The Dying of the Light: A Mystery

by Michael Dibdin

  ‘You haven’t really changed your will, have you Dot?’ Rosemary interrupted.

  Dorothy picked up her knitting without answering. Rosemary looked at her friend with a preoccupied expression.

  ‘It’s none of my business, of course,’ she went on, ‘but I must say that I would personally consider it most unwise to put any faith in promises which may have been made in a certain quarter. I shouldn’t think there’s the slightest chance of their being honoured.’

  Dorothy clutched her chest and moaned.

  ‘What is it?’ cried Rosemary in alarm.

  ‘I’m all right. Only would you be an angel and fetch my medicine? What with one thing and another I never did manage to get upstairs, and now it’s started to hurt quite badly.’

  ‘Is there anything else?’ asked Rosemary, springing to her feet.

  Dorothy tried a smile which did not quite come off.

  ‘Could you possibly spare that thick cardie of yours? I feel the cold so now that winter’s here.’

  ‘Of course you can. Although it’s only September, you know. Or October at the latest.’

  ‘Does it matter?’ Dorothy returned in an oddly muted voice. ‘You can’t change anything with words, Rose. I’m cold.’

  CHAPTER 3

  Rosemary made her way along the corridor which wound about the first floor of the building, connecting the various bedrooms. Most of the doors were either closed or slightly ajar, but at length a further bend in the passage revealed one which lay wide open. The room inside looked as though it had been prepared for a guest who had not yet arrived. The furniture was the same as in all the other bedrooms: a sturdy metal-framed single bed with a cabinet beside it, a chest of drawers, a large wardrobe and a hard armchair.

  Everything was in its place, corners aligned and not a speck of dust to be seen. The bed was perfectly made, the corners of the covers turned down as though in readiness for the intended occupant. On top of the chest of drawers the various paraphernalia which Mr Purvey needed to keep his diabetes under control were arranged in a precise geometric pattern. Although he had been a resident for several years, Purvey still acted as though he were an uninvited guest who had long outstayed his welcome. Perhaps because of this, he kept his room irreproachably clean and tidy and always left the door open, to indicate that he was not claiming any rights of privacy, still less possession.

  Rosemary opened the door opposite and went inside. She always appreciated her fortune in having one of the smaller bedrooms, which had escaped subdivision. As a result, the walls were solid and the proportions made sense, with two good-sized windows overlooking the grounds at the front of the house. Despite the thick patina of grime on the glass, there was a fine view over the flat expanse of the former croquet lawn, the rockery beyond, and then the pastures rising to the ridge which overlooked the valley. There was a minor road somewhere up there, and when the intervening hedgerows and trees were bare one could sometimes catch a flash of colour as a vehicle sped by.

  The noise of footsteps drew her attention abruptly back to the foreground, where a figure in a dark overcoat was striding across the weed-spattered gravel to the blue saloon car parked outside the house, clicking and creaking intermittently as its engine cooled. The man opened the rear door and reached inside. Rosemary hastily stepped back into the shadows of the room as he turned round again, holding a black medical bag. Then the footsteps crunched back to the house again, and the front door distantly slammed.

  Rosemary pulled open the middle drawer of the chest which stood between the two windows and lifted out a green cardigan, exposing a panel of sallow newsprint with an article about an agricultural fair. She pushed the drawer closed, overcoming its slight tendency to jam, and was about to open the door when she heard the noise of rubber-soled shoes in the corridor outside.

  ‘Ahm alwuss trahin’,’ sang a powerful female voice. ‘Fower to make dat punishment fit dat crime! Sure am! Lordy! Bet your sweet ass!’

  Rosemary waited until the squelching footsteps had receded before venturing out. Closing the door carefully behind her, she hurried off along the corridor towards Dorothy’s room. This was situated on the north-facing side of the building, which meant it got no sun and had a much less attractive view over the former kitchen garden, stables and other outbuildings. To make matters worse, the original room had been divided to accommodate extra guests, back in the far-off days when Eventide Lodge had been a flourishing enterprise under the energetic direction of old Mrs Anderson.

  Since her son had taken over, death had steadily reduced the number of residents, but the partitions remained in place, strips of flimsy plasterboard through which you could hear everything that happened in the neighbouring room. This was particularly unfortunate in Dorothy’s case since her neighbour, George Channing, snored loudly. Rosemary had tried to have her friend transferred to Mr Purvey’s room, next door to her own, but Mr Anderson had told her that ‘to avoid any suspicion of favouritism’ residents must retain the room they had been allocated on arrival.

  The doorway to the two adjoining rooms gave into a cramped plasterboard cubicle from which plywood fire-retardant doors led off on either side. Rosemary was about to open the door into Dorothy’s room when she heard a loud groan from behind the walling to her right. After a moment’s hesitation she grasped the handle of the other door, stepped inside and stood open-mouthed and staring, struck dumb by the sight which met her eyes.

  The room was in chaos. Blood-stained clothes lay strewn about. There was more blood on the walls, as well as on the overturned chest of drawers and the broken chair. The floor was littered with shards of glass. A cold draught swept in through the smashed window, making the curtains flap wildly. But Rosemary barely noticed any of this. All she could see was the body outstretched on the bed, roped to the frame at wrist and ankle, covered in gashes and abrasions, the skin deathly pale, the torn clothing blotched with blood.

  The man’s mouth was bound with sticking tape, but his eyes were fixed on Rosemary’s with manic intensity, and his whole body seemed to resonate with the eerie moaning. But before Rosemary could think what to do, let alone do it, she heard voices nearing along the corridor outside. With a helpless glance at the man she hurried out, closing the door quietly behind her, and slipped into Dorothy’s room just before the two speakers reached the doorway.

  ‘Shame he didn’t break his damned neck while he was at it,’ Anderson was saying. ‘Injured’s no good to me, Jim. I need them dead.’

  ‘You want the police called in?’ replied a man Rosemary recognized as Dr Morel. ‘They die in bed is one thing, but I can’t just rubber-stamp something like that. Should have put bars on the windows.’

  ‘It all costs money, you know. Besides, it doesn’t look good.’

  ‘And how good do you think this looks? An ex-Battle of Britain ace trying a stunt like this at eighty something. People are going to wonder why he bothered.’

  ‘No they aren’t, Jim. Because they aren’t going to find out, as long as you keep your mouth shut.’

  ‘And then to set the dog on him …’

  The voices became muffled as the two men entered the next room and closed the door behind them. Rosemary walked slowly over to the window, hugging the green cardigan to her chest. The walled kitchen garden below was now overgrown with brambles whose long tendrils had matted together to form an impenetrable mass of spiny undergrowth. A narrow path of concrete slabs had been kept open, leading from the back door to a doorway in the wall. Halfway along it was a rough clearing where Anderson’s Doberman was normally kept tethered. Now its orange nylon cord lay limp on the ground amid the dog’s massive droppings.

  The murmur of voices was still audible next door, although only the occasional word was intelligible from where Rosemary was standing. She tiptoed over to the bed, crouched up on it and put her ear to the wall.

  ‘Jesus Christ almighty!’ Morel exclaimed. ‘Do you file that hound’s teeth or what?’

  ‘Klaus is an att
ack dog,’ replied Anderson haughtily. ‘His jaws are the result of generations of selective breeding.’

  ‘Pity they forgot to leave room for a brain.’

  ‘It was his own fault, Jim. If Klaus hadn’t got him, he’d probably have been hedgehogged by some passing motorist.’

  ‘All I’m trying to say is you can’t run a place like this by yourself, Bill.’

  ‘Letty’s not just a pretty face, you know.’

  ‘I mean someone human. And preferably with a few relevant qualifications.’

  ‘It all comes down to money,’ Anderson sighed. ‘Speaking of which, what’s the good word in re the Davenport?’

  Rosemary jerked her head away abruptly from the wall. She got down off the bed and crossed to the chest of drawers on the other side of the room, where Dorothy’s meagre stock of personal possessions were displayed. There was a small statue of a lighthouse inscribed ‘Land’s End’, a faded photograph of two solemn children holding hands, a set of miniature spirit bottles in a wooden case, a Chinese fan with a broken gilt clasp and a spray of dried poppies. There was also a brown bottle with a typed label reading The Mixture Mrs D. Davenport To be taken as directed Do not exceed the stated dose. A transparent plastic spoon was attached to the bottle by a rubber band, its bowl lightly stained with a blue smear.

  Taking the bottle in one hand and holding the cardigan under her arm, Rosemary walked quietly to the door. In the cubicle leading to the corridor the voices once more loomed up at her.

  ‘… out of the question,’ Morel was saying. ‘I’ve read the consultant’s report, Bill. The only way she’s going to leave hospital is in a bag.’

  ‘Fine, but when?’

  ‘That’s hard to say. Could be a few months, could be a year. Someone our age you’d be talking weeks, but the old last longer, funnily enough. The metabolism’s running down, you see, so even a rampant malignancy like this takes a while to run its course.’

  ‘So what if she tells the nurses about our chum here? If this gets in the papers …’

  ‘Don’t fret, Bill. She’ll be out of it on pain control most of the time, plus with the staffing levels these days no one has the time to stand around nattering.’

  ‘All the same, I’d be happier if she stayed here.’

  ‘No can do, Bill. Once the machinery’s been set in motion …’

  Rosemary ran as fast as she dared along the corridor to the landing and clattered downstairs. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she noticed that she was patting the back of her right hand, which held the medicine bottle. That gesture had been the closest her mother, an undemonstrative woman, had ever come to physical intimacy, and then only on very special occasions when she had felt it necessary or desirable to reassure the child – in much the same way that she kept a small bottle of brandy on the top shelf of the cupboard in the bathroom ‘for medicinal purposes only’.

  Rosemary turned briskly away. That was quite enough of that. She wasn’t having mirrors going soft on her. Shiny, hard and shallow was how she wanted them, reflecting her as she was, as she appeared to be, an elderly maiden aunt whose emotions were under perfect control at all times. It was a relief to return to the lounge and find the other guests all in their places: the colonel with his newspaper, the peeress at the piano, the clergyman buried in his book, the lovebirds using the jigsaw as an excuse for their proximity, the invalid widow swathed in her blankets, the Jew on the phone. Only George Channing, the corned beef millionaire, appeared to be missing.

  Rosemary slipped into the chair beside her friend.

  ‘We must talk, Dot!’ she said urgently. ‘Here, put the cardigan on. I’ve been a fool, Dot. No, not that button, there’s one right here at the bottom. We’ve been totally and utterly wrong all along, and I almost didn’t realize the truth until it was too late! Quick, take your medicine and then I’ll explain.’

  She held out the brown bottle to Dorothy, who shook her head.

  ‘It’s eased again.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’ll keep it until I really need it. What were you saying about being wrong?’

  Rosemary leant forward and regarded Dorothy earnestly.

  ‘Our fundamental mistake all along has been to assume that there was a logical motive for each of the murders which have taken place so far,’ she said. ‘We’ve taken it for granted that Roland Ayres and Hilary Bryant were killed for revenge, or for their money, or to silence them. Now a third member of our little group, George Channing, has become the target of a seemingly senseless act of …’

  Dorothy twisted impatiently in her chair.

  ‘Why is Dr Morel taking so long, Rose?’ she broke out. ‘Don’t they know how hard this is for me? Why can’t they just tell me and have done?’

  ‘Pull yourself together, Dorothy Davenport!’ snapped Rosemary. ‘We’re facing a ruthless and cunning killer who has already struck three times, and while I don’t yet know who he – or she – may be, I do know the identity of his – or her – next victim.’

  Dorothy smiled wanly.

  ‘Can you save him, Rose?’

  ‘Her.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You.’

  Dorothy’s eyes widened.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Rosemary sighed. ‘Try and be brave.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘It came to me in a flash while I was upstairs. I was thinking of what happened when we had tea. Do you remember? Belinda Scott was annoyed because of something that happened when you were outside the room, so she insisted on serving the tea in strict alphabetical order …’

  ‘But you had to wait until the end, even though you were getting my tea too. I didn’t think that was fair, Rose. You shouldn’t have stood for it! If I’d been you, I’d have …’

  ‘That isn’t the point!’ hissed Rosemary. ‘The names of the victims so far are Ayres, Bryant and Channing. Now do you understand? The killer is eliminating the residents in alphabetical order. Which means that you will be the next victim!’

  Dorothy tut-tutted.

  ‘Come on, Rose!’ she exclaimed with a toss of the head. ‘This simply won’t do. It sounds like one of those awful American books about some maniac who goes about chopping up total strangers with an axe because he had an unhappy childhood. Not my cup of tea at all, I’m afraid. Life is quite horrible enough as it is, I should have thought, without scaring oneself silly with such rubbish.’

  Rosemary smiled in a superior way.

  ‘That’s precisely what the killer wants us to believe. The plan – and I’m bound to say it’s a very clever one – is to create the impression that these killings are indeed the work of some distasteful psychopath such as you describe, whereas in reality all except one are simply red herrings designed to obscure the identity of the murderer’s true target.’

  Dorothy’s eyes narrowed. She gave her friend a suspicious look.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ she said. ‘This has been used before, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Are you accusing me of plagiarism?’ snapped Rosemary.

  ‘Of course not, Rose. It’s just that, well, it has a familiar ring to it.’

  ‘This is no time to discuss the finer points of the genre, Dot! Every minute you remain here you are in the most terrible danger. This very night might be your last! We must get you out of here at all costs.’

  ‘Don’t be silly! No one’s ever managed that. Look what happened to Channing.’

  Rosemary clasped her friend’s hand and smiled confidently.

  ‘We’ll think of a way.’

  Dorothy shook her head.

  ‘Anyway, why should anyone want to kill me? It doesn’t make sense. I don’t like it when things don’t make sense, Rose. And I don’t want to go. I want to stay here with you. I’m sure you must be mistaken about this. After all, we’re the detectives. The detectives never come to any harm, do they?’

  The door banged open and the woman in the stained blue overalls swept into the lo
unge again. She looked round the room with a contemptuous sniff and then made for the corner where Rosemary and Dorothy sat talking. When she reached the centre of the room, however, she stopped and sniffed the air again, more deliberately this time. Then she turned round slowly, inspecting the residents, each of whom looked away as the beam of scrutiny passed. Eventually it came to rest on the pair still bent over their jigsaw puzzle. The woman hitched up the straps of her overalls. A feral grin convulsed her features.

  ‘Symes!’

  Charles Symes quivered slightly but did not look up. The woman walked slowly towards him, swaying her hips in a slow sinuous rhythm.

  ‘To let the punishment fit the crime,’ she crooned softly.

  She stood over Charles Symes and Grace Lebon, sniffing loudly. With a violent movement of one hand she swept the completed section of the jigsaw off the edge of the table. It broke up and fell to the floor in pieces.

  ‘Look at me, Symes!’ she howled.

  Slowly, painfully, the man turned his head.

  ‘My nostrils suggest that you’ve beshat yourself,’ the woman remarked conversationally.

  Charles Symes stared up at her without moving.

  ‘Do they deceive me?’ she inquired.

  There was no sound in the room. The woman bent closer.

  ‘Well, Symes?’ she demanded in a stage whisper. ‘Which of us is at fault, my nose or your bum?’

  She straightened up abruptly.

  ‘On your feet and let’s have a gander.’

  A high-pitched keening made itself heard in the room. Swivelling on her heels, the woman slapped Grace Lebon hard with the back of her hand. The sound abruptly ceased. The woman sniffed her fingers briefly, then crooked one at Symes.

  ‘Make yourself erect, man!’

  Symes rose from his chair, his face a mask.

  ‘Drop ’em!’ commanded his tormentor.