The Murder Room

by P. D. James

  Later she had no memory of reaching the cottage door. She pulled off and dropped her gloves, found the cold metal of her bunch of keys in the inner pocket of her handbag and tried to cope with the two locks. As she manoeuvred the security key she told herself aloud, “Be calm, be calm.” And now she was calmer. Her hands were still shaking but the dreadful pounding of her heart had quietened and she was able to open the door.

  Once inside the cottage her mind became more lucid with every second. She still couldn’t control the shaking in her hands but her thoughts at last were clear. First the Fire Brigade.

  The 999 call was answered within seconds but the wait seemed interminable. Asked by a woman’s voice what service she required, she said, “Fire, and it’s very urgent please. There’s a body in a burning car.” When the second, male, voice came on the line she gave the necessary details calmly in response to his questions, then sighed with relief as she replaced the handset. Nothing could be done for that charred body however speedily the fire engine arrived. But help would soon be here—officials, experts, the people whose job it was to cope. A terrible weight of responsibility and impotence would be lifted from her shoulders.

  And now she must ring Marcus Dupayne. Underneath the telephone which stood on her small oak desk, she kept a card enclosed in a plastic cover with the names and numbers of people she might need to call in an emergency. Until a week ago Caroline Dupayne’s name had headed the list, but it had been Miss Caroline herself who had instructed her that, now Marcus Dupayne had retired, he should be informed first of any emergency. She had rewritten the card in her clear and careful print and now she tapped out the number.

  Almost immediately a woman’s voice answered. Tally said, “Mrs. Dupayne? This is Tally Clutton from the museum. Is Mr. Dupayne there please? I’m afraid there’s been a terrible accident.”

  The voice was sharp. “What kind of accident?”

  “The garage is on fire. I’ve rung the Fire Brigade. I’m waiting for them now. Can Mr. Dupayne come urgently, please?”

  “He’s not here. He’s gone to see Neville at his Kensington flat.” And now the voice was sharp. “Is Dr. Dupayne’s Jaguar there?”

  “In the garage. I’m afraid it looks as if there’s a body in it.”

  There was a silence. The phone could have been dead. Tally was unable even to detect Mrs. Dupayne’s breathing. She wanted the woman to get off the line so that she could phone Caroline Dupayne. This wasn’t the way she had intended to break the news.

  Then Mrs. Dupayne spoke. Her tone was urgent, commanding, brooking no argument. “See if my husband’s car is there. It’s a blue BMW. At once. I’ll hang on.”

  It was quicker to obey than to argue. Tally ran round the back of the house to the car-park behind its shield of shrubs and laurels. There was only one car parked, Dr. Neville’s Rover. Back at the cottage she snatched up the receiver. “There’s no blue BMW there, Mrs. Dupayne.”

  Again a silence, but this time she could detect a small intake of breath, like a sigh of relief. The voice was calmer now. “I’ll tell my husband as soon as he returns. We have people coming to dinner so he won’t be long. I can’t reach him on his mobile because he switches it off when he’s driving. In the meantime, ring Caroline.” Then she rang off.

  Tally hadn’t needed telling. Miss Caroline must be told. Here she was luckier. The telephone at the college produced the answerphone and Tally waited only for the first words of Caroline’s recorded message before replacing the receiver and trying the mobile. The response to her call was prompt. Tally was surprised at how calmly and succinctly she was able to give her message.

  “It’s Tally, Miss Caroline. I’m afraid there’s been a terrible accident. Dr. Neville’s car and the garage are on fire and it’s spreading to the trees. I called the Fire Brigade and I’ve tried to get Mr. Marcus, but he’s out.” She paused and then blurted out the almost unsayable: “I’m afraid there’s a body in the car!”

  It was extraordinary that Miss Caroline’s voice could sound so ordinary, so controlled. She said, “Are you saying that someone’s been burned to death in my brother’s car?”

  “I’m afraid so, Miss Caroline.”

  And now the voice was urgent. “Who is it? Is it my brother?”

  “I don’t know, Miss Caroline. I don’t know.” Even to Tally’s ears her voice was rising to a despairing wail. The receiver was slipping through her clammy hands. She transferred it to her left ear.

  Caroline’s voice was impatient. “Are you there, Tally? What about the museum?”

  “It’s all right. It’s just the garage and the surrounding trees. I’ve called the Fire Brigade.”

  Suddenly Tally’s control broke and she felt hot tears smarting her eyes and her voice dying. Up to now it had all been horror and fear. Now for the first time she felt a terrible grief. It wasn’t that she had liked or even really known Dr. Neville. The tears sprang from a deeper well than regret that a man was dead and had died horribly. They were, she knew, only partly a reaction to shock and terror. Blinking her eyes and willing herself to calmness, she thought, It’s always the same when someone we know dies; we weep a little for ourselves. But this moment of profound sorrow was more than the sad acceptance of her own mortality, it was part of a universal grieving for the beauty, the terror and the cruelty of the world.

  And now Caroline’s voice had become firm, authoritative and strangely comforting. “All right, Tally. You’ve done well. I’ll be there. It’ll take about thirty minutes but I’m on my way.”

  Replacing the receiver, Tally stood for a moment without moving. Ought she to ring Muriel? If Miss Caroline had wanted her to be there, wouldn’t she have said so? But Muriel would be hurt and angry if she wasn’t called. Tally felt she couldn’t face the prospect of Muriel’s displeasure and she was, after all, the person who effectively ran the museum. The fire might well become local news over the weekend. Well, of course it would. News like that always spread. Muriel had a right to be told now.

  She rang the number but got the engaged signal. Replacing the receiver, she tried again. If Muriel was already on the telephone, she would be unlikely to answer her mobile, but it was worth trying. After about four rings, she heard Muriel’s voice. Tally only had time to say who was calling when Muriel said, “Why are you ringing my mobile? I’m at home.”

  “But you’ve been on the phone.”

  “No I haven’t.” There was a pause, then she said, “Hang on, will you.” Then another pause, but briefer. Muriel said, “The bedside phone wasn’t properly replaced. What’s the matter? Where are you?”

  She sounded cross. Tally thought, She hates admitting even to a slight carelessness. She said, “At the museum. My evening class was cancelled. I’m afraid I’ve terrible news. There’s been a fire in the garage and Dr. Neville’s car was in it. And there’s a body. Someone’s been burnt to death. I’m afraid it’s Dr. Neville. I’ve called the Fire Brigade and I’ve told Miss Caroline.”

  This time the silence was longer. Tally said, “Muriel, are you there? Did you hear?”

  Muriel said, “Yes, I heard. It’s appalling. Are you sure he’s dead? Couldn’t you pull him out?”

  The question was ludicrous. Tally said, “No one could have saved him.”

  “I suppose it is Dr. Neville?”

  Tally said, “Who else could it be in his car? But I’m not certain. I don’t know who it is. I only know he’s dead. Do you want to come? I thought you’d like to know.”

  “Of course I’ll come. I was the last one at the museum. I ought to be there. I’ll be as quick as I can. And don’t tell Miss Caroline that it’s Dr. Neville until we know for certain. It could be anyone. Who else have you told?”

  “I rang Mr. Marcus but he isn’t home yet. His wife will tell him. Ought I to ring Mr. Calder-Hale?”

  Muriel’s voice was impatient. “No. Leave that to Miss Caroline when she arrives. I don’t see what help he can be anyway. Just stay where you are. Oh, and Tally . . .�
��

  “Yes, Muriel?”

  “I’m sorry I was sharp with you. After the Fire Brigade arrives, stay in your cottage. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  Tally replaced the handset and went to the door of the cottage. Above the crackling of the fire and the hissing of the wind she could hear the sound of approaching wheels. She ran to the front of the house and gave a cry of relief. The great engine, its headlights bright as searchlights, advanced like some gigantic fabled monster, illuminating house and lawn, shattering the fragile calm with its clamour. She ran frantically towards it, waving unnecessarily toward the leaping flames of the fire. A great weight of anxiety fell from Tally’s shoulders. Help had at last arrived.

  2

  Assistant Commissioner Geoffrey Harkness liked to have the wide windows of his sixth-floor office uncurtained. So too did Adam Dalgliesh, a floor below. A year earlier had seen a reorganization of accommodation at New Scotland Yard and now Dalgliesh’s windows faced the gentler, more rural scene of St. James’s Park, at this distance more a promise than a view. For him the seasons were marked by changes in the park; the spring budding of the trees, their luxuriant summer heaviness, the crisping yellow and gold of autumn, brisk walkers high-collared against the winter cold. In early summer the municipal deck-chairs would suddenly appear in an outbreak of coloured canvas, and half-clad Londoners would sit on the tailored grass like a scene from Seurat. On summer evenings, walking home through the park, he would occasionally hear the brass crescendo of an Army band, and see the guests for the Queen’s garden parties, self-conscious in their unaccustomed finery.

  Harkness’s view provided none of this seasonal variety. After dark, whatever the season, the whole wall was a panorama of London, outlined and celebrated in light. Towers, bridges, houses and streets were hung with jewels, clusters and necklaces of diamonds and rubies, which made more mysterious the dark thread of the river. The view was so spectacular that it diminished Harkness’s office, making the official furniture, appropriate to his rank, look like a shabby compromise and his personal mementoes, the commendations and the ranked shields from foreign police forces, as naÏvely pretentious as the trophies of childhood.

  The summons, in the form of a request, had come from the Assistant Commissioner but Dalgliesh knew within a second of entering that this wasn’t routine Met business. Maynard Scobie from Special Branch was there with a colleague unknown to Dalgliesh but whom no one troubled to introduce. More significantly, Bruno Denholm from MI5 was standing looking out the window. And now he turned and took his place beside Harkness. The faces of the two men were explicit. The Assistant Commissioner looked irritated, Denholm had the wary but determined look of a man who was about to be outnumbered but who holds the heavier weapon.

  Without preliminaries, Harkness said, “The Dupayne Museum, a private museum of the inter-war years. In Hampstead on the borders of the Heath. Do you know it, by any chance?”

  “I’ve been there once, a week ago.”

  “That’s helpful, I suppose. I’ve never heard of the place.”

  “Not many people have. They don’t advertise themselves, although that may change. They’re under new management. Marcus Dupayne has taken over.”

  Harkness moved to his conference table. “We’d better sit. This may take some time. There’s been a murder—more accurately a suspicious death—which the Fire Investigation Officer thinks is murder. Neville Dupayne has been burnt to death in his Jag in a lock-up garage at the museum. It’s his habit, apparently, to collect the car at six p.m. on Fridays and drive off for the weekend. This Friday someone may have lain in wait for him, thrown petrol over his head and set him alight. That seems to be the possibility. We’d like you to take on the case.”

  Dalgliesh looked at Denholm. “As you’re here, I take it you have an interest.”

  “Only marginally, but we would like the case cleared up as soon as possible. We only know the barest facts but it looks fairly straightforward.”

  “Then why me?”

  Denholm said, “It’s a question of getting it cleared up with the minimum of fuss. Murder always attracts publicity but we don’t want the press getting too inquisitive. We have a contact there, James Calder-Hale, who acts as a kind of curator. He’s ex-FCO and an expert on the Middle East. Speaks Arabic and one or two dialects. He retired on health grounds four years ago but he keeps in touch with friends. More importantly, they keep in touch with him. We get useful pieces of jigsaw from time to time and we would like this to continue.”

  Dalgliesh said, “Is he on the payroll?”

  “Not exactly. Certain payments have occasionally to be made. Essentially he’s a freelance, but a useful one.”

  Harkness said, “MI5 isn’t happy about passing on this information but we insisted, on a need-to-know basis. It stays with you, of course.”

  Dalgliesh said, “If I’m to conduct a murder investigation, my two DIs have to be told. I take it you have no objection to my arresting Calder-Hale if he killed Neville Dupayne?”

  Denholm smiled. “I think you’ll find he’s in the clear. He’s got an alibi.”

  Has he indeed, thought Dalgliesh. MI5 had been quick on the job. Their first reaction to hearing of the murder had been to contact Calder-Hale. If the alibi stood up, then he could be eliminated and everyone would be happy. But the MI5 involvement remained a complication. Officially they might think it expedient to keep clear; unofficially they would be watching his every move.

  He said, “And how do you propose to sell this to the local Division? On the face of it, it’s just another case. A suspicious death hardly justifies calling in the Special Investigation Squad. They might want to know why.”

  Harkness dismissed the problem. “That can be dealt with. We’ll probably suggest that one of Dupayne’s patients somewhere in the past was an important personage and we want his murderer found without embarrassment. No one is going to be explicit. The important thing is to get the case solved. The Fire Investigation Officer is still at the scene and so are Marcus Dupayne and his sister. There’s nothing to stop you from starting now, I suppose?”

  And now he had to telephone Emma. Back in his own office, he was swept by a desolation as keen as the half-remembered disappointments of childhood and bringing with it the same superstitious conviction that a malignant fate had turned against him, judging him unworthy of happiness. He had booked a corner table at the Ivy for nine o’clock. They would have a late dinner and plan the weekend together. He had judged the timing meticulously. His meeting at the Yard might well last until seven o’clock; to book an earlier meal would have been to invite disaster. The arrangement was that he would call for Emma at her friend Clara’s flat in Putney by eight-fifteen. By now he should be on his way.

  His PA could cancel the restaurant booking but he had never used her to convey even the most routine message to Emma and wouldn’t now; it was too close to betraying that part of his very private life which he was keeping inviolate. As he punched out the numbers on his mobile, he wondered if this call would be the last time he would hear her voice. The thought appalled him. If she decided that this latest frustration was the end, he was determined on one thing; their last meeting would be face-to-face.

  It was Clara who answered his call. As soon as he asked for Emma, she said, “I suppose this is a chuck.”

  “I’d like to speak to Emma. Is she there?”

  “She’s having her hair done. She’ll be back any minute. But don’t bother to ring again. I’ll tell her.”

  “I’d rather tell her myself. Tell her I’ll ring later.”

  She said, “I shouldn’t bother. No doubt there’s an insalubrious corpse somewhere awaiting your attention.” She paused, then said conversationally, “You’re a bastard, Adam Dalgliesh.”

  He tried to keep the surge of anger out of his voice, but knew that it must have come across to her, sharp as a whiplash. “Possibly, but I’d rather hear it from Emma herself. She’s her own person. She doesn’t need a keep
er.”

  She said, “Goodbye, Commander. I’ll let Emma know,” and put down the receiver.

  And now anger at himself and not Clara was added to his disappointment. He had mishandled the call, had been unreasonably offensive to a woman, and that woman Emma’s friend. He decided to wait a little before ringing back. It would give them and himself time to consider what best to say.

  But when he did ring it was again Clara who answered. She said, “Emma decided to go back to Cambridge. She left five minutes ago. I gave her your message.”

  The call was over. Moving over to his cupboard to take out his murder bag, he seemed to hear Clara’s voice. I suppose there’s an insalubrious corpse somewhere awaiting your attention.

  But first he must write to Emma. They phoned each other as seldom as possible and he knew that it was he who had tacitly established this reluctance to speak when apart. He found it both too frustrating and anxiety-inducing to hear her voice without seeing her face. There was always the worry that the timing of his call might be inconvenient, that he might fall into banalities. Written words had a greater permanence and, therefore, a greater chance of remembered infelicities, but at least he could control the written word. Now he wrote briefly, expressed his regret and disappointment simply, and left it to her to say if and when she would like to see him. He could go to Cambridge, if that would be more convenient. He signed it simply, Adam. Until now they had always met in London. It was she who had had the inconvenience of a journey and he had decided that she felt less committed in London, that there was an emotional safety in seeing him on what for her was mutual ground. He wrote the address with care, affixed a first-class stamp and put the envelope in his pocket. He would slip it in the box at the post office opposite New Scotland Yard. Already he was calculating how long it would be before he could hope for a reply.