by P. D. James
She didn’t immediately go across to turn out the light, but stood for a full half-minute in the doorway. Photographs were not frightening to her, but then they never had been. Eight years of daily dusting, of locking and unlocking the cabinets, of polishing the glass above the exhibits, had robbed them almost of interest. But now the soft half-light of the room produced a new and unwelcome sensation. She told herself that it wasn’t fear, merely unease. She would have to get used to being in the Murder Room; she may as well begin now.
She walked over to an eastern window and looked out into the night. Was this where Celia had stood on that fateful Friday? Was that why she had to die, because she had looked down at the blazing trees and seen a murderer bending down at the tap washing his gloved hands? What had he felt as he’d looked up and seen her there, white face and long yellow hair, the eyes wide with horror? She must have known the implication of what she had seen. So why had she waited for those strong hurrying steps to reach her, those gloved hands to clutch her by the neck? Or had she tried to escape, fumbling ineffectually at the closed door to the flat or rushing downstairs only to fall into her killer’s waiting arms? Was that how it happened? She had been told little by Dalgliesh or by his subordinates. She knew that, since the first murder, they had been constantly at the museum, questioning, examining, searching, discussing, but no one knew what was in their minds. Surely it was impossible that two murderers should choose to kill on the same day, at the same time, in the same place. They had to be related. And if they were related, surely Celia had died because of what she had seen.
Tally stood for a moment thinking of the dead girl, of that earlier death, of Lord Martlesham’s face bending over her and the look of terror and compassion in his eyes. And then it came to her. She had been told by Dalgliesh to ponder carefully every moment of that Friday, to tell him everything, however trivial, that later occurred to her. She had tried to do so conscientiously and nothing new had come to mind, nothing untold. But now in one second of complete certainty she remembered. It was a fact and it had to be told. She didn’t even question whether morally she should tell, whether it might be misunderstood. None of the uncertainty she had felt in St. Margaret’s Church after recognizing Lord Martlesham afflicted her now. She turned from the window and went over briskly to switch off the fireside lamp. The door of the Murder Room was ajar and the light from the hall and gallery streamed in and laid a golden burnish on the wooden floor. She closed the door behind her and hurried downstairs.
In the excitement of the discovery she didn’t consider waiting to telephone until she got back to the cottage. Instead she lifted the receiver on the counter of the reception desk and dialled the number which Inspector Miskin had given her and which she knew by heart. But it was not Inspector Miskin who answered. The voice said, “Sergeant Benton-Smith.”
Tally had no wish to give the message to anyone but Commander Dalgliesh. She said, “It’s Tally Clutton, Sergeant. I wanted to speak to Mr. Dalgliesh. Is he there?”
“He’s tied up at the moment, Mrs. Clutton, but he should be free shortly. Can I take a message?”
Suddenly what Tally had to tell seemed less important. Doubts began crowding in on her tired brain. She said, “No, thank you. There’s something I’ve remembered, something I need to tell him, but it can wait.”
The Sergeant said, “Are you sure? If it’s urgent we can deal with it.”
“No, it’s not urgent. Tomorrow will do. I’d rather speak to him personally than on the phone. I expect he’ll be at the museum tomorrow, won’t he?”
The Sergeant said, “I’m sure he will. But he could see you tonight.”
“Oh that would be a trouble to him. It’s only a small thing and perhaps I’m making too much of it. Tomorrow will do. I’ll be here all the morning.”
She replaced the receiver. There was nothing else to do here. She switched on the security system, moved swiftly to the front door, unlocked it and went out, double-locking it carefully behind her. Two minutes later she was safely back in the cottage.
After the front door had closed the museum was for the moment utterly silent. Then the door of the office slowly and soundlessly opened and a dark figure moved through the reception area and into the hall. No lights were switched on but the figure moved with delicate but confident steps across the hall and up the stairs. The gloved hand reached out for the knob of the Murder Room door and opened it as slowly as if fearful of alerting the watching eyes. The figure moved towards the William Wallace display. The gloved hand felt for the keyhole and inserted a key, then lifted the lid of the display cabinet. The figure held an ordinary plastic bag and, one by one, the chess figures were taken from the cabinet and dropped into its depth. Then the hand moved along the bottom of the display case until it found what it sought: the iron bar.
5
It was just after seven-thirty and the team were together in the incident room.
Dalgliesh said, “So now we know the who, the how and the why. But it’s all circumstantial. There isn’t a single piece of physical evidence directly linking Vulcan to either of the victims. The case isn’t yet good enough. The CPS might be willing to take a chance on an over fifty percent hope of conviction, but given a competent defence lawyer the prosecution could fail.”
Piers said, “And one thing’s certain, sir. There’ll be a more than competent defence counsel. He could make a case for Dupayne’s death being suicide. There’s evidence enough that he was under acute stress. And if Dupayne wasn’t murdered, then the link between the two deaths fails. Celia Mellock’s death could be a sexually motivated murder or manslaughter. The uncomfortable fact remains that she could have got into the museum last Friday afternoon undetected and her killer could have left unseen. She could have arrived any time in the day intending later to meet Martlesham.”
Piers went on, “If she arrived by taxi it’s a pity the driver hasn’t yet come forward. But it’s early days. He could be on holiday.”
Kate turned to Dalgliesh. “But it hangs together, sir. It may be circumstantial but it’s strong. Think of the salient facts. The missing handbag and why it had to be taken. The palm prints on the door to the flat. The fact that the lift was at ground-floor level when Martlesham arrived. The broken violets. The attempt to make the murders look like copycat killings.”
Benton-Smith spoke for the first time. “Only the second death, surely. The first was almost certainly coincidence. But whoever killed Celia could have known—probably must have known—about the first killing.”
“So it’s too early, sir, for an arrest?”
“We need to go on with the questioning, and now under PACE and with a lawyer present. If we don’t get a confession—and I’m not expecting one—we might with patience get a damaging admission or variation of the story. Meanwhile there’s this message from Tally Clutton. What exactly did she say?”
Benton-Smith said, “That she had some information that she wished to give to you, sir, but not over the phone. She was anxious to see you personally, sir. But she said it wasn’t urgent. She said tomorrow would do. I got the impression that she regretted having rung.”
“And Ryan Archer? He’s still in the cottage?”
“She didn’t say he wasn’t.”
Dalgliesh was for a moment silent. Then he said, “Tomorrow won’t do. I want to see her tonight. I’d like you with me, Kate. I don’t want her to be in that cottage tonight with only the boy for protection.”
Piers said, “But you don’t think she’s in danger, surely? Vulcan was forced into that second killing. We’ve no reason to suppose there’ll be a third.”
Dalgliesh didn’t reply. He turned to Kate. “Would you mind, Kate, staying the night with her? The boy will presumably be in the spare room so it’ll probably mean sitting up in the armchair.”
“That’ll be all right, sir.”
“So let’s hear what Mrs. Clutton has to tell us. Ring her, will you, Kate, and let her know we’re on our way. Piers and Benton, un
less I call we’ll meet here tomorrow morning at eight.”
6
Normally Tally would be thinking now of what to have for her early supper, setting out the tray if she planned to eat while watching television or, more usually, covering the centre table with a cloth. She preferred to eat with some formality, having an obscurely guilty feeling that too many meals in the armchair with a tray on her knees was a slide into slovenly self-neglect. Sitting at the table was both more comfortable and made her evening meal, over which she usually took trouble, a pleasure to be anticipated and enjoyed, one of the comforting rituals of her solitary life.
But tonight she was still unable to summon up any interest in even the simplest preparation. Perhaps that snack of tea and biscuits had been a mistake. She found herself walking restlessly round the table, a pointless perambulation which she seemed unable to control. The revelation that had come to her at the museum was so simple but so extraordinary in its implication that she had thoughts for nothing but astonishment at the discovery. Commander Dalgliesh, on one of his many earlier visits, had asked her to think over what had happened on the day of Dr. Neville’s death and write down any detail, however small, which she hadn’t previously remembered to tell him. There had been none. This was, she supposed, a detail, but she wondered why it hadn’t occurred to her earlier. Certainly careful thought hadn’t brought it back. There must have been some fusion of ideas, of sight, sound and thought co-existing, which had sparked off memory. Sitting at the table, her two arms stretched out on the surface, she was as still and rigid as a dummy placed there ready to receive some imaginary plate of food. She tried to reason, to ask herself whether she could have been mistaken in the time or the sequence or the implication of what she remembered. But she knew that there was no mistake. The realization had been absolute.
The ring of the telephone made her jump. It was rare for anyone to ring her after the museum closed and she lifted the receiver with some dread. It might be Jennifer ringing again; she was too tired to cope with Jennifer’s questions and badgering concern. She sighed with relief. It was Inspector Miskin to say that Commander Dalgliesh wanted to see her tonight. He and Miss Miskin were on their way.
And then her heart leapt and she clutched the edge of the table in terror. The air was rent by an unearthly screaming. At first she thought it was human, then realized that this screech of agony came from the throat of an animal. It was Tomcat! She lurched over to the bureau for her door keys and made for the door. She reached for her torch from the ledge in the porch and seized the nearest coat—her mackintosh—from its peg. Flinging it over her shoulders, she tried to fix the keys into the two locks. They slithered against the metal. By an effort of will she managed to steady her hands and the keys slid home. And now for the bolts. At last the door was open and she ran into the darkness.
It was a night of low cloud, almost starless and with only a glimpse of the sickle moon. The only light came in a shaft from the door of the cottage which she had left ajar. There was a low wind. It moved among the trees and grass like a living thing and touched her face with its clammy hands. The shrieking was closer now; it came from the edge of the Heath. Running down the path, she pushed open the wicker gate and swept the torch in an arc over the nearest trees. At last she found him.
Tomcat was hanging from one of the low branches, a belt slung round one hind leg with the other end tied to the branch. He was swinging as he screamed, his three unfettered paws ineffectually scrabbling at the air. Instinctively she ran and reached up, but the branch was too high and she gave a cry of pain as his claws slashed at the back of her hand and she felt the warm trickle of blood. She said, “I’m coming, I’m coming,” and ran back into the cottage. She needed gloves, a chair and a knife. Thank God the sitting room chairs were strong enough to take her weight! She seized one, took a carving knife from the knife block and within seconds was again under the tree.
It took a little time to wedge the chair in the soft earth so that she could mount it in safety. She was murmuring reassurance and endearments but Tomcat didn’t heed them. Holding her mackintosh before her, she wrapped it round his body and with a sharp shove managed to raise him so that he could perch on the bough. Immediately the yowling stopped. The belt was more difficult. The easiest way of releasing Tomcat would have been to loosen the buckle round his hind leg, but she couldn’t risk his claws. Instead she inserted the blade of the knife under the belt and sawed away. It took a full minute before at last the leather broke and, enveloping Tomcat entirely in the mackintosh, she managed to reach the ground. Immediately she released him and he shot away onto the Heath.
Suddenly she was overcome with a terrible weariness. The chair seemed to have become too heavy to carry and, with the raincoat draped over her shoulders, she dragged it behind her up the short garden path. She found that she was quietly crying and the tears, once started, flowed over her cheeks, icy as winter rain. All she wanted now was to get back to the cottage, to lock the door behind her and wait for the police. Whoever had done that to Tomcat was evil and there was surely only one evil person at work in the Dupayne Museum. She dragged the chair through the porch. The key was still in the lock and she turned it, then reached for the bolts. The door to the small hall was open and, without trying to lock it, she almost staggered into the sitting-room. She managed to push the chair back in its place and then stood for a moment bending over it in utter exhaustion.
And then—but too late—she heard the footsteps crossing the hall. In her weariness she was too late even to realize her danger. She had half turned when the iron bar crashed down and she fell on to the carpet, her head within a foot of the gas fire, the mackintosh still round her shoulders. She saw, without surprise, her assailant’s face, then heard and saw nothing more, as the chess pieces fell in a shower over her body. Seconds passed before consciousness finally seeped away. There was time to think how simple and easy it was to die, and to say thank you to the God in whom she had always believed and of whom she had asked so little.
7
They took Dalgliesh’s car and he drove without speaking. Dalgliesh was given to these periods of silence and Kate knew him too well to break them. He was an experienced and skilful driver and they made as good time as was possible. It would have been pointless to fume at the inevitable delays, but Kate sensed Dalgliesh’s increasing anxiety.
When they reached Hampstead, he said, “Ring Mrs. Clutton again, Kate. Tell her we’re nearly there.”
But this time there was no reply.
And now they were turning into the Dupayne Museum drive. The Jaguar surged forward, the headlights seeming to consume the darkness. They silvered the grass verges and the encroaching bushes. And when Dalgliesh turned the final corner the house was lit up in the glare as if for son et lumière. They saw that the barrier had been raised. The car lurched round the eastern flank of the house, past the blackened ruin of the garage and jerked to a stop on the gravel path. There were no lights from the cottage but the door was open. Dalgliesh ran in first, through the hall and into the sitting-room. His hand found the light switch. The gas fire was lit and turned low, and Tally lay on the hearth-rug, her head facing the flames. A mackintosh was bunched round her shoulders and the blood from her head was flowing fresh and red. Over her body the black and ivory chess pieces were scattered as if in a final gesture of contempt.
It was then that they heard, faintly but unmistakably to their keen ears, the sound of a car. Kate made for the door but Dalgliesh grasped her arm. “Not now, Kate. I need you here. Let Piers and Benton-Smith make the arrest. Ring for the ambulance, then ring Piers.”
As she tapped out the number, he knelt by Tally Clutton’s body. The flow of blood had stopped, but as he put his fingers to her throat, the pulse suddenly ceased. Quickly he rolled up the mackintosh and put it under her neck, opening her mouth and checking that she had no false teeth. He bent his head and, fastening his mouth over hers, began resuscitation. He wasn’t aware of Kate’s urgent words or th
e hiss of the gas fire, only of his own rhythmic breathing and the body he was willing to come alive. And then, it seemed by a miracle, he felt the beat of a pulse. She was breathing. Minutes later she opened her eyes and fixed on him an unseeing gaze, and with a little moan, as if of contentment, turned her head to one side and lapsed again into unconsciousness.
The wait for the ambulance was interminable but Dalgliesh knew it was pointless to phone again. They had received a call; they would come as soon as they could. It was with a sigh of relief that he heard it arrive and the paramedics came into the cottage. Expert help had at last arrived.
One of the paramedics said, “Sorry about the delay. There’s been an accident at the end of the drive. The traffic’s down to a single stream.”
Kate and Dalgliesh looked at each other but neither spoke. There was no point in questioning the paramedics; their concern was with the job in hand. And there was no hurry, no need to know immediately. By the time they got back to the Yard Piers could have reported whether or not he had made an arrest. Whether Vulcan was alive or not, this was the end of the case.
Dalgliesh and Kate watched as Tally, wrapped in blankets and strapped to the stretcher, was loaded into the ambulance. They gave her name and a few details and were told where she would be taken.
The keys to the front door were in the lock. Kate turned off the gas fire, checked the windows upstairs and down and they left the cottage, turning out the lights and locking the front door.
Dalgliesh said, “Take over the driving, will you, Kate?”