by P. D. James
Cordelia could detect the note of desperation, almost of hysteria, in her own voice.
But Miss Markland seemed not to hear. Suddenly she was on her knees in front of Cordelia and pouring out a spate of high, excited chatter. Without thought and without compassion, she was confiding to the girl her terrible story, a story of her son, the four-year-old child of herself and her lover, who had broken his way through the cottage hedge and fallen into the well to his death. Cordelia tried to shake herself free from the wild eyes. It was surely all a fantasy. The woman must be mad. And if it were true, it was horrible and unthinkable and she could not bear to hear it. Sometime later she would remember it, remember every word, and think of the child, of his last terror, his desperate cry for his mother, the cold suffocating water dragging him to his death. She would live his agony in nightmares as she would relive her own. But not now. Through the spate of words, the self-accusations, the terror recalled, Cordelia recognized the note of liberation. What to her had been horror, to Miss Markland had been release. A life for a life. Suddenly Cordelia could bear it no longer. She said violently: “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! You’ve saved my life and I’m grateful. But I can’t bear to listen. I don’t want you here. For God’s sake, go!”
All her life she would remember the woman’s hurt face, her silent withdrawal. Cordelia didn’t hear her go, didn’t remember the soft closing of the door. All she knew was that she was alone. The shaking was over now although she still felt very cold. She went upstairs and pulled on her slacks and then unwound Mark’s jumper from her neck and put it on. It would cover the bloodstains on her shirt and the warmth was immediately comforting. She was moving very quickly. She felt for the ammunition, took her torch and let herself out of the back door of the cottage. The gun was where she had left it, in the fold of the tree. She loaded it and felt its familiar shape and heaviness in her hand. Then she stood back among the bushes and waited.
It was too dark to see the dial of her wristwatch but Cordelia reckoned that she must have waited there immobile in the shadows for nearly half an hour before her ears caught the sound for which she was waiting. A car was approaching down the lane. Cordelia held her breath. The sound of the engine reached a brief crescendo and then faded away. The car had driven on without stopping. It was unusual for a car to pass down the lane after dark and she wondered who it could be. Again she waited, moving deeper into the shelter of the elder bush so that she could rest her back against the bark. She had been clutching the gun so tightly that her right wrist ached and she moved the pistol to her other hand and rotated the wrist slowly, stretching the cramped fingers.
Again she waited. The slow minutes passed. The silence was broken only by the furtive scuffling of some small night prowler in the grass and the sudden wild hoot of an owl. And then once more she heard the sound of an engine. This time the noise was faint and it came no closer. Someone had stopped a car further up the road.
She took the gun in her right hand, cradling the muzzle with her left. Her heart was pounding so loudly that she felt its wild hammering must betray her. She imagined rather than heard the thin whine of the front gate but the sound of feet moving round the cottage was unmistakable and clear. And now he was in sight, a stocky, broad-shouldered figure, black against the light. He moved towards her and she could see her shoulder bag hanging from his left shoulder. The discovery disconcerted her. She had completely forgotten the bag. But now she had realized why he had seized it. He had wanted to search it for evidence, but it was important that, finally, it should be discovered with her body in the well.
He came forward gently on tiptoe, his long simian arms held stiffly away from his body like a caricature of a film cowboy ready for the draw. When he got to the rim of the well he waited and the moon struck the whites of his eyes as he gazed slowly round. Then he bent down and felt in the grass for the coil of rope. Cordelia had laid it where Miss Markland had found it, but something about it, some slight difference perhaps in the way it was coiled, seemed to strike him. He rose uncertainly and stood for a moment with the rope dangling from his hand. Cordelia tried to control her breathing. It seemed impossible that he should not hear, smell or see her, that he should be so like a predator yet without the beast’s instinct for the enemy in the dark. He moved forward. Now he was at the well. He bent and threaded one end of the rope through the iron hoop.
Cordelia moved with one step out of the darkness. She held the gun firmly and straight as Bernie had shown her. This time the target was very close. She knew that she wouldn’t fire but, in that moment, she knew too what it was that could make a man kill. She said loudly: “Good evening, Mr. Lunn.”
She never knew whether he saw the gun. But for one unforgettable second, as the clouded moon sailed into the open sky, she saw his face clearly; saw the hate, the despair, the agony, and the rictus of terror. He gave one hoarse cry, threw down the shoulder bag and the rope, and rushed through the garden in a blind panic. She gave chase, hardly knowing why, or what she hoped to achieve, determined only that he shouldn’t get back to Garforth House before her. And still she didn’t fire the gun.
But he had an advantage. As she threw herself through the gate she saw that he had parked the van some fifty yards up the road and left the engine running. She chased after him but could see that it was hopeless. Her only hope of catching up with him was to get the Mini. She tore down the lane, feeling in her shoulder bag as she ran. The prayer book and her notebook were both gone but her fingers found the car keys. She unlocked the Mini, threw herself in, and reversed it violently on to the road. The rear lights of the van were about a hundred yards ahead of her. She didn’t know what speed it could do, but doubted whether it could outpace the Mini. She trod on the accelerator and gave pursuit. She turned left out of the lane on to the subsidiary road and now she could see the van still ahead. He was driving fast and was holding the distance. Now the road turned and for a few seconds he was out of sight. He must be getting very close now to the junction with the Cambridge Road.
She heard the crash just before she herself reached the junction, an instantaneous explosion of sound which shook the hedges and made the little car tremble. Cordelia’s hands tightened momentarily on the wheel and the Mini jerked to a stop. She ran forward round the corner and saw before her the gleaming, headlamp-lit surface of the main Cambridge Road. It was peopled with running shapes. The transporter, still upright, was an immense oblong mass blocking the skyline, a barricade slewed across the road. The van had crumpled under its front wheels like a child’s toy. There was a smell of petrol, a woman’s harsh scream, the squeal of braking tyres.
Cordelia walked slowly up to the transporter. The driver was still in his seat, gazing rigidly ahead, his face a mask of dedicated concentration. People were shouting at him, stretching out their arms. He didn’t move. Someone—a man in a heavy leather coat and goggles—said: “It’s shock. We’d better drag him clear.”
Three figures moved between Cordelia and the driver. Shoulders heaved in unison. There was a grunt of effort. The driver was lifted out, rigid as a manikin, his knees bent, his clenched hands held out as if still grasping the immense wheel. The shoulders bent over him in secret conclave.
There were other figures standing round the crushed van. Cordelia joined the ring of anonymous faces. Cigarette ends glowed and faded like signals, casting a momentary glow on the shaking hands, the wide, horrified eyes. She asked: “Is he dead?”
The man in goggles replied laconically: “What do you think?”
There was a girl’s voice, tentative, breathless. “Has anyone called the ambulance?”
“Yeah. Yeah. That chap in the Cortina’s gone off to phone.”
The group stood irresolute. The girl and the young man to whom she was clinging began to back away. Another car stopped. A tall figure was pushing his way through the crowd. Cordelia heard a high, authoritative voice.
“I’m a doctor. Has anyone called the ambulance?”
“Yes, sir.”<
br />
The reply was deferential. They stood aside to let the expert through. He turned to Cordelia, perhaps because she was nearest.
“If you didn’t witness the accident, young woman, you’d better get on your way. And stand back, the rest of you. There’s nothing that you can do. And put out those cigarettes!”
Cordelia walked slowly back to the Mini, placing each foot carefully before the other like a convalescent trying her first painful steps. She drove carefully round the accident, bumping the Mini on the grass verge. There was the wail of approaching sirens. As she turned off the main road, her driving mirror glowed suddenly red and she heard a whoosh of sound followed by a low, concerted groan which was broken by a woman’s high, single scream. There was a wall of flame across the road. The doctor’s warning had been too late. The van was on fire. There was no hope now for Lunn; but then, there never had been.
Cordelia knew that she was driving erratically. Passing cars hooted at her and flashed their lights and one motorist slowed down and shouted angrily. She saw a gate and drew in off the road and switched off the engine. The silence was absolute. Her hands were moist and shaking. She wiped them on her handkerchief and laid them in her lap feeling that they were separate from the rest of her body. She was hardly aware of a car passing and then slowing to a halt. A face appeared at the window. The voice was slurred and nervous but horribly ingratiating. She could smell the drink on his breath.
“Anything wrong, Miss?”
“Nothing. I’ve just stopped for a rest.”
“No point in resting alone—a pretty girl like you.”
His hand was on the door handle. Cordelia felt in her shoulder bag and drew out the gun. She pushed it into his face.
“It’s loaded. Go away at once or I’ll shoot.”
The menace in her voice struck cold even to her own ears. The pale, moist face disintegrated with surprise, the jaw fell. He backed away.
“Sorry, Miss, I’m sure. My mistake. No offence.”
Cordelia waited until his car was out of sight. Then she turned on the engine. But she knew that she couldn’t go on. She turned off the engine again. Waves of tiredness flowed over her, an irresistible tide, gentle as a blessing, which neither her exhausted mind nor body had the will to resist. Her head fell forward and Cordelia slept.
6
Cordelia slept soundly but briefly. She didn’t know what woke her, whether the blinding light of a passing car sweeping across her closed eyes or her own subconscious knowledge that rest must be rationed to a brief half-hour, the minimum necessary to enable her to do what had to be done before she could give herself over to sleep. She eased her body upright, feeling the stab of pain in her strained muscles and the half-pleasurable itch of dried blood on her back. The night air was heavy and odorous with the heat and scents of the day; even the road winding ahead looked tacky in the glare of her headlights. But Cordelia’s chilled and aching body was still grateful for the warmth of Mark’s jersey. For the first time since she had pulled it over her head she saw that it was dark green. How odd that she hadn’t noticed its colour before!
She drove the rest of the journey like a novice, sitting bolt upright, eyes rigidly ahead, hands and feet tense on the controls. And here at last were the gates of Garforth House. They loomed in her headlights far taller and more ornamental than she remembered them, and they were closed. She ran from the Mini praying that they wouldn’t be locked. But the iron latch, although heavy, rose to her desperate hands. The gates swung soundlessly back.
There were no other cars in the drive and she parked the Mini some little way from the house. The windows were dark and the only light, gentle and inviting, shone through the open front door. Cordelia took the pistol in her hand and, without ringing, stepped into the hall. She was more exhausted in body than when she had first come to Garforth House, but tonight she saw it with a new intensity, her nerves sensitive to every detail. The hall was empty, the air expectant. It seemed as if the house had waited for her. The same smell met her of roses and lavender, but tonight she saw that the lavender came from a huge Chinese bowl set on a side table. She recalled the insistent ticking of a clock, but now she noticed for the first time the delicate carving on the clock case, the intricate scrolls and whirls on the face. She stood in the middle of the hall, swaying slightly, the pistol held lightly in her drooping right hand, and looked down. The carpet was a formal geometrical design in rich olive greens, pale blues and crimson, each pattern shaped like the shadow of a kneeling man. It seemed to draw her to her knees. Was it perhaps an Eastern prayer mat?
She was aware of Miss Leaming coming quietly down the stairs towards her, her long red dressing gown sweeping round her ankles. The pistol was taken suddenly but firmly from Cordelia’s unresisting hand. She knew that it had gone because her hand felt suddenly lighter. It made no difference. She could never defend herself with it, never kill a man. She had learnt that about herself when Lunn had run from her in terror.
Miss Leaming said: “There is no one here you need defend yourself against, Miss Gray.”
Cordelia said: “I’ve come to report to Sir Ronald. Where is he?”
“Where he was the last time you came here, in his study.”
As before, he was sitting at his desk. He had been dictating and the machine was at his right hand. When he saw Cordelia, he switched it off, then walked to the wall and pulled the plug from the socket. He walked back to the desk and they sat down opposite each other. He folded his hands in the pool of light from the desk lamp and looked at Cordelia. She almost cried out with shock. His face reminded her of faces seen grotesquely reflected in grubby train windows at night—cavernous, the bones stripped of flesh, eyes set in fathomless sockets—faces resurrected from the dead.
When he spoke, his voice was low, reminiscent.
“Half an hour ago I learned that Chris Lunn was dead. He was the best lab assistant I ever had. I took him out of an orphanage fifteen years ago. He never knew his parents. He was an ugly, difficult boy, already on probation. School had done nothing for him. But Lunn was one of the best natural scientists I’ve ever known. If he’d had the education, he’d have been as good as I am.”
“Then why didn’t you give him his chance, why didn’t you educate him?”
“Because he was more useful to me as a lab assistant. I said that he could have been as good as I am. That isn’t quite good enough. I can find plenty of scientists as good. I couldn’t have found another lab assistant to equal Lunn. He had a marvellous hand with instruments.”
He looked up at Cordelia, but without curiosity, apparently without interest.
“You’ve come to report, of course. It’s very late, Miss Gray, and, as you see, I’m tired. Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”
Cordelia thought that this was as close to an appeal as he could ever bring himself. She said: “No, I’m tired too. But I want to finish the case tonight, now.”
He picked up an ebony paperknife from the desk and, without looking at Cordelia, balanced it on his forefinger. “Then tell me, why did my son kill himself? I take it that you do have news for me? You would hardly have burst in here at this hour without something to report.”
“Your son didn’t kill himself. He was murdered. He was murdered by someone he knew very well, someone he didn’t hesitate to let into the cottage, someone who came prepared. He was strangled or suffocated, then slung up on that hook by his own belt. Last of all, his murderer painted his lips, dressed him in a woman’s underclothes and spread out pictures of nudes on the table in front of him. It was meant to look like accidental death during sexual experiment; such cases aren’t so very uncommon.”
There was half a minute of silence. Then he said with perfect calmness: “And who was responsible, Miss Gray?”
“You were. You killed your son.”
“For what reason?” He might have been an examiner, putting his inexorable questions.
“Because he discovered that your wife wasn’t his mother, that
the money left to her and to him by his grandfather had come by fraud. Because he had no intention of benefiting by it a moment longer, nor of accepting his legacy in four years’ time. You were afraid that he might make this knowledge public. And what about the Wolvington Trust? If the truth came out, that would be the end of their promised grant. The future of your laboratory was at stake. You couldn’t take the risk.”
“And who undressed him again, typed out that suicide note, washed the lipstick from his face?”
“I think I know, but I shan’t tell you. That’s really what you employed me to discover, isn’t it? That’s what you couldn’t bear not to know. But you killed Mark. You even prepared an alibi just in case it was needed. You got Lunn to ring you at college and announce himself as your son. He was the one person you could rely on absolutely. I don’t suppose you told him the truth. He was only your lab assistant. He didn’t require explanations, he did what you told him. And even if he did guess the truth, he was safe, wasn’t he? You prepared an alibi which you dared not use, because you didn’t know when Mark’s body was first discovered. If someone had found him and faked that suicide before you had claimed to have spoken to him on the telephone, your alibi would have been broken, and a broken alibi is damning. So you made a chance to talk to Benskin and put matters right. You told him the truth; that it was Lunn who had rung you. You could rely on Lunn to back up your story. But it wouldn’t really matter, would it, even if he did talk? No one would believe him.”
“No, any more than they will believe you. You’ve been determined to earn your fee, Miss Gray. Your explanation is ingenious; there is even a certain plausibility about some of the details. But you know, and I know, that no police officer in the world would take it seriously. It’s unfortunate for you that you couldn’t question Lunn. But Lunn, as I said, is dead. He burnt to death in a road accident.”
“I know, I saw. He tried to kill me tonight. Did you know that? And earlier, he tried to scare me into dropping the case. Was that because he had begun to suspect the truth?”