He settled himself in his chair and swivelled it to regard the two detectives with some complacency. He had, after all, the physically dominant position.
Dalgliesh said, “Dr. Dupayne’s death is being treated as murder. Accident is out of the question and there are contra-indications to suicide. We’re looking for your co-operation. If there is anything you know or suspect which could help, we need it now.”
Calder-Hale took up a pencil and began doodling on his blotter. He said, “It would help if you told us more. All I know, all any of us knows, is what we have learned from each other. Someone threw petrol over Neville from a tin in the garden shed and set it alight. So you’re confident that it wasn’t suicide?”
“The physical evidence is against it.”
“What about the psychological evidence? When I saw Neville last Friday week when you were here with Conrad Ackroyd, I could see he was under stress. I don’t know what his problems were, apart from overwork which we can take for granted. And he was in the wrong job. If you want to take on the more intractable of human ills it’s as well to make sure that you’ve got the mental resistance and the essential detachment. Suicide is understandable; murder incomprehensible. And such an appalling murder! He had no enemies as far as I know, but then how should I know? We hardly ever met. He’s garaged his car here ever since his father died, and he’s been arriving each Friday at six and making off in it. Occasionally I would be leaving as he arrived. He never explained where he was going and I never asked. I’ve been curator here for four years now and I don’t think I’ve seen Neville in the museum more than a dozen times.”
“Why was he here last Friday?”
Calder-Hale appeared to have given up interest in his doodle. Now he was attempting to balance his pencil on the desk. “He wanted to find out what my views were about the future of the museum. As the Dupaynes have probably told you, the new lease has to be signed by the fifteenth of this month. I gather he was in some doubt whether he wanted the place to continue. I pointed out that it was no use asking for my support: I’m not a trustee and I wouldn’t be at the meeting. Anyway, he knew my views. Museums honour the past in an age which worships modernity almost as much as it does money and celebrity. It’s hardly surprising that museums are in difficulties. The Dupayne will be a loss if it closes, but only to people who value what it offers. Do the Dupaynes? If they haven’t the will to save this place, no one else will.”
Dalgliesh said, “Presumably now it will be safe. How much would it have mattered to you if the lease hadn’t been signed?”
“It would have been inconvenient, to me and to certain people who are interested in what I do here. I’ve settled in comfortably in the last few years as you can see. But I do have a flat of my own and a life beyond this place. I doubt whether Neville would have stuck it out when it came to the crunch. He’s a Dupayne, after all. I think he’d have gone along with his siblings.”
Piers spoke for the first time. He said uncompromisingly, “Where were you, Mr. Calder-Hale, between, say, five o’clock and seven o’clock on Friday evening?”
“An alibi? Isn’t that stretching it rather? Surely the time you’re interested in is six o’clock? But let’s be meticulous by all means. At a quarter to five I left my flat in Bedford Square and went by motorcycle to my dentist in Weymouth Street. He had to complete some work on a crown. I usually leave the machine in Marylebone Street but all the places were taken, so I went to Marylebone Lane at Cross Keys Close and parked there. I left Weymouth Street at about five twenty-five, but I expect the dental nurse and the receptionist will be able to confirm the time. I found that my motorcycle had been taken. I walked home, cutting through the streets north of Oxford Street and taking my time, but I suppose I got there at about six o’clock. I then rang the local police station and no doubt they’ll have recorded the call. They seemed remarkably unconcerned about the theft and I’ve heard nothing from them since. With the present level of gun crime and the terrorism threat, a stolen motorcycle is hardly a high priority. I’ll give it a couple of days and then write it off and claim the insurance. It’ll be dumped in a ditch somewhere. It’s a Norton—they’re not made now—and I was fond of it, but not as obsessively fond as poor Neville was of his E-type.”
Piers had made a note of the times. Dalgliesh said, “And there’s nothing else you can tell us?”
“Nothing. I’m sorry I haven’t been more helpful. But as I said, I hardly knew Neville.”
“You’ll have heard about Mrs. Clutton’s encounter with the mysterious motorist?”
“I’ve heard as much about Neville’s death as I imagine you have. Marcus and Caroline have told me about your interview with them on Friday and I’ve spoken to Tally Clutton. She’s an honest woman, by the way. You can rely on what she says.”
Asked whether Mrs. Clutton’s description struck a chord, Calder-Hale said, “He sounds like a fairly average visitor to the Dupayne. I doubt whether he’s significant. A fleeing murderer, particularly one who burns his victim alive, is hardly likely to stop to comfort an elderly lady. Anyway, why risk her taking his number?”
Piers said, “We’re putting out a call for him. He may come forward.”
“I shouldn’t rely on it. He may be one of those sensible people who don’t regard innocence as a protection against the more casuistical machinations of the police.”
Dalgliesh said, “Mr. Calder-Hale, I think it’s possible you may know why Dupayne died. If so, it would save my time and some inconvenience to both of us if you would say so now.”
“I don’t know. I wish I did. If I knew I’d tell you. I can accept the occasional necessity for murder, but not this murder and not this method. I may have my suspicions. I could give you four names and in order of probability, but I imagine you’ve got the same list and in the same order.”
It looked as if there was nothing more to be learned at present. Dalgliesh was about to get up when Calder-Hale said, “Have you seen Marie Strickland yet?”
“Not officially. We met briefly when I came to the museum a week ago last Friday. At least I assume it was Mrs. Strickland. She was working in the library.”
“She’s an amazing woman. Have you checked up on her?”
“Should I?”
“I was wondering whether you had interested yourself in her past. In the war she was one of the women agents of the Special Operations Executive who were parachuted into France on the eve of D-Day. The project was to rebuild a network in the northern occupied zone which had been broken up after a great betrayal the previous year. Her group suffered the same fate. The group had a traitor who is rumoured to have been Strickland’s lover. They were the only two members who weren’t rounded up, tortured and killed.”
Dalgliesh asked, “How do you know this?”
“My father worked with Maurice Buckmaster at SOE headquarters in Baker Street. He had his share of responsibility for the débâcle. He and Buckmaster were warned but refused to believe that the radio messages they were receiving were coming from the Gestapo. Of course I wasn’t born at the time, but my father told me something of it before he died. In his last weeks before the morphine took over he made up for twenty-five years of non-communication. Most of what he told me is no secret. With the release of official papers, it’s coming into the public domain anyway.”
“Have you and Mrs. Strickland ever spoken about this?”
“I don’t think she suspects that I know. She must realize that I’m Henry Calder-Hale’s son, or at least related, but that wouldn’t be a reason for getting together for a cosy chat about the past. Not that past and not with my name. Still, I thought you’d be interested to know. I always feel a little uneasy when I’m with Marie Strickland, though not uncomfortable enough to wish she weren’t here. It’s just that her kind of bravery is incomprehensible to me: it leaves me feeling inadequate. Charging into battle is one thing; risking betrayal, torture, a lonely death is another. She must have been extraordinary when young, a combination o
f delicate English beauty and ruthlessness. She was caught once on an earlier mission but managed to talk herself out of trouble. I imagine that the Germans couldn’t believe she was other than she seemed. And now she sits in the library, hour after hour, an old woman with arthritic hands and faded eyes, writing out elegant notices which would be just as effective if Muriel Godby typed them on her computer.”
They sat in silence. Calder-Hale’s last bitterly ironic comment seemed to have exhausted him. His eyes were straying towards a heap of papers on his desk but less with eagerness than with a kind of weary resignation. There would be no more to be learned at present; it was time to leave.
On the way to the car, neither spoke of Mrs. Strickland. Piers said, “It’s not much of an alibi, is it? Motorbike parked in a busy street. Who’d be able to say what time it was left or taken away? He’d have been wearing a helmet, a pretty effective disguise. If it’s dumped anywhere, it’s probably in the bushes on Hampstead Heath.”
Dalgliesh said, “We’ve got the time he left the dentist. That can probably be confirmed accurately. The receptionist would keep an eye on the appointment times. If he did leave at five twenty-five, could he get to the Dupayne before six? Presumably, if he was lucky with the traffic flow and the lights. He’d need some time in hand. Benton-Smith had better time the journey, preferably with a Norton. The garage might be able to help there.”
“We’ll need a couple of Nortons, sir. I fancy making a race of it.”
“One Norton will do. There are enough fools racing on the roads. Benton-Smith can do the journey several times. You’d better discuss alternate routes. Calder-Hale would have done some trial runs. And Benton needn’t go mad—Calder-Hale wouldn’t have risked shooting the lights.”
“You don’t want me at the PM, sir?”
“No. Kate can take Benton. It’ll be experience for him. The cause of death was always obvious but it will be interesting to know his general state of health and the blood alcohol level.”
Piers said, “You think he could have been drunk, sir?”
“Not incapable, but if he had been drinking heavily it could give credence to the suicide theory.”
“I thought we had discounted suicide.”
“We have. I’m thinking of the defence. A jury could find it reasonable. The family are anxious for the body to be released for the cremation. Apparently they’ve got a slot for Thursday.”
Piers said, “That’s quick. They must have reserved a slot soon after their brother died. A bit insensitive. It looks as if they couldn’t wait to complete the job that somebody had already started. At least they didn’t reserve it before he was killed.”
Dalgliesh didn’t reply, and it was in silence that they buckled themselves into the Jaguar.
15
Marcus Dupayne had summoned a meeting of the staff for ten o’clock on Monday the fourth of November. This had been done by a note as formally phrased as if he were summoning an official body instead of just four people.
Tally went to the museum to do her usual morning chores as she had over the weekend, although the museum was closed and her dusting hardly necessary. But there was reassurance in carrying on with her normal routine.
Back in the cottage she took off her working overall, washed, and after some thought, put on a clean blouse, and returned to the museum just before ten. They were to meet in the library and Muriel was already there, setting out cups for the coffee. Tally saw that she had, as usual, baked biscuits. This morning they looked like plain oatmeal; perhaps, thought Tally, Muriel had considered florentines inappropriately festive for the occasion.
Both the Dupaynes arrived promptly and Mr. Calder-Hale strode in a few minutes later. They spent a few minutes drinking coffee at the small table in front of the northern window, as if anxious to separate a minor social occasion from the serious business in hand, then moved to their places at the middle table.
Marcus Dupayne said, “I’ve asked you here for three reasons. The first is to thank you, James, Muriel and Tally, for your expressions of sympathy on the death of our brother. At a time like this, grief is subsumed in shock and shock in horror. We shall have time—too little time, perhaps—to mourn Neville and to realize what we and his patients have lost. The second reason is to let you know what my sister and I have decided about the future of the Dupayne Museum. The third is to discuss our response to the police investigation of what they have now decided, and we have to accept, is murder, and how we deal with the publicity which has, of course, already started. I left the meeting until this morning because I felt that we were all too shocked at the weekend to think clearly.”
James Calder-Hale said, “I take it, then, that the new lease will be signed and the Dupayne will continue?”
Marcus said, “The lease has already been signed. Caroline and I went to Lincoln’s Inn by appointment at half-past eight this morning.”
James said, “Before Neville has been cremated? Do I detect the smell of funeral baked meats?”
Caroline’s voice was cold. “All the preliminaries had been completed. Nothing was necessary except the signature of the two surviving trustees. It would have been premature to have had this meeting without being able to assure you that the museum would continue.”
“Wouldn’t it have been seemly to have waited a few days?”
Marcus was unmoved. “Why precisely? Are you developing sensitivity to public opinion, or is there some ethical or theological objection that I’ve overlooked?”
James’s face creased briefly into a wry smile that was half a grimace, but he didn’t reply.
Marcus went on, “The inquest will be opened and adjourned tomorrow morning and if the body is released for burial the cremation will take place on Thursday. My brother was not religious so it will be secular and private. Only close family will attend. It seems that the hospital will want later to arrange a memorial service in the chapel and we shall, of course, be there. I imagine that anyone else who wishes to attend will be welcome. I have only had a brief telephone call with the administrator. Nothing is yet settled.
“Now for the future of the museum. I shall take over as general administrator and Caroline will continue to work part-time and will be responsible for what we might describe as the front of house: tickets, administration, finance, housekeeping. You, Muriel, will continue to be responsible to her. I know you have some private arrangement concerning the care of her flat and that will continue. We would like you, James, to carry on as curator with responsibility for accessions, the preservation and display of exhibits, relationships with researchers and the recruitment of volunteers. You, Tally, will continue as you are, living in the cottage and being responsible to my sister for the general cleaning and to Muriel when she requires help on the desk. I shall be writing to our two existing volunteers, Mrs. Faraday and Mrs. Strickland, to ask them to continue if they are willing. If the museum expands, as I hope it will, we may need additional paid staff and we could certainly make use of more volunteers. James will continue to vet them. The boy Ryan may as well continue if he condescends to turn up.”
Tally spoke for the first time. She said, “I’m worried about Ryan.”
Marcus was dismissive. “I don’t think the police are going to suspect Ryan Archer. What possible motive had the boy, even if he had the wit to plan this murder?”
James said gently, “I don’t think you need worry, Tally. Commander Dalgliesh has told us what happened. The boy made off because he’d attacked Major Arkwright and probably thought he’d killed him. He’ll turn up when he realizes he hasn’t. Anyway, the police are looking for him. There’s nothing we can do.”
Marcus said, “Obviously they need to talk to him. We can’t hope that he’ll be discreet in what he tells them.”
Caroline said, “But what can he tell them?”
There was a silence which was broken by Marcus. “Perhaps it’s time now that we moved on to the investigation. What I find rather surprising is the level of police commitment. W
hy Commander Dalgliesh? I thought his squad was set up to investigate murder cases of particular difficulty or sensitivity. I can’t see that Neville’s death qualifies.”
James rocked back precariously in his chair. “I can give you a number of suggestions. Neville was a psychiatrist. Perhaps he was treating someone powerful whose reputation needs more than the usual protection. It wouldn’t be good, for example, if it became known that a Minister at the Treasury was a kleptomaniac, a bishop a serial bigamist, or a pop star had a predilection for under-age girls. Then the police could suspect that the museum is being used for a criminal purpose, receiving stolen goods and concealing them among the exhibits, or organizing a spy-ring for international terrorists.”
Marcus frowned. “I find humour a little inappropriate at a time like this, James. But it could well be something to do with Neville’s job. He must have known a number of dangerous secrets. His work brought him into contact with a wide variety of people, most of them psychologically disturbed. We know nothing of his private life. We don’t know where he went on Fridays or whom he met. We don’t know whether he brought someone with him or met someone here. It was he who had the keys cut for the garage. We have no way of knowing how many he had cut or who had access to them. That one spare key in the cupboard downstairs was probably not the only spare.”
Muriel said, “Inspector Miskin asked me about it when she and the Sergeant saw Tally and me last thing on Friday after Commander Dalgliesh left. They were suggesting that someone could have taken the garage key and replaced it with another Yale, then returned the proper key later. I pointed out that I wouldn’t have noticed the difference if they had. One Yale looks very like another unless you examine it closely.”