Death in Holy Orders

by P. D. James

  There was another pause. He had placed his hands on the table and now sat regarding them. It was impossible to see his face, but Dalgliesh knew that the man had reached a point of decision. Again he was asking himself how much the police knew and with what certainty. Had Margaret Munroe spoken to someone else? Had she perhaps left a note?

  The pause lasted for less than six seconds but seemed longer. Then he said, “Yes, she came to see me. She had made some enquiry she didn’t say what that confirmed her suspicions. Two things apparently worried her. The first was that I was deceiving Father Sebastian and working here under false pretences; more importantly, of course, was that Raphael ought to be told. None of it was her business, but I thought it wise to explain why I hadn’t married Raphael’s mother when she was pregnant, and why I changed my mind. I said I was waiting to tell my son until I had reason to believe that the news wouldn’t be too unwelcome to him. I wanted to choose my own time. She could be assured that I would speak before the end of term. On that undertaking which incidentally she had absolutely no right to extract she said she would keep the secret.”

  Dalgliesh said, “And that night she died.”

  “Of a heart attack. If the trauma of the discovery and the effort it took to confront me proved fatal, then I’m sorry. I can’t be held responsible for every death that takes place at St. Anselm’s. You will be accusing me next of pushing Agatha Betterton down the cellar steps.”

  Kate said, “And did you?”

  This time he was clever at concealing his dislike. He said, “I thought you were investigating the murder of Archdeacon Crampton, not attempting to cast me as a serial killer. Shouldn’t we be concentrating on the one death which was undoubtedly murder?”

  It was then Dalgliesh spoke. He said, “We shall be requiring samples of hair from everyone who was in college last Saturday night. I take it you have no objection?”

  “Not if the indignity is to be extended to all the other suspects. It’s hardly a procedure needing a general anaesthetic.”

  There was little point in prolonging the questioning. They went through the routine for ending the interview and Kate switched off the tape.

  Gregory said, “If you want your hairs, you’d better come for them now. I propose to work and have no intention of being interrupted.”

  He strode off into the darkness.

  Dalgliesh said, “I want those samples taken tonight. Then I’m driving back to London. I’d like to be at the lab when the cloak is examined. We should get a result within a couple of days if they give it priority. You two and Robbins will remain here. I’ll arrange with Father Sebastian for you to move into this cottage. I dare say he can provide sleeping bags or mattresses if there are no spare beds. I want a twenty-four hour watch kept on Gregory.”

  Kate said, “And if we get nothing from the cloak? Everything else we’ve got is circumstantial. Without forensic evidence we haven’t got a case.”

  She had only been stating the obvious and neither Dalgliesh nor Piers replied.

  When his sister was alive, Father John seldom appeared at meals except for dinner, when all the community were expected to be present for what Father Sebastian obviously regarded as a unifying celebration of community life. But now, and a little unexpectedly, he arrived for Tuesday afternoon tea. With this latest death there had been no ceremonial calling together of the whole of the college; the news had been given to priests and ordinands individually by Father Sebastian with the minimum of fuss. The four ordinands had already visited Father John to express their condolences, and now they tried to show sympathy by replenishing his cup and bringing him sandwiches, scones and cake in succession from the refectory table. He sat near the door, a tranquil diminished little man, unflinchingly polite and occasionally smiling. After tea Emma suggested that she should begin looking through Miss Betterton’s wardrobe and they went up to the flat together.

  She had wondered how she could bundle up the clothes and had asked Mrs. Pilbeam for a couple of strong plastic bags, one for items which might be welcomed by Oxfam or some other charity shop and the other for clothes destined to be thrown away. But the two black bags presented to her had looked so intimidatingly unsuitable for anything other than rubbish that she had decided to make a preliminary sorting of the wardrobe and then bag and remove the clothes at a time when Father John wasn’t in the flat.

  She left him sitting in the gloaming by the faint blue flames of his gas fire and went through to Miss Betterton’s bedroom. A central pendant light with a dusty old-fashioned shade gave inadequate illumination, but an angle poise lamp on the table by the single brass bed was fitted with a more powerful bulb and by directing the beam on the room she was able to see to begin her task. To the right of the bed was an upright chair and a bow-fronted chest of drawers. The only other furniture was an immense mahogany wardrobe decorated with carved scrolls which occupied the space between the two small windows. Emma opened the door and breathed in a musty smell overlaid with the scent of tweed, lavender and mothballs.

  But the task of sorting and discarding proved less formidable than she had feared. Miss Betterton in her solitary life had managed with few clothes and it was difficult to believe she had purchased anything new in the last ten years. Emma drew from the wardrobe a heavy musquash coat with bare patches, two tweed suits which, with their over-padded shoulders and fitted jackets, looked as if they had last been worn in the 1930s, a motley collection of cardigans and long tweed skirts, and evening dresses in velvet and satin of excellent quality but archaic cut which it was difficult to believe a modern woman would wear except as fancy dress. The chest of drawers held shirts and underclothes, knickers washed but stained at the crotch, long-sleeved vests and rolled balls of thick stockings. There was little here that a charity shop would welcome.

  She felt a sudden revulsion and a defensive pity on Miss Betterton’s behalf that Inspector Tarrant and his colleague should have rummaged among these pathetic leavings. What had they expected to find a letter, a diary, a confession? Medieval congregations, exposed Sunday after Sunday to the terrifying imagery of the Doom, prayed to be delivered from sudden death, fearing that they might go to their creator un shriven Nowadays man, in his last moment, was more likely to regret the untidy desk, the unfulfilled intentions, the incriminating letters.

  There was a surprising find in the bottom drawer. Carefully placed between brown paper was an R.A.F officer’s tunic with wings above the left pocket, two rings on the sleeves and the ribbon of some gallantry award. With it was a squashed, rather battered cap. Moving the musquash coat she laid them together on the bed and contemplated them for a moment in baffled silence.

  She found the jewellery in the top left-hand drawer of the chest of drawers in a small leather box. There wasn’t much, and the cameo brooches, heavy gold rings and long pearl necklaces looked as if they were family heirlooms. It was difficult to assess their value, although some of the stones looked good, and she wondered how best she could deal with Father John’s request to have the jewellery sold. Perhaps the best plan would be to take all the pieces to Cambridge and get a valuation from one of the city’s jewellers. In the mean time keeping them safe would be a responsibility.

  There was a false bottom to the box and, lifting it, she found a small envelope yellowed with age. She opened it and tipped out onto her palm a single ring. It was gold and, although the stones were small, they were prettily mounted, a central ruby in a cluster of diamonds. On impulse she slipped it onto the third finger of her left hand and recognized it for what it was: an engagement ring. If it had been given to Miss Betterton by the airman, he must have been killed; how else would she have come by his uniform? Emma had a vivid image of a single plane, Spitfire or Hurricane, spiralling out of control and trailing its long tongue of fire before plunging into the Channel. Or had he been a bomber pilot, shot down over some enemy target, joining in death those whom his bombs had killed? Had he and Agatha Betterton been lovers before he died ?

  Why was i
t, she wondered, so difficult to believe that the old had been young, with the strength and animal beauty of youth, had loved, been loved, laughed and been full of youth’s un meditated optimism? She pictured Miss Betterton on the few occasions when she had seen her, striding along the cliff path, woollen cap on head, chin forward, as if combating a more bitterly intractable enemy than the wind; passing Emma on the stairs with a brief nod of recognition or a sudden dart from her dark, disturbingly inquisitive eyes. Raphael had liked her, had been willing to spend time with her. But had that been genuine affection or the duty of kindness? And if this were indeed an engagement ring, why had she stopped wearing it? But perhaps that wasn’t so difficult to understand. It represented something that was over and had to be folded away as she had folded away her lover’s tunic. She had had no wish to put on memory every morning with a symbol which had outlasted the giver and would outlast her, to make grief and loss public knowledge with every gesture of her hand. It was an easy platitude to say that the dead lived on in the memory of the living, but what substitute was memory for the loving voice and the strong enclosing arms? And wasn’t this the stuff of nearly all the world’s poetry, the transitoriness of life and love and beauty, the knowledge that time’s winged chariot had knives in its wheels ?

  There was a low knock on the door and it opened. She swung round and saw Inspector Miskin. For a moment they stood regarding each other and Emma saw no friendliness in the other’s eyes.

  Then the Inspector said, “Father John said I’d find you here.

  Commander Dalgliesh has asked me to put everyone in the picture. He’s returned to London and I shall be staying on for the present with Inspector Tarrant and Sergeant Robbins. Now that security locks have been fitted to the guest sets it’s important that you lock yourself in at night. I’ll be in the college after Compline and will see you to your set.”

  So Commander Dalgliesh had gone without saying goodbye. But why should he have said goodbye? There were more important matters on his mind than a casual courtesy. He would have said his formal farewells to Father Sebastian. What else would have been necessary?

  Inspector Miskin’s tone had been perfectly polite and Emma knew she was being unjust in resenting it. She said, “I don’t need to be escorted to my set. And does this mean that you think we’re in danger?”

  There was a pause, then Inspector Miskin said, “We’re not saying that. It’s just that there is still a murderer on this headland and until we make an arrest it’s sensible for everyone to take precautions.”

  “And do you expect to make an arrest?”

  Again there was a pause, then Inspector Miskin said, “We hope to. After all, that’s what we’re here for, isn’t it, to make an arrest? I’m sorry I can’t say any more at present. I’ll see you later then.”

  She went out, closing the door. Standing alone by the bed, looking down at the folded cap and tunic and with the ring still on her finger, Emma felt tears welling in her eyes but didn’t know whether she was weeping for Miss Betterton, for her dead lover or a little for herself. Then she replaced the ring in its envelope and set about completing her task.

  The next morning Dalgliesh drove before first light to the Lambeth laboratory. Rain had been falling steadily all night and although it had now stopped, the changing red, amber and green of the traffic lights cast their trembling and gaudy images on roads still awash, and the air held a fresh river smell borne on a full tide. London seems to sleep only for the hours between two and four in the morning, and then it is a fitful slumber. Now, slowly, the capital was waking up and the workers, in small preoccupied groups, were emerging to take possession of their city.

  Material from Suffolk scenes of crime would normally have been sent to the Huntingdon forensic science laboratory but that laboratory was overloaded. Lambeth was able to offer Premium One priority, which was what Dalgliesh requested. He was well known at the lab and was greeted with warmth by the staff. Dr. Anna Prescott, the senior forensic biologist who was awaiting him, had given evidence for the Crown in a number of his cases and he knew how much success had depended on her reputation as a scientist, on the confidence and lucidity with which she presented her findings to the court and on her calm assurance under cross-examination. But, like all forensic scientists, she wasn’t an agent of the police. If Gregory were ever brought to trial, she would be there as an independent expert witness with allegiance only to the facts.

  The cloak had been dried in the laboratory drying cupboard and had now been spread out on one of the wide search tables under the glare of the four fluorescent lights. Gregory’s track suit had been taken to another part of the lab to avoid cross-contamination. Any transferred fibres from the track suit would be recovered from the surface of the cloak with adhesive tape and then be examined by comparison microscopy. If this initial preliminary microscope examination suggested that there was a match, a further series of comparative tests would be undertaken including the instrumental analysis of the chemical composition of the fibre itself. But all that, which would take considerable time, was in the future. The blood had already gone for analysis, and Dalgliesh awaited the report without anxiety; he had no doubt that it had come from Archdeacon Crampton. What Dr. Prescott and he were looking for now were hairs. Together, gowned and masked, they bent over the cloak.

  Dalgliesh reflected that the keen human eye was a remarkably effective instrument of search. It took them only a few seconds to find what they were seeking. Twisted in the brass chain at the neck of the cloak were two grey hairs. Dr. Prescott unwound them with delicate care and placed them in a small glass dish. She immediately examined them under a low power microscope and said with satisfaction, “Both have roots. That means there’s a good chance of getting a DNA profile.”

  Two days later at seven-thirty in the morning the message from the laboratory was telephoned to Dalgliesh at his Thames-side flat. The two hair roots had yielded their DNA, and it was Gregory’s. It was news that Dalgliesh had expected but he still received it with a small surge of relief. Comparison microscopy of fibres on the cloak and on the top of the track suit had given a match but the results of the final tests were still awaited. Replacing the receiver, Dalgliesh paused for a moment’s thought. To wait or to act now ? He was unwilling to leave it longer before making an arrest. The DNA showed that Gregory had worn Ronald Treeves’s cloak and the fibre-match could only confirm this main incontrovertible finding. He could, of course, ring Kate or Piers at St. Anselm’s; both were perfectly competent to make an arrest. But he needed to be there himself and he knew why. The act of arresting Gregory, of speaking the words of the caution, would in some way assuage the defeat of his last case when he had known the identity of the murderer, had listened to his quickly withdrawn confession, but hadn’t sufficient evidence to justify arrest. Not to be present now would leave something incomplete, although he was unsure precisely what.

  As expected, the two days had been more than usually busy. He had returned to a backlog of work, to problems which were his responsibility and others which laid their weight on his mind, as they did on the minds of all senior officers. The force was seriously understaffed. There was an urgent need to recruit intelligent, educated and highly motivated men and women from all sections of the community at a time when other careers offered this sought-after group higher salaries, greater prestige and less stress. There was the need to reduce the burden of bureaucracy and paperwork, to increase the effectiveness of the detective force and to tackle corruption in an age when bribery wasn’t a 10 note slipped into a back pocket but a share in the huge profits of the illegal drugs trade. But now, at least for a short time, he would return to St. Anselm’s. It was no longer a place of unsullied goodness and peace but there was a job to be finished and people he wanted to see. He wondered if Emma Lavenham was still in college.

  Putting aside thoughts of his crowded diary, the weight of files requiring attention, the meeting planned for the afternoon, he left a message for the Assistant Commission
er and his secretary. Then he rang Kate. All was quiet at St. Anselm’s abnormally so, Kate thought. People were going about their daily business and with a kind of subdued intensity, as if that bloody corpse still lay under the Doom in the church. It seemed to her that the whole house was waiting for a consummation half longed-for and half dreaded. Gregory hadn’t shown himself. He had, at Dalgliesh’s request, handed over his passport after the last interrogation and there was no fear that he would abscond. But flight had never been an option; it was no part of Gregory’s plan to be hauled back ignominiously, from some inhospitable foreign refuge.

  It was a cold day and he smelled in the London air for the first time the metallic tang of winter. A biting but fitful wind scoured the City and by the time he reached the Aia it was blowing in strong, more sustained blasts. The traffic was unusually light except for the trucks on their way to the east coast ports, and he drove smoothly and fast, his hands lightly on the wheel, his eyes fixed ahead. What had he but two grey hairs as the frail instruments of justice? They would have to be enough.

  His thoughts moved from the arrest to the trial and he found himself rehearsing the case for the defence. The DNA could not be challenged; Gregory had worn Ronald Treeves’s cloak. But the defence counsel would probably claim that Gregory, when giving that last Greek lesson to Treeves, had borrowed it, perhaps complaining of feeling cold, and that at the time he had been wearing his black track suit. Nothing was less likely, but would a jury believe that? Gregory had a strong motive, but so had others, including Raphael. The twig found on the floor of Raphael’s sitting-room could have blown in unseen when he left his set to go to Peter Buckhurst; the prosecution would probably be wise not to make too much of it. The telephone call to Mrs. Crampton, put through from the box in the college, was dangerous to the defence but it could have been made by eight other people, and possibly by Raphael. And then there was a case to be made against Miss Betterton. She had motive and opportunity, but had she the strength to wield that heavy candlestick? No one now would know: Agatha Betterton was dead. Gregory had not been accused of her murder, nor of murdering Margaret Munroe. In neither case had there been sufficient evidence even to justify his arrest.