by P. D. James
Getting out of bed, she reached for her dressing gown. It was then that the telephone rang.
She was downstairs in the sitting room in a matter of seconds, and heard Jo Staveley’s voice. “Sorry to wake you so early, Inspector, but your boss wants to see you. You’d better come quickly. He says it’s urgent.”
9
* * *
Dalgliesh’s last disjointed memories of Tuesday morning were of disembodied hands supporting him into the buggy, of being jolted over the scrubland under a sky which had suddenly become scorching hot, of a white-coated figure in a mask helping him into bed and the comforting coolness of the sheets being drawn over him. He could recall reassuring voices but not their words, and his own insistent voice telling them that they had to keep him on the island. It had been important to get that message across to these mysterious white-clad strangers who seemed to be in control of his life. They had to realise that he couldn’t leave Combe. How would Emma find him if he disappeared into this threatening nothingness? But there was another reason why he couldn’t leave, something to do with a lighthouse and a job that was unfinished.
By Wednesday evening his mind was clear but he was weaker in body. He had difficulty in shifting his head on the high pillows, and throughout the day he had been racked with a cough which wrenched the muscles in his chest, making it difficult to breathe. The intervals between the paroxysms became shorter, the episodes harsher, until, on Wednesday afternoon, Guy Staveley and Jo were busy around his bed, tubes were inserted in his nostrils and he was breathing a stream of oxygen. And now he was lying peacefully, aware of the ache in his limbs, the heat of his fever, but blessedly free from the worst of the coughing. He had no idea of the day or the time. He tried to twist his head to glance at the bedside clock, but even this small effort exhausted him. It must, he thought, be nighttime, or perhaps early morning.
The bed was at right angles to the high windows. So, he remembered, it was in the room next door where he had stood looking down at Oliver’s body. And now he could recall every detail of that scene, recall too what had come after. He lay trapped in the darkness, his eyes on the two pale panels imprinted on the wall, which, as he gazed, were transformed into high windows patterned with stars. Below the windows he could see an easy chair and a woman in a white coat, her mask about her neck, leaning back as if dozing. He remembered that she, or someone like her, had been there every time he had woken. And now he knew that it was Jo Staveley. He lay quietly, freeing his mind from conscious thought, relishing the brief respite from the racking pain in his chest.
And suddenly, with no sense of revelation and no exultation but with absolute certainty, he saw the answer to the puzzle. It was as if the wooden pieces of a spherical puzzle were whirling wildly about his head and then, piece by piece, clicking together into a perfect globe. The truth came to him in snatches of conversation, the voices as clear as if they were being spoken into his ear. Mrs. Plunkett in her kitchen: More likely he’d be sitting in the cabin. Proper scared, he was. Dr. Speidel’s voice in his carefully precise English: I knew that Nathan Oliver visited quarterly. He revealed that in a newspaper article in April 2003. Millie’s high young voice describing her meeting with Oliver as if she had learnt it by rote, his own voice speaking: But that was in another country, and besides, the wench is dead. Padgett seeing the smoke from the chimney of Peregrine Cottage. Nathan Oliver’s one paperback among the popular romantic fiction in Puffin Cottage.
They had all been looking at the case the wrong way round. It wasn’t a question of who had arrived on Combe since Oliver’s last visit and by their arrival had been the catalyst for murder, it was a question of who had left. None of them had remembered that helpless dying woman who had been carried away from Combe in her coffin. And the blood sample dropped overboard by Dan Padgett, was that an accident or deliberate? The truth was that the sample hadn’t been lost—it had never been in the bag. What Dan Padgett had let slip into the sea had been nothing more than old shoes and handbags and library books. Those two events, Martha Padgett’s death and the incident of the blood, both seemingly irrelevant, had been at the heart of the case. Padgett, too, had been telling the truth, or at least part of it, when he said that he saw the smoking chimney just before eight o’clock. He had seen the rising smoke, but from the platform of the lighthouse, not from his window. In the half-light of the sickroom, Boyde’s pain-filled eyes looked again into his, willing him to believe that on his walk over the headland on Saturday morning he had seen no one. But there was someone he should have seen. He had called at Puffin Cottage to talk to Padgett, and Padgett had not been there.
Their thinking had been accurate in one premise: the motive for the murder must have been recent. Before she died, Martha Padgett had confided her secret to the one person she could uniquely trust: Dan was Nathan Oliver’s son. She had told Adrian Boyde, who had helped minister to her, and whom only she and Mrs. Burbridge had viewed as a priest, a man she could confide in under the seal of the confessional. And what then? Had Boyde persuaded her that Dan had a right to know the truth? But Boyde was bound by the secrecy of the confessional. He must have persuaded Martha that she had to be the one to tell her son that the man he hated was his father.
And that, of course, was why Martha Padgett had been so anxious in her last months to come to Combe. She and Dan had arrived in June 2003. It had been in April of that year that Oliver had said in a press interview, widely disseminated, that he made regular visits to Combe, breaking an agreement with the Trust that information about the island should remain confidential. Did Martha hope that somehow her son and his father would meet, and that some relationship would develop, that even at the end she might persuade Oliver to acknowledge his son? It was in giving that ill-advised press interview that Oliver had set in motion the almost inevitable concatenation of events which had led to two violent deaths. Why hadn’t she taken action earlier, why remain silent through the years? Oliver was a famous man; his whereabouts couldn’t be concealed. At the time of Dan’s birth, DNA testing hadn’t been discovered. If Oliver had told his lover that he wouldn’t acknowledge the child and that she couldn’t prove it was his, she might have continued to believe that all her life and only in the last years been faced with two new facts: the public knowledge of DNA testing and, much later, the realisation that she was dying. It was significant that she had kept, and obviously reread, only one of Oliver’s books. Was that the one in which he described a seduction, perhaps even a rape? Her seduction, her rape?
After the murder, Boyde must have suspected Padgett. He couldn’t reveal what he had heard as a confessor, but when he found that cottage empty on Saturday morning, that damning fact could have been told to the police. So why hadn’t he spoken? Did he see it as his priestly duty to persuade Padgett to confess and heal his soul? Was that the confidence, perhaps the arrogance, of a man who had been used to exercising what for him was a unique spiritual power? Had he called at Puffin Cottage on Monday night to make a last attempt, and in doing so ensured that he would be silenced for ever? Had he suspected that? Had he perhaps even known it? Had he returned at last to the chapel instead of to his cottage because he was aware in the darkness of those following feet?
Fact after fact clicked into place. Mrs. Plunkett’s words, He fairly tugged it out, and I could see the look on his face, which wasn’t really what you’d call loving. Of course he didn’t cut the hair: he must have been told that you needed the roots for DNA. And there could have been resentment, even hatred, for the mother who by her silence had condemned him to a childhood of misery and humiliation. The team had accepted that the death of Oliver could have been impulsive, not premeditated. If Speidel’s note had been altered, the appointment would have been changed to a time more convenient than a mere thirty minutes earlier. Padgett, perhaps from his top window, perhaps because he was outside his cottage, had seen Oliver walking purposefully towards the lighthouse. Had he seen this as an opportunity to confront him at last with the truth of
his parentage, to tell him that he had proof, to demand that Oliver acknowledge him and make financial provision? Was that at the root of his confidence about a different future for himself? With what jumble of hope, anger and determination he must have set out impulsively on that short, secluded walk along the lower cliff. And then the confrontation, the quarrel, the fatal lunge at Oliver’s neck, the hapless attempt to make homicide look like suicide.
Dalgliesh had lain there so still, but now Jo moved quickly to his side. She laid a hand on his forehead. He had thought that nurses only did that in books and films, but the touch of Jo’s cool hand was a comfort. Now she said, “You’re an atypical case, aren’t you, Commander? Can’t you do anything by the book? Your temperature soars up and down like a yo-yo.”
He looked at her and found his voice. “I need to speak to Kate Miskin. It’s very important. I have to see her.”
Somehow, despite his weakness, he must have conveyed the urgency. She said, “If you must, you must. But it’s five o’clock in the morning. Can’t it wait at least until it’s light? Let the girl have her rest.”
But it couldn’t wait. He was tormented by fears that he realised were not entirely rational but that he couldn’t banish—the cough might come back; he might get suddenly worse, so that they wouldn’t let Kate see him; he might lose the power of speech; he might even forget what was now so abundantly clear. And one fact was clear above all others. Kate and Benton had to find that phial of blood and the lock of Martha Padgett’s hair. The case hung together, but it was still conjecture, a precarious edifice of circumstantial evidence. Motive and means were not enough. Padgett had cause to hate Oliver, but so had others on the island. Padgett could get to the lighthouse unseen, but so could they. Without the blood and hair, the case might never come to court.
Then there was Mrs. Burbridge’s belief that Oliver had died by accident during an experiment. There was enough evidence to suggest that this was the kind of thing he might well have done. Dr. Glenister would testify that the bruises on Oliver’s throat couldn’t have been self-inflicted, and, given her reputation, her opinion would carry weight. But the post-mortem examination of bruises, particularly sometime after death, could be controversial. There would be forensic pathologists for the defence with very different views.
He said, “Please. I want her now.”
10
* * *
To begin the search of Puffin Cottage before daylight would be to invite speculation and possible interruption. With all the cottages dark, one light would shine out like a warning beacon. It was vital that Padgett didn’t know that the search was underway. If the evidence wasn’t in the cottage, that betraying light would give him a chance to remove the blood and hair or even to destroy them. But never had the early hours passed so slowly for Kate and Benton.
When the time was right, they passed quietly and speedily out of Kate’s apartment and sped across the headland like a couple of conspirators. The door of Puffin Cottage was locked, but the keys were clearly labelled on the bunch Maycroft had given them. As Kate quietly closed and relocked the door behind them, she felt a familiar qualm of unease. This was a part of her job that from the first she had found disagreeable. There had been so many searches over the years, from stinking hovels to expensive immaculate apartments, and she had always felt a twinge of irrational guilt, as if she were the one under suspicion. Strongest of all was the distaste at violating the privacy of the victims, rummaging like a salacious predator among the often pathetic leavings of the dead. But this morning the unease was momentary, subsumed in the euphoria of anger and hope. Recalling Boyde’s mutilated face, she would have happily torn the place apart with her hands.
The cottage still held its atmosphere of dispiriting conformity, and with the curtains drawn the sitting room was as gloomy as if still in mourning. But something had changed. In the strengthening light, Kate could see that all the ornaments on the mantelpiece had been cleared away, and the bookcase was empty with two cardboard boxes beside it.
Benton said, “I thought it might be useful if I read that novel, so I borrowed it from the library. They’ve got hardbacks of all Oliver’s books. I finished it at about two o’clock this morning. One of the incidents is the rape of Donna, a sixteen-year-old girl, on a school trip. The writing is extraordinary. He manages to give the two viewpoints, the man’s and the girl’s, simultaneously in a fusion of emotions which I have never known in a novel before. Technically, it’s brilliant.”
Kate said, “Spare me the literary technique. Let’s get moving. We’ll start with the bread oven inside the fireplace. He could have removed one or more of the bricks.”
The iron door of the bread oven was closed, the interior dark. Benton fetched a torch from Kate’s murder case, and the strong beam illumined the empty interior.
Kate said, “See if any of the bricks are loose.”
Benton began working at the grouting between the bricks with his penknife while Kate waited in silence. About a minute later he said, “I think I’ve found something. This one comes away and there’s a cavity behind.”
Putting in his hand, he drew out an envelope. It contained two sheets of paper: the birth certificates of Bella Martha Padgett, born 6 June 1962, and of Wayne Daniel Padgett, born 9 March 1978. On Dan Padgett’s certificate the space for the father’s name had been left blank.
Benton said, “I wonder why he bothered to hide these.”
“He saw them as damning evidence. Once he had killed Oliver his relationship was a danger, not a meal ticket. It’s ironic, though, isn’t it? If his aunt hadn’t insisted on Padgett and his mother not using their first names, she would have been called Bella. I wonder if that would have struck a chord in Oliver’s mind. Is there anything else there?”
“Nothing, ma’am. I’ll just check the rest of the bricks.”
The search revealed nothing more. They placed the certificates in an exhibit bag and moved into the kitchen. Kate placed her murder case on the work surface next to the sink, and Benton put his camera beside it.
Kate’s voice was as low as if she feared to be overheard. “We’ll try the fridge. If Padgett’s got the blood, he probably thinks it has to be kept cold.”
Benton’s voice was more natural, confident and strong. “But is it necessary for it to be fresh to get DNA, ma’am?”
“I should know but I can’t remember. Probably not, but that’s what he’d think.”
They stretched on their search gloves. The kitchen was small and simply furnished with a wooden table and two chairs. The work surfaces, the floor and the stove were clean. Beside the door was a foot-operated rubbish bin. Benton opened it and they gazed down on the smashed remains of the china figurines. The woman with the hoe had been decapitated, her head incongruously simpering on a heap of torn pages.
Benton stirred them with his finger. “So he destroyed his mother’s last possessions and Oliver’s paperback. The leavings of the two people he blamed for spoiling his life—his mother and Nathan Oliver.”
They moved to the fridge, which was the same type and make as in Kate’s kitchen. Opening it, they saw that it contained a tub of easy-to-spread butter, a pint of semi-skimmed milk and half a loaf of wholemeal bread. But there was discordance between the contents of the fridge and the kitchen, which looked as if it had been unused for weeks. Perhaps Padgett had given up cooking for himself since his mother’s death and was relying on the staff dining room for his main meals. They opened the small freezer compartment at the top. It was empty. Kate took out the wrapped loaf. The eight remaining slices were still fresh and, separating them, she checked that nothing was pressed between them.
Replacing the bread, she carried the tub of butter over to the table. Neither spoke as she prised open the plastic lid. Underneath was a sheet of greaseproof paper with the name of the brand. It looked untouched. Kate folded it back to reveal the smooth spread of the butter. She said, “See if there’s a thin knife or a skewer in one of the drawers, will you, Be
nton.”
Gazing at the tub, she heard drawers being quickly opened and shut, then Benton was at her side holding out a meat skewer. He watched as she gently pierced the butter. The skewer went in for less than half an inch.
She said, unable to keep the excitement from her voice, “There’s something in here. We need photographs from now on—the fridge, the tub.”
Kate waited while Benton began to photograph, then gently scraped away the top layer of butter onto the lid of the tub. She dug a little deeper to reveal a sheet of foil and beneath it two small packages neatly wrapped also in foil. Benton took another photograph as Kate carefully peeled off the foil. In one was a phial of blood with the label giving Oliver’s name and the date still attached. In the other was a sample of hair wrapped in tissue paper.
Benton said, “There would have been a paper detailing the tests Dr. Staveley wanted done, but Padgett wouldn’t have bothered to keep that. The label will be enough. The name and date are handwritten, so we’ll get clear identification.”
They looked at each other. Kate could see on his face the smile of triumph which she knew matched her own. But this was a moment for controlled activity, not for rejoicing. Benton took the final photographs, including the contents of the bin, and Kate placed the phial, the hair and the butter tub inside an exhibit bag and sealed it. They both signed the label.
Neither could say afterwards what it was that alerted them to the fleeting face at the kitchen window. There had been no sound, but it could have been an almost imperceptible dimming of the light. He was gone before they could be sure of anything except two terrified eyes and a shorn head.
