Death in Holy Orders

by P. D. James

  As they drew up to the front door it opened and she saw Raphael outlined against the light from the hall. He had obviously been looking out for her. He stood there in his dark cassock, motionless as if carved in stone, looking down on them. She remembered her first sight of him; she had stared in momentary disbelief and then laughed aloud at her inability to conceal her surprise. Another student, Stephen Morby, had been with them and had laughed with her.

  “Extraordinary, isn’t he? We were in a pub in Reydon and a woman came up and said, “Where did you come from, Olympus?” I wanted to leap on the table, bare my chest and cry out, “Look at me! Look at me!” Some hope.”

  He had spoken without a trace of envy. Perhaps he realized that beauty in a man wasn’t the gift it seemed, and indeed for Emma it was impossible to look at Raphael without a superstitious reminder of the bad fairy at the christening. She was interested, too, that she could look at him with pleasure but without having the least sexual response. Perhaps he appealed more to men than to women. But if he had power over either sex he appeared unconscious of it. She knew from the easy confidence with which he held himself that he knew that he was beautiful and that his beauty made him different. He valued his exceptional looks and thought the better of himself for possessing them, but he seemed hardly to care about their effect on others.

  Now his face broke into a smile and he came down the steps towards her holding out his hand. In her present mood of half-superstitious apprehension the gesture seemed less a welcome than a warning. Father John, with a nod and a final smile, pattered off.

  Raphael took Emma’s laptop and suitcase from her. He said, “Welcome back. I can’t promise you an agreeable weekend but it might be interesting. We’ve got two policemen in residence one from New Scotland Yard, no less. Commander Dalgliesh is here to ask questions about Ronald Treeves’s death. And there’s someone else even less welcome as far as I’m concerned. I intend to keep out of his way and recommend you do the same. Archdeacon Matthew Crampton.”

  There was one more visit to be made. Dalgliesh returned briefly to his room, then went through the iron doorway in the gate between Ambrose and the flint wall of the church, and made his way along the eighty yards of track which led to St. John’s Cottage. It was now late afternoon and the day was dying in a gaudy western sky streaked with pink. Beside the path a fringe of tall and delicate grasses shivered in the strengthening breeze, then flattened under the sweep of a sudden gust. Behind him, the west-facing facade of St. Anselm’s was patterned with light and the three inhabited cottages shone like the bright outposts of a beleaguered fortress, emphasizing the dark outline of the empty St. Matthew’s.

  As the light faded the sound of the sea intensified, its soft rhythmic moaning rising to a muted roar. He recalled from his boyhood visits how the last evening light always brought with it this sense of the sea surging in power, as if night and darkness were its natural allies. He would sit at the window of Jerome, looking out over the darkening scrubland, picturing an imagined shore where the crumbling sand-castles would be finally demolished, the shouts and laughter of the children silenced, the deck chairs folded and carried away, and the sea would come into its own, rolling the bones of drowned mariners around the holds of long-wrecked ships.

  The door of St. John’s Cottage stood open and light spilled over the path leading to the neat wicket gate. He could still see clearly the wooden walls of the piggery to the right, and hear the muffled snorting and scuffling. He could smell the animals but the smell was neither strong nor unpleasant. Beyond the piggery he could just glimpse the garden, neat rows of clumped unrecognizable vegetables, the higher canes supporting the last of a crop of runner beans and, at the end of the garden, the gleam of a small greenhouse.

  At the sound of his footsteps the figure of Eric Surtees appeared in the doorway. He seemed to hesitate and then, without speaking, stood aside and made a stiff gesture inviting him in. Dalgliesh knew that Father Sebastian had told the staff of his impending visit although he was unsure how much explanation had been given. He had a sense that he was expected but not that he was welcomed.

  He said, “Mr. Surtees? I’m Commander Dalgliesh of the Metropolitan Police. I think Father Sebastian explained that I’m here to ask some questions about the death of Ronald Treeves. His father wasn’t in England at the time of the inquest and he naturally wants to know as much as possible about the circumstances of his son’s death. I’d like to talk for a few minutes if it’s convenient.”

  Surtees nodded.

  “That’s OK. Do you mind coming in here?”

  Dalgliesh followed him into the room to the right of the passage. The cottage could not have been more different from Mrs. Pilbeam’s comfortable domesticity. Although there was a centre table of plain wood with four upright chairs, the room had been furnished as a workplace. The wall opposite the door had been fitted with racks from which hung a row of immaculately clean garden implements, spades, forks, hoes, together with shears and saws, while a bank of wooden compartments underneath held boxes of tools and smaller implements. There was a workbench in front of the window with a fluorescent light above. The door to the kitchen was open and from it came a powerful and disagreeable smell. Surtees was boiling up pig swill for his small herd.

  Now he pulled out a chair from the table. It rasped along the stone floor. He said, “If you’ll just wait here, I’ll wash. I’ve been seeing to the pigs.”

  Through the open door Dalgliesh could see him at the sink washing vigorously, splashing water over his head and face. He seemed like a man cleaning himself of more than superficial dirt. Then he came back with the towel still round his neck and sat opposite Dalgliesh, stiffly upright, and with the strained look of a prisoner stealing himself for interrogation. Suddenly he said in an over-loud voice, “Would you like tea?”

  Thinking that tea might help to put him at ease, Dalgliesh said, “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “No trouble. I use tea-bags. Milk and sugar?”

  “Just milk.”

  He came back within minutes and placed two heavy mugs on the table. The tea was strong and very hot. Neither of them began to drink. Dalgliesh had seldom interviewed anyone who gave so strong an impression of guilty knowledge. But knowledge of what? It was ridiculous to imagine this timid-looking boy surely he was little more than a boy killing any living creature. Even his pigs would have their throats cut in the sanitized, strictly-regulated killing-ground of an authorized abattoir. It wasn’t, Dalgliesh saw, that Surtees lacked strength for a physical encounter. Under the short sleeves of his checked shirt the muscles of his arms stood out like cords and his hands were rough, and so incongruous in size with the rest of his body that they looked as if they had been grafted on. The delicate face was tanned by sun and wind, and the open buttons of the rough cotton shirt showed a glimpse of skin as white and soft as a child’s.

  Lifting his mug, Dalgliesh said, “Have you always kept pigs or only since you came to work here? That was four years ago, wasn’t it?”

  “Just since I came here. I’ve always liked pigs. When I got this job Father Sebastian said it would be all right to have about half a dozen if they weren’t too noisy and didn’t smell. They’re very clean animals. People are quite wrong to think they smell.”

  “Did you construct the piggery yourself? I’m surprised you used wood. I thought pigs could destroy almost anything.”

  “Oh, they can. It’s only wood on the outside. Father Sebastian insisted on that. He hates concrete. I lined it with breeze blocks

  Surtees had waited until Dalgliesh began drinking before raising his own mug. Dalgliesh was surprised how much he relished the tea. He said, ‘I know very little about pigs, but I’m told they’re intelligent and companionable.”

  Surtees visibly relaxed.

  “Yes, they are. They’re one of the most intelligent animals. I’ve always liked them.”

  “Lucky for St. Anselm’s. It means they get bacon which doesn’t smell of chemicals o
r exude that unappetizing, smelly liquid. And properly hung pork.”

  T don’t really keep them for the college. I keep them well, for companionship really. Of course, they have to go to be killed eventually and that’s a problem now. There are so many EU regulations about abattoirs and always having a vet in attendance that people don’t want to accept just a few animals. And then there’s the problem of transport. But there’s a farmer, Mr. Harrison, just outside Blythburgh who helps with that. I send my pigs to the abattoir with his. And he always hangs some of the pork for his own use so I can supply the fathers with a decent joint occasionally. They don’t eat much pork but they like to have the bacon. Father Sebastian insists on paying for it, but I think they should get it free.”

  Dalgliesh wondered, as he had before, at the capacity of men to be genuinely fond of their animals, to have a lively regard for their welfare and minister to their needs with devotion, and at the same time be so easily reconciled to their slaughter. Now he got down to the business of his visit.

  He said, “Did you know Ronald Treeves, know him personally, that is?”

  “Not really. I knew he was one of the ordinands and I saw him about the place, but we didn’t really talk. I think he was a bit of a loner. I mean, when I did see him about the place he was usually on his own.”

  “What happened on the day he died ? Were you here ?”

  “Yes, I was here with my sister. It was the weekend and she was visiting. We didn’t see Ronald that Saturday and the first we knew he was missing was when Mr. Pilbeam came round and asked if he’d been here. We said he hadn’t. We didn’t hear anything else until I went out at about five o’clock to sweep up some fallen leaves from the cloisters and the courtyard and to wash down the stones. It had been raining the day before and the cloisters were a bit muddy. I usually go up to sweep and hose the cloisters after the services, but ) Father Sebastian had asked me after Mass to hose them down before ! Evensong. I was doing that when Mr. Pilbeam told me that they’d ! found Ronald Treeves’s body. Later on, before Evensong, Father | Sebastian got us all together in the library and told us what had I happened.”

  “It must have been a very great shock for you all.” Surtees was looking down at his hands, still clasped and resting on the table. Suddenly he jerked them both out of sight like a guilty child and hunched forward. He said in a low voice, “Yes. A shock. | Well it was, wasn’t it?”

  “You seem to be the only gardener at St. Anselm’s. Do you grow for |yourself or for the college?”

  “Mostly vegetables for myself and for anyone who needs them, really. I don’t grow enough for the college, not when all the ordinands are in residence. I suppose I could extend the garden but it Would take too much time. The soil’s quite good considering it’s close to the sea. My sister usually takes vegetables back to London when she comes, and Miss Betterton likes to have them. She cooks for herself and Father John. Mrs. Pilbeam too, for herself and Mr. Pilbeam.”

  Dalgliesh said, “Mrs. Munroe left a diary. She mentioned that you’d been kind enough to bring her some leeks on October eleventhth, the day before she died. Do you remember doing that?”

  There was a pause, then Surtees said, “Yes, I think so. Perhaps I did. I can’t remember.”

  Dalgliesh said gently, “It wasn’t so long ago, was it? Just over a week. Are you sure you can’t remember?”

  “I do remember now. I took the leeks up in the evening. Mrs. Munroe used to say she liked leeks with cheese sauce for supper, so I took some to St. Matthew’s Cottage.”

  “And what happened?”

  He looked up, genuinely puzzled.

  “Nothing. Nothing happened. I mean, she just said thank you and took them in.”

  “You didn’t go into the cottage?”

  “No. She didn’t ask me and I wouldn’t have wanted to. I mean, Karen was here and I wanted to get back. She stayed on that week until Thursday morning. I went up on chance really. I thought Mrs. Munroe might have been with Mrs. Pilbeam. If she hadn’t been at home I’d have left the leeks at the door.”

  “But she was at home. Are you sure that nothing was said, that nothing happened ? You just handed her the leeks ?”

  He nodded.

  “I just handed them to her and left.”

  It was then that Dalgliesh heard the sound of an approaching car. Surtees’s ears must have caught it simultaneously. He pushed back his chair with obvious relief and said, “That’ll be Karen. She’s my sister. She’s coming for the weekend.”

  And now the car had stopped. Surtees hurried out. Dalgliesh, sensing his anxiety to speak to his sister alone, perhaps to warn her of his presence, followed him quietly and stood in the open doorway.

  A woman had got out of the car, and now she and her brother stood close together regarding Dalgliesh. Without speaking, she turned and began lugging a large rucksack and an assortment of plastic bags out of the car, then slammed the door. Lumbered with the assorted packages they came down the path.

  Surtees said, “Karen, this is Commander Dalgliesh from New Scotland Yard. He’s asking questions about Ronald.”

  She was hatless, her dark hair cropped into short spikes. A heavy gold loop in each ear emphasized the paleness of the delicately-boned face. Her eyes were narrow under thin arched brows, the irises dark and glitteringly bright. With a pursed mouth heavily outlined in gleaming red lipstick, her face was a carefully designed pattern in black, white and red. The glance she gave Dalgliesh was initially hostile, a reaction to an unexpected and unwanted visitor. As their eyes held, it became appraising and then wary.

  They moved together into the workroom. Karen Surtees dumped her rucksack on the table. Nodding to Dalgliesh, she said to her brother, “Better get these ready-prepared meals from M & S intd the freezer straight away. There’s a case of wine in the car.”

  Surtees looked from one to the other, then went out. Without speaking the girl began dragging an assortment of clothes and tins from the rucksack.

  Dalgliesh said, “You’re obviously not wanting visitors at present but, as I’m here, it will save time if you can answer a few questions.”

  “Ask away. I’m Karen Surtees, by the way. Eric’s half-sister. You’re a bit late on the job, aren’t you? Not much point now asking questions about Ronald Treeves. There’s been an inquest. Accidental death. And there isn’t even a body to exhume. His dad had him cremated in London. Didn’t they bother to tell you that? Anyway, I don’t see what it’s got to do with the Met. I mean, isn’t it for the Suffolk Police?”

  “Essentially yes, but Sir Aired has a natural curiosity about his son’s death. I was coming into the county so he asked me to find out what I could.”

  “If he really wanted to know how his son died he’d have gone to the inquest. I suppose he’s got a guilty conscience and wants to show that he’s a concerned dad. What’s he worried about anyway? He’s not saying that Ronald was murdered ?”

  It was odd to hear that doom-laden word spoken so easily.

  “No, I don’t think he’s saying that.”

  “Well, I can’t help him. I only met his son once or twice when he was out walking and we’d say “good morning” or “nice day”, the usual meaningless platitudes.”

  “You weren’t friends?”

  ‘I’m not friends with any of the students. And if by friends you mean what I think you mean, I come down here to get a change from

  London and to see my brother, not to fuck the ordinands! Not that it would do them much harm, to look at them.”

  “You were here the weekend Ronald Treeves died?”

  “That’s right. I arrived Friday night, much the same time as today.”

  “Did you see him that weekend?”

  “No, neither of us did. The first we knew he was missing was when Pilbeam came down to ask if he had been here. We said he hadn’t. End of story. Look, if there’s anything else you want to know, can it wait till tomorrow? I’d like to settle in, get unpacked, have some tea, know what I mean? Gett
ing out of London was hell. So if it’s all right by you, I’ll leave it for now, not that there’s anything else to say. As far as I was concerned he was just one of the students.”

  “But you must have formed an opinion about the death, both of you. You must have talked about it.”

  Surtees had finished stowing away the food and now came in from the kitchen. Karen looked at him. She said, “Of course we talked about it, the whole bloody college must have talked about it. If you want to know, I thought he’d probably killed himself. I don’t know why and it’s none of my business. As I said, I hardly knew him but it seemed a very odd accident. He must have known that the cliffs are dangerous. Well, we all know, there are enough warning notices. What was he doing on the beach anyway?”

  “That,” said Dalgliesh, ‘is one of the questions.”

  He had thanked them and was turning to go when a thought struck him. He said to Surtees, “The leeks you took to Mrs. Munroe, how were they wrapped ? Can you remember? Were they in a bag or did you carry them unwrapped ?”

  Surtees looked puzzled.

  “I can’t remember. I think I wrapped them in newspaper. That’s what I usually do with the vegetables, the large ones anyway.”

  “Can you remember what newspaper you used? I know it isn’t easy.” Then, as Surtees didn’t reply, he added, “Was it a broadsheet or a tabloid? Which newspaper do you take?”

  It was Karen who finally answered.

  “It was a copy of the Sole Bay Weekly Gazette. I’m a journalist. I tend to notice newspapers.”

  “You were here in the kitchen?”

  “I must have been, mustn’t I? Anyway, I saw Eric wrapping the leeks. He said he was taking them up to Mrs. Munroe.”

  “You don’t happen to remember the date of the paper?”

  “No, I don’t. I remember the paper because, like I said, I tend to look at newspapers. Eric opened it at the middle page and there was a picture of a local farmer’s funeral. He wanted his favourite heifer to attend so they led the beast to the grave with black ribbons tied to its horns and round its neck. I don’t think they’d have actually let it into the church. Just the kind of shot picture editors love.”