“Not at all; merely unsuitable.”
Fielding turned to Smiley in despair.
“Look,” he said. “We talk academic here, you know, wear academic dress and hold high table dinners in the Common Room; we have long graces in Latin that none of us can translate. We go to the Abbey and the wives sit in the hencoop in their awful hats. But it’s a charade. It means nothing.”
D’Arcy smiled wanly.
“I cannot believe, my dear Terence, that anyone who keeps such an excellent table as yourself can have so low an opinion of the refinements of social conduct.” He looked to Smiley for support and Smiley dutifully echoed the compliment. “Besides, we know Terence of old at Carne. I am afraid we are accustomed to his roar.”
“I know why you disliked that woman, Felix. She was honest, and Carne has no defence against that kind of honesty.”
D’Arcy suddenly became very angry indeed.
“Terence, I will not have you say this. I simply will not have it. I feel I have a certain duty at Carne, as indeed we all have, to restore and maintain those standards of behaviour which suffered so sadly in the war. I am sensible that this determination has made me on more than one occasion unpopular. But such comment or advice as I offer is never—I beg you to notice this—is never directed against personalities, only against behaviour, against unseemly lapses in conduct. I will acknowledge that more than once I was compelled to address Rode on the subject of his wife’s conduct. That is a matter quite divorced from personalities, Terence. I will not have it said that I disliked Mrs Rode. Such a suggestion would be disagreeable at all times, but under the present tragic circumstances it is deplorable. Mrs Rode’s own … background and education did not naturally prepare her for our ways; that is quite a different matter. It does, however, illustrate the point that I wish to emphasise, Terence: it was a question of enlightenment, not of criticism. Do I make myself clear?”
“Abundantly,” Fielding answered dryly.
“Did the other wives like her?” Smiley ventured.
“Not entirely,” D’Arcy replied crisply.
“The wives! My God!” Fielding groaned, putting his hand to his brow. There was a pause.
“Her clothes, I believe, were a source of distress to some of them. She also frequented the public laundry. This, too, would not make a favourable impression. I should add that she did not attend our church …”
“Did she have any close friends among the wives?” Smiley persisted.
“I believe young Mrs Snow took to her.”
“And you say she was dining here the night she was murdered?”
“Yes,” said Fielding quietly, “Wednesday. And it was Felix and his sister who took in poor Rode afterwards …” He glanced at D’Arcy.
“Yes, indeed,” said D’Arcy abruptly. His eyes were on Fielding, and it seemed to Smiley that something had passed between them. “We shall never forget, never … Terence, if I may talk shop for just one moment, Perkins’s construe is abysmal; I declare I have never seen work like it. Is he unwell? His mother is a most cultured woman, a cousin of the Samfords, I am told.”
Smiley looked at him and wondered. His dinner-jacket was faded, green with age. Smiley could almost hear him saying it had belonged to his grandfather. The skin of his face was so unlined that he somehow suggested fatness without being fat. His voice was pitched on one insinuating note, and he smiled all the time, whether he was speaking or not. The smile never left his smooth face, it was worked into the malleable fabric of his flesh, stretching his lips across his perfect teeth and opening the corners of his red mouth, so that it seemed to be held in place by the invisible fingers of his dentist. Yet D’Arcy’s face was far from unexpressive; every mark showed. The smallest movement of his mouth or nose, the quickest glance or frown, were there to read and interpret. And he wanted to change the subject. Not away from Stella Rode (for he returned to discussing her himself a moment later), but away from the particular evening on which she died, away from the precise narration of events. And what was more, there was not a doubt in Smiley’s mind that Fielding had seen it too, that in that look which passed between them was a pact of fear, a warning perhaps, so that from that moment Fielding’s manner changed, he grew sullen and preoccupied, in a way that puzzled Smiley long afterwards.
D’Arcy turned to Smiley and addressed him with cloying intimacy.
“Do forgive my deplorable descent into Carne gossip. You find us a little cut off, here, do you not? We are often held to be cut off, I know. Carne is a ‘Snob School,’ that is the cry. You may read it every day in the gutter press. And yet, despite the claims of the avant-garde,” he said, glancing slyly at Fielding, “I may say that no one could be less of a snob than Felix D’Arcy.” Smiley noticed his hair. It was very fine and ginger, growing from the top and leaving his pink neck bare.
“Take poor Rode, for instance. I certainly don’t hold Rode’s background against him in any way, poor fellow. The grammar schools do a splendid job, I am sure. Besides, he settled down here very well. I told the Master so. I said to him that Rode had settled down well; he does Chapel duty quite admirably—that was the very point I made. I hope I have played my part, what is more, in helping him to fit in. With careful instruction, such people can, as I said to the Master, learn our customs and even our manners; and the Master agreed.”
Smiley’s glass was empty and D’Arcy, without consulting Fielding, filled it for him from the decanter. His hands were polished and hairless, like the hands of a girl.
“But,” he continued, “I must be honest. Mrs Rode did not adapt herself so willingly to our ways.” Still smiling, he sipped delicately from his glass. He wants to put the record straight, thought Smiley.
“She would never really have fitted in at Carne; that is my opinion—though I am sure I never voiced it while she was alive. Her background was against her. The fault was not hers—it was her background which, as I say, was unfortunate. Indeed, if we may speak frankly and in confidence, I have reason to believe it was her past that brought about her death.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Smiley quickly, and D’Arcy replied with a glance at Fielding, “It appears she was expecting to be attacked.”
“My sister is devoted to dogs,” D’Arcy continued. “You may know that already perhaps. King Charles spaniels are her forte. She took a first at the North Dorset last year and was commended at Cruft’s shortly afterwards for her ‘Queen of Carne.’ She sells to America, you know. I dare say there are few people in the country with Dorothy’s knowledge of the breed. The Master’s wife found occasion to say the very same thing a week ago. Well, the Rodes were our neighbours, as you know, and Dorothy is not a person to neglect her neighbourly duties. Where duty is concerned, you will not find her discriminatory, I assure you. The Rodes also had a dog, a large mongrel, quite an intelligent animal, which they brought with them. (I have little idea where they came from, but that is another matter.) They appeared quite devoted to the dog, and I have no doubt they were. Rode took it with him to watch the football until I had occasion to advise him against it. The practice was giving rise to unseemly humour among the boys. I have found the same thing myself when exercising Dorothy’s spaniels.
“I shall come to the point presently. Dorothy uses a vet called Harriman, a superior type of person who lives over toward Sturminster. A fortnight ago she sent for him. ‘Queen of Carne’ was coughing badly and Dorothy asked Harriman to come over. A bitch of her quality is not to be taken lightly, I assure you.”
Fielding groaned, and D’Arcy continued, oblivious:
“I happened to be at home, and Harriman stayed for a cup of coffee. He is, as I say, a superior type of person. Harriman made some reference to the Rodes’ dog and then the truth came out; Mrs Rode had had the dog destroyed the previous day. She said it had bitten the postman. Some long and confused story; the Post Office would sue, the police had been round, and I don’t know what else. And, anyway, she said, the dog couldn’t really protect, it cou
ld only warn. She had said so to Harriman, ‘It wouldn’t do any good.’”
“Wasn’t she upset about losing the dog?” asked Smiley.
“Oh, indeed, yes. Harriman said she was in tears when she arrived. Mrs Harriman had to give her a cup of tea. They suggested she should give the dog another chance, put it in kennels for a while, but she was adamant, quite adamant. Harriman was most perplexed. So was his wife. When they discussed it afterwards they agreed that Mrs Rode’s behaviour had not been quite normal. Not normal at all, in fact. Another curious fact was the condition of the dog: it had been maltreated, seriously so. Its back was marked as if from beatings.”
“Did Harriman follow up this remark she made? About not doing any good? What did Harriman make of it?” Smiley was watching D’Arcy intently.
“She repeated it to Mrs Harriman, but she wouldn’t explain it. However, I think the explanation is obvious enough.”
“Oh?” said Fielding.
D’Arcy put his head on one side and plucked coyly at the lobe of his ear.
“We all have a little of the detective in us,” he said. “Dorothy and I talked it over after the—death. We decided that Stella Rode had formed some unsavoury association before coming to Carne, which had recently been revived … possibly against her will. Some violent ruffian—an old admirer—who would resent the improvement in her station.”
“How badly was the postman bitten by the dog?” Smiley asked.
D’Arcy turned to him again.
“That is the extraordinary thing. That is the very crux of the story, my dear fellow: the postman hadn’t been bitten at all. Dorothy inquired. Her whole story was an absolute string of lies from beginning to end.”
They rose from the table and made their way to Fielding’s study, where Miss Truebody had put the coffee. The conversation continued to wander back and forth over Wednesday’s tragedy. D’Arcy was obsessed with the indelicacy of it all—the persistence of journalists, the insensitivity of the police, the uncertainty of Mrs Rode’s origin, the misfortune of her husband. Fielding was still oddly silent, sunk in his own thoughts, from which he occasionally emerged to glance at D’Arcy with a look of hostility. At exactly a quarter to eleven D’Arcy pronounced himself tired, and the three of them went into the great hall, where Miss Truebody produced a coat for Smiley and a coat and muffler and cap for D’Arcy. Fielding accepted D’Arcy’s thanks with a sullen nod. He turned to Smiley:
“That business you rang me about. What was it exactly?”
“Oh—a letter from Mrs Rode just before she was murdered,” said Smiley vaguely, “the police are handling it now, but they do not regard it as … significant. Not significant at all. She seems to have had a sort of ”—he gave an embarrassed grin—“persecution complex. Is that the expression? However, we might discuss it some time. You must dine with me at the Sawley before I go back. Do you come to London at all? We might meet in London perhaps, at the end of the Half.”
D’Arcy was standing in the doorway, looking at the new fall of snow which lay white and perfect on the pavement before him.
“Ah,” he said, with a little knowing laugh, “the long nights, eh, Terence, the long nights.”
6
HOLLY FOR THE DEVIL
“What are the long nights?” Smiley asked, as he and D’Arcy walked briskly away from Fielding’s house through the new snow towards the Abbey Close.
“We have a proverb that it always snows at Carne in the long nights. That is the traditional term here for the nights of Lent,” D’Arcy replied. “Before the Reformation the monks of the Abbey kept a vigil during Lent between the Offices of Compline and Lauds. You may know that already perhaps. As there is no longer a religious order attached to the Abbey, the custom has fallen into disuse. We continue to observe it, however, by the saying of Compline during Lent. Compline was the last of the Canonical Day Hours and was said before retiring for the night. The Master, who has a great respect for traditions of this kind, has reintroduced the old words for our devotions. Prime was the dawn Office, as you are no doubt aware. Terce was at the third hour of daylight—that is to say at 9.00 a.m. Thus we no longer refer to Morning Prayer, but to Terce. I find it delightful. Similarly, during Advent and Lent we say Sext at midday in the Abbey.”
“Are all these services compulsory?”
“Of course. Otherwise it would be necessary to make arrangements for those boys who did not attend. That is not desirable. Besides, you forget that Carne is a religious foundation.”
It was a beautiful night. As they crossed the Close, Smiley looked up at the tower. It seemed smaller and more peaceful in the moonlight. The whiteness of the new snow lit the very sky itself; the whole Abbey was so sharply visible against it that even the mutilated images of saints were clear in every sad detail of their defacement, wretched figures, their purpose lost, with no eyes to see the changing world.
They reached the cross-roads to the south of the Abbey.
“The parting of the ways, I fear,” said D’Arcy, extending his hand.
“It’s a beautiful night,” Smiley replied quickly, “let me come with you as far as your house.”
“Gladly,” said D’Arcy dryly.
They turned down North Fields Lane. A high stone wall ran along one side; and on the other the great expanse of playing fields, twenty or more rugby pitches, bordered the road for over half a mile. They walked this distance in silence, until D’Arcy stopped and pointed with his stick past Smiley towards a small house on the edge of the playing fields.
“That’s North Fields, the Rodes’ house. It used to belong to the head groundsman, but the school added a wing a few years ago, and now it’s a staff house. My own house is rather larger, and lies farther up the road. Happily, I am fond of walking.”
“Was it along here that you found Stanley Rode that night?”
There was a pause, then D’Arcy said: “It was nearer to my house, about a quarter of a mile farther on. He was in a terrible condition, poor fellow, terrible. I am myself unable to bear the sight of blood. If I had known how he would look when I brought him into the house, I do not think I could have done it. Mercifully, my sister Dorothy is a most competent woman.”
They walked on in silence, until Smiley said: “From what you were saying at dinner, the Rodes were a very ill-assorted couple.”
“Precisely. If her death had happened any other way, I would describe it as providential: a blessed release for Rode. She was a thoroughly mischievous woman, Smiley, who made it her business to hold her husband up to ridicule. I believe it was intentional. Others do not. I do, and I have my reasons. She took pleasure in deriding her husband.”
“And Carne too, no doubt.”
“Just so. This is a critical moment in Carne’s development. Many public schools have conceded to the vulgar clamour for change— change at any price. Carne, I am pleased to say, has not joined these Gadarene swine. That makes it more important than ever that we protect ourselves from within as well as from without.” He spoke with surprising vehemence.
“But was she really such a problem? Surely her husband could have spoken to her?”
“I never encouraged him to do so, I assure you. It is not my practice to interfere between man and wife.”
They reached D’Arcy’s house. A high laurel hedge entirely concealed the house from the road, except for two multiple chimneystacks which were visible over the top of it, confirming Smiley’s impression that the house was large and Victorian.
“I am not ashamed of the Victorian taste,” said D’Arcy as he slowly opened the gate; “but then, I am afraid we are not close to the modern idiom at Carne. This house used to be the rectory for North Fields Church, but the church is now served by a priest-in-charge from the Abbey. The vicarage is still within the school’s gift, and I was fortunate enough to receive it. Good night. You must come for sherry before you go. Do you stay long?”
“I doubt it,” Smiley replied, “but I am sure you have enough worries at the moment.
”
“What do you mean?” D’Arcy said sharply.
“The press, the police and all the attendant fuss.”
“Ah yes, just so. Quite so. Nevertheless, our community life must continue. We always have a small party in the middle of the Half, and I feel it is particularly important that we should do so on this occasion. I will send a note to the Sawley tomorrow. My sister would be charmed. Good night.” He clanged the gate to, and the sound was greeted by the frantic barking of dogs from somewhere behind the house. A window opened and a harsh female voice called:
“Is that you, Felix?”
“Yes, Dorothy.”
“Why do you have to make such a bloody noise? You’ve woken those dogs again.” The window closed with a significant thud, and D’Arcy, without so much as a glance in Smiley’s direction, disappeared quickly into the shadow of the house.
Smiley set off along the road again, back towards the town. After walking for about ten minutes he stopped and looked again towards the Rodes’ house a hundred yards across the playing fields. It lay in the shadow of a small coppice of fir trees, dark and secret against the white fields. A narrow lane led towards the house; there was a brick pillar-box on one corner and a small oak sign-post, quite new, pointed along the lane, which must, he decided, lead to the village of Pylle. The legend upon the sign was obscured by a film of snow, and Smiley brushed it away with his hand, so that he could read the words ‘North Fields,’ done in a contrived suburban Gothic script which must have caused D’Arcy considerable discomfort. The snow in the lane was untrodden; obviously more had fallen recently. There could not be much traffic between Pylle and Carne. Glancing quickly up and down the main road he began making his way along the lane. The hedge rose high on either side, and soon Smiley could see nothing but the pale sky above him, and the straggling willow wands reaching towards it. Once he thought he heard the sound of a footstep, close behind him, but when he stopped he heard nothing but the furtive rustle of the laden hedges. He grew more conscious of the cold: it seemed to hang in the still damp of the sunken road, to clutch and hold him like the chill air of an empty house. Soon the hedge on his left gave way to a sparse line of trees, which Smiley judged to belong to the coppice he had seen from the road. The snow beneath the trees was patchy, and the bare ground looked suddenly ugly and torn. The lane took him in a gradual curve to the left and, quite suddenly the house stood before him, gaunt and craggy in the moonlight. The walls were brick and flint, half obscured by the mass of ivy which grew in profusion across them, tumbling over the porch in a tangled mane.
A Murder of Quality AND Call for the Dead Page 6