Death in Holy Orders

by P. D. James

  “I thought I’d explained that. Raphael was to be told, but when I judged the moment to be right. I could hardly envisage being caught up in a murder investigation and have the police ferreting about in my private life. The moment still isn’t right, but I suppose you’ll have the satisfaction of telling him now.”

  “No,” said Dalgliesh.

  “That’s your responsibility, not ours.”

  The two men looked at each other, then Gregory said, “I suppose you have some right to an explanation, or as close to one as I can get. You should know better than most men that our motives are rarely as uncomplicated and never as pure as they seem. We met at Oxford when I was her supervisor. She was an astonishingly attractive eighteen-year-old and when she made it plain that she wanted an affair, I wasn’t the man to resist. It was a humiliating disaster. I hadn’t realized that she was confused about her sexuality and was deliberately using me as an experiment. She was unfortunate in her choice. No doubt I could have been more sensitive and imaginative, but I’ve never seen the sexual act as an exercise in acrobatic ingenuity. I was too young and perhaps too conceited to take sexual failure philosophically and this was a spectacular failure. One can deal with most things but not with frank disgust. I’m afraid I wasn’t very kind. She didn’t tell me that she was pregnant until it was too late for an abortion. I think she’d tried to persuade herself that none of it was happening. She was not a sensible woman. Raphael inherits his looks but not his intelligence from his mother. There was no question of marriage; the idea of that commitment has horrified me all my life, and she made her hatred of me abundantly plain. She told me nothing about the birth, but did write later to say that a boy had been born and that she’d left him at St. Anselm’s. After that she went abroad with a woman companion and we never met again.

  “I didn’t keep in touch with her but she must have made it her business to know where I was. In early April 1988 she wrote to say that she was dying and asked me to visit her in Ashcombe House hospice outside Norwich. It was then that she asked me to marry her. The explanation she gave was that it was for the sake of her son. She had also, I believe, found God. It has been a tendency of the Arbuthnots to find God, usually at the time most inconvenient for their family.”

  Kate asked again, “So why the secrecy?”

  “She insisted on it. I made the necessary arrangements and merely called at the hospice asking to take her for a drive. The nurse who had mainly looked after her was in on the secret and was the chief witness. There was some problem, I remember, about the second witness but a woman visiting the hospice for an interview agreed to help. The priest was a fellow-sufferer whom Clara had met at the hospice and who occasionally attended for what I think they call respite care. St. Osyth’s at Clampstoke-Lacey was his church. He obtained for us an archbishop’s licence so no banns were necessary. We went through the prescribed form of words and then I drove Clara back to the hospice. Clara wished me to keep the marriage certificate and I still have it. She died three days later. The woman who’d nursed her wrote that she had died without pain and that the marriage had given her peace at the last. I’m glad that it made a difference to one of our lives; it had absolutely no effect on mine. She had asked me to break the news to Raphael when I judged the moment was right.”

  Kate said, “And you waited twelve years. Did you ever intend to tell him?”

  “Not necessarily. I certainly didn’t intend to burden myself with an adolescent son or to burden him with a father. I’d done nothing for him, taken no part in his upbringing. It seemed ignoble suddenly to present myself as if my purpose were to look him over and see if he were a son worth acknowledging.”

  Dalgliesh said, “Isn’t that, in effect, what you did?”

  “I plead guilty. I discovered in myself a certain curiosity, or perhaps it was the urging of those insistent genes. Parenthood is, after all, our only chance of vicarious immortality. I made discreet and anonymous enquiries and discovered that he went abroad for two years after university, then came back here and announced his intention of becoming a priest. As he hadn’t read theology he had to undertake a three-year course. Six years ago I came here as a guest for a week. I later learned that there was a vacancy for a part-time teacher of Ancient Greek and applied for the post.”

  Dalgliesh said, “You know that St. Anselm’s is almost certainly scheduled to be closed. After the death of Ronald Treeves and the murder of the Archdeacon that closure is likely to be sooner rather than later. You do realize that you have a motive for Crampton’s murder? Both you and Raphael. Your wedding took place after the coming into force of the Legitimacy Act of 1976 which legitimized your son. Section Two of the Act provides that, where the parents of an illegitimate person marry one another and the father is domiciled in England or Wales, the person is rendered legitimate from the date of the marriage. I’ve checked on the exact wording of Miss Agnes Arbuthnot’s will. If the college closes, everything it contains originally given by her is to be shared between the descendants of her father, either in the male or female line, provided they are practising members of the Church of England and are legitimate in English law. Raphael Arbuthnot is the sole heir. Are you going to tell me that you didn’t know that?”

  For the first time Gregory showed signs that he was losing his careful mask of ironic detachment. His voice was peremptory.

  “The boy doesn’t know. I can see that this gives you a convenient motive for making me your chief suspect. Even your ingenuity can’t produce a motive for Raphael.”

  There were, of course, other motives than gain, but Dalgliesh didn’t pursue them.

  Kate said, “We’ve only your word for it that he doesn’t know he’s the heir.”

  Gregory got to his feet and towered over her.

  “Then send for him and I’ll tell him here and now.”

  Dalgliesh intervened.

  “Is that either wise or kind ?”

  “I don’t bloody well care whether it is or it isn’t! I’m not having Raphael accused of murder. Send for him and I’ll tell him myself. But first I’m going to shower. I’ve no intention of presenting myself as his father stinking of sweat.”

  He disappeared into the body of the house and they heard his footsteps on the stairs.

  Dalgliesh said to Kate, “Go to Nobby Clark and tell him we need an exhibit bag. I want that track suit. And ask Raphael to come here in five minutes’ time.”

  Kate said, “Is it really necessary, sir?”

  “For his sake, yes it is. Gregory is perfectly right; the only way to convince us that Raphael Arbuthnot is ignorant of his parentage is for us to be here when he’s told.”

  She was back with the exhibit bag within minutes. Gregory was still in the shower.

  Kate said, “I’ve seen Raphael. He’ll be along in five minutes.”

  They waited in silence. Dalgliesh glanced round at the ordered room and at the office seen through the open door; the computer on the desk facing the wall, the bank of grey filing cabinets, the bookcases with the leather tomes meticulously arranged. Nothing here was superfluous, nothing for ornament or show. It was the sanctum of a man whose interests were intellectual and who liked his life comfortable and uncluttered. Dalgliesh thought wryly that it was about to be cluttered now.

  They heard the door open and Raphael came through the outer room and into the extension. Within seconds he was followed by Gregory, now wearing trousers and a navy blue freshly-ironed shirt, but with his hair still tousled. He said, “Perhaps we’d better all sit down.”

  They did so. Raphael, puzzled, glanced from Gregory to Dalgliesh but didn’t speak.

  Gregory looked across at his son. He said, “There’s something I have to tell you. This moment isn’t of my choosing, but the police have taken more interest in my private concerns than I expected, so there’s no choice. I married your mother on 27 April 1988. This was a ceremony you may feel should more appropriately have taken place twenty-six years ago. There’s no way to say this with
out sounding melodramatic. I’m your father, Raphael.”

  Raphael fixed his eyes on Gregory. He said, “I don’t believe it. It isn’t true.”

  It was the usual commonplace response to shocking and unwelcome news. He said again more loudly, “I don’t believe it’, but his face showed a different reality. The colour drained from his brow, cheeks and neck in a steadily retreating line, so visible that it looked as if the normal surge of the blood had been reversed. He got to his feet and stood very still, looking from Dalgliesh to Kate as if desperately seeking a denial. Even the muscles of his face seemed momentarily to sag, the incipient lines to deepen. And for a brief moment Dalgliesh saw for the first time a trace of resemblance to his father. He had hardly time to recognize it before it was gone.

  Gregory said, “Don’t be tedious, Raphael. Surely we can play this scene without recourse to Mrs. Henry Wood. I’ve always disliked Victorian melodrama. Is this the kind of thing I’d joke about? Commander Dalgliesh has a copy of the marriage certificate.”

  “That doesn’t mean you’re my father.”

  “Your mother only had sex with one man in the whole of her life. I was he. I acknowledged my responsibility in a letter to your mother. For some reason she required that small admission of folly. After our wedding she gave me the correspondence between us. And then, of course, there is the DNA. The facts are unlikely to be challenged.” He paused, then said, “I’m sorry you find the news so repugnant.”

  Raphael’s voice was so cold that it was almost unrecognizable.

  “And what happened? The usual story, I suppose. You fucked her,

  got her pregnant, decided you didn’t care for the idea either of marriage or parenthood, and opted out?”

  “Not precisely. Neither of us wanted a child and there was no possibility of marriage. I was the elder and I suppose the more to blame. Your mother was only eighteen. Doesn’t your religion rest on an act of cosmic forgiveness? So why not forgive her? You were better off with those priests than you would have been with either of us.”

  There was a long silence, then Raphael said, “I would have been heir to St. Anselm’s.”

  Gregory looked at Dalgliesh, who said, “You are the heir, unless there’s some legal quibble which I’ve overlooked. I’ve checked with the solicitors. Agnes Arbuthnot wrote in her will that if the college closed, all she had bequeathed to it should go to the legitimate heirs of her father, either in the male or female line, providing they were communicant members of the Church of England. She didn’t write “born in wedlock”, she wrote “legitimate in English law”. Your parents married after the provisions of the 1976 Legitimacy Act came into force. That makes you legitimate.”

  Raphael walked over to the southern window and stood silently looking out over the headland. He said, “I’ll get used to it, I expect. I got used to having a mother who dumped me like a bundle of unwanted clothes in a charity shop. I got used to not knowing the name of my father or even if he were alive. I got used to being brought up in a theological college when my contemporaries had a home. I’ll get used to this. At present all I want is never to have to see you again.”

  Dalgliesh wondered if Gregory had detected in his son’s voice the quickly controlled quaver of emotion.

  Gregory said, “No doubt that can be arranged, but not now. I imagine Commander Dalgliesh wants me to stay here. This exciting new information has given me a motive. You too, of course.”

  Raphael turned on him.

  “Did you kill him?”

  “No, did you?”

  “God, this is ridiculous!” He turned to Dalgliesh.

  “I thought it was your job to investigate murder, not muck up people’s lives.”

  “I’m afraid the two very often go together.”

  Dalgliesh glanced at Kate, and together they walked towards the door.

  Gregory said, “Obviously Sebastian Morell will have to be told. I’d prefer that you left that to me or to Raphael.” He turned to his son.

  “Is that all right by you?”

  Raphael said, “I’ll say nothing. Tell him whenever you like. It’s a matter of supreme indifference to me. Ten minutes ago I didn’t have a father. I haven’t got one now.”

  Dalgliesh asked Gregory, “How long do you propose to wait? It can’t be indefinite.”

  “It won’t be, although, after twelve years, a week or so hardly seems significant. I’d prefer to say nothing until your investigation is complete, assuming that it ever is. But that’s hardly practical. I’ll tell him at the end of the week. I think I might be allowed to choose my own time and place.”

  Raphael had already left the cottage, and through the great panes of glass, smudged by the sea mists, they could see him striding over the headland towards the sea. Looking after him, Kate said, “Will he be all right? Shouldn’t someone go after him?”

  Gregory said, “He’ll survive. He’s not Ronald Treeves. For all his self-pity, Raphael has been indulged all his life. My son is fortified by a core of healthy self-regard.”

  When Nobby Clark was summoned to take possession of his track suit he made no difficulty about handing it over and watched with sardonic amusement as it was placed in a plastic bag and labelled before seeing Dalgliesh, Kate and Clark out of the cottage as formally as if he were saying goodbye to esteemed guests.

  They made their way towards St. Matthew’s. Kate said, “It’s a motive. I suppose Gregory has to be our chief suspect, but it doesn’t really make sense, does it? I mean, it’s obvious this place is going to be closed down. Raphael would have inherited anyway in the end. There wasn’t any hurry.”

  Dalgliesh said, “But there was. Think about it, Kate.”

  He gave no explanation and Kate knew better than to ask.

  They had reached St. Matthew’s Cottage when Piers appeared at the door. He said, “I was just going to ring you, sir. We’ve had a call from the hospital. Inspector Yarwood is well enough to be interviewed. They suggest we leave it until tomorrow morning when he’ll be more rested.”

  All hospitals, thought Dalgliesh, whatever their situation or architecture, are essentially alike; the same smell, the same paint, the same notices directing visitors to wards and departments, the same inoffensive pictures in the corridors chosen to reassure not to challenge, the same visitors with their flowers and packages making their confident way to familiar bedsides, the same staff in a variety of uniforms and half-uniforms, moving purposefully in their natural habitat, the same tired resolute faces. How many hospitals had he visited since his days as a detective constable, keeping watch over prisoners or witnesses, taking deathbed statements, questioning medical staff with more immediate things on their minds than his preoccupations?

  As they approached the ward, Piers said, “I try to keep out of these places. They give you infections that they can’t cure and if your own visitors don’t exhaust you to death, other patients’ visitors will. You can never get enough sleep and the food’s inedible.”

  Looking at him, Dalgliesh suspected that the words hid a deeper repugnance, amounting almost to a phobia. He said, “Doctors are like the police. You don’t think about them until you need them, and then you expect them to work miracles. I’d like you to stay outside while I speak to Yarwood, at least initially. If I need a witness I’ll call you in. I’ll have to take this gently.”

  A houseman, looking ridiculously young and with the customary stethoscope round his neck, confirmed that Inspector Yarwood was fit now to be interviewed and directed them to a small side-ward. Outside a uniformed police constable was keeping watch. He got up smartly as they approached and stood to attention.

  Dalgliesh said, “DC Lane, isn’t it? I don’t think you’ll be needed once it’s known that I’ve spoken to Inspector Yarwood. You’ll be glad to get away, I expect.”

  “Yes sir. We are pretty short-staffed.”

  Who isn’t? thought Dalgliesh.

  Yarwood’s bed was positioned to give him a view of the window and over the regulated
roofs of suburbia. One leg suspended on a pulley was in traction. After their encounter in Lowestoft, they had met only once and briefly at St. Anselm’s. He had been struck then by the look of weary acceptance in the man’s face. Now he seemed bodily to have shrunk and the weariness to have deepened into defeat. Dalgliesh thought, hospitals take over more than the body; no one exerts power from these narrow functional beds. Yarwood was diminished in spirit as in size and the darkened eyes turned on Dalgliesh held a look of puzzled shame that malignant fate should have laid him so low.

  It was impossible to avoid the first banal question as they shook hands.

  “How are you feeling now?”

  Yarwood avoided a direct answer.

  “If Pilbeam and the lad hadn’t found me when they did I’d have been a goner. An end of feeling. An end to claustrophobia. Better for Sharon, better for the kids, better for me. Sorry to sound such a wimp. In that ditch, before I became unconscious, there was no pain, no worry, just peace. It wouldn’t have been a bad way to go. The truth is, Mr. Dalgliesh, I wish they’d left me there.”

  “I don’t. We’ve had enough deaths at St. Anselm’s.” He didn’t say that now there had been another.

  Yarwood stared out over the roof-tops.

  “No more trying to cope, and no more feeling such a bloody failure.”

  Searching for the words of comfort which he knew he couldn’t find, Dalgliesh said, “You have to tell yourself that, whatever hell you’re in at present, it won’t last for ever. Nothing ever does.”

  “But it could get worse. Difficult to believe, but it could.”

  “Only if you let it.”

  There was a pause, then Yarwood said with an obvious effort, “Point taken. Sorry I let you down. What happened exactly? I know that Crampton’s been murdered, but nothing else. You’ve managed so far to keep the details out of the national papers and the local radio only gave the bare facts. What happened? I suppose you came for me after you discovered the body and found I’d gone. Just what you needed, a murderer on the loose and the one man you could look to for a spot of professional help doing his best to qualify as a suspect. It’s odd, but I just can’t work up any interest in it, I just can’t make myself care. Me, who used to be branded an over-zealous officer. I didn’t kill him, by the way.”