“The fire started in the car. Petrol was thrown over the occupant’s head and set alight. There is no way it could have been an accident.”
There was a silence which lasted for a quarter of a minute, then Caroline Dupayne said, “So we can be clear about this. You’re saying that the fire could have been deliberate.”
“Yes, we’re treating this as a suspicious death.”
Again there was a silence. Murder, that ponderous uncompromising word seemed to resonate unspoken on the quiet air. The next question had to be asked and even so it was likely to be at best unwelcome and at worst cause pain. Some investigating officers might have thought it more acceptable to defer all questioning until the next day; that was not Dalgliesh’s practice. The first hours after a suspicious death were crucial. But his earlier words—“Do you feel able to answer some questions?”—hadn’t been merely a matter of form. At this stage—and he found the fact interesting—it was the Dupaynes who could control the interview.
Now he said, “This is a difficult question both to ask and to answer. Was there anything in your brother’s life which might cause him to wish to end it?”
They would be ready for the question; after all, they had been alone together for an hour. But their reaction surprised him. Again there was a silence, a little too long to be wholly natural, and he gained an impression of controlled wariness, of the two Dupaynes deliberately not meeting each other’s eyes. He suspected that they had not only agreed what they would say, but who would speak first. It was Marcus.
“My brother wasn’t a man to share his problems, perhaps least with members of the family. But he has never given me any reason to fear that he was or might be suicidal. If you had asked me that question a week ago I might have been more definite in saying that the suggestion was absurd. I can’t be so certain now. When we last met at the trustees’ meeting on Wednesday, he seemed more stressed than usual. He was worried—as we all are—about the future of the museum. He wasn’t convinced that we had the resources to keep it going successfully and his own instinct was strongly for closure. But he seemed unable to listen to arguments or to take a rational part in discussions. During our meeting someone phoned from the hospital with news that the wife of one of his patients had killed herself. He was obviously deeply affected and soon afterwards walked out of the meeting. I’d never seen him like that before. I’m not suggesting that he was suicidal; the idea still seems preposterous. I’m only saying that he was under considerable stress and there may have been worries about which we knew nothing.”
Dalgliesh looked at Caroline Dupayne. She said, “I hadn’t seen him for some weeks prior to the trustees’ meeting. He certainly seemed distracted and under stress then, but I doubt whether it was about the museum. He took absolutely no interest in it and my brother and I weren’t expecting him to. The meeting we held was our first and we only discussed preliminaries. The trust deed is unambiguous but complicated and there’s a great deal to sort out. I’ve no doubt Neville would have come round in the end. He had his share of family pride. If he was seriously under stress—and I think he was—you can put it down to his job. He cared too much and too deeply, and he’s been overworked for years. I didn’t know much about his life but I did know that. We both did.”
Before Marcus could speak, Caroline said quickly, “Can’t we continue this some other time? We’re both shocked, tired and not thinking very clearly. We stayed because we wanted to see Neville’s body moved, but I take it that that won’t happen tonight.”
Dalgliesh said, “It will happen as early as possible tomorrow morning. I’m afraid it can’t be tonight.”
Caroline Dupayne seemed to have forgotten her wish for the interview to end. She said impatiently, “If this is murder, then you have a prime suspect immediately. Tally Clutton must have told you about the motorist driving so quickly down the drive that he knocked her over. Surely finding him is more urgent than questioning us.”
Dalgliesh said, “He has to be found if possible. Mrs. Clutton said that she thought she had seen him before, but she couldn’t remember when or where. I expect she told you how much she saw of him in that brief encounter. A tall, fair-haired man, good-looking and with a particularly agreeable voice. He was driving a large black car. Does that brief description bring anyone to mind?”
Caroline said, “I suppose it’s typical of some hundred thousand men throughout Great Britain. Are we seriously expected to name him?”
Dalgliesh kept his temper. “I thought it possible that you might know someone, a friend or a regular visitor to the museum, who came to mind when you heard Mrs. Clutton’s description.”
Caroline Dupayne didn’t reply. Her brother said, “Forgive my sister if she seems unhelpful. We both want to co-operate. It’s as much our wish as our duty. Our brother died horribly and we want his murderer—if there is a murderer—brought to justice. Perhaps further questioning could wait until tomorrow. In the meantime, I’ll give some thought to this mysterious motorist, but I don’t think I’ll be able to help. He may be a regular visitor to the museum, but not one I recognize. Isn’t it more likely that he was parking here illegally and took fright when he saw the fire?”
“That,” said Dalgliesh, “is a perfectly possible explanation. We can certainly leave any further discussion until tomorrow but there’s one thing I’d like to get clear. When did you last see your brother?”
Brother and sister looked at each other. It was Marcus Dupayne who replied. “I saw him this evening. I wanted to discuss the future of the museum with him. The meeting on Wednesday was unsatisfactory and inconclusive. I felt it would be helpful if the two of us could discuss the matter quietly together. I knew he was due here at six to take the car and drive off as he invariably did on Friday evenings, so I arrived at his flat at about five o’clock. It’s in Kensington High Street and parking there is impossible, so I’d left the car in one of the spaces in Holland Park and walked through the park. It wasn’t a good time to call. Neville was still distressed and angry and in no mood to discuss the museum. I realized that I’d do no good by staying and I left him within ten minutes. I felt the need to walk off my frustration but was worried that the park might have closed for the night. So I went back to the car by way of Kensington Church Street and Holland Park Avenue. Traffic in the avenue was heavy—this was, after all, Friday night. When Tally Clutton phoned my house about the fire, my wife couldn’t reach me on my mobile, so I didn’t get the news until I arrived home. That was within minutes of Tally’s call, and I came here immediately. My sister had already arrived.”
“So you were the last known person to see your brother alive. Did you feel when you left him that he was dangerously depressed?”
“No. If I had then, obviously, I wouldn’t have left him.”
Dalgliesh turned to Caroline Dupayne. She said, “I last saw Neville at the trustees’ meeting on Wednesday. I haven’t been in touch with him since either to discuss the future of the museum or for any other purpose. Frankly I didn’t think I would be able to do much good. I thought he behaved oddly at the meeting and we’d do better to leave him alone for a time. I suppose you want to know my movements tonight. I left the museum shortly after four and drove to Oxford Street. I usually go to M and S and Selfridges Food Hall on a Friday to buy food for the weekend, whether I spend it in my flat at Swathling’s or in my flat here. It wasn’t easy finding a parking space, but I was lucky to get a meter. I always turn off my mobile when I’m shopping and I didn’t switch it on again until I was back in the car. I suppose that was just after six as I’d just missed the beginning of the news on the radio. Tally phoned about half an hour later when I was still in Knightsbridge. I came back at once.”
It was time to finish the interview. Dalgliesh had no problem in dealing with Caroline Dupayne’s barely concealed antagonism but he could see that both she and her brother were tired. Marcus, indeed, looked close to exhaustion. He kept them for only a few more minutes. Both confirmed that they knew thei
r brother collected his Jaguar at six o’clock on Fridays but had no idea where he went and had never inquired. Caroline made it plain that she thought the question unreasonable. She wouldn’t expect Neville to question her about what she did with her weekends, why should she question him? If he had another life, good luck to him. She admitted readily that she had known there was a can of petrol in the shed as she had been in the museum when Miss Godby paid Mrs. Faraday for it. Marcus Dupayne said that until recently he had been seldom in the museum. Since, however, he did know that they had a motor-mower, he would have presumed that petrol was stored for it somewhere. Both were adamant that they knew of no one who wished their brother ill. They accepted without demur that the grounds of the museum, and therefore the house itself, would need to be closed to the public while the police continued the investigations on the site. Marcus said that in any case they had decided to shut the museum for a week, or until after their brother’s private cremation.
Brother and sister saw Dalgliesh and Piers out the front door as punctiliously as if they had been invited guests. They stepped out into the night. To the east of the house Dalgliesh could see the glow from the arc-lights where two police constables would be guarding the scene behind the tape barring access to the garage. There was no sign of Kate and Benton-Smith; presumably they were already in the car-park. The wind had dropped but, standing for a moment in the silence, he could hear a soft susurration as if its last breath still stirred the bushes and gently shook the sparse leaves of the saplings. The night sky was like a child’s painting, an uneven wash of indigo with splurges of grubby clouds. He wondered what the sky was like over Cambridge. Emma would be home by now. Would she be looking out over Trinity Great Court or, as he might have done, be pacing the court in a tumult of indecision? Or was it worse? Had it only taken that hour-long journey to Cambridge to convince her that enough was enough, that she wouldn’t attempt to see him again?
Forcing his mind back to the matter in hand, he said, “Caroline Dupayne is anxious to keep open the possibility of suicide and her brother is going along with that, but with some reluctance. From their point of view it’s understandable enough. But why should Dupayne kill himself? He wanted the museum closed. Now that he’s dead the two living trustees can ensure that it stays open.”
Suddenly he needed to be alone. He said, “I want to have a last look at the scene. Kate’s driving you, isn’t she? Tell her and Benton that we’ll meet in my room in an hour.”
7
It was eleven-twenty when Dalgliesh and the team met in his office to review progress. Seating himself in one of the chairs at the oblong conference table before the window, Piers was grateful that AD hadn’t chosen his own office for the meeting. It was, as usual, in a state of half-organized clutter. He could invariably put his hand on whatever file was needed, but no one seeing the room would believe that possible. AD, he knew, wouldn’t have commented; the Chief was methodically tidy himself but required of his subordinates only integrity, dedication and efficiency. If they could achieve this in the midst of a muddle, he saw no reason to interfere. But Piers was glad that Benton-Smith’s dark judgemental eyes wouldn’t range over the accumulated paper on his desk. In contrast to this disorder, he kept his flat in the City almost obsessively tidy as if this were one additional way of keeping separate his working and his private life.
They were to drink decaffeinated coffee. Kate, as he knew, couldn’t take caffeine after seven o’clock without risking a sleepless night and it had seemed pointless and time-wasting to make two brews. Dalgliesh’s PA had long since gone home and Benton-Smith had gone out to make the coffee. Piers awaited it without enthusiasm. Decaffeinated coffee seemed a contradiction in terms, but at least getting it and washing up the mugs afterwards would put Benton-Smith in his place. He wondered why he found the man so irritating; dislike was too strong a word. It wasn’t that he resented Benton-Smith’s spectacular good looks buttressed as they were by a healthy self-regard; he had never much cared if a colleague were more handsome than he, only if he were more intelligent or more successful. A little surprised at his own perception, he thought: It’s because, like me, he’s ambitious and ambitious in the same way. Superficially we couldn’t be more different. The truth is, I resent him because we’re too alike.
Dalgliesh and Kate settled into their seats and sat in silence. Piers’s eyes, which had been fixed on the panorama of lights stretched out beneath the fifth-floor window, ranged round the room. It was familiar to him, but now he had a disconcerting impression that he was seeing it for the first time. He amused himself mentally assessing the occupant’s character from the few clues it provided. Except to the keenest eye it was essentially the office of a senior officer, equipped to comply with regulations governing the furnishings considered appropriate to a Commander. Unlike some of his colleagues, AD had seen no need to decorate his walls with framed citations, photographs or the shields of foreign police forces. And there was no framed photograph on his desk. It would have surprised Piers had there been any such evidence of a private life. There were only two unusual features. One wall was completely covered with bookshelves but these, as Piers knew, bore little evidence of personal taste. Instead the shelves held a professional library: Acts of Parliament, official reports, White Papers, reference books, volumes of history, Archbold on criminal pleading, volumes on criminology, forensic medicine and the history of the police, and the criminal statistics for the past five years. The only other unusual feature was the lithographs of London. Piers supposed that his Chief disliked a totally bare expanse of wall but even the choice of pictures had a certain impersonality. He wouldn’t have chosen oils, of course; oils would have been inappropriate and pretentious. His colleagues, if they noticed the lithographs, probably regarded them as indicative of an eccentric but inoffensive taste. They could, thought Piers, offend no one and intrigue only those who had some idea what they must have cost.
Benton-Smith and the coffee arrived. Occasionally at these late night sessions Dalgliesh would go to his cupboard and bring out glasses and a bottle of red wine. Not tonight, apparently. Deciding to reject the coffee, Piers drew the water carafe towards him and poured a glass.
Dalgliesh said, “What do we call this putative murderer?”
It was his custom to let the team discuss the case before intervening, but first they would decide on a name for their unseen and as yet unknowable quarry. Dalgliesh disliked the usual police soubriquets.
It was Benton-Smith who replied. He said, “What about Vulcan, the god of fire?”
Trust him to get in first, thought Piers. He said, “Well, it’s at least shorter than Prometheus.”
Their notebooks were open before them. Dalgliesh said, “Right, Kate, will you start?”
Kate took a gulp of her coffee, apparently decided it was too hot, and pushed the mug a little aside. Dalgliesh didn’t invariably ask the most senior of his team to speak first, but tonight he did. Kate would already have given thought as to how best to present her arguments. She said, “We began by treating Dr. Dupayne’s death as murder, and what we have learned so far confirms that view. Accident is out. He must have been soused with the petrol and, however that happened, it was deliberate. The evidence against suicide is the fact that he was wearing his seat belt, the lightbulb to the left of the door had been removed and the curious position of the petrol can and the screw-top. The top was found in the far corner and the can itself some seven feet from the car door. There’s no problem about the time of death. We know that Dr. Dupayne garaged his Jag at the museum and collected it every Friday at six o’clock. We also have Tallulah Clutton’s evidence confirming the time of death as six o’clock or shortly afterwards. So we are looking for someone who knew Dr. Dupayne’s movements, had a key to the garage and knew that there was a can of petrol in the unlocked shed. I was going to add that the killer must have known Mrs. Clutton’s movements, that she regularly attended an evening class on Fridays. But I’m not sure that’s relevant. Vulcan
could have done a preliminary reconnaissance. He could have known what time the museum closed and that Mrs. Clutton would be in her cottage after dark. This was a quick murder. He could expect to be away before Mrs. Clutton even heard or smelt the fire.”
Kate paused. Dalgliesh asked, “Any comments on Kate’s summary?”
It was Piers who decided to come in first. “This wasn’t an impulsive murder, it was carefully planned. There’s no question of manslaughter. On the face of it the suspects are the Dupayne family and the staff of the museum. All have the necessary knowledge, all have a motive. The Dupaynes wanted the museum kept open, so presumably did Muriel Godby and Tallulah Clutton. Godby would lose a good job, Clutton would lose her job and her home.”
Kate said, “You don’t kill a man in a particularly horrible way just to keep your job. Muriel Godby is obviously a capable and experienced secretary. She’s not going to be out of work for long. The same goes for Tallulah Clutton. No good housekeeper needs to be out of work. Even if she can’t find a job quickly, surely she’s got a family? I can’t see either of them as serious suspects.”
Dalgliesh said, “Until we know more, it’s premature to talk about motives. We know nothing yet about Neville Dupayne’s private life, the people he worked with, where he went when he collected his Jaguar every Friday. And then there’s the problem of the mysterious motorist who knocked down Mrs. Clutton.”
Piers said, “If he exists. We’ve only her bruised arm and the twisted bike wheel to suggest that he does. She could have contrived the fall and faked the evidence. You don’t need much strength to bend a bike wheel. She could have crashed it against a wall.”
Benton-Smith had been silent. Now he said, “I don’t believe she had anything to do with it. I wasn’t in the cottage for long but I thought she was an honest witness. I liked her.”