Death of an Expert Witness (39 page)

They drove again over the route they had followed the previous night when they had heard the three clangs from the chapel bell, the mile and a half to the junction of Guy’s Marsh Road and then right through the main street of the village. Neither spoke. Massingham had taken one look at his chief’s face and had decided that silence would be prudent. And it was certainly no time for self-congratulation. They still lacked proof, the one clinching fact that would break the case open.

And Massingham wondered if they would ever get it. They were dealing with intelligent men and women who must know that they had only to keep their mouths shut and nothing could be proved.

In the village street, the first Saturday-morning shoppers were making their appearance. The gossiping groups of women turned their heads to glance briefly at the car as it passed. And now the houses were thinning and Hoggatt’s field, with the new building, was on their right. Massingham had changed down to turn into the drive of the Old Rectory when it happened. The blue and yellow ball bounced out into the road in front of them,
and after it, red wellingtons flashing, ran William. They were driving too slowly for danger, but Massingham cursed as he swerved and braked. And then came two seconds of horror.

Afterwards it seemed to Dalgliesh that time was suspended so that he saw in memory the whole accident like a film run slowly. The red Jaguar leaping and held suspended in the air; a blaze of blue from the terrified eyes; the mouth gaping in a soundless scream; the white knuckles wrenching at the wheel. Instinctively he cradled his head and braced himself for the impact. The Jaguar crashed the rear bumper of the Rover, ripping it away in a scream of torn metal. The car rocked wildly and spun round. There was a second of absolute silence. Then he and Massingham were out of their seat belts and rushing across to the opposite verge to that small, motionless body. One boot lay in the road, and the ball trickled slowly towards the grass verge.

William had been tossed into a heap of hay left on the verge after the late-summer scything. He lay spreadeagled, so relaxed in his perfect stillness that Massingham’s first horrified thought was that his neck was broken. In the couple of seconds in which he was resisting the impulse to sweep the boy into his arms, and turning instead to telephone from the car for an ambulance, William recovered his wind and began struggling against the prickling dampness of the straw. Bereft both of dignity and his ball he began to cry. Domenica Schofield, hair streaming across her bleached face, stumbled up to them.

“Is he all right?”

Massingham ran his hands over William’s body, then took the boy in his arms. “I think so. He sounds all right.”

They had reached the drive of the Old Rectory when Eleanor Kerrison came running down the path towards them. She had obviously been washing her hair. It lay now in dank,
dripping swathes across her shoulders. William, seeing her, redoubled his crying. As Massingham strode towards the house she ran clumsily beside him, clutching his arm. Drops of water sprayed from her hair to lie like pearls on William’s face.

“Daddy’s been called to a body. He said he’d take William and me to lunch at Cambridge when he got back. We were going to buy a grown-up bed for William. I was washing my hair specially. I left William with Miss Willard. He’s all right, isn’t he? Are you sure he’s all right? Oughtn’t we to take him to the hospital? What happened?”

“We didn’t see. I think he was caught and tossed by the front bumper of the Jaguar. Luckily he landed on a heap of straw.”

“He could have been killed. I warned her about the road. He isn’t supposed to play in the garden on his own. Are you sure we oughtn’t to get Dr. Greene?”

Massingham went straight through the house to the drawing room and laid William on the sofa. He said: “It might be as well, but I’m sure he’s all right. Just listen to him.”

William, as if he understood, cut off his bawling instantaneously and struggled upright on the couch. He began hiccuping loudly but, apparently undistressed by the paroxysms which were jerking his body, he regarded the company with interest, then fixed his stare consideringly on his bootless left foot. Looking up at Dalgliesh he asked sternly: “Where’s William’s ball?”

“At the edge of the road, presumably,” said Massingham. “I’ll fetch it. And you’ll have to do something about fixing a gate for that drive.”

They heard footsteps in the hall, and Miss Willard stood, fluttering uneasily in the doorway. Eleanor had been sitting beside her brother on the sofa. Now she stood up and confronted the woman with a silent contempt so unmistakable that Miss
Willard blushed. She glanced round the watching faces and said defensively: “Quite a little party. I thought I heard voices.”

Then the girl spoke. The voice, thought Massingham, was as arrogant and cruel as that of a Victorian matron dismissing a kitchen maid. The confrontation would have been almost comic if it hadn’t been at once pathetic and horrible.

“You can pack up your bags and get out. You’re dismissed. I only asked you to watch William while I washed my hair. You couldn’t even do that. He might have been killed. You’re a useless, ugly, stupid old woman. You drink and you smell and we all hate you. We don’t need you anymore. So get out. Pack your beastly, horrible things and go. I can look after William and Daddy. He doesn’t need anyone but me.”

The silly, ingratiating smile faded on Miss Willard’s face. Two red weals appeared across her cheeks and forehead as if the words had been a physical whiplash. Then she was suddenly pale, her whole body shaking. She reached for the back of a chair for support and said, her voice high and distorted with pain: “You! Do you think he needs you? I may be middle-aged and past my best but at least I’m not half mad. And if I’m ugly, look at yourself! He only puts up with you because of William. You could leave tomorrow and he wouldn’t care. He’d be glad. It’s William he loves, not you. I’ve seen his face, I’ve heard him and I know. He’s thinking of letting you go to your mother. You didn’t know that, did you? And there’s something else you don’t know. What do you think your precious daddy gets up to when he’s drugged you into sleep? He sneaks off to the Wren chapel and makes love to her.”

Eleanor turned and looked at Domenica Schofield. Then she spun round and spoke directly to Dalgliesh.

“She’s lying! Tell me she’s lying! It isn’t true.” There was a silence. It could only have lasted a couple of seconds while
Dalgliesh’s mind phrased the careful answer. Then, as if impatient to forestall him, not looking at his chief’s face, Massingham said clearly: “Yes, it’s true.”

She looked from Dalgliesh to Domenica Schofield. Then she swayed as if she were about to faint. Dalgliesh went towards her, but she backed away. She said in a voice of dull calm: “I thought he did it for me. I didn’t drink the cocoa he made for me. I wasn’t asleep when he came back. I went out and watched him in the garden, burning the white coat on the bonfire. I knew that there was blood on it. I thought he’d been to see Dr. Lorrimer because he was unkind to William and me. I thought he did it for me, because he loves me.”

Suddenly she gave a high despairing wail like an animal in torment, and yet so human and so adult that Dalgliesh felt his blood run cold.

“Daddy! Daddy! Oh no!” She put her hands to her throat and pulling the leather thong from beneath her sweater, struggled with it, twisting like a creature in a trap. And then the knot broke. Over the dark carpet they scattered and rolled, six newly polished brass buttons, bright as crested jewels.

Massingham stooped and carefully gathered them up into his handkerchief. Still no one spoke. William propelled himself off the sofa, trotted over to his sister and fastened his arms around her leg. His lip trembled. Domenica Schofield spoke directly to Dalgliesh. “My God, yours is a filthy trade.”

Dalgliesh ignored her. He said to Massingham: “Look after the children. I’ll ring for a WPC and we’d better get Mrs. Swaffield. There’s no one else I can think of. Don’t leave her until they both arrive. I’ll see to things here.”

Massingham turned to Domenica Schofield. “Not a trade. Just a job. And are you saying that it’s one you don’t want done?”

He went up to the girl. She was trembling violently. Dalgliesh
thought that she would cringe away from him. But she stood perfectly still. With three words he had destroyed her. But who else had she to turn to? Massingham took off his tweed coat and wrapped it round her. He said gently without touching her: “Come with me. You show me where we can make some tea. And then you’ll have a lie down and William and I will stay with you. I’ll read to William.”

She went with him as meekly as a prisoner with a gaoler, without looking at him, the long coat trailing on the floor. Massingham took William’s hand. The door closed after them. Dalgliesh wished never to see Massingham again. But he would see him again and, in time, without even caring or remembering. He never wanted to work with him again; but he knew that he would. He wasn’t the man to destroy a subordinate’s career simply because he had outraged susceptibilities to which he, Dalgliesh, had no right. What Massingham had done seemed to him now unforgivable. But life had taught him that the unforgivable was usually the most easily forgiven. It was possible to do police work honestly; there was, indeed, no other safe way to do it. But it wasn’t possible to do it without giving pain.

Miss Willard had groped her way to the sofa. She muttered, as if trying to explain it to herself: “I didn’t mean it. She made me say it. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t want to hurt him.”

Domenica Schofield turned to go. “No, one seldom does.” She said to Dalgliesh: “If you want me, you know where I’ll be.”

“We shall want a statement.”

“Of course. Don’t you always? Longing and loneliness, terror and despair, all the human muddle, neatly documented, on one and a half sheets of official paper.”

“No, just the facts.” He didn’t ask her when it had begun. That wasn’t really important; and he thought that he didn’t
need to ask. Brenda Pridmore had told him that she had sat in the same row as Mrs. Schofield and Dr. Kerrison and his children at the concert in the chapel. That had been held on Thursday, 26th August. And early in September, Domenica had broken with Edwin Lorrimer.

At the door she hesitated and turned. Dalgliesh asked: “Did he telephone you the morning after the murder to let you know that he’d replaced the key on Lorrimer’s body?”

“He never telephoned me. Neither of them did, ever. That was our arrangement. And I never rang him.” She paused and then said gruffly: “I didn’t know. I may have suspected, but I didn’t know. We weren’t—what’s your expression?—in it together. I’m not responsible. It wasn’t because of me.”

“No,” said Dalgliesh. “I didn’t suppose it was. A motive for murder is seldom so unimportant.”

She fixed on him her unforgettable eyes. She said: “Why do you dislike me?”

The egotism which could ask such a question, and at such a time, astounded him. But it was his own self-knowledge which disgusted him more. He understood only too well what had driven those two men to creep guiltily like randy schoolboys to that rendezvous, to make themselves partners in her erotic, esoteric game. Given the opportunity, he would, he thought bitterly, have done the same.

She was gone. He went over to Miss Willard. “Did you telephone Dr. Lorrimer to tell him about the burnt candles, the numbers on the hymn-board?”

“I chatted to him when he drove me to Mass the Sunday before last. I had to talk about something on the journey; he never did. And I was worried about the altar candles. I first noticed that someone had lit them when I went to the chapel at the end of September. On my last visit they were burnt even
lower. I thought that the chapel might be being used by devil-worshippers. I know it’s been deconsecrated, but it’s still a holy place. And it’s so secluded. No one goes there. The fen people don’t like to walk out after dark. I wondered if I ought to talk to the Rector or consult Father Gregory. Dr. Lorrimer asked me to go to the chapel again next day and let him know the numbers on the hymn-board. I thought it was an odd thing to ask, but he seemed to think that it was important. I hadn’t even noticed that they’d been altered. I could ask for the key, you see. He didn’t like to.”

But he could have taken it without signing for it, thought Dalgliesh. So why hadn’t he? Because of the risk that he might be seen? Because it was repugnant to his obsessional, conformist personality to break a Laboratory rule? Or, more likely, because he couldn’t bear to enter the chapel again, to see with his own eyes the evidence of betrayal? She hadn’t even bothered to change their meeting place. She had still used the same ingenious code to fix the date of the next assignation. Even the key she had handed to Kerrison had been Lorrimer’s key. And none better than he had known the significance of those four numbers. The twenty-ninth day of the tenth month at six-forty. He said: “And you waited together last Friday in the shelter of the trees?”

“That was his idea. He needed a witness, you see. Oh, he was quite right to be worried. A woman like that, quite unsuitable to be a stepmother to William. One man after another, Dr. Lorrimer said. That’s why she had to leave London. She couldn’t leave men alone. Any man would do. He knew about her, you see. He said the whole Lab knew. She’d even made advances to him once. Horrible. He was going to write to Mrs. Kerrison and put a stop to it. I couldn’t tell him the address. Dr. Kerrison’s so secretive about his letters and I’m not sure
that even he knows exactly where his wife is. But we knew that she’d run away with a doctor, and we knew his name. It’s quite a common name, but Dr. Lorrimer said he could trace them from the Medical Directory.”

The Medical Directory. So that was why he had wanted to consult it, why he had opened the door so quickly when Bradley rang. He had only had to come from the Director’s office on the ground floor. And he had been carrying his notebook. What was it that Howarth had said? He hated scraps of paper. He used the book to note down anything of importance. And this had been important. The names and addresses of Mrs. Kerrison’s possible lovers.