by P. D. James
Dalgliesh glanced across the room to where his aunt sat in her usual chair. She had taken up her knitting and seemed serenely detached from the business in hand. She had been taught to knit by a German governess and held the needles upright in the Continental manner; Celia Calthrop seemed mesmerised by their flashing tips and sat glaring across at them as if both fascinated and affronted by her hostess’s unusual expertise. She was less at ease, crossing and uncrossing her feet and jerking back her head from the fire as if she found its heat intolerable. It was certainly getting hot in the sitting room. All the other visitors, except Reckless, seemed to feel it too. Oliver Latham was pacing up and down, his brow wet with sweat, his restless energy seeming to raise the temperature still higher. Suddenly he swung round at Reckless: “When did he die?” he demanded. “Come on, let’s have some facts for a change! When did Seton die?”
“We shan’t know that precisely until we get the PM report, Sir.”
“In other words, you’re not telling. Let me phrase it another way then. For what hours are we expected to provide alibis?”
Celia Calthrop gave a little squeak of protest but turned to Reckless as anxious as the rest for his reply.
“I shall want a statement from all of you covering the time Mr. Seton was last seen, which was, I understand, seven-thirty on Tuesday evening, until midnight on Wednesday.”
Latham said: “That’s putting it a bit late surely? He must have been shoved out to sea long before midnight. Sunset and evening star and one clear call for me … I’ll begin, shall I? I was at the New Theatre Guild first night on Tuesday and afterwards went on to a party given by our dear theatrical knight. I got back to my flat shortly after one and spent what remained of the night with a friend. I can’t say who at present but I expect I’ll be able to give you the name tomorrow. We got up late, lunched at the Ivy and parted when I got out my car to drive down here. I arrived at my cottage shortly after seven-thirty yesterday evening and didn’t go out again except to take a short walk along the beach before bed. Today I’ve spent driving around the country and getting in supplies. After dinner I discovered I hadn’t bought any coffee and came to the one neighbour who could be relied upon to provide a drinkable blend without a coy accompanying lecture on men and their inefficient housekeeping. To make it easy for you, I would emphasise that I have, apparently, an alibi for the time of death—presuming him to have died on Tuesday—but not for the time he was sent off on his last journey, presuming that to have been yesterday night.”
During the first part of this recital Miss Calthrop had assumed a quick variety of expressions—curiosity, disapproval, lubricity and a gentle sadness—as if trying to decide which suited her best. She settled for the gentle sadness, a good woman grieving once more over the frailty of men.
Inspector Reckless said quietly: “I shall have to ask you for the lady’s name, Sir.”
“Then you’ll ask in vain, at least until I’ve had a chance to talk to her. Charming of you to assume that it was a woman, though. Look, Inspector, be reasonable! If I had anything to do with Seton’s death I should have fixed my alibi by now. And if I set out to concoct a false one it would hardly involve a woman. Apart from considerations of misplaced chivalry we could hardly fox you for long. No one remembers all the details. You would only have to ask what we talked about, who drew the curtains, on what side of the bed I slept, how many blankets, what we ate for breakfast. It amazes me that anyone tries to concoct an alibi. One would need a better head for detail than I lay claim to.”
“Well, you seem to be in the clear, Oliver,” proclaimed Celia severely. “It is a matter of murder after all. No reasonable woman could make difficulties.”
Latham laughed. “But she’s not reasonable, my dear Celia. She’s an actress. Not that I’m expecting trouble. My father gave me one piece of useful advice. Never go to bed with a woman if either of you would be embarrassed to admit the fact next morning. It’s a little restricting to one’s sex life but now you can see the practical advantages.”
Dalgliesh doubted whether Latham found it in fact so very restricting. In his sophisticated circle few people minded a liaison becoming public provided it enhanced their standing, and Oliver Latham, wealthy, handsome, urbane and reputedly hard to get, stood high in the market.
Bryce said peevishly: “Well, you’ve nothing to worry about then if, as seems likely, Seton died on Tuesday night. Unless, of course, the Inspector is unkind enough to suggest that your sleeping partner would provide you with an alibi in any case.”
“Oh, she would provide almost anything if asked nicely,” said Latham lightly. “But it would be dangerous surely. It’s a question of histrionics. As long as she was playing the gallant little liar, risking her reputation to save her lover from jail, I should be all right. But suppose she decided to change her role? It’s probably as well that I shall be requiring her merely to tell the truth.”
Celia Calthrop, obviously tired of the general interest in Latham’s sex life, broke in impatiently: “I hardly think I need to describe my movements. I was a very dear friend of poor Maurice, perhaps the only real friend he ever had. However, I haven’t any objection to telling you, and I suppose it may help to clear someone else. Every piece of information is important, isn’t it? I was at home for most of the time. On Tuesday afternoon, however, I drove Sylvia to Norwich and we both had our hair washed and set. Estelle’s near the Maddermarket. It makes a pleasant little treat for Sylvia and I do think it’s important not to let oneself go just because one lives in the country. We had a late tea in Norwich and I took Sylvia home at about eight-thirty; then I drove back to my cottage. I spent yesterday morning working—I dictate on tape—and I drove to Ipswich yesterday afternoon to do some shopping and call on a friend, Lady Briggs of Well Walk. It was just a chance call. Actually she wasn’t in, but the maid will remember me. I’m afraid I got a little lost coming home and wasn’t back until nearly ten. By then my niece had arrived from Cambridge and she, of course, can vouch for me for the rest of the night. Just before lunch this morning Sylvia telephoned to tell me about the manuscript and Maurice being missing. I wasn’t at all sure what to do for the best but when I saw Superintendent Dalgliesh driving past this evening I rang Mr. Bryce and suggested that we all come to consult him. By then I had a premonition that something was dreadfully wrong, and how right I am proved!”
Justin Bryce spoke next. Dalgliesh was intrigued by the readiness with which the suspects were volunteering information for which no one had yet officially asked. They were reciting their alibis with the glib assurance of converts at a revivalist meeting. Tomorrow, no doubt, they would pay for this indulgence with the usual emotional hangover. But it was hardly his job to warn them. He began to feel a considerably increased respect for Reckless; at least the man knew when to sit still and listen.
Bryce said: “I was at my Bloomsbury flat in town until yesterday too, but if Seton died late on Tuesday night I’m definitely out of the running, my dears. I had to telephone the doctor twice that night. I was really dreadfully ill. One of my asthma attacks; you know how I suffer, Celia. My doctor, Lionel Forbes-Denby, can confirm it. I phoned him first just before midnight and begged him to visit at once. He wouldn’t come, of course. Just told me to take two of my blue capsules and ring again if they hadn’t acted in an hour. It was really naughty of him. I told him I thought I was dying. That’s why my type of asthma is so dangerous. You can die with it if you think you’re going to.”
“But not if Forbes-Denby forbids it, surely?” said Latham. “That’s all very well, Oliver, but he can be wrong.”
“He was Maurice’s doctor, too, wasn’t he?” asked Miss Calthrop. “Maurice always swore by him. He had to be terribly careful of his heart and he always said that Forbes-Denby kept him alive.”
“Well, he should have visited me Tuesday night,” said Bryce, aggrieved. “I rang again at three-thirty and he came at six but I was over the worst by then. Still, it’s an alibi.”
“Not really, Justin,” said Latham. “We’ve no proof that you rang from your flat.”
“Of course I phoned from the flat! I told you. I was practically at death’s door. Besides, if I sent a false message and was rushing around London murdering Seton what would I do when Forbes-Denby turned up at the flat? He’d never treat me again!”
Latham laughed: “My dear Justin! If Forbes-Denby says he isn’t coming he isn’t coming. And well you know it.”
Bryce assented sadly; he seemed to take the destruction of his alibi remarkably philosophically. Dalgliesh had heard of Forbes-Denby. He was a fashionable West End practitioner who was also a good doctor. He and his patients shared a common belief in the medical infallibility of Forbes-Denby and it was rumoured that few of them would eat, drink, marry, give birth, leave the country or die without his permission; they gloried in his eccentricities, recounted with gusto his latest rudeness and dined out on the recent Forbes-Denby outrage whether it were hurling their favourite patent medicine through the window or sacking the cook. Dalgliesh was glad that it would be Reckless or his minions who would have the task of asking this un-amiable eccentric to provide medical information about the victim and an alibi for one of the suspects.
Suddenly Justin burst out vith a violence that caused them all to turn and stare at him: “I didn’t kill him, but don’t ask me to be sorry about it! Not after what he did to Arabella!”
Celia Calthrop gave Reckless the resigned, slightly apologetic look of a mother whose child is about to make a nuisance of himself but not altogether without excuse. She muttered confidentially: “Arabella. His Siamese cat. Mr. Bryce thought that Maurice had killed the animal.”
“One didn’t think, Celia. One knew.” He turned to Reckless. “I ran over his dog about three months ago. It was the purest accident. I like animals. I like them, I tell you! Even Towser who, admit it, Celia, was the most disagreeable, ill-bred and unattractive mongrel. It was the most horrible experience! He ran straight under my wheels. Seton was utterly devoted to him. He practically accused me of deliberately running the dog down. And then, four days later, he murdered Arabella. That’s the kind of man he was! Do you wonder someone has put a stop to him?”
Miss Calthrop, Miss Dalgliesh and Latham all spoke at once, thus effectively defeating their good intentions.
“Justin dear, there really wasn’t a particle of proof …”
“Mr. Bryce, no one is going to suppose that Arabella has anything to do with it.”
“For God’s sake, Justin, why drag up …”
Reckless broke in quietly: “And when did you arrive at Monksmere, Sir?”
“Wednesday afternoon. Just before four. And I didn’t have Seton’s body in the car with me either. Luckily for me, I had trouble with the gear box all the way from Ipswich and had to leave it in Baines garage just outside Saxmundham. I came on by taxi. Young Baines brought me. So if you want to check the car for blood and fingerprints you’ll find it with Baines. And good luck to you.”
Latham said: “Why the hell are we bothering, anyway? What about the next-of-kin? Dear Maurice’s half-brother. Shouldn’t the police be trying to trace him? After all, he’s the heir. He’s the one with the explaining to do.”
Eliza Marley said quietly: “Digby was at Seton House last night. I drove him there.” It was only the second time she had spoken since the Inspector’s arrival and Dalgliesh sensed that she wasn’t anxious to speak now. But no one hoping for a sensation could have wished for a more gratifying response.
There was an astounded silence broken by Miss Calthrop’s sharp, inquisitorial voice: “What do you mean, drove him there?” It was, thought Dalgliesh, a predictable question.
The girl shrugged: “What I said. I drove Digby Seton home last night. He telephoned from Ipswich Station before catching the connection and asked me to meet him off the eight-thirty train at Saxmundham. He knew Maurice wouldn’t be at home and I suppose he wanted to save the cost of a taxi. Anyway, I went. I took the Mini.”
“You never told me about this when I got home,” said Miss Calthrop accusingly.
The rest of the party shifted uneasily, apprehensive that they might be in for a family row. Only the dark figure sitting against the wall seemed utterly unconcerned: “I didn’t think you would be particularly interested. Anyway, you were pretty late back, weren’t you?”
“But what about tonight? You didn’t say anything earlier.”
“Why should I? If Digby wanted to beetle off again somewhere it’s no business of mine. Anyway, that was before we knew that Maurice Seton was dead.”
“So you met Digby at his request off the eight-thirty?” asked Latham, as if anxious to set the record straight.
“That’s right. And what’s more, Oliver, he was on the train when it pulled in. He wasn’t lurking in the waiting room or hanging about outside the station. I bought a platform ticket, saw him get off the train and was with him when he gave up his ticket. A London ticket, incidentally; he was complaining about the cost. The ticket collector will remember him, anyway. There were only about half a dozen other passengers.”
“And presumably he hadn’t a body with him?” asked Latham.
“Not unless he was carrying it in a hold-all measuring about three feet by two.”
“And you drove him straight home?”
“Of course. That was the idea. Sax is hardly a haunt of gaiety after eight o’clock and Digby isn’t my favourite drinking companion. I was just saving him the cost of a taxi. I told you.”
“Well, go on, Eliza,” encouraged Bryce. “You drove Digby to Seton House. And then?”
“Nothing. I left him at the front door. The house was quiet and there were no lights. Well, naturally. Everyone knows that Maurice stays in London during mid-October. Digby asked me in for a drink but I said that I was tired and wanted to get home and that Aunt Celia would probably be home and waiting up for me. We said goodnight and Digby let himself in with his own key.”
“He had a key, then?” interposed Reckless. “He and his brother were on those terms?”
“I don’t know what terms they were on. I only know that Digby has a key.”
Reckless turned to Sylvia Kedge. “You knew about this? That Mr. Digby Seton had open access to the house?”
Sylvia Kedge replied: “Mr. Maurice Seton gave his brother a key about two years ago. From time to time he did mention asking for it back but Mr. Digby used it so seldom when his brother wasn’t at home that I suppose he thought it didn’t matter letting him keep it.”
“Why, as a matter of interest, did he want it back?” enquired Bryce.
Miss Calthrop obviously considered this the kind of question that Sylvia should not be expected to answer. With an expression and voice clearly indicating “not in front of the servants,” she replied: “Maurice did mention the key to me on one occasion and said that he might ask for it to be returned. There was no question of not trusting Digby. He was merely a little worried in case it got lost or stolen at one of those nightclubs Digby is so fond of.”
“Well, apparently he didn’t get it back,” said Latham.
“Digby used it to get into the house at about nine o’clock last night. And no one has seen him since. Are you sure the house was empty, Eliza?”
“How could I be? I didn’t go in. But I heard no one and there were no lights.”
“I was there at half past nine this morning,” said Sylvia Kedge. “The front door was locked as usual and the house was empty. None of the beds had been slept in. Mr. Digby hadn’t even poured himself a drink.”
There was an unspoken comment that something sudden and drastic must indeed have occurred. There were surely few crises which Digby Seton would not suitably fortify himself to meet.
But Celia was speaking. “That’s nothing to go by. Digby always carries a hip flask. It was one of those little idiosyncrasies of his that used to irritate Maurice so. But where on earth can he have gone?”
“He didn’t say anything to you abou
t going out again?” Latham turned to Eliza Marley. “How did he seem?”
“No, he didn’t say anything; I’m not particularly perceptive of Digby’s moods but he seemed much as usual.”
“It’s ridiculous!” proclaimed Miss Calthrop. “Digby surely wouldn’t go out again when he’d only just arrived. And where is there for anyone to go? Are you sure he didn’t mention his plans?”
Elizabeth Marley said: “He may have been called out.”
Her aunt’s voice was sharp. “Called out! Nobody knew he was there! Called out by whom?”
“I don’t know. I only mention it as a possibility. As I was walking back to the car I heard the telephone ring.”
“Are you sure?” asked Latham.
“Why do you keep on asking me if I’m sure? You know what it’s like up there on the headland; the quietness; the loneliness and mystery of the place; the way sound travels at night. I tell you, I heard the phone ring!”
They fell silent. She was right, of course. They knew what it was like on the headland at night. And the same silence, the same loneliness and mystery waited for them outside. Despite the heat of the room Celia Calthrop shivered. But the heat was really getting intolerable.
Bryce had been crouching on a low stool in front of the fire feeding it compulsively from the wood basket like some demonic stoker. The great tongues of flame leapt and hissed around the driftwood; the stone walls of the sitting room looked as if they were sweating blood. Dalgliesh went over to one of the windows and wrestled with the shutters. As he pushed open the pane the waves of sweet cold air passed over him, lifting the rugs on the floor and bringing in like a clap of thunder the surge of the sea.
As he turned again he heard Reckless’s flat unemphatic voice: “I suggest someone takes Miss Kedge home. She looks ill. I shan’t want to talk to her tonight.”