by P. D. James
The advertised star of the evening was Gabriel Dauntsey. He had asked to go on early but most of the poets before him had overstepped their time limits, the amateurs in particular not being susceptible to Colin’s muttered hints, and it was nearly 9.30 before Dauntsey made his slow way to the rostrum. He was listened to in a respectful silence and loudly applauded, but Matt guessed that his poems of a war which, for the great majority of those present, was now history, had little relevance to their current preoccupations. Afterwards Colin had pushed his way through the throng to reach him.
‘Do you really have to leave? A few of us are thinking of going out for a meal afterwards.’
‘I’m sorry, it will be too late for me. Where can I get a taxi?’
‘Matt here could ring, but you’ll probably get one quicker by walking to Waterloo Road.’
He had slipped away almost unnoticed and un-thanked, leaving Matt feeling that somehow they had done badly by the old man.
He was hardly out of the door when an elderly couple came up to him at the bar. The man said: ‘Has Gabriel Dauntsey gone? My wife has a first edition of his poems which she’d love him to sign. We can’t see him anywhere upstairs.’
Matt said: ‘Have you got a car?’
‘Parked about three blocks away. It’s the nearest we could get.’
‘Well, he’s only just left. He’s on foot. If you hurry you could catch him up. You’ll probably miss him if you wait to go for the car.’
Hurriedly they left, the woman, book in hand, eager-eyed.
Within three minutes they were back. Across the bar Matt could see them coming in through the door, supporting Gabriel Dauntsey between them. He was holding a blood-stained handkerchief to his brow. Matt made his way across to them.
‘What’s happened?’
The woman, obviously shaken, said: ‘He’s been mugged. Three men, two black and one white. They were bending over him, but ran off when they saw us. They got his wallet, though.’
The man looked round for a vacant chair and settled Dauntsey into it. ‘We’d better ring the police and an ambulance.’
Dauntsey’s voice was stronger than Matt had expected. ‘No, no. I’m all right. I don’t want either. It’s only a graze where I fell.’
Matt looked at him, undecided. He seemed more shaken than hurt. And what was the point of ringing the police? They didn’t have a chance of catching the muggers and this would only be one more minor crime to add to their statistics of crimes reported but unsolved. Matt, while a strong supporter of the police, preferred on the whole not to see them too frequently in his bar.
The woman looked at her husband then said firmly: ‘We have to pass St Thomas’s Hospital. We’ll take him to the casualty department. That would be the wisest plan.’
Dauntsey, apparently, was to have no say in the matter.
They want to get rid of the responsibility as soon as possible, thought Matt, and he didn’t blame them. After they had left he made his way upstairs to check on the supply of wine and noticed on a table by the door a pile of slim volumes. He felt a spurt of pity for Gabriel Dauntsey. The poor devil hadn’t even waited to sign his books. But perhaps that was just as well. It would have been embarrassing for everyone if he hadn’t made a sale.
16
On the following morning, Friday, 15 October, Blackie awoke to a weight of apprehension. Her first conscious thought was dread of the day and what might lie ahead. She put on her dressing-gown and went down to make the morning tea, wondering whether to wake Joan with the complaint that she had a headache, that she didn’t think she’d go into the office today, asking Joan to telephone later with her regrets and promises to be back on Monday. She thrust the temptation aside. Monday would come only too quickly, bringing with it an even heavier weight of anxiety. And not to appear today would look suspicious. Everyone knew that she didn’t take days off, that she was never ill. She must go in to work as if this was just an ordinary day.
She could eat no breakfast. Even the thought of eggs and bacon made her nauseous and the first spoonful of cereal clogged her mouth. At the station she bought her usual Daily Telegraph but clutched it unopened during the journey, staring out at the flashing kaleidoscope of the Kent suburbs with unseeing eyes.
The launch was five minutes late starting off from Charing Cross pier. Mr de Witt, usually so punctual, came running down the ramp just as Fred Bowling was deciding that he had to cast off.
Mr de Witt said briefly, ‘Sorry everyone, I overslept. Good of you to wait. I thought I’d have to take the second boat.’
They were all there now, the usual first boatload: Mr de Witt, herself, Maggie FitzGerald and Amy Holden from publicity, Mr Elton from rights and Ken from the warehouse. Blackie took her usual seat in the prow. She would have liked to have removed herself to the stern and sit alone, but that too might have looked suspicious. It seemed that she was abnormally conscious of her every word and action, as if she were already under interrogation. She heard James de Witt tell the others that Miss Frances had rung him late the previous night to tell him that Mr Dauntsey had been mugged. It had happened after his poetry reading. He had been quickly found by two people who had been at the pub and who had taken him to the casualty department at St Thomas’s Hospital. He had suffered more from shock than from the mugging and was all right now. Blackie didn’t comment. This was just one more minor mishap, one more piece of bad luck. It seemed unimportant compared to the dragging weight of her own anxiety.
Usually she enjoyed the river trip. She had done it now for over twenty-five years and it had never lost its fascination. But today all the familiar landmarks seemed no more than stage-posts on the journey to disaster: the elegant ironwork of Blackfriars Railway Bridge; Southwark Bridge with the steps on Southwark Causeway from which Christopher Wren was rowed across the river when he supervised the building of St Paul’s Cathedral; London Bridge where once the heads of traitors were displayed on spikes at either end; Traitors’ Gate, green with algae and weed; and Dead Man’s Hole under Tower Bridge where, by tradition, the ashes of the dead were scattered outside the city boundaries; Tower Bridge itself, the white and pale blue of the high walkway with its gleaming gold-tipped badge; ΗMS Belfast in its Atlantic colours. She saw them all with uncaring eyes. She told herself that this anxiety was ridiculous and unnecessary. She had only one small cause for guilt which perhaps, after all, wasn’t really so important or so blameworthy. She had only to keep her nerve and all would be well. But her anxiety, which now amounted to active fear, grew stronger with every minute which brought her closer to Innocent House and it seemed to her that her mood infected the rest of the group. Mr de Witt usually sat in silence, often reading, on the river journey, but the girls were usually cheerful chatterers. This morning all of them fell into silence as the launch slowly rocked to its usual mooring ring to the right of the steps.
De Witt suddenly said: ‘Innocent House. Well, here we are …’
His voice held a note of spurious jollity as if they had all returned from a boat trip, but his face was stern. She wondered what was the matter with him, what he was thinking. Then slowly, with the others, she carefully made her way up the tide-washed steps on to the marble patio, bracing herself to meet whatever the day had in store.
17
George Copeland, standing behind the protection of his reception desk in embarrassed ineptitude, heard the clatter of feet on the cobbles with relief. So the launch had arrived at last. Lord Stilgoe halted his angry pacing and they both turned to the door. The little group came through in a bunch with James de Witt at the front. Mr de Witt gave one look at George’s worried face and asked quickly: ‘What’s wrong, George?’
It was Lord Stilgoe who answered. Without greeting de Witt he said grimly: ‘Etienne’s missing. I had an appointment to meet him in his office at nine o’clock. When I arrived there was no one here but the receptionist and the cleaner. It’s not the way I expect to be treated. My time is valuable even if Etienne’s isn’t. I ha
ve a hospital appointment this morning.’
De Witt said easily: ‘How do you mean, missing? I expect he’s got held up in the traffic’
George broke in: ‘He must be here somewhere, Mr de Witt. His jacket is over the chair in his office. I looked there when he didn’t reply to my ring. And the front door wasn’t locked when I arrived this morning, not with the Banham. I got in with just the Yale. And the alarm hadn’t been set. Miss Claudia’s just arrived. She’s checking now.’
They all moved, as if driven by a common impulse, into the hall. Claudia Etienne, with Mrs Demery at her shoulder, was coming out of Blackie’s office.
She said: ‘George is right. He must be here somewhere. His jacket is over the chair and his bunch of keys in the top right-hand drawer.’ She turned to George. ‘You’ve checked at number 10?’
‘Yes, Miss Claudia. Mr Bartrum’s arrived but there’s no one else in the building. He had a look and rang back. He says that Mr Gerard’s Jaguar is there, parked where it was last night.’
‘How about the house lights? Were they on when you arrived?’
‘No, Miss Claudia. There wasn’t a light in his office either. Not anywhere.’
At this moment Frances Peverell and Gabriel Dauntsey appeared. George saw that Mr Dauntsey looked frail. He was walking with a stick and there was a small sticking-plaster on the right of his forehead. No one remarked on it. George wondered if anyone but him had even noticed.
Claudia said: ‘You haven’t got Gerard at number 12 have you? He seems to have disappeared.’
Frances said: ‘He hasn’t been with us.’
Mandy, coming in behind and taking off her helmet, said: ‘His car is here. I saw it at the end of Innocent Passage when I rode past.’
Claudia said repressively, ‘Yes, we know that, Mandy. I’ll take a look upstairs. He must be somewhere in the building. The rest of you, wait here.’
She made briskly for the staircase with Mrs Demery at her back. Blackie, as if she hadn’t heard the instruction, gave a little gasp and ran clumsily after them. Maggie FitzGerald said, ‘Trust Mrs Demery to be in on the act’, but her voice was uncertain and when no one commented she blushed as if wishing she hadn’t spoken.
The little group moved quietly into a semicircle, almost, George thought, as if gently pushed by an invisible hand. He had switched on the lights in the hall and the painted ceiling glowed above them, seeming to mark with its splendour and permanence their puny preoccupations and unimportant anxieties. All their eyes were turned upwards. George thought that they looked like figures in a religious painting, staring up in anticipation of some supernatural visitation. He waited with them, uncertain whether his place was here or behind his counter. It wasn’t for him to initiate action by joining the search. As always he did what he was told, but he was a little surprised that the partners waited with such docility. But why not? It was pointless for a whole crowd of them to go charging round Innocent House. Three searchers were more than enough. If Mr Gerard was in the building Miss Claudia would find him. No one spoke or moved except James de Witt who had stepped quietly to Frances Peverell’s side. It seemed to George that they had been waiting, frozen, like actors in a tableau, for hours although it could only have been for a few minutes.
Then Amy, her voice sharp with fear, said: ‘Someone’s screaming. I heard a scream.’ She looked round at them, frantic-eyed.
James de Witt didn’t turn to look at her but kept his eyes on the stairs. He said quietly: ‘No one screamed. You imagined it, Amy.’
Then it came again, but this time louder and unmistakable, a high, desperate cry. They moved forward to the bottom of the stairs but no further. It was as if no one dared to take that first upward step. There was a second’s silence, and then the wailing began, at first a distant lament and then rising, getting closer. George, rooted in terror, couldn’t identify the voice. It seemed to him as inhuman as the wail of a siren or the scream of a cat in the night.
Maggie FitzGerald whispered: ‘Oh my God! My God, what is it?’
And then, with dramatic suddenness, Mrs Demery appeared at the top of the staircase. It seemed to George that she materialized out of the air. She was supporting Blackie, whose wails were now subsiding into low heaving sobs.
James de Witt’s voice was low but very clear: ‘What is it, Mrs Demery? What’s happened? Where’s Mr Gerard?’
‘In the little archives room. Dead! Murdered! That’s what’s happened. He’s lying up there half-naked and stiff as a bloody board. Some devil has strangled him with that sodding snake. He’s got Hissing Sid wound round his neck with its head stuffed in his mouth.’
At last James de Witt moved. He sprang for the stairs. Frances made to follow him, but he turned and said urgently, ‘No, Frances, no,’ and pushed her gently aside. Lord Stilgoe followed him with an old man’s ungainly waddle, grasping at the stair rail. Gabriel Dauntsey hesitated for a moment then followed.
Mrs Demery cried; ‘Give me a hand, can’t you someone? She’s a dead weight.’
Frances went immediately to her and placed an arm round Blackie’s waist. Looking up at them, George thought that it was Miss Frances who needed support. They came down the stairs together almost carrying Blackie between them. Blackie was moaning and whispering, ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’ Together they supported her across the hall towards the back of the house while the little group looked after them in appalled silence.
George went back to his desk, to his switchboard. This was his place. This was where he felt secure, in control. This was where he could cope. He could hear voices. The awful sobbing was quieter now but he could hear Mrs Demery’s high expostulations and a babble of female voices. He shut them out of his mind. There was a job to be done: he had better do it. He tried to unlock his security cupboard under the counter but his hands were shaking so violently that he couldn’t fit the key into the lock. The telephone rang and he jumped violently then fumbled for the headset. It was Mrs Velma Pitt-Cowley, Mrs Carling’s agent, wanting to speak to Mr Gerard. George, shocked into initial silence, managed to say that Mr Gerard wasn’t available. Even to his ears, his voice sounded high, cracked, unnatural.
‘Miss Claudia, then. I suppose she’s in.’
‘Νο,’ said George. ‘No.’
‘What’s wrong? That’s you, isn’t it, George? What’s the matter?’
George, appalled, switched off the call. Immediately the telephone rang again, but he didn’t answer and after a few seconds the noise stopped. He gazed at it in trembling impotence. Never before had he acted like this. Time passed, seconds, minutes. And then Lord Stilgoe was towering over the desk and he could smell his breath and feel the force of his triumphant anger.
‘Get me New Scotland Yard. I want to speak to the Commissioner. If he’s not available, get me Commander Adam Dalgliesh.’
BOOK TWO
Death of a Publisher
18
Detective Inspector Kate Miskin, nudging aside a half-empty packing case, opened the balcony door of her new Docklands flat and, grasping the rail of polished oak, gazed over the shimmering river, up to Limehouse Reach and down to the great curve round the Isle of Dogs. It was only 9.15 in the morning but already an early mist had cleared and the sky, almost cloudless, was brightening to an opaque whiteness with glimpses of soft, clear blue. It was a morning more like spring than mid-October, but the river smell was autumnal, strong as the smell of damp leaves and rich earth overlaying the salty tang of the sea. It was full tide and beneath the pinpoints of light which flicked and danced on the creased surface of the water like fireflies, she could imagine the strong tug of the flowing current, could almost sense its power. With this flat, this view, one more ambition had been achieved, one more step taken away from that dull box-sized flat at the top of Ellison Fairweather Buildings in which she had spent the first eighteen years of her life.
Her mother had died within days of her birth, her father was unknown and she had been cared for by a reluctant and elderly
maternal grandmother, who resented the child who had made her a virtual prisoner in the high-rise flat she dared no longer leave at night to seek the conviviality, the glitter and the warmth of the local pub and who had grown increasingly embittered by her grandchild’s intelligence and by a responsibility for which she was unsuited, by age, by health, by temperament. Kate had realized too late, only at the moment of her grandmother’s death, how much she had loved her. It seemed to her now that in the moment of that death each had paid to the other a lifetime’s arrears of love. She knew that she would never break completely free of Ellison Fairweather Buildings. Coming up to this flat in the large modern lift, surrounded by the carefully packed oil paintings which she herself had painted, she had remembered the lift at Ellison Fairweather, the smeared and filthy walls with their graffiti, the stink of urine, the cigarette ends, the discarded beer cans. It had been frequently vandalized and she and her grandmother had had to lug their shopping and washing up the seven storeys, pausing at the top of each flight for her grandmother to catch her breath. Sitting there surrounded by their plastic bags, listening to the old lady’s wheezings, she had vowed: ‘When I’m grown-up I shall get out of this. I shall leave bloody Ellison Fairweather Buildings for ever. I shall never come back again. I shall never be poor again. I shall never have to smell this smell again.’
She had chosen the police service through which to make her escape, resisting the temptation to enter the sixth form or try for university, anxious only to begin earning, to get away. That first Victorian flat in Holland Park had been the beginning. After her grandmother’s death she had stayed on for nine months, knowing that to leave at once would be a desertion, although she was not sure from what, perhaps from a reality that had to be faced, knowing too that there was expiation to be made, things she had to learn about herself, and that this was the place in which to learn them. The time would come when it would be right to leave and she could close the door with a sense of completion, of putting behind her a past which couldn’t be altered, but which could be accepted with its miseries, its horrors – yes, and its joys – reconciled and made part of herself. And now that time had come.