“It does to me,” said Anstey. “And I suspect it will to the coroner.”
“Well, it doesn’t to me. It could just as well be the note of a woman planning to go away.”
Helen Rainer said calmly:
“Only she wasn’t. She wouldn’t be leaving Toynton wearing just a shirt and slacks. And where is her case? No woman plans to leave home without taking her makeup and nightwear.”
There was a capacious black shoulder bag beside a leg of the table. Julius picked it up and began rummaging in it. He said:
“There’s nothing here. No nightdress or toilet bag.”
He continued his inspection. Then he glanced suddenly from Eric to Dalgliesh. An extraordinary succession of emotions crossed his face; surprise, embarrassment, interest. He closed the bag and placed it on the table.
“Wilfred’s right. Nothing should be touched until the police arrive.”
They stood in silence. Then Anstey said:
“The police will want to know where we all were this afternoon, no doubt. Even in an obvious case of suicide these questions have to be asked. She must have died when we were nearly at the end of our meditation hour. That means, of course, that none of us has an alibi. Given the circumstances it is perhaps fortunate that Maggie chose to leave a suicide note.”
Helen Rainer said calmly:
“Eric and I were together in my room for the whole of the hour.”
Wilfred stared at her, disconcerted. For the first time since he had entered the cottage he seemed at a loss. He said:
“But we were holding a family council! The rules are that we meditate in silence and alone.”
“We didn’t meditate and we weren’t precisely silent. But we were alone—alone together.” She stared past him, defiant, almost triumphant, into the eyes of Eric Hewson. He gazed at her appalled.
Dennis Lerner, as if to dissociate himself from controversy, had moved over to stand by Dot Moxon by the door. Now he said quietly:
“I think I can hear cars. It must be the police.”
The mist had muffled the sound of their approach. Even as Lerner spoke Dalgliesh heard the dual slam of car doors. Eric’s first reaction was to kneel by the sofa, shielding Maggie’s body from the door. Then he scrambled clumsily to his feet as if afraid to be discovered in a compromising position. Dot, without looking round, moved her solid body away from the door.
The little room was suddenly as overcrowded as a bus shelter on a wet night, smelling of mist and damp raincoats. But there was no confusion. The new arrivals moved solidly and calmly in, bringing with them their equipment, moving as purposefully as encumbered members of an orchestra taking their appointed places. The group from Toynton Grange fell back and regarded them warily. No one spoke. Then Inspector Daniel’s slow voice broke the silence.
“Well, now, and who found the poor lady?”
“I did,” said Dalgliesh. “Court arrived about twelve minutes later.”
“Then I’ll just have Mr. Dalgliesh, Mr. Court and Dr. Hewson. That’ll do to start with.”
Wilfred said:
“I should prefer to stay, if you please.”
“Well, Sir, I daresay. Mr. Anstey isn’t it? But we can’t always have what we’d prefer. Now if you’ll all go back to the Grange, Detective Constable Burroughs will accompany you and anything that’s on your minds you can say to him. I’ll be with you later.”
Without a further word, Wilfred led the way.
Inspector Daniel looked at Dalgliesh:
“Well, Sir, seemingly for you there’s no convalescence from death at Toynton Head.”
II
When he had handed over the syringe and given his account of the finding of the body Dalgliesh didn’t wait to watch the investigation. He had no wish to give the impression that he was keeping a critical eye on Inspector Daniel’s handling of the case; he disliked the role of spectator, and he felt uncomfortably that he was getting in their way. None of the men present were getting in each other’s. They moved confidently in the cramped space, each a specialist, yet giving the impression of a team. The photographer manoeuvred his portable lights into the narrow hall; the plainclothes fingerprint expert, his case open to display the neatly arranged tools of his craft, settled down at the table, brush poised, to begin his methodical dusting of the whisky bottle; the police surgeon knelt, absorbed and judicial, beside the body and plucked at Maggie’s mottled skin as if hoping to stimulate it into life. Inspector Daniel leaned over him and they conferred together. They looked, thought Dalgliesh, like two poulterers expertly assessing the qualities of a dead chicken. He was interested that Daniel had brought the police surgeon and not a forensic pathologist. But why not? A Home Office pathologist, given the huge areas which most of them had to cover, could seldom arrive promptly on the scene. And the initial medical examination here presented no obvious problems. There was no sense in committing more resources than were needed for the job. He wondered whether Daniel would have come himself if it hadn’t been for the presence at Toynton Grange of a Metropolitan Police Commander.
Dalgliesh formally asked Daniel’s permission to return to Hope Cottage. Eric Hewson had already left. Daniel had asked him only a few necessary brief and gentle questions before suggesting that he should join the others at Toynton Grange. Dalgliesh sensed the relief at his departure. Even these imperturbable experts moved more freely released from the inhibiting restraints of public grief. Now the Inspector exerted himself to do more than nod a curt dismissal. He said:
“Thank you, Sir. I’ll call in for a word with you before I leave if I may,” and bent again to his contemplation of the body.
Whatever Dalgliesh had expected to find at Toynton Head it wasn’t this; the old familiar routine commemoration of unnatural death. For a moment he saw it with Julius Court’s eyes, an esoteric necromantic rite, carried out by its drab practitioners in silence or between grunts and muttered words as brief as incantations, a secret ministration to the dead. Certainly Julius seemed engrossed by the procedure. He made no move to leave but stood to one side of the door and, without taking his fascinated eyes from Inspector Daniel, held it open for Dalgliesh. Daniel didn’t suggest that he, too, might now leave but Dalgliesh thought it unlikely that this was because the Inspector had forgotten his presence.
It was nearly three hours later before Inspector Daniel’s car drove up to Hope Cottage. The inspector was alone; Sergeant Varney and the others, he explained, had already left. He came in bringing with him remnants of mist like ectoplasm and a rush of cold damp air. His hair was jewelled with moisture and his long ruddy face glowed as if he had come in from a walk in the sun. At Dalgliesh’s invitation he took off his trench coat and settled himself in the wheel-backed chair in front of the wood fire. His black lively eyes roamed over the cottage, taking in the scruffed rug, the meagre grate, the shabbiness of the wall-paper. He said:
“So this is where the old gentleman lived.”
“And died. You’ll take whisky? Or there’s coffee if you prefer it.”
“Whisky, thank you, Mr. Dalgliesh. Mr. Anstey didn’t exactly make him comfortable, did he? But I daresay all the money goes on the patients, and very rightly no doubt.”
Some went on Anstey himself, thought Dalgliesh, remembering the sybaritic cell which was Wilfred’s bedroom. He said:
“It’s better than it looks. My packing cases don’t exactly add to the cosiness. But I doubt whether Father Baddeley noticed the shabbiness or if he did, that he cared.”
“Well, it’s warm enough anyway. This sea mist seems to seep into your bones. It’s clearer inland, though, once you get beyond Toynton village. That’s why we made good time.”
He sipped his whisky gratefully. After a minute’s silence he said:
“This business tonight, Mr. Dalgliesh. It looks straight-forward enough. Her prints and Court’s on the whisky bottle, and hers and Hewson’s on the telephone. There’s no hope of getting any dabs from the electric light switch, of course, and those o
n the biro don’t amount to anything. We found a couple of samples of her handwriting. The document chappies at the lab can take a look at them but it’s clear enough to me—and Dr. Hewson incidentally—that she wrote that suicide note. It’s a strong distinctive scrawl for a woman.”
“Except for the last three lines.”
“The reference to the black tower? She was pretty far gone when she added that. Incidentally, Mr. Anstey takes it as an admission that it was she who started the fire which nearly killed him. And that wasn’t the first attempt according to him. You’ve heard, no doubt, about the frayed climbing rope? He gave me a full account of the incident in the black tower including you finding the brown habit.”
“Did he? He was anxious enough at the time to keep it from the police. So now it’s to be laid very neatly at Maggie Hewson’s door.”
“It always surprises me—although it shouldn’t by now—how violent death unlooses tongues. He says that she was the one he suspected from the start; that she made no secret of her hatred of Toynton Grange or her resentment of him in particular.”
Dalgliesh said:
“Nor did she. I would be surprised if a woman who expressed her feelings with such uninhibited relish should feel the need for any other release. The fire; the frayed climbing rope; they strike me as being either part of a deliberate stratagem or the manifestations of frustrated hatred. Maggie Hewson was nothing if not candid about her dislike of Anstey.”
“Mr. Anstey sees the fire as part of a deliberate stratagem. According to him she was trying to frighten him into selling out. She was desperate to get her husband away from Toynton Grange.”
“Then she’d misjudged her man. My guess is that Anstey isn’t selling out. By tomorrow he’ll have made up his mind to pass Toynton Grange to the Ridgewell Trust.”
“He’s making up his mind now, Mr. Dalgliesh. Apparently Mrs. Hewson’s death interrupted their final decision. He was anxious for me to interview all the inmates as quickly as possible so that they could get down to it. Not that it took much time, to get the basic facts, anyway. No one was seen leaving Toynton Grange after the party arrived back after the funeral. Apart from Dr. Hewson and Nurse Rainer, who admit to having spent the meditation hour together in her room, all the others claim that they were alone. The patients’ quarters, as you no doubt know, are at the back. Anyone, anyone not disabled that is, could have left the house. But there’s no evidence that anyone did.”
Dalgliesh said:
“And even if someone did, this mist would have been an effective shield. Anyone could have walked about the headland unseen. Were you convinced, by the way, that Maggie Hewson did start the fire?”
“I’m not investigating arson or attempted murder, Mr. Dalgliesh. Mr. Anstey told me what he did in confidence and said that he wanted the whole subject dropped. She could have done it, but there is no real evidence. He could have done it himself.”
“I doubt that. But I did wonder if Henry Carwardine might have had a hand in it. He couldn’t have started the fire himself, of course, but he might have paid an accomplice. I don’t think he likes Anstey. But that’s hardly a motive. He doesn’t have to stay at Toynton Grange. But he’s highly intelligent and, I should have thought, fastidious. It’s difficult to imagine him embroiling himself with such childish mischief.”
“Ah, but he isn’t using his intelligence is he, Mr. Dalgliesh? That’s his trouble. He gave up too easily and too early, that one. And who can know the truth about motive? Sometimes I think not even the villain himself. I daresay it isn’t easy for a man like that, living in such a restricted community, dependent always on others, having always to be grateful to Mr. Anstey. Well, no doubt he is grateful to Mr. Anstey; they all are. But gratitude can be the very devil sometimes, particularly if you have to be grateful for services you’d rather be without.”
“You’re probably right. I know little of Carwardine’s feelings, or of anyone else’s at Toynton Grange. I’ve taken very good care not to know. Did the proximity of violent death induce any of the others to reveal their little secrets?”
“Mrs. Hollis had a contribution. I don’t know what she thought it proved, or why she thought it worth telling for that matter. But she may have wanted her little moment of importance. That blonde patient was the same—Miss Pegram isn’t it? Kept hinting that she knew Dr. Hewson and Nurse Rainer were lovers. No real evidence, of course, just spite and self-importance. I may have my ideas about those two, but I’d want more evidence than I heard tonight before I started thinking about conspiracy to murder. Mrs. Hollis’s story wasn’t even particularly relevant to Maggie Hewson’s death. She said that the night Grace Willison died she glimpsed Mrs. Hewson passing along the dormitory corridor wearing a brown habit and with the hood drawn over her face. Apparently Mrs. Hollis is in the habit of slipping out of bed at night and propelling herself round the room on her pillow. She says that it’s a form of exercise, that she’s trying to be more mobile and independent. Anyway on the night in question, she managed to get her door ajar—no doubt the idea of taking a skid down the passage—and saw this cloaked figure. She thought afterwards that it must have been Maggie Hewson. Anyone with proper business—any of the staff—would have worn the hood down.”
“If they were about their proper business. When exactly was this?”
“A little after midnight she says. She closed the door again and got back into bed with some difficulty. She heard and saw nothing more.”
Dalgliesh said consideringly:
“I’m surprised from the little I’ve seen of her that she could manage to get back to bed unaided. Getting out is one thing, pulling herself back would be a great deal more difficult. Hardly worth the exercise, I should have thought.”
There was a short silence. Then Inspector Daniel asked, his black eyes full on Dalgliesh’s face:
“Why did Dr. Hewson refer that death to the coroner, Sir? If he had doubts about his medical diagnosis, why not ask the hospital pathologist, or one of his local chums to open her up for him?”
“Because I forced his hand and gave him no choice. He couldn’t refuse to refer it without looking suspicious. And I don’t think he has any local chums. He’s not on those terms with his medical colleagues. How did you hear about it?”
“From Hewson. After hearing the girl’s story I had another word with him. But Miss Willison’s death was apparently straightforward.”
“Oh, yes. Just like this suicide. Just like Father Baddeley’s death. All apparently straightforward. She died of cancer of the stomach. But this business tonight. Did you find out anything about the rope?”
“I forgot to mention that, Mr. Dalgliesh. It’s the rope which has clinched it. Nurse Rainer saw Mrs. Hewson taking it from the business room at about half past eleven this morning. Nurse Rainer had been left behind to look after that bed-bound patient—Georgie Allan isn’t it?—but everyone else was at Miss Willison’s funeral. She was writing up the patient’s medical record and needed a fresh sheet. All the stationery is kept in a filing cabinet in the business room. It’s expensive and Mr. Anstey doesn’t like to issue it wholesale. He’s afraid that people will use it as scribbling pads. When she reached the hall Nurse Rainer saw Mrs. Hewson slipping out of the business room with the rope over her arm.”
“What explanation did Maggie give?”
“According to Nurse Rainer all she said was: ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to fray it. Quite the reverse. You’ll get it back practically as good as new, if not from me.’”
Dalgliesh said:
“Helen Rainer wasn’t in any particular hurry to provide that information when we first found the body. But, assuming she isn’t lying, it certainly completes your case.”
“I don’t think she is lying, Mr. Dalgliesh. But I did look at the boy’s medical record. Nurse Rainer began a fresh sheet this afternoon. And there seems little doubt that the rope was hanging in the business room when Mr. Anstey and Sister Moxon left for the funeral. Who else could have tak
en it? They were all at the funeral except Nurse Rainer, that very sick boy and Mrs. Hammitt.”
Dalgliesh said:
“I’d forgotten about Mrs. Hammitt. I noticed that almost everyone from Toynton Grange was at the cemetery. It didn’t occur to me that she wasn’t.”
“She says she disapproves of funerals. People ought to be cremated in what she calls decent privacy. She says that she spent the morning cleaning her gas stove. For what it’s worth, the stove has certainly been cleaned.”
“And this evening?”
“Meditating at Toynton Grange with the others. They were all supposed to be separate and alone. Mr. Anstey placed the small interviewing room at her disposal. According to Mrs. Hammitt, she never left it until her brother rang the bell to summon them together just before four o’clock. Mr. Court telephoned shortly afterwards. She died sometime during the meditation hour, no doubt about that. And the police surgeon reckons nearer four than three.”
Was Millicent strong enough, Dalgliesh wondered, to have strung up Maggie’s heavy body? Probably, with the help of the kitchen stool. And the strangling itself would have been easy enough once Maggie was drunk. A silent movement behind her chair, the noose dropped by gloved hands over the drooping head, the sudden upward jerk as the rope bit into the flesh. Any one of them could have done it, could have crept out unnoticed into the concealing mist towards the smudge of light marking the Hewson cottage. Helen Rainer was the slightest; but Helen was a nurse, skilful in lifting heavy bodies. And Helen Rainer might not have been alone. He heard Daniel speaking:
“We’ll get that stuff in the syringe analysed and we had better ask the lab to take a look at the whisky. But those two little jobs shouldn’t hold up the inquest. Mr. Anstey is anxious to get that over as soon as possible so that it doesn’t interfere with the pilgrimage to Lourdes on the twenty-third. None of them seems worried about the funeral. That can wait until they get back. I don’t see why they shouldn’t get away, if the lab can do the analysis quickly. And we know that the whisky’s all right; Court still seems healthy enough. I was wondering, Mr. Dalgliesh, just why he took that swig. Incidentally, he’d given her the whisky; half a dozen bottles for her birthday on 11th September. A generous gentleman.”