The Murder Room

by P. D. James

  “How do you mean careful, Muriel? We just tell them the truth.”

  “Of course we tell them the truth. I mean that we shouldn’t tell them things that aren’t really our concern, things about the family, that conversation we had after the trustees’ meeting, for example. We shouldn’t tell them that Dr. Neville wanted to close the museum. If they need to know that, Mr. Marcus can tell them. It isn’t really our concern.”

  Troubled, Tally said, “I wasn’t going to tell them.”

  “Nor shall I. It’s important they don’t get the wrong idea.”

  Tally was appalled. “But Muriel, it was an accident, it has to be. You’re not saying that the police will think the family had anything to do with it? They couldn’t believe that. It’s ridiculous. It’s wicked!”

  “Of course it is, but it’s the kind of thing the police may seize on. I’m just saying that we ought to be careful. And they’ll ask you about the motorist, of course. You’ll be able to show them the damaged bicycle. That’ll be evidence.”

  “Evidence of what, Muriel? Are you saying that they’ll think I might be lying, that none of it happened?”

  “They might not go as far as that but they’ll need some proof. The police believe nothing. That’s the way they’re trained to think. Tally, are you absolutely sure you didn’t recognize him?”

  Tally was confused. She didn’t want to talk about the incident, not now and not to Muriel. She said, “I didn’t recognize him, but thinking about it now, I have a feeling I must have seen him before. I can’t remember when or where, except that it wasn’t at the museum. I’d have remembered if he came here regularly. Perhaps I saw his picture somewhere, in the newspapers or on TV. Or perhaps he resembles somebody well known. It’s just a feeling I have. But it doesn’t really help.”

  “Well, if you don’t know, you don’t know. But they’ll have to try to trace him. It’s a pity you didn’t get the number of the car.”

  “It was so quick, Muriel. He’d gone almost as soon as I got to my feet. I didn’t think about taking the number, but I wouldn’t anyway, would I? It was just an accident, I wasn’t hurt. I didn’t know then about Dr. Neville.”

  They heard a knock on the front door. Before Tally could get up Muriel had moved. She came back with two people following her, a tall, dark-haired man with the woman police officer who had talked to them earlier.

  Muriel said, “This is Commander Dalgliesh, and Detective Inspector Miskin is back.” Then she turned to the Commander. “Would you and the Inspector care for some coffee? Or there’s tea if you’d like it. It won’t take long.”

  She had begun piling up plates and cups on the table.

  Commander Dalgliesh said, “Coffee would be very welcome.”

  Muriel nodded, and without another word carried out the laden tray. Tally thought, She’s regretting the offer. She’d rather stay in here and listen to what I say. She wondered whether the Commander had only accepted the coffee because he preferred to speak to her alone. He sat down at the table on the chair opposite while Miss Miskin seated herself by the fire. Astonishingly Tomcat took a sudden leap and settled himself on her lap. It was something he rarely did, but invariably to visitors who disliked cats. Miss Miskin was taking no liberties from Tomcat. Gently but firmly she rolled him off on to the mat.

  Tally looked across at the Commander. She thought of faces as being either softly moulded or carved. His was carved. It was a handsome, authoritative face and the dark eyes that looked into hers were kindly. He had an attractive voice, and voices had always been important to her. And then she remembered Muriel’s words. The police believe nothing. That’s the way they’re trained to think.

  He said, “This has been an appalling shock for you, Mrs. Clutton. Do you feel able to answer a few questions now? It’s always helpful to get the facts as soon as possible, but if you’d rather wait we can return early tomorrow.”

  “No, please. I’d rather tell you now. I’m all right. I don’t want to wait overnight.”

  “Can you please tell us exactly what happened from the time the museum was closed this evening until now? Take your time. Try to remember every detail, even if it seems unimportant.”

  Tally told her story. Under his gaze she knew that she was telling it well and clearly. She had an irrational need of his approval. Miss Miskin had taken out a notebook and was unobtrusively making notes, but when Tally glanced at her, she saw the Inspector’s eyes fixed on her face. Neither of them interrupted while Tally was speaking.

  At the end, Commander Dalgliesh said, “This fleeing car driver who knocked you down, you said you thought his face was vaguely familiar. Do you think that you might remember who he is or where you’ve seen him?”

  “I don’t think so. If I’d actually seen him before I’d probably have remembered at once. Not perhaps his name, but where I’d seen him. It wasn’t like that. It was much less certain. It’s just that I have an impression that he’s quite well known, that I may have seen his photograph somewhere. But of course it might just be that he resembles someone I’ve seen, an actor on TV, a sportsman or a writer, someone like that. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.”

  “You have been helpful, Mrs. Clutton, very helpful. We’ll ask you to come to the Yard sometime tomorrow when it’s convenient for you to look at some photographs of faces and perhaps speak to one of our artists. Together you might be able to produce a likeness. Obviously we have to trace this driver if we can.”

  And now Muriel came in with the coffee. She had made it from fresh beans and the aroma filled the cottage. Miss Miskin came over to the table and they drank it together. Then, at Commander Dalgliesh’s invitation, Muriel told her story.

  She had left the museum at five-fifteen. The museum closed at five and she usually sat finishing her work until five-thirty except on a Friday when she tried to leave a little earlier. She and Mrs. Clutton had checked that all visitors had left. She had given Mrs. Strickland, a volunteer, a lift to Hampstead tube station and had then driven home to South Finchley, arriving there at about five forty-five. She didn’t notice the precise time of Tally’s call to her mobile but she thought it was about six-forty. She had come back to the museum at once.

  Inspector Miskin broke in here. She said, “It seems possible that the fire was caused by igniting petrol. Was petrol kept on the premises, and if so, where?”

  Muriel glanced at Tally. She said, “The petrol was brought for the lawn-mower. The garden isn’t my responsibility but I knew the petrol was there. I think everyone must have known. I did tell Ryan Archer, the gardening boy, that the shed should be locked. Garden equipment and tools are expensive.”

  “But as far as either of you know, the shed never was locked?”

  “No,” said Tally. “There isn’t a lock on the door.”

  “Can either of you remember when you last saw the can?”

  Again they looked at each other. Muriel said, “I haven’t been to the shed for some time. I can’t remember when I last had occasion to.”

  “But you did speak to the gardener about keeping it locked? When was that?”

  “Soon after the petrol was delivered. Mrs. Faraday, the volunteer who works in the garden, brought it. I think it was in midSeptember, but she will be able to give you the date.”

  “Thank you. I’ll need the names and addresses of everyone who works in the museum, including the volunteers. Is that one of your responsibilities, Miss Godby?”

  Muriel coloured slightly. She said, “Certainly. I could let you have the names tonight. If you’re going to the museum to speak to Mr. and Miss Dupayne, I could go with you.”

  The Commander said, “That won’t be necessary. I’ll get the names from Mr. Dupayne. Do either of you know the name of the garage where Dr. Dupayne’s Jaguar was serviced?”

  It was Tally who replied. “It was looked after by Mr. Stan Carter at Duncan’s Garage in Highgate. I used to see him sometimes when he returned the car after servicing, and we’d have a chat.”
>
  That was the final question. The two police officers got up. Dalgliesh held out his hand to Tally. He said, “Thank you, Mrs. Clutton. You’ve been very helpful. One of my officers will be in touch with you tomorrow. Will you be here? I don’t expect it will be pleasant to stay in the cottage tonight.”

  It was Muriel who spoke. She said stiffly, “I’ve agreed to spend the night with Mrs. Clutton. Naturally Miss Dupayne wouldn’t dream of letting her stay here alone. I shall be at work as usual at nine on Monday, although I imagine Mr. and Miss Dupayne will wish to close the museum, at least until after the funeral. If you need me tomorrow, I could of course come in.”

  Commander Dalgliesh said, “I don’t think that will be necessary. We shall require the museum and the grounds to be closed to the public, at least for the next three or four days. Police constables will be here to guard the scene until the body and the car have been removed. I had hoped that this could be tonight but it seems that it may not happen until first light tomorrow. This motorist seen by Mrs. Clutton, does her description of him mean anything to you?”

  Muriel said, “Nothing. He sounds like a typical museum visitor but no one I specifically recognize. It’s unfortunate that Tally didn’t get the car number. What is so odd is what he said. I don’t know whether you visited the Murder Room, Commander, when you were here with Mr. Ackroyd, but one of the cases featured is a death by fire.”

  “Yes, I know the Rouse case. And I remember what Rouse said.”

  He seemed to be waiting for one of them to comment further. Tally looked from him to Inspector Miskin. Neither was giving anything away. She burst out, “But it’s not the same! It can’t be. This was an accident.”

  Still neither of them spoke. Then Muriel said, “The Rouse case wasn’t an accident, was it?”

  No one replied. Muriel, red-faced, looked from the Commander to Inspector Miskin as if desperately seeking reassuring.

  Dalgliesh said quietly, “It’s too early to say with certainty why Dr. Dupayne died. All we know at present is how. I see, Mrs. Clutton, that you have security locks on the front door, and window bolts. I don’t think you’re in any danger here but it would be sensible to make sure that you lock up carefully before you go to bed. And don’t answer the door after dark.”

  Tally said, “I never do. No one I know would arrive after the museum is closed without telephoning first. But I never feel frightened here. I shall be all right after tonight.”

  A minute later, with renewed thanks for the coffee, the police rose to go. Before leaving, Inspector Miskin handed both a card with a telephone number. If anything further occurred to either of them, they should telephone at once. Muriel, proprietorial as ever, went with them to the door.

  Sitting alone at the table, Tally stared intently at the two empty coffee mugs as if these commonplace objects had the power to reassure her that her world hadn’t broken apart.

  6

  Dalgliesh took Piers with him to interview the two Dupaynes, leaving Kate and Benton-Smith to liaise with the Fire Investigation Officer and, if necessary, have some final words with Tally Clutton and Muriel Godby. Moving to the front of the house he saw with surprise that the door was now ajar. A shaft of light streamed from the hall, its thin band illuminating the bed of shrubs in front of the house, bestowing on them an illusion of spring. On the gravel path small pellets of gravel glittered like jewels. Dalgliesh pressed the bell before he and Piers entered. The half-open door could be construed as a cautious invitation, but he had no doubt that limits would be set on what could be presumed. They entered the wide hall. Empty and utterly silent, it looked like a vast stage set for some contemporary drama. He could almost imagine the characters moving on cue through the ground-floor doors and ascending the central staircase to take up their positions with practised authority.

  As soon as their footsteps rang on the marble, Marcus and Caroline Dupayne appeared at the door of the picture gallery. Standing aside, Caroline Dupayne motioned them in. During the few seconds it took to make the introductions, Dalgliesh was aware that he and Piers were as much under scrutiny as were the Dupaynes. The impression that Caroline Dupayne made on him was immediate and striking. She was as tall as her brother—both slightly under six feet—wide-shouldered and long-limbed. She was wearing trousers and a matching jacket in fine tweed with a high-necked jumper. The words “pretty” or “beautiful” were inappropriate but the bone structure on which beauty is moulded revealed itself in the high cheekbones and the well-defined but delicate line of the chin. Her dark hair, faintly streaked with silver, was cut short and brushed back from her face in strong waves, a style which looked casual but which Dalgliesh suspected was achieved by expensive cutting. Her dark eyes met and held his for five seconds in a gaze speculative and challenging. It was not overtly hostile but he knew that, here, he had a potential adversary.

  Her brother’s only resemblance to her was in the darkness of the hair, his more liberally streaked with grey, and the jutting cheekbones. His face was smooth and the dark eyes had the inward look of a man whose preoccupations were cerebral and highly controlled. His mistakes would be mistakes of judgement, not of impulsiveness or carelessness. For such a man there was a procedure for everything in life, and a procedure, too, for death. Metaphorically he would even now be sending for the file, looking for the precedent, mentally considering the right response. He showed none of his sister’s covert antagonism but the eyes, deeper set than hers, were wary. They were also troubled. Perhaps after all this was an emergency for which precedent offered no help. For nearly forty years he would have been protecting his Minister, his Secretary of State. Who, Dalgliesh wondered, would he be concerned to protect now?

  He saw that they had been sitting in the two upright armchairs each side of the fireplace at the end of the room. Between the chairs was a low table holding a tray with a cafetière, a jug of milk and two mugs. There were also two tumblers, two wine glasses, a bottle of wine and one of whisky. Only the wine glasses had been used. The only other seating was the flat leather-buttoned bench in the centre of the room. It was hardly appropriate for a session of questions and answers, and no one moved towards it.

  Marcus Dupayne looked round the gallery as if suddenly aware of its deficiencies. He said, “There are some folding chairs in the office. I’ll fetch them.” He turned to Piers. “Perhaps you’d help me.” It was a command, not a request.

  They waited in silence during which Caroline Dupayne moved over to the Nash painting and seemed to be studying it. Her brother and Piers appeared with the chairs within a few seconds and Marcus took control, placing them with care in front of the two armchairs in which he and his sister reseated themselves. The contrast between the deep comfort of the leather and the uncompromising slats of the folding chairs made its own comment.

  Marcus Dupayne said, “This isn’t your first visit to the museum, is it? Weren’t you here about a week ago? James Calder-Hale mentioned it.”

  Dalgliesh said, “Yes, I was here last Friday with Conrad Ackroyd.”

  “A happier visit than this. Forgive me for introducing this inappropriate social note into what for you must be essentially an official visit. For us too, of course.”

  Dalgliesh spoke the customary words of condolence. However carefully phrased they always sounded to him banal and vaguely impertinent, as if he were claiming some emotional involvement in the victim’s death. Caroline Dupayne frowned. Perhaps she resented these preliminary courtesies as both insincere and a waste of time. Dalgliesh didn’t blame her.

  She said, “I realize you’ve had things to do, Commander, but we’ve been waiting for over an hour.”

  Dalgliesh replied, “I’m afraid it’s likely to be the first of many inconveniences. I needed to speak to Mrs. Clutton. She was the first person at the fire. Do you both feel able to answer questions now? If not, we could return tomorrow.”

  It was Caroline who replied. “No doubt you’ll be back tomorrow anyway, but for God’s sake let’s get the preli
minaries over. I thought you might be in the cottage. How is Tally Clutton?”

  “Shocked and distressed, as we would expect, but she’s coping. Miss Godby is with her.”

  “Making tea no doubt. The English specific against all disasters. We, as you see, have been indulging in something stronger. I won’t offer you anything, Commander. We know the form. I suppose there can’t be any doubt it is our brother’s body in the car?”

  Dalgliesh said, “There will have to be a formal identification, of course, and if necessary the dental records and DNA will prove it. But I don’t think there’s room for doubt. I’m sorry.” He paused, then said, “Is there a next of kin or close relative other than yourselves?”

  It was Marcus Dupayne who replied. His voice was as controlled as if he were addressing his secretary. “There’s an unmarried daughter. Sarah. She lives in Kilburn. I don’t know the exact address but my wife does. She has it on our Christmas card list. I telephoned my wife after I arrived here and she’s driving over to Kilburn to break the news. I’m expecting her to ring back when she’s had an opportunity to see Sarah.”

  Dalgliesh said, “I shall need Miss Dupayne’s full name and address. Obviously we won’t be troubling her tonight. I expect your wife will be giving her help and support.”

  There was the trace of a frown on Marcus Dupayne’s face but he replied evenly. “We’ve never been close, but naturally we shall do everything we can. I imagine my wife will offer to stay the night if that’s what Sarah wishes, or she may, of course, prefer to come to us. In either case, my sister and I will see her early tomorrow.”

  Caroline Dupayne stirred impatiently and said curtly, “There’s not much we can tell her, is there? There’s nothing we know for certain ourselves. What she’ll want to know, of course, is how her father died. That’s what we’re waiting to hear.”

  Marcus Dupayne’s brief glance at his sister could have conveyed a warning. He said, “I suppose it’s too early for definite answers, but is there anything you can tell us? How the fire started for example, whether it was an accident?”