else had been at risk, that he had no powers to detain a suspect on a vague suspicion that he could be guilty, no power even to prevent anyone leaving the island unless he had evidence to justify an arrest. He knew only one thing: Boyde should not have died. There were not two killers among the small company on Combe. If he had solved Oliver’s murder in the past three days, Adrian Boyde would still be alive.
And now his ears caught the sound of the approaching buggy. Benton was driving with Kate at his side, Maycroft and Staveley in the back seats. So they had got their way. The buggy stopped some thirty feet from the chapel. Kate and Benton got down and walked towards him.
Dalgliesh called to them, “Don’t come any closer. Kate, this means you’ll have to take over.”
Their eyes met. Kate seemed to have difficulty speaking. Then she said calmly, “Yes, sir, of course.”
Dalgliesh said, “Boyde’s been battered to death. The face has been destroyed. The weapon could be a stone. If so, Calcraft could have thrown it into the sea. The last sighting of Boyde was probably by me, last night, just before you arrived. You didn’t see him when you were crossing the scrubland?”
Kate said, “No, sir. It was pitch dark, and we kept our eyes on the ground. We had a torch, but I don’t think he could’ve been carrying one. I think we’d have noticed a moving light.”
And now Maycroft and Staveley were coming purposefully towards him. They were without coats and had facemasks hanging round their necks. In the brightening light, which seemed to have grown unreal, the buggy looked as strange as a moon vehicle. He felt like an actor in some bizarre theatrical enterprise in which he was expected to play the lead without knowing the plot or having sight of the script.
He called in a voice he hardly recognised, “I’ll come, but I need to finish talking to my colleagues.”
They nodded without speaking and moved a little back.
Dalgliesh spoke to Kate. “I’ll try to telephone Mr. Harkness and Dr. Glenister when I get to the house. You’d better speak to them too. She should be able to examine and collect the body if she and the helicopter crew keep away from people. You’ll have to leave it to her. The exhibits can go with her to the lab. If there’s any chance of searching the foreshore safely for the weapon, you may need Jago. I don’t think he’s our man. Don’t climb, either of yo
u, unless it’s safe.” He took out his pocketbook and scribbled a note. “Before the news breaks, could you phone Emma Lavenham on this number and try to reassure her? I’ll try to speak to her from the house, but it may not be possible. And, Kate, don’t let them move me from the island if you can help it.”
“No, sir, I won’t.”
There was a pause, then he said, as if the words were difficult to form, “Tell her . . . ,” and stopped. Kate waited. Then he said, “Give her my love.”
He walked as steadily as he could towards the buggy, and the two figures raised their masks and moved towards him. He said, “I don’t want the buggy. I’m capable of walking.”
Neither man spoke, but the buggy wobbled into life and turned. Dalgliesh walked beside it for nearly thirty yards before Kate and Benton, rooted and watching, saw him stumble and be lifted aboard.
3
* * *
Kate and Benton watched the buggy trundle out of sight.
Kate said, “We need gloves. We’ll use Mr. Dalgliesh’s for now.”
The door of Seal Cottage was open and the murder case, also open, was on the table. They put on gloves and returned to the chapel. With Benton standing beside her, Kate squatted beside the body and lifted a corner of the cope. She studied the mess of congealed blood and smashed bones which had been Boyde’s face, then gently touched the ice-cold fingers locked into rigor mortis. She felt herself shaking with emotions that she knew she must somehow control, a sick horror, anger and a pity which was more difficult to bear than either anger or revulsion. She was aware of Benton’s breathing but did not look up to meet his eyes.
Waiting to control her voice, she said, “He died here, and probably soon after he arrived home last night. Calcraft could have thrown the stone—or whatever it was—felled Boyde, and then decided to finish the job. This was hatred. Either that or he lost all control.”
