Dalgliesh said, “Manichaeanism.”
“That sounds like it. It seems sensible to me. At least it explains the suffering of the innocent, which otherwise takes some sophistry to make sense of. If I had a religion, that’s what I’d choose. I suppose I became a Manichaean—if that’s the word—without knowing it the first time I watched a child dying of cancer. But apparently you’re not supposed to believe it if you’re a Christian, and I suppose particularly not if you’re a priest. Adrian is a good man. I may not be good myself, but I can recognise it. Oliver was evil; Adrian is good.”
Dalgliesh said, “If it were as simple as that, my job would be easy. Thank you for telling me.”
“And you won’t question Adrian about his alcoholism? That was our bargain.”
“There was no bargain, but I won’t mention it to him at present. It may never be necessary.”
“I’ll tell him you know, that seems only fair. He may choose to tell you himself. Thank you for the wine. I’ll say good night. You know where to find me.”
Dalgliesh watched her until she was out of sight, moving confidently under the stars, then rinsed the two wine glasses and locked the cottage door. So there were three people who could have had a motive: Adrian Boyde, Jo Staveley and probably Jago, who had given up his free weekends to relieving Jo, a generosity which suggested that he shared her disgust at Oliver’s cruelty. But would Jo Staveley have been so confiding if she’d known, or even suspected, that one of the other two was guilty? Probably, if she’d realised that, sooner or later, he would inevitably have discovered the truth. None of the three seemed a likely killer, but that could be said of everyone on Combe Island. He knew that it was dangerous to concentrate on motive to the neglect of modus operandi and means, but it seemed to him that here motive was at the heart of the case. Old Nobby Clark had told him that the letter L could cover all motives for murder: Lust, Lucre, Loathing and Love. It was sound enough as far as it went. But motives were extraordinarily varied, and some of the most atrocious murderers had killed for no reason explicable to a rational mind. Some words came into his mind, he thought by George Orwell. Murder, the unique crime, should arise only from strong emotions. And of course it always did.
BOOK THREE
* * *
Voices from the Past
1
* * *
On Sunday morning Dalgliesh woke just before dawn. From boyhood his waking had been sudden, with no discernible moments between oblivion and consciousness, his mind instantly alert to the sights and sounds of the new day, his body impatient to throw off the enclosing sheets. But this morning he lay in a somnolent peace, prolonging each gentle step of a slow awakening. The two large windows, panes wide open, became palely visible, and the bedroom slowly revealed itself in shape and colour. Last night the sea had been a soothing accompaniment to his last subliminal waking moments, but now it seemed quieter, more a gentle throbbing of the air than a consciously heard sound.
He showered, dressed and went downstairs. He made himself fresh orange juice, decided against a cooked breakfast and walked round the sitting room with his bowl of muesli, assessing this unusual stone-built operations room with a more leisurely appreciation than had been possible the previous day, then moved out of the cottage into the soft sea-smelling air of the morning. The day was calm, patches of pale blue were appearing over low streaks of cloud, the pale grey tinged with pink. The sea was a pointillist picture pricked in silver light to the horizon. He stood very still looking towards the east—towards Emma. Even when he was on a case, how quickly she took possession of his mind. Last night it had been almost a torment to picture her in his arms; now she was a less troubling presence, moving up quietly beside him, her dark hair tumbled from sleep. Suddenly he longed to hear her voice, but he knew that, whatever the day brought, she wouldn’t phone. Was this silence when he was on a job her way of affirming his right to be undisturbed, a recognition of the separateness of their working lives? The wife or lover ringing at the most inconvenient or embarrassing time was one of the stock situations of comedy. He could phone now but he knew that he wouldn’t. There seemed to be some unspoken pact which separated in her mind the lover who was a detective and the lover who was a poet. The former disappeared periodically into alien and uncharted territory, which she had no wish—or perhaps felt she had no right—to question or explore. Or was it that she knew as well as did he that his job fuelled the poetry, that the best of his verse had its roots in the pain, horror and pathetic detritus of the tragic and broken lives which made up his working life? Was it this knowledge that kept her silent and distanced when he was working? For him as a poet, beauty in nature, in human faces, had never been enough. He had always needed Yeats’s foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart. He wondered, too, whether Emma sensed his uncomfortable, half-shameful acknowledgement that he who so guarded his privacy had chosen a job that permitted—indeed required—him to violate the privacy of others, the dead as well as the living.
But now, glancing northwards towards the square stone bulk of the chapel, he saw a woman walking with the remembered purposeful tread of one of his father’s parishioners who, conscious of duty done and spiritual hunger satisfied, was making for the secular satisfaction of a hot breakfast. It took only a second to recognise her as Mrs. Burbridge, but it was a Mrs. Burbridge transformed. She was wearing a blue-and-fawn tweed coat of a rigidly old-fashioned cut, a blue felt trilby with a jaunty feather, and her gloved hand was holding what must surely be a prayer book. She must have attended some form of service in the chapel. That meant that Boyde should by now be free and in his cottage.
There was no hurry, and he decided to walk first past the cottage to the chapel, some fifty yards beyond. It was more crudely built than the cottages, an uncompromising building no more than fifteen feet square. There was a latched half-door like a stable door and, opening it, he was met by a cooler, damp-smelling air. The floor was paved with broken slabs, and a single high window, with a pane so grubby that little light filtered through, gave only a smeared view of the sky. Placed precisely beneath the window was a heavy boulder, flat-topped, which was obviously being used as an altar, although it was uncovered and bare except for two stubby silver candlesticks and a small wooden cross. The candles were almost burnt out, but he thought he could detect the lingering acridity of smoke. He wondered how the boulder had got there. It must have taken half a dozen strong men to move it into place. There were no benches or seats except for two wooden folding chairs leaning against the wall, one presumably provided for the use of Mrs. Burbridge, who must have been the only worshipper expected. Only a small stone cross stuck rather crookedly at the apex of the roof had suggested that the building had ever been consecrated, and he thought it more likely to have been built as a shelter for animals and only some generations later used as a place of prayer. He felt none of that numinous awe born of emptiness and the echo of plainsong on the silent air that ancient churches could evoke. Nevertheless, he found himself closing the door more quietly than he would have done, and marvelled, as he often did, how deep-seated and lasting were the influences of his childhood, when, for a priest’s son, the year had been divided not by school terms, holidays or months, but by the church calendar: Advent, Christmas, Pentecost, the seemingly interminable Sundays after Trinity.
The door to Chapel Cottage was open, and Dalgliesh’s tall figure momentarily eclipsing the light made a knock unnecessary. Boyde was sitting in front of the window at a table which served as a desk, and turned at once to greet him. The room was filled with light. A centre door with windows on either side led out to the stone patio at the edge of the cliff. To the left was a large stone grate with what looked like a bread oven, and a pile of kindling on one side and small logs on the other. Before it were two high-backed armchairs, one with a reading table beside it and a modern angled light. There was a greasy plate on the desk and a smell of bacon.
Dalgliesh said, “I hope I’m not interrupting you. I did see Mrs. Burbridge
leaving the chapel, so I thought it might be a convenient time to call.”
Boyde said, “Yes, she usually comes to seven o’clock Mass on Sundays.”
“But no one else?”
“No. I don’t think it would occur to them. Perhaps not even to those who were once churchgoers. They probably think that a priest who has stopped working—I mean, one who hasn’t a parish—is no longer a priest. I don’t advertise the service. It’s really a private devotion, but Mrs. Burbridge found out about it when she and I helped care for Dan Padgett’s mother.” He smiled. “Now I’m Rupert Maycroft’s secretary. Perhaps it’s just as well. I might find the job of unofficial chaplain of the island more than I could cope with.”
Dalgliesh said, “Particularly if they all decided to use you as their father confessor.”
The remark had been light-hearted. He had briefly indulged the risible image of Combe residents pouring into Boyde’s ears their uncharitable thoughts about each other or the visitors, particularly Oliver. But he was surprised at Boyde’s reaction. There was a second when Dalgliesh could almost believe that he had been guilty of a lapse of taste, except that Boyde had not struck him as a man who looked for causes of offence.
Now he smiled again and said, “I’d be tempted to change my churchmanship, become firmly evangelical and refer them all to Father Michael at Pentworthy. But I’m being inhospitable. Please sit down. I’m making some coffee. Would you like some?”
“Thank you, yes, I would.”
Dalgliesh reflected that one of the minor hazards of a murder investigation was the inordinate quantity of caffeine he was expected to consume. But he wanted the interview to be as informal as possible, and food or drink always helped.
Boyde disappeared into the kitchen, leaving the door ajar. There were the familiar kitchen sounds, the hiss of a kettle being filled, the metallic rattle of coffee beans being ground, the tinkle of cups and saucers. Dalgliesh settled himself in one of the chairs before the fire and contemplated the oil painting above the empty mantelpiece. Could it be a Corot? It was a French scene, a straight road between lines of poplars, the roofs of a distant village, a church spire shimmering beneath a summer sun.
Boyde came in carrying a tray. The smell of sea and wood fire was overlaid with the smell of coffee and hot milk. He nudged a small table between the chairs and set down the tray.
Dalgliesh said, “I’ve been admiring your oil.”
“It was a bequest from my grandmother. She was French. It’s an early Corot, painted in 1830 near Fontainebleau. It’s the only valuable thing I own. One of the compensations of being on Combe is that I can hang it knowing that it won’t be stolen or vandalised. I’ve never been able to afford to insure it. I like it because of the trees. I miss trees, there are so few here on the island. We even import the logs we burn.”
They drank their coffee in silence. Dalgliesh felt a curious peace, something that was very rare when he was in the company of a suspect. Here, he thought, is a man I could have talked with, one I would have liked. But he sensed that, despite Boyde’s comfortable hospitality, there was no confidence between them.
After a minute he put down his cup and said, “When I met you all together in the library and questioned you about yesterday morning, you were the only one who said he had been walking on the headland before breakfast. I have to ask you again whether you saw anyone on that walk.”
Without meeting Dalgliesh’s eye, Boyde said quietly, “I saw no one.”
“And you went where exactly?”
“I walked across the headland as far as Atlantic Cottage and then back here. It was just before eight o’clock.”
Again there was silence. Boyde picked up the tray and took it into the kitchen. It was three minutes before he returned to his seat, and he seemed to be considering his words.
“Would you agree that we ought not to pass on suspicions which might only confuse or mislead and do great damage to the person concerned?”
Dalgliesh said, “Suspicion usually has a basis in fact. I need to be told those facts. It’s for me to decide their significance, if any.” He looked at Boyde and asked bluntly, “Father, do you know who killed Nathan Oliver?”
Addressing Boyde as a priest had been involuntary, and the word surprised him even as he heard himself speak it. It took him some seconds to realise the significance of what seemed no more than a slip of the tongue. The effect on Boyde was immediate. He looked at Dalgliesh with pain-filled eyes which seemed to hold an entreaty.
“I swear I don’t know. I also swear that I saw no one on the headland.”
Dalgliesh believed him. He knew there was no more he could learn now, and perhaps there was nothing else that he could learn. Five minutes later, after periods of commonplace chat but longer ones of silence, he left the cottage dissatisfied. He would leave the interview to do its work, but he would have to see Boyde again.
It was now quarter-past nine and, arriving at the door of Seal Cottage, Dalgliesh could see Kate and Benton making their way over the scrubland. He went to meet them and they walked back together.
As they entered, the telephone rang. Guy Staveley was on the line. “Mr. Dalgliesh? I’m ringing to tell you that it won’t be possible for you to interview Dr. Speidel again, not at present anyway. His condition worsened in the night. We’ve transferred him to the sickroom.”
2
* * *
It was just before eleven o’clock. Dalgliesh had decided to take Kate with him to interview Mrs. Plunkett, but when she rang to make the appointment, she was asked by the cook whether they would mind coming to the kitchen. Dalgliesh readily agreed. It would be more convenient and time-saving for Mrs. Plunkett, and she was, he thought, more likely to be communicative in her working environment than in Seal Cottage. Five minutes later, he and Kate were sitting side by side at the long kitchen table while Mrs. Plunkett on the opposite side was busy at the Aga.
The kitchen reminded Dalgliesh of his childhood: the same stove only more modern, the scrubbed wooden table and Windsor chairs and a long oak dresser with a miscellany of plates, mugs and cups. One end of the room was obviously Mrs. Plunkett’s sanctum. There was a bentwood rocking chair, a low table and a desk topped with a row of cookbooks. This kitchen, like the one in the rectory, was an amalgam of smells—fresh-baked bread, ground coffee beans, fried bacon—all redolent with anticipatory promise which the food never quite achieved. He remembered the family cook, the fourteen-stone, incongruously named Mrs. Lightfoot, a woman of few words who had always been ready to welcome him into the rectory kitchen, allowing him to scrape out the bowl of cake mixture, giving him small lumps of dough to model into gingerbread men, listening to his endless questions. Sometimes she would reply, “You’d better ask His Reverence about that.” She invariably referred to the rector as His Reverence. His father’s study had always been open to him, but for the young Adam that warm stone-flagged kitchen had been the heart of the house.
He left most of the questioning to Kate. Mrs. Plunkett continued working. She was trimming fat from pork chops, dipping both sides of the meat in seasoned flour, then browning and turning them in a frying pan of hot fat. He watched as she lifted the chops from the pan and placed them in a casserole and then came to sit opposite Kate and Dalgliesh at the table, where she began peeling and slicing onions and de-seeding some green peppers.
Kate, who had been unwilling to speak to Mrs. Plunkett’s back, now said, “How long have you worked here, Mrs. Plunkett?”
“Twelve years last Christmas. The previous cook was Miss Dewberry. She was one of those lady cooks with a Cordon Bleu diploma and everything ’very nicely, thank you’ about her. Well, she was a good cook, I’ll not deny that. Sauces. She was very particular about sauces, was Miss Dewberry. I learnt a lot from her about sauces. I used to come over during the week when she was extra busy to act as her kitchen maid. Not that she was ever that busy—you can’t be with only six guests at most and the staff mostly looking after themselves. Still, she wa
s used to having help in the smart restaurants where she worked, and I was a widow with no kids and time on my hands. I was always a good cook, still am. I got it from my mother. There was nothing she couldn’t put her hand to in the kitchen. When Miss Dewberry retired, she suggested I might take over. She knew by then what I was capable of. I had two weeks’ probation and that was that. It suited both parties. I’m cheaper than Miss Dewberry was, and I can do without a full-time kitchen maid, thank you very much. I like to be alone in my kitchen. Anyway, the girls today are more trouble than they’re worth. If they go in for cooking at all it’s because they see themselves on the telly with one of those celebrity chefs. I won’t say I’m not glad to have Millie’s help occasionally, but she spends more time chasing after Jago than she does in my kitchen.”
She was working as she spoke, then got up and went back to the stove, quietly and methodically moving about her kitchen with the confidence of any craftsman in his familiar habitat. But it seemed to Dalgliesh that there was no link between those familiar actions and her thoughts, that she was employing a comforting and undemanding routine and her chat about Miss Dewberry’s idiosyncrasies to avoid the more direct confrontation of again sitting opposite himself and Kate at the scrubbed wooden table and meeting their eyes. The air of the kitchen became savoury, and he could detect the faint hiss of the hot fat.
Kate said, “That smells good. What are you cooking?”
“Pork chops with tomato-and-green-pepper sauce. For dinner tonight, but I thought I’d get on with them now. I like a nap in the afternoon. A bit heavy, maybe, now that the weather has changed, but Dr. Staveley likes pork occasionally and they’ll be needing something hot. People have got to keep their strength up when there’s been a bereavement. Not that anyone except Miss Oliver will feel much grief, but the poor man must have been terribly unhappy to do something dreadful like that.”