A Taste for Death

by P. D. James

  “Including you?”

  “Me and his sister, I reckon. He has a habit of turning up for a bath or a meal when it suits him, but he’s harmless. Spiteful, but about as dangerous as a wasp.”

  It was, Dalgliesh thought, too facile a judgement.

  Suddenly all three men, keen-eared, raised their heads and listened. Someone was coming through the garage. There was a rush of footfalls, soft-soled, on the iron staircase, the door was almost flung open, and Dominic Swayne stood in the entrance. Halliwell must have left the latch of the Yale up. It was, thought Dalgliesh, a curious oversight unless, of course, he had been half-expecting this sudden intrusion. But he made no sign, merely fixing on Swayne his dark unwelcoming gaze before turning again to his mug of coffee and whisky. Swayne must have known that they were there since, presumably, Miss Matlock had let him into the house, but his start of surprise and the tentative embarrassed smile were nicely judged.

  “Oh, my God! Sorry, sorry! I seem to have an unlucky habit of bursting in when the police are doing their stuff. Well, I’ll leave you to the third degree.”

  Halliwell said coldly:

  “Why not try knocking first?”

  But it was to Dalgliesh that Swayne turned:

  “I only wanted to tell Halliwell that my sister says I can borrow the Golf tomorrow.”

  Halliwell said, without moving from his seat:

  “You can borrow the Golf without prior notice. You usually do.”

  Swayne kept his eyes on Dalgliesh.

  “That’s OK then. Look, I’m here. Is there anything you want to ask me? If so, go ahead.”

  Massingham had got up from the table and had picked up one of the carved elephants. His voice was carefully devoid of emphasis.

  “Just to confirm again that you were here in the house the whole of last evening from the time you arrived, just before seven, till you left for the Raj at half past ten?”

  “That’s right, Inspector. Clever of you to remember.”

  “And during that time you didn’t leave number sixty-two?”

  “Right again. Look, I’m hardly everyone’s favourite brother-in-law, I admit, but I had nothing to do with Paul’s death. And I don’t see why Paul should have resented me so much, unless I reminded him of someone he’d rather not be reminded of. I mean, I don’t drug unless someone else is paying, which they so rarely do. I’m comparatively sober. I work when there’s work to be had. I admit I bath and eat at his expense occasionally, but I don’t see why he should resent that—he’s hardly on the bread line—or my having a game of Scrabble with poor Evelyn. No one else bothers to. And I didn’t slit his throat for him. I’m not in the least bloodthirsty. I don’t think I’ve got the nerve. I’m not like Halliwell, trained to creep about among the rocks with my face blacked and a knife between my teeth. That’s not my idea of amusement.”

  Massingham put the elephant down. It was like a rejection.

  He said:

  “You prefer an evening’s Scrabble with your lady friend? Who won?”

  “Oh, Evelyn won, she usually does. Yesterday she got ‘zephyr’ on a treble, clever girl. Three hundred and eighty-two points to my two hundred. It’s extraordinary how often she picks the high numbers. If she weren’t so depressingly honest, I’d suspect her of cheating.”

  Massingham said:

  “‘Zig-zag’ would have scored even higher.”

  “Ah, but there aren’t two Zs in Scrabble. I can see that you aren’t an addict. You should try it sometime, Inspector. It’s excellent for sharpening the wits. Well, if that’s all, I’ll be off.”

  Dalgliesh said:

  “Not quite all. Tell us about Diana Travers.”

  Swayne stood for a couple of seconds very still, the bright eyes rapidly blinking. But the shock, if it was shock, was quickly mastered. Dalgliesh could see the muscles of his hands and shoulders relaxing. He said:

  “What about her? She’s dead.”

  “We know that. She drowned after a dinner party given by you at the Black Swan. You were there when she died. Tell us about it.”

  “There’s nothing to tell. I mean, you must have read the report of the inquest. And I don’t see what it’s got to do with Paul. She wasn’t his girl or anything like that.”

  “We didn’t suppose that she was.”

  He shrugged and held out his palms in a parody of resigned reasonableness.

  “Well, what do you want to know?”

  “Why not begin by telling us why you invited her to the Black Swan.”

  “No particular reason. Call it a generous impulse. I knew my dear sister was having what she would describe as an intimate dinner party for her birthday, too intimate to invite me, apparently. So I thought I’d organize a little celebration of my own. I was here bringing Barbara my birthday present, and I saw Diana dusting the hall as I left. So I asked her to come along. I picked her up outside Holland Park tube at six thirty and drove her to meet the gang at the Black Swan.”

  “Where you had dinner.”

  “Where we had dinner. Do you want the details of the menu?”

  “Not unless it’s relevant. Suppose you go on from there.”

  “After dinner we went out to the riverbank and found this punt moored downstream. The rest of the party thought it would be amusing to mess about on the river. Diana and I decided that it would be even more amusing to mess about on the bank. She was pretty high. Drink, not drugs. Then we thought it would be fun to swim out to the punt and bob up beside them.”

  “Having first taken off your clothes.”

  “They were already off. Sorry if I shock you.”

  “And you dived in first.”

  “Not dived, waded. I never dive into unknown water. Anyway, I struck out with my usual elegant crawl and reached the punt. Then I looked back for Diana. I couldn’t see her on the bank, but then, there are quite a few bushes at that spot, Jean Paul trying to make some sort of a garden I suppose, and I thought she might have changed her mind and be dressing. I suppose I was a bit worried, but not frantically worried, if you see what I mean. But I thought I’d better go back and check. And the whole idea of the swim was losing its charm. The water was icy cold and very dark, and the chums hadn’t greeted me with quite the enthusiasm I expected. So I let go of the punt and struck back towards the bank. She wasn’t there, but her clothes were. So then I really was scared. I called out to the party in the punt but they were rocking about, giggling, and I don’t think they heard me. And then they found her. They struck the body with the punt pole just as she surfaced. Pretty ghastly for the girls. They managed to hold her head above water and paddled to the bank, nearly upsetting the punt in the process. I helped drag her out and we tried the usual mouth-to-mouth. It was a god-awful mess. The girls crying and trying to get some clothes on her. Me dripping wet and shivering. Tony forcing his breath into her mouth as if he were pumping up a balloon. Diana lying there, eyes staring, with the water running off her hair and the weeds wrapped round her neck like a green scarf. They made her look decapitated. Erotic in a horrible way. And then one of the girls ran to the restaurant for help and that chef chap came out and took over. He seemed to know what he was doing. But no good. End of Diana. End of jolly evening. End of story.”

  There was a scrape of wood as Halliwell violently pushed himself up from the table and disappeared swiftly into the kitchen. Swayne looked after him.

  “What’s he upset about? I was the one who had to look at her. You’d think he’d heard worse things than that.”

  Neither Dalgliesh nor Massingham spoke and almost immediately Halliwell was back. He was carrying another half bottle of Scotch and set it down. It seemed to Dalgliesh that his face was paler, but he poured himself another tot of whisky with a perfectly steady hand. Swayne glanced at the bottle as if wondering why he wasn’t invited to drink, then turned again to Dalgliesh.

  “I’ll tell you one thing about Diana Travers. She wasn’t an actress. I found that out on our drive to the Black Swan
. No Equity card. No drama school. No theatrical jargon. No agent. No parts.”

  “Did she say what her job really was?”

  “She said she wanted to be a writer and was collecting material. It was easier to tell people you were on the stage. That way, they never asked why you wanted a temporary job. I can’t say I cared one way or the other. I mean, I was taking the girl out to dinner, I wasn’t proposing to shack up with her.”

  “And during the time you were with her on the riverbank, before the swim and when you went back to find her, did you see or hear any other person?”

  The blue eyes widened and became so like his sister’s that the resemblance was uncanny. He said:

  “I don’t think so. We were a bit preoccupied, if you get me. You mean, a peeping Tom, someone spying on us? The thought didn’t occur to me.”

  “Let it occur to you now. Were you absolutely alone?”

  “We must have been, mustn’t we? I mean, who else would be there?”

  “Think back. Did you see or hear anything suspicious?”

  “I can’t say that I did, but then there was all the jolly girlish screaming from the punt. And I don’t think I would have seen or heard anything very clearly once I’d waded in and begun swimming. I do seem to remember that I heard Diana diving in after me, but that’s what I expected her to do so maybe I imagined it. And there could have been someone watching us, I suppose. In the bushes, maybe. But I didn’t see him. Sorry if that’s the wrong answer. And sorry for barging in. Oh, by the way, I’ll be staying here in the house if you want me. Brotherly consolation for the widow.”

  He gave a shrug and a smile which seemed bestowed on the room generally rather than anyone in it. Then he was gone. They heard the soft thud of his descending footsteps on the iron staircase. No one made any comment. As they rose to go, Massingham asked his last question. He said:

  “We can’t be certain yet how Sir Paul and Harry Mack died, but we think the probability is that both were murdered. Have you seen or heard anything in this house or outside it which would give you a suspicion of who might be responsible?”

  It was the question they always asked, expected, formal, almost crudely direct. Because of this, it was often the one least likely to elicit the truth.

  Halliwell poured himself another whisky. It looked as if he were settling in for a night’s hard drinking. Without looking up he said:

  “I didn’t slit his throat for him. If I knew who had, I’d probably tell you.”

  Massingham persevered:

  “Sir Paul had no enemies as far as you are aware?”

  “Enemies?”

  Halliwell’s smile was nearer a grin. It transformed his swarthy good looks into a mask at once sinister and sardonic, giving force to Swayne’s description of him creeping black-faced among the rocks.

  “He must have had, mustn’t he, sir, being a politician? But that’s all over now. Done with. Finished. Like the Major, he’s moved out of the gunshot now.”

  And with that echo of Bunyan, which Dalgliesh suspected might have been a deliberate half-quotation, the interview was at an end.

  Halliwell went down with them through the garage and dragged the heavy doors shut behind them. They heard the rasp of the two bolts. The lights in the niches had been switched off and the cobbled yard was in darkness except for twin wall-mounted lights at each end of the garage wall. In the half-darkness the smell of cypress had strengthened, but was overlaid with a scent sicklier and funereal, as if somewhere close was a dustbin of dead and rotting flowers. As they approached the back door to the house the figure of Miss Matlock stepped noiselessly out of the shadows. In the folds of the long dressing-gown she seemed taller, hierarchic, almost graceful in her watching stillness. Dalgliesh wondered how long she had stood silently waiting for them.

  He and Massingham followed her in silence through the quiet house. As she turned the key and drew back the bolts of the front door Massingham said:

  “That game of Scrabble you played last night with Mr. Swayne. Who won?”

  The ploy was deliberately naive, the trap obvious. But her reaction was surprising. In the subdued light of the hall they watched the flush mottle her throat then flare up to crimson her face.

  “I did. I got three hundred and eighty-two points in case you should be interested. That game was played, Inspector. You may be used to talking to liars. I’m not one of them.”

  Her body was rigid with fury, but the clasped hands shook as if they were palsied. Dalgliesh said gently:

  “No one is suggesting that you are, Miss Matlock. Thank you for waiting up for us. Good night.”

  Outside as he unlocked the Rover, Massingham said:

  “Now, why should that simple question shake her? Literally.”

  Dalgliesh had met with it before, the clumsy aggression of women who were both shy and insecure. He wished that he could feel more sorry for her. He said:

  “It wasn’t particularly subtle, John.”

  “No sir, it wasn’t meant to be. She played that game of Scrabble, all right. The question is, when?”

  Dalgliesh took the wheel. He drove away from the house, then drew into a vacant space halfway down Campden Hill Square and rang the Yard. Kate Miskin’s answering voice sounded as strong and lively as it had in the early hours of the enquiry.

  “I’ve traced and seen Mrs. Hurrell, sir. She confirms that she did ring the Campden Hill Square house just before eight forty-five to ask for Sir Paul. A man answered. He said: ‘Swayne speaking.’ Then when she told him what she wanted he handed her over to Miss Matlock. Miss Matlock said that she didn’t know where Sir Paul was, and nor did anyone else in the house.”

  It was, thought Dalgliesh, an odd way for Swayne to answer the telephone when in someone else’s house. One might almost believe that he wanted to establish that he was there. He asked:

  “Anything from the door-to-door enquiries?”

  “Nothing yet, sir, but I’ve spoken again to the McBrides and Maggie Sullivan. All three are definite about the gush of water from the church drain. Someone was using the sink in the washroom just after eight o’clock. They all agree about the time.”

  “And the lab?”

  “I’ve had a word with the senior biologist. If they can get the blood samples immediately after the pm, say by late afternoon, they’ll set up the electrophoresis overnight. The director has agreed that they can work over the weekend. We should know about the bloodstains by Monday morning.”

  “No news from the document examiner yet, I suppose. And what about the match end?”

  “The document examiner hasn’t been able to start on the blotter yet, but he’ll give it priority. The usual problems with the match, sir. They’ll do an analysis with the SEM and look for print marks, but they’re unlikely to be able to say more than that the wood is the usual poplar. They couldn’t possibly say that it was from a particular box, and it’s too short for a length comparison.”

  “Right, Kate. We’ll call it a day. Better get home. Good night.”

  “Good night, sir.”

  As the car slid down Campden Hill Square and turned into Holland Park Avenue Dalgliesh said:

  “Halliwell has expensive tastes. That set of the Notable British Trials must have cost close on a thousand pounds, unless he collected them volume by volume over the years.”

  “Not as expensive as Swayne, though, sir. That’s a Fellucini jacket he was wearing, silk and linen, silver-crested buttons. They sell for four fifty.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. I wonder why he burst in like that. It was an unconvincing performance. Probably hoping to find out how much Halliwell was telling. It’s significant, though, that he did burst in and as if he made a habit of it. And when Halliwell isn’t there, he’d have no problem in getting hold of a key or even manipulating the Yale if necessary.”

  “Is it important, sir, whether he could get into the mews flat?”

  “I think so. This murderer was aiming at verisimilitude. There’s
a copy of Simpson’s Textbook on Forensic Medicine in Halliwell’s bookcase. It’s all set out there in Chapter Five with the writer’s usual clarity, a table showing the distinction between suicidal and homicidal cuts of the throat. Swayne could have seen it at any time, browsed through it, remembered it. So, too, could anyone else at Campden Hill Square with access to the garage flat, and most easily, of course, Halliwell himself. Whoever slit Berowne’s throat knew exactly what effect he was aiming to produce.”

  Massingham asked:

  “But would Halliwell have left the Simpson there for us to find?”

  “If other people knew of its existence, to destroy it would be more incriminating than to leave it on the shelf. But Halliwell has to be in the clear if Lady Ursula is telling the truth about those two telephone calls, and I can’t see her giving Halliwell an alibi for the murder of her son. Or any other suspect, for that matter.”

  Massingham said:

  “Or Halliwell giving Swayne an alibi unless he had to. There’s no love lost there. He despises the man. Incidentally, I knew I’d seen Swayne somewhere before. I’ve remembered now. He was in that play at the Coningsby Theatre in Camden Town a year ago. The Garage. The cast actually constructed a garage on the stage. In the first act they put it up, in the second they knocked it down.”

  “I thought it was a wedding tent.”

  “Wrong play, sir. Swayne played the local psychopath, one of the gang who pulled it down. So he must have an Equity card.”

  “How did he strike you as an actor?”

  “Energetic but unsubtle. Not that I’m much of a judge. I prefer films. I only went because Emma was going through her cultural stage. The play was highly symbolic. The garage was supposed to represent Britain, or capitalism, or imperialism, or, maybe, the class struggle. I’m not sure the author knew. You could tell that it was going to be a great critical success. No one spoke a literate line and a week later I couldn’t remember a word of the dialogue. There was some fairly energetic fighting in the second act. Swayne knows how to handle himself. Still, kicking in a garage wall isn’t the most suitable training for slitting a throat. I can’t see Swayne as a killer, not this killer, anyway.”