by P. D. James
“Goodnight, Commander. Your friends have left, then?”
Her voice was high, almost belligerent.
“The inspector has gone, yes.”
“You may have noticed that I didn’t join the rush to participate in Maggie’s ill-considered charade. I have no taste for these excitements. Eric has decided to sleep tonight at Toynton Grange. Much the best thing for him, no doubt. But, as I understand that the police have taken away the body, he needn’t pretend to oversensitivity. Incidentally, we’ve voted for the Ridgewell Trust takeover. What with one thing and another, quite an eventful evening.”
She turned to open the door. Then she paused and called out again. “They tell me that her nails were painted red.”
“Yes, Mrs. Hammitt.”
“Her toe nails, too.”
He didn’t reply. She said with sudden anger:
“Extraordinary woman!”
He heard the door close. A second later her light shone through the curtains. He went inside. Almost too weary to climb the stairs to bed, he stretched himself in Father Baddeley’s chair staring into the dead fire. As he watched, the white ash shifted gently, a blackened spar of driftwood glowed momentarily into life, and he heard for the first time that night the familiar and comforting moan of the wind in the chimney. And then there followed another familiar sound. Faintly through the wall came a merry syncopated jingle. Millicent Hammitt had turned on the television.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Black Tower
I
NEXT DAY DALGLIESH walked up to the Grange to explain to Wilfred that he must now stay on at Hope Cottage until after the inquest, and to pay his token rent. He found Wilfred alone in the business room. Surprisingly, there was no sign of Dot Moxon. Wilfred was studying a map of France spread out on the desk. A bundle of passports in a rubber band weighed down one corner. He seemed hardly to hear what his guest said. He replied “The inquest. Yes, of course,” as if it were a forgotten luncheon engagement, then bent again over the map. He made no mention of Maggie’s death and Dalgliesh’s formal condolences were coldly received as if they were in poor taste. It was as if by divesting himself of Toynton Grange, he had detached himself from further responsibility, even from concern. Now nothing remained but his twin obsessions, his miracle and the pilgrimage to Lourdes.
Inspector Daniel and the forensic laboratory worked quickly. The inquest was held exactly one week after Maggie’s death, a week in which the inhabitants of Toynton Grange seemed as resolutely determined to keep out of Dalgliesh’s way as he was to avoid them. No one, not even Julius, showed any inclination to chat over Maggie’s death. It was as if they saw him now merely as a police officer, an unwelcome intruder of uncertain allegiance, a potential spy. He drove away from Toynton Head early every morning and returned late each night to darkness and silence. Neither the police activities nor the life at Toynton Grange touched him. He continued his daily, compulsive exploration of Dorset like a prisoner on licence and looked forward to the inquest as the final day of release.
It came at last. None of the patients from Toynton Grange attended except Henry Carwardine, surprisingly since he was not required to give evidence. As the company stood in whispering reverential groups outside the courthouse in the usual disorganized hiatus which follows attendance at the more sombre public rituals, he wheeled his chair with vigorous thrusts of the arms to where Dalgliesh stood. He looked and sounded euphoric.
“I realize that these ceremonial tidying up of legal loose ends aren’t exactly a novelty to you as they are to me. But this one wasn’t without interest, I thought. Less fascinating technically and forensically than Holroyd’s, but with more human interest.”
“You sound like a connoisseur of inquests.”
“If we go on like this at Toynton Grange I soon shall be. Helen Rainer was the star turn today, I thought. That extraordinary suit and hat in which she chose to appear were, I take it, the dress uniform of a state registered nurse. A very wise choice. Hair up; the merest trace of make-up; a general air of dedicated professionalism. ‘Mrs. Hewson may have believed that there was a relationship between me and her husband. She had too much free time to brood. Naturally Dr. Hewson and I have to work closely together. I have a high opinion of his kindness and competence but there has never been anything improper between us. Dr. Hewson was devoted to his wife.’ Nothing improper! I never believed that people actually used that expression.”
Dalgliesh said:
“At inquests they do. Did the jury believe her, do you suppose?”
“Oh, I think so, don’t you? Difficult to imagine our lady with the lamp garbed as she was this afternoon in grey samite—gabardine anyway—mystic, wonderful, romping between the sheets. She was wise I think to admit that she and Hewson had spent the meditation hour together in her room. But that, as she explained, was because both had already come to their decision and couldn’t afford to waste sixty minutes mulling it over when they had so much to discuss professionally together.”
“They had to choose between their alibi for what it was worth, and the risk to reputation. On the whole they chose wisely.”
Henry swung round his wheelchair with aggressive exuberance.
“It rather foxed the honest jurymen of Dorset, though. You could see the way their minds were working. If they aren’t lovers why were they closeted together? But if they were together, then Hewson couldn’t have killed his wife. But unless they were lovers he wouldn’t have had a motive for murdering his wife. But if he had such a motive, why admit that they were together? Obviously to give him an alibi. But he wouldn’t need an alibi if he hadn’t the usual motive. And if he had such a motive, then he and the girl would have been together. Very puzzling.”
Mildly amused, Dalgliesh asked:
“What did you think about Hewson’s performance?”
“He did well too. Not quite the professional competence and detachment of yourself, my dear Commander, but quiet, sincere, some natural grief bravely under control. Sensible of him to admit that Maggie desperately wanted him to leave Toynton Grange but that he felt an obligation to Wilfred, ‘who took me on when I wasn’t finding it easy to get a job’. No mention, of course, of being struck off the Medical Register and no one tactless enough to bring it up.”
Dalgliesh said:
“And no one tactless enough to suggest that he and Helen may have been lying about their relationship.”
“What else do you expect? What people know and what they can legally prove—or care to state in a court of law—are two very different things. Besides, we must at all costs protect dear Wilfred from the contamination of truth. No, I thought it went very well. Suicide while the balance of her mind, etc., etc. Poor Maggie! Stigmatized as a selfish, pleasure-seeking slut addicted to the bottle, out of sympathy with her husband’s dedication to his noble profession and not even competent to make a comfortable home for him. Court’s suggestion that it might have been an accidental death, play-acting which got out of hand, received no credence from the jury, did it? They took the view that a woman who drank the best part of a bottle of whisky, borrowed a rope and wrote a farewell letter was carrying play-acting a little far and did Maggie the compliment of believing that she intended what she did. I thought that the forensic scientist was extraordinarily definite in his opinion, given the basically subjective nature of document examination. There seems no doubt that Maggie did write the suicide note.”
“The first four lines of it, which were all he felt competent to pronounce on. What did you think of the verdict?”
“Oh, I agree with Julius. She was planning to be cut down just in time amidst general hullabaloo. But with the best part of a bottle of whisky inside her she wasn’t even competent to stage-manage her own resurrection. Incidentally, Julius gave me a graphic description of the drama in Charity Cottage, including Helen’s impressive debut in the role of Lady Macbeth;
‘Give me the syringe. The sleeping and the dead,
Are but as picture
s; ’tis the eye of childhood
That fears a painted devil.’”
There was no expression on Dalgliesh’s face or in his voice. He said:
“How entertaining for you both. It’s a pity Court wasn’t as detached at the time. He might have made himself useful instead of behaving like a hysterical queer.”
Henry smiled, gratified to have provoked the response he wanted. He said:
“So you don’t like him? Neither, I suspect, did your friend in holy orders.”
Dalgliesh spoke on impulse:
“I know that this is nothing to do with me, but isn’t it time that you got away from Toynton Grange?”
“Got away? To where do you suggest?”
“There must be other places.”
“The world is full of places. But what do you suppose I could do, or be, or hope for in any of them? As a matter of fact, I did once plan to leave. It was a particularly foolish dream. No, I shall stay on at the Grange. The Ridgewell Trust have the professionalism and experience which Anstey lacks. I could do worse. Besides, Wilfred himself is to stay; and I still have a debt to pay Wilfred. In the meantime, this formality over, we can all relax and set off tomorrow to Lourdes in peace. You ought to come with us, Dalgliesh. You’ve hung around here so long that I suspect you rather enjoy our company. Besides, I don’t think your convalescence has really done you a great deal of good. Why not come to Lourdes and see what the odour of incense and a change of scene can do for you?”
The Toynton Grange bus, driven by Philby, had drawn level with them now and the back ramp was being lowered. Dalgliesh watched in silence as Eric and Helen detached themselves from Wilfred, laid their hands simultaneously on the handle bars and wheeled Henry briskly into the bus. The ramp was raised, Wilfred took his seat in the front beside Philby, and the Toynton Grange bus disappeared from view.
Colonel Ridgewell and the trustees arrived after lunch. Dalgliesh watched as the car drew up and the sombre-suited party disappeared into the house. Later they emerged and walked with Wilfred over the headland towards the sea. Dalgliesh was a little surprised to see that Eric and Helen were with them but not Dorothy Moxon. He could see the Colonel’s grey hair lifting in the breeze as he paused to swing his walking stick in wide explanatory sweeps or stood suddenly still conferring with the little group who quickly closed round him. No doubt, thought Dalgliesh, they would want to inspect the cottages. Well, Hope Cottage was ready for them. The book shelves were empty and dusted, the packing cases corded and labelled for the carrier, his suitcase packed except for the few things he needed on this his last night. But he had no wish to get involved in introductions or to stand making small talk.
When the party finally turned back and made their way towards Charity Cottage, he got into his car and drove off, with no clear direction in mind, no particular aim, no intention except to keep driving long into the night.
II
The next morning was airless and sultry, inducing headache, the sky a tent of stained calico ponderous with unspilt rain. The pilgrimage party was due to set out at nine o’clock and at half past eight Millicent Hammitt barged in, without a preliminary knock, to say goodbye. She was wearing a blue-grey tweed suit badly seated, with a short double-breasted jacket; a blouse in a harsher and discordant blue adorned with a garish brooch at the neck; brogues; and a grey felt hat pulled down to cover the ears. She dumped a bulging airline bag and her shoulder bag at her feet, drew on a pair of fawn cotton gloves and held out her hand. Dalgliesh put down his coffee cup. His right hand was grasped in a crushing grip.
“Goodbye then, Commander. Odd, but I’ve never really got used to using your Christian name. You’ll be gone, I understand, by the time we return?”
“I plan to drive back to London later this morning.”
“I hope you’ve enjoyed your stay. At least it has been eventful. One suicide, one natural death and the end of Toynton Grange as an independent institution. You can’t have been bored.”
“And one attempted murder.”
“Wilfred in the burning tower? It sounds like the title of an avant-garde play. I’ve always had my doubts about that particular excitement. If you ask me, Wilfred set it up himself to justify handing over his responsibilities. No doubt that explanation occurred to you.”
“Several explanations occurred to me but none of them made much sense.”
“Little at Toynton Grange ever does. Well, the old order changeth yielding place to new and God fulfils Himself in many ways. We must hope that He will.”
Dalgliesh asked if Millicent had any plans.
“I shall stay on in the cottage. Wilfred’s agreement with the Trust stipulates that I may live there for life, and I assure you, I’ve every intention of dying at my own convenience. It won’t be the same, of course, knowing that the place belongs to strangers.”
Dalgliesh asked:
“How does your brother feel about the hand-over?”
“Relieved. Well, it’s what he schemed for isn’t it? He doesn’t know what he’s let himself in for, of course. Incidentally, he hasn’t given this cottage to the Trust. This will continue to belong to him and he plans to move in after the place has been converted into something more civilized and comfortable. He’s also offered to help at Toynton Grange in any capacity in which the Trust feel he can be of use. If he imagines that they’ll let him stay on as warden he’s in for a shock. They’ve got their own plans for the Grange and I doubt whether they include Wilfred, even if they have agreed to pander to his vanity by naming the home after him. I suppose Wilfred imagines that everyone will defer to him as their benefactor and the original owner. I can assure you they won’t. Now that the deed of gift—or whatever it is—is signed and the Trust are the legal owners, Wilfred counts for as little as Philby, less probably. It’s his own fault. He should have sold out completely.”
“Wouldn’t that have broken faith?”
“Superstitious nonsense! If Wilfred wanted to dress up in monk’s garb and behave like a medieval abbot he should have applied for entry to a monastery. An Anglican one would have been perfectly respectable. The twice yearly pilgrimage will go on, of course. That’s one of Wilfred’s stipulations. It’s a pity you aren’t coming with us Commander. We stay at an agreeable little pension, really quite cheap and the food is excellent; and Lourdes is a cheerful little place. Quite an atmosphere. I don’t say I wouldn’t have preferred Wilfred to have had his miracle in Cannes, but it might have been worse. He could have got cured at Blackpool.”
She paused at the door to turn and say:
“I expect the bus will stop here so that the others can take leave of you.” She made it sound as if they would be conferring a privilege. Dalgliesh said that he would walk up with her and say goodbye at Toynton Grange. He had discovered one of Henry Carwardine’s books on Father Baddeley’s shelf and wanted to return it. There was also his bed linen to take back and some leftover tins of food which Toynton Grange could probably use.
“I’ll take the tins later. Just leave them here. And you can return the linen any time. The Grange is never locked. Philby will be back later anyway. He only drives us to the port and sees us on the boat and then comes back to caretake and feed Jeoffrey and, of course, the hens. They’re rather missing Grace’s help with the hens although no one thought that she did anything very useful when she was alive. And it’s not only the hens. They can’t lay their hands on her list of the Friends. Actually, Wilfred wanted Dennis to stay at home this time. He’s got one of his migraines and looks like death. But no one can make Dennis miss a pilgrimage.”
Dalgliesh walked up to the Grange with her. The bus was drawn up outside the front door and the patients were already loaded. The pathetically depleted party had a bizarre air of slightly spurious joviality. Dalgliesh’s first impression from their varied garb was that they proposed to pursue quite different and unrelated activities. Henry Carwardine, in a belted tweed coat and deerstalker hat, looked like an Edwardian gentleman on his way to the
grouse moors. Philby, incongruously formal in a dark suit with high collar and black tie, was an undertaker’s man loading a hearse. Ursula Hollis had dressed like a Pakistani immigrant in full fig whose only concession to the English climate was an ill-cut jacket in mock fur. Jennie Pegram, wearing a long blue headscarf, had apparently made an attempt to impersonate Saint Bernadette. Helen Rainer, dressed as she had been at the inquest, was a prison matron in charge of a group of unpredictable delinquents. She had already taken her seat at the head of Georgie Allan’s stretcher. The boy’s eyes were feverishly bright and Dalgliesh could hear his high frenetic chatter. He was wearing a blue and white striped woollen scarf and clutching an immense teddy bear, its neck adorned with pale blue ribbon and what, to Dalgliesh’s astounded eyes, looked like a pilgrimage medal. The party could have been an oddly assorted party of team supporters on their way to a football match, but one, Dalgliesh thought, that hardly expected the home side to win.
Wilfred was gently fussing over the remainder of the luggage. He, Eric Hewson and Dennis Lerner were wearing their monk’s habits. Dennis looked desperately ill, his face was taut with pain and his eyes half closed as if even the dull morning light were intolerable. Dalgliesh heard Eric whisper to him:
“For God’s sake, Dennis, give up and stay at home! With two wheelchairs less we can perfectly well manage.”
Lerner’s high voice held a tinge of hysteria.
“I’ll be all right. You know it never lasts more than twenty-four hours. For God’s sake leave me alone!”
At last the medical paraphernalia, decently shrouded, was loaded, the ramp was raised, the rear door finally slammed and they were off. Dalgliesh waved in response to the frantically signalling hands and watched as the brightly painted bus lurched slowly over the headland looking, as it receded, as vulnerable and insubstantial as a child’s toy. He was surprised, and a little saddened, that he could feel such pity and regret for people with whom he had taken such care not to become involved. He remained watching until the bus bumped slowly up the slope of the valley and finally tipped over the headland out of sight.