The Murder Room

by P. D. James

  Caroline said, “And then there’s the mysterious motorist. Obviously he’s the prime suspect at present. Let’s hope the police manage to trace him.”

  James was executing a doodle of remarkable complexity. Still working on it, he said, “If they don’t, they’ll find it difficult to pin the crime on anyone else. Someone may be hoping that he remains a fugitive in more senses than one.”

  Muriel broke in. “And then there’s those extraordinary words he said to Tally. It looks as if someone’s lit a bonfire. That’s exactly what Rouse said. Couldn’t this be a copycat murder?”

  Marcus frowned. “I don’t think we should indulge in fantasy. It was probably coincidence. Still, the motorist has to be found and in the meantime we have a duty to give the police every assistance. That doesn’t mean volunteering information for which they haven’t asked. It’s extremely unwise to speculate either among ourselves or to other people. I suggest that no one speaks to the press and no press calls should be returned. If anyone is persistent, refer them to the Metropolitan Police public relations branch or to Commander Dalgliesh. You’ll have seen that a barrier has been erected across the drive. I’ve got keys here for you all. Only those with a car will, of course, need them. I think, Tally, you will be able to wheel your bicycle round the edge or take it underneath the barrier. The museum will be closed for this week but I hope to re-open next Monday. There’s one exception. Conrad Ackroyd has a small group of Canadian academics arriving on Wednesday and I’m letting him know that we shall open especially for that visit. We must expect that the murder will bring in additional visitors and this may not be easy to cope with at first. I shall spend as much time as possible at the museum and I’m hoping to take on escort duties, but I shan’t be able to be here on Wednesday. I have to confer with the bank. Has anyone any questions?”

  He looked round the table but no one spoke. Then Muriel said, “I think we would all like to say how delighted we are that the Dupayne Museum will stay open. You and Miss Caroline will have our full support in making it a success.”

  There was no murmur of assent. Perhaps, Tally thought, Mr. Calder-Hale shared her view that both the words and the timing were inappropriate.

  It was then that the telephone rang. It had been switched through to the library and Muriel moved quickly to take the call. She listened, turned and said, “It’s Commander Dalgliesh. He’s trying to identify one of the visitors to the museum. He’s hoping I can help.”

  Caroline Dupayne said shortly, “Then you’d better take the call in the office. My brother and I will be using this room for some time now.”

  Muriel took her hand from the mouthpiece. She said, “Will you hold on please, Commander. I’ll just go down to the office.”

  Tally followed her down the stairs and went out of the front door. In the office Muriel picked up the receiver.

  Dalgliesh said, “When I came with Mr. Ackroyd two Fridays ago, there was a young man in the picture gallery. He was interested in the Nash. He was alone, thin-faced, wearing blue jeans worn at the knees, a thick anorak, a woollen hat pulled down over his ears and blue-and-white trainers. He told me he’d visited the museum before. I’m wondering if by any chance you recall him.”

  “Yes, I think I do. He wasn’t our usual type of visitor so I noticed him particularly. He wasn’t alone the first time he came. Then he had a young woman with him. She was carrying a baby in one of those slings parents have—you know, the baby is held to the chest with its legs dangling. I remember thinking that it looked like a monkey clinging to its mother. They didn’t stay long. I think they only visited the picture gallery.”

  “Did anyone escort them?”

  “It didn’t seem necessary. The girl had a bag, I remember, flowered cotton with a drawstring. I expect it was for nappies and the baby’s bottle. Anyway, she checked it in at the cloakroom. I can’t think of anything portable they would be interested in stealing, and Mrs. Strickland was working in the library so they couldn’t get their hands on any of the books.”

  “Did you have reason to suppose they might want to?”

  “No, but many of the volumes are valuable first editions. We can’t be too careful. But as I said, Mrs. Strickland was there. She’s the volunteer who writes our labels. She may remember them if they went into the library.”

  “You have a remarkably good memory, Miss Godby.”

  “Well as I said, Commander, they weren’t our usual kind of visitor.”

  “Who is?”

  “Well, they tend to be more middle-aged. Some are very old, I suppose they’re the ones who actually remember the inter-war years. But then there are the researchers, writers and historians. Mr. Calder-Hale’s visitors are usually serious students. I believe he shows some of them around by special appointment after our normal hours. Naturally they don’t sign in.”

  “You didn’t by any chance take the young man’s name? Did he sign in?”

  “No. Only Friends of the museum who don’t pay sign in.” Then her voice changed. She said with a note of satisfaction, “I’ve just remembered. I believe I am able to help you, Commander. Three months ago—I can give you the exact date if you need it—we planned a lecture with slides on painting and print-making in the 1920s to be given in the picture gallery by a distinguished friend of Mr. Ackroyd. There was a £10 admission charge. We hoped that it would be the first of a series. The programmes weren’t yet ready. Some lecturers had promised, but I had problems fixing convenient dates. I set out a book and asked visitors who might be interested in attending to leave their names and addresses.”

  “And he gave you his?”

  “His wife did. It was that time when they came together. At least, I’m assuming she was his wife; she was wearing a wedding ring, I noticed. The visitor leaving just before them had signed, so it seemed natural to invite the couple to do so. It would look invidious otherwise. So she wrote it down. After they left the desk and were walking to the door I saw him talking to her. I think he was remonstrating with her, telling her that she shouldn’t have done it. Of course neither of them came to the lecture. At £10 a head I didn’t expect them to.”

  “Could you look up the entry, please? I’ll hang on.”

  There was a silence. After less than a minute she spoke again. “I think I’ve found the young man you want. The girl has written them down as a married couple. Mr. David Wilkins and Mrs. Michelle Wilkins, 15A Goldthorpe Road, Ladbroke Grove.”

  16

  After Muriel’s return from dealing with Commander Dalgliesh’s telephone call, Marcus brought the meeting to a close. The time was ten forty-five.

  Tally’s telephone rang just as she was entering the cottage. It was Jennifer. She said, “Is that you, Mother? Look, I can’t talk for long, I’m ringing from work. I tried to get you early this morning. Are you all right?”

  “Perfectly all right thank you, Jennifer. Don’t worry.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to come to us for a time? Are you sure you’re safe in that cottage? Roger could come to collect you.”

  Tally reflected that now that the news of the murder was in the papers, Jennifer’s workmates must have been talking. Perhaps they had hinted that Tally ought to be rescued from this as yet unknown murderer and taken to stay in Basingstoke until the case was solved. Tally felt a spasm of guilt. Perhaps she was being unreasonably judgemental. Perhaps Jennifer really was worried; she had been telephoning daily since the news broke. But somehow Roger must be stopped from coming. She used the one argument which she knew might prevail.

  “Please don’t worry, dear. It really isn’t necessary. I don’t want to leave the cottage. I don’t want to risk the Dupaynes putting someone else in, however temporarily. I’ve got locks on the doors and all the windows and I feel perfectly safe. I’ll let you know if I start feeling nervous, but I’m sure I shan’t.”

  She could almost hear the relief in Jennifer’s voice. “But what’s happening? What are the police doing? Are they bothering you? Are you bein
g worried by the press?”

  “The police are being very polite. Of course we’ve all been questioned and I expect we shall be again.”

  “But they can’t possibly think . . .”

  Tally cut her short. “Oh no, I’m sure no one at the museum is really under suspicion. But they’re trying to find out as much as they can about Dr. Neville. The press aren’t worrying us. This number is ex-directory and we’ve got a barrier across the drive so cars can’t get in. The police are being very helpful about that and about press conferences. The museum is closed for the moment, but we hope to open again next week. Dr. Neville’s funeral has been arranged for Thursday.”

  “I suppose you’ll be attending that, Mother.”

  Tally wondered if she was about to be given advice on what to wear. She said hurriedly, “Oh no, it’s going to be a very quiet cremation with just the family there.”

  “Well, if you really are all right . . .”

  “Perfectly all right thank you, Jennifer. It’s good of you to phone. Give my love to Roger and the children.”

  She rang off more promptly than Jennifer would have thought polite. Almost immediately the telephone rang again. Picking up the receiver, she heard Ryan’s voice. He was speaking very quietly against a confused clatter of background noise. “Mrs. Tally, it’s Ryan.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief and quickly transferred the receiver to her left ear where her hearing was keener. “Oh, Ryan, I’m glad you phoned. We’ve been worried about you. Are you all right? Where are you?”

  “Oxford Circus underground. Mrs. Tally, I’ve got no money. Can you ring back?”

  He sounded desperate. She said, keeping her voice very calm, “Yes, of course. Give me the number. And speak clearly, Ryan. I can hardly hear you.”

  Thank goodness, she thought, that she always kept a notepad and pen handy. She took down the digits and made him repeat them. She said, “Stay where you are. I’ll ring back immediately.”

  He must have snatched up the receiver. He said, “I’ve killed him, haven’t I, the Major? He’s dead.”

  “No, he isn’t dead, Ryan. He wasn’t badly hurt and he’s not pressing charges. But obviously the police want to interview you. You know that Dr. Neville has been murdered?”

  “It’s in the papers. They’ll think I did that too.” He sounded sulky rather than worried.

  “Of course they won’t, Ryan. Try to be sensible and think clearly. The worst thing you can do is run away. Where’ve you been sleeping?”

  “I found a place near King’s Cross, a boarded-up house with a front basement. I’ve been walking since dawn. I didn’t like to go to the squat because I knew the police would be looking for me there. Are you sure the Major’s all right? You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, Mrs. Tally?”

  “No, I don’t lie, Ryan. If you’d killed him it would be in the newspapers. But now you must come home. Have you any money at all?”

  “No. And I can’t use my mobile. It’s run out.”

  “I’ll come and fetch you.” She thought quickly. Finding him at Oxford Circus wasn’t going to be easy and it would take time to get there. The police were looking for him and might pick him up at any moment. It seemed important that she should get to him first. She said, “There’s a church, Ryan, All Saints, Margaret Street. It’s close to where you are. Walk up Great Portland Street towards the BBC and Margaret Street is on the right. You can sit quietly in the church until I come. No one will worry or interfere with you. If anyone does speak to you, it’s because they think you may need help. Say you’re waiting for a friend. Or you can kneel. No one will speak to you then.”

  “Like I’m praying? God’ll strike me dead!”

  “Of course He won’t, Ryan. He doesn’t do things like that.”

  “He does! Terry—my mum’s last bloke—he told me. It’s in the Bible.”

  “Well He doesn’t do things like that now.”

  Oh dear, she thought, I’ve made it sound as if He’s learnt better. How did we get involved in this ridiculous theological argument? She said firmly, “Everything’s going to be all right. Go to the church as I said. I’ll come as quickly as I can. You remember the directions?”

  She could detect the sullenness in his voice. “Up towards the BBC, Margaret Street’s on the right. That’s what you said.”

  “Good. I’ll be there.”

  She put down the receiver. It was going to be an expensive jaunt and it might take longer than she wished. She wasn’t used to phoning for taxis and had to look up the number in the telephone directory. She stressed that the call was urgent and the girl who answered said they would do their best to get a cab to her within fifteen minutes, which was longer than she had hoped. Her morning’s work at the museum was finished but she wondered whether she ought to go back and let Muriel know that she would be absent for the next hour or so. Mr. Marcus and Miss Caroline were still there. Any of them might want her and wonder where she was. After a little thought she sat at the desk and wrote a note. Muriel, I’ve had to go to the West End for an hour or so but should be back before one. I thought you might like to know in case you wonder where I am. Everything is all right. Tally.

  She decided to put the note through the museum door before she left. Muriel would think it an odd way of communicating but she couldn’t risk questions. And what about the police? They ought to be told at once so that the search could be called off. But Ryan would see it as an act of betrayal if the police arrived first. But they wouldn’t if she didn’t tell them where to find him. She put on her hat and coat, checked that she had sufficient money in her purse to get to Margaret Street and back, then rang the number Inspector Miskin had given her. A male voice answered at once.

  She said, “It’s Tally Clutton here. Ryan Archer has just rung me. He’s perfectly all right and I’m going to fetch him. I’ll bring him back here.”

  Then immediately she put down the receiver. The phone rang again before she got to the door but she ignored it and went quickly out, locking the cottage behind her. After pushing her note through the letter-box of the museum, she walked up the drive to wait for the cab on the other side of the barrier. The minutes seemed interminable and she couldn’t resist perpetually looking at her watch. It was nearly twenty minutes before the cab came. She said, “All Saints Church, Margaret Street, please—and please be as quick as you can.”

  The elderly driver didn’t reply. Perhaps he was tired of passengers exhorting him to speed when speed wasn’t possible.

  The lights were against them and at Hampstead they joined a long queue of vans and taxis crawling southwards towards Baker Street and the West End. She sat bolt upright, clutching her handbag, willing herself to be calm and patient since agitation was useless. The driver was doing the best he could.

  When they reached the Marylebone Road she leaned forward and said, “If it’s difficult to get to the church because of the one-way, you can leave me at the end of Margaret Street.”

  All he replied was, “I can get you to the church all right.”

  Five minutes later he did. She said, “I’m just collecting someone. Will you wait a moment please, or would you like me to pay now?”

  “That’s all right,” he said. “I’ll wait.”

  She had been horrified at the sum showing on the meter. If it cost as much getting back, she would have to get to the bank next day.

  She passed through the small, unpromising courtyard and pushed open the door. She had first come to All Saints a year ago when Jennifer had sent her a book token for Christmas and she had bought Simon Jenkins’s England’s Thousand Best Churches. She had decided to visit all his London choices but, because of the distances, progress had been slow. But the quest had opened her eyes to a new dimension of London life and an architectural and historical heritage previously unvisited.

  Even in this hour of concentrated anxiety, with the taxi fare inexorably mounting and the possibility that Ryan wouldn’t have waited, the gloriously adorned interior imposed
its moment of astonished quietude. From floor to roof no part of it had been left undecorated. The walls gleamed with mosaics and murals and the great reredos with its row of painted saints drew the eye towards the glory of the high altar. On her first visit, her response to this ornate contrivance had been uncertain, amazement rather than reverence. It was only on a second visit that she had felt at home. She was used to seeing it during High Mass, the robed priests moving ceremoniously before the high altar, the soaring voices of the choir rising with the waves of pungent incense. Now, as the door closed grindingly behind her, the quiet air and the serried rows of empty chairs imparted a more subtle mystery. Somewhere, she supposed, there must be a custodian but none was visible. Two nuns were seated in the front row before the statue of the Virgin and a few candles burned steadily, not flickering as she closed the door.

  She saw Ryan almost immediately. He was seated at the back and came forward at once to join her. Her heart leapt with relief. She said, “I’ve got a cab waiting. We’ll go straight home.”

  “But I’m hungry, Mrs. Tally. I’m feeling faint. Can’t we have burgers?” His tone had become infantile, a childish whine.

  Oh dear, she thought, those dreadful burgers! Occasionally he would bring them for his lunch and heat them up under the grill. Their rich onion smell lingered for too long. But he did indeed look faint and the omelette she had planned to cook for him probably wasn’t what he needed.

  The prospect of a quick meal immediately revived him. Opening the cab door for her, he called to the driver with cocky assurance, “The nearest burger bar will do us fine, mate. Make it quick.”

  They were there within minutes and she paid off the cab, tipping an extra pound. Inside she gave Ryan a £5 note so that he could stand in line and get what he wanted and a coffee for herself. He came back with a double cheeseburger and a large milk shake, and then returned for her coffee. They settled down at a seat as far as possible from the window. He seized the hamburger and began cramming it into his mouth.