by P. D. James
She said, “And what about Boyde? How, if at all, did he try to justify that killing?”
“He claims it was impulsive, that he took off his jacket and picked up the stone before he followed Boyde into the chapel. That isn’t going to wash. He came prepared with the gloves. They were among the nursing impedimenta left in his cottage. He says that Boyde was on his knees but got up and confronted him. He didn’t try to escape or to protect himself. Padgett thinks he wanted to die.”
There was silence. Then Kate asked, “What’s on your mind?”
It was a common enough question but one Kate rarely asked, seeing it as an invasion of privacy.
“A verse by Auden. Those to whom evil is done do evil in return.”
“That’s a cop-out. Millions of children are illegitimate, ill-treated, resented, unwanted. They don’t all grow up to be killers.”
She tried to feel pity, but all her imagination could stretch to was a modicum of understanding tinged with contempt. She tried to picture his life: the ineffectual mother fantasising about a love which had never been more than a joyless seduction, or at worst a rape; a single act of violation, planned or impulsive, which had delivered her, pregnant, penniless and homeless, into the power of a petty sadist. She found she could picture that bleak suburban house, the dark hall, the front parlour smelling of furniture polish, kept immaculate for the visitors who never came, the family life lived in the small back room with its smell of cooking and failure. And the school, a burden of gratitude because some philanthropist got his kicks from exercising power and had paid an annual pittance to make him a charity child. He would have done better at the local comprehensive, but that, of course, would never have done. And then a succession of failed jobs. Unwanted from birth, he had been unwanted all his life—except on this island. But here too he had felt the grievance of the under-regarded and unqualified. But how could he have done better? Unhappiness, she thought, is a contagion. You carry the smell of it as you carry the detected stink of a dreaded illness.
And yet he had been a child of the 1970s, a decade after the liberating ’60s. His life sounded now more like a nightmare from a distant past. It was difficult to believe that people like his unloving aunt could still exist, could wield such power. But, of course, they could and did. And it needn’t have been like that. A different mother, one with intelligence, confidence, physical and mental strength, could surely have made a life for herself and her child. Thousands did. Would her own mother have done as much for her, had she lived? She remembered with dreadful clarity the words of her grandmother, overheard as she pushed open the door of that high inner-city council flat. She had been talking to a neighbour. “It’s bad enough having her bastard foisted on me, but at least she could’ve stayed alive and looked after the kid herself.”
Her grandmother wouldn’t have said the words to her directly. She had known from childhood that she was seen as a burden, and only at the very end did she realise that there had been love of a kind. And she had escaped from Ellison Fairweather Buildings, from the smell and the hopelessness, and the fear, when the lifts were again vandalised, of that long upward climb with violence lurking on every floor. She had made a life for herself. She had escaped by hard work, ambition—and, of course, by some ruthlessness—from poverty and failure. But she hadn’t escaped from her past. Her grandmother must surely at least once have mentioned her mother’s name, but she couldn’t recall it. No one knew who her father was, and no one ever would. It was like being born without an umbilical cord, floating free in the world, weightless, a nothingness. But even the upward climb, the promotion, was tainted by guilt. By choosing this particular job, hadn’t she broken faith with—even betrayed—the people to whom she had been irrevocably bound by the fellowship of the poor and the dispossessed?
Benton said, so quietly that she had to strain to hear him, “I wonder if childhood is ever really happy. Just as well, perhaps. To be blissfully happy so young would leave one always seeking to recapture the unobtainable. Like those people who were happiest at school or university. Always going back. No reunion ever missed. It always seemed to me rather pathetic.” He paused, then said, “Most of us get more love than we deserve.”
Again there was a silence. Kate said, “What was that quotation, all of it? You know it. After all, you got a degree in English, didn’t you?”
Again that small prick of resentment from which she was never entirely free.
He said calmly, “It’s from Auden’s poem, ‘September 1, 1939.’ I and the public know / What all schoolchildren learn, / Those to whom evil is done / Do evil in return.”
She said, “Not all of them. Not all the time. But they don’t forget, and they do pay.”
12
* * *
Jo Staveley was adamant. After enquiring about Kate’s injuries, she said, “He’s not coughing at the moment but, if he begins, put on this mask. I suppose you have to see him, but not both together. The sergeant can wait. He’s insisted on getting out of bed, so try to make it brief.”
Kate said, “He’s well enough for that?”
“Of course he’s not. If you have any influence with him, you might point out to that blasted man that I’m in charge in the sickroom.” But her voice was warm with affection.
Kate went into the room alone. Dalgliesh in his dressing gown was sitting beside the bed. The oxygen-supply tubes were no longer in his nostrils, but he was masked, and as she entered he rose painfully to his feet. The courtesy brought the hot tears stinging to Kate’s eyes, but she blinked them away and took her time walking to the other chair, which Jo had placed carefully distanced, trying not to move stiffly in case he realised how much her injuries were hurting.
He said, his voice muffled by the mask, “We’re a couple of crocks, aren’t we? How are you feeling, Kate? I’ve been told about the broken rib. I expect that hurts like hell.”
“Not all the time, sir.”
“And Padgett, I take it, is off the island. I heard the helicopter. How was he?”
“He gave no trouble. I think he’s enjoying the prospect of the notoriety. Shall I make my report, sir? I mean, are you feeling all right?”
He said gently, “Yes, Kate. I’m all right. Take your time.”
Kate had no need to consult her notebook. She was careful to make her report factual, from the discovery of the blood and hair in the refrigerator, Padgett’s capture of Millie and what had happened almost minute by minute at the lighthouse. She made as little as possible of her own part. And now it was time to say something about Benton. But how? Sergeant Benton-Smith’s conduct has been exemplary? Hardly. Too like an end-of-term report commending the goody-goody of the fourth form.
She paused, then said simply, “I couldn’t have done it without Benton.”
“He did what was expected of him, Kate.”
“I think he did more, sir. It took courage to go on shoving me through that window.”
“And courage to endure it.”
It wasn’t enough. She had undervalued Benton and now was the time to put things right. She said, “And he’s good with people. Mrs. Burbridge was deeply distressed after Boyde died. I didn’t think we’d get anything out of her. He knew what to say to her, I didn’t. He showed humanity.”
Dalgliesh smiled at her, and it seemed to Kate that the smile went beyond approbation, the fellowship of the job completed, even friendship. Instinctively he held out his hand and she moved to clasp it. It was the first time they had touched since, years earlier, torn with remorse and grief, she had run into his arms after her grandmother had died.
He said, “If our future senior officers can’t show humanity, there’ll be no hope for any of us. Benton’s part won’t go unnoticed. Send him in now, Kate. I’ll let him know.”
He got up with painful slowness and, still distanced, walked to the door with her as if he were showing out an honoured guest. Halfway there he paused and swayed. She walked back with him to his chair, no longer apart, watchful but car
eful not to support his arm.
Seating himself, he said, “It hasn’t been one of our successes, Kate. Adrian Boyde shouldn’t have died.”
She was tempted to point out that they couldn’t have prevented his murder. They had no evidence to arrest Padgett or anyone else, no power to prevent people’s movements and not enough manpower to keep a surreptitious twenty-four-hour watch on all the suspects. But he knew all that.
At the door she turned and said, “Padgett thinks Boyde knew what was coming to him and could have prevented it. He thinks Boyde wanted to die.”
Dalgliesh said, “I’m tempted to say that if Padgett was capable of understanding even one part of Boyde’s mind he wouldn’t have murdered him. But what makes me think I know more? If failure teaches us anything, it’s humility. Give me five minutes, Kate, and then tell Benton I’m ready.”
EPILOGUE
* * *
1
* * *
Even while she lived through them, Kate knew that she would look back on the days between the arrest and the expiration of the quarantine period as the most surprising and some of the happiest of her life. Sometimes, remembering what had brought her to the island, she felt spasms of guilt that grief and horror could be so quickly subsumed in the physical exhilaration of youth and life and an unexpected joy. As some of the company would be witnesses in any trial, it was agreed that there would be no discussion about the murders, nor were they spoken of except between individuals and in private. And the team, without it seemed any policy decision, were treated as VIP guests who were on Combe for peace and solitude, the only relationship to visitors which the island was apparently capable of recognising.
Gently and quietly Combe exerted its mysterious power. Benton continued to cook breakfast, and he and Kate collected what they needed for lunch from the kitchen, then spent their time alone or not, as the fancy took them. Millie had transferred her affections from Jago to Benton and followed him about like a puppy. Benton took to rock-climbing with Jago. On her solitary walks along the cliff, Kate would occasionally look down to see one or other of them precariously stretched against the granite crags.
When he was able to walk, Dalgliesh removed himself to Seal Cottage. Kate and Benton left him in peace, but she would occasionally hear music as she passed, and he was obviously busy—boxes of files from New Scotland Yard were delivered regularly by helicopter and taken by Jago to the cottage. Kate suspected that Dalgliesh’s phone was seldom silent. She disconnected her own and let the peace of Combe do its healing work on mind and body. Frustrated at not getting through, Piers Tarrant wrote one congratulatory letter, light-hearted, affectionate and slightly ironic, and she sent a card in reply. She wasn’t ready yet to confront the problems of her life in London.
Although most of the daylight hours were spent apart, in the evenings people would congregate in the library for drinks before moving into the dining room to enjoy Mrs. Plunkett’s excellent dinners, good wine and each other’s company. Kate’s eyes would rest on the lively candlelit faces, surprised that she could be so at ease, so ready herself to talk. All her working hours and most of her social life had been spent with police officers. The police, like rat-catchers, were accepted as necessary adjuncts to society, required to be immediately available when needed, occasionally praised but seldom consorting with those not privy to their dangerous expertise, surrounded always by a faint penumbra of wariness and suspicion. During the days on Combe, Kate breathed a freer air and adjusted to a wider horizon. For the first time she knew that she was accepted as herself, a woman, not a detective inspector. The transformation was liberating; it was also subtly gratifying.
One afternoon, wearing her one silk blouse in Mrs. Burbridge’s sewing room, she had said that she would have liked a change for the evening. She had just enough clothes with her; it would be unreasonable to expect a helicopter to bring in anything more. Mrs. Burbridge had said, “I have a length of silk in a subtle sea green which would suit your hair and colouring, Kate. I could make another shirt for you in two days, if you’d like it.”
The shirt was made, and on the first evening she wore it Kate saw the appreciative glances from the men and Mrs. Burbridge’s satisfied smile. Amused, she realised that Mrs. Burbridge had detected or imagined some romantic interest in Rupert Maycroft and was indulging in a little innocent matchmaking.
But it was the more voluble Mrs. Plunkett who confided to her the discussions about the future of Combe. “Some of the Trustees thought it should be a holiday home for deprived children, but Miss Holcombe won’t have it. She says enough is done for children in this country already and we could hardly bring them in from Africa. Then Mrs. Burbridge suggested we should take in overworked city clergymen as a kind of memorial to Adrian, but Miss Holcombe won’t have that either. She thinks overworked city clergymen would probably be young and keen on modern forms of worship—you know, banjos and ukuleles. Miss Holcombe doesn’t go to church, but she’s very keen on the Book of Common Prayer.”
Was there, Kate wondered, a hint of irony in the words? Glancing at Mrs. Plunkett’s innocent face, Kate thought it unlikely.
Mrs. Plunkett went on, “And now previous visitors are writing to enquire when we’ll reopen, so I expect that will happen. After all, it wouldn’t be easy to vary the Trust. Jo Staveley says that politicians are so used to sending hundreds of soldiers off to be killed in wars that a couple of dead bodies won’t worry them, and I daresay she’s right. There was talk that we were to prepare for some very important visitors and they’d be on their own, but seemingly that won’t happen now. A relief all round if you ask me. I expect you’ve heard that the Staveleys are going back to the London practice. Well, I’m not surprised. He’s quite a hero now, with the papers all saying how clever he was to make that SARS diagnosis so quickly. Thanks to him the whole outbreak was contained. He shouldn’t go on wasting himself here.”
“And Millie?”
“Oh, we’ll still have Millie. Just as well, with Dan Padgett gone. Mrs. Burbridge and Jago’s friend are trying to find her somewhere to live on the mainland, but it’ll take time.”
The only visitors who kept themselves apart were Miranda Oliver and Dennis Tremlett. Miranda had announced that she was too busy to join the party for dinner; there were affairs to discuss by telephone with her father’s lawyers and with his publisher, arrangements to be put in hand for the memorial service, her wedding to be arranged. Kate suspected she wasn’t the only one to be glad of Miranda’s absence.
It was only in bed at night, before sleep, that this strange, almost unnatural peace was broken by thoughts of Dan Padgett lying in his cell and indulging his dangerous fantasies. She would see him again at the committal proceedings and at the Crown Court, but for now she resolutely pushed the murders to the back of her mind. On one of her solitary walks, on impulse she had gone into the chapel and found Dalgliesh there staring down at the stains of blood.
He had said, “Mrs. Burbridge wonders whether she should ask someone to scrub the floor. In the end she decided to keep the door open and leave it to time and the elements. I wonder if it will ever completely fade.”
2
* * *
Three days before he was due to leave Combe, Dr. Mark Yelland at last replied to his wife’s letter. He had earlier acknowledged it, saying that he would give it thought, but after that had been silent. He took out his pen and wrote with care.
These weeks on Combe have shown me that I have to take responsibility for the distress I cause, to the animals as well as to you. I can justify my work, at least to myself, and I shall continue at whatever cost. But you married me, not my job, and your decision has as much validity as has mine. I hope our parting can be a separation, not a divorce, but the choice is yours. We’ll talk when I come home, and this time I mean that. We will talk. Whatever you decide, I hope that the children will still feel that they have a father, and you a friend.
The letter had been sent, the decision made. Now he looked for
the last time round the sitting room which, in its emptiness, had become suddenly unfamiliar. He would face what he had to face, but he would be back. Shouldering his bags, he set off vigorously for the harbour.
3
* * *
In Peregrine Cottage, Dennis Tremlett had needed no more than ten minutes to take from their hangers the few clothes he had brought with him and meticulously fold them into his canvas holdall. He left it, zipped, in his room, ready to be taken down to the harbour with the other luggage. Miranda, after a calculation of the relevant cost of train fares and taxis, had ordered a car and driver to meet them at Pentworthy.
In the sitting room, Miranda was still fitting Oliver’s books into the small cardboard boxes in which they had come. Silently he began removing the last of them from the shelf and bringing them over. She said, “We won’t be coming back.”
“No. You wouldn’t want to. It would be too painful. Too many memories.” He added, “But, darling, they weren’t all bad.”
“They were for me. We’ll holiday in hotels that I went to with Father. Five stars. I’d like to see San Francisco again. It’ll be different in future. Next time they’ll know who’s paying the bill.”
He doubted whether they would care provided it was paid, but he knew what was in her mind. Now she would be the rich, bereaved daughter of a famous man, not the resented hanger-on. Kneeling beside her, he said on impulse, “I wish we hadn’t lied to the police.”
She swayed back on her heels and stared at him. “We didn’t lie. Not really. I told them what Father would have wanted me to say. He’d have come round in the end. He was upset when he first knew, but it was just the shock. He’d have wanted me to be happy.”