by P. D. James
Dalgliesh asked, “You did the right thing. How bad is he?”
“The paramedics think he should be all right but he hasn’t regained consciousness. I’m going with him in the ambulance. I’ll be able to tell you more when I get back. Mr. Pilbeam is driving behind us so I’ll come back with him.”
Dalgliesh said, “Right. Be as quick as you can. You’re both needed here.”
He gave the news to Father Sebastian. The Warden said, “It’s what I feared had happened. This has been the pattern of his illness. I understand it’s a kind of claustrophobia and when it comes on him he has to get into the open air and walk. After his wife left him, taking the children, he used to disappear for days. Sometimes he walked until he collapsed and the police found him and brought him back. Thank God he’s been found and, it seems, in time. And now perhaps, if you’ll come to the study, we can discuss what you and your colleagues will need in St. Matthew’s Cottage.”
“Later, Father. I need first to see the Bettertons.”
“I think Father John went back to their flat. It’s on the third floor on the north side. No doubt he’ll be looking out for you.”
Father Sebastian had been too shrewd to speculate aloud about Yarwood’s possible implication in the murder. But surely Christian charity only extended so far. With part of his mind he must have hoped that here was the best possible outcome: a killing by a man temporarily not responsible for his actions. And if Yarwood didn’t survive, he would always remain a suspect. His death could be very convenient for someone.
Before making his way to the Bettertons’ flat, Dalgliesh went back to his own apartment and rang the Chief Constable.
There was a bell beside the narrow oak door to the Bettertons’ flat but Dalgliesh had barely pressed it before Father John appeared and ushered him in.
He said, “If you wouldn’t mind just waiting a moment, I’ll fetch my sister. I think she’s in the kitchen. We have a very small kitchen here in the flat and she prefers to eat separately rather than join the community for meals. I won’t be a moment.”
The room in which Dalgliesh found himself was low-ceilinged but large with four ogee-shaped windows facing the sea. The room was over-furnished with what looked like the relics of earlier homes; low padded chairs with button backs, a sofa facing the fireplace with a sagging seat, its back covered with a throw in Indian cotton; a round central table in solid mahogany with six chairs discordant in age and style; a pedestal desk set between two of the windows; an assortment of small tables each laden with the miscellany of two long lives photographs in silver frames, some porcelain figures, boxes in wood and silver and a bowl of potpourri whose stale and dusty perfume had long since spent itself on the stuffy air.
The wall to the left of the door was completely covered with a bookcase. Here was the library of Father John’s youth, student days and priesthood, but there was also a row of black-covered volumes labelled Plays of the Year, dating back from the 305 and 405. Beside them was a row of paperback detective stories. Dalgliesh saw that Father John was addicted to the women writers of the Golden Age: Dorothy L. Sayers, Margery Allingham and Ngaio Marsh. To the right of the door was propped a golf bag holding some half-dozen clubs. It was an incongruous object to find in a room which bore no other evidence of interest in sport.
The pictures were as varied as the other artefacts: Victorian oils, highly sentimental in subject but competent in execution, floral prints, a couple of samplers and water-colours which were probably the work of Victorian forebears they looked too good to be the work of amateurs but not good enough for professionals. But despite the gloom the room was too obviously lived in, too idiosyncratic and too comfortable to be depressing. The two high-backed armchairs each side of the fire had beside them a table with an angle poise lamp. Here brother and sister, facing each other, could sit and read in comfort.
As soon as Miss Betterton entered, Dalgliesh was struck by the odd disparity produced by the eccentric patterning of family genes. At first sight it was difficult to believe that the two Bettertons were closely related. Father John was short with a compact body and a gentle face which wore an air of perpetual anxious puzzlement. His sister was at least six inches taller with an angular body and sharp suspicious eyes. Only the similarity of the long-lobed ears, the droop of the eyelids and the small pursed mouths proclaimed any family likeness. She looked considerably older than her brother. Her steel-grey hair was pulled back into a pleat anchored to the top of her head by a comb from which the ends of her dry hair stuck out like an ornamental frieze. She was wearing a skirt in thin tweed almost to the floor, a striped shirt which looked as if it were one of her brother’s, and a long fawn cardigan in which the moth-holes in the sleeves were clearly visible.
Father John said, “Agatha, this is Commander Dalgliesh from New Scotland Yard.”
“A policeman?”
Dalgliesh put out his hand. He said, “Yes, Miss Betterton, I’m a policeman.”
The hand which, after a second’s delay, was pressed into his hand was cool and so thin that he could feel every bone.
She said, in that fluting upper-class voice which those who don’t possess it find difficult to believe can ever be natural, “I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place, my man. We haven’t any dogs here.”
“Mr. Dalgliesh doesn’t have anything to do with dogs, Agatha.”
“I thought you said he was a dog handler.”
“No, I said Commander not dog handler.”
“Well we haven’t any ships either.” She turned to Dalgliesh.
“Cousin Raymond was a Commander in the last war. The Royal Navy Volunteer Reserve, not the proper Navy. The Wavy Navy I believe they called them because of the wavy gold stripes on their sleeves. He got killed anyway so it made no difference. You may have noticed his golf clubs beside the door. One cannot imbue a niblick with much sentiment but one is reluctant to part with the clubs. Why aren’t you in uniform, Mr. Dalgliesh? I like to see a man in uniform. A cassock is not the same.”
“I’m a police commander, Miss Betterton. It’s a rank peculiar to the Metropolitan Police, nothing to do with the Navy.”
Father John, obviously feeling that the dialogue had gone on long enough, interposed. His voice was kind but firm.
“Agatha dear, something very terrible has happened. I want you to listen carefully and stay very calm. Archdeacon Crampton has been found murdered. That’s why Commander Dalgliesh needs to talk to you, to all of us. We must help him in any way we can to find out who was responsible for this terrible act.”
His exhortation to stay calm was unnecessary. Miss Betterton received the news without a flicker either of surprise or distress.
She turned to Dalgliesh.
“So you did need a sniffer dog after all. A pity you didn’t think to bring one. Where was he murdered? I speak of the Archdeacon.”
“In the church, Miss Betterton.”
“Father Sebastian won’t like that. Hadn’t you better tell him?”
Her brother said, “He has been told, Agatha. Everyone has.”
“Well he won’t be missed, not in this house. He was an extremely unpleasant man, Commander. I refer to the Archdeacon, of course. I could explain to you why I take this view, but these are confidential family matters. You will understand, I’m sure. You look an intelligent and discreet officer. I expect that comes with being ex-Navy. Some people are better dead. I won’t explain why the Archdeacon is among them but you can be assured that the world will be a more agreeable place without him. But you will have to do something about the body. It can’t stay in the church. Father Sebastian wouldn’t like that at all. What about the services? Won’t it be in the way? I shan’t attend, of course, I’m not a religious woman, but my brother does and I don’t think he would like to walk over the Archdeacon’s body. Whatever our private opinions of the man, that would not be agreeable.”
Dalgliesh said, “The body will be moved, Miss Betterton, but the church will have to remain clos
ed at least for a few days. I have some questions I need to ask you. Did either you or your brother leave your apartment here at any time after Compline yesterday?”
“And why should we wish to do that, Commander?”
“That’s what I’m asking you, Miss Betterton. Did either of you leave the apartment after ten last night?”
He looked from one to the other. Father John said, “Eleven o’clock is our bedtime. I didn’t leave the flat after Compline or later and I’m sure Agatha didn’t. Why should she?”
“Would either of you have heard if the other had left?”
It was Miss Betterton who replied, “Of course not. We don’t lie awake wondering what the other is doing. My brother is perfectly at liberty to wander about the house at night if he wishes, but I can’t see why he should. I expect you’re wondering, Commander, whether either of us killed the Archdeacon. I’m not a fool. I know where all this is leading. Well I didn’t, and I don’t suppose my brother did. He is not a man of action.”
Father John, visibly distressed, was vehement.
“Of course I didn’t, Agatha. How can you think that.”
“I wasn’t thinking it. The Commander was.” She turned to Dalgliesh.
“The Archdeacon was going to turn us out. He told me. Out of this flat.”
Father John said, “He couldn’t do that, Agatha. You must have misunderstood him.”
Dalgliesh asked, “When did this happen, Miss Betterton?”
“The last time the Archdeacon was here. It was a Monday morning. I went to the piggery to see if Surtees had any vegetables he could let me have. He’s really very helpful when one runs out. I was just walking away when I met the Archdeacon. I expect he was coming to get some free vegetables too, or perhaps he wanted to see the pigs. I recognized him at once. Of course I didn’t expect to see him and I may have been a little sharp in my greeting. I’m not a hypocrite, I don’t believe in pretending to like people. As I’m not religious, I don’t have to exercise Christian charity. And no one told me he was visiting the college. Why can’t I be told these things ? I wouldn’t have known he was here now if Raphael Arbuthnot hadn’t told me.”
She turned to Dalgliesh.
“I expect you’ve met Raphael Arbuthnot. He’s a delightful boy and very clever. He has supper with us occasionally and we read a play together. He could have been an actor if the priests hadn’t got hold of him. He can take any part and mimic every voice. It’s a remarkable skill.”
Father John said, “My sister is fond of the theatre. She and Raphael go up to London once a term for a morning’s shopping, lunch and a matinee.”
Miss Betterton said, “I think it means a lot to him, getting out of this place. But I’m afraid I don’t hear as well as I used to. Actors today aren’t trained to project their voices. Mumble, mumble, mumble. Do you think they have classes in mumbling at drama school and sit in a circle mumbling at each other? Even if we sit in the front of the stalls it’s sometimes quite difficult. Of course I don’t complain to Raphael. I wouldn’t wish to hurt his feelings.”
Dalgliesh said gently, “But what exactly did the Archdeacon say to you when you thought he was threatening to have you evicted from your apartment?”
“It was something about people being too ready to live off church funds and give little or nothing in return.”
Father John broke in.
“He wouldn’t have said that, Agatha. Are you sure you’re remembering correctly?”
“He may not have used those precise words, John, but that’s what he meant. And then he said that I shouldn’t take it for granted that I could stay here for the rest of my life. I understood him perfectly well. He was threatening to get us out.”
Father John, distressed, said, “But he couldn’t, Agatha. He hadn’t the power.”
“That’s what Raphael said when I told him about it. We were talking about it the last time he was here for supper. I said to Raphael, if he could get my brother put in prison, he can do anything. Raphael said, “Oh no he can’t. I’ll stop him.”
Father John, in despair at the way the interview was going, had moved over to the window. He said, “There’s a motorcycle coming along the coast road. How very odd. I don’t think we’re expecting anyone this morning. Perhaps it’s a visitor for you, Commander.”
Dalgliesh moved beside him. He said, ‘I shall have to leave you now, Miss Betterton. Thank you for your co-operation. I may have some other questions, and if so I will ask what time would be convenient for you to see me. And now, Father, could I please see your bunch of keys ?”
Father John disappeared and returned almost immediately holding his key ring. Dalgliesh compared the two church keys with the ones on Father Martin’s ring. He said, “Where did you leave these keys last night, Father?”
“In the usual place, on my bedside table. I always leave the keys there at night.”
As he left, leaving Father John with his sister, he glanced at the golf clubs. The heads were uncovered, the metal of the irons shone clean. The mental picture was uncomfortably clear and convincing. It would need someone with a good eye, and there would be the difficulty of concealing the club until the moment had come to strike, the moment when the Archdeacon’s attention was fixed on the vandalized Doom. But was that a problem? It could have been propped against the rear of a pillar. And with a weapon of that length there would be much less risk of bloodstains. He had a sudden and vivid picture of a fair-haired young man waiting motionless in the shadows, club in hand. The Archdeacon would not have left his bed and gone to the church if summoned by Raphael, but here was a young man who, on Miss Betterton’s evidence, could mimic anyone’s voice.
Dr. Mark Ayling’s arrival was as surprising as it was unexpectedly early. Dalgliesh was moving down the stairs from the Bettertons’ flat when he heard the motorcycle roaring into the courtyard. Pilbeam had unlocked the great door as he did each morning, and Dalgliesh stepped out into the half-light of a fresh-smelling day which, after the tumult of the night, held an exhausted calm. Even the thud of the sea was muted. The powerful machine circled the courtyard then came to a stop immediately in front of the main entrance. The rider removed his helmet, unstrapped a case from the pannier and, carrying his helmet under his left arm, came bounding up the steps with the insouciance of a motorbike courier delivering a routine package.
He said, “Mark Ayling. Body in the church, is it?”
“Adam Dalgliesh. Yes, it’s this way. We’ll go through the house and out by the south door. I’ve secured the door from the house into the north cloister.”
The hall was empty and it seemed to Dalgliesh that Dr. Ayling’s feet rang unnaturally heavily on the tessellated floor. The pathologist could not be expected to sneak in but this was hardly a tactful arrival. He wondered whether he ought to have found Father Sebastian and effected an introduction, but decided against it. This wasn’t, after all, a social call and the least delay the better. But he had no doubt that the pathologist’s arrival had been noticed, and as they paced down the passageway past the cellar steps to the south cloister door he had an uncomfortable if irrational feeling that he was guilty of a breach of good manners. To carry out a murder investigation in an atmosphere of barely suppressed non-co-operation and antagonism was, he reflected, less complicated than coping with the social and theological nuances of this present scene of crime.
They crossed the courtyard beneath the half-denuded boughs of the great horse-chestnut and came to the sacristy door without speaking.
As Dalgliesh unlocked it, Ayling asked, “Where can I change my gear?”
“In here. It’s part-vestry, part-office.”
Changing ‘gear’ apparently meant divesting himself of his leathers, putting on a brown three-quarter-length overall and exchanging his boots for soft slippers over which he drew white cotton socks.
As he locked the sacristy door behind them, Dalgliesh said, “It’s likely that the murderer came in by this door. I’m securing the church until the S
O COs arrive from London.”
Ayling disposed of his leathers tidily on the swivel chair in front of the desk and placed his boots neatly side by side. He asked, “Why the Met? It’s a Suffolk case.”
“There’s a Suffolk DI staying in college at present. It makes a complication. I was here on another matter so it seemed sensible for me to take over for the present.”
The explanation appeared to satisfy Ayling.
They passed into the body of the church. The nave lights were dim, but sufficient, presumably, for a congregation who knew the liturgy by heart. They moved down to the Doom. Dalgliesh put up his hand to the spotlight. In the surrounding incense-laden gloom, which seemed in imagination to stretch beyond the church walls into an infinity of blackness, the beam blazed down with a shocking brilliance, brighter even than Dalgliesh remembered. Perhaps, he thought, it was the presence of another person that transformed the scene into an act of Grand Guignol; the actor’s carefully arranged body lying still with practised art, the inspired touch of the two candlesticks placed at its head, himself a silent watcher in the shadow of the pillar, waiting for his cue.
Ayling, frozen momentarily into stillness by the unexpected glare, could have been assessing the effectiveness of the theatrical tableau. When he began his soft-footed prowl around the body he looked like a director assessing the camera angles, satisfying himself that the death pose was both realistic and artistically pleasing. Dalgliesh noticed details with greater clarity: the scuffed toe of the black leather slipper which had fallen from Crampton’s right foot, how large and peculiar the naked foot now seemed, how ugly and elongated the big toe. With the face partly invisible, that single foot, now forever stilled, assumed a potency greater than if the body had been naked, provoking an upsurge of both pity and outrage.