by P. D. James
“But why? Did you have an opinion on that?”
The silence this time was longer. Then Raphael said, “No, Father, I don’t think we did.”
Father Sebastian went over to his desk and studied a sheet of paper. He said more briskly, “I see the college will be fairly empty this weekend. Only four of you remaining. Remind me, will you, of why so many are on leave and so early in the term.”
“Three students have started parish training, Father. Rupert has been asked to preach at St. Mark’s and I think two students are going to hear him. Richard’s mother has a fiftieth birthday coinciding with a twenty-fifth wedding anniversary and he has special leave for that. Then you remember that Toby Williams is being inducted to his first parish and quite a number of people will be supporting him. That leaves Henry, Stephen, Peter and myself. I was hoping I might have leave after Compline. I’ll miss Toby’s induction but I’d like to be present for his first parish Mass.”
Father Sebastian was still studying his paper.
“Yes, that seems to add up. You may leave after you’ve heard the Archdeacon preach. But aren’t you down for a Greek lesson with Mr. Gregory after Mass on Sunday? You’d better clear this with him.”
“I have, Father. He can fit me in on Monday.”
“Right, then I think that’s all for this week, Raphael. You may as well take your essay. It’s on the desk. Evelyn Waugh wrote in one of his travel books that he saw theology as the science of simplification whereby nebulous and elusive ideas are made intelligible and exact. Your essay is neither. And you misuse the word emulate. It is not synonymous with imitate.”
“Of course not. Sorry, Father. I can imitate you but I can’t hope to emulate you.”
Father Sebastian turned away to hide a smile. He said, “I would strongly advise you to attempt neither.”
As the door closed behind Raphael the smile lingered; and then the Warden remembered that he had extracted no promise of good behaviour. A promise, once given, would be kept, but there had been none. It was going to be a complicated weekend.
Dalgliesh left his flat overlooking the Thames at Queenshythe before first light. The building, now converted into modern offices for a financial corporation, had previously been a warehouse and the smell of spice, fugitive as memory, still lingered in the wide, sparsely furnished and wooden-clad rooms which he occupied on the top storey. When the building was sold for development he had resolutely resisted the prospective new owner’s effort to buy out his long lease and at last, when Dalgliesh had rejected the final ridiculously high offer, the developers had conceded defeat and the top floor remained inviolate. Dalgliesh had now been provided, at the Company’s expense, with his own unobtrusive door at the side of the building and a private and secure lift up to his flat at the cost of a higher rent but an extended lease. He suspected that the building had in the end been more than adequate for their needs and that the presence of a senior police officer on the top floor gave the night watchman a comforting if spurious sense of security. Dalgliesh retained what he valued: his privacy, emptiness beneath him at night and almost no noise during the daytime, and his wide view of the ever-changing life of the Thames borne beneath him on the tide.
He drove east through the City to the Whitechapel Road en route for the Ai2. Even as early as seven a.m. the streets weren’t empty of traffic and small groups of office workers were emerging from the Underground stations. London never entirely slept and he enjoyed this early-morning calm, the first stirrings of a life which within hours would become raucous, the comparative ease of driving along unencumbered streets. By the time he had reached the Ai2 and had thrown off the tentacles of Eastern Avenue, the first pink gash in the night sky had widened into a clear whiteness and the fields and hedges had lightened to a luminous grey in which trees and bushes, with the translucent delicacy of a Japanese water-colour, gradually gained definition and took on the first richness of autumn. It was, he thought, a good time of year to look at trees. Only in spring did they give greater delight. They were not yet denuded of leaves and the dark pattern of thrusting boughs and branches was becoming visible through a haze of fading green, yellow and red.
As he drove he thought about the purpose of this journey and analysed the reasons for his involvement certainly unorthodox in the death of an unknown young man, a death already investigated, defined by a coroner’s inquest and as officially done with as the finality of the cremation which had reduced the body to ground bones. His offer to investigate hadn’t been impulsive, little of his official life was so driven. And it hadn’t altogether been a wish to get Sir Aired out of the office, although he was a man whose absence was usually preferable to his presence. He wondered again about the man’s concern over the death of an adopted son for whom he had shown no signs of affection. But perhaps he, Dalgliesh, was being presumptuous. Sir Aired was, after all, a man who took care not to betray sentiment. It was possible that he felt far more for his son than he had cared to reveal. Or was it that he was obsessed with the need to know the truth, however inconvenient, however unpalatable, however difficult to ascertain? If so, that was a reason with which Dalgliesh could sympathize.
He made good time and in under three hours had reached Lowestoft. He hadn’t driven through the town for years and on the previous visit had been struck by its depressing air of deterioration and poverty. The sea-front hotels, which in more prosperous times had catered for the summer holidays of the middle classes, now advertised bingo sessions. Many of the shops were boarded up and the people walked grey-faced with discouraged steps. But now there seemed to be something of a renaissance. Roofs had been replaced, houses were being repainted. He felt that he was entering a town which was looking with some confidence to its future. The bridge leading to the docks was familiar to him and he drove across it with a lifting of the heart. Along this road he had cycled in boyhood to buy the freshly-landed herrings on the quay. He could recall the smell of the glistening fish as they slid from the buckets into his rucksack, the heaviness of it bumping his shoulders as he cycled back to St. Anselm’s with his gift of supper or breakfast for the fathers. He smelled the familiar tang of water and tar, and gazed with remembered pleasure at the boats in the harbour, wondering whether it were still possible to buy fish on the quay. Even if it were, he would never again carry a gift back to St. Anselm’s Ah with the same excitement and sense of achievement as in those boyhood days.
He had rather expected the police station to be similar to those remembered from childhood, a detached or terraced house adapted for police use, its metamorphosis marked by the blue lamp mounted outside. Instead he saw a low modern building, the facade broken by a line of dark windows, a radio mast rising with impressive authority from the roof, and the Union flag flying from a pole at the entrance.
He was expected. The young woman at the reception desk greeted him in her attractive Suffolk voice as if it only needed his arrival to complete her day.
“Sergeant Jones is expecting you, sir. I’ll give him a ring and he’ll be right down.”
Sergeant Irron Jones was dark, lean-featured, his sallow skin, only lightly tanned by wind and sun, contrasting with hair that was almost black. His first words of greeting immediately established his nationality.
“Mr. Dalgliesh is it? I’m expecting you, sir. Mr. Williams thought we could use his office, if you’ll come this way. He was sorry to miss you, and the chief is in London at an ACPO meeting, but you’ll know that. If you’ll just sign in, sir.”
Following him through the side door with its opaque glass panel and down a narrow corridor, Dalgliesh said, “You’re a long way from home, Sergeant.”
“I am that, Mr. Dalgliesh. Four hundred miles to be exact. I married a Lowestoft girl, see, and she’s an only child. Her mam’s none too good so Jenny’s best near home. When I got a chance I transferred from the Gower. It suits me well enough, as long as I’m by the sea.”
“A very different sea,” “A very different coast, and both of them just as d
angerous. Not that we get many fatalities. The poor lad is the first for three and a half years. Well, there are signs up and people hereabouts know the cliffs are dangerous. They should do by now. And the coast’s isolated enough. It’s not as if you get families with children. In here, sir. Mr. Williams has cleared his desk. Not that there’s much in the way of vital evidence to look at, you might say. You’ll have coffee? It’s here, see. I’ll just have to switch it on.”
There was a tray with two cups, their handles neatly aligned, a cafetiere, a tin labelled ‘coffee’, a jug of milk and an electric kettle.
Sergeant Jones was quickly competent if a little fussy over the procedure, and the coffee was excellent. They seated themselves in two low bureaucratic chairs placed before the window.
Dalgliesh said, “You were called out to the beach, I believe. What exactly happened ?”
“I wasn’t the first on the scene. That was young Brian Miles. He’s the local PC. Father Sebastian telephoned from the college and he got there as soon as he could. He didn’t take long, not more than half an hour. When he arrived there were only two people by the body, Father Sebastian and Father Martin. The poor lad was dead all right, anyone could see that. But he’s a good boy, is Brian, and he didn’t like the look of it. I’m not saying he thought it was a suspicious death, but there’s no denying it was an odd one. I’m his supervisory officer so he got on to me. I was here when the call came through just before three, and as Doc Mallinson he’s our police surgeon -happened to be in the station, we went to the scene together.”
Dalgliesh said, “With the ambulance?”
“No, not at that time. I believe in London the Coroner has his own ambulance, but here we have to use the local service when we want to move a body. It was out on a call so it took maybe an hour and a half to get him moved. When we got him to the mortuary I had a word with the Coroner’s officer and he thought the Coroner would almost certainly ask for forensics. He’s a very careful gentleman is Mr. Mellish. That’s when it was decided to treat it as a suspicious death.”
“What exactly did you find at the scene?”
“Well, he was dead, Mr. Dalgliesh. Doc Mallinson certified that at once. But it didn’t need a doctor to tell you he was gone. Dead about five to six hours, Doc Mallinson thought. Of course, he was still pretty well buried when we got there. Mr. Gregory and Mrs. Munroe had uncovered most of the body and the top of his head, but his face and arms weren’t visible. Father Sebastian and Father Martin stayed at the scene. There was nothing either of them could do but Father Sebastian insisted on staying until we’d uncovered the body. I think he was wanting to pray. So we dug the poor lad out, turned him over, got him on a stretcher and Doc Mallinson had a closer look at him. Not that there was anything really to see. He was caked with sand and he was dead. That was about it.”
“Were there any visible injuries?”
“Not that we could see, Mr. Dalgliesh. Of course, when you are called to an accident like that you always wonder a bit, don’t you? Stands to reason. But Doc Mallinson could find no signs of violence, no crack in the back of his head or anything like that. Of course, there was no knowing what Doc Scargill might find at the PM. He’s our regional forensic pathologist. Doc Mallinson said he couldn’t do any more except assess the time of death and we’d have to wait for the autopsy. Not that we thought there was anything suspicious about the death, mind you. Seemed plain enough at the time. He was burrowing about in the cliff too close to the overhanging ledge and it came down on him. That’s what it looked like and that’s what they found at the inquest.”
“So didn’t anything strike you as strange or suspicious?”
“Well, strange more than suspicious. It was a funny position he was in head down, like a rabbit or a dog burrowing into the cliff.”
“And nothing was found close to the body?”
“There were his clothes, his brown cloak and a long black garment with buttons a cassock, isn’t it? Very neat they were.”
“Nothing that could have been a weapon ?”
“Well, only a spar of wood. We dug it out when we were uncovering him. It was lying pretty close to his right hand. I thought we’d better bring it back to the station with us in case it was important, but not much notice was taken. I’ve got it here, though, if you’d like to see it, sir. I can’t think why it wasn’t thrown away after the inquest. We got nothing from it, no prints, no blood.”
He went to a cupboard at the end of the room and drew out an object wrapped in plastic. It was a spar of pale wood about two and a half feet long. Examining it closer, Dalgliesh could see traces of what looked like blue paint.
Sergeant Jones said, “It’s not been in the water, sir, not to my eyes. He may have found it on the sand and picked it up, not meaning anything in particular. It’s a kind of instinct, picking things up on the beach. Father Sebastian suggested that it came from an old bathing hut the college had demolished just above the steps to the beach. Apparently Father Sebastian thought the old blue and white one was a bit of an eyesore and something simple in plain wood would be better. So that’s what they did. It’s used as well to house the rigid inflatable they keep in case swimmers get into difficulties. The old hut was beginning to break up anyway. But not all of it had been taken away and there were still a few rotting planks piled there. They’ve all gone now, I dare say.”
“What about footprints?”
“Well, they’re the first thing you look for. The boy’s were covered by the fall of sand but we did find a single broken line further up the beach. They were his all right, we had his shoes, see. But he walked along the shingle most of the way and so could anyone have done. The sand was well scuffled at the scene. You’d expect that with Mrs. Munroe and Mr. Gregory and the two priestly gentlemen not worrying where they put their feet.”
“Were you yourself surprised at the verdict?”
“Well, I must say I was. An open verdict would have seemed more logical, like. Mr. Mellish sat with the jury, he likes to do that if the case is a bit complicated or there’s public interest, and the jury were unanimous, all eight of them. There’s no denying that an open verdict is never satisfactory and St. Anselm’s is highly respected hereabouts. They’re isolated, I don’t deny it, but the young men preach at local churches and they do a bit of good in the community. Mind you, I’m not saying that the jury were wrong. Anyway, that’s what they found.”
Dalgliesh said, “Sir Aired can hardly complain about the thoroughness of the investigation. I don’t see that you could have done more.”
“Nor do I, Mr. Dalgliesh, and the Coroner said the same.”
There seemed nothing more to be learned and after thanking Sergeant Jones for his help and for the coffee, Dalgliesh left. The spar of wood with its trace of blue paint had been wrapped and labelled. Dalgliesh took it with him because it seemed expected of him, rather than because he thought it would be of use.
At the far end of the parking lot a man was loading cardboard boxes into the back seat of a Rover. Looking round, he saw Dalgliesh getting into the Jaguar, gazed fixedly at him for a moment and then, as if coming to a sudden resolution, walked over. Dalgliesh found himself gazing into a prematurely aged face which looked racked by lack of sleep or pain. It was a look which he had seen too often before not to recognize.
“You must be Commander Adam Dalgliesh. Ted Williams said you’d be looking in. I’m Inspector Roger Yarwood. I’m on sick-leave and here to collect some of my gear. I just want to say that you’ll be seeing me at St. Anselm’s. The fathers take me in from time to time.
It’s cheaper than a hotel and the company’s better than in the local loony-bin, which is the usual alternative. Oh, and the food’s better.”
The words came out in a fluent stream as if rehearsed, and there was a look both challenging and shamed in the dark eyes. The news was unwelcome. Perhaps unreasonably, Dalgliesh had thought that he would be the only visitor.
As if sensing this reaction, Yarwood said, “Don’
t worry, I shan’t be joining you in your room after Compline for a jar. I want to get away from police gossip and I dare say you do too.”
Before Dalgliesh could do more than shake hands, Yarwood gave a quick nod, turned away and walked quickly back to his car.
Dalgliesh had said that he would arrive at the college after lunch. Before leaving Lowestoft he found a delicatessen and bought hot rolls, a pat of butter, some coarse-textured pate and a half-bottle of wine. As always when driving in the country, he had come provided with a glass and with a thermos of coffee.
Leaving the town, he took side roads and then a rutted and overgrown lane just wide enough for the Jaguar. There was an open gate giving a wide view over the autumn fields and here he parked to eat his picnic. But first he turned off his mobile phone. Leaving the car, he leaned against the gate post and shut his eyes to listen to the silence. These were the moments he craved in an over-busy life, the knowledge that no one in the world knew exactly where he was or could reach him. The small almost indistinguishable sounds of the countryside came to him on the sweet-smelling air, a distant unidentifiable bird-song, the susurration of the breeze in the tall grasses, the creaking of a branch over his head. After he had finished his lunch he walked vigorously down the lane for a half-mile, then returned to the car and made his way back to the Ai2 and towards Ballard’s Mere.
And here, a little sooner than expected, was the turning; the same huge ash, but now ivy-covered and looking close to decay, and to his left the two trim cottages with their ordered front gardens. The narrow road, little more than a lane, was slightly sunken and the tangled winter hedge topping the bank obscured the view of the headland so that nothing could be seen of the distant St. Anselm’s except, when the hedges thinned, the occasional glimpse of tall brick chimneys and the southern dome. But as he reached the cliff edge and turned north on the gritty coastal track it came into distant view, a bizarre edifice of brick and layered stone looking as bright and unreal as a cardboard cut-out against the strengthening blue of the sky. It seemed to move towards him rather than he towards it, and it bore with it inexorably the images of adolescence and the half-remembered swinging moods of joy and pain, of uncertainty and shining hope. The house itself seemed unchanged. The twin stumps of crumbling Tudor brick with clumps of weed and grass lodged in the crevices still stood sentinel at the entrance to the front courtyard and, driving between them, he saw again the house in all its complicated authority.