Death in Holy Orders

by P. D. James

In a period of calm he switched on the bedside light and looked at his watch. He was surprised to see that it was five thirty-five. So he must have slept or at least dozed for over six hours. He was beginning to wonder whether the storm had really spent its force when the moaning began again, and rose to another howling crescendo. In the lull that followed his ears caught a different sound, and one so familiar from childhood that he recognized it instantly: the peal of a church bell. It was a single peal, clear and sweet. For a second only he wondered if the sound was the remnant of some half-forgotten dream. Then reality took hold. He had been fully awake. He knew what he had heard. He listened intently but there was no further peal.

  He acted swiftly. By long habit he never went to bed without carefully placing to hand the items he might need in an emergency. He pulled on his dressing-gown, rejected slippers in favour of shoes, and took a torch, heavy as a weapon, from his bedside table.

  Leaving the apartment in darkness and guided only by the torch, he closed the front door quietly behind him, and stepped into a sudden gusting wind and a flurry of leaves which whirled round his head like a flock of frantic birds. The row of low-powered wall lights along both the north and south cloisters were sufficient only to outline the slender pillars and cast an eerie glow over the paving stones. The great house was in darkness and he saw no lights from any window except in Ambrose next door where he knew Emma was sleeping. Running past without pausing to call out to her, he felt a clutch of fear. A faint slit of light showed that the great south door of the church was ajar. The oak groaned on its hinges as he pushed it open then closed it behind him.

  For a few seconds, no more, he stood transfixed by the tableau before him. There was no obstacle between him and the Doom and he saw it framed by two stone pillars, so brightly lit that the faded colours seemed to glow with an unimagined newly-painted richness. The shock of its black defacement paled before the greater enormity at his feet. The sprawled figure of the Archdeacon lay prone before it as if in an extremity of worship. Two heavy brass candlesticks stood ceremoniously one each side of his head. The pool of blood was surely more lusciously red than any human blood. Even the two human figures looked unreal; the white-haired priest in his spreading black cloak, kneeling and almost embracing the body, and the girl crouched beside him with an arm round his shoulder. For a moment, disorientated, he could almost imagine that the black devils had sprung from the Doom and were dancing round her head.

  At the sound of the door she turned her head, then was instantly upright and ran towards him.

  “Thank God you’ve come.”

  She clutched at him and he knew, as he put his arms round her and felt the trembling of her body, that the gesture was an instinctive impulse of relief.

  She broke free at once and said, “It’s Father Martin. I can’t make him move.”

  Father Martin’s left arm, stretched over Crampton’s body, had its palm planted in the pool of blood. Putting down his torch, Dalgliesh placed his hand on the priest’s shoulder and said gently, “It’s Adam, Father. Come away now. I’m here. It’s all right.”

  But of course it wasn’t all right. Even as he spoke the anodyne words, their falsity jarred.

  Father Martin didn’t move and the shoulder under Dalgliesh’s touch was stiff as if locked in rigor mortis. Dalgliesh said again, more strongly: “Let go, Father. You must come away now. There’s nothing you can do here.”

  And this time, as if the words had at last reached him, Father Martin allowed himself to be helped to his feet. He looked at his bloodied hand with a kind of childish wonder, then wiped it down the side of his cloak. And that, thought Dalgliesh, will complicate the examination for blood. Compassion for his companions was overlaid with more urgent preoccupations; the imperative to preserve the scene from contamination as far as possible, and the need to ensure that the method of murder was kept secret. If the south door had as usual been bolted, the killer must have come in from the sacristy and through the north cloister. Gently, and with Emma supporting the priest on his right side, he led Father Martin towards the row of chairs nearest the door.

  He settled them both down and said to Emma, “Wait here for a few minutes. I won’t be long. I’ll bolt the south door and go out through the sacristy. I’ll lock it after me. Don’t let anyone in.”

  He turned to Father Martin: “Can you hear me, Father?”

  Father Martin looked up for the first time and their eyes met. The pain and horror were almost more than Dalgliesh could bear to meet.

  “Yes, yes. I’m all right. I’m so sorry, Adam. I’ve behaved badly. I’m all right now.”

  He was very far from all right, but at least he seemed able to take in what was being said.

  Dalgliesh said, “There’s one thing I have to say now. I’m sorry if it sounds insensitive, the wrong time to ask, but it is important. Don’t tell anyone what you have seen this morning. No one. Do you both understand that?”

  They murmured a low assent, then Father Martin said more clearly, “We understand.”

  Dalgliesh was turning to go when Emma said, “He isn’t still here, is he? He isn’t hiding somewhere in the church?”

  “He won’t be here, but I’m going to look now.”

  He was unwilling to put on any more lights. Apparently only he and Emma had been woken by the church bell. The last thing he wanted was other people crowding the scene. He returned to the south door and shot its great iron bolt. Torch in hand, he made a swift but methodical examination of the church, as much for her satisfaction as his. Long experience had shown him almost immediately that this was no very recent death. He opened the gates to the two box pews and swept the torch over the seats, then knelt and looked beneath them. And here was a find. Someone had occupied the second pew. A portion of the seat was free of dust and when he knelt and shone the torch in the deep recess beneath it, it was apparent that someone had crouched there.

  He ended his quick but thorough search and went back to the two seated figures. He said, “It’s all right, there’s no one here but us. Is the sacristy door locked, Father?”

  “Yes. Yes it is. I locked it after me.”

  “Will you give me the keys, please.”

  Father Martin fumbled in the pocket of his cloak and handed over a bunch. It took a little time for his shaking fingers to find the right keys.

  Dalgliesh said again, “I won’t be long. I’ll lock the door behind me. Will you be all right until I come back?”

  Emma said, “I don’t think Father Martin ought to stay here long.”

  “He won’t have to.”

  It should, thought Dalgliesh, take only a matter of minutes to fetch Roger Yarwood. Whichever force took on this investigation, he needed help now. There was, too, a question of protocol. Yarwood was an officer of the Suffolk Police. Until the Chief Constable decided which of his officers should take over, Yarwood would be temporarily in charge. He was relieved to find a handkerchief in his dressing-gown pocket and used this to ensure that he made no print on the sacristy door. Resetting the alarm and locking the door behind him, he plunged through a mush of fallen leaves, now inches deep in the north cloister, and hurried back to the guest apartments. Roger Yarwood, he remembered, was in Gregory.

  The set was in darkness and he passed by the light of the torch through the sitting-room and called up the stairs. There was no reply. He went up to the bedroom and found that the door was open. Yarwood had gone to bed, but now the bedclothes had been thrown back. Dalgliesh opened the door to the shower and found it was empty. He switched on the light and quickly checked the wardrobe. There was no overcoat and he could see no shoes other than Yarwood’s slippers by the bed. Yarwood must at some time have walked out into the storm.

  It would be pointless for him to start searching alone. Yarwood could be anywhere on the headland. Instead he went back at once to the church. Emma and Father Martin were sitting just as he had left them.

  He said gently: “Father, why don’t you and Dr. Lavenham go to her s
itting-room. She can make some tea for you both. I expect Father Sebastian will want to speak to the whole College, but you could wait there quietly and rest for the time being.”

  Father Martin looked up. His eyes held something of the piteous puzzlement of a child. He said, “But Father Sebastian will want me.”

  It was Emma who replied.

  “Of course he will, but hadn’t we better wait until Commander Dalgliesh has spoken to him? The best plan is to go to my sitting-room. There’s everything there for making tea. I know I should like it.”

  Father Martin nodded and got up. Dalgliesh said, “Before you leave, Father, we must check whether the safe has been tampered with.”

  They went into the sacristy and Dalgliesh asked for the combination. Then, with his handkerchief covering his fingers to preserve any prints which might be on the knob of the combination lock, he turned it carefully and opened the door. Inside, on top of a number of documents, was a large drawstring bag in soft leather. He took it to the desk and opened it to reveal, wrapped in white silk, two magnificent pre-Reformation jewelled chalices and a paten, a gift from the founder to St. Anselm’s.

  Father Martin said quietly, “Nothing is missing’, and Dalgliesh returned the bag to the safe and turned the combination lock. So the motive wasn’t robbery; but he hadn’t for a moment supposed that it was.

  He waited until Emma and Father Martin had left by the south door, then bolted it behind them and went out through the sacristy into the leaf-covered north cloister. The storm was beginning to spend its force and, although its devastation lay about him in snapped boughs and fallen leaves, the wind was abating now to little more than strong gusts. He let himself in through the north cloister door and made his way up two flights of stairs to the Warden’s flat.

  Father Sebastian came quickly to his knock. He was wearing a wool plaid dressing-gown but his tousled hair made him look curiously young. The two men gazed at each other. Even before he spoke Dalgliesh felt that the Warden knew the words he had come to speak. They were stark, but there was no easy or gentle way of giving this news.

  He said, “Archdeacon Crampton has been murdered. Father Martin found his body in the church immediately after half-past five this morning.”

  The Warden put his hand in his pocket and drew out his wrist-watch. He said, “And it’s now just after six. Why wasn’t I told earlier?”

  “Father Martin rang the church bell to raise the alarm and I heard it. So did Dr. Lavenham who was first on the scene. There were things I had to do. And now I must phone the Suffolk Police.”

  “But isn’t this a matter initially for Inspector Yarwood?”

  “It would be. Yarwood is missing. May I use your office, Father?”

  “Of course. I’ll put on some clothes and join you. Does anyone else know of this?”

  “Not yet, Father.”

  “Then I must be the one to tell them.”

  He closed the door and Dalgliesh made his way to the office on the floor below.

  The Suffolk number he needed was in the wallet in his room, but after a couple of seconds’ thought, he was able to recall it. Once his identity was established he was given the Chief Constable’s number. After that it was quick and simple. He was dealing with men not unused to being woken with the need for decision and action. He reported fully but briefly; nothing needed to be said twice.

  There was a silence of some five seconds before the Chief Constable spoke: “Yarwood disappearing is a major complication. Aired Treeves is another, but less important. Still, I don’t see how we can take this on. We can’t waste time. The first three days are always the most vital. I’ll speak to the Commissioner. But you’ll want a search party?”

  “Not yet. Yarwood may just have wandered off. He may even have returned by now. If not I’ll get some of the students here to search at first light. I’ll report when there’s any news. If he’s not found you’d better take over.”

  “Right. Your own people will confirm, but I think you’d better assume that the case is yours. I’ll discuss details with the Met but I imagine you’ll want your own team.”

  “That would be simpler.”

  It was only then that, pausing again, the Chief Constable said, “I know something of St. Anselm’s. They’re good people. Will you give Father Sebastian my sympathy. This is going to hurt them in more ways than one.”

  In another five minutes the Yard had rung with the details which had been agreed. Dalgliesh would take the case. Detective Inspectors Kate Miskin and Piers Tarrant with Sergeant Robbins were on their way by car and the supporting team, a photographer and three scene-of-crime officers, would follow. Since Dalgliesh was already there, it wasn’t considered necessary to incur the expense of a helicopter. The team would arrive by train at Ipswich and the Suffolk Police would arrange transport to the college. Dr. Kynaston, the forensic pathologist with whom Dalgliesh usually worked, was already at a crime scene and likely to be tied up for the rest of the day. The local Home Office pathologist was on leave in New York but his substitute, Dr. Mark Ayling, was on call and available. It would seem sensible to use him. Any urgent material for forensic examination could go either to the Huntingdon or to the Lambeth lab, depending on their workloads.

  Father Sebastian had tactfully waited in the outer office while Dalgliesh was telephoning. Hearing that the conversation seemed finally to have ended, he came in and said, “I should like now to go to the church. You have your responsibilities, Commander, but I have mine.”

  Dalgliesh said, “It’s urgent first to get a search started for Roger Yarwood. Who is your most sensible ordinand for this kind of job?”

  “Stephen Morby. I suggest he and Pilbeam take the Land Rover.”

  He went to the telephone on his desk. It was quickly answered.

  “Good morning, Pilbeam. Are you dressed? Good. Would you please wake Mr. Morby and both of you come to my office immediately.”

  The wait was not long before Dalgliesh heard footsteps hurrying up the stairs. A pause at the door and the two men came in.

  He hadn’t before seen Pilbeam. The man was tall, certainly over six foot, strongly built and thick-necked with a tanned and rugged country face under thinning straw-coloured hair. Dalgliesh thought that there was something familiar about him, then realized that he was remarkably like an actor whose name he couldn’t recall but who frequently appeared in war films in the supporting role of inarticulate but dependable NCO who invariably died uncomplainingly in the last reel to the greater glory of the hero.

  He stood waiting, totally at ease. Beside him Stephen Morby no weakling looked a boy. It was to Pilbeam that Father Sebastian spoke.

  “Mr. Yarwood is missing. I’m afraid he may have gone wandering again.”

  “It was a bad night for wandering, Father.”

  “Exactly. He may return any minute but I don’t think we should wait. I want you and Mr. Morby to take the Land Rover and look for him. Your mobile phone is working?”

  “It is, Father.”

  “Ring at once if there’s any news. If he’s not on the headland or near the mere don’t waste time going further. It may then be a matter for the police. And Pilbeam…”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “When you and Mr. Morby return, whether or not with Mr. Yarwood, report at once to me without speaking to anyone else. That goes for you too, Stephen. Do you understand ?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  Stephen Morby said, “Something’s happened, hasn’t it? Something more than Mr. Yarwood wandering off.”

  “I shall explain when you return. You may not be able to do much until full light but I want you to get started. Take torches, blankets and hot coffee. And Pilbeam, I shall be speaking to the whole community at seven-thirty in the library. Will you ask your wife to be good enough to join us.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  They went out. Father Sebastian said, “They’re both sensible. If Yarwood is on the headland they’ll find him. I thought it right to delay
explanation until they return.”

  “I think that was wise.”

  It was becoming apparent that Father Sebastian’s natural authoritarianism was quickly adjusting to unfamiliar circumstances. Dalgliesh reflected that to have a suspect taking an active part in the investigation was a novelty he could well dispense with. The situation would need careful handling.

  The Warden said, “You were right, of course. Finding Yarwood has priority. But now, perhaps, I may go where I should be, at the Archdeacon’s side.”

  “Some questions first, Father. How many keys to the church and who holds them?”

  “Is this really necessary now?”

  “Yes, Father. As you said, you have your responsibilities and I have mine.”

  “And yours must take precedence?”

  “For the present, yes.”

  Father Sebastian was careful to keep his impatience out of his voice. He said, “There are seven sets comprising the two keys to the sacristy door, one a security Chubb and one a Yale. The south door has bolts only. Each of the four resident priests holds a set, the other three are in the key cupboard next door in Miss Ramsey’s office. It is necessary to keep the church locked because of the value of the altar-piece and silver but all ordinands may sign for the keys if they need to go to the church. The students, not the domestic staff, are responsible for the cleaning.”

  “And the staff and visitors?”

  “They only have access to the church when accompanied by a key-holder except during the times of the services. As we have four services a day, Morning Prayer, the Eucharist, Evening Prayer and Compline, they are hardly deprived. I dislike the restriction, but it is the price we pay for keeping the van der Weyden over the altar. The problem is that the young are not always conscientious about resetting the alarm. All the staff and the visitors have keys to the iron gate leading from the west court out to the headland.”

  “And who in college will know the code for the alarm system?”

  “I imagine everyone. We are guarding our treasures against intruders, not against each other.”