by P. D. James
Benton said, ‘Boyton arrives last Thursday and tries to discover Grace Holmes’s address in Toronto by calling at Rosemary Cottage. And it’s after his first visit that Candace Westhall knew that, however ridiculous his first suspicions, he was now focusing his attention on the will. It was Mog who told us about Boyton’s visit to Rosemary Cottage. Did he also pass on that piece of gossip to Candace? She flies to Toronto ostensibly to give Miss Holmes a contribution from Professor Westhall’s bequest, something that could easily have been arranged by letter, telephone or e-mail. And why wait until now to reward her for her services? And why was it so important to see Grace Holmes in person?’
Kate said, ‘If we’re thinking of forgery, it’s a strong motive all right. I suppose minor defects in a will can be put right. Can’t bequests be changed if all the executors consent? But forgery is a criminal act. Candace Westhall couldn’t risk jeopardising her brother’s reputation as well as his inheritance. But if Grace Holmes accepted money from Candace Westhall in return for her silence, I doubt whether anyone will get the truth out of her now. Why should she speak? Perhaps the Prof was always writing wills then changing his mind. All she has to do is to say that she signed several holograph wills and can’t remember specific ones. She helped to nurse the old professor. Those years couldn’t have been easy for the Westhalls. She’d probably think it morally right that brother and sister should inherit the money.’ She looked at Dalgliesh. ‘Do we know, sir, what the previous will stipulated?’
‘I did ask that when I spoke to the solicitors. The whole estate was divided into two parts. Robin Boyton was to receive half in recognition that his parents and he had been unfairly treated by the family; the remaining half to be divided equally between Marcus and Candace.’
‘And he knew that, sir?’
‘I very much doubt it. I hope to learn more on Friday. I’ve made an appointment with Philip Kershaw, the lawyer who dealt with both that will and the most recent. He’s a sick man and lives in a retirement nursing home outside Bournemouth, but he’s agreed to see me.’
Kate said, ‘It’s a strong motive, sir. Are you thinking of arresting her?’
‘No, Kate. Tomorrow I propose to question her under caution and the interview will be recorded. Even so, this is going to be tricky. It will be unwise, and perhaps even futile, to reveal these new suspicions without more cogent evidence than we have. There’s only Coxon’s statement that Boyton was depressed after his first visit and exhilarated before the next. And his text message to Rhoda Gradwyn could mean anything. He was apparently a somewhat volatile young man. Well, we saw that ourselves.’
Benton said, ‘We’re getting somewhere, sir.’
‘But without one piece of hard physical evidence either about the possible forgery or the deaths of Rhoda Gradwyn and Robin Boyton. And to complicate matters we have a convicted murderer in the Manor. We won’t get further tonight and we’re all tired so I think we’ll call it a day.’
It was just before midnight but Dalgliesh continued to feed the fire. It would be useless to go to bed while his brain was so active. Candace Westhall had the opportunity and means to commit both murders, was indeed the only person who could confidently entice Boyton into the old pantry when she could be sure of being alone. She had the necessary strength to force him into the freezer, she had ensured that her fingerprints on the lid could be explained and she had made certain that someone was with her when the body was found and had remained with her until the police arrived. But none of this amounted to more than circumstantial evidence and she was intelligent enough to know this. He could do no more at present than question her under caution.
It was then that an idea came into his mind and he acted on it before a second thought could question its wisdom. Jeremy Coxon was apparently a late drinker in his local. His mobile might still be switched on. If not, he would try again in the morning.
Jeremy Coxon was in the pub. The background noise made coherent speech impossible and when he knew it was Dalgliesh who was phoning, he said, ‘Hold on a minute and I’ll go outside. I can’t hear you properly in here.’ And a minute later, ‘Is there any news?’
Dalgliesh said, ‘None at present. We shall be in touch with you if there are any developments. I’m sorry to call so late. I’m ringing about something different but important. Do you remember what you were doing on 7/7?’
There was a silence, then Coxon asked, ‘You mean the day of the London bombings?’
‘Yes, the 7th of July 2005.’
Again there was a pause in which Dalgliesh thought Coxon was resisting the temptation to ask what 7/7 had to do with Robin’s death. Then he said, ‘Who doesn’t? It’s like 9/11 and the day Kennedy died. One remembers.’
‘Robin Boyton was your friend at that time, wasn’t he? Do you recall what he did on 7/7?’
‘I can remember what he told me he did. He was in central London. He turned up at the Hampstead flat where I was living then just before eleven at night and bored me into the small hours with the recital of his narrow escape and long walk to Hampstead. He’d been in Tottenham Court Road, close to the bomb that blew up that bus. He was clutched by some old biddy who was pretty shocked and had to spend time quietening her down. She told him that she lived in Stoke Cheverell and that she’d come to London the previous day to stay with a friend to do some shopping. She planned to return home the following day. Robin was afraid he was going to get stuck with her, but he managed to find a solitary cab outside Heal’s, gave her twenty quid for the fare and she went off calmly enough. That was typical of Robin. He said he’d rather part with twenty quid than be landed with the old dear for the rest of the day.’
‘Did he tell you her name?’
‘No, he didn’t. I don’t know the name of the lady or the address of her friend – or, for that matter, the number of the cab. It wasn’t a big deal, but it happened.’
‘And that’s all you remember, Mr Coxon?’
‘That’s all I was told. There is one more detail. I think he did mention she was a retired servant who was helping his cousins to look after some old relative they’d been landed with. Sorry I can’t be more helpful.’
Dalgliesh thanked him and snapped shut his mobile. If what Coxon had told him was accurate and if the maid was Elizabeth Barnes, there was no way she could have signed the will on 7 July 2005. But was she Elizabeth Barnes? She could have been any village woman who was helping at Stone Cottage. With Robin Boyton’s help they might have traced her. But Boyton was dead.
It was after three o’clock. Dalgliesh was still awake and restless. Coxon’s memory of 7/7 was hearsay and now that both Boyton and Elizabeth Barnes were dead, what chance was there of tracing the friend with whom she had stayed or the cab that had taken her there? The whole of his theory about the forgery was based on circumstantial evidence. He had a strong dislike of making an arrest which was not followed by a charge of murder. If the case foundered, the accused was left under a pall of suspicion and the investigating officer could get a reputation for unwise and premature action. Was this going to be one of those deeply unsatisfying cases, and they were not rare, when the identity of a killer was known but the evidence inadequate to make an arrest?
Accepting at last that he had no hope of sleep, he got out of bed, pulled on trousers and a thick sweater, and wound a scarf round his neck. Perhaps a brisk walk down the lane would tire him sufficiently to make it worthwhile going back to bed.
At midnight there had been a brief but heavy shower and the air was sweet-smelling and fresh, but not bitterly cold. He strode out under a sky freckled with high stars, hearing nothing but his own footsteps. Then he felt, like a premonition, the breath of the rising wind. The night became alive as it hissed through the bleak hedgerows and set creaking the high branches of the trees, only to die after the brief tumult as quickly as it had arisen. And then, approaching the Manor, he saw distant tongues of flame. Who would be making a bonfire at three in the morning? Something was burning in the circle of
stones. Taking his mobile from his pocket, he called for Kate and Benton as he raced, heart pounding, towards the fire.
4
She didn’t set the alarm clock for two thirty, afraid that, however quickly she silenced its rattle, someone would hear it and be roused from sleep. But she didn’t need an alarm. For years she had been able to wake by act of will, just as she could feign sleep so convincingly that her breathing became shallow and she herself hardly knew whether she was awake or asleep. Two thirty was a good time. Midnight was the witching hour, the potent hour of mystery and secret ceremony. But the world no longer slept at midnight. If Mr Chandler-Powell were restless he might well walk into the night at twelve, but he wouldn’t be abroad at two thirty, and nor would the earliest risers. Mary Keyte’s burning had been at three in the afternoon on 20 December, but the afternoon wasn’t possible for her act of vicarious expiation, the final ceremony of identification which would silence Mary Keyte’s troubled voice for ever and give her peace. Three o’clock in the morning would have to do. And Mary Keyte would understand. What was important was to pay this final tribute, to re-enact as closely as she dared those appalling final minutes. December the 20th was both the right day and perhaps her last chance. It might well be that Mrs Rayner would call for her tomorrow. She was ready to go, tired of being ordered about as if she were the least important person at the Manor when, if they knew, she was the most powerful. But soon all servitude would be over. She would be rich and people would be paid to look after her. But first there was this final goodbye to be said, the last time she would speak to Mary Keyte.
It was as well that she had made her plans so far in advance. Following on Robin Boyton’s death the two cottages had been sealed by the police. It would be risky even to visit the cottages after dark and impossible at any time to leave the Manor without the security team seeing her. But she had acted as soon as Miss Cressett told her that a guest would be arriving at Rose Cottage on the same day as Miss Gradwyn had been booked in for her surgery. It was her job to vacuum or wash the floors, dust and polish and make up the bed before a guest arrived. Everything had come together. Everything had been meant. She even had the wicker basket on wheels to hold the clean linen and to bring back the soiled bed linen and towels for washing, the soap for the shower and washbasin and the plastic bag with her cleaning materials. She could use the basket to bring back two of the bags of kindling from the Rose Cottage shed, a length of old washing line which had been dumped there, and two cans of paraffin wrapped in the old newspapers which she always carried to spread over newly washed floors. Paraffin, even safely carried, smelled powerfully. But where could she hide them in the Manor? She decided to put the cans in two plastic bags and after dark to stow them away under the leaves and grasses of the ditch by the hedge. The ditch was deep enough to prevent the cans being seen and the plastic would keep the tins dry. The firewood and rope she could safely lock away in her one large suitcase under her bed. No one would find them there. She was responsible for cleaning her own room and making her own bed and everyone at the Manor was punctilious about privacy.
When her watch showed two forty she was ready to leave. She put on her darkest coat, a large box of matches already in the pocket, and tied a scarf over her head. Opening the door slowly, she stood for a moment hardly daring to breathe. The house was silent. Now that there was no risk of one of the security team patrolling at night she could move without fear that watchful eyes and keen ears were on the alert. Only the Bostocks slept in the central block of the Manor and she had no need to pass their door. Carrying the bags of kindling and the curled washing line slung over her shoulder, she moved quietly, step by careful step, along the corridor, down the side stairs to the ground floor, to the west door. As before, she had to stand on tiptoe to ease back the bolt and took her time, careful that no rasp of metal should disturb the silence. Then carefully she turned the key, went out into the night and locked the door behind her.
It was a cold night, the stars high, the air faintly luminous, and a few wispy clouds moved over the bright segment of the moon. And now the wind was rising, not steadily but in short gusts like an expelled breath. She moved like a ghost down the lime walk, flitting from trunk to concealing trunk. But she had no real fear of being seen. The west wing was in darkness and no other windows overlooked the lime walk. As she reached the stone wall and the moon-blanched stones were fully in sight, a blast of wind rippled along the dark hedgerow, setting the bare twigs creaking and the long grasses beyond the circle whispering and swaying. She was sorry that the wind was so erratic. She knew that it would help the fire, but its very unpredictability would be dangerous. This was to be a memorial, not a second sacrifice. She must take care that the fire never got too close. She sucked a finger and held it up, trying to decide the way the wind was blowing, then moved among the stones as quietly as if she feared that someone was lurking behind them, and set the bags of faggots beside the central stone. Then she made her way to the ditch.
It took a few minutes to find the plastic bags with the paraffin cans; for some reason she thought she had left them closer to the stones and the travelling moon, the brief periods of light and dark, was disorientating. She crept along the ditch, crouching low, but her hands encountered only weeds and grasses and the cold slime of the sludge. At last she found what she sought and carried the cans over to the kindling. She should have brought a knife. The first string bag was tougher than she had expected and it took a few minutes of her tugging before it burst open and the wood spilled out.
And now she began to construct a circle of wood inside the stones. It couldn’t be too distanced or the ring of fire would be incomplete, or too near in case it caught her. Bending and working methodically, she at last completed the circle to her satisfaction, then, unscrewing the cap and holding the first paraffin can with great care, she bent double and made her way around the circle of kindling, anointing each stick. She found she had poured the paraffin too lavishly and, with the second can, was more careful. Anxious to start the fire and satisfied that the faggots were well doused, she used only half the paraffin.
Taking the washing line, she bound herself to the central stone. This was trickier than she had expected, but at last she discovered that the best plan was to circle the stone twice with the rope, then step into it, raise it along her body and tighten it. It helped that the centre stone, her altar, was taller but smoother and narrower than the others. This done, she tied the rope at the front of her waist, letting the long ends dangle. Taking the matches from her pocket, she stood rigid for a moment, her eyes closed. The wind gusted and then was calm. She said to Mary Keyte, ‘This is for you. This is in memory of you. This is to tell you I know you were innocent. They’re taking me away from you. This is the last time I can visit you. Speak to me.’ But tonight there was no answering voice.
She struck a match and threw it towards the circle of wood, but the wind blew out the flame almost as soon as it had been lit. She tried again and again with shaking hands. She was close to sobbing. It wasn’t going to work. She would have to get closer to the circle and then run back to the sacrificial stone and tie herself again. But suppose the fire didn’t take even then? And as she stared up the avenue, the great trunks of the limes grew and closed in together; their top branches merged and tangled, fracturing the moon. The path narrowed to a cavern and the west wing, which had been a dark distant shape, dissolved into the greater darkness.
And now she could hear the crowd of villagers arriving. They were jostling down the narrowed lime walk, their distant voices rising to a shout which pounded at her ears. Burn the witch! Burn the witch! She killed our cattle. She poisoned our babies. She murdered Lucy Beale. Burn her! Burn her! And now they were at the wall. But they didn’t climb over. They jostled against it, the crowd growing, gasping mouths like a row of death heads, screaming hatred at her.
And suddenly the shouting stopped. A figure detached itself, came over the wall and moved up to her. A voice she knew said
gently and with a note of reproach, ‘How could you think I would let you do this alone? I knew you wouldn’t fail her. It won’t work the way you’re doing it. I’ll help. I’ve come as the Executioner.’
She hadn’t planned it like this. It was to be her act and hers alone. But perhaps it would be good to have a witness, and after all this was a special witness, this was the one who understood, the one she could trust. Now she had someone else’s secret, one which gave her power and would make her rich. Perhaps it was right that they should be together. The Executioner selected a slender faggot, brought it over and, shielding it from the wind, lit it and held it high, then moving over to the circle, thrust it among the kindling. Immediately there was a rush of flame and the fire ran like a living creature, spluttering, crackling and sending out sparks. The night came alive, and now the voices on the other side of the wall rose in crescendo and she experienced a moment of extraordinary triumph, as if the past, hers and Mary Keyte’s, were burning away.
The Executioner moved closer to her. Why, she wondered, were the hands so pinkly pale, so translucent? Why the surgical gloves? And then the hands took hold of the end of the washing line and, with one swift movement, curled it round her neck. There was a vicious tug as it tightened. She felt a cold splash on her face. Something was being thrown over her body. The reek of paraffin intensified, its fumes choking her. The Executioner’s breath was hot on her face and the eyes which looked into hers were like veined marbles. The irises seemed to grow so that there was no face, nothing but dark pools in which she saw only a reflection of her own despair. She tried to cry out, but she had no breath, no voice. She fumbled at the knots which bound her, but her hands had no strength.