by P. D. James
Miranda Oliver broke in almost before she had finished. The eyes of the group, as if they were automata, turned to her. “I want to stay where I am. Dennis has moved into my cottage, so I’ll be safe. I think it’s common knowledge now that we’re going to be married. It wouldn’t be appropriate to announce it in the papers so soon after my father’s death, but we are engaged. Naturally I don’t want to be parted from my fiancé at a time like this.”
Benton thought that the statement had been rehearsed in advance, but it still astounded him. Didn’t she realise how inappropriate was the triumphant announcement of an engagement at such a moment? He sensed a general embarrassment. How odd that a social gaffe could actually disconcert people when they were faced with murder and the fear of death.
Emily Holcombe said, “What about you, Dr. Yelland? Your cottage is the most remote.”
“Oh, I shall move in here. There’s only one person on this island who can feel safe from being murdered, and that’s the murderer himself. Since I’m not he, I would prefer to be here in the house rather than alone in Murrelet Cottage. It seems to me likely that the police are dealing with a psychologically disturbed killer who may not be rational in choosing another victim. I’d prefer one of the guest suites in the house rather than the stable block, and as I’ve brought work with me, I shall need a desk.”
Maycroft said, “Jago will need to stay in his cottage to keep surveillance on the harbour. Are you happy with that, Jago?”
“Someone’s got to be in that cottage, sir, and I wouldn’t fancy it being anybody but me. I can look after myself.”
Since Maycroft had finished speaking, Millie had been unobtrusively sobbing, the sound as low and pathetic as a kitten’s mewing. Mrs. Plunkett from time to time tightened her grip on the small fist but made no other comforting move. No one else took any notice, but now Millie cried out, “I don’t want to move in here! I want to get off this island. I’m not staying where people get murdered! You can’t make me stay!” She turned to Jago. “Jago, you’ll take me, won’t you? You’ll take me in the launch? I can stay with Jake. I can go anywhere. You can’t keep me here!”
Yelland said, “I suppose she’s technically right. We stay in quarantine voluntarily, surely. The appropriate authority, whichever one is responsible for the island, can’t invoke compulsory measures unless we’re actually suffering from an infectious disease. I’m perfectly prepared to stay, I’m just asking about the legal position.”
Now Maycroft’s voice was more commanding than Benton had heard before. “I’m ascertaining the position. If anyone did leave, I imagine they would be advised to stay at home and keep away from other people until the incubation period is past. I believe that to be ten days, but we shall know more from Dr. Staveley. But the question is academic. No visitors’ boats come to Combe, and certainly none will be allowed to land now.”
Emily said, “So in fact we’re prisoners?”
“Hardly more, Emily, than we are when there’s thick fog or violent storms. The launch is under my control. I don’t intend to make it available until the incubation period is over. Does anyone quarrel with that?”
No one did, but Millie’s voice rose into a crescendo. “I don’t want to stay! You can’t make me!”
Jago shifted his chair closer to her and whispered in her ear. No one heard what he said, but Millie gradually grew quiet, then she said querulously, “Then why can’t I be in Harbour Cottage with you?”
“Because you’re going to be in the big house with Mrs. Burbridge. No one’s going to harm you. Be brave and sensible and you’ll be a right heroine when this is over.”
During this time Mrs. Burbridge hadn’t spoken. Now she said, her voice breaking, “Not one of you has said anything about Adrian Boyde. Not one. He’s been brutally killed and all we’re thinking about is our own safety, whether we’ll be the next one, whether we’ll get SARS, and he’s in some morgue waiting to be cut up and labelled, an exhibit in a murder case.”
Maycroft said patiently, “Evelyn, I said he was a good man, and he was. And you’re quite right. I’ve been too preoccupied with the problem of coping with the double emergency to find the right words. But we shall find a time to grieve for him.”
“You didn’t find a moment to grieve for my father!” Miranda was on her feet. “You didn’t care whether he was dead or alive. Some of you were glad he was dead. I know what you thought about him, so don’t think I’m going to stand up for two minutes’ silence for Mr. Boyde, if that’s what you have in mind.” She turned to Kate. “And don’t forget Daddy died first. You’re supposed to be investigating that too.”
“We are investigating it.”
Benton thought, We need to keep them together. We can’t protect them all and at the same time investigate a double murder. This is the only chance we’ll have to exert our authority. If we don’t take control now, we never shall. We can’t let Emily Holcombe take over.
He glanced at Kate, and somehow she grasped the force of his anxiety. She said, “Have you anything to add, Sergeant?”
“Only this, ma’am.” He turned to the group, then fixed his eyes on Emily Holcombe. “We’re not asking you to move from the cottages merely because you’ll be safer. With Mr. Dalgliesh ill, we need to use effectively what manpower we have. It’s sensible as well as prudent for all of you to be in one place. Those who don’t cooperate will be seriously hampering the investigation.”
Was there, Benton wondered, a glimpse of grim amusement on Miss Holcombe’s face? She said, “If you put it like that, Sergeant, I suppose we have no choice. I’ve no wish to be used as a scapegoat for failure. I would like my parents’ bedroom in the house. Roughtwood will be in the stable block. And you’d better join me in the house, Miranda. Mr. Tremlett was perfectly comfortable before in the stable block. You should be able to tolerate a night or two apart.”
Before Miranda could reply, the door opened and Guy Staveley came in. Somehow Benton had been expecting him to be wearing a white coat, and now the brown corduroy trousers and tweed jacket in which he had started the day seemed incongruous. He came into the room quietly. His face was as grave as Maycroft’s, and before speaking he looked across at his colleague as if seeking reassurance, but his voice was steady and surprisingly authoritative. This was a different man from the Staveley Benton had first seen. All eyes were on him. Glancing from face to face, Benton saw hope, anxiety and the mute appeal he had seen in other eyes: the desperate need for the reassurance of an expert.
The chair at one end of the rectangular table was vacant, and Staveley took it, facing Mrs. Burbridge. Maycroft moved to his right, and those of the company still standing, including Kate, found themselves seats. Only Benton remained standing. He moved over to the window, relishing the inrush of the sea-smelling breeze.
Staveley said, “Inspector Miskin will have told you that we now know that Dr. Speidel is suffering from SARS. He is in a special isolation unit in Plymouth and is being well cared for. His wife and some of his family are arriving from Germany and will, of course, only see him under controlled conditions. He’s still seriously ill. I have also to tell you that Commander Dalgliesh has caught the infection and is at present in the sickroom here. Samples will be taken to confirm the diagnosis, but I’m afraid there can be little doubt. If his condition worsens, he too will be transferred by helicopter to Plymouth.
“First of all, I want to reassure you that the primary way that SARS spreads is by close person-to-person contact, perhaps by droplets when the infected person coughs or sneezes, or by someone touching the surface or object which has been contaminated by infected droplets and then carrying them to the nose, mouth or eyes. It’s possible that SARS might be carried through the air by other means, but at present no one seems sure of that. We can take it that only those of you who came into close contact with either Dr. Speidel or Mr. Dalgliesh are seriously at risk. Nevertheless, it is right that everyone here on Combe should be in quarantine for about ten days. The Public Health Au
thority has powers to enforce quarantine on an infected person and in some cases on those at risk from infection. I don’t know whether they would do so for those of you who have not been in close contact with Dr. Speidel and Mr. Dalgliesh, but I hope we can agree that the most sensible thing is for all of us to accept voluntary quarantine and to stay here on the island until we’re advised that it’s safe to leave. After all, we’re not being quarantined away from home. Except for the police and our visitors, Combe is our home. We’re only being asked to forgo our trips to the mainland until the danger of infection is over. If anyone objects to this, will you please let me know.”
No one spoke. Millie looked for a second rebellious, then subsided into glum resignation.
Then Padgett spoke, his voice high. “It isn’t convenient for me. Combe isn’t my home—not now. I’ve got an interview in London for a university course. I’m leaving Combe now that Mother’s dead, and it’s impossible for me to stay on for ten days. If I miss the interview I may lose my chance of a place.”
It was Yelland who surprisingly replied. “That’s ridiculous. Of course they’ll keep a place. They’d hardly welcome your appearance if they thought you’d been exposed to infection from SARS.”
“I haven’t been. Dr. Staveley’s just explained.”
“Commander Dalgliesh interviewed you, didn’t he? Either he or one of his colleagues, and they’ve been exposed to infection. Why not accept the inevitable and stop whining.”
Padgett flushed and seemed about to speak. Then Dr. Staveley said, “So we agree to accept voluntary quarantine. I’ll let the authorities know. Of course, while this is happening there’ll be a great deal of international activity tracing visitors who flew from Beijing with Dr. Speidel and the friend he stayed with in the south of France. That’s not my responsibility, thank God. My wife and I are caring for Commander Dalgliesh at present, but I may have to transfer him to Plymouth later. In the meantime, if any of you falls ill, please come at once to the surgery. SARS usually begins with a fever and the symptoms associated with flu—headache, general feeling of being unwell, aches in the body. Some patients, but not all, have a cough at the very outset. I think that’s all I have to tell you at present. The murder of Adrian Boyde, which normally would drive all other worries and considerations from our minds, is in the hands of Inspector Miskin and Sergeant Benton-Smith. I hope we shall all cooperate with them as we did with Commander Dalgliesh. Has anyone any questions?” He turned to Maycroft. “Have you anything further to say, Rupert?”
“Only about publicity. This news will break on the one o’clock news bulletins on radio and on television. I’m afraid it will be the end of privacy on the island. We’re doing all we can to cut the nuisance to a minimum. All the phones here are ex-directory, which doesn’t mean some people won’t discover the numbers. The public-relations branch of New Scotland Yard are dealing with publicity about the murders. The line is that investigations are proceeding but it’s very early days. The inquest on Mr. Oliver has been postponed, and when it takes place is likely to be adjourned. Those of you who are interested in the publicity and want to share in the drama might be able to persuade Mrs. Plunkett to let you watch her television. The newspapers, together with the necessary supplies, will be dropped by helicopter tomorrow. I can’t say I’m looking forward to their arrival.”
Dr. Yelland said, “What about your temporary staff on the mainland, the ones who come over by the week? Won’t they be harassed by journalists?”
“I don’t think their names are generally known. If the press do get in touch, I doubt whether they’ll get much help. There’s no reasonable possibility of anyone landing on the island. The helicopter pad will be made unusable except when we know an air ambulance is arriving or supplies are being delivered. There’ll probably be some noise nuisance from other helicopters circling, but we’ll have to put up with that. Have you anything more you want to say, Inspector?”
“Just one or two things to add to what I said earlier. People should stay together as much as they can. If you want exercise, take one or two companions and stay within sight of the house. You all have keys to your cottages or to your rooms in the house or the stable block and will probably prefer to keep them locked. Sergeant Benton-Smith and I would like your consent to search any of your rooms if it proves necessary. I’m anxious to save time. Has anyone any objection?” No one spoke. “Then I’ll take that as consent. Thank you. Before we disperse, I’d like you all to write down where you were and what you were doing between nine o’clock last night and eight this morning. Sergeant Benton-Smith will bring in the necessary paper and pens and collect your scripts.”
Emily Holcombe said, “We’ll look like a bunch of over-mature university students tackling their final-exam papers. Will Sergeant Benton-Smith be invigilating?”
Kate said, “No one will, Miss Holcombe. Are you proposing to cheat?” She turned to the rest of the company. “That will be all for now. Thank you.”
The sheets of paper and pens had been placed ready on Maycroft’s desk. Crossing the corridor to collect them, Benton reflected that Kate’s and his first encounter with the suspects as a duo hadn’t gone badly. He sensed that they were now reverting to the comforting theory that, somehow, a stranger had managed to get on the island. If so, there was no point in disabusing them. The fear of a psychopathic murderer at large would at least keep them together. And there was another advantage: the murderer, feeling himself safer, would become more confident. It was when a murderer grew in confidence that he was most at risk. Benton glanced at his watch. It would be high tide in less than forty minutes. But first they must see Mrs. Burbridge. Her evidence could make that dangerous climb unnecessary.
Unlike the others, she hadn’t settled down to write her statement but had folded the sheet of paper and placed it carefully in her bag. Now, getting to her feet as if she had suddenly become an old woman, she was making for the door. Opening it for her, Kate said, “We’d like to have a word with you, Mrs. Burbridge, and it is rather urgent. Shall we do that now?”
Without looking at them, Mrs. Burbridge said, “If you’ll give me just five minutes. Please. Just five minutes.”
She was gone. Benton glanced at his watch. “Let’s hope it isn’t more, ma’am.”
5
* * *
Mrs. Burbridge received Kate and Benton at her door without speaking and, somewhat to Kate’s surprise, led them not into the sitting room but into the sewing room. There she seated herself at the larger table. In the library Kate had been too preoccupied with finding the right words to concentrate on individual faces. Now she was looking at a woman so altered by grief that she was unrecognisable as the woman she had first seen after Oliver’s murder. Her skin was a grey-green parchment creased with furrows, and the pain-filled eyes, swimming in a moist bed of unshed tears, had lost all colour. But Kate saw something more, a desolation of spirit which was beyond comfort. She had never felt more inadequate or more helpless. She wished passionately that AD were here. He would know what to say, he always did.
Fleetingly images of former bereavements passed through her mind in a moving collage of grief. There had been so many of them, so much bad news to break, since she had first become a WPC. A succession of doors that opened even before her ring or knock; wives, husbands, children seeing the truth in her eyes before she had had time to speak; frantically rummaging in unfamiliar kitchens to make the traditional “nice cup of tea,” which was never nice and which the bereaved drank with heartrending courtesy.
But this distress was beyond the transitory comfort of hot, sweet tea. Glancing round the sewing room as if seeing it for the first time, she was possessed by a confusing mixture of pity and anger: the bales of richly coloured silk, the corkboard patterned with cuttings, photographs, symbols, and, in front of Mrs. Burbridge, the small folded cloth enclosing the silk embroidered strip on which Millie had worked, all evidence of innocent and happy creativity which would now be for ever tainted with horror an
d blood.
They could only have waited in silence for ten seconds, but time seemed to have stopped, then the sad eyes looked into Kate’s. “It’s the cope, isn’t it? It’s something to do with the cope. And I gave it to him.”
Kate said gently, “It was placed over Mr. Boyde’s body, but it wasn’t used to kill him.” Was that what Mrs. Burbridge had been thinking? Kate added, “He wasn’t suffocated. The cope was just laid over him.”
“And is it . . . Is it stained with his blood?”
“Yes, I’m afraid it is.”
Kate opened her mouth to say the words But I think it can be cleaned, then stopped herself. She had heard Benton’s quick intake of breath. Did he too realise that she had saved herself from a folly as insulting as it was stupid? Mrs. Burbridge wasn’t grieving for the loss of an object she had lovingly created, nor for the waste of time and effort.
And now she too looked round the room as if it had become unfamiliar to her. She said, “It’s all pointless, isn’t it? Nothing about it is real. It’s just prettifying a fantasy. I gave him the cope. If I hadn’t given it to him . . .” Her voice broke.
Kate said, “It would have made no difference. Believe me, the murderer would’ve struck whether or not the cope was there. It had nothing to do with the cope.”
Then Kate heard Benton speaking and was surprised that his voice was so gentle.
“It was the killer who put the cope over him, but it was appropriate, wasn’t it? Adrian was a priest. Perhaps the silk of the cope was the last thing he felt. Wouldn’t that have been a comfort to him?”
She looked up at his face, then reached out a trembling hand and took his dark young hand in hers. “Yes,” she said, “it would. Thank you.”
