The Murder Room

by P. D. James

  Benton-Smith was already unlocking the door. “That’s useful. Is she sure about the time?”

  “She says so. I’m off to check with Ryan now. It’s Wednesday. The boy should be here somewhere.”

  Despite the gloom of the day it was good to be in the fresh air, good to be out of the museum. She ran to look up the drive but could see no trace of Ryan. The mortuary van was arriving and, as she watched, Benton-Smith came out of the museum and walked quickly to unlock the barrier. She didn’t wait. The body would be moved without her help. Her job was to find Ryan. Moving past the burnt-out garage to the back of the museum, she saw that he was working in Mrs. Clutton’s garden. He was wearing a stout duffle-coat over his grubby jeans and a woollen hat with a pom-pom, and was kneeling beside the bed in front of the window, plunging his dibber into the soil and planting bulbs. He looked up as she approached and she saw his look of mingled wariness and fear.

  She said, “You need to plant them deeper than that, Ryan. Didn’t Mrs. Faraday show you?”

  “She doesn’t know I’m working here. Not that she’d care. I can lend a hand in Mrs. Tally’s garden when I’ve got time. This is to surprise her next spring.”

  “It’ll surprise you too, Ryan, when they don’t come up. You’re planting them upside down.”

  “Does that matter?” He looked down at the last shallow hole with some dismay.

  Kate said, “I expect they’ll right themselves and come up eventually. I’m not an expert. Ryan, did you look in the trunk in the Murder Room? I’m talking about last Friday. Did you open the lid?”

  He dug the dibber viciously deeper into the soil. “No, I never. Why would I do that? I’m not allowed in the Murder Room.”

  “But Mrs. Strickland says that you were there with her. Are you saying she’s lying?”

  He paused, then said, “Well, maybe I was. I forget. There’s no harm anyway. It’s only an empty trunk.”

  “So that’s all it was, empty?”

  “Well, there wasn’t any dead tart in it when I looked. There wasn’t even any blood. Mrs. Strickland was there, she’ll tell you. Who’s complaining anyway?”

  “No one’s complaining, Ryan. We just wanted to be sure of the facts. So you’re telling the truth now? You were with Mrs. Strickland just before you left the museum and you looked into the trunk?”

  “I’ve said so, haven’t I?” Then he looked up and she saw horror dawning in his eyes. “Why are you asking? What’s it to do with the police? You’ve found something, haven’t you?”

  It would be disastrous if he spread the story before the next of kin were informed, better indeed that it wasn’t told at all. But that was hardly practicable; he would learn the truth soon enough. She said, “We have found a body in the trunk but we don’t know how it got there. Until we do, it’s important you say nothing. We shall know if you do speak because no one else will. Do you understand what I’m saying, Ryan?”

  He nodded. She watched while he picked up another bulb with his ungloved grubby hands and inserted it carefully into the hole. He looked incredibly young and vulnerable. Kate was filled with an uncomfortable and, she thought, irrational pity. She said again, “You do promise to say nothing, Ryan?”

  He said grumpily, “What about Mrs. Tally then? Can’t I tell Mrs. Tally? She’ll be back here soon. She’s had her bike fixed and she’s gone into Hampstead to do some shopping.”

  “We’ll speak to Mrs. Tally. Why don’t you go home now?”

  He said, “This is my home. I’m staying here with Mrs. Tally for a while. I’ll be going when I’m ready.”

  “When Mrs. Tally comes home, will you tell her that the police are here and ask her to come to the museum. Mrs. Tally, Ryan, not you.”

  “OK, I’ll tell her. I suppose I can say why?”

  He looked up at her, his face innocently bland. She wasn’t deceived. “Tell her nothing, Ryan. Just do as I ask. We’ll talk to you later.”

  Without another word, Kate left. The mortuary van, sinister in its black anonymity, was still outside the entrance. She had reached the front of the museum when she caught the sound of wheels on the gravel and, turning, saw Mrs. Clutton cycling down the drive. Her bicycle basket was piled with plastic bags. She dismounted and carefully wheeled her machine on to the grass verge round the post of the barrier. Kate went to meet her.

  She said, “I’ve just been speaking to Ryan. I’m afraid I have distressing news. We’ve found another body, a young woman, in the Murder Room.”

  Mrs. Clutton’s hands tightened on the handlebars. She said, “But I was in the Murder Room doing my dusting at nine o’clock this morning. She wasn’t there then.”

  There was no way of softening the brutal facts. “She was in the trunk, Mrs. Clutton.”

  “How horrible! It’s something I’ve sometimes dreaded, that a child would decide to get in and be trapped. It was never a rational fear. Children aren’t allowed in the Murder Room and an adult wouldn’t be trapped. The lid isn’t self-locking and it can’t be very heavy. How did it happen?”

  They had begun walking together towards the museum. Kate said, “I’m afraid it wasn’t an accident. The young woman has been strangled.”

  And now Mrs. Clutton faltered and for a moment Kate thought she would fall. She put out a supporting hand. Mrs. Clutton was leaning against the bicycle, her eyes on the distant mortuary van. She had seen it before. She knew what it was. But she was under control.

  She said, “Another death, another murder. Does anyone know who she is?”

  “We think she’s called Celia Mellock. Does that name mean anything to you?”

  “No, nothing. And how could she have got in? There was no one in the museum when Muriel and I checked last night.”

  Kate said, “Commander Dalgliesh is here and so are Mr. and Miss Dupayne and Mr. Calder-Hale. We’d be grateful if you’d join them.”

  “And Ryan?”

  “I don’t think he’ll be needed at present. We’ll call him if we want him.”

  They had reached the museum. Mrs. Clutton said, “I’ll just put my bicycle in the shed and then join you.”

  But Kate didn’t leave her. They walked together to the shed and she waited while Mrs. Clutton took her plastic bags from the supermarket into the cottage. There was no sign of Ryan although his trug and dibber were still on the flower bed. Together they walked in silence back to the museum.

  3

  Kate returned to the Murder Room. Dr. Kynaston had left.

  Dalgliesh asked Kate, “Where are they?”

  “They’ve moved to the picture gallery, sir, including Calder-Hale. Tally Clutton has come back and she’s with them. Do you want to see them together?”

  “It would be a convenient way to check one story against another. We know the time she died fairly accurately. Taking Mrs. Strickland’s evidence and Dr. Kynaston’s preliminary assessment puts it at some time on Friday night, earlier rather than late. Common sense suggests that she died either shortly before or soon after the Dupayne murder. A double killing. I refuse to believe that we have two separate murderers at work at the same place on the same evening at approximately the same time.”

  Leaving Benton-Smith in the Murder Room, Dalgliesh, Kate and Piers went down together through the empty hall and into the picture gallery. Six pairs of eyes turned to them, it seemed simultaneously. Mrs. Strickland and Caroline Dupayne had taken the armchairs before the fire. Muriel Godby and Tally Clutton were seated on the padded bench in the middle of the room. Marcus Dupayne and James Calder-Hale stood together at one of the windows. Looking at Muriel Godby and Tally Clutton, Kate was reminded of patients she had seen in an oncologist’s waiting-room, keenly aware of each other but not speaking or meeting each other’s eyes since each knew that she could safely bear only her own anxieties. But she sensed also an atmosphere of mingled excitement and apprehension to which only Mrs. Strickland seemed immune.

  Dalgliesh said, “As you’re all here, it seems a convenient time to confirm
earlier information and discover what, if anything, you know about this latest death. The museum will have to remain closed so that the scene-of-crime officers can examine all the rooms. I shall need all the keys. How many sets are there and who has them?”

  It was Caroline Dupayne who replied. “My brother and I have sets, as do Mr. Calder-Hale, Miss Godby, Mrs. Clutton and the two volunteers. There is also one spare set kept in the office.”

  Muriel Godby said, “I’ve been having to let Mrs. Strickland in. She told me ten days ago that she’d lost her keys. I said we’d better wait a week or so before issuing a duplicate set.”

  Mrs. Strickland made no comment. Dalgliesh turned to Caroline. “I shall also need to go with you later this afternoon to see the rooms in your flat.”

  Caroline was composing herself with difficulty. “Is that really necessary, Commander? The only access to the galleries from my apartment is kept bolted and only myself and Miss Godby have keys to the ground-floor entrance.”

  “If it were not necessary, I should not have asked.”

  Calder-Hale said, “We can’t quit the museum at a moment’s notice. I have things I need to do in my room, papers to take away to work on tomorrow.”

  Dalgliesh said, “You’re not being asked to leave immediately, but I should like the keys to be handed over by the end of the afternoon. In the meantime, the scene-of-crime officers and Sergeant Benton-Smith will be here, and the Murder Room will, of course, be closed to you.”

  The implication was as plain as it was unwelcome. While in the museum they would be under discreet but effective supervision.

  Marcus Dupayne said, “So this wasn’t an accident? I thought the girl might have climbed into the trunk, perhaps out of curiosity or in response to some sort of dare, and got trapped when the lid fell on her. Isn’t that a possibility? Death by suffocation?”

  Dalgliesh said, “Not in this case. But before we go on talking it would be convenient to leave the museum to the scene-of-crime officers. I’m wondering, Mrs. Clutton, if you would mind our using your sitting-room.”

  Tally Clutton and Mrs. Strickland had both got to their feet. Now Tally, disconcerted, looked at Caroline Dupayne. The woman shrugged and said, “It’s your cottage while you’re living there. If you can fit us in, why not?”

  Tally said, “I think there’ll be room. I could bring extra chairs from the dining-room.”

  Caroline Dupayne said, “Then let’s go and get it over.”

  The little group left the picture gallery and paused outside while Dalgliesh relocked the door. They trailed round the corner of the house in silence like a dispirited group of mourners leaving the crematorium. Following Dalgliesh through the porch of the cottage, Kate almost expected to find ham sandwiches and a restorative bottle waiting on the sitting-room table.

  Inside the room there was a slight commotion as extra chairs were brought in by Marcus Dupayne helped by Kate, and people arranged themselves round the centre table. Only Caroline Dupayne and Mrs. Strickland seemed at ease. Both selected the chair they preferred, sat promptly down and waited, Caroline Dupayne in grim acquiescence and Mrs. Strickland with a look of controlled expectation as if she were prepared to stay as long as she remained interested in the proceedings.

  It was an incongruous room for such a meeting, its cheerful homeliness so at odds with the business in hand. The gas fire was already on but turned very low, probably, Kate thought, for the benefit of the large ginger cat which was curled in the more comfortable of the two fireside chairs. Piers, who wanted to hold a watching brief away from the group round the table, unceremoniously tipped him out and the cat, affronted, walked to the door, his tail thrashing, and then made a dash for the stairs. Tally Clutton cried, “Oh dear, he’ll get on the bed! Tomcat knows he’s not allowed to do that. Excuse me.”

  She rushed after him while the others waited with the awkwardness of guests who have arrived at an inconvenient moment. Tally appeared at the door with a docile Tomcat in her arms. She said, “I’ll put him out. He usually does go out until late afternoon but this morning he just took possession of the chair and fell asleep. I hadn’t the heart to disturb him.”

  They heard her admonishing the cat and then the sound of her closing the front door. Caroline Dupayne glanced at her brother, eyebrows raised, her mouth twisted into a brief sardonic smile. They were settled at last.

  Dalgliesh stood beside the southern window. He said, “The dead girl is Celia Mellock. Does anyone here know her?”

  He didn’t miss the quick glance which Muriel Godby cast at Caroline Dupayne. But she said nothing and it was Caroline who replied.

  “Both Miss Godby and I know her—or rather, knew her. She was a student at Swathling’s last year but left at the end of the spring term. That would be the spring of 2001. Miss Godby was working as a receptionist at the college the term before. I haven’t seen Celia since she left. I didn’t teach her but I did interview her and her mother before she was admitted. She only stayed for two terms and it wasn’t a success.”

  “Are her parents in England? We know Miss Mellock’s address is forty-seven Manningtree Gardens, Earl’s Court Road. We’ve phoned, but there’s no one there at the moment.”

  Caroline Dupayne said, “I imagine that’s her address, not her parents’. I can tell you something of the family but not a great deal. Her mother married for the third time a month or so before Celia came to the college. I can’t remember the new husband’s name. He’s some kind of industrialist, I believe. Rich, of course. Celia herself wasn’t poor. Her father left a trust fund and she got access to the capital at eighteen. Too young, but that’s how it was. I seem to remember her mother used to spend most of the winter abroad. If she isn’t in London she’ll probably be in Bermuda.”

  Dalgliesh said, “That’s a useful feat of memory. Thank you.”

  Caroline Dupayne shrugged. “I don’t usually make a bad choice. This time I did. Our failures are rare at Swathling’s. I tend to remember them.”

  It was Kate who took over. She said to Muriel Godby, “How well did you know Miss Mellock while you were at the college?”

  “Not at all. I had very little contact with the students. That which I did have wasn’t pleasant. Some of them resented me, I can’t think why. One or two were actually hostile and I remember them very clearly. She wasn’t among them. I don’t think that she was often in college. I doubt whether we ever spoke.”

  “Did anyone else here know the girl?” No one replied, but they shook their heads. “Has anyone any idea why she should have come to the museum?”

  Again they shook their heads. Marcus Dupayne said, “Presumably she came as a visitor, either alone or with her murderer. It seems unlikely that it was a chance encounter. Perhaps Miss Godby might remember her.”

  All eyes turned to Muriel. She said, “I doubt whether I’d have known her if I had seen her arriving. Perhaps she’d have recognized me and said something, but it’s unlikely. I can’t remember her so why should she remember me? She didn’t come in while I was on the desk.”

  Dalgliesh said, “Presumably Swathling’s have a name and an address for Miss Mellock’s mother. Would you telephone the college, please, and ask for it?”

  It was obvious that the request was unwelcome. Caroline said, “Won’t that seem a little unusual? The girl left last year and after only two terms.”

  “And the records are destroyed so quickly? Surely not. There’s no need to speak to Lady Swathling. Ask one of the secretaries to look up the file. Aren’t you the joint Principal? Why shouldn’t you ask for any information you need?”

  Still she hesitated. “Can’t you discover it another way? It’s not as if the girl’s death has anything to do with Swathling’s.”

  “We don’t yet know what it has to do with. Celia Mellock was a student at Swathling’s, you are the joint Principal, she’s been found dead in your museum.”

  “If you put it like that.”

  “I do put it like that. We need to inform the
next of kin. There are other ways of finding their address but this is the quickest.”

  Caroline made no further objection. She lifted the telephone receiver.

  “Miss Cosgrove? I need the address and telephone number of Celia Mellock’s mother. The file is in the left-hand cabinet, the ex-student section.”

  The wait lasted a full minute, then Caroline noted down the information and handed it to Dalgliesh. He said, “Thank you,” and handed it to Kate. “See if you can make an appointment as soon as possible.”

  Kate needed no instruction to make the call outside the cottage on her mobile. The door closed behind her.

  The gloom of the early morning had lifted but there was no sun and the wind was chill. Kate decided to make the phone call from her car. The address was in Brook Street and the call was answered by the unctuous voice of someone who was obviously a member of the staff. Lady Holstead and her husband were at their house in Bermuda. He was not authorized to give the number.

  Kate said, “This is Detective Inspector Miskin of New Scotland Yard. If you wish to verify my identity, I can give you a number to ring. I would prefer that we don’t waste time. I need urgently to speak to Sir Daniel.”

  There was a pause. The voice said, “Will you please hold on a minute, Inspector?”

  Kate heard the sound of footsteps. Thirty seconds later the voice spoke again and gave the Bermudian number, repeating it carefully.

  Kate rang off and thought for a moment before making the second call. But there was no option; the news would have to be quickly given by telephone. Bermuda was probably about four hours behind Greenwich Mean Time. The call might be inconveniently early, but surely not unreasonably so. She dialled and was answered almost immediately.

  A man’s voice came over, sharp and indignant. “Yes? Who is it?”

  “This is Detective Inspector Kate Miskin of New Scotland Yard. I need to speak to Sir Daniel Holstead.”

  “Holstead speaking. And it’s a particularly inconsiderate hour to ring. What is it? Not another attempted break-in at the London flat?”