Death in Holy Orders (39 page)

Now Dalgliesh said, “You came here in 1995 and by invitation.”

“You could say I was head-hunted. The college wanted an experienced teacher with classical Greek and some Hebrew. I wanted a part-time teaching job, preferably in the country with accommodation. I have a house in Oxford but it’s let at present. The tenant is responsible and the rent high. It’s not an arrangement I want to upset. Father Martin would have called our coming together providential; Father Sebastian saw it as one more example of his power to order events to his and the college’s advantage. I can’t speak for St. Anselm’s, but I don’t think either party has regretted the arrangement.”

“When did you first meet Archdeacon Crampton?”

“On his first visit, about three months ago, when he was appointed as a trustee. I can’t remember the exact date. He came again two weeks ago and then yesterday. On the second occasion he went to some trouble to seek me out and inquire on what terms precisely I thought I was employed here. I got the impression that if not discouraged he would begin to catechize me about my religious convictions, if any. I referred him to Sebastian Morell on the first matter and was sufficiently disobliging on the second to send him off to seek out easier victims—Surtees, I suspect.”

“And this visit?”

“I didn’t see him until dinner yesterday. Not a particularly festive occasion, but you were there yourself, so you saw and heard as much as I did, probably more. After dinner I left without waiting for coffee and came back here.”

“And the rest of the night, Mr. Gregory?”

“Spent in this cottage. Some reading, some revision, marking half a dozen students’ essays. Then music, Wagner last night, and bed. And to save you the trouble of asking, I didn’t leave the cottage at any time during the night. I saw no one and I heard nothing except the storm.”

“And you learned of the Archdeacon’s murder when?”

“When Raphael Arbuthnot rang at about quarter to seven to say that Father Sebastian had called an emergency meeting of all residents in the library at seven-thirty. He gave no explanation, and it wasn’t until we all congregated as instructed that I learned of the murder.”

“What was your reaction to the news?”

“Complicated. Mostly, I suppose, initial shock and disbelief. I didn’t know the man, so I had no reason to feel personal grief or regret. That charade in the library was extraordinary, wasn’t it? Trust Morell to set up something like that. I take it that it was his idea. There we all stood and sat like members of a dysfunctional family waiting for the will to be read. I’ve said that my first reaction was one of shock and, of course, it was. But it was shock I felt, not surprise. When I came into the library and saw Emma Lavenham’s face I realized that this was serious. I think I knew, even before Morell spoke, what he was going to tell us.”

“You knew that Archdeacon Crampton wasn’t exactly a welcome visitor at St. Anselm’s?”

“I try to distance myself from college politics; small and remote institutions like this can become hotbeds of gossip and innuendo. But I’m not exactly blind and deaf. I think most of us know that the future of St. Anselm’s is uncertain and that Archdeacon Crampton was determined that it should close sooner rather than later.”

“Would the closure inconvenience you?”

“I won’t welcome it, but I saw it as a probability soon after I arrived. But, considering the speed with which the Church of England moves, I thought I was safe for at least another ten years. I shall regret losing the cottage, particularly as I paid for the extension. I find this place congenial for my work and I’ll be sorry to leave it. There’s a chance, of course, that I may not have to. I don’t know what the Church will do with the building, but it won’t be an easy property to sell. It’s possible I may be able to buy the cottage. It’s early days to be giving it much thought, and I don’t even know whether it belongs to the Church Commissioners or to the diocese. That world is alien to me.”

So either Gregory was unaware of the terms of Miss Arbuthnot’s will or he was taking care to conceal his knowledge.
There seemed nothing more to be learned for the present, and Gregory began to edge himself out of his armchair.

But Dalgliesh hadn’t finished. He said, “Was Ronald Treeves one of your pupils?”

“Of course. I teach classical Greek and Hebrew to all the ordinands except those who read Greats. Treeves’s degree was in Geography; that meant he was taking the three-year course here and starting Greek from scratch. Of course, I was forgetting. You came here originally to look into that death. It seems comparatively unimportant now, doesn’t it? Anyway, it always was unimportant, as a putative murder, I mean. The more logical verdict would have been suicide.”

“Was that your view when you saw the body?”

“It was a view I formed as soon as I had time to think calmly. It was the folded clothes that convinced me. A young man proposing to climb a cliff doesn’t arrange his cloak and cassock with such ritual care. He came here for some private tuition on the Friday evening, before Compline, and seemed much as usual; that means he wasn’t particularly cheerful, but then, he never was. I can’t remember that we had any conversation except that which related to the translation he had worked on. I left for London immediately afterwards and stayed the night at my club. It was as I was driving back on Saturday afternoon that I was stopped by Mrs. Munroe.”

Kate asked, “What was he like?”

“Ronald Treeves? Stolid, hard-working, intelligent—but not perhaps quite as clever as he thought—insecure, remarkably intolerant for a young man. I think Papa played a dominant part in his life. I suppose that could have accounted for his choice of job; if you can’t succeed in Papa’s field you can be as disobliging in your choice as possible. But we never discussed his private life. I make it my rule not to get involved with the ordinands. That way lies disaster, particularly in a small college like this. I’m here to teach them Greek and Hebrew, not to delve into their psyches. When I say that I need privacy, that includes privacy from the pressure of human personality. By the way, when are you expecting the news of this murder to break—publicly, I mean? I suppose we can expect the usual influx of the media.”

Dalgliesh said, “Obviously it can’t be kept secret indefinitely. I’m discussing with Father Sebastian how the public-relations branch can help. When there’s anything to say, we’ll hold a press conference.”

“And there’s no objection to my leaving for London today?”

“I have no power to prevent you.”

Gregory got slowly to his feet. “All the same, I think I’ll cancel tomorrow’s luncheon. I’ve a feeling there will be more to interest me here than in a tedious discussion of my publisher’s delinquencies and the minutiae of my new contract. I suppose you would prefer me not to explain why I’m cancelling.”

“It would be helpful at the moment.”

Gregory was moving to the door. “A pity. I’d rather enjoy explaining that I can’t come to London because I’m a suspect in a murder inquiry. Goodbye, Commander. If you need me again you know where to find me.”

T
he squad ended the day as they had begun it, conferring together in St. Matthew’s Cottage. But now they were in the more comfortable of the two rooms, sitting on the sofa and in the armchairs and drinking the last coffee of the day. It was time to assess progress. The time and place of the telephone call to Mrs. Crampton had been checked. It had been made from the instrument with the honesty box beside it mounted on the wall in the corridor outside Mrs. Pilbeam’s sitting-room. The call had been made at 9:28. This was one more piece of evidence, and an important one. It proved what they had suspected from the first: that the killer was in St. Anselm’s.

Piers had followed up the discovery. He said, “If we’re right and the caller later rang the Archdeacon’s mobile, then everyone who attended Compline is in the clear. That leaves us with Surtees and his sister, Gregory, Inspector Yarwood, the Pilbeams and Emma Lavenham. I don’t suppose any of us see Dr. Lavenham as a serious suspect, and we’re discounting Stannard.”

Dalgliesh said, “Not entirely. We’ve no power to hold him and I’m pretty certain he has no idea how Crampton died. That doesn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t implicated. He’s out of St. Anselm’s but not out of mind.”

Piers said, “There’s one thing, though. Arbuthnot only just arrived in the sacristy in time for the service. I got that bit of information from Father Sebastian, who had no idea, of course, of its importance. Robbins and I have checked, sir. Both of us could run from the door into the south cloister and across the courtyard in ten seconds. He’d just have had time to make the call and get to the church by nine-thirty.”

Kate said, “It’d be risky, wouldn’t it? Anyone could have seen him.”

“In the dark? And with the dim lights in the cloister? And who was there to see him? They were in church. It wasn’t much of a risk.”

Robbins said, “I wonder if it would be premature, sir, to exclude everyone in church. Suppose Cain had an accomplice. There’s nothing to show that this was a one-man crime. Anyone who was actually in the church before nine-twenty-eight couldn’t have made the call, but that doesn’t mean one of them wasn’t implicated in the murder.”

Piers said, “A conspiracy? Well, it could be. There were enough of them here who hated him. A one-man and one-woman crime maybe. When Kate and I interviewed the Surteeses it was pretty obvious that they were hiding something. Eric was frankly terrified.”

The only suspect who had produced anything of interest had been Karen Surtees. She had claimed that neither she nor her brother had left St. John’s Cottage at any time during the evening. They had watched television until eleven and then had gone to bed. Asked by Kate whether either of them could have left the cottage without the other knowing, she had said, “That’s a pretty crude way of asking whether either of us went out in a storm to murder the Archdeacon. Well, we didn’t. And if you think Eric could have left the cottage without my knowing, the answer is no. We slept in the same bed, if you must know. I’m actually his half-sister, and even if I weren’t, you’re investigating murder, not incest, and it’s none of your business anyway.”

Dalgliesh said, “And you were both convinced she was telling the truth?”

Kate said, “One look at her brother’s face showed us that. I don’t know whether she’d told him what she proposed to say, but he didn’t like it. And it’s odd, isn’t it, that she bothered to tell us that? She could perfectly well have said that the storm kept them both awake for most of the night and provided an alibi that way. OK, I think she’s a woman who likes to shock, but that doesn’t seem reason enough for telling us about the incest—if that’s what it is.”

Piers said, “It shows she was damned anxious to provide an alibi, though, doesn’t it? It’s almost as if the two of them are thinking ahead, telling the truth now because in the end they might have to rely on it in court.”

A twig had been found in Raphael Arbuthnot’s set in the north cloister, but the SOCOs had discovered nothing else of interest. During the day Dalgliesh had become confirmed in his initial view of its importance. If he were right in his theory, the twig was indeed a vital clue, but he judged that to voice his suspicions now would be premature.

They discussed the results of the individual interviews. Except for Raphael, everyone in college or in the cottages claimed to have been virtuously in bed by eleven-thirty and, although occasionally disturbed by the force of the wind, to have seen or heard nothing unusual during the night. Father Sebastian had been co-operative but cool. It was only with difficulty that he had concealed his dislike of being interviewed by subordinates, and he had begun by saying that he could spare only a short time as he was expecting Mrs. Crampton to arrive. A short time was all that was necessary. The Warden’s story was that he had worked on an article he was contributing to a theological journal until eleven and had been in bed by eleven-thirty, after his usual nightcap of whisky. Father John Betterton and his sister had read until half-past ten, after which Miss Betterton had brewed cocoa for them both. The Pilbeams had watched television and had fortified themselves against a stormy night with copious cups of tea.

By eight o’clock it was time to end for the day. The SOCOs had long departed to their hotel, and now Kate, Piers and Robbins said their good nights. Tomorrow Kate and Robbins would drive to Ashcombe House to see what, if anything, could be learned about Margaret Munroe’s time there. Dalgliesh locked up the papers he needed to keep private in his briefcase and walked across the headland into the western court to Jerome.

The telephone rang. It was Mrs. Pilbeam. Father Sebastian had suggested that Commander Dalgliesh might like to have dinner in his set. It would save him the journey to Southwold. It would only be soup followed by salad and cold meat and some fruit but, if that was enough, Pilbeam would be happy to
bring it over. Glad to be spared the car journey, Dalgliesh thanked her and said that the meal would be very welcome. It arrived within ten minutes, carried by Pilbeam. Dalgliesh suspected that he was unwilling for his wife to walk even the short distance across the courtyard after dark. Now, with surprising dexterity, he drew the desk a little away from the wall, laid the table and set out the meal.

Pilbeam said, “If you just leave the tray outside, sir, I’ll fetch it in about an hour.”

The thermos contained minestrone soup thick with vegetables and pasta, obviously home-made. Mrs. Pilbeam had provided a bowl of grated Parmesan cheese and there were hot rolls, wrapped in a napkin, and butter. Under the cover was a plate of salad and excellent ham. Someone, perhaps Father Sebastian, had supplied a bottle of claret although not a wineglass, but Dalgliesh, unwilling to drink alone, put it in the cupboard and after the meal brewed himself coffee. He placed the tray outside and, minutes later, heard Pilbeam’s heavy tread on the stones of the cloister. He opened the door to say thank you and good night.

He found himself in that discouraging state of physical tiredness and mental stimulation which is fatal to sleep. The silence was eerie, and when he went to the window he saw the college as a black silhouette, chimneys, tower and cupola an unbroken mass against a paler sky. The blue-and-white police tape was still looped around the columns of the north cloister, which was now almost clear of leaves. In the glow from the light above the south-cloister door, the cobbles of the courtyard glistened and the fuchsia looked as unnaturally bright and incongruous as a splash of red paint flung against the stone wall.