by P. D. James
Was it his imagination, Dalgliesh wondered, that the tension in Raphael’s hands relaxed a little?
“Of course. I’m being obtuse. I suppose you’ve checked on all of us. Poor Father John. The recording angel has nothing on the police computer. So you now know that Crampton was one of the chief prosecution witnesses. It was he, not the jury, who sent Father John to prison.”
Kate said, “Juries don’t send anyone to prison. The judge does that.” She added, as if afraid that Raphael was about to faint, “Why don’t you sit down, Mr. Arbuthnot.”
After a moment of hesitation, he took the chair and made an obvious effort to relax. He said, “People one hates ought not to get themselves murdered. It gives them an unfair advantage. I didn’t kill him, but I feel as guilty as if I did.”
Dalgliesh said, “The passage of Trollope you read at dinner yesterday, was that your choice ?”
“Yes. We always choose what to read.”
Dalgliesh said, “A very different archdeacon, another age. An ambitious man kneels beside his dying father and asks forgiveness for wishing him dead. It seemed to me that the Archdeacon took it personally.”
“He was intended to.” There was another silence, then Raphael said, “I’d always wondered why he pursued Father John so vehemently. It isn’t as if he was gay himself and suppressing it, terrified of exposure. Now I know he was vicariously purging his own guilt.”
Dalgliesh said, “Guilt for what?”
“I think you had better ask Inspector Yarwood.”
Dalgliesh decided not to pursue that line of questioning for the moment. This wasn’t the only question that he needed to ask Yarwood. Until the Inspector was fit to be interviewed he was groping in the half-light. He asked Raphael exactly what he had done after Compline was finished.
“First of all I went to my room. We’re supposed to keep silence after Compline but the rule isn’t invariably obeyed. Silence doesn’t mean not speaking to each other. We don’t act like Trappist monks, but we do usually go to our rooms. I read and worked on an essay until half-past ten. The wind was howling well, you know, sir, you were here and I decided to go into the house to see if Peter that’s
Peter Buckhurst was all right. He’s recovering from glandular fever and he’s far from well. I know he hates storms not the lightning or thunder or heavy rain, just the howling of the wind. His mother died in the room next door to him in a night of high wind when he was seven and he’s hated it ever since.”
“How did you enter the house?”
“The usual way. My room is N3 in the north cloister. I went through the cloakroom, across the hall and up the stairs to the second floor. There’s a sick-room there at the back of the house and Peter has been sleeping in it for the last few weeks. It was obvious to me that he didn’t want to be alone, so I said I’d stay there all night. There’s a second bed in the sick-room so I slept there. I had already asked Father Sebastian’s permission to leave college after Compline - I’d promised to attend the first Mass of a friend in a church outside Colchester but I didn’t like to leave Peter, so I decided to leave early this morning instead. The Mass isn’t until ten-thirty so I knew I could make it.”
Dalgliesh asked, “Mr. Arbuthnot, why didn’t you tell me this when we were in the library this morning? I asked if anyone had left his room after Compline.”
“Would you have spoken? It would have been pretty humiliating for Peter, wouldn’t it, letting the whole college know that he’s frightened of the wind?”
“How did you spend the evening together?”
“We talked, and then I read to him. A Saki short story, if you’re interested.”
“Did you see anyone other than Peter Buckhurst after you entered the main building at about half-past ten?”
“Only Father Martin. He looked in on us at about eleven o’clock but he didn’t stay. He was worried about Peter too.”
Kate asked, “Was that because he knew Mr. Buckhurst was frightened of high winds ?”
“It’s the kind of thing Father Martin gets to know. I don’t think anyone else at college knew except the two of us.”
“Did you return to your own room at any time during the night?”
“No. There’s a shower-room attached to the sick-bay if I wanted to shower. I didn’t need pyjamas.”
Dalgliesh said, “Mr. Arbuthnot, are you absolutely certain that you locked the door to the house from the north cloister when you went in to your friend?”
“I’m absolutely sure. Mr. Pilbeam usually checks the doors at about eleven when he locks the front door. He’ll be able to confirm that it was locked.”
“And you didn’t leave the sick-bay until this morning?”
“No. I was in the sick-bay all night. Peter and I put out our bedside lights at about midnight and settled down to sleep. I don’t know about him, but I slept soundly. I woke just before six-thirty and saw that Peter was still asleep. I was on my way back to my room when I met Father Sebastian coming out of his office. He didn’t seem surprised to see me and he didn’t ask why I hadn’t left. I realize now that he had other things on his mind. He just told me to ring round everyone, ordinands, staff and guests, and ask them to be in the library at seven-thirty. I remember I said, “What about Morning Prayer, Father?”, and he replied, “Morning Prayer is cancelled.”
Dalgliesh asked, “Did he give you any explanation for the summons?”
“No, none. It wasn’t until I joined everyone else in the library at seven-thirty that I knew what had happened.”
“And there’s nothing else you can tell us, nothing at all that could have any bearing on the Archdeacon’s murder?”
There was a long silence during which Arbuthnot gazed down at the hands clasped in his lap. Then, as if he had reached a decision, he raised his eyes and looked intently at Dalgliesh. He said, “You’ve been asking a lot of questions. I know that’s your job. May I ask one now?”
Dalgliesh said, “Certainly, although I can’t promise to answer it.”
“It’s this. It’s obvious that you the police, I mean believe that someone who slept in college last night killed the Archdeacon. You must have some reason for believing that. I mean, isn’t it far more likely that someone from outside broke into the church, perhaps to steal, and was surprised by Crampton? After all, this place isn’t secure. He’d have no difficulty in getting into the courtyard. He probably wouldn’t have much difficulty in breaking into the house and getting a key to the church. Anyone who’s ever stayed here could know where the keys are kept. So I’m just wondering why you’re concentrating on us, I mean, the priests and the ordinands.”
Dalgliesh said, “We’ve an open mind on who committed this murder. More than that I can’t tell you.”
Arbuthnot went on, “You see, I’ve been thinking well, of course,
we all have. If anyone in college killed Crampton, it has to be me. No one else would or could. No one hated him as much and, even if they did, they aren’t capable of murder. I’m wondering whether I could have done it without knowing. Perhaps I got up in the night and went back to my room, then saw him entering the church. Isn’t it possible I could have gone after him, quarrelled violently with him and killed him?”
Dalgliesh’s voice was calmly un inquisitive “Why should you think that?”
“Because it’s at least possible. If this is what you call an inside job, then who else could it have been? And there’s one piece of evidence supporting it. When I went back to my room this morning after I’d phoned everyone to come to the library, I knew that someone had entered it during the night. There was a broken twig inside the door. Unless someone’s removed it, it will still be there. Now you’ve closed the north cloister, I couldn’t go back to check. I suppose it’s evidence of a kind, but evidence of what?”
Dalgliesh asked, “Are you sure that the twig wasn’t in your room when you left after Compline to go and check on Peter Buckhurst?”
“I’m sure it wasn’t. I’d have noticed it. I
couldn’t have missed it. Someone re-entered that room after I left to see Peter. I must have gone back sometime in the night. Who else could it have been at that hour and in a storm?”
Dalgliesh said, “Have you ever in your life suffered from temporary amnesia?”
“No, never.”
“And you’re telling me the truth, that you say you have no recollection of killing the Archdeacon?”
“Yes, I swear it.”
“All I can tell you is that whoever committed this murder can be in no doubt what he or she did last night.”
“You mean that I would have woken this morning with blood on my hands literally on my hands ?”
“I mean no more than I’ve said. I think that’s all for now. If you later remember anything new, please tell us at once.”
The dismissal was summary and, Kate could see, unexpected. Still keeping his eyes on Dalgliesh, Arbuthnot murmured, “Thank you,” and left.
They waited until the front door had closed behind him. Dalgliesh said, “Well, which is it Kate, a consummate actor or a worried and innocent young man?”
I’d say he’s a pretty good actor. With looks like that you probably have to be. I know that doesn’t make him guilty. It’s a clever story though, isn’t it? He more or less confesses to murder in the hope that he’ll learn exactly how much we know. And his night with Buckhurst doesn’t give him an alibi; he could easily have crept out when the boy was asleep, taken the keys to the church and rung the Archdeacon. We know from Miss Betterton that he’s good at imitating voices; he could have pretended to be any of the priests and if he was seen in the house, well no one would question his right to be there. Even if Peter Buckhurst woke up and found him gone, there’s a good chance he wouldn’t betray his friend. Much easier to make himself believe that the spare bed wasn’t empty.”
Dalgliesh said, “We’d better question him next. You and Piers can do that. But if Arbuthnot took the key, why not put it back when he returned to the house? A strong probability is that whoever killed Crampton didn’t go back into college unless, of course, that’s exactly what we’re intended to believe. If Raphael did kill the Archdeacon -and until we have spoken to Yarwood he remains the chief suspect -his cleverest ploy would be to throw the key away. Did you notice that he didn’t once mention Yarwood as a possible suspect? He’s not stupid, he must realize the possible significance of Yarwood’s disappearance. He can’t be naive enough to assume that no police officer is ever capable of murder.”
Kate said, “And the twig inside his room?”
“He says it’s still there, and no doubt it is. The question is, how did it get there and when? It means that the SO COs will have to extend the search area to Arbuthnot’s rooms. If he’s telling the truth and it’s an odd story then the twig could be important. But this murder was carefully planned. If Arbuthnot had murder in mind, why complicate things by going to Peter Buckhurst’s room? If his friend had been seriously distressed by the storm, Arbuthnot could hardly leave him. And he couldn’t rely on the boy falling asleep, even at midnight.”
“But if he was hoping to fabricate an alibi, Peter Buckhurst was probably his only chance. After all, a sick and frightened young man would be easy to deceive about the time. If Arbuthnot planned the murder for midnight, for example, he could easily murmur to
Buckhurst when they settled down to sleep that it was after twelve o’clock.”
“Which would only be helpful to him, Kate, if the pathologist could tell us more or less precisely when Crampton was killed. Arbuthnot hasn’t an alibi, but that goes for everyone in college.”
“Including Yarwood.”
“And he may hold the key to the whole business. We have to press on but, until he’s fit enough to be interviewed, we could be missing vital evidence.”
Kate asked, “You don’t see him as a suspect, sir?”
“At present he has to be, but he’s an unlikely one. I can’t see a man in such a precarious mental state planning and executing such a complicated crime. If finding Crampton so unexpectedly at St. Anselm’s had roused him to a murderous rage he could have struck him down in his bed.”
“But that goes for all the suspects, sir.”
“Exactly. We get back to the central question. Why was the murder planned in this way?”
Nobby Clark and the photographer were at the door. Clark’s face assumed a look of solemn reverence as if he were entering a church. It was a sure sign that he had good news. Coming over to the table, he laid out Polaroids of fingerprints: the index to the little finger of the right hand, and beside them a palm print, again of the right hand, this time showing the side of the thumb and four clear prints of the fingers. He laid a standard fingerprint form beside them.
He said, “Dr. Stannard, sir. You couldn’t hope for anything clearer. The palm print’s on the stone wall to the right of the Doom, the other print’s on the seat of the second box pew. We can take a palm print, sir, but it’s hardly necessary with what we’ve got. No point in sending it off to HQ for verification. I’ve seldom seen clearer prints. They’re Dr. Stannard’s, all right.”
Piers said, “If Stannard is Cain, this will be our shortest investigation to date. Back to the smoke. Pity. I was looking forward to dinner at the Crown and a pre-breakfast walk on the beach.”
Dalgliesh was standing at the east window looking out over the headland to the sea. Turning, he said, “I shouldn’t give up hope of it.”
They had pulled out the desk from under the window and placed it in the middle of the room with the two upright chairs behind it. Stannard would sit in the low armchair now brought forward to face the desk. He would be physically the most comfortable but psychologically disadvantaged.
They waited in silence. Dalgliesh showed no inclination to talk and Piers had worked with him long enough to know when to keep quiet. Robbins must be having difficulty in finding Stannard. It was nearly five minutes before they heard the front door opening.
Robbins said, “Dr. Stannard, sir,” and settled himself unobtrusively in the corner, notebook in hand.
Stannard came in briskly, responding curtly to Dalgliesh’s “Good morning’, and looked round as if wondering where he was expected to sit.
Piers said, “This chair, Dr. Stannard.”
Stannard looked with deliberate intentness round the room as if deploring its inadequacies, then sat, leaned back, appeared to decide that the assumption of ease was inappropriate, and resettled himself on the edge of the chair, legs clamped together, hands in his jacket pocket. His gaze, fixed on Dalgliesh, was inquiring rather than belligerent, but Piers sensed his resentment, and something stronger which he diagnosed as fear.
No one is at his best when involved in an investigation of murder; even reasonable and public-spirited witnesses, fortified by innocence, can come to resent the intrusion of police probing, and no one faces it with an entirely clear conscience. Minor and unrelated ancient delinquencies float to the surface of the mind like scum. Even so, Piers found Stannard singularly unprepossessing. It wasn’t, he decided, only his prejudice against drooping moustaches; he just didn’t like the man. Stannard’s face, a thin over-long nose and close-set eyes, had settled into deeply-cleft lines of discontent. This was the face of a man who had never quite achieved what he felt was his due. What, Piers wondered, had gone wrong? The upper-second degree instead of the expected first? A lectureship at an ex-polytechnic university instead of Oxbridge ? Less power, less money, less sex than he felt he deserved? Probably not too little sex; women unaccountably seemed attracted to this Che Guevara amateur revolutionary type. Hadn’t he at Oxford lost his Rosie to just such a sour-faced wanker? Perhaps, he admitted, that was the cause of his prejudice. He was too experienced not to keep it under control, but even to admit to it gave him a perverted satisfaction.
He had worked with Dalgliesh long enough to know how this scene would be played. He would ask most of the questions; AD would come in when and as he chose. It was never what the witness expecte
d. Piers wondered whether Dalgliesh knew how intimidating was his dark silent watchful presence.
He introduced himself then began asking the usual preliminary questions in an even voice. Name, address, date of birth, occupation, marital state. Stannard’s replies were short. At the end he said, “I don’t see what relevance my marital state has to all this. Actually I have a partner. Female.”
Without replying, Piers asked, “And you arrived when, sir?”
“Friday night for a long weekend. I’m due to leave before dinner tonight. I presume there’s no reason why I shouldn’t?”
“Are you a regular visitor, sir?”
“Fairly. During the last eighteen months or so the occasional weekends.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“About half a dozen visits I suppose.”
“When were you last here ?”
“A month ago. I forget the exact date. Then I arrived Friday night and stayed until Sunday. Compared with this weekend it was uneventful.”
Dalgliesh interposed for the first time.
“Why do you visit, Dr. Stannard?”
Stannard opened his mouth, then hesitated. Piers wondered whether he had been about to reply, “Why shouldn’t I?” and had thought better of it. The answer, when it did come, sounded as if it had been carefully prepared.
“I’m researching a book on the family life of the early Tractarians covering both their childhood and youth, their later marriages, if any, and family life. The intention is to explore early experience with religious development and sexuality. As this is an Anglo-Catholic institution the library is particularly useful, and I have an entry to it. My grandfather was Samuel Stannard, a partner in the firm of Stannard, Fox and Perronet in Norwich. They have represented St. Anselm’s since its foundation and the Arbuthnot family before that. Coming here I combine research with an agreeable weekend break.”
Piers asked, “How far has research progressed?”
“It’s at an early stage. I don’t get much free time. Contrary to popular belief, academics are overworked.”