The Murder Room

by P. D. James

  Kate said frankly, “And lived with him. I mean, you were lovers.”

  “He’s gay, of course, but that wasn’t why I brought him home. I have someone else, have done for years. He’s doing a six-month consultancy job in the Far East but he’s due back early January. I’m rather hoping to get Ryan settled by then. This flat’s too small for the three of us. Ryan came to my room that first night, seemed to think he had to pay in kind for his lodging. I soon put him right on that. I never mix sex and commerce. Never have. And I’m not much attracted to the young. Makes me odd, I dare say, but that’s how it is. I liked the boy and was sorry for him, but that’s all there was to it. He came and went, you know. Sometimes he told me he’d be off, sometimes not. Usually he came back within a week or two, wanted a bath, clean clothes, a comfortable bed. He was in a succession of squats but none of them lasted long.”

  “Did you know he was working at the Dupayne Museum as a gardener?”

  “I gave him a reference. He told me he worked there Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. He usually went off early on those days and came back at about six. I assume he was where he said he was, at the Dupayne.”

  Kate said, “How did he get there?”

  “By tube and walking. He had an old bicycle but that disappeared.”

  “Isn’t five rather late to be working in winter? The light’s gone much earlier.”

  “He said there were always a few odd jobs. He helped in the house as well as the garden. I didn’t ask questions. Too much like his stepfather. Ryan can’t tolerate interference. Don’t blame him. Feel the same myself. Look, would you care for something to drink? Tea or coffee? Forgot to ask.”

  Kate thanked him and said that they needed to be on their way. The Major nodded, and said, “Hope you find him. If you do, tell him I’m all right. The bed’s here if he cares to come back. For the present anyway. And he didn’t murder that doctor—what’s his name, Dupayne?”

  “Dr. Neville Dupayne.”

  “You can put that out of your minds. The boy’s not a killer.”

  Piers said, “If he’d struck you harder and in a different place, he could have been.”

  “Well he didn’t, did he? Watch that watering-can as you go out. Sorry I can’t be more helpful. You’ll let me know when you find him?”

  Surprisingly at the door he held out his hand. He gripped Kate’s so hard that she almost winced. She said, “Yes sir, we’ll be sure to let you know.”

  After the door had closed, Kate said, “We could try Mrs. Perrifield. She might know when Ryan got home. She sounds the kind of woman who keeps an eye on what’s happening with her neighbours.”

  On the ground floor they rang the bell. It was opened by a stout elderly woman, somewhat over-enthusiastically made up and rigidly coiffured. She was wearing a patterned suit with four pockets on the jacket, all adorned with large brass buttons. She had opened the door, keeping the chain on, and had gazed at them through the aperture with suspicious eyes. But when Kate had shown her warrant card and explained that they were inquiring about Ryan Archer, she immediately unchained the door and invited them in. Kate suspected that they might have difficulty in getting away, so explained that they hoped not to keep Mrs. Perrifield long. Could she tell them what time Ryan had arrived home yesterday evening?

  Mrs. Perrifield was vehement in her protestations that she would like to help but, alas, she couldn’t. Friday afternoon was her bridge afternoon. Yesterday she had been playing with friends in South Kensington and after tea had stayed on for sherry. She had arrived home only some fifteen minutes before the appalling attack. Piers and Kate had to hear every detail of how Mrs. Perrifield had fortuitously been able to save the Major’s life by her prompt action. She hoped that he would now realize that you can be too trusting, too compassionate. Ryan Archer was not the kind of tenant they wanted in a respectable house. She reiterated how very sorry she was not to be able to help, and Kate believed her. She had no doubt Mrs. Perrifield would have been delighted had she been able to tell them that Ryan returned home smelling strongly of petrol, hot-foot from the scene of the crime.

  Walking back to the car, Kate said, “So Ryan hasn’t an alibi, at least as far as we know. But I find it difficult to believe . . .”

  Piers broke in. “Oh for God’s sake, Kate, not you too! None of them is a likely murderer. He’s a suspect like the rest of them. And the longer he stays away, the worse it looks for him.”

  13

  Mrs. Faraday’s house was the eighth in a mid-nineteenth-century terrace on the south side of an Islington square. The houses, no doubt built originally for the superior working class, must have gone through the usual transmogrification of rising rents, neglect, war damage and multi-occupancy, but had long been taken over by those of the middle class who valued proximity to the City, the nearness of good restaurants and the Almeida Theatre, and the satisfaction of proclaiming that they lived in an interesting, socially and ethnically diverse community. From the number of window grilles and burglar alarm systems, it was apparent that the occupants had protected themselves against any unwelcome manifestation of this rich diversity. The terrace had an attractive architectural unity. The identical façades of cream stucco and black iron balconies were broken up by the shining paint of different coloured doors and the varied brass knockers. In spring this architectural conformity would be enlivened by the blooms of cherry trees, their trunks protected by railings, but now the autumn sun shone on a patterned avenue of bare branches, touching the trunks with gold. An occasional window box was bright with trailing ivy and the yellow of winter pansies.

  Kate pressed the bell in its brass surround and it was quickly answered. They were courteously received by an elderly man with carefully brushed-back white hair, and a resolutely non-committal face. His clothes struck a note of eccentric ambiguity; striped black trousers, a brown linen jacket which looked newly pressed and a spotted bow tie. He said, “Commander Dalgliesh and Inspector Miskin? Mrs. Faraday is expecting you. She’s in the garden but perhaps you won’t mind going through.” He added, “My name is Perkins,” as if this somehow explained his presence.

  It was neither the house nor the reception that Kate had expected. There were now very few houses where the door was opened by a butler, nor did the man they were following look like one. In demeanour and assurance he seemed like an old retainer, or was he perhaps a relation of the family who had decided, for his perverse amusement, to play a part?

  The hall was narrow and made more so by the slender mahogany grandfather clock to the right of the door. The walls were covered with water-colours so closely hung that little of the patterned dark green paper was visible. A door to the left gave Kate a glimpse of book-covered walls, an elegant fireplace and a portrait in oils above it. This wasn’t a house where you would expect to find prints of wild horses galloping out of the sea or a green-faced Oriental woman. An elegantly carved mahogany banister led upstairs. At the end of the corridor Perkins opened a white-painted door which led into a conservatory stretching the width of the house. It was a room of casual intimacy; coats slung over low wicker chairs, magazines on the wicker table, a profusion of green plants obscuring the glass and giving the light a greenish tinge as if they were underwater. A small flight of steps gave access to the garden. A path of York stone set in the lawn led down to the greenhouse. Through the glass they could see the figure of a woman stooping and rising in a rhythmic sequence with the precision of a formal dance. The movements didn’t stop even when Dalgliesh and Kate reached the door and saw that she was washing and disinfecting flowerpots. There was a bowl of soapy water on the ledge and she was taking the scrubbed pots one by one, stooping to dip them in a pail of disinfectant, then placing them on a high shelf in order of their size. After a few seconds she chose to see her visitors and opened the door. They were met by a strong smell of Jeyes Fluid.

  She was tall, almost six feet, and was wearing grubby corduroy trousers, a dark blue Guernsey jumper, rubber boots and red rubber gl
oves. Her grey hair, combed back from a high forehead, was bundled beneath a trilby hat which sat rakishly above her strong-boned, intelligent face. Her eyes were dark and keen under heavy lids. Although the skin over the nose and cheekbones was a little weather-coarsened, her face was almost unlined, but when she drew off the gloves Kate saw from the blue cords of the veins and the delicate crumpled skin of her hands that she was older than she had expected; she must surely have been over forty when her son was born. Kate glanced at Dalgliesh. His face told her nothing but she knew that he must be sharing her thoughts. They were facing a formidable woman.

  Dalgliesh said, “Mrs. Faraday?”

  Her voice was authoritative and carefully articulated. “Of course, who else? This is my address, this is my garden, this is my greenhouse, and it was my man who showed you in.” Her tone, thought Kate, was deliberately light, intended to rob the words of any offence. She went on, “And you, of course, are Commander Dalgliesh. Don’t bother to show me your warrant card or whatever it is you have to carry. I was expecting you, of course, but I don’t know why I thought you would come alone. This, after all, is hardly a social visit.”

  The look she gave Kate, although not unfriendly, was as swiftly appraising as if she were assessing the virtue and merits of a new parlour-maid. Dalgliesh made the introductions. Mrs. Faraday somewhat surprisingly shook hands with them both, then put her gloves back on.

  She said, “Please excuse me if I continue with this task. It isn’t my favourite chore and, once started, I like to get it finished. That wicker chair is reasonably clean, Miss Miskin, but I’m afraid I have nothing to offer you, Mr. Dalgliesh, but this upturned box. I think you’ll find it’s safe enough.”

  After a second Kate sat, but Dalgliesh remained standing. Before he could speak, Mrs. Faraday went on, “You’ve come about Dr. Dupayne’s death, of course. I take it your presence here means that you don’t think it was an accident.”

  Dalgliesh had decided to be blunt. “Neither an accident nor suicide. I’m afraid this is a murder investigation, Mrs. Faraday.”

  “So I suspected, but isn’t it attracting a somewhat unusual level of expertise? Forgive me, but does Dr. Dupayne’s death, however lamentable, deserve the attention of a commander as well as a detective inspector?” Receiving no reply, she went on, “Please ask your questions. If I can help, obviously I would wish to do so. I know some of the details, of course. News like this gets round very quickly. It was a terrible death.”

  She went on with her task. Watching the scrubbed pots being lifted from the suds, dipped and shelved, Dalgliesh had a vivid childhood memory of the potting shed in the rectory garden. This had been one of his childhood tasks, helping the gardener with the annual flowerpot cleaning. He could remember the warm woody smell of the potting shed and old Sampson’s stories about his exploits in the First World War. Most of them, he later recognized, were fictitious, but at the time they had enthralled a ten-year-old, turning the task into a looked-for treat. The old man had been an inventive fantasist. He suspected that he was now facing a woman whose lies, if she told them, would be more convincing.

  He said, “Can you tell us about your own involvement with the museum? We understand that you’re one of the volunteers. How long have you been there and what do you do? I know this may not seem relevant, but at the moment we need to know as much as possible about Dr. Dupayne’s life, both professionally and at the museum.”

  “Then you’ll need to see the members of his family and the people who worked with Dr. Dupayne at the hospital. One of them, as I expect you know, is my daughter-in-law. My own involvement with the family goes back twelve years. My husband was a friend of Max Dupayne, who founded the museum, and we’ve always been supporters. When Max was alive they had an elderly and not very competent gardener and Max asked whether I could help by coming in once a week, or at least with some regularity, to give advice. At present, as I expect you know, the garden is looked after by Ryan Archer, who also acts as part-time cleaner and handyman. The boy is ignorant but willing, and my visits have continued. After Max Dupayne’s death James Calder-Hale, the archivist, asked me to carry on. He took over the job of vetting the voluntary helpers.”

  Kate asked, “Did they need vetting?”

  “A reasonable question. Apparently Mr. Calder-Hale took the view that there were too many of them and most were more trouble than they were worth. Museums do tend to attract enthusiasts who have little practical skill to contribute. He cut down the numbers to three—myself, Miss Babbington who assisted Muriel Godby on the reception desk, and Mrs. Strickland who works in the library. Miss Babbington had to give up about a year ago because of increasing arthritis. There are now just the two of us. We could do with more.”

  Dalgliesh said, “Mrs. Clutton told us that it was you who provided the can of petrol for the lawn-mower. When was that?”

  “In September, about the time of the last grass-cutting. Ryan had run out of petrol and I said I’d bring in a can to save the cost of delivery. It was never used. The machine had been malfunctioning for some time and the boy had absolutely no skill in maintaining it, let alone repairing it. I came to the conclusion it had to be replaced. In the meantime Ryan used the manual lawn-mower. The can of petrol was left in the shed.”

  “Who knew it was there?”

  “Ryan obviously. Mrs. Clutton, who keeps her bicycle in the shed, and probably Miss Godby. I certainly told her that the old mower would have to be replaced. She was worried about the cost, but obviously there was no great hurry; the grass probably wouldn’t need another cutting until the spring. Come to think of it, I must have told her about the petrol because she paid me the cost of it and I signed a chitty. The Dupaynes and Mr. Calder-Hale may have known. You’ll have to ask them.”

  Kate asked, “Didn’t it occur to you that, since it was no longer needed, you could take the can home?”

  Mrs. Faraday gave her a look which suggested that the question was hardly one which would occur to an intelligent inquirer. She replied, “No, it didn’t. Should it have? I’d been paid for it.”

  Kate, refusing to be intimidated, tried another tack. “You have been visiting the museum for twelve years. Would you describe it as a happy place? I mean, the people who work there.”

  Mrs. Faraday took up the next pot, examined it critically, dipped it in disinfectant and up-ended it on the bench. She said, “I’ve really no way of knowing. None of the staff complained to me of unhappiness and had they done so I wouldn’t have listened.”

  As if fearing that her reply had been minatory, she added, “After the death of Max Dupayne there was a certain lack of overall control. Caroline Dupayne has been nominally in charge, but she has her own responsibilities at the school. As I said, Mr. Calder-Hale takes an interest in the voluntary workers and the boy does the garden—or at least makes some attempt at keeping it in shape. After Muriel Godby came, things improved. She’s a capable woman and seems to relish responsibility.”

  Dalgliesh wondered how he could introduce the complication of her daughter-in-law’s relationship with Neville Dupayne. He needed to know if the affair was as secret as Angela Faraday had said; in particular he needed to know how much Mrs. Faraday might have guessed or been told.

  He said, “We have already spoken to your daughter-in-law as Dr. Dupayne’s personal secretary, and I understand she had general responsibility for his outpatient clinics. She’s obviously a person whose opinion of his state of mind on that Friday is important.”

  “And does his state of mind have any relevance to the fact that he was murdered? I take it you are not now suggesting that this could have been suicide?”

  Dalgliesh said, “I have to decide what is relevant, Mrs. Faraday.”

  “And was my daughter-in-law’s relationship with Neville Dupayne relevant? She told you, of course? Well naturally she would. Love, the satisfaction of being wanted, is always something of a triumph. Very few people mind confessing that they have been desirable. Where sexual mores
today are concerned, it isn’t adultery that’s contemptible.”

  Dalgliesh said, “I think she found the affair more distressing than fulfilling, the need for secrecy, the worry that your son might find out and be hurt.”

  “Yes,” she said with bitterness. “Angela’s not without a conscience.”

  It was Kate who asked the question. “Did he find out, Mrs. Faraday?”

  There was a silence. Mrs. Faraday was too intelligent to miss the significance. It was a question, thought Kate, that she must have been expecting. In one sense she had invited it. It was she who had first mentioned her daughter-in-law’s affair. Was this because she was convinced that the truth would eventually come out and that her silence would then need some explaining? She turned a scrubbed pot in her hands, scrutinizing it carefully, then bent and dipped it in the disinfectant. Dalgliesh and Kate waited. It wasn’t until Mrs. Faraday had straightened up that she replied.

  “No, he doesn’t know, and it’s my business to ensure that he never does. I hope I can rely on your co-operation, Commander. I take it that neither of you is in the business of deliberately inflicting pain.”

  Dalgliesh heard Kate’s quick intake of breath, as quickly disciplined. He said, “I’m in the business of investigating a murder, Mrs. Faraday. I can’t give guarantees except to say that facts which aren’t relevant won’t unnecessarily be made public. I’m afraid a murder investigation always causes pain. I wish it were only to the guilty.” He paused, then added, “How did you come to know?”

  “By seeing them together. It was three months ago when a minor Royal came to the hospital to open the new theatre complex. Neville Dupayne and Angela weren’t officially together, nothing like that. He was on the list of consultants to be presented. She was helping with the arrangements, directing visitors, escorting VIPs, that kind of thing. But they met fortuitously and stood together for a couple of minutes. I saw her face, their hands quickly clasp and as quickly part. It was enough. You can’t hide love, not if you’re caught unawares.”