A Taste for Death

by P. D. James

  “Then we’re in a difficulty. You’d better consult the father—that is, if you know which one it was. By all means let him have Dicco. I won’t stand in his way. If there was anything of me in that boy I’d have recognized it. He’s grotesque.”

  “My God, Donald, you bastard!”

  “Oh no, my dear, I’m not the bastard in this family.”

  She thought: I won’t listen, I won’t remember, I won’t think about it, and pressed the volume button, letting the rancorous voices batter at her ears. She didn’t hear the door open, but suddenly there was an oblong of pale light and Dicco stood there, wrapped in his knee-length dressing-gown, his springing hair a tangled halo. He stood watching her in silence, then moved barefooted across the room, and the bedsprings bounced as he settled himself close against her. He said:

  “Can’t you sleep?”

  She turned off the set, feeling the familiar twinge of guilt.

  “I was thinking about Sylvia and Father.”

  “Which one? We’ve had so many.”

  “The first. Our proper father.”

  “Our proper father? Our improper father. I wonder if he’s dead yet. Cancer was too good for him. Don’t think about them, think about the money. That’s always a comfort. Think about being free, your own person. Think how well you always look in black. You aren’t frightened, are you?”

  “No, of course not. There’s nothing to be frightened about. Dicco, go back to bed.”

  “His bed. You knew that, didn’t you? You know where I’m sleeping. In his bed.”

  “Mattie won’t like that, nor will Lady Ursula. Why couldn’t you sleep in the spare room? Or go back to Bruno?”

  “Bruno doesn’t want me in the flat. He never did. There isn’t room. And I wasn’t comfortable. You want me to be comfortable, surely? And I’m getting a little tired of Bruno. My place is here. I’m your brother. This is your house now. You’re not being very welcoming, Barbie. I thought you’d want me near you, in case you wanted to talk in the night, confide, confess. Come on, Barbie, confess. Who do you think killed them?”

  “How do I know? Someone broke in, I suppose, a thief, another tramp, someone who wanted to steal the church collection. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Is that what the police think?”

  “I suppose so. I don’t know what they think.”

  “Then I can tell you. They think it was an odd church for a thief to choose. I mean, what was there worth stealing?”

  “There are things on the altar, aren’t there? Candlesticks, a cross. There were in the church where I was married.”

  “I wasn’t there when you were married, Barbie. You didn’t invite me, remember.”

  “Paul wanted a quiet wedding, Dicco. What does it matter?”

  And that, she thought, was another thing Paul had cheated her out of. She had imagined a grand wedding, herself floating up the aisle of St. Margaret’s Westminster, the sheen of white satin, a veil like a cloud, the flowers, the crowds, the photographers. Instead he had suggested a registrar’s office and when she had protested had insisted on their local parish church and the quietest of ceremonies, almost as if the wedding were something to be ashamed of, something furtive and indecent.

  Dicco’s voice came to her in a low insinuating whisper:

  “But they don’t keep them on the altar any more, not at night. Crosses and candlesticks, they lock them away. Churches are dark, empty. No silver, no gold, no lights. Nothing. Do you suppose that’s when their God comes down from His cross and walks about, goes up to the altar and finds that it’s only a wooden table with a piece of fancy cloth pinned round it?”

  She wriggled under the bedclothes.

  “Don’t be silly, Dicco. Go to bed.”

  He leaned forward, and the face so like hers and yet so different gleamed within inches of her eyes, so that she could actually see the sheen of sweat on his brow and smell the wine on his breath.

  “That nurse, Theresa Nolan, the one who killed herself. Was Paul the father of her baby?”

  “Of course not. Why does everyone go on about Theresa Nolan?”

  “Who goes on about her? Did the police ask about her?”

  “I can’t remember. I think they asked why she left. Something like that. I don’t want to think about it.”

  His soft, indulgent laugh was like a conspiracy.

  “Barbie, you’ve got to think. You can’t go through life not thinking about things just because they’re inconvenient or unpleasant. It was his child, wasn’t it? That’s what your husband was up to while you were cavorting with your lover, fucking his mother’s nurse. And that other girl, Diana Travers, the one who drowned. What was she doing in this house?”

  “You know what she was doing. Helping Mattie.”

  “A dangerous occupation, though, isn’t it, working for your husband? Look, if someone did murder Paul, it was someone very clever and cunning; someone who knew he was there in that church; someone who knew he would find a cut-throat razor ready to hand; someone with the nerve to take one enormous risk; someone used to cutting human flesh. Do you know someone like that, Barbie? Do you? It’s lucky, isn’t it, that you and Stephen have an alibi.”

  “You have an alibi, too.”

  “And Mattie, of course. And Lady Ursula. And Halliwell. It’s a bit suspicious, all these iron-clad alibis. What about Sarah?”

  “I haven’t spoken to her.”

  “Well, let’s hope she hasn’t an alibi too, otherwise the police will begin to scent conspiracy. When you rang to tell me that he was going to chuck you, I said that it would be all right. Well, it is all right. I said not to worry about the money. Well, you don’t have to worry. It’s all yours.”

  “Not so very much.”

  “Come off it, Barbie, enough. The house to begin with, that must be worth a cool million. And he was insured, wasn’t he? Was there a suicide clause? That would be awkward.”

  “Mr. Farrell said that there wasn’t. I asked.”

  Again that soft inward laugh, something between a grunt and a giggle:

  “So you actually got round to asking about the insurance! You don’t waste time, do you? And that’s what the lawyers think, is it? That Paul killed himself?”

  “Lawyers never say. Mr. Farrell told me not to talk to the police unless he was there.”

  “The family won’t want it to be suicide; they’d rather he was murdered. And perhaps he was. If he’d wanted to kill himself, why didn’t he use the gun? His brother’s gun. A man doesn’t cut his throat if he’s got a gun. And he had ammo, too, didn’t he?”

  “Ammo?”

  “Bullets. Where is the gun? Still in his safe?”

  “No. I don’t know where it is.”

  “What do you mean you don’t know? Have you looked?”

  “Yesterday after he’d left. Not for the gun, I wanted to look for some papers, his will. I opened the safe and it wasn’t there.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. It’s a very small safe.”

  “And you didn’t tell the police, naturally. It wouldn’t be easy to explain why you wanted to take a look at your husband’s will just a few hours before he so conveniently died.”

  “I haven’t told anyone. How did you know about the gun, anyway?”

  “My God, Barbie, you are extraordinary! Your husband has his throat slit, his gun is missing and you tell no one.”

  “I expect he got rid of it. Anyway, what does it matter? He didn’t shoot himself. Dicco, go to bed. I’m tired.”

  “But you aren’t frightened? It’s because you know who’s taken it, don’t you? You know, or you suspect. Who was it, Lady Ursula, Halliwell, Sarah, your lover?”

  “Of course I don’t know! Dicco, leave me alone. I’m tired. I don’t want to talk any more. I want to sleep.”

  Her eyes brimmed with tears. It was unfair of him to upset her like this. She felt an immense sorrow for herself, widowed, alone, vulnerable. And pregnant. L
ady Ursula didn’t want her to tell anyone about the baby yet, not the police, not Dicco. But he would have to know sometime. Everyone would. And they ought to know so that they could look after her, see that she wasn’t worried. Paul would have looked after her, but Paul wasn’t here. And she had only told him about the baby yesterday morning. Yesterday. But she wouldn’t think about yesterday, not now, not ever again. And the film was due to begin, a Hitchcock revival, and she had always liked Hitchcock. It wasn’t fair of Dicco to come in, badgering her, making her remember.

  He smiled and patted her on the head as he would a dog, and then he was gone. She waited until the door was closed and she could be certain he wouldn’t reappear, then she pressed the TV button. The screen glowed into light and the credits for the previous programme began to roll. She was in time. She settled more comfortably against her pillows, keeping the sound low so that he shouldn’t hear.

  nine

  Massingham had hung about at the Yard longer than was strictly necessary and it was a minute to midnight by the time he drove up to the villa in St. Petersburgh Place. But the downstairs light was still on; his father hadn’t yet gone up to bed. He turned the key in the lock as quietly as possible and pushed open the door as stealthily as if he were making an illegal entrance. But it was no good. His father must have been waiting for the noise of the car. Almost at once the door of the small front sitting room opened and Lord Dungannon shuffled out. The words “slippered pantaloon” fell into Massingham’s mind, bringing with them the familiar dragging weight of pity, irritation and guilt.

  His father said:

  “Oh, here you are then, my dear boy. Purves has just brought in the grog tray. Would you care to join me?”

  His father never used to call him my dear boy. The words sounded false, over-rehearsed, ridiculous. And his answering voice struck the same note of embarrassed insincerity.

  “No thank you, Father. I’d better get up. It’s been a tiring day. We’re working on the Berowne case.”

  “Of course. Berowne. She was Lady Ursula Stollard before she married. Your Aunt Margaret was presented in the same year. But she must be over eighty. It can’t have been unexpected.”

  “It’s not Lady Ursula who’s dead, Father. It’s her son.”

  “But I thought Hugo Berowne was killed in Northern Ireland.”

  “Not Hugo, Father. Paul.”

  “Paul.” His father seemed to contemplate the word, then said:

  “Then I must, of course, write to Lady Ursula. Poor woman. If you’re sure you won’t come in …” His voice, which since April had become the quaver of an old man, broke off. But Massingham was already bounding up the stairs. Halfway along the landing he paused and glanced down over the banisters expecting to see his father shuffling back into the sitting room to his solitude and his whisky. But the old man was still there, gazing up at him with what seemed almost indecent longing. In the strong light from the hall lamp he saw clearly what the last five months had done to the craggy Massingham features. The flesh seemed to have slipped from the bones so that the beaked nose cleft the skin sharp as a knife edge while the jowls hung in slack, mottled pouches like the flesh of a plucked fowl. The flaming Massingham hair was bleached and faded now to the colour and texture of straw. He thought: He looks as archaic as a Rowlandson drawing. Old age makes caricatures of us all. No wonder we dread it.

  Mounting the short flight of stairs to his flat, he was caught in the same old muddle. It really was becoming intolerable. He had to get away and soon. But how? Apart from a brief spell in the Section House, he had lived in his separate rooms in his parents’ house ever since he had joined the police. While his mother had been alive, the arrangement had suited him admirably. His parents, absorbed in each other as they had been ever since his father’s late marriage in his mid-forties, had left him alone, hardly noticing whether he was in or out. The shared front door had been an inconvenience but nothing more. He had lived comfortably, paid a nominal rent, saved money, told himself that he would buy his own flat when he was ready. He had even found it possible to conduct his love affairs in privacy, while at the same time being able to call on his mother’s depleted staff if he wanted a meal cooked, his clothes washed, his rooms cleaned, his parcels taken in.

  But with his mother’s death in April, all that had changed. While the House of Lords was sitting his father managed to get through his days, padding out with his bus pass to catch the number 12 or the 88 to Westminster, lunching at the House, occasionally sleeping through the evening debates. But at the weekends, even more in the parliamentary recess, he had become as clinging as a possessive woman, watching his son’s comings and goings with almost obsessive interest, listening for his key in the lock, making his quiet but desperate pleas for companionship. Massingham’s two youngest brothers were still at school and escaped from their father’s grief during the holidays by staying with friends. His only sister was married to a diplomat and lived in Rome. His younger brother was at Sandhurst. The burden fell almost entirely on him. And now he knew that even the rent he paid had become a necessary contribution, almost as important to his father’s dwindling resources as the daily attendance payment at the Lords.

  Suddenly repentant, he thought: I could have spared him ten minutes. Ten minutes of embarrassing non-communication, of small talk about his job, which, until now, his father had never thought worthy of interest. Ten minutes of boredom only partly alleviated by alcohol and setting a precedent for nights of boredom to come.

  Closing the door of his flat behind him, he thought of Kate Miskin, less than a couple of miles to the west, relaxing in her flat, pouring herself a drink, free of responsibility, free of guilt, and felt a surge of envy and irrational resentment so strong that he could almost persuade himself that it was all her fault.

  BOOK THREE

  Helping with Enquiries

  one

  The message from Pembroke Lodge was polite but unambiguous. Mr. Lampart would be operating all morning but would be happy to see Commander Dalgliesh when he was free. That would be at about one o’clock or a little later, depending on the length of his list. Translated, this meant that Lampart was a busy man concerned with saving life and alleviating pain, who could legitimately claim that these benign activities took precedence over the sordid preoccupations of a policeman, however distinguished. And the time of the appointment was nicely judged, too. Dalgliesh could hardly complain about going without his lunch since Lampart, more importantly occupied, was obviously unconcerned about his.

  He took Kate with him and asked her to drive. She slid into the right-hand seat without fuss and drove as she always did, competently and strictly according to the book, with none of Massingham’s occasional impatience or sudden spurts of speed. When they had climbed Haverstock Hill and were passing the Round Pond he said:

  “Pembroke Lodge is about a half mile after the Spaniards. The entrance could be easy to miss.” She slowed down, but even so they saw it only just in time, a wide, white-painted gate, set well back from the road and screened with horse chestnuts. A wide gravel drive curved to the left, then divided to circle an immaculate lawn fronting the house. They saw a low elegant Edwardian villa set on the edge of the heath, obviously built when a rich man could indulge his fancy for fresh air, an open view and convenient proximity to London without being thwarted by planning authorities or conservationists concerned about encroachment on public land. As the Rover crunched slowly over the gravel Dalgliesh saw that the former stables to the right of the house had been converted to garages, but little other architectural change was apparent, as least outwardly. He wondered how many beds the nursing home could accommodate. Probably not more than thirty at most. But Stephen Lampart’s activities wouldn’t be restricted to his private facilities here. He was, as Dalgliesh had already checked, on the staff of two major London teaching hospitals, and no doubt operated at private clinics other than Pembroke Lodge. But this was his personal domain, and Dalgliesh had no doubt that it was a hig
hly profitable one.

  The outer door was open. It led into an oval and elegant vestibule with a pair of ornate doors and a notice inviting visitors to enter. They found themselves in an entrance hall, square and very light. The staircase, with its delicate carved balustrade, was lit by a huge stained-glass window. To the left was a carved fireplace in veined marble. Above it hung an oil painting in the manner of a late Gainsborough, a young mother, serious-faced, her white arms encircling her two daughters in folds of blue satin and lace. To the right was a desk in polished mahogany, decorative rather than utilitarian, complete with its bowl of roses and presided over by a white-coated receptionist.

  The smell of disinfectant was discernible, but overlaid with a heavier scent of flowers. It was apparent that a consignment had recently been delivered. Great sheaves of roses and gladioli, formal arrangements in beribboned baskets and more outré examples of the florist’s ingenuity were piled by the door awaiting distribution. The aura of pampered femininity was almost overwhelming. It was not a place in which a man could feel at home, yet Dalgliesh sensed that it was Kate who felt the more ill at ease. He saw her give a glance of fascinated disgust at one of the more bizarre offerings of conjugal congratulations: a baby’s cot, over two feet long, tightly covered with the wired heads of rosebuds, dyed blue, with a pillow and coverlet of white carnations similarly decapitated, the whole monstrosity embellished with a huge blue bow. As they moved to the reception desk across a carpet thick enough to drag at their feet, a trolley of coloured bottles, nail varnishes and assorted jars was pushed across the hall by an elegant older woman in a pale pink trousersuit, obviously the beautician. Dalgliesh was reminded of a conversation overheard at a dinner party some months earlier. “But darling, the place is divine. One is pampered from the moment one arrives. Hairdresser, facials, cordon bleu menu, champagne instead of Valium for the blues. The lot. The thing is, though, that I’m not sure they don’t overdo it. One feels absolutely outraged when labour starts and one realizes that there are some humiliations and discomforts that even dear Stephen can’t do much about.” Dalgliesh wondered suddenly and irrelevantly whether Lampart’s patients ever died on him. Probably not, not here anyway. Those at risk would be admitted elsewhere. The place had its own subtle aura of bad taste, but the ultimate bad taste of death and failure would be rigorously excluded.