by P. D. James
On his previous visits to Larksoken he had seen Martyr’s Cottage spread out beneath him when he and his aunt had stood surveying the headland from the small top room under the cone of the mill. But he had never been closer to it than the road, and now, driving up to it, it struck him again that the description “cottage” was hardly appropriate. It was a substantial two-storey, L-shaped house standing to the east of the track, with walls partly flint and partly rendered, enclosing at the rear a courtyard of York stone which gave an uninterrupted view over fifty yards of scrub to the grassy dunes and the sea. No one appeared as he drew up and, before lifting his hand to the bell, he paused to read the words of a stone plaque embedded in the flints to the right of the door.
IN A COTTAGE ON THIS SITE LIVED AGNES POLEY, PROTESTANT MARTYR,
BURNED AT IPSWICH, 15TH AUGUST 1557, AGED 32 YEARS.
ECCLESIASTES CHAPTER 3, VERSE 15.
The plaque was unadorned, the letters deeply carved in an elegant script reminiscent of Eric Gill, and Dalgliesh remembered his aunt telling him that it had been placed there by previous owners in the late 1920s when the cottage was originally extended. One of the advantages of a religious education is the ability to identify at least the better-known texts of scripture, and this was one which it needed no effort of memory to recall. As a delinquent nine-year-old at his prep school, he had once been required by the headmaster to write out in his best handwriting the whole of the third chapter of Ecclesiastes, old Gumboil, economical in this as in all matters, believing that writing lines should combine punishment with literary and religious education. The words, in that round childish script, had remained with him. It was, he thought, an interesting choice of text.
That which hath been is now; and that which is to be hath already been; and God requireth that which is past.
He rang and there was only a short delay before Alice Mair opened the door. He saw a tall, handsome woman dressed with careful and expensive informality in a black cashmere sweater with a silk scarf at the throat and fawn trousers. He would have recognized her from her strong resemblance to her brother, although she looked the elder by some years. She took it for granted that each knew who the other was and, standing aside to motion him in, she said: “It’s good of you to be so accommodating, Mr. Dalgliesh. I’m afraid Nora Gurney is implacable. Once she knew you were on your way to Norfolk you were a predestined victim. Perhaps you would bring the proofs through to the kitchen.”
It was a distinguished face with the deep-set, widely spaced eyes beneath straight brows, a well-shaped, rather secretive mouth and strong greying hair swept upwards and curled into a chignon. In her publicity photographs she could, he recalled, look beautiful in a somewhat intimidating, intellectual and very English mould. But seen face-to-face, even in the informality of her own house, the absence of a spark of sexuality and, he sensed, a deep-seated reserve, made her seem less feminine and more formidable than he had expected, and she held herself stiffly, as if repelling invaders of her personal space. The handshake with which she had greeted him had been cool and firm and her brief smile was surprisingly attractive. He knew that he was oversensitive to the timbre of the human voice, and hers, although not jarring or unpleasant, sounded a little forced, as if she were deliberately speaking at an unnatural pitch.
He followed her down the hall to the kitchen at the back of the house. It was, he judged, almost twenty feet long and obviously served the triple purpose of sitting room, working place and office. The right-hand half of the room was a well-equipped kitchen with a large gas stove and an Aga, a butcher’s chopping block, a dresser to the right of the door holding an assortment of gleaming pots, and a long working surface with a wooden triangle sheathing her assortment of knives. In the centre of the room was a large wooden table holding a stoneware jar of dried flowers. On the left-hand wall was a working fireplace, the two recesses fitted with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. To each side of the hearth was a high-backed wicker armchair in an intricate, closely woven design, fitted with patchwork cushions. There was an open roll-top desk facing one of the wide windows and, to its right, a stable door, the top half open, gave a view of the paved courtyard. Dalgliesh could glimpse what was obviously her herb garden planted in elegant terra-cotta pots carefully disposed to catch the sun. The room, which contained nothing superfluous, nothing pretentious, was both pleasing and extraordinarily comforting and, for a moment, he wondered why. Was it the faint smell of herbs and newly baked dough; the soft ticking of the wall-mounted clock, which seemed both to mark the passing seconds and yet to hold time in thrall; the rhythmic moaning of the sea through the half-open door; the sense of well-fed ease conveyed by the two cushioned armchairs, the open hearth? Or was it that the kitchen reminded Dalgliesh of that rectory kitchen where the lonely only child had found warmth and undemanding, uncensorious companionship, been given hot dripping toast and small forbidden treats?
He placed the proofs on the desk, refused Alice Mair’s offer of coffee and followed her back to the front door. She walked out with him to the car and said: “I was sorry about your aunt—sorry for you, I mean. I expect that for an ornithologist death ceases to be terrible once sight and hearing begin to go. And to die in one’s sleep without distress to oneself or inconvenience to others is an enviable end. But you had known her for so long that she must have seemed immortal.”
Formal condolences, he thought, were never easy to speak or accept and usually sounded either banal or insincere. Hers had been perceptive. Jane Dalgliesh had indeed seemed to him immortal. The very old, he thought, make our past. Once they go it seems for a moment that neither it nor we have any real existence. He said: “I don’t think death was ever terrible to her. I’m not sure that I really knew her, and I’m left wishing I’d tried harder. But I shall miss her.”
Alice Mair said: “I didn’t know her either. Perhaps I should have tried harder too. She was a very private woman, I suspect one of those fortunate people who find no other company more agreeable than their own. It always seems presumptuous to encroach on that self-sufficiency. Perhaps you share it. But if you can tolerate company, I’m having a few people, mostly colleagues of Alex from the power station, to dinner on Thursday night. Would you care to join us? Seven-thirty for eight.”
It sounded, he thought, more like a challenge than an invitation. Somewhat to his surprise, Dalgliesh found himself accepting. But then the whole encounter had been a little surprising. She stood regarding him with a serious intensity as he let in the clutch and turned the car, and he had the impression that she was watching critically to see how he handled it. But at least, he thought as he gave a final wave, she hadn’t asked him whether he had come to Norfolk to help catch the Whistler.
5
Three minutes later he raised his foot from the accelerator. Ahead of him, trudging along on the left of the path, was a little group of children, the eldest girl wheeling a push-chair with two smaller children, one each side of her, clutching the bars. Hearing the noise of the car she turned, and he saw a peaked, delicate face framed with red-gold hair. He recognized the Blaney children, met once before, with their mother, walking along the beach. Obviously the eldest girl had been shopping: the folding push-chair had a shelf under the seat lumped high with plastic bags. Instinctively he slowed down. They were unlikely to be in real danger; the Whistler stalked at night, not in broad daylight, and no vehicle had passed him since he left the coastal road. But the child looked grossly overburdened and ought not to be so far from home. Though he had never seen their cottage, he seemed to remember that his aunt had told him that it lay about two miles to the south. He recalled what he knew about them, that their father earned a precarious living as a painter whose innocuous, prettified water-colours were sold in cafés and tourist shops along the coast, and that their mother had been desperately ill with cancer. He wondered whether Mrs. Blaney was still alive. His instinct was to pile the children into the car and drive them home, but that, he knew, was hardly sensible. Almost certainly
the eldest child—Theresa, wasn’t it?—had been taught not to accept lifts from strangers, particularly men, and he was virtually a stranger. On an impulse he reversed the Jaguar and drove quickly back to Martyr’s Cottage. This time the front door was open and a swathe of sunlight lay across the red-tiled floor. Alice Mair had heard the car and came out to him from the kitchen, wiping her hands. He said: “The Blaney children are walking home. Theresa is wheeling a push-chair and trying to cope with the twins. I thought I could offer a lift if I had a woman with me, someone they know.”
She said briefly: “They know me.”
Without another word she went back into the kitchen, then came out to him, closed the front door after her without locking it and got into the car. Putting it into gear, his arm brushed her knee. He was aware of an almost imperceptible withdrawing, more emotional than physical, a small delicate gesture of self-containment. Dalgliesh doubted whether that half-imagined recoil had anything to do with him personally, nor did he find her silence disconcerting. Their conversation, when they did speak, was brief. He asked: “Is Mrs. Blaney still alive?”
“No. She died six weeks ago.”
“How are they managing?”
“Not particularly well, I imagine. But Ryan Blaney doesn’t welcome interference. I sympathize. Once he lets down his defences, half the social workers in Norfolk, amateur and professional, will move in on him.”
When they drew up beside the little band it was Alice Mair who opened the car door and spoke.
“Theresa, here is Mr. Dalgliesh to give you all a lift. He’s Miss Dalgliesh’s nephew from Larksoken Mill. One of the twins had better sit on my lap. The rest of you and the push-chair can fit into the back.”
Theresa looked at Dalgliesh without smiling and said a grave thank you. She reminded him of pictures of the young Elizabeth Tudor, the same red-gold hair framing a curiously adult face both secretive and self-composed, the same sharp nose and wary eyes. The faces of the twins, softer editions of her own, turned towards her questioningly, then broke into shy smiles. They looked as if they had been dressed in a hurry and not very suitably for a long walk on the headland, even in a warm autumn. One wore a tattered summer dress in pinkspotted cotton with double flounces, the other a pinafore over a checked blouse. Their pathetically thin legs were unprotected. Theresa was wearing jeans and a grubby sweatshirt with a map of London’s Underground across the front. Dalgliesh found himself wondering if it had been brought back from a school trip to the capital. It was too large for her and the wide sleeves of limp cotton hung from her freckled arms like rags thrown over a stick. In contrast to his sisters, Anthony was overclad, a bundle of leggings, jumper and a padded jacket topped with a woollen helmet with a bobble pulled well down over his forehead, beneath which he surveyed their busyness, unsmiling, like a stout, imperious Caesar.
Dalgliesh got out of the Jaguar and tried to extricate him from the push-chair, but the anatomy of the chair momentarily defeated him. There was a bar beneath which the child’s rigid legs were obstinately stuck. The solid uncooperative bundle was surprisingly heavy; it was like trying to manoeuvre a firm and rather smelly poultice. Theresa gave him a brief, pitying smile, dragged the plastic bags from beneath the seat, then expertly freed her brother and settled him on her left hip while, with the other hand, she collapsed the push-chair, with a single, vigorous shake. Dalgliesh took the baby from her while Theresa helped the children into the Jaguar and commanded with sudden fierceness “Sit still.” Anthony, recognizing incompetence, grasped Dalgliesh’s hair firmly with a sticky hand and he felt the momentary touch of a cheek, so soft that it was like the fall of a petal. Throughout these manoeuvrings Alice Mair sat quietly watching from the car but made no move to help. It was impossible to know what she was thinking.
But once the Jaguar had moved away she turned to Theresa and said in a voice of surprising gentleness: “Does your father know that you’re out alone?”
“Daddy has taken the van to Mr. Sparks. It’s due for its MOT test. Mr. Sparks doesn’t think it’s going to pass. And I found we’d run out of milk for Anthony. We have to have milk. And we wanted some more disposable nappies.”
Alice Mair said: “I’m giving a dinner party on Thursday evening. If your father agrees, would you like to come and help with the table like you did last month?”
“What are you going to cook, Miss Mair?”
“Put your head close so that I can whisper. Mr. Dalgliesh is going to be one of the guests. I want it to be a surprise.”
The red-golden head leaned forward towards the grey and Miss Mair whispered. Theresa smiled and then nodded with serious satisfaction in a moment of grave feminine conspiracy.
It was Alice Mair who directed him to the cottage. After about a mile they turned seaward and the Jaguar lurched and bounced down a narrow track between high, untended hedges of bramble and elderberry. The track led only to Scudder’s Cottage, the name crudely painted on a board nailed to the gate. Beyond the cottage it widened to provide a rough, gravelled turning, backed by a forty-foot bank of shingle behind which Dalgliesh could hear the crash and suck of the tide. Scudder’s Cottage, small-windowed, picturesque under its tiled, dipping roof, was fronted by a flowering wilderness which had once been a garden. Theresa led the way, between grass almost knee-high bordered by a riot of unpruned roses, to the porch, then reached for a key hung high on a nail, less, Dalgliesh supposed, for security reasons than to ensure that it wasn’t lost. With Dalgliesh carrying Anthony they passed into the cottage.
It was much lighter than he had expected, largely because of a rear door, now open, which led to a glass extension giving a view of the headland. He was aware of the room’s clutter: the central wooden table still covered with the remains of their midday meal, an assortment of plates smeared with tomato sauce, a half-eaten sausage, a large bottle of orangeade uncapped; the children’s clothes thrown over the back of a low nursing chair before the fireplace; of the smell of milk and bodies and woodsmoke. But what held his attention was a large oil painting propped on a chair and fronting the door. It was a three-quarter portrait in oils of a woman, painted with remarkable power. It dominated the room, so that he and Alice Mair stood for a moment, silently regarding it. The painter had avoided caricature, if only just, but the portrait was, he felt, intended less as a physical likeness than an allegory. Behind the wide, full mouth, the arrogant stare of the eyes, the dark, crimped, Pre-Raphaelite hair streaming in the wind, was a careful delineation of the headland, its objects disposed and painted with the meticulous attention to detail of a sixteenth-century primitive; the Victorian rectory, the ruined abbey, the half-demolished pillbox, the crippled trees, the small white mill like a child’s toy and, gaunt against a flaming evening sky, the stark outline of the power station. But it was the woman, painted more freely, who dominated the landscape, arms stretched, the palms facing outwards in a parody of blessing. Dalgliesh’s private verdict was that it was technically brilliant, but overwrought and painted, he felt, in hatred. Blaney’s intention to produce a study of evil was as clear as if the portrait had been labelled. It was so different from the artist’s usual work that without the bold signature, the single surname, Dalgliesh might have wondered if it was, in fact, his work. He recalled Blaney’s pallid and innocuous water-colours of the better-known beauty spots of Norfolk—Blakeney, St. Peter Mancroft and the Cathedral at Norwich—which he produced for the local shops. They could have been painted from picture-postcards and probably were. And he could recall seeing one or two small oils hung in local restaurants and pubs, slapdash in technique and economical of paint, but so different from the prettified water-colours that it was hard to believe that they too were by the same hand. But this portrait was different from either; the wonder was that the artist who could produce this disciplined splurge of colour, this technical artistry and imagination, had been content to churn out meretricious souvenirs for the tourist trade.
“You didn’t know I could do it, did you?”
&n
bsp; Absorbed in the painting, they hadn’t caught his almost silent approach through the open door. He moved round and joined them and stared intently at the portrait, as if seeing it for the first time. His daughters, as though obedient to some unspoken command, grouped themselves around him in what in older children could have been a conscious gesture of family solidarity. Dalgliesh had last seen Blaney six months earlier, splashing alone along the edge of the beach, painting gear slung over his shoulder, and was shocked by the change in the man. He stood a lean six-foot-three in his torn jeans, the checked woollen shirt open almost to the waist, his long, grubby feet in the open sandals looking like dry, brown bones. His face was a picture of red ferocity, the straggling red hair and beard, the bloodshot eyes, the gaunt-featured face burnt red by wind and sun, which yet showed on the cheekbones and under the eyes the bruising stain of tiredness. Dalgliesh saw Theresa slip her hand into his while one of the twins moved closer to him and clasped both arms firmly round one of his legs. Dalgliesh thought that however ferocious he might appear to the outside world, his children had no fear of him.
Alice Mair said calmly, “Good afternoon, Ryan,” but did not appear to expect an answer. She nodded towards the portrait and went on: “It’s remarkable, certainly. What are you proposing to do with it? I can hardly suppose that she sat for you or that it was commissioned.”
“She didn’t need to sit. I know that face. I’m showing it at the Norwich Contemporary Arts Exhibition on October third if I can get it there. The van is out of use.”