The Lighthouse

by P. D. James

  Professor Glenister turned to the two figures standing beside the door. “I shan’t need you any more, thank you. A special helicopter for the transport of the dead will be coming in due course. I’ll go with the body. Perhaps you could wait for Mr. Dalgliesh and his team in your office.”

  Maycroft handed the key to Dalgliesh. He said, “It’s on the second floor, opposite the library. The lift stops in the hallway between the two.”

  He hesitated for a moment and gave a last, long look at the body, almost as if he thought some final gesture of respect were required, if only a bend of the head. Then, without another word, he and Staveley left.

  Oliver’s face was not unfamiliar to Dalgliesh; he had seen it photographed often enough over the years, and the carefully chosen images had made their statement, imposing on the fine features the lineaments of intellectual power, even of nobility. Now all that was changed. The glazed eyes were half-open, giving him a look of sly malevolence, and there was a faint stink of urine from a stain on the trouser front, the final humiliation of sudden and violent death. The jaw had fallen, and the upper lip, drawn back from the teeth, was set in a snarl. A thin thread of blood had oozed from the left nostril and dried black, so that it looked like an emerging insect. The thick hair, iron grey and streaked with silver, waved back from a high forehead; the silver threads, even in death, glittered in the light from the window and would have looked artificial had not the eyebrows shown the same discordant mixture of colours.

  He was short, Dalgliesh judged no more than five foot four, the head disproportionately large compared with the delicate bones of the wrists and fingers. He was wearing what looked like a Victorian shooting jacket in heavy blue-and-grey tweed, belted and with four patch pockets with the flaps buttoned down, an open-necked grey shirt and grey corduroy trousers. His brown brogues, brightly polished, looked incongruously heavy for so slight a frame.

  Professor Glenister stood for a moment silently contemplating the corpse, then gently she touched the muscles of the face and neck and moved to test the joints of each of the fingers curved over the lower sheet as if half clutching it in death.

  She bent her head close to the corpse, then straightened up and said, “Rigor is well established. I would assess the time of death as between seven-thirty and nine o’clock this morning, probably closer to the former. With this degree of rigor there’s little point in attempting to undress him. If I can later get a more accurate assessment I will, but I doubt I shall get closer than that, even assuming there are contents in the stomach.”

  The mark of the ligature was so vivid on the white scrawniness of the neck that it looked artificial, a simulation of death, not death itself. Under the right ear the bruise, obviously caused by the knot, was extensive; Dalgliesh estimated that it must measure some five centimetres square. The circular mark of the rope, high under the chin, stood out as clearly as a tattoo. Professor Glenister peered at it, then handed the magnifying glass to Dalgliesh.

  “The question is: is this death by hanging or by manual strangulation? We’ll get nothing useful from the right-hand knot on the neck. The bruise is extensive, suggesting a large, fairly rigid knot. The interesting side of his neck is here on the left, where we have two distinct circular bruises, probably both from fingers. I would expect a thumb mark on the right, but that’s obscured by the mark of the knot. The assumption is that the assailant is right-handed. As for the cause of death, you hardly need my opinion, Commander. He was strangled. The hanging came later. There’s a distinct surface mark from the ligature itself which looks like a regular and repeated pattern. It’s more precise and different than I would expect from an ordinary rope. It could be a rope with a strong core, probably of nylon, and a patterned outer cover. A climbing rope, for example.”

  She spoke without glancing at Dalgliesh. He thought, She must know that I’ve been told how he died, but she won’t ask. Nor does she need to, given this island and its cliffs. Even so, the deduction had been surprisingly quick.

  Looking down at Professor Glenister’s gloved hands as they moved about the body, Dalgliesh’s mind obeyed its own compulsions, even as he responded to the imperatives of the present. He was struck, as he had been as a young detective constable on his first murder case, by the absoluteness of death. Once the body was cold and rigor mortis had started its inevitable and predictable progress, it was almost impossible to believe that this stiffening encumbrance of flesh, bone and muscle had ever been alive. No animal was ever as dead as was a man. Was it that so much more had been lost with that final stiffening, not only the animal passions and the urges of the flesh, but the whole encompassing life of the human mind? This body had at least left a memorial to its existence, but even that rich legacy of imagination and verbal felicities seemed a childish bagatelle in the face of such ultimate negativity.

  Professor Glenister turned to Benton-Smith, who was standing silently a little apart. “This can’t be your first murder case, Sergeant?”

  “No, ma’am. It’s my first by manual strangulation.”

  “Then you’d better take a longer look.”

  She handed him the glass. Benton-Smith took his time, then returned it without speaking. Dalgliesh remembered that Edith Glenister had been a notable teacher. Now that she had a pupil to hand, the temptation to assume her previous role of pedagogue was proving irresistible. So far from resenting this instruction of his subordinate, Dalgliesh found it rather endearing.

  Professor Glenister continued to address Benton-Smith.

  “Manual strangulation is one of the most interesting aspects in forensic medicine. It can’t, of course, be self-inflicted—unconsciousness would intervene and the grip would relax. That means strangling is always assumed to be homicidal unless there is convincing evidence to the contrary. Most strangulation is manual, and we expect to find the marks of the grip on the neck. Sometimes there’s scratching or the impression of a fingernail made when the victim is trying to loosen the assailant’s grip. There’s no evidence of that here. The two almost identical bruises on the left side of the neck over the cornu of the thyroid suggest strongly that this was strangulation by a right-handed adult and that one hand only was used. The pressure between the thumb and finger means that the voice-box is squeezed, and there may be bruising behind it. In elderly persons, such as this victim, there can be a fracture of the superior cornu of the thyroid at its base. It is only where the grip has been very violent that more extensive fractures are likely. Death can occur with very little violence and may indeed not be intended. A strong grip of this kind may cause death from vagal inhibition or cerebral anaemia, not asphyxia. Do you understand the terms I’ve used?”

  “Yes, ma’am. May I ask a question?”

  “Of course, Sergeant.”

  “Is it possible to give an opinion on the size of the hand, whether it’s male or female, and whether there’s any abnormality?”

  “Occasionally, but with reservations, particularly when it comes to an abnormality of the hand. If there are distinct thumb and finger bruises, an estimate of the spread is possible, but only an estimate. One should beware of asserting too forcibly what is or isn’t possible. Ask the Commander to tell you about the case of Harold Loughans in 1943.”

  The glance she gave Dalgliesh was faintly challenging. This time he decided not to let her get away with it. He said, “Harold Loughans strangled a pub landlady, Rose Robinson, and stole the evening’s takings. The suspect had no fingers on his right hand, but the forensic pathologist, Keith Simpson, gave evidence that strangulation would be possible if Loughans sat astride his victim so that the weight of his body pressed down with his hand. This explained why there was no finger bruising. Loughans pleaded not guilty, and Bernard Spilsbury appeared for the defence. The jury believed his evidence that Loughans was incapable of strangling Mrs. Robinson, and he was acquitted. He later confessed.”

  Professor Glenister said, “The case is a warning to all expert witnesses and to juries who succumb to the cult of
celebrity. Bernard Spilsbury was regarded as infallible, largely because he was a superb witness. This was not the only case in which he was later proved wrong.” She turned to Dalgliesh. “I think that’s all I need to do or see here. I hope to do the autopsy tomorrow morning and should be able to let you have a preliminary verbal report by midday.”

  Dalgliesh said, “I’ve got my laptop with me, and there’ll be a telephone in the cottage where I’m staying. That should be secure.”

  “Then I’ll phone you at midday tomorrow to give you the gist.”

  As Benton-Smith replaced the sheet over the body, Dalgliesh said, “Isn’t there work being done on obtaining fingerprints from skin?”

  “It’s fraught with difficulties. I had a talk recently with one of the scientists involved in the experiments, but the only success so far has been in America where it’s possible that a higher humidity caused more sweat to be deposited. The neck area is too soft to receive a detectable impression, and it’s unlikely you’d get the necessary ridge detail. Another possibility is to swab the bruised area and try for DNA, but I doubt whether this would stand up in court, given the possibility of contamination by a third person or by the victim’s own body fluids at the post-mortem. This method of DNA analysis is particularly sensitive. Of course, if the killer had attempted to move the body and had handled the corpse by any other area of bare skin, it could provide a better surface for fingerprints or DNA than the neck. If the perpetrator had oil or grease on his hands, this would also increase the chance of finding fingerprints. I don’t think in this case there’s a hope. The victim was obviously fully clothed, and I doubt whether you’ll get any contact traces on his jacket.”

  Kate spoke for the first time. “Suppose this was suicide but he wanted it to look like murder. Could Oliver have made those finger marks on his own neck?”

  “Judging by the pressure necessary to produce those marks, I’d say it was impossible. In my opinion, Oliver was dead when he was pushed over the railings. But I’ll learn more when I open the neck.”

  She collected her instruments, clicked shut the Gladstone bag. She said, “I suppose you won’t want to call the helicopter until you’ve been to the scene of crime. There may be exhibits you’ll want taken to the laboratory. So this is an opportunity for me to take a walk. I’ll be back in forty minutes. If you want me before then, I’ll be on the north-west cliff path.”

  Then she was gone without a backward glance at the body. Dalgliesh went to his murder case and took out his gloves, then insinuated his fingers into Oliver’s jacket pockets. He found nothing except one clean and folded handkerchief in the bottom left-hand pocket and a rigid spectacle case containing a pair of half-moon reading glasses in the right. Without much hope that they would yield useful information, he placed them in a separate bag and returned it to the body. Both of the trouser pockets were empty except for a small curiously shaped stone which, from the fluff adhering to it, had probably been there for some time. The clothes and shoes would be removed in the autopsy room and sent to the laboratory.

  Kate said, “It’s a bit surprising that he didn’t even carry a wallet, but I suppose on the island he didn’t need one.”

  Dalgliesh said, “No suicide note. Of course he could have left one in the cottage, but if he had, surely his daughter would have said so by now.”

  Kate said, “He might have put it in his desk drawer or half hidden it. He wouldn’t have wanted people to come after him before he had a chance to get to the lighthouse.”

  Benton was replacing the sheet. He said, “But do we really believe that this was suicide, sir? Surely he couldn’t have made those bruises himself.”

  “No, I don’t think he did, Sergeant. But we’d better not begin theorising until we get the autopsy report.”

  They were ready to leave. The enclosing sheet seemed to have softened, defining rather than obliterating the sharp point of the nose and the bones of the quiescent arms. And now, thought Dalgliesh, the room will take possession of the dead. It seemed to him, as it always did, that the air was imbued with the finality and the mystery of death; the patterned wallpaper, the carefully positioned chairs, the Regency desk, all mocking with their normality and permanence the transience of human life.

  4

  * * *

  Dr. Staveley followed them into the office. Maycroft said, “I’d like Guy to be here. Effectively he’s my deputy, although that has never been formalised. There may be details he can add to what I say.”

  Dalgliesh knew that the proposal was less to assist him than to protect Maycroft. Here was a lawyer anxious to have a witness to anything said between them. He could see no valid reason for objection and made none.

  Dalgliesh’s first impression on entering the office was of a comfortably furnished sitting room not altogether successfully adapted as a place dedicated to official business. The great curved window was so dominant that the eye took in belatedly the room’s peculiar dichotomy. Two panes were wide open to a glittering expanse of sea which, even as Dalgliesh looked, was deepening from pale to a deeper blue. From here the crash of the surf was muted but the air hummed with a deep, plangent moan. The untameable for a while looked tranquil and dormant, and the room in its comfortable conformity held inviolate a calm invulnerability.

  Dalgliesh’s eye was practised in taking in swiftly and without apparent curiosity what a room betrayed about its occupier. Here the message was ambiguous, a room inherited rather than personally arranged. A mahogany desk and round-backed chair stood facing the window, and set against the far wall were a smaller desk and chair and a rectangular table holding a computer, printer and fax-machine. Next to this was a large black safe with a combination lock. Four grey filing cabinets stood against the wall opposite the window, their modernity contrasting with the low glass-fronted bookcases each side of the ornate marble fireplace. The shelves held an incongruous mixture of leather-bound volumes and more utilitarian books. Dalgliesh could see the red-jacketed Who’s Who, The Shorter Oxford English Dictionary and an atlas lodged between rows of box-files. There were a number of small oil paintings, but only the one over the fireplace made any impact: a group portrait with a house as the background and the owner, his wife and children carefully posed before it. It showed three sons, two of them in uniform and the other standing a little apart from his brothers and holding the bridle of a horse. It was meticulously over-painted, but the statement it made about the family was unambiguous. No doubt it had remained in place over the decades, justifying its place less by artistic merit than by its scrupulous delineation of family piety and a nostalgic reminder of a lost generation.

  As if feeling the room required some explanation, Maycroft said, “I took the office over from the previous secretary, Colonel Royde-Matthews. The furniture and the pictures belong to the house. I put most of my own things in store when I took the job.”

  So he had come to the island unencumbered. What else, Dalgliesh wondered, had he left behind?

  Maycroft said, “You’d like to sit down. Perhaps if we moved one of the desk chairs to the fireplace with the four armchairs we’d be more comfortable.”

  Benton-Smith did so. They sat in a semicircle in front of the ornate over-mantel and the empty grate, rather, Dalgliesh felt, like a prayer meeting uncertain who would utter the first petition. Benton-Smith had placed his desk chair a little away from the armchairs and now unobtrusively took out his notebook.

  Maycroft said, “I don’t need to tell you how anxious we all are to cooperate with your inquiry. Oliver’s death, and particularly the horror of the way he died, has shocked the whole island. We’ve a violent history, but that’s long in the past. There’s been no unnatural death—indeed, no death on this island since the end of the last war, except for Mrs. Padgett, and that was two weeks ago. The cremation took place on the mainland last Friday. Her son is still with us but is expected to leave shortly.”

  Dalgliesh said, “I shall, of course, need to speak with everyone individually, apart f
rom meeting them all in the library. I was told something of the history of the island, including the setting up of the Trust. I also know a little about the people living here. What I need to know is how Nathan Oliver fitted in and the relations between him and your staff and visitors. I’m not in the business of exaggerating personal proclivities or of ascribing motives where they don’t exist, but I do need frankness.”

  The warning was unambiguous. There was the slightest trace of resentment in Maycroft’s voice. “You shall have it. I’m not going to pretend that relations with Oliver were harmonious. He came regularly, every quarter, and in my time—and I think in my predecessor’s—his arrival wasn’t greeted with pleasure. Frankly, he was a difficult man, demanding, critical, not always civil to the staff and liable to nurse a grievance, genuine or otherwise. The Trust deed states that anyone born on the island can’t be refused admission, but is not specific on how often or how long visits can be. Oliver is—was—the only living person who was born on the island and we couldn’t refuse him, though frankly I wonder whether his behaviour wouldn’t have justified it. He was becoming more difficult with advancing age, and no doubt he had his problems. The last novel wasn’t as well received as the previous ones, and he may have felt that his talent was declining. His daughter and his copy-editor-cum-secretary may be able to tell you more about that. My main problem was that he wanted Emily Holcombe’s cottage, that’s Atlantic Cottage. You’ll see from the map that it’s the closest to the cliff and has wonderful views. Miss Holcombe is the last surviving member of the family, and although she resigned some years ago from being a Trustee, she has the right under the terms of the Trust to live on the island for the rest of her life. She has no intention of leaving Atlantic Cottage, and I have no intention of asking her to move.”