by P. D. James
Dalgliesh took out his warrant card. ‘Mrs Curtis? I’m Commander Dalgliesh from the Metropolitan Police, and this is Detective Inspector Miskin. We’re here to see your husband.’
She looked surprised. ‘The Metropolitan Police? That’s something new. We do get the local police round from time to time. Some of the youths from the high-rises cause trouble occasionally. They’re a good crowd – the local police I mean. Anyway, please come in. Sorry I kept you waiting but we’ve got these double security locks. It’s awful I know, but Michael has been attacked twice in the last year. That’s why we had to take down the sign saying that this is the vicarage.’ She called in a voice totally devoid of anxiety, ‘Michael, darling. Someone from the Met Police is here.’
The Reverend Michael Curtis was wearing a cassock with what looked like an old college scarf wound round his neck. Kate was glad when Mrs Curtis shut the front door behind them. The house struck her as cold. He came forward and rather absent-mindedly shook hands. He was older than his wife, but perhaps not so much older as he seemed, his thin rather stooped frame in contrast to her buxom comeliness. His brown hair, cut in a monk-like fringe, was beginning to grey, but the kindly eyes were watchful and shrewd and when he grasped Kate’s hand his grip was confident. Bestowing on his wife and children a look of puzzled love, he indicated a door behind him.
‘Perhaps in the study?’
It was a larger room than Kate had expected, its French windows looking out on a small garden. Obviously no attempt at cultivating the beds or mowing the lawn had been made. The small space had been given over to the children, with a climbing frame, a sandpit and a swing. Various toys were strewn across the grass. The study itself smelled of books and, she thought, faintly of incense. There was a crowded desk, a table piled with books and magazines set against the wall, a modern gas fire, at present lit with only one bar, and to the right of the desk, a crucifix with a stool for kneeling before it. There were two rather battered armchairs in front of the fire.
Mr Curtis said, ‘I think you’ll find these two chairs reasonably comfortable.’
Seating himself at the desk, he edged round the swivel chair to face them, hands on knees. He looked a little puzzled but completely unworried.
Dalgliesh said, ‘We wanted to ask you about your car.’
‘My old Ford? I don’t think it can have been taken and used in the commission of a crime. It’s very reliable for its age, but it doesn’t go very fast. I can’t believe anyone has taken it with evil intent. As you probably saw, it’s in the garage. It’s perfectly all right.’
Dalgliesh said, ‘It was seen parked late on Friday night close to the scene of a serious crime. I’m hoping that whoever was driving might have seen something that would help our enquiries. Perhaps another parked car or someone acting suspiciously. Were you in Dorset on Friday night, Father?’
‘Dorset? No, I was here with the Parochial Church Council on Friday from five o’clock. As it happens, I wasn’t driving the car myself that evening. I’d lent it to a friend. He’d taken his in for servicing and its MOT, but I gather there were things that needed to be done. He had an urgent appointment he was very anxious to keep so he asked if he could borrow mine. I said I could use my wife’s bike if I were called out. I’m sure he’ll be happy to help in any way he can.’
‘When did he return the car?’
‘It must have been very early yesterday morning, before we got up. I remember that it was back when I went out to seven o’clock Mass. He left a thank-you note on the dashboard and he’d filled it with petrol. I thought he would; he’s always considerate. Dorset, you say? That was a long journey. I think if he’d seen anything suspicious or had witnessed an incident he would have phoned and told me. Actually, we haven’t spoken since he returned.’
Dalgliesh said, ‘Anyone near the scene could have useful information without realising its significance. It might not have seemed unusual or suspicious at the time. May we have his name and address? If he lives locally it would save time if we could see him now.’
‘He’s the head of our local comprehensive, Droughton Cross school. Stephen Collinsby. You might catch him now at the school. He usually goes in on Sunday afternoons to prepare in peace for the week ahead. I’ll write the address down for you. It’s quite close. You could walk there if you want to leave your car here. It should be safe in our drive.’
Swivelling round, he pulled open the left-hand drawer and, after rummaging for a time, found a blank sheet of paper and began writing. Folding it neatly and handing it to Dalgliesh, he said, ‘Collinsby’s our local hero. Well, he’s become something of a national hero now. Perhaps you read something in the papers or saw that television programme on education in which he appeared? He’s a brilliant man. He’s completely turned round Droughton Cross Comprehensive. It was all done by principles which I suppose most people would support but which others don’t seem to be able to put into effect. He believes that every child has a talent, skill or intellectual ability which can enhance his whole life and that it’s the job of the school to discover and nurture it. Of course he needs help and he’s got the whole community involved, particularly the parents. I’m a school governor so I do what I can. I give Latin lessons here to two boys and two girls once a fortnight, helped by the organist’s wife who augments my deficiencies. Latin isn’t on the syllabus. They come because they want to learn the language and they’re wonderfully rewarding to teach. And one of our churchwardens runs the chess club with his wife. They have boys in that club who have a rare talent for the game and huge enthusiasm, boys who no one thought would ever achieve anything. And if you become school champion with a hope of playing for the county you don’t have to earn respect by carrying a knife. Forgive me for nattering on like this, but since I’ve known Stephen and become a school governor I’ve got very interested in education. And it’s heartening when good things happen against the odds. If you have time to talk to Stephen about the school I think you’ll be fascinated by his ideas.’
Now they were rising together. He said, ‘Oh dear, I’m afraid I’ve been very remiss. Won’t you stay for tea, or perhaps coffee?’ He looked round vaguely as if expecting the beverage to materialise from the air. ‘My wife could …’ He made for the door and was about to call.
Dalgliesh said, ‘Thank you, Father, but we must be away. I think we’d better take the car. We may have to leave in a hurry. Thank you for seeing us and for your help.’
In the car, their seatbelts buckled, Dalgliesh opened the paper and passed it to Kate. Father Curtis had drawn a meticulous little diagram with arrows pointing to the school. She knew why Dalgliesh had decided not to walk. Whatever the coming interview revealed, it would be prudent not to return and risk questions from Father Curtis.
After a moment’s silence, sensing Dalgliesh’s mood, she asked, knowing that he would understand, ‘Do you think this is going to be bad, sir?’ She meant bad for Stephen Collinsby, not for them.
‘Yes, Kate, I think it may be.’
4
They had turned into the noise and heavy traffic of Marland Way. The journey wasn’t easy and Kate didn’t speak except to give Dalgliesh directions until he had taken a right turn at the second set of traffic lights and they found themselves in a quieter road.
‘Sir, do you think that Father Curtis will have phoned to say we’re on our way?’
‘Yes, he’s an intelligent man. By the time we left he’ll have put several puzzling facts together, the involvement of the Met, our rank – why a commander and a detective inspector if this is a routine enquiry? – the early return of his car and his friend’s silence.’
‘But he obviously doesn’t know yet about the murder.’
‘He will when he reads tomorrow’s broadsheets or listens to the news. Even then I doubt whether he’ll be suspecting Collinsby, but he knows that his friend may be in trouble. That’s why he was determined to get in all that information about how he’s transformed the school. It was an impressive tes
timonial.’
Kate hesitated before the next question. She knew that Dalgliesh respected her and thought that he was fond of her. Over the years she had learnt to discipline her emotions; but though the core of what she had always known was a hopeless love remained and always would, it didn’t give her the freehold of his mind. There were questions better not asked, but was this one?
After a silence in which she kept her eyes on Father Curtis’s instructions, she said, ‘You knew he’d warn his friend but you didn’t tell him not to.’
‘He’ll have a bad five minutes of spiritual struggle without me making it worse for him. Our man isn’t going to run away.’
Another turn. Father Curtis had been optimistic in describing the school as ‘quite close’. Or was it the turnings, her companion’s reticence or the apprehension about the coming interview which made the journey seem long?
Now a billboard. Someone had painted in streaks of black paint, The Devil is in the Internet. Beneath it, more precisely written, There is no Devil and no God. Then the next panel, this time in red paint. God lives. See Book of Job. This led to the final exhortation: Fuck off.
Dalgliesh said, ‘A not uncommon ending to theological dispute but rarely so crudely expressed. I think this must be the school.’
She saw a Victorian building of patterned brick faced with stone standing back in a large asphalt playground surrounded by tall railings. To her surprise the gate to the playground was unlocked. A smaller and more ornate version of the main building, obviously by the same architect, was linked to it by a newer-looking corridor. Here an attempt had been made to compensate for size by ornamentation. Rows of windows and four carved stone steps led to an intimidating door which was opened to their ring so quickly that Kate suspected the headmaster had been waiting for them. She saw a spectacled man in early middle age, almost as tall as Dalgliesh, wearing a pair of old slacks and a jumper with patches of leather on the elbows.
He said, ‘If you’ll just wait a moment, I’ll lock the playground gate. There’s no bell there so I hoped you’d find your way in.’ Within a minute he was back with them.
He waited while Dalgliesh showed his warrant card and introduced Kate, then said briefly, ‘I’ve been expecting you. We’ll speak in my study.’
Following him through the sparsely furnished entrance hall and down the terrazzo-floored corridor, Kate was back in her comprehensive school; here was the faint, almost illusory smell of paper, bodies, paint and cleaning materials. There was no smell of chalk. Did teachers ever use it now? Blackboards had largely given way to computers, even in primary schools. But gazing through the few open doors she saw no classrooms. Perhaps the formal headmaster’s house was now largely devoted to his study and to seminar rooms or administration. It was obvious that he didn’t live on the premises.
He stood aside to let them enter a room at the end of the corridor. It was a mixture of conference room, study and sitting room. There was a rectangular table set in front of the window with six chairs, bookshelves almost to the ceiling on the left-hand wall and the headmaster’s desk, with his own chair and two before it, to the right. One wall was covered with school photographs: the chess club, a row of smiling faces with the board set up in front of them, the captain holding the small silver trophy; the football and swimming teams; the orchestra; the cast of the Christmas pantomime and a scene from what looked like Macbeth – wasn’t it always Macbeth: short, suitably bloody, not too difficult to learn? An open door gave a glimpse of what was obviously a small kitchen. There was a smell of coffee.
Collinsby pulled out two chairs at the table and said, ‘I take it that this is a formal visit. Shall we sit here?’
He seated himself at the top of the table with Dalgliesh on his right, Kate on his left. And now she could look at him fleetingly but more closely. She saw a good face, sensitive and firm jawed, a face one saw on television advertisements chosen to inspire confidence in the actor’s spiel about the bank’s superiority over its competition, or to persuade the viewers that that unaffordable car could provoke envy among the neighbours. He looked younger than Kate had expected, perhaps because of the informality of his weekend clothes, and might, she thought, have shown some of the confident insouciance of youth if he hadn’t looked so tired. The grey eyes, which briefly met hers and then turned to Dalgliesh, were dulled with exhaustion. But when he spoke his voice was surprisingly youthful.
Dalgliesh said, ‘We’re making enquiries into the suspicious death of a woman at a house in Stoke Cheverell in Dorset. A Ford Focus with the number plate w341 udg was seen parked close to the house between eleven thirty-five and eleven forty on the night she died. That was last Friday, December the 14th. We are told that you had borrowed the car on that date. Were you driving and were you there?’
‘Yes. I was there.’
‘Under what circumstances, Mr Collinsby?’
And now Collinsby roused himself. Speaking to Dalgliesh, he said, ‘I want to make a statement. Not an official statement at present, although I realise that will have to come. I want to explain to you why I was there, and to do it now just as events come into my mind, without even worrying how they sound or what the effect of them might be. I know you’ll have questions and I’ll try to answer them, but it would be helpful if I could first just tell the truth without interruption. I was going to say, tell what happened in my own words, but what other words have I?’
Dalgliesh said, ‘Perhaps that would be the best way to start.’
‘I’ll try not to make it too long. The story has become complicated, but basically it’s very simple. I won’t go into details about my early life, my parents, my upbringing. I’ll just say that I knew from childhood that I wanted to teach. I got a scholarship to a grammar school and later a major county award to Oxford. I read History. After my degree I gained a place at London University to take a teacher-training course leading to a Diploma in Education. This took a year. Once I’d qualified I decided to take a year off before applying for a job. I felt I had been breathing academic air for too long and needed to travel, to experience something of the world, to meet people from other walks of life before I began teaching. I’m sorry, I’ve got ahead of myself. We need to return to the time when I gained my place at London University.
‘My parents had always been poor – not distressingly poor but every pound counted – and any money I needed had to be saved either from my grant or from working in the holidays. So when I went to London I needed to find somewhere cheap to live. The city centre was obviously too expensive and I had to look further afield. A friend who had gained a place the year before was lodging in Gidea Park, an Essex suburb, and suggested I tried there. It was when I was visiting him that I saw an advertisement outside a tobacconist’s shop for a room suitable for a student in Silford Green, only two further stations on the East London line. There was a phone number so I rang and went to the house. It was semidetached, occupied by a docker, Stanley Beale, his wife and their two daughters, Shirley, who was eleven, and her younger sister Lucy, aged eight. Their maternal grandmother also lived in the house. There wasn’t really room for a lodger. The grandmother shared the largest bedroom with the two girls and Mr and Mrs Beale had the second bedroom at the back. I had the third and smallest bedroom, also at the back. But it was cheap, close to the station, the journey was quick and easy and I was desperate. The first week fulfilled my worst fears. The husband and wife were on shouting terms, the grandmother, a sour, disagreeable old woman, was obviously resentful that she was basically a childminder, and whenever we met was full of complaints about her pension, the local council, her daughter’s frequent absences, her son-in-law’s mean insistence that she contribute towards her keep. As I was in London most days and often worked late in the University library, I avoided the worst of the family disputes. Within a week of my arrival, after a quarrel of house-shaking ferocity, Beale finally walked out. I could have done the same but what kept me there was the younger daughter, Lucy.’
He paused. The silence lengthened and no one interrupted him. He raised his head to look at Dalgliesh, and Kate could hardly bear to watch the anguish she saw.
He said, ‘How can I describe her to you? How can I make you understand? She was an enchanting child. She was beautiful, but it was more than that. She had grace, gentleness, a fine intelligence. I began getting home early so that I could study in my room and Lucy would join me before she went to bed. She used to knock on my door and come in to sit quietly and read while I was working. I would bring home books, and when I stopped writing to make coffee for myself and a milk drink for her, we would talk. I tried to answer her questions. We spoke about the book she’d been reading. I can see her now. Her clothes looked as if her mother had found them in a jumble sale, long summer dresses in winter under a shapeless cardigan, short socks and sandals. If she was cold she never said so. Some weekends I would ask her mother if I could take her up to London to a museum or gallery. There was never any problem; she was glad to have her out of the way, particularly when she was bringing her men home. I knew what was going on, of course, but it wasn’t my responsibility. I wouldn’t have stayed except for Lucy. I loved her.’
Again there was a silence, then he said, ‘I know what you’re going to ask. Was this a sexual relationship? I can only say that even the thought would have been a blasphemy for me. I never touched her in that way. But it was love. And isn’t love always to some extent physical? Not sexual but physical? A delight in the beauty and grace of the one who is loved? You see, I’m a schoolmaster. I know all the questions I shall be asked. “Were any of your actions inappropriate?” How can one answer that in an age when even to put your arm round the shoulders of a weeping child is regarded as inappropriate? No, it was never inappropriate, but who is ever going to believe me?’