by P. D. James
“And who has from time to time wanted it, Mrs. Dennison?”
“Mr. Blaney has occasionally bought clothes for the children. One of Mr. Gledhill’s tweed jackets fitted Mr. Copley, so Mrs. Copley paid for that. And Neil Pascoe called in about a fortnight ago to see if we had anything suitable for Timmy.”
Oliphant asked: “Was that before or after Mr. Lessingham brought in the trainers?”
“I can’t remember, Sergeant. You’d better ask him. We neither of us looked in the shoe box. Mr. Pascoe was interested in warm jumpers for Timmy. He paid for two. There’s a tin with the money on a shelf in the kitchen.”
“So people don’t just help themselves and leave the cash?”
“Oh no, Chief Inspector. No one would dream of doing that.”
“And what about the belts? Would you be able to say whether one of the belts or straps is missing?”
She said with a sudden spurt of impatience: “How could I possibly do that? Look for yourself. This box is literally a jumble: straps, belts, old handbags, scarves. How could I possibly say if anything is missing or when it was taken?”
Oliphant said: “Would it surprise you to be told that we have a witness who saw the trainers in this box last Wednesday morning?”
Oliphant could make the simplest and most innocuous question sound like an accusation. But his crudeness, sometimes bordering on insolence, was usually carefully judged, and Rickards seldom attempted to discipline it, knowing that it had its uses. It had, after all, been Oliphant who had got close to shaking Alex Mair’s composure. But now he should perhaps have remembered that he was talking to an ex-schoolmistress. Mrs. Dennison turned on him the mildly reproving look more appropriate to a delinquent child.
“I don’t think you can have been listening carefully to what I’ve been saying, Sergeant. I have no idea when the shoes were taken. That being so, how could it surprise me to learn when they were last seen?” She turned to Rickards: “If we’re going to discuss this further, wouldn’t it be more comfortable for all of us in the drawing room than standing about here?”
Rickards hoped that it might at least be warmer.
She led them across the hall into a room at the front of the house which faced south, over the lumpy lawn and the tangle of laurels, rhododendrons and wind-stunted bushes, which effectively screened the road. The room was large and barely warmer than the one they had left, as if even the strongest autumn sun had been unable to penetrate the mullioned windows and the heavy drapes of the velvet curtains. And the air was a little stuffy, smelling of polish, pot pourri and faintly of rich food, as if still redolent with long-eaten Victorian afternoon teas. Rickards almost expected to hear the rustle of a crinoline.
Mrs. Dennison didn’t switch on the light and Rickards felt that he could hardly ask her. In the gloom he had an impression of solid mahogany furniture, side tables laden with photographs, of comfortably upholstered armchairs in shabby covers and of so many pictures in ornate frames that the room had the air of an oppressive and rarely visited provincial gallery. Mrs. Dennison seemed aware of the cold, if not of the gloom. She stooped to plug in a two-bar electric fire to the right of the huge carved grate, then seated herself with her back towards the window and gestured Rickards and Oliphant to the sofa, on which they sat side-by-side solidly upright on stiff unyielding cushions. She sat quietly waiting, her hands folded in her lap. The room, with its weight of dark mahogany, its air of ponderous respectability, diminished her, and it seemed to Rickards that she gleamed like a pale and unsubstantial wraith dwarfed by the huge arms of the chair. He wondered about her life on the headland and in this remote and surely unmanageable house, wondered what she had been seeking when she fled to this wind-scoured coast and whether she had found it.
He asked: “When was it decided that the Reverend and Mrs. Copley should go to stay with their daughter?”
“Last Friday, after Christine Baldwin was murdered. She’d been very anxious about them for some time and pressing them to leave, but it was the fact that the last murder was so very close that persuaded them. I was to drive them to Norwich to catch the eight-thirty on Sunday evening.”
“Was that generally known?”
“It was talked about, I expect. You could say it was generally known in as far as there are people here to know it. Mr. Copley had to make arrangements for the services he normally takes. I told Mrs. Bryson at the stores that I would be needing only half a pint of milk a day instead of the normal two and a half pints. Yes, you could say it was generally known.”
“And why didn’t you drive them to Norwich as arranged?”
“Because the car broke down while they were finishing the packing. I thought I’d explained that already. At about half past six I went to get it out of the garage and drove it to the front door. It was all right then, but when I finally got them into it at seven-fifteen and we were ready to go it wouldn’t start. So I rang Mr. Sparks at Lydsett garage and arranged for him to take them in his taxi.”
“Without you?”
Before she could answer, Oliphant got to his feet, walked over to a standard lamp close to his chair and, without a word, switched it on. The strong light flowed down on her. For a moment Rickards thought that she was about to protest. She half-rose from the chair, then sat down again and went on as if nothing had happened.
“I felt bad about that. I would have been much happier to have seen them on the train, but Mr. Sparks could only take the job if he could go straight on to Ipswich, where he had to pick up a fare. But he promised he wouldn’t leave them until he’d seen them into the carriage. And, of course, they’re not children, they’re perfectly capable of getting out at Liverpool Street. It’s the terminus, after all; and their daughter was meeting them.”
Why, Rickards wondered, was she so defensive? She could hardly suppose herself a serious suspect. And yet, why not? He had known less likely murderers. He could see fear in the dozen small signs which no experienced policeman could miss: the tremble of the hands, which she tried to control when his glance fell on them; the nervous tic at the corner of the eye; the inability to sit still one moment, followed by an unnatural, controlled stillness the next; the note of strain in the voice; the way in which she was resolutely meeting his eyes with a look compounded of defiance and endurance. Taken singly, each was a sign of natural stress; together they added up to something close to terror. He had resented Adam Dalgliesh’s warning the previous night. It had been uncomfortably close to teaching him his job. But perhaps he had been right. Perhaps he was facing a woman who had suffered more aggressive interrogations than she could take. But he had his job to do.
He said: “You phoned for the taxi straight away? You didn’t try to find out what was wrong with the car?”
“There was no time to fuss about under the bonnet. I’m not a mechanic anyway. I’ve never been particularly good with a car. It was lucky that I found out in time that it wouldn’t go, and even luckier that Mr. Sparks could oblige. He came at once. Mr. and Mrs. Copley were getting very agitated. Their daughter was expecting them; all the arrangements had been made. It was important to catch the train.”
“Where was the car normally kept, Mrs. Dennison?”
“I thought I told you that, Chief Inspector. In the garage.”
“Locked?”
“There’s a padlock. Quite a small one. I don’t suppose it’s very secure if someone really wanted to break it, but no one has ever tried. It was locked when I went for the car.”
“Three-quarters of an hour before you needed to leave.”
“Yes. I don’t understand what you’re getting at. Is that significant?”
“I’m just curious, Mrs. Dennison. Why so much time?”
“Have you ever had to load a car with the luggage required by two elderly people leaving for an indefinite stay? I had been helping Mrs. Copley with the final part of her packing. I wasn’t needed for a minute or so, and it seemed a good opportunity to get the car out.”
“And w
hile it stood there in front of the house, was it constantly under your eye?”
“Of course not. I was busy checking that the Copleys had everything that they needed, going over the things I needed to do while they were away, parish business, a few telephone calls.”
“Where was this happening?”
“In Mr. Copley’s study. Mrs. Copley was in her bedroom.”
“And the car was unattended in the drive?”
“Are you suggesting that someone sabotaged it?”
“Well, that would be a little fanciful, wouldn’t it? What gave you that idea?”
“You did, Chief Inspector. It wouldn’t otherwise have occurred to me. And I agree, it’s fanciful.”
“And when, at nine-forty-five, Mr. Jago rang from the Local Hero to tell you that the Whistler’s body had been found, what did you do then?”
“There was nothing I could do. There was no way of stopping the Copleys; they were over an hour into their journey. I rang their daughter at her London club and managed to catch her before she set out for Liverpool Street. She said that she’d made all her arrangements, so that they might as well stay for a week since they were on their way. Actually, they’re coming home tomorrow afternoon. Mrs. Duncan-Smith has been called to help nurse a sick friend.”
Rickards said: “One of my officers has seen Mr. Sparks. He was anxious to reassure you that the Copleys were safely on their way. He rang you as soon as convenient for him but could get no reply. That was at about nine-fifteen, about the same time as Mr. Jago first tried to get through to you.”
“I must have been in the garden. It was a beautiful moonlit night and I was restless. I needed to get out of the house.”
“Even with the Whistler, as you thought, still at large?”
“Strangely enough, Chief Inspector, I’ve never been very frightened of the Whistler. The threat always seemed remote, a little unreal.”
“You went no farther than the garden?”
She looked at him straight in the eyes.
“I went no farther than the garden.”
“Yet you didn’t hear the telephone?”
“It is a large garden.”
“But it was a quiet night, Mrs. Dennison.”
She didn’t reply.
He asked: “And when did you come in from wandering alone in the dark?”
“I wouldn’t describe a stroll around the garden as wandering alone in the dark. I suppose I was out for about half an hour. I had been back about five minutes when Mr. Jago rang.”
“And when did you hear about the Robarts murder, Mrs. Dennison? Obviously it wasn’t news to you when we met at Martyr’s Cottage.”
“I thought you already knew that, Chief Inspector. Miss Mair telephoned me shortly after seven on Monday morning. She herself knew when her brother returned late on Sunday night after seeing the body, but she didn’t want to disturb me at midnight, particularly with such distressing news.”
Oliphant asked: “And was it distressing news, madam? You hardly knew Miss Robarts. Why should it be so distressing?”
Mrs. Dennison gave him a long look, then turned away. She said: “If you really have to ask that question, Sergeant, are you sure you’re in the right job?”
Rickards rose to go. She came with them to the front door. As they were leaving she turned to him and said with sudden urgency: “Chief Inspector, I’m not stupid. All these questions about the shoes. Obviously you’ve found a print at the scene and you think it could have been made by the murderer. But surely Bumbles aren’t uncommon. Anyone could have been wearing them. The fact that Toby Gledhill’s pair is missing could be simply coincidence. They weren’t necessarily taken with evil purpose. Anyone needing a pair of trainers could have stolen them.”
Oliphant looked at her. “Oh, I don’t think so, madam, do you? As you said yourself only half an hour ago, this is Larksoken, not London.” And he smiled his thick-lipped, self-satisfied smile.
7
Rickards wanted to see Lessingham at once, but the press conference called for 10.00 meant that the interview had to be postponed and, to complicate matters further, a telephone call to Larksoken Power Station revealed that Lessingham had taken a day’s leave but had left a message saying he could be reached at his cottage outside Blakeney. Luckily he was at home and, without explanation, Oliphant made an appointment for midday.
They were less than five minutes late, and it was the more frustrating, therefore, to find when they arrived at the low-built wood-and-brick cottage set back on the coastal road a mile to the north of the village that he wasn’t at home. A note in pencil was tacked to the front door.
“Anyone wanting me, try the Heron, berthed at Blakeney Quay. That includes the police.”
“Bloody cheek!” complained Oliphant. As if unwilling to believe that any suspect could be as wilfully uncooperative, he tried the door, peered in at the window, then disappeared round the back. Returning, he said: “Ramshackle. Could do with a lick of paint. Funny place to choose to live. These marshes are pretty dreary in winter. You’d think he’d want a bit of life around him.”
Rickards privately agreed that it was an odd place for Lessingham to choose. His cottage looked as if it had once been a pair, now converted into a single dwelling and, although agreeably proportioned with a certain melancholy charm, it looked at first sight unoccupied and neglected. Lessingham was a senior engineer after all, or technician, he couldn’t for the moment remember which. Anyway, he hardly lived here because he was poor.
Rickards said: “He probably wants to be close to his boat. There’s not much choice of harbour on this coast. It was either there or Wells-next-the-Sea.”
As they got back into the car, Oliphant gazed back at the cottage resentfully, as if it were concealing behind the peeling paint some secret which a few vigorous kicks on the door might persuade it to divulge. Fastening his seat belt, he grumbled: “And when we get to the quay I suppose there’ll be a notice telling us to try the pub.”
But Lessingham was where he said he’d be. Ten minutes later they came up to him, sitting on an upturned crate on the deserted quay, an outboard motor in front of him. Berthed beside him was a thirty-foot sailing boat with a central cabin. It was obvious that he hadn’t yet started to work. A relatively clean rag drooped from fingers which seemed too listless to hold it, and he was regarding the engine as if it posed an intractable problem. He looked up as they stood over him, and Rickards was shocked at the change in him. In only two days he seemed to have aged ten years. He was barefoot and wore a faded dark-blue guernsey over knee-length denim shorts fashionably tattered at the edges. But this informal garb seemed only to emphasize his urban pallor, the skin taut over the wide cheekbones, the smudges like bruises under the deep-set eyes. He was a part-time sailor after all, thought Rickards. Extraordinary that even this bad summer hadn’t produced more than a biscuit-coloured tan.
Lessingham didn’t get up, but said without preamble: “You were lucky to catch me when you rang. A day’s leave is too good to waste indoors, particularly now. I thought we could talk here as well as anywhere.”
Rickards said: “Not altogether. Somewhere more private would be better.”
“This is private enough. The locals can recognize the police when they see them. Of course, if you want me to make a formal statement or were thinking of arresting me, I’d prefer the police station. I like to keep my house and my boat uncontaminated.” He added: “I mean, uncontaminated by disagreeable sensations.”
Oliphant said stolidly: “Why do you suppose we would want to arrest you? Arrest you for what exactly?” He added: “Sir,” and made the word sound like a threat.
Rickards felt a spurt of irritation. It was like the man not to miss an easy opening, but this childish preliminary sparring would hardly smooth the interrogation. Lessingham looked at Oliphant, seriously considering whether the question needed a reply.
“God knows. I suppose you could think of something if you put your minds to it.” Then,
seeming to realize for the first time that they were having to stand, he got up. “All right, better come on board.”
Rickards wasn’t a sailor, but it seemed to him that the boat, all wood, was old. The cabin, which they had to crouch low to enter, had a narrow mahogany table down the whole length and a bench on either side. Lessingham seated himself opposite them, and they regarded each other across two feet of polished wood, their faces so close that Rickards felt he could smell his companions, a masculine amalgam of sweat, warm wool, beer and Oliphant’s aftershave, as if all three were claustrophobically caged animals. It could hardly have been a more unsuitable place in which to conduct an interview, and he wondered whether Adam Dalgliesh would have engineered things better and despised himself for the thought. He was aware of Oliphant’s great bulk beside him, their thighs touching, Oliphant’s unnaturally warm, and had to resist an impulse to edge farther away.
He said: “Is this your boat, sir? The one you were sailing last Sunday night?”
“Not sailing, Chief Inspector, for much of the time; there wasn’t enough wind. But, yes, this is my boat and this is the one I was on last Sunday.”
“You seem to have damaged the hull. There’s a long fresh-looking scratch on the starboard side.”
“Clever of you to notice. I scraped the water tower offshore from the power station. Careless of me. I’ve sailed these waters often enough. If you’d come a couple of hours later it would have been repainted.”
“And do you still say that you were never at any time within sight of the beach where Miss Robarts took her last swim?”
“You asked me that question when you saw me on Monday. It depends what you mean by ‘in sight of.’ I could have seen the beach through my binoculars if I’d happened to look, but I can confirm that I never got to within half a mile of it and that I didn’t land. Since I could hardly murder her without landing, that seems to me conclusive. But I don’t suppose you’ve come all this way just to hear me repeat my alibi.”