by P. D. James
“But you have papers with you, evidence of work done so far?”
“No. My papers are in college.”
Piers said, “These visits1 would have thought you had exhausted the possibilities of the library here. What about other libraries? The Bodleian?”
Stannard said sourly, “There are libraries other than the Bodleian.”
“True. There’s Pusey House at Oxford. I believe they have a remarkable Tractarian collection. The librarian there should be able to help.” He turned to Dalgliesh.
“And there’s London, of course. Is the Dr. Williams Library in Bloomsbury still in existence, sir?”
Before Dalgliesh could reply, if he had intended to, Stannard broke out.
“What the hell business is it of yours where I choose to do my research? And if you’re trying to show that, occasionally, the Met recruits educated officers, forget it. I’m not impressed.”
Piers said, “Just trying to be helpful. So you’ve visited here some half-dozen times in the last eighteen months to work in the library and enjoy a recuperative weekend. Has Archdeacon Crampton been here on any of those previous occasions?”
“No. I never met him until this weekend. He didn’t arrive until Saturday. I don’t know when exactly, but the first I saw of him was at tea. Tea was laid out in the students’ sitting-room and the room was pretty full when I arrived at four. Someone I think it was Raphael Arbuthnot introduced me to the people I hadn’t met but I didn’t feel inclined to chat so I took a cup of tea and a couple of sandwiches and went to the library. That old fool Father Peregrine took his head out of his book long enough to tell me that food and drink weren’t allowed in the library. I went to my room. I saw the Archdeacon next at dinner. After dinner I worked in the library until they all went to Compline. I’m an atheist so I didn’t join them.”
“And you learned of the murder when?”
“Just before seven when Raphael Arbuthnot rang to say that a general meeting had been called and that we were to assemble in the library at seven-thirty. I didn’t much care for being spoken to as if I were back at school, but I thought I might as well see what it was all about. As far as the murder is concerned, I know less than you.”
Piers asked, “Have you ever attended any of the services here?”
“No I haven’t. I came here for the library and for a quiet weekend, not to attend services. It doesn’t seem to worry the priests so I don’t see why it should concern you.”
Piers said, “Oh but it does, Mr. Stannard, it does. Are you telling us that you have never in fact been in the church?”
“No, I’m not saying that. Don’t put words into my mouth. I may have looked in out of curiosity on one of the visits. I’ve certainly seen the inside, including the Doom, which has some interest for me. I’m saying I have never attended a service.”
Without looking up from the paper before him, Dalgliesh asked, “When were you last in the church, Dr. Stannard?”
“I can’t remember. Why should I? Not this weekend anyway.”
“And when during this weekend did you last see Archdeacon Crampton?”
“After church. I heard some of them coming back about quarter-past ten. I was in the students’ sitting-room watching a video. There was nothing worth seeing on television and they have a small collection of videos. I put on Four Weddings and a Funeral. I’d seen it before, but I thought it was worth a second viewing. Crampton looked in briefly but I wasn’t exactly welcoming, so he made off.”
Piers said, “So you must have been the last person, or one of the last people, to see him alive.”
“Which I suppose you regard as suspicious. I wasn’t the last person to see him alive; his murderer was. I didn’t kill him. Look, how often do I have to say it? I never knew the man. I’d no quarrel with him and I didn’t go near the church yesterday evening. I was in bed by eleven-thirty. After the video finished I went out by the door into the south cloister and to my room. The gale was at its height by then and it wasn’t a night for taking a last breath of sea air. I went straight to my set. It’s number one in the south cloister.”
“Was there a light in the church?”
“Not that I noticed. Come to think of it, I didn’t see any lights from the ordinands’ rooms or the guest suites. There was the usual rather dim light in both cloisters.”
Piers said, “You’ll understand that we need to get as complete a picture as possible of what happened in the hours before the Archdeacon was killed. Did you hear or notice anything which could be significant?”
Stannard gave a mirthless laugh.
“I imagine a hell of a lot was happening, but I can’t see into people’s minds. I did get the impression that the Archdeacon wasn’t exactly welcome, but no one made murderous threats to him in my hearing.”
“Did you speak to him at all after that introduction at tea?”
“Only to ask him to pass the butter at dinner. He passed it. I’m not good at small talk so I concentrated on the food and wine which were superior to the company. Not exactly a cheerful meal. It wasn’t the usual happy all-boys-together-under-God or under Sebastian Morell, which means the same thing. But your boss was there. He’ll tell you about dinner.”
Piers said, “The Commander knows what he saw and heard. We’re asking you.”
“I’ve told you, not a cheerful meal. The ordinands seemed subdued, Father Sebastian presided with icy courtesy and some people had difficulty in keeping their eyes off Emma Lavenham, for which I can’t say I blame them. Raphael Arbuthnot read a passage from Trollope not a novelist I know but it seemed pretty innocuous to me. Not to the Archdeacon, however. And if Arbuthnot wanted to embarrass him he chose the right time. It’s difficult to pretend you’re enjoying your meal when your hands are shaking and you look as if you are about to sick it up over the plate. After dinner they all beetled off to church and that was the last I saw of any of them until Crampton looked in on me when I was watching the video.”
“And you saw or heard nothing suspicious during the night?”
“You asked that when we were together in the library. If I’d seen or heard anything suspicious, I’d have come forward before now.”
It was Piers who asked the question this time: “And you haven’t set foot in the church during this visit, either for a service or at any other time?”
“How many times have I got to keep telling you? The answer is no. No. No. No.”
Dalgliesh looked up and met Stannard’s eyes.
“Then how do you explain the fact that your fresh fingerprints are on the wall next to the Doom and on the seat of the second box pew? The dust under the pew has been disturbed. It is highly likely the forensic scientists will find some traces of it on your jacket. Is that where you were hiding when the Archdeacon came into the church?”
And now Piers saw real terror. As always it unnerved him. He felt no triumph, only shame. It was one thing to put a suspect at a disadvantage, another to witness this transformation of a man into a terrified animal. Stannard seemed physically to shrink, a thin undernourished child in a chair too large for him. His hands were still in his pockets. Now he tried to wrap them round his body. The thin tweed stretched and Piers thought he heard the rip of the lining seam.
Dalgliesh said quietly, “The evidence is incontrovertible. You’ve been lying since you came into this room. If you didn’t murder Archdeacon Crampton you would be wise to tell the truth now, all the truth.”
Stannard didn’t reply. He had taken his hands from his pockets and now clasped them in his lap. With his head bent above them he looked incongruously like a man at prayer. He appeared to be thinking and they waited in silence. When at last he lifted his head and spoke, it was apparent that he had mastered the extremity of fear and was ready to fight back. Piers heard in his voice a mixture of obstinacy and arrogance.
“I didn’t kill Crampton and you can’t prove that I did. All right, I lied about not visiting the church. That was natural. I knew that if I told the truth you’d immedia
tely seize on me as the prime suspect. It’s all very convenient for you, isn’t it? The last thing you want is to pin this on anyone at St. Anselm’s. I’m tailor-made to be fitted up, those priests are sacrosanct. Well, I didn’t do it.”
Piers said, “Then why were you in the church? You could hardly expect us to believe you went there to pray.”
Stannard didn’t reply. He seemed to be steeling himself for the inevitable explanation or perhaps selecting the most convincing and appropriate words. When he spoke he looked fixedly at the far wall,
carefully avoiding Dalgliesh’s eyes. His voice was controlled but with a barely concealed note of petulant self-justification.
“All right, I accept that you have a right to an explanation and that I have a duty to provide it. It’s perfectly innocent and nothing to do with Crampton’s death. That being so, I would be grateful for your assurance that this interview is confidential.”
Dalgliesh said, “You know we can’t give you that.”
“Look, I’ve told you, it had nothing to do with Crampton’s death. I only met him for the first time on Saturday. I’d never seen him before. I had no quarrel with him and no reason to wish him dead. I dislike violence. I’m a pacifist and not just by political conviction.”
Dalgliesh said, “Dr. Stannard, will you please answer my question. You were hiding in the church. Why?”
“I’m trying to tell you. I was looking for something. It’s a document usually referred to by the few in the know as the St. Anselm papyrus. It’s reputed to be an order ostensibly signed by Pontius Pilate to the Captain of the Guard ordering the removal of the crucified body of a political troublemaker. Naturally you can see its importance. It was given to the founder of St. Anselm’s, Miss Arbuthnot, by her brother and has been in the custody of the Warden ever since. The story is that the document is a fake, but since no one is allowed to see it or submit it to scientific examination, the question is open. Obviously the document is of interest to any genuine scholar.”
Piers said, “Like yourself, for example? I didn’t realize you were an expert in pre-Byzantine manuscripts. Aren’t you a sociologist?”
“That doesn’t prevent me from having an interest in church history.”
Piers went on, “So, knowing that you were unlikely to be given a sight of the document, you decided to steal it.”
Stannard gave Piers a look of concentrated malevolence. He said with heavy irony, “I believe the legal definition of theft is taking with the intention of permanently depriving the owner of possession. You’re a police officer, I should have thought that you’d have known that.”
Dalgliesh said, “Dr. Stannard, your rudeness may be natural to you, or you may find it a pleasurable if childish release of tension, but it is inadvisable to indulge it when involved in a police investigation of murder. So, you went to the church. Why did you think the papyrus was hidden in the church?”
“It seemed the natural place. I’d been going through the books in the library at least as far as possible with Father Peregrine permanently there and noticing everything while pretending to notice nothing. I thought it was time to turn attention elsewhere. It occurred to me that the document could have been hidden behind the Doom. I went to the church on Saturday afternoon. The college is always quiet on Saturdays after luncheon.”
“How did you get into the church?”
“I had keys. I was here just after Easter when most of the ordinands were away and Miss Ramsey was on leave. I borrowed the church keys, a Chubb and a Yale, from the outer office and got them cut in Lowestoft. They weren’t missed in the couple of hours it took. If they had been I planned to say that I’d found them lying in the south cloister. Anyone could have dropped them.”
“You thought of everything. Where are these keys now?”
“After Sebastian Morell’s bombshell in the library this morning I decided they weren’t exactly the kind of thing I’d like to have found on me. If you must know, I chucked them away. To be more accurate, I wiped them of fingerprints and buried them under a clump of grass on the edge of the cliff.”
Piers said, “Would you be able to find them again?”
“Probably. It might take a bit of time, but I know where I buried them within, say, ten yards.”
Dalgliesh said, “Then you’d better find them. Sergeant Robbins will go with you.”
Piers asked, “And what did you propose doing with the St. Anselm papyrus if you found it?”
“Copying it. Writing an article about it for the broad sheets and in the academic press. I proposed bringing it where any document of that importance ought to be: in the public domain.”
Piers said, “For cash, for academic glory, or for both?”
Stannard’s look at him was positively venomous.
“If I’d written a book, as I had in mind, obviously it would make money.”
“Money, fame, academic prestige, your picture in the broad sheets People have murdered for less.”
Before Stannard could expostulate, Dalgliesh said, “I take it that you didn’t find the papyrus.”
“No. I took a long wooden paper-knife with me hoping to dislodge whatever might be hidden between the Doom and the church wall. I
was standing on one of the chairs to reach up when I heard someone coming into the church. I quickly replaced the chair and hid. Apparently you already know where.”
Piers said, “The second box pew. Schoolboys’ games. A bit humiliating, wasn’t it? Couldn’t you just have sunk to your knees? No, perhaps a pretence at prayer wouldn’t have been convincing.”
“And confess that I’d got keys to the church? Oddly enough, that didn’t seem to be an option.” He turned to Dalgliesh.
“But I can prove I’m telling the truth. I didn’t watch to see who was coming in, but when they moved up the central aisle to the nave, I heard them clearly. It was Morell and the Archdeacon. They were arguing over the future of St. Anselm’s. I could probably reproduce most of the conversation. I’ve got a good memory for speech and they weren’t bothering to keep their voices down. If you’re looking for someone with a grudge against the Archdeacon, you don’t need to look far. One of the things he was threatening was to get the valuable altar-piece moved out of the church.”
Piers asked, in a tone which could have been mistaken for genuine interest, “What explanation were you proposing to give if they had happened to look under the seat of the pew and found you? I mean, you’ve obviously thought things through very thoroughly. Presumably you had some explanation ready?”
Stannard treated the inquiry as he might have an unintelligent intervention from a not very promising pupil.
“The suggestion is ridiculous. Why should they have searched the pew? Even if they had looked in the pew, why should they have bothered to kneel down and search under the seat? If they had, obviously I should have been in an embarrassing position.”
Dalgliesh said, “You’re in an embarrassing position now, Dr. Stannard. You admit to one unsuccessful attempt to search the church. How can we be sure that you didn’t return again late on Saturday night?”
“I give you my word that I didn’t. What else can I say?” Then he added truculently, “And you can’t prove that I did.”
Piers said, “You said you used a wooden paper-knife to prod behind the Doom. Are you sure that’s all you used? Didn’t you go into the kitchen at St. Anselm’s that night while the community were at Compline and take a carving knife?”
And now Stannard’s careful nonchalance, the barely concealed truculence and arrogance, gave way to frank terror. The skin round the moist over-red mouth was a white penumbra and the cheekbones stood out scarred with red lines against skin which was drained into an unhealthy greenish-grey.
He turned his whole body to Dalgliesh with a vehemence which nearly overturned the chair.
“My God, Dalgliesh, you’ve got to believe me! I didn’t go into the kitchen. I couldn’t stick a knife into anyone, not even an animal. I couldn’t slit th
e throat of a cat. It’s ludicrous! It’s appalling to suggest it. I was in the church only once, I swear it, and all I had with me was a wooden paper-knife. I can show it to you. I’ll get it now.”
He half rose from his chair and gazed with desperate appeal from one set face to the other. No one spoke. Then he said with a small surge of hope and triumph, “There’s something else. I think I can prove I didn’t go back. I rang my girlfriend in New York at eleven-thirty our time. The relationship has hit a sticky patch and we have been speaking by phone nearly every day. I used my mobile and I can give you her number. I wouldn’t spend a half-hour speaking to her if I was planning to murder the Archdeacon.”
“No,” said Piers.
“Not if the murder was planned.”
But gazing into Stannard’s terrified eyes, Dalgliesh knew that here was one suspect who could almost certainly be eliminated. Stannard had no idea how the Archdeacon had died.
Stannard said, ‘I’m due back at university on Monday morning. I was planning to leave tonight. Pilbeam was going to drive me to Ipswich. You can’t keep me here, I’ve done nothing wrong.”
Getting no response, he added in a voice half-propitiatory, half-angry: “Look, I’ve got my passport with me. I always carry it. I don’t drive, so it’s useful for identification. I suppose if I gave it up temporarily there’s no objection to letting me go?”
Dalgliesh said, “Inspector Tarrant will take charge of it and give you a receipt. This isn’t the end of the matter, but you are free to go.”
“And I suppose you’re going to tell Sebastian Morell what happened.”
“No,” said Dalgliesh.
“You are.”
Dalgliesh, Father Sebastian and Father Martin met in Father Sebastian’s office. Father Sebastian had remembered almost word for word the conversation between him and the Archdeacon in the church. He spoke the dialogue as if reciting something learnt by rote but Dalgliesh didn’t miss the note of self-disgust in his voice. At the end the Warden was silent, giving no explanation and offering no extenuation. During the recital Father Martin sat quietly in a fireside chair with his head bowed, as still and attentive as if he were hearing a confession.