by P. D. James
Kate said, “But if you saw it, why shouldn’t others?”
“Perhaps some people who worked closely with them did. But Angela and Neville Dupayne kept their private lives separate. I doubt whether anyone would pass on the news to me or to my son even if they did suspect. It might be a cause of gossip among the hospital staff but not a reason for interference or making mischief. I saw them in an unguarded moment. I have no doubt they had learned how to dissemble.”
Dalgliesh said, “Your daughter-in-law told me that the affair was at an end. They had decided that the potential harm didn’t justify its continuing.”
“And you believed her?”
“I saw no reason not to.”
“Well, she lied. They were planning on going away together next weekend. My son phoned to suggest that we spend the weekend together because Angela was visiting an old school friend in Norwich. She has never spoken of her school or of her friends. They were going away together for the first time.”
Kate said, “You can’t be sure of that, Mrs. Faraday.”
“I can be sure.”
Again there was a silence. Mrs. Faraday continued with her task. Kate asked, “Were you happy about your son’s marriage?”
“Very happy. I had to face it that it wouldn’t be easy for him to find a wife. Plenty of women would be happy to sleep with him, but not to spend the rest of their lives with him. Angela seemed genuinely fond of him. I think she still is. They met at the museum, incidentally. It was one afternoon three years ago. Selwyn had a free afternoon and had come to help me with the garden. There was a meeting of the trustees after lunch and Neville Dupayne had forgotten his agenda and papers. He phoned the hospital and Angela brought them to him. Afterwards she came to see what we were planting and we spent some time chatting. That’s when she and Selwyn met. I was happy and relieved when they began seeing each other and eventually got engaged. She seemed exactly the right wife for him, kind, sensible and maternal. Of course their joint incomes aren’t great but I was able to buy them a small house and provide a car. It was obvious how much she meant to him—still means to him.”
Dalgliesh said, “I saw your son. He was in the waiting-room at St. Oswald’s when I left after seeing your daughter-in-law.”
“And what impression did you gain, Commander?”
“I thought he had a remarkable face. He could be called beautiful.”
“So was my husband, but not egregiously so. Good-looking would perhaps be a more accurate description.” She seemed to be pondering for a moment, then her face broke into a reminiscent, transforming smile. “Very good-looking. Beautiful is an odd word to apply to a man.”
“It seems appropriate.”
The last of the pots had been inspected and doused. Now they were ranged in neat lines according to size. Regarding them with the satisfaction of completing a job well done, she said, “I think I had better explain to you about Selwyn. He is not intelligent. I would say that he has always had learning difficulties but that phrase diagnostically has become meaningless. He can survive in our remorseless society but he can’t compete. He was educated with so-called normal children but didn’t achieve any examination results, didn’t indeed try for them except in two non-academic subjects. University was obviously out of the question, even one at the bottom of the league tables where they’re so desperate to keep up the numbers that I’m told they’ll take people who are barely literate. They wouldn’t have taken Selwyn. His father was highly intelligent and Selwyn is our only child. Naturally his limitations as they became apparent were a disappointment to him—perhaps grief wouldn’t be too strong a word. But he loved his son, as do I. What we have both wanted is for Selwyn to be happy and to find a job within his capabilities which would be useful to others and satisfying for him. The happiness was no problem. He was born with a capacity for joy. He works as a hospital porter at St. Agatha’s. He likes the work and is good at it. One or two of the older porters take an interest in him, so he’s not without friends. He also has a wife he loves. I intend that he shall continue to have a wife he loves.”
Dalgliesh asked quietly, “What were you doing, Mrs. Faraday, between the hours of half-past five and half-past six yesterday?”
The question was brutally stark, but it was one she must have been expecting. She had handed him a motive almost without prompting. Now would she be providing an alibi?
She said, “I realized when I heard that Neville Dupayne had died that you would be looking into his private life, that the relationship with my daughter-in-law would come to light sooner or later. Colleagues at the hospital wouldn’t betray suspicions of the affair to me or her husband. Why should they? They’ll take a very different attitude when it comes to murder. I realize too, of course, that I could be a suspect. Yesterday I planned to drive to the museum and be there when Neville Dupayne arrived. I knew, of course, that he came every Friday to collect his Jaguar. I imagine everyone at the museum knew that. It seemed the best chance of seeing him in absolute privacy. There wouldn’t have been any sense in making an appointment at the hospital. He would always be able to make excuses on the grounds that he hadn’t time. And then there was the complication of Angela being there. I wanted to see him alone to try to persuade him to end the affair.”
Kate said, “Had you any idea how you could do that—I mean, what arguments you could use other than the harm he was doing to your son?”
“No. I didn’t have anything specific to threaten him with, if that’s what you mean. Selwyn wasn’t his patient, I don’t think the General Medical Council would be interested. My only weapon, if one chooses to use that term, would be an appeal to his decency. After all, there was a chance he might be regretting the affair, wanting to get out. I left home at five o’clock precisely. I planned to be at the museum at half-past five or soon after in case he arrived early. It closes at five so the staff would be gone. Mrs. Clutton might see me but I thought it unlikely as her cottage is at the back of the house. In any case I had a right to be there.”
“And did you see Dr. Dupayne?”
“No, I gave up the attempt. The traffic was very heavy—it usually is on a Friday—and there were plenty of times when I wasn’t moving apart from stops at traffic lights. I had time to think. It struck me that the enterprise was ill-conceived. Neville Dupayne would be looking forward to his weekend, anxious to get away. It would be the worst time to accost him. And I’d only have the one chance. If this failed I would be helpless. I told myself I’d have a better chance if I tackled Angela first. After all, I’d never spoken to her about the affair. She had no idea that I knew. The fact that I did might change everything for her. She’s fond of my son. She’s not a ruthless predator. I would probably have a better chance of succeeding with her than I would with Dupayne. My son would like a child. I have taken medical advice and there’s no reason why his children shouldn’t be normal. I rather think that my daughter-in-law would like a baby. She could hardly expect to have one with Dupayne. Of course, they would need some financial help. When I got as far as Hampstead Pond I decided to drive home. I didn’t note the time, why should I? But I can tell you that I was back here by six-twenty and Perkins will confirm it.”
“And no one saw you? No one who could recognize you or the car?”
“Not as far as I know. And now, unless you have any other questions, I think I’ll return to the house. Incidentally, Commander, I’ll be grateful if you would not speak directly to my son. He was on duty at St. Agatha’s when Dupayne was murdered. The hospital will be able to confirm that without the need to talk to Selwyn.”
The interview was over. And they had, thought Kate, got more than she had expected.
Mrs. Faraday didn’t go with them to the front door but left Perkins, hovering in the conservatory, to let them out. At the door, Dalgliesh turned to him. “Could you let us know, please, the time at which Mrs. Faraday returned home yesterday evening?”
“It was six twenty-two, Commander. I happened to glance at the
clock.”
He held open the door wide. It seemed less an invitation to leave than a command.
They were both silent on their way back to the car. Once strapped in her seat, Kate’s irritation burst out. “Thank God she’s not my mother-in-law! There’s only one person she cares for and that’s her precious son. You bet he wouldn’t have married Angela if Mummy hadn’t approved. It’s Mummy who buys the house, provides the car. So he’d like to have a baby, would he? She’d buy that for him too. And if that means Angela giving up her job, then Mummy will subsidize the family. No suggestion that Angela might have a point of view, might not want a child—or not yet, might actually enjoy working at the hospital, might value her independence. That woman’s utterly ruthless.”
She was surprised by the strength of her anger—against Mrs. Faraday for her arrogance, her effortless superiority, and against herself for giving way to an emotion so unprofessional. Anger at the scene of crime was natural and could be a laudable spur to action. A detective who had become so blasé, so case-hardened that pity and anger could find no place in his or her response to the pain and waste of murder would be wise to look for another job. But anger against a suspect was an indulgence which could dangerously pervert judgement. And tangled with this anger she was trying to control was an emotion equally reprehensible. Essentially honest, she recognized it with some shame: it was class resentment.
She had always seen the class war as the resort of people who were unsuccessful, insecure or envious. She was none of these things. So why was she feeling such anger? She had spent years and energy putting the past behind her: her illegitimacy, the acceptance that she would now never know the name of her father, that life in the city tower block with her disgruntled grandmother, the smell, the noise, the all-pervading hopelessness. But in escaping to a job which had got her away more effectively from the Ellison Fairweather Buildings than could any other, had she left something of herself behind, a vestigial loyalty to the dispossessed and the poor? She had changed her lifestyle, her friends—even, by imperceptible stages, the way she spoke. She had become middle class. But when the chips were down, wasn’t she still on the side of those almost forgotten neighbours? And wasn’t it the Mrs. Faradays, the prosperous, educated, liberal middle class who in the end controlled their lives? She thought, They criticize us for illiberal responses which they never need experience. They don’t have to live in a local authority high-block slum with a vandalized lift and constant incipient violence. They don’t send their children to schools where the classrooms are battlefields and eighty percent of the children can’t speak English. If their kids are delinquent they get sent to a psychiatrist, not a youth court. If they need urgent medical treatment they can always go private. No wonder they can afford to be so bloody liberal.
She sat in silence, watching AD’s long fingers on the wheel. Surely the air in the car must be throbbing with the turbulence of her feelings.
Dalgliesh said, “It isn’t as simple as that, Kate.”
Kate thought, No, nothing ever is. But it’s simple enough for me. She said suddenly, “Do you think she was telling the truth—about the affair still carrying on, I mean? We’ve only her word for it. Did you think Angela was lying, sir, when she spoke to you?”
“No. I think most of what she said was the truth. And now Dupayne’s dead she may have convinced herself that the affair had effectively ended, that one weekend away with him would mark the end. Grief can play odd tricks with people’s perception of the truth. But as far as Mrs. Faraday is concerned, it doesn’t matter whether the lovers were or weren’t proposing to have that weekend. If she believes they were, the motive’s there.”
Kate said, “And she had means and opportunity. She knew the petrol was there, she supplied it. She knew Neville Dupayne would be at the garage at six o’clock but that the staff of the museum would have left. She handed it to us, didn’t she? All of it.”
Dalgliesh said, “She was remarkably frank, surprisingly so. But where the love-affair is concerned she only told us what she knew we’d find out. I can’t see her asking her servant to lie. And if she did actually plan to murder Dupayne, she would take care to do it when she knew her son couldn’t be suspected. We’ll check on Selwyn Faraday’s alibi. But if his mother says he was on duty at the hospital, I think we’ll find that he was.”
Kate said, “About the affair, does he need to know?”
“Not unless his mother is charged.” He added, “It was an act of horrible cruelty.”
Kate didn’t reply. He couldn’t mean, surely, that Mrs. Faraday was a woman incapable of such a murder. But then he came from the same background. He would have felt at home in that house, in her company. It was a world he understood. But this was ridiculous. He knew even better than did she that you could never predict, any more than you could completely understand, what human beings were capable of. Before an overwhelming temptation everything went down, all the moral and legal sanctions, the privileged education, even religious belief. The act of murder could surprise even the murderer. She had seen, in the faces of men and women, astonishment at what they had done.
Dalgliesh was speaking. “It’s always easier if you don’t have to watch the actual dying. The sadist may enjoy the cruelty. Most murderers prefer to convince themselves that they didn’t do it, or that they didn’t cause much suffering, that the death was quick or easy, or even not unwelcome to the victim.”
Kate said, “But none of that is true of this murder.”
“No,” said Dalgliesh. “Not of this murder.”
14
James Calder-Hale’s office was on the first floor at the back of the house, situated between the Murder Room and the gallery devoted to industry and employment. On his first visit, Dalgliesh had noticed the discouraging words on a bronze plaque to the left of the door: CURATOR. STRICTLY PRIVATE. But now he was awaited. The door was opened by Calder-Hale at the moment of his knock.
Dalgliesh was surprised at the size of the room. The Dupayne suffered less than more pretentious or famous museums from lack of space, limited as it was in scope and ambition to the inter-war years. Even so, it was surprising that Calder-Hale was privileged to occupy a room considerably larger than the ground-floor office.
He had made himself very comfortable. A large desk with a superstructure was at right angles to the single window and gave a view of a tall beech hedge, now at the height of its autumnal gold, and behind it the roof of Mrs. Clutton’s cottage and the trees of the Heath. A fireplace, clearly an original Victorian but less ostentatious than those in the galleries, was fitted with a gas fire simulating coals. This was lit, the spurting blue and red flames giving the room a welcoming domestic ambience, enhanced by two high-backed armchairs, one each side of the fireplace. Above it hung the only picture in the room, a water-colour of a village street which looked like an Edward Bawden. Fitted bookshelves covered all the walls except above the fireplace and to the left of the door. Here was a white-painted cupboard with a vinyl worktop holding a microwave, an electric kettle and a cafetière. Beside the cupboard was a small refrigerator with a wall cupboard above it. To the right of the room a half-open door gave a glimpse of what was obviously a bathroom. Dalgliesh could see the edge of a shower cubicle and a wash-basin. He reflected that, if he wished, Calder-Hale need never emerge from his office.
Everywhere there were papers—plastic folders of press cuttings, some brown with age; box files ranged on the lower shelves; heaped pages of manuscript overflowing the compartments of the desk’s high superstructure; parcels of typescript tied with tape piled on the floor. This superabundance might, of course, represent the administrative accumulation of decades, although most of the manuscript pages looked recent. But surely being curator of the Dupayne hardly involved this volume of paperwork. Calder-Hale was presumably engaged in some serious writing of his own, or he was one of those dilettantes who are happiest when engaged on an academic exercise which they have no intention—and may indeed be psychologically
incapable—of completing. Calder-Hale seemed an unlikely candidate for this group, but then he might well prove as personally mysterious and complex as were some of his activities. And however valuable those exploits might be, he was as much a suspect as anyone intimately involved with the Dupayne Museum. Like them, he had means and opportunity. Whether he had motive remained to be seen. But it was possible that, more than all the others, he had the necessary ruthlessness.
There was a couple of inches of coffee in the cafetière. Calder-Hale motioned a hand towards it. “Would you care for coffee? A fresh brew is easily made.” Then, after Dalgliesh and Piers had declined, he seated himself in the swivel armchair at his desk and regarded them.
“You’d better make yourselves comfortable in the armchairs, although I take it that this won’t be prolonged.”
Dalgliesh was tempted to say that it would take as long as necessary. The room was uncomfortably hot, the gas fire an auxiliary to the central heating. Dalgliesh asked for it to be turned down. Taking his time, Calder-Hale walked over and turned off the tap. For the first time Dalgliesh was struck that the man looked ill. On their first encounter, flushed with indignation, real or assumed, Calder-Hale had given the impression of a man in vigorous health. Now Dalgliesh noticed the pallor under the eyes, the stretch of the skin over the cheekbones and a momentary tremor of the hands as he turned the tap.
Before taking his seat, Calder-Hale went to the window and jerked the cords of the wooden slatted blind. It came rattling down, just missing the pot of African violets. He said, “I hate this half-light. Let’s shut it out.” Then he placed the plant on his desk and said, as if some apology or explanation were needed, “Tally Clutton gave me this on the third of October. Someone had told her it was my fifty-fifth birthday. It’s my least favourite flower, but shows an irritating reluctance to die.”