A Taste for Death

by P. D. James

  “How did Mr. Lampart and Lady Berowne seem when they arrived?”

  The dark eyes lifted reproachfully to his as if in silent protest at so tactless a question.

  “How should they seem, Commander? Hungry.” Then he added, as if fearing the answer had been imprudent:

  “They were as usual. The lady is always gracious, most friendly. They were content that I was able to give them their usual table, in the corner by the window.”

  “What time did they leave?”

  “At eleven or a little after. One does not hurry a good dinner.”

  “And during dinner? They talked, presumably.”

  “They talked, monsieur. It is a pleasure of dining, to share good food, good wine and good talk with a friend. But as for what they said, we are not eavesdroppers, Commander. We are not the police. These are good customers, you understand.”

  “Unlike some of the customers you had here on the night Diana Travers drowned. You had time to notice them, I suppose?”

  Higgins showed no surprise at the sudden change in questioning. He spread his hands in a Gallic gesture of resignation.

  “Alas, who could overlook them? They were not the kind of client we usually attract. At dinner they were quiet enough, but afterwards, well, it was not agreeable. I was relieved when they left the dining room.”

  “Sir Paul Berowne wasn’t with his wife’s party, I understand.”

  “That is so. When they arrived, Monsieur Lampart said that Sir Paul hoped to join them later, in time for coffee. But as you may know, he telephoned at ten o’clock, or a little later maybe, and said that it would not, after all, be possible.”

  “Who took the call?”

  “My doorman, Henry. Sir Paul asked to speak to me, and I was called to the telephone.”

  “Did you recognize his voice?”

  “As I have said, he was not here so very often, but I knew his voice. It was a voice, how you say, a distinctive voice, surprisingly like your own, Commander, if I may be permitted to say so. I cannot swear to these things, but I had no doubt at the time who was speaking.”

  “Have you any doubt now?”

  “No, Commander, I cannot say that I have.”

  “The two parties for dinner, Mr. Lampart’s and the young people, did they mix, greet each other?”

  “They may have done, on arrival, but the tables were not close.” He would have seen to that, thought Dalgliesh. If there had been the slightest sign of embarrassment on Barbara Berowne’s part, or of insolence on her brother’s, Higgins would have noticed it.

  “And the members of Diana Travers’s party, had you ever seen them here before?”

  “Not that I remember, except for Mr. Dominic Swayne. He has dined here once or twice with his sister, but the last time was some months ago. But for the others, I cannot be sure.”

  “It was strange, surely, that Mr. Swayne wasn’t included in Lady Berowne’s birthday party?”

  “Monsieur, it is not for me to dictate which guests my customers should invite. No doubt there were reasons. There were four only in the birthday group, an intimate party. The table was balanced.”

  “But would have become unbalanced if Sir Paul had arrived?”

  “That is so, but then he was expected only for coffee, and he was, after all, the lady’s husband.”

  Dalgliesh went on to ask Higgins about the events leading up to the drowning.

  “As I have said, I was glad when the young people left the dining room and went out through the conservatory to the garden. They took two bottles of wine with them. It was not the best claret, but for them it was good enough. I do not like to see my wine swung about as if it were beer. There was much laughter and I was wondering whether to send Henry or Barry to deal with them, but they moved along the bank out of earshot. It was there that they found the punt. It was tied up, wedged you might say, in a small inlet about eighty yards downstream. Now, of course, it has been removed. Perhaps it should not have been there, but how can I blame myself? I cannot control what my patrons do when they are off the premises, nor indeed when they are here.”

  He used the word blame but the regret was perfunctory. No voice could have held less concern. Dalgliesh suspected that the only thing Higgins ever blamed himself for was a spoilt dinner or poor service. He went on:

  “The next thing I know is the chef beckoning me from the door of the dining room. That was unusual, you understand. Immediately I could see something is wrong. I go quickly out. In the kitchen is one of the girls crying and saying that this other girl, Diana, is dead, drowned. We go out to the riverbank. The night is dark, you understand, the stars high and the moon not full. But there is some light from the car park, which is always brightly lit, and some from the kitchen wing of the house. But I take with me a torch. Monsieur may imagine the distress. The girls crying, one of the young men working on the body, Mr. Swayne standing there with his clothes dripping. Marcel takes over the respiration—he has many talents, that one—but it is of no use. I could see she was dead. The dead are not like the living, monsieur, never, never, never.”

  “And the girl was naked?”

  “As you no doubt have been told. She had taken off all her clothes and dived in for a swim. It was a great folly.”

  There was a silence while he contemplated the folly. Then Dalgliesh put down his coffee cup. He said:

  “It was convenient that Mr. Lampart should have been dining that night. It was natural, of course, to call on him for help.”

  The dark eyes, carefully expressionless, looked straight into his.

  “That was my first thought, Commander. But it was too late. When I reached the dining room, I was told that Monsieur Lampart’s party had only that moment left. I myself saw the Porsche as it turned out of the drive.”

  “So Mr. Lampart could have been fetching his car from the park shortly before you learned of the tragedy?”

  “That is possible, certainly. I understand that the rest of his party waited at the door.”

  “Surely an early, and somewhat hurried, end to the evening?”

  “As to hurried, that I cannot say. But the party had been seated early, shortly after seven. If Sir Paul had been able to join them, no doubt they would have stayed later.”

  Dalgliesh said:

  “There has been a suggestion that Sir Paul may have arrived here that night after all.”

  “I have heard that, Commander. There was a woman who came to question my staff. It was not agreeable. I was not here at the time, but I would have dealt with her. No one saw Sir Paul on that night, I assure you. And his car was not seen in the parking lot. It may have been there, but it was not seen. And how can this concern his death, I ask myself.”

  Dalgliesh could usually tell when he wasn’t getting the truth or was getting only part of it. It was less a matter of instinct than of experience. And Higgins was lying. Now he decided to take a chance. He said:

  “But someone did see Sir Paul Berowne that night. Who was it?”

  “Monsieur, I assure you …”

  “I need to know and I’m quite prepared to hang around until I do. If you want to get rid of us, a perfectly reasonable wish on your part, you’ll succeed most quickly by answering my questions. The verdict at the inquest was accidental death. No one, to my knowledge, has suggested that it was anything else. She had eaten too much, drunk too much, she got caught in the reeds and panicked. It is of academic interest whether she died of shock or was drowned. So what are you hiding and why?”

  “We are hiding nothing, Commander, nothing. But as you have just said, the death was an accident. Why then make trouble? Why add to distress? And one cannot be sure. A figure quickly walking, glimpsed in the darkness, in the shadow of the hedge, who can tell who it was?”

  “So who was it saw him? Henry?”

  It was less a lucky guess than a reasonable assumption. Berowne almost certainly hadn’t shown himself on the premises, and the doorman was the member of staff most likely to have been o
utside.

  “It was Henry, yes.” Higgins admitted the fact with a sad defeatism. The mournful eyes gazed reproachfully at Dalgliesh as if to say: “I have been helpful, I have given you information and coffee, and look where it has led me.”

  “Then perhaps you’ll send for him. And I’d like to speak to him alone.”

  Higgins lifted the telephone receiver and dialled a single digit. It connected him to the front entrance. Henry answered it and was summoned. When he appeared, Higgins said:

  “This is Commander Dalgliesh. Please tell him what you thought you saw the night that girl was drowned.” Then he gave him a half-rueful glance, shrugged his shoulders and left. Henry, unruffled, stood at attention. Dalgliesh saw that he was older than his confident, upright figure would suggest, certainly nearer seventy than sixty.

  He said:

  “You’re ex-Army, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right, sir, the Gloucesters.”

  “How long have you been working here for Mr. Higgins, for Monsieur Jean Paul?”

  “Five years, sir.”

  “You live in?”

  “No, sir. The wife and I, we live at Cookham. This place is handy as places go.” He added, as if hoping that a personal touch would demonstrate his willingness to cooperate frankly: “I’ve got my Army pension but a little extra never hurts.”

  And it wouldn’t be so little, thought Dalgliesh. The tips would be good and most of them, given human frailty about the depredations of the Inland Revenue, would be tax free. Henry would want to keep his job.

  He said:

  “We’re investigating the death of Sir Paul Berowne. We’re interested in anything that happened to him during the last weeks of his life, however unimportant and irrelevant it might seem. Apparently he was here on the night of August seventh, and you saw him.”

  “Yes, sir, crossing the car park. One of our guests that night was leaving and I was fetching his Rolls. We haven’t valet parking, sir, it would take me off the door too often. But occasionally guests like to have their cars parked and they hand me their keys on arrival. Antonio, he’s one of the waiters, gave me the word that my party was ready to leave and I went for the car. I was standing there putting the key in the lock when I saw Sir Paul cross the car park, walking along the line of the hedge and out through the gate leading to the river.”

  “How certain are you it was Sir Paul Berowne?”

  “Pretty certain, sir. He isn’t here often, but I’ve a good eye for faces.”

  “Do you know what car he drives?”

  “A black Rover, I think. An A registration. I can’t remember the number.” Couldn’t or wouldn’t, thought Dalgliesh. A black Rover would be difficult to identify; a registration number was irrefutable evidence. He asked:

  “And there was no black Rover parked that night?”

  “Not that I noticed, sir, and I think I would have noticed.”

  “And you said he was walking briskly?”

  “Very briskly, sir, purposefully you might say.”

  “When did you tell Monsieur Jean Paul about this?”

  “The next morning, sir. He said that there was no need to tell the police. Sir Paul had a right to walk by the river if he chose. He said we had better wait until the inquest. If there had been marks on the body, any suggestion of foul play, that would be different. The police would want to know the names of anyone who had been here that night. But it was accidental death. The coroner was satisfied that the young lady had herself dived into the river. After that, Monsieur Jean Paul decided we should say nothing.”

  “Even after Sir Paul’s death?”

  “I don’t think Monsieur thought the information would be helpful, sir. Sir Paul Berowne was dead. How could it matter if he’d taken a walk by the river six weeks earlier?”

  “Have you told this story to anyone else? Anyone at all? Your wife, a member of the staff here?”

  “To no one, sir. There was a lady came inquiring. I was off sick that day. But even if I’d been here, I would have said nothing, not unless Monsieur had told me it was all right.”

  “And about ten minutes after you saw him walking across the car park, Sir Paul rang to say he wouldn’t be arriving after all?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did he say where he was ringing from?”

  “No, sir. It couldn’t have been from here. The only public telephone we have is in the hall. There’s a telephone kiosk in Mapleton, that’s the nearest village, but I happen to know that it was out of order that night. My sister lives there and wanted to ring me. There’s no box nearer, not that I know of. That call was a proper mystery, sir.”

  “When you mentioned the matter next day, what did you and Monsieur think Sir Paul might have been doing here? I take it you discussed it.”

  Henry paused, then he said:

  “Monsieur thought Sir Paul might have been keeping an eye on his wife.”

  “Spying on her?”

  “I suppose it was possible, sir.”

  “By walking along the riverbank?”

  “It doesn’t seem very likely, not put like that.”

  “And why should he have wished to spy on his wife?”

  “I can’t say, I’m sure, sir. I don’t think Monsieur was serious. He just said: ‘It is none of our business, Henry. Maybe he is keeping an eye on her ladyship.’”

  “And that’s all you can tell me?”

  Henry hesitated. Dalgliesh waited. Then he said:

  “Well, there is something else, sir. But it seems daft when I come to think about it. The car park is well lit, sir, but he was walking quickly and in the shadow of the hedge at the far side. But there was something about the way his jacket was clinging, his trousers, too. I think, sir, he’d been in the river, and that’s why I say it was daft. He wasn’t walking away from the river, sir, he was walking towards it.”

  He looked from Dalgliesh to Kate, his eyes puzzled as if the full peculiarity of it had only now struck him.

  “I’ll swear he was wet, sir, soaking wet. But like I said, he was walking towards the river, not away from it.”

  Dalgliesh and Kate had driven separately to the Black Swan. She was returning directly to the Yard and he driving northeast to Wrentham Green to lunch with the chairman and vice-chairman of Berowne’s constituency party. They would meet at the Yard in mid-afternoon to attend the brief formalities of the preliminary inquest before going on to what promised to be a more interesting interview with Paul Berowne’s mistress. As Kate unlocked the door of her Metro he said:

  “We’d better have a word with the couple who were dining here with Lampart and Lady Berowne on August seventh. They might be able to say when exactly Lampart left the table to fetch the car, how long he was away. Get their names and addresses, will you, Kate? I suggest from the lady, rather than Lampart. And it would be useful to know more about the mysterious Diana Travers. According to the police report on the drowning, she emigrated with her parents to Australia in 1963. They stayed, she came back. Neither of them came over for the inquest or the funeral. Thames Valley had some difficulty in finding someone to identify her. They dug up an aunt, and she made the funeral arrangements. She hadn’t seen her niece for over a year, but she had absolutely no doubt about the identification. And while you’re at number sixty-two, see if you can get anything more out of Miss Matlock about the girl.”

  Kate said:

  “Mrs. Minns might be able to tell us something, sir. We’re seeing her first thing tomorrow.” She added:

  “There was one thing Higgins said about the Travers drowning which struck me as odd. It doesn’t tie up.”

  So she had noticed the anomaly. Dalgliesh said:

  “It seems to have been an evening for river sports. It was almost as odd as Henry’s story. Paul Berowne with his wet clothes clinging to him, but walking towards the river, not away from it.”

  Kate still lingered, her hand on the car door. Dalgliesh gazed out over the high beech hedge which separated the ca
r park from the river. The day was changing. The early-morning air had held a brittle and transitory brightness, but now the storm clouds, forecast for the afternoon, were rolling in from the west. But it was still warm for early autumn, and there came to him as he stood in the almost deserted car park, cleansed of the smell of hot metal and petrol, the scent of river water and sun-warmed grasses. He stood for a moment savouring it like a truant, feeling the pull of the water, wishing that there were time to follow the wraith of that dripping figure through the gateway to the peace of the riverbank. Kate, coming out of her momentary trance, opened the car door and slid in. But she seemed to have shared his mood. She said:

  “It all seems so far away from that dingy Paddington vestry.” He wondered if she was implying, not daring to say:

  “It’s Berowne’s murder we’re supposed to be investigating, not the coincidental drowning of a girl he may hardly have seen.”

  But now, more than ever, he was convinced that the three deaths were linked, Travers, Nolan, Berowne. And the main purpose of their visit to the Black Swan had been achieved. Lampart’s alibi held. Even driving a Porsche, it was hard to see how he could have killed Berowne and still been seated by eight forty.

  two

  With the electrification of the north-east suburban line, Wrentham Green had increasingly become a commuter town despite the protestations of its older inhabitants that it was a county town of character, not a dormitory suburb of London. The town had woken up sooner than some of its less vigilant neighbours to the post-war despoliation of England’s heritage by developers and local authorities, and had checked the worst excesses of that unholy alliance just in time. The broad eighteenth-century high street, although desecrated by two modern multiple stores, was essentially intact, and the small close of Georgian houses facing the river was still regularly photographed for Christmas calendars, even if it required some contortions on the part of the photographer to exclude the end of the car park and the municipal lavatories. It was in one of the smaller houses of the close that the constituency Conservative Party had its headquarters. Passing through the porticoed door with its gleaming brass plate, Dalgliesh was met by the chairman, Frank Musgrave, and the vice-chairman, General Mark Nollinge.