by P. D. James
Dalgliesh explained that he lived in a flat high above the Thames in the city and had recently sold his Essex cottage.
“I really know very little about gardening,” he said.
“Then you will enjoy looking at ours,” replied Mrs. Fenton, with gentle if illogical persistence.
There was, indeed, plenty to see even in the fading light of an autumn day. The colonel had given his imagination full play, compensating perhaps for the enforced regimentation of much of his life by indulgence in a picturesque and undisciplined profusion. There was a small lawn surrounding a fish pond and edged with crazy paving. There was a succession of trellis archways leading from one carefully tended plot to another. There was a rose garden with a sundial where a few last roses still gleamed white on their leafless sterns. There were hedges of beech, yew and hawthorn as gold and green backcloths to the banked chrysanthemums. At the bottom of the garden ran a small stream, crossed every ten yards by wooden bridges which were a monument to the colonel’s industry, if not to his taste. The appetite had grown by what it fed on. The colonel, having once successfully bridged his brook, had been unable to resist further efforts. Together they stood for a moment on one of the bridges. Dalgliesh could see the colonel’s initials cut into the wood of the handrail. Beneath their feet the little stream, already half-choked with the first fallen leaves, made its own sad music.
Suddenly, Mrs. Fenton said: “So somebody killed her. I know I ought to feel pity for her whatever she did. But I can’t. Not yet. I should have realized that Matthew wouldn’t be the only victim. These people never stop at one victim, do they? I suppose someone couldn’t stand it any more and took that way out. It’s a very terrible thing, but I can understand it. I read about it in the papers, you know, before the medical director telephoned. Do you know, Superintendent, for a moment I was glad? That’s a terrible thing to say, but it’s true. I was glad she was dead. I thought that now Matthew needn’t worry any more.”
Dalgliesh said gently: “We don’t think that Miss Bolam was blackmailing your husband. It’s possible that she was, but not likely. We think she was killed because she had found out what was happening and meant to stop it. That’s why it’s so important that I talk to you.”
Mrs. Fenton’s knuckles whitened. The hands grasping the bridge began to shake. She said: “I’m afraid I’ve been very stupid. I mustn’t waste any more of your time. It’s getting cold, isn’t it? Shall we go indoors?”
They turned towards the house, neither of them speaking. Dalgliesh shortened his stride to the slow pace of the thin, upright figure at his side. He glanced at her anxiously. She was very pale and he thought he saw her lips moving soundlessly. But she walked firmly. She was going to be all right. He told himself that he mustn’t hurry things. In half an hour, perhaps less, he would have the motive securely in his hands like a bomb that would blow the whole case wide open. But he must be patient. Once again he was touched by an indefinable unrest as if, even at this moment of imminent triumph, his heart held the sure knowledge of failure. The dusk closed in around them. Somewhere a bonfire smouldered, filling his nostrils with acrid smoke. The lawn was a wet sponge under his feet.
The house welcomed them, blessedly warm and smelling faintly of home-baked bread. Mrs. Fenton left him to put her head into a room at the far end of the hall. He guessed that tea was being ordered. Then she led him into the drawing-room to the comfort of a wood fire which threw immense shadows over the chintz-covered chairs and sofa and the faded carpet. She switched on a huge standard lamp at the side of the fireplace and tugged the curtains across the windows, shutting out desolation and decay. Tea arrived, the tray set on a low table by a stolid and aproned maid, almost as old as her mistress, who carefully avoided looking at Dalgliesh. It was a good tea. Dalgliesh saw with an emotion which was too like compassion to be comfortable that trouble had been taken on his behalf. There were fresh-baked scones, two kinds of sandwiches, homemade cakes and an iced sponge. There was too much of everything, a schoolboy’s tea. It was as if the two women, faced with their unknown and most unwelcome visitor, had sought relief from uncertainty in the provision of this embarrassingly liberal feast. Mrs. Fenton herself seemed surprised at the variety which faced her. She manoeuvred cups on the tray like an anxious, inexperienced hostess. It was only when Dalgliesh was provided with his tea and sandwich that she spoke again about the murder.
“My husband attended the Steen Clinic for about four months, nearly ten years ago, soon after he left the army. He was living in London at the time and I was in Nairobi staying with my daughter-in-law who was expecting her first baby. I never knew about my husband’s treatment until he told me a week ago.”
She paused and Dalgliesh said: “I ought to say now that we aren’t, of course, interested in what was wrong with Colonel Fenton. That is a confidential medical matter and it isn’t the concern of the police. I didn’t ask Dr. Etherege for any information and he wouldn’t have given it to me if I had. The fact that your husband was being blackmailed may have to come out—I don’t think that can be avoided—but his reason for going to the clinic and the details of his treatment are no one’s business but his and yours.”
Mrs. Fenton replaced her cup on the tray with infinite care. She looked into the fire and said: “I don’t think it is my business, really. I wasn’t upset because he didn’t tell me. It’s so easy to say now that I would have understood and would have tried to help but I wonder. I think he was wise not to speak about it. People make such a fuss about absolute honesty in marriage but it isn’t very sensible to confess hurtful things unless you really mean to hurt. I wish Matthew had told me about the blackmail, though. Then he really needed help. Together I’m sure we could have thought of something.”
Dalgliesh asked how it had started.
“Just two years ago, Matthew says. He had a telephone call. The voice reminded him about his treatment at the Steen and actually quoted some of the very intimate details Matthew had told the psychiatrist. Then the voice suggested that he would like to help other patients who were trying to overcome similar difficulties. There was a lot of talk about the dreadful social consequences of not getting cured. It was all very subtle and clever, but there wasn’t the least doubt what the voice was after. Matthew asked what he was expected to do and was told to send fifteen pounds in notes to arrive by the first post on the first day of every month. If the first was a Saturday or Sunday, the letter was to arrive on Monday. He was to address the envelope in green ink to the administrative secretary and enclose with the money a note to say that it was a donation from a grateful patient. The voice said that he could be sure that the cash would go where it could do most good.”
“It was a clever enough plan,” said Dalgliesh. “Blackmail would be difficult to prove and the amount was nicely calculated. I imagine that your husband would have been forced to take a different line if the demand had been too exorbitant.”
“Oh, he would! Matthew would never let us be ruined. But you see, it was such a small amount, really. I don’t mean that we could afford to lose fifteen pounds a month but it was a sum which Matthew could just find by personal economies without making me suspicious. And the demand never rose. That was the extraordinary thing about it. Matthew said that he always understood a blackmailer was never satisfied but kept increasing the demand until the victim couldn’t pay another penny. It wasn’t like that at all. Matthew sent the money to arrive on the first day of the next month and he had another call. The voice thanked him for his kind donation and made it quite clear that no more than fifteen pounds was expected. And no more ever was. The voice said something about sharing the sacrifice equally. Matthew said he could almost persuade himself that the thing was genuine. About six months ago he decided to miss a month and see what happened. It wasn’t very pleasant. There was another call and the menace was unmistakable. The voice talked about the need to save patients from social ostracism and said how distressed the people of Sprigg’s Green would be to hear about his
lack of generosity. My husband decided to go on. If the village really got to know, it would mean leaving this house. My family have lived here for two hundred years and we both love it. Matthew would be heartbroken to leave the garden. And then there’s the village. Of course, you haven’t seen it at its best, but we love it. My husband is a church-warden. Our small son, who was killed in a road accident, is buried here. It isn’t easy to pull up your roots at seventy.”
No, it wouldn’t be easy. Dalgliesh didn’t question her assumption that discovery would mean that they must leave. A younger, tougher, more sophisticated couple would no doubt ride the publicity, ignore the innuendoes and accept the embarrassed sympathy of their friends in the sure knowledge that nothing lasts for ever and that few things in village life are as dead as last year’s scandal. Pity was less easy to accept. It was probably the fear of pity that would drive most victims to retreat.
He asked what had brought the matter to a head. Mrs. Fenton replied: “Two things, really. The first is that we needed more money. My husband’s younger brother died unexpectedly a month ago and left his widow rather badly off. She is an invalid and not likely to live more than a year or two but she is very happily settled in a nursing home near Norwich and would like to stay there. It was a question of helping with the fees. She needed about another five pounds a week and I couldn’t understand why Matthew seemed so worried about it. It would mean careful planning, but I thought we ought to be able to manage it. But he knew, of course, that we couldn’t if he had to go on sending the fifteen pounds to the Steen. Then there was his operation. It wasn’t a very serious one, I know, but any operation is a risk at seventy and he was afraid that he might die and the whole story come out without his being able to explain. So he told me. I was very glad he did. He went into hospital perfectly happy as a result and the operation went very well. Really very well indeed. Could I give you some more tea, Superintendent?”
Dalgliesh passed her his cup and asked what action she had decided to take. They were now coming to the crux of the story, but he was careful neither to hurry her nor to appear over-anxious. His comments and questions might have been those of any afternoon guest, dutifully taking a polite share in his hostess’s conversation. She was an old lady who had been through a severe strain and was faced with one even greater. He guessed a little of what this revelation to a stranger must be costing her. Any formal expression of sympathy would have been a presumption, but at least he could help with patience and understanding.
“What did I decide to do? Well, that was the problem, of course. I was determined that the blackmailing should be stopped, but I wanted to spare us both if I could. I’m not a very intelligent woman—it’s no use shaking your head, if I were this murder wouldn’t have happened—but I thought it out very carefully. It seemed to me that the best thing was to visit the Steen Clinic and see someone in authority. I could explain what was happening, perhaps even without mentioning my name, and ask them to make their own investigation and put a stop to the blackmail. After all, they would know about my husband, so I wouldn’t be confiding his secret to anyone new and they would be just as anxious to avoid publicity as I was. It wouldn’t do the clinic any good if this came out, would it? They could probably find out who was responsible without a great deal of difficulty. Psychiatrists are supposed to understand people’s characters, after all, and it must be someone who was at the clinic when my husband attended. And, then, being a woman would narrow the field.”
“Do you mean the blackmailer was a woman?” asked Dalgliesh, surprised.
“Oh, yes! At least, the voice on the telephone was a woman’s voice, my husband says.”
“Is he quite sure of that?”
“He didn’t express any doubt to me. It wasn’t only the voice, you see. It was some of the things she said. Things like it not being only members of my husband’s sex who had these illnesses and had he ever thought what unhappiness they could cause to women, and so on. There were definite references to her being a woman. My husband remembers the telephone conversations very clearly and he will be able to tell you what the remarks were. I expect you will want to see him as soon as possible, won’t you?”
Touched by the obvious anxiety in her voice, he replied: “If his doctor thinks Colonel Fenton is well enough to have a brief talk with me, I should like to see him on my way back to London tonight. There are one or two points—this matter of the blackmailer’s sex is one—that only he can help with. I shan’t bother him more than necessary.”
“I’m sure he will be able to see you. He has a little room of his own—an amenity bed they call them—and he’s doing very well. I told him that you were coming today so he won’t be surprised to see you. I don’t think I’ll come too, if you don’t mind. I think he would rather see you alone. I shall write a note for you to take.”
Dalgliesh thanked her and said: “It’s interesting that your husband should say it was a woman. He could be right, of course, but it could be a clever deception on the blackmailer’s part and difficult to disprove. Some men are able to mimic a woman’s voice very convincingly and the casual references to establish sex would be even more effective than a disguised voice. If the colonel had decided to prosecute and the matter had come to court, it would have been very difficult to convict a man of this particular crime unless the evidence was very strong. And as far as I can see, the evidence would be almost non-existent. I think we’ll keep a very open mind on the question of the blackmailer’s sex. But I’m sorry. I interrupted.”
“It was rather an important point to establish, wasn’t it? I hope that my husband will be able to help with it. Well, as I was saying, I decided that the best move was to visit the clinic. I went up to London last Friday morning on an early train. I had to see my chiropodist and there were one or two things Matthew needed in hospital. I decided to shop first. I should have gone direct to the clinic, of course. That was another mistake. It was cowardice, really. I wasn’t looking forward to it and I tried to behave as if it were nothing so very special, just a casual visit I could fit in between the shopping and the chiropodist. In the end I didn’t go at all. I telephoned instead. You see, I told you I wasn’t very intelligent.”
Dalgliesh asked what had led to the change of plan. “It was Oxford Street. I know that sounds silly, but it happened that way. I hadn’t been up to London alone for a very long time and I had forgotten how dreadful it is now. I used to love it when I was a girl. It seemed a gracious city then. Now the skyline has changed and the streets seem full of freaks and foreigners. One shouldn’t resent them, I know—the foreigners, I mean. It’s just that I felt so alien. And then there were the cars. I tried to cross Oxford Street and was stranded among them on one of the islands. Of course, they weren’t killing anyone or knocking anyone down. They couldn’t. They couldn’t even move. But they smelt so horrible that I had to hold my handkerchief to my nose and I felt so faint and ill. When I reached the pavement, I went into one of the stores to find the women’s restroom. It was on the fifth floor and it took me a long time to get to the right lift. The crowds were dreadful and we were all squashed in together. When I got to the restroom, all the chairs were taken. I was standing against the wall wondering whether I could summon enough energy to queue for my lunch when I saw the row of telephone boxes. Suddenly I realized that I could telephone the clinic and save myself the journey and the ordeal of telling my story face to face. It was stupid of me, I see that now, but at the time it seemed a very good idea. It would be easier to conceal my identity on the telephone and I felt that I should be able to explain more fully. I also gained a great deal of comfort from the thought that if the conversation became too difficult, I could always ring off. You see, I was being very cowardly and my only excuse is that I was very tired, far more tired than I imagined possible. I expect you will say that I ought to have gone straight to the police, to Scotland Yard. But Scotland Yard is a place I associate with detective stories and murders. It hardly seems possible that it actually
exists and you can call there and tell your story. Besides, I was still very anxious to avoid publicity. I didn’t think the police would welcome someone who wanted help, but wasn’t prepared to co-operate by telling the whole story or being willing to prosecute. All I wanted, you see, was to stop the blackmailer. It wasn’t very public-spirited of me, was it?”
“It was very understandable,” replied Dalgliesh. “I thought it very possible that Miss Bolam got the warning by telephone. Can you remember what you said to her?”
“Not very clearly. I’m afraid. When I had found the four pennies for the call and looked up the number in the directory, I spent a few minutes deciding what I would say. A man’s voice answered and I asked to speak to the administrative secretary. Then there was a woman’s voice which said, ‘Administrative officer speaking.’ I hadn’t expected to hear a woman and I suddenly got it into my mind that I was speaking to the blackmailer. After all, why not? So I said that someone from the clinic, and probably she, had been blackmailing my husband and that I was telephoning to say that she wouldn’t get another penny from now on and that if we received any more telephone calls, we should go straight to the police. It all came out in a rush. I was shaking rather badly and had to lean against the wall of the telephone box for support. I must have sounded a little hysterical. When she could get a word in, she asked me whether I was a patient and who was treating me and said something about asking one of the doctors to have a word with me. I suppose she thought I was out of my mind. I replied that I had never attended the clinic and that if ever I needed treatment, which God forbid, I should know better than to go to a place where a patient’s indiscretions and unhappiness were made an opportunity for blackmail. I think I ended up by saying that there was a woman involved, that she must have been at the clinic for nearly ten years and that if the administrative officer wasn’t the person concerned, I hoped that she would make it her duty to discover who was. She tried to get me to leave my name or to come to see her but I rang off.”