by P. D. James
On the top of the machine was a white postcard. Kate picked it up and silently passed it to Dalgliesh. The writing was black, the letters meticulously formed.
“This vehicle should not be parked in the forecourt. Kindly remove it to the rear of the building. P.G.”
Dalgliesh said, “Father Peregrine, and it looks as if he turned off the machine. There are only about three inches of water here.”
Kate said, “Is it bloody?” and, bending, peered close.
“It’s difficult to see, but the lab won’t need much to get a match. Ring Piers and the SO COs will you Kate. Call off the search. I want this door removed, the water drained off and the cloak sent to the lab. I need hair samples from everyone at St. Anselm’s. Thank God for Father Peregrine. If a machine this size had gone full cycle I doubt whether we’d have got anything useful, either blood, fibres or hair. Piers and I will have a word with him.”
Kate said, “Surely Cain was taking an extraordinary risk. It was crazy coming back, even crazier to set the machine going. It was only by chance we didn’t find the cloak earlier.”
“He didn’t mind if we did find it. He may even have wanted it found. All that mattered was that it couldn’t be linked to him.”
“But he must have known that there was a risk that Father Peregrine would wake up and turn off the machine.”
“No, he didn’t know, Kate. He was one of the people here who never uses those machines. Remember Mrs. Munroe’s diary? George Gregory had his washing done by Ruby Pilbeam.”
Father Peregrine was sitting at his desk at the west end of the library, hardly visible behind a pile of volumes. No one else was present.
Dalgliesh said, “Father, did you turn off one of the washing machines on the night of the murder?”
Father Peregrine lifted his head and appeared to take some seconds recognizing his visitors. He said, “I’m sorry. It’s Commander Dalgliesh, of course. Of what are we speaking?”
“Saturday night. The night Archdeacon Crampton was killed. I’m asking if you went into the laundry-room and turned off one of the machines.”
“Did I?”
Dalgliesh handed over the postcard.
“You wrote this, I presume. Those are your initials. This is your handwriting.”
“Yes, that is my hand certainly. Dear me, it seems to be the wrong card.”
“What did the right one say, Father?”
“It said that ordinands should not use the washing machines after Compline. I go to bed early and sleep lightly. The machines are old and when they start up the noise is extremely disrupting. The defect, I understand, is in the water system rather than in the machines themselves, but the cause is immaterial. Ordinands are supposed to keep silence after Compline. It is not an appropriate time to do their personal laundry.”
“And did you hear the machine, Father? Did you place this note on it?”
“I must have done. But I expect I was half asleep at the time and it slipped my mind.”
Piers said, “How could it have slipped your mind, Father? You weren’t too sleepy to write the note, find a card and a pen.”
“Oh but I explained, Inspector. This is the wrong note. I have quite a number already written. They’re in my room if you care to see.”
They followed him through the door that led into his cell-like room. There on the top of the crowded bookcase was a cardboard box containing some half-dozen cards. Dalgliesh rifled through them.
“This desk is for my use only. Ordinands should not leave their books here.”
“Kindly replace the books on these shelves in their precise order.”
“These machines should not be used after Compline. In future any machines working after ten o’clock will be turned off.”
“This board is for official notices only, not for the exchange of trivia by ordinands.” All bore the initials P.G.
Father Peregrine said, “I’m afraid I was very sleepy. I picked up the wrong card.”
Dalgliesh said, “You heard the machine start up some time in the night and went out to turn off the noise. Didn’t you realize the importance of this when Inspector Miskin questioned you?”
“The young woman asked me whether I had heard anyone come in or leave the building, or whether I had gone out myself. I remember the words exactly. She told me I must be very precise in answering her questions. I was. I said no. Nothing was said to me about washing machines.”
Dalgliesh said, “The doors of all the machines were closed. It’s usual, surely, for them to be left open when not in use. Did you close them, Father?”
Father Peregrine said complacently, “I can’t remember but I expect I did. It would be a natural thing to do. Tidiness, you know. I dislike seeing them left open. There’s no good reason for it.”
Father Peregrine’s thoughts seemed to be on his desk and the work in hand. He led the way back into the library and they followed him. He settled himself down at the desk again, as if the interview were over.
Dalgliesh said with all the force he could command, “Father, are you at all interested in helping me to catch this murderer?”
Father Peregrine, not in the least intimidated by Dalgliesh’s six-foot-two inches towering over him, appeared to consider the question as a proposition rather than an accusation. He said, “Murderers should be caught, certainly, but I don’t really think I’m competent to help you, Commander. I have no experience of police investigation. I think you should call on Father Sebastian or Father John. They both read a great deal of detective fiction, and that probably gives them an insight. Father Sebastian lent me a volume once. I think it was by a Mr. Hammond Innes. It was too clever for me, I’m afraid.”
Piers, speechless, raised his eyes to heaven and turned his back on the debacle. Father Peregrine dropped his eyes to his book, but then showed signs of animation and looked up again.
“Just a thought. This murderer, having done his murdering, would surely want to make his getaway. I expect he had a getaway car ready outside the west gate. The expression is familiar to me. I can’t believe, Commander, that he would think it a convenient time to do his personal laundry. The washing machine is a kipper.”
Piers muttered ‘red herring’, and took a step away from the desk as if he could bear no more.
Father Peregrine said, “Kipper or red herring, the meaning is the same. Red herrings were, of course, the staple protein on this coast for many years. It’s a curious word. I imagine the etymology is Middle English ky pre from the Old English cypera. I’m surprised you don’t use it in place of red herring. You could say that an investigation was “kippered” when its success was jeopardized by irrelevant and misleading information.” He paused, then added, “Like my note, I’m afraid.”
Dalgliesh said, “And you saw and heard nothing when you left your room?”
“As I have explained, Commander, I have no memory of having left my room. However, the evidence of my note and the fact that the machine was turned off seem incontrovertible. Certainly if anyone had entered my room to take the postcard I should have heard. I’m sorry not to be more helpful.”
Father Peregrine again turned his attention to his books and Dalgliesh and Piers left him to his work.
Outside the library, Piers said, “I don’t believe it. The man’s mad. And he’s supposed to be competent to teach postgraduates!”
“And does it brilliantly, so I’m told. I can believe it. He wakes, hears a noise he detests, pads out half-asleep and picks up what he thinks is his usual note, then fumbles back into bed. The difficulty is that he doesn’t for one moment believe that anyone in St. Anselm’s is a murderer. He doesn’t admit the possibility to his mind. It’s the same with Father John and the brown cloak. Neither of them is trying to obstruct us, they are not being deliberately unhelpful. None of them thinks like a policeman and our questions seem an irrelevance. They refuse to accept even the possibility that someone at St. Anselm’s was responsible.”
Piers said, “Then they’re i
n for one hell of a shock. And Father Sebastian? Father Martin?”
“They’ve seen the body, Piers. They know where and how. The question is, do they know who?”
In the laundry-room the dripping cloak had been carefully lifted and placed in an open plastic bag. The water, so faintly pink that the colour seemed more imagined than real, was siphoned into bottles and labelled. Two of Clark’s team were dusting the machine for prints. It seemed to Dalgliesh a pointless exercise; Gregory had worn gloves in the church and was unlikely to have taken them off before he returned to his cottage. But the job had to be done; the defence would look for any opportunity to question the efficiency of the investigation.
Dalgliesh said, “This confirms Gregory as prime suspect, but then he was from the time we knew about the marriage. Where is he, by the way? Do we know?”
Kate said, “He drove to Norwich this morning. He told Mrs. Pilbeam he’d be back by mid afternoon. She cleans his cottage for him and she was there this morning.”
“We’ll question him as soon as he returns and this time we use PACE. I want the interview recorded. Two things are important. He mustn’t know that Treeves’s cloak was left in college or that the washing machine was turned off. Speak to Father John and Father Peregrine again, will you, Piers? Be tactful. Try to ensure that the message gets through to Father Peregrine.”
Piers went out. Kate said, “Couldn’t we get Father Sebastian to announce that the door to the north cloister is open and that students can use the laundry-room? We could then keep watch to see if Gregory comes for the cloak. He’ll want to know if we’ve found it.”
“Ingenious, Kate, but it will prove nothing. He’s not going to fall into that trap. If he does decide to come he’ll bring some soiled washing with him. But why should he? He planned for the cloak to be found, one more piece of evidence to convince us that this was an inside job. All that concerns him is that we can’t prove that he wore it on the night of the murder. Normally he’d have been safe. It was bad luck for him that Surtees went to the church on Saturday night. Without his evidence there would have been no proof that the murderer wore a cloak. Bad luck for him, too, that the machine was turned off. If the washing cycle had been completed any evidence would almost certainly have been destroyed.”
Kate said, “He could still claim that Treeves had lent him the cloak some time previously.”
“But how likely is that? Treeves was a young man jealous of his possessions. Why would he lend anyone his cloak? But you’re right. That will probably be part of his defence.”
Piers had returned. He said, “Father John was in the library with Father Peregrine. I think they’ve both got the message. But we had better wait for Gregory and intercept him as soon as he arrives back.”
Kate asked, “And if he wants a lawyer?”
Dalgliesh said, “Then we’ll have to wait until he gets one.”
But Gregory had no wish for a lawyer. An hour later he seated himself at the table in the interview room with every appearance of calm.
He said, “I think I know my rights and just how far you are permitted to go without incurring the expense of a lawyer. Those who would be any good I can’t afford, and those I can afford wouldn’t be any good. My solicitor, although perfectly competent when it comes to drawing up a will, would be an irritating encumbrance to us all. I didn’t kill Crampton. Not only is violence repugnant to me, I had no reason to wish him dead.”
Dalgliesh had decided that he would leave the questioning to Kate and Piers. Both sat opposite Gregory, and Dalgliesh himself moved to the east-facing window. It was, he thought, a curious setting for a police interview. The barely furnished room, with the square table, the four upright chairs and the two armchairs, was just as they had first seen it. The one change was a brighter bulb in the single overhanging light over the table. Only in the kitchen, with its collection of mugs and the faint smell of sandwiches and coffee, and in the more comfortably furnished sitting-room opposite, where Mrs. Pilbeam had actually provided a jug of flowers, were there any signs of their occupation. He wondered what a casual watcher would have made of the present scene, of this bare functional space, of the three men and one woman so obviously intent on their private business. It could only be an interrogation or a conspiracy and the rhythmic booming of the sea emphasized the atmosphere of secrecy and menace.
Kate switched on the machine and they went through the preliminaries. Gregory gave his name and address and the three police officers stated their names and ranks.
It was Piers who began the questioning. He said, “Archdeacon Crampton was murdered at about midnight last Saturday. Where were you after ten o’clock that night?”
“I told you that earlier when you first questioned me. I was in my cottage, listening to Wagner. I didn’t leave the cottage until I was summoned by telephone to attend Sebastian Morell’s assembly in the library.”
“We have evidence that someone went to Raphael Arbuthnot’s room that night. Was it you?”
“How could it be ? I just told you I didn’t leave my cottage.”
“On 27 April 1988 you married Clara Arbuthnot, and you have told us that Raphael is your son. Did you know at the time of the marriage that the ceremony would make him legitimate, the heir to St. Anselm’s?”
There was a slight pause. Dalgliesh thought, he doesn’t know how we found out about the marriage. He’s not sure how much we know.
Then Gregory said, “I wasn’t aware of it at the time. Later and I can’t remember when it came to my knowledge that the 1976 Act had legitimized my son.”
“At the time of the marriage did you know the provisions of Miss Agnes Arbuthnot’s will?”
There was no hesitation now. Dalgliesh was confident that Gregory would have made it his business to know, probably by research in London. But he wouldn’t have done that under his own name and could be reasonably sure that this at least was evidence they wouldn’t easily find. He said, “No, I didn’t know.”
“And your wife didn’t tell you before or after the marriage?”
Again the slight hesitation, the flicker of the eyes. Then he decided to take a risk.
“No, she didn’t. She was more concerned with saving her soul than with financial benefit to our son. And if these somewhat naive questions are intended to stress that I had motive, may I point out that so did all four resident priests.”
Piers broke in, “I thought you told us you were unaware of the provisions of the will.”
“I wasn’t thinking of pecuniary advantage. I was thinking of the obvious dislike felt for the Archdeacon by virtually everyone in college. And if you’re alleging that I killed the Archdeacon to ensure an inheritance for my son, may I point out that the college was scheduled to close. We all knew that our time here was limited.”
Kate said, “Closure was inevitable, perhaps, but not immediate. Father Sebastian might well have negotiated a further year or two. Long enough for your son to complete his training and to be ordained. Was that what you wanted ?”
“I’d have preferred another career for him. But this, I understand, is one of the smaller irritations of parenthood. Children seldom make sensible choices. As I have ignored Raphael for twenty-five years, I can hardly expect to have a say now in how he runs his life.”
Piers said, “We have learned today that the Archdeacon’s murderer almost certainly wore an ordinand’s cloak. We have found a brown cloak in one of the washing machines in St. Anselm’s laundry-room. Did you put it there?”
“No I did not, nor do I know who did.”
“We also know that someone, probably a man, phoned Mrs. Crampton at nine twenty-eight on the night of the murder pretending to call from the diocesan office and asking for the number of the Archdeacon’s mobile phone. Did you make that call?”
Gregory suppressed a faint smile.
“This is a surprisingly simplistic interrogation for what I understand is regarded as one of Scotland Yard’s more prestigious squads. No, I did not make that c
all, nor do I know who did.”
“It was a time when the priests and the four ordinands in residence were due in church for Compline. Where were you?”
“In my cottage marking essays. And I wasn’t the only man not to attend Compline. Yarwood, Stannard, Surtees and Pilbeam resisted the temptation to hear the Archdeacon preach, as did the three women. Are you sure it was a man who made that call?”
Kate said, “The Archdeacon’s murder wasn’t the only tragedy that put St. Anselm’s future at risk. The death of Ronald Treeves didn’t help. He was with you on the Friday evening. He died the next day. What happened that Friday?”
Gregory stared at her. The spasm of dislike and contempt in his face was as raw and explicit as if he had spat. Kate flushed. She went on, “He’d been rejected and betrayed. He came to you for comfort and reassurance and you sent him away. Isn’t that what happened?”
“He came to me for a lesson in New Testament Greek which I gave him. Shorter than usual, admittedly, but that was at his wish. Obviously you know about his stealing the consecrated wafer. I advised him to confess to Father Sebastian. It was the only possible advice and you would have given the same. He asked me if this would mean expulsion and I said, given Father Sebastian’s peculiar view of reality, I thought it would. He wanted assurance but I couldn’t honestly give it to him. Better to risk expulsion than fall into the hands of a blackmailer. He was the son of a rich man; he could have been paying that woman for years.”
“Have you any reason to suppose that Karen Surtees is a blackmailer? How well do you know her?”
“Well enough to know that she is an unscrupulous young woman who likes power. His secret would never have been safe with her.”
Kate said, “So he went out and killed himself.”
“Unfortunately. That I could neither have foreseen nor prevented.”
Piers said, “And then there was a second death. We’ve evidence that Mrs. Munroe had discovered that you are Raphael’s father. Did she confront you with this knowledge?”