A Murder of Quality

by John le Carré

  Rigby was right – it was impossible to know. You had to be ill, you had to be sick to understand, you had to be there in the sanatorium, not for weeks, but for years, had to be one in the line of white beds, to know the smell of their food and the greed in their eyes. You had to hear it and see it, to be part of it, to know their rules and recognise their transgressions. This world was compressed into a mould of anomalous conventions: blind, Pharisaical but real.

  Yet some things were written plain enough: the curious bond which tied Felix D’Arcy and Terence Fielding despite their mutual dislike; D’Arcy’s reluctance to discuss the night of the murder; Fielding’s evident preference for Stella Rode rather than her husband; Shane Hecht’s contempt for everyone.

  He could not get Shane out of his mind. If Carne were a rational place, and somebody had to die, then Shane Hecht should clearly be the one. She was a depository of other people’s secrets, she had an infallible sense of weakness. Had she not found even Smiley out? She had taunted him with his wretched marriage, she had played with him for her own pleasure. Yes, she was an admirable candidate for murder.

  But why on earth should Stella die? Why and how? Who tied up the parcel after her death? And why?

  He tried to sleep, but could not. Finally, as the Abbey clock chimed three, he put the light on again and sat up. The room was much warmer and at first Smiley wondered if someone had switched on the central heating in the middle of the night, after it had been off all day. Then he became aware of the sound of rain outside; he went to the window and parted the curtains. A steady rain was falling; by tomorrow the snow would be washed away. Two policemen walked slowly down the road; he could hear the squelch of their boots as they trod in the melting snow. Their wet capes glistened in the arc of the street lamp.

  And suddenly he seemed to hear Rigby’s voice: ‘Blood everywhere. Whoever killed her must have been covered in it.’ And then Mad Janie calling to him across the moonlit snow: ‘Janie seed ’im … silver wings like fishes … flying on the wind … there’s not many seen the devil fly …’ Of course: the parcel! He remained a long time at the window, watching the rain. Finally, content at last, he climbed back into bed and fell asleep.

  He tried to telephone Miss Brimley throughout the morning. Each time she was out and he left no message. Eventually, at about midday, he spoke to her:

  ‘George, I’m terribly sorry – some missionary is in London – I had to go for an interview and I’ve got a Baptist Conference this afternoon. They’ve both got to be in this week. Will first thing tomorrow do?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Smiley. ‘I’m sure it will.’ There was no particular hurry. There were one or two ends he wanted to tie up that afternoon, anyway.

  12 Uncomfortable Words

  He enjoyed the bus. The conductor was a very surly man with a great deal to say about the bus company, and why it lost money. Gently encouraged by Smiley, he expanded wonderfully so that by the time they arrived at Sturminster he had transformed the Directors of the Dorset and General Traction Company into a herd of Gadarene swine charging into the abyss of voluntary bankruptcy. The conductor directed Smiley to the Sturminster kennels, and when he alighted in the tiny village, he set out confidently towards a group of cottages which stood about a quarter of a mile beyond the church, on the Okeford road.

  He had a nasty feeling he wasn’t going to like Mr Harriman. The very fact that D’Arcy had described him as a superior type of person inclined Smiley against him. Smiley was not opposed to social distinctions but he liked to make his own.

  A notice stood at the gate: ‘Sturminster Kennels, proprietor, C. J. Reid-Harriman, Veterinary Surgeon. Breeder of Alsatian and Labrador Dogs. Boarding.’

  A narrow path led to what seemed to be a backyard. There was washing everywhere, shirts, underclothes, and sheets, most of it khaki. There was a rich smell of dog. There was a rusted hand-pump with a dozen or so dog leads draped over it, and there was a small girl. She watched him sadly as he picked his way through the thick mud towards the door. He pulled on the bell-rope and waited. He tried again, and the child said:

  ‘It doesn’t work. It’s bust. It’s been bust for years.’

  ‘Is anyone at home?’ Smiley asked.

  ‘I’ll see,’ she replied coolly, and after another long look at him she walked round the side of the house and disappeared from view. Then Smiley heard from inside the house the sound of someone approaching, and a moment later the door opened.

  ‘Good day to you.’ He had sandy hair and a moustache. He wore a khaki shirt and a khaki tie of a lighter shade, old Service dress trousers and a tweed jacket with leather buttons.

  ‘Mr Harriman?’

  ‘Major,’ he replied lightly. ‘Not that it matters, old boy. What can we do for you?’

  ‘I’m thinking of buying an Alsatian,’ Smiley replied, ‘as a guard dog.’

  ‘Surely. Come in, won’t you. Lady wife’s out. Ignore the child: she’s from next door. Just hangs around; likes the dogs.’ He followed Harriman into the living-room and they sat down. There was no fire.

  ‘Where are you from?’ Harriman asked.

  ’I’m staying at Carne at the moment; my father lives over at Dorchester. He’s getting on and he’s nervous, and he wants me to find him a good dog. There’s a gardener to look after it in the daytime, feed it and exercise it and so on. The gardener doesn’t live in at night, of course, and it’s at night that the old man gets so worried. I’ve been meaning to get him a dog for some time – this recent business at Carne rather brought it home to me.’ Harriman ignored the hint.

  ‘Gardener good chap?’

  ‘Yes, very.’

  ‘You don’t want anything brilliant,’ said Harriman. ‘You want a good, steady type. I’d take a bitch if I were you.’ His hands were dark brown, his wrists too. His handkerchief was tucked into his cuff. Smiley noticed that his wristwatch faced inwards, conforming with the obscure rites of the military demi-monde from which he seemed to come.

  ‘What will it do, a dog like that? Will it attack, or what?’

  ‘Depends how she’s trained, old boy; depends how she’s trained. She’ll warn, though; that’s the main thing. Frighten the fellers away. Shove a notice up, “Fierce Dog”, let her sniff at the tradesmen a bit and the word will get around. You won’t get a burglar within a mile of the place.’

  They walked out into the garden again, and Harriman led the way to an enclosure with half a dozen Alsatian puppies yapping furiously at them through the wire.

  ‘They’re good little beasts, all of them,’ he shouted. ‘Game as hell.’ He unlocked the door and finally emerged with a plump bitch puppy chewing fiercely at his jacket.

  ‘This little lady might do you,’ he said. ‘We can’t show her – she’s too dark.’

  Smiley pretended to hesitate, allowed Harriman to persuade him and finally agreed. They went back into the house.

  ‘I’d like to pay a deposit,’ said Smiley, ‘and collect her in about ten days. Would that be all right?’ He gave Harriman a cheque for five pounds and again they sat down, Harriman foraging in his desk for inoculation certificates and pedigrees. Then Smiley said:

  ‘It’s a pity Mrs Rode didn’t have a dog, isn’t it? I mean, it might have saved her life.’

  ‘Oh, she had a dog, but she had it put down just before she was killed,’ said Harriman. ‘Damned odd story, between ourselves. She was devoted to the beast. Odd little mongrel, bit of everything, but she loved it. Brought it here one day with some tale about it biting the postman, got me to put it down – said it was dangerous. It wasn’t anything of the sort. Some friends of mine in Carne made inquiries. No complaints anywhere. Postman liked the brute. Damned silly sort of lie to tell in a small community. Bound to be found out.’

  ‘Why on earth did she tell it, then?’

  Harriman made a gesture which particularly irritated Smiley. He ran his forefinger down the length of his nose, then flicked either side of his absurd moustache very quickly. There was
something shamefaced about the whole movement, as if he were assuming the ways of senior officers, and fearful of rebuke.

  ‘She was trouble,’ he said crisply. ‘I can spot ’em. I’ve had a few in the regiment, wives who are trouble. Little simpering types. Butter-wouldn’t-melt, holier-than-thou. Arrange the flowers in the church and all that – pious as you please. I’d say she was the hysterical kind, self-dramatising, weeping all over the house for days on end. Anything for a bit of drama.’

  ‘Was she popular?’ Smiley offered him a cigarette.

  ‘Shouldn’t think so. Thanks. She wore black on Sundays, I gather. Typical. We used to call them “crows” out East, the ones who wore black – Sunday virgins. They were OD mostly – other denominations. Not C of E – some were Romans, mind … I hope I’m not …’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘You never know, do you? Can’t stand ’em myself; no prejudice, but I don’t like Romans – that’s what my old father used to say.’

  ‘Did you know her husband?’

  ‘Not so well, poor devil, not so well.’

  Harriman, Smiley reflected, seemed to have a great deal more sympathy for the living than the dead. Perhaps soldiers were like that. He wouldn’t know.

  ‘He’s terribly cut up, I hear. Dreadful shock – fortunes of war, eh?’ he added and Smiley nodded. ‘He’s the other type. Humble origin, good officer qualities, credit to the mess. Those are the ones that cut up most, the ones women get at.’

  They walked along the path to the gate. Smiley said good-bye, and promised to return in a week or so to collect the puppy. As he walked away Harriman called to him:

  ‘Oh – incidentally …’

  Smiley stopped and turned round.

  ‘I’ll pay that cheque in, shall I, and credit you with the amount?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Smiley. ‘That will do very well,’ and he made his way to the bus stop pondering on the strange byways of the military mind.

  The same bus took him back to Carne, the same conductor railed against his employers, the same driver drove the entire distance in second gear. He got out at the station and made his way to the red-brick Tabernacle. Gently opening the Gothic door, made of thickly varnished ochre pine, he stepped inside. An elderly woman in an apron was polishing the heavy brass chandelier which hung over the centre aisle. He waited a moment, then tiptoed up to her and asked for the Minister. She pointed towards the vestry door. Obeying her mimed directions, he crossed to it, knocked and waited. A tall man in a clerical collar opened the door.

  ‘I’m from the Christian Voice,’ said Smiley quietly. ‘Can I have a word with you?’

  Mr Cardew led him through the side entrance and into a small vegetable garden, carefully tilled, with bright yellow paths running between the empty beds. The sun shone through the crisp air. It was a cold, beautiful day. They crossed the garden and entered a paddock. The ground was hard despite last night’s rain, and the grass short. They strolled side by side, talking as they went.

  ‘This is Lammas Land, belonging to the School. We hold our fêtes here in the summer. It’s very practical.’

  Cardew seemed a little out of character. Smiley, who had a rather childish distrust of clergymen, had expected a Wesleyan hammer, a wordy, forbidding man with a taste for imagery.

  ‘Miss Brimley, our editor, sent me,‘ Smiley began. ‘Mrs Rode subscribed to our journal; her family has taken it since it began. She was almost a part of the family. We wanted to write an obituary about her work for the Church.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I managed to have a word with her husband; we wanted to be sure to strike the right note.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said I should speak to you about her work – her refugee work particularly.’

  They walked on in silence for a while, then Cardew said, ‘She came from up North, near Derby. Her father used to be a man of substance in the North – though money never altered him.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I’ve known the family for years, off and on. I saw her old father before the funeral.’

  ‘What may I say about her work for the Church, her influence on the Chapel community here? May I say she was universally loved?’

  ‘I’m afraid,’ said Cardew, after a slight pause, ‘that I don’t hold much with that kind of writing, Mr Smiley. People are never universally loved, even when they’re dead.’ His North Country accent was strong.

  ‘Then what may I say?’ Smiley persisted.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Cardew replied evenly. ‘And when I don’t know, I usually keep quiet. But since you’re good enough to ask me, I’ve never met an angel, and Stella Rode was no exception.’

  ‘But was she not a leading figure in refugee work?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, she was.’

  ‘And did she not encourage others to make similar efforts?’

  ‘Of course. She was a good worker.’

  They walked on together in silence. The path across the field led downwards, then turned and followed a stream which was almost hidden by the tangled gorse and hawthorn on either side. Beyond the stream was a row of stark elm trees, and behind them the familiar outline of Carne.

  ‘Is that all you wanted to ask me?’ said Cardew suddenly.

  ‘No,’ replied Smiley. ‘Our editor was very worried by a letter she received from Mrs Rode just before her death. It was a kind of … accusation. We put the matter before the police. Miss Brimley reproaches herself in some way for not having been able to help her. It’s illogical, perhaps, but there it is. I would like to be able to assure her that there was no connexion between Stella Rode’s death and this letter. That is another reason for my visit …’

  ‘Whom did the letter accuse?’

  ‘Her husband.’

  ‘I should tell your Miss Brimley,’ said Cardew slowly, and with some emphasis, ‘that she has nothing whatever for which to reproach herself.’

  13 The Journey Home

  It was Monday evening. At about the time that Smiley returned to his hotel after his interview with Mr Cardew, Tim Perkins, the Head of Fielding’s house, was taking his leave of Mrs Harlowe, who taught him the ’cello. She was a kindly woman, if neurotic, and it distressed her to see him so worried. He was quite the best pupil that Carne had sent her, and she liked him.

  ‘You played foully today, Tim,’ she said as she wished him good-bye at the door, ‘quite foully. You needn’t tell me – you’ve only got one more Half and you still haven’t got three passes in A Level and you’ve got to get your remove, and you’re in a tizz. We won’t practise next Monday if you don’t want – just come and have buns and we’ll play some records.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Harlowe.’ He strapped his music-case on to the carrier of his bicycle.

  ‘Lights working, Tim?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Harlowe.’

  ‘Well, don’t try and beat the record tonight, Tim. You’ve plenty of time till Boys’ Tea. Remember the lane’s still quite slippery from the snow.’

  Perkins said nothing. He pushed the bicycle on to the gravel path and started towards the gate.

  ‘Haven’t you forgotten something, Tim?’

  ‘Sorry, Mrs Harlowe.’

  He turned back and shook hands with her in the doorway. She always insisted on that.

  ‘Look, Tim, what is the matter? Have you done something silly? You can tell me, can’t you? I’m not Staff, you know.’

  Perkins hesitated, then said:

  ‘It’s just exams, Mrs Harlowe.’

  ‘Are your parents all right? No trouble at home?’

  ‘No, Mrs Harlowe; they’re fine.’ Again he hesitated, then:

  ‘Good night, Mrs Harlowe.’

  ‘Good night.’

  She watched him close the gate behind him and cycle off down the narrow lane. He would be in Carne in a quarter of an hour; it was downhill practically all the way.

  Usually he loved the ride home. It was the best moment of the week. But tonight he
hardly noticed it. He rode fast, as he always did; the hedge raced against the dark sky and the rabbits scuttled from the beam of his lamp, but tonight he hardly noticed them.

  He would have to tell somebody. He should have told Mrs Harlowe; he wished he had. She’d know what to do. Mr Snow would have been all right, but he wasn’t up to him for science any longer, he was up to Rode. That was half the trouble. That and Fielding.

  He could tell True – yes, that’s who he’d tell, he’d tell True. He’d go to Miss Truebody tonight after evening surgery and he’d tell her the truth. His father would never get over it, of course, because it meant failure and perhaps disgrace. It meant not getting to Sandhurst at the end of next Half, it meant more money they couldn’t afford …

  He was coming to the steepest part of the hill. The hedge stopped on one side and instead there was a marvellous view of Sawley Castle against the night sky, like a backcloth for Macbeth. He loved acting – he wished the Master let them act at Carne.

  He leant forward over the handlebars and allowed himself to gather speed to go through the shallow ford at the bottom of the hill. The cold air bit into his face, and for a moment he almost forgot … Suddenly he braked; felt the bike skid wildly beneath him.

  Something was wrong; there was a light ahead, a flashing light, and a familiar voice calling to him urgently across the darkness.

  14 The Quality of Mercy

  The Public Schools Committee for Refugee Relief (Patroness: Sarah, Countess of Sawley) has an office in Belgrave Square. It is not at all clear whether this luxurious situation is designed to entice the wealthy or encourage the dispossessed – or, as some irreverent voices in Society whispered, to provide the Countess of Sawley with an inexpensive pied-á-terre in the West End of London. The business of assisting refugees has been suitably relegated to the south of the river, to one of those untended squares in Kennington which are part of London’s architectural schizophrenia. York Gardens, as the square is called, will one day be discovered by the world, and its charm lost, but go there now, and you may see real children playing hopscotch in the road, and their mothers, shod in bedroom slippers, abusing them from doorways.