Original Sin (30 page)

But Mrs. Willoughby immediately rejected this convenient theory. “Oh, I think we can be reasonably sure that it was murder. Whatever happened to the body afterwards, you wouldn’t have had the police there for so long, and at such senior level, if they had any real doubt. This Commander Dalgliesh, I’ve heard of him. They wouldn’t send an officer of his seniority if they thought it was a natural death. You say, of course, that Lord Stilgoe was the one who telephoned New Scotland Yard. Perhaps that may have influenced the police. A title still has some power. There’s always suicide or accident, of course, but neither seems likely from what you’ve told me. No, if you ask me, this was murder, and an inside job.”

Blackie said: “But not Sydney. Sydney Bartrum wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Maybe. But he might swat something a great deal larger and more dangerous. Anyway, the police will check up on all your alibis. It’s a pity you went late-night shopping in the West End yesterday and didn’t come straight home. I suppose there’s no one at Liberty or Jaeger who can speak for you?”

“I don’t think so. You see I didn’t buy anything. I was only looking, and the stores were very crowded.”

“It’s ludicrous, of course, to think that you had anything to do with it, but the police have to treat everyone on the same footing, at least initially. Oh well, there’s no point in worrying until we know the exact time of death. Who saw him last? Has that been established?”

“Miss Claudia, I think. She’s usually among the last to leave.”

“Except, of course, for his murderer. I wonder how he managed to entice the victim up to the little archives office.
I suppose it is where he died. Assuming he was strangled or suffocated with Hissing Sid, then the murderer must have overpowered him first. A strong young man doesn’t lie down meekly allowing himself to be murdered. He could have been drugged, of course, or perhaps stunned by a blow sufficiently powerful to knock him out, but not strong enough to break the skin.”

Mrs. Willoughby, an avid reader of detective stories, was familiar with fictional murderers adept at this difficult procedure. She went on: “The drug could have been administered in his afternoon tea. It would need to be tasteless and very slow acting. Difficult. Or, of course, he could have been throttled with something soft which wouldn’t leave a mark, a pair of tights or a stocking. It would be no use for the murderer to use a cord, the mark would show very plainly under the snake. I expect the police have thought of all that.”

“I am sure, Joan, that they have thought of everything.”

Sipping her whisky, Blackie reflected that there was something strangely reassuring about Joan’s uninhibited interest in and speculation about the crime. Not for nothing were there those five shelves of crime paperbacks in her bedroom, Agatha Christie, Dorothy L. Sayers, Margery Allingham, Ngaio Marsh, Josephine Tey and the few modern writers whom Joan considered fit to join those Golden Age practitioners in fictional murder. After all, why should Joan feel a personal grief? She had only been to Innocent House once, three years previously when she had attended the staff Christmas party. She knew few of the staff except by name. And as she cogitated, the horror of Innocent House began to seem unreal, unfrightening, an elegant literary concoction, without grief, without pain, without loss, the guilt and horror disinfected and reduced to an ingenious puzzle. She stared into the leaping flames from which the image of Miss Marple seemed to rise, handbag
protectively clutched to her bosom, the gentle wise old eyes gazing into hers, assuring her that there was nothing to be afraid of, that everything would be all right.

The fire and the whisky combined to induce a somnolent contentment, so that her cousin’s voice, fitfully heard, seemed to be coming from a long distance. If they didn’t begin dinner soon she would be asleep. Rousing herself she said: “Isn’t it time we thought about eating?”

They had met at 6.15 on the steps leading down to the river by Greenwich station between a high wall and the ramp of a boathouse. It was a good and private place to meet. There was a small gritty beach and now, driving home and far from the river, he could still hear the gentle splash of the small spent waves, the grinding and tinny clatter of the pebbles, the backward suck of the tide. Gabriel Dauntsey had arrived first for the assignation but hadn’t turned as Bartrum moved up beside him. When he spoke his voice was gentle, almost apologetic.

“I thought we ought to talk, Sydney. I saw you letting yourself into Innocent House yesterday evening. My bathroom window overlooks Innocent Lane. I looked out by chance and glimpsed you. It was about six-forty.”

Sydney had known what he was going to hear and now when the words were spoken he heard them with something very like relief.

He had said, willing Dauntsey to believe him: “But I came out again almost at once. I swear it. If you’d waited, if you’d been watching for only a minute more you would have seen
me. I didn’t get any further than the reception room. I lost my nerve. I told myself that it wouldn’t have been any use arguing and pleading. Nothing would have moved him, nothing would have done any good. I swear to you, Mr. Dauntsey, that I never set eyes on him last night after I left my office.”

“Yes, it wouldn’t have done any good. Gerard wasn’t susceptible to pleading.” He added, “Or to threats.”

“How could I threaten him? I was powerless. He could sack me the next week and I couldn’t stop him. And if I did anything more to antagonize him he’d have given me one of those cunningly worded references which you can’t contest but which make sure that you never get another job. He had me in his power. I’m glad he’s dead. If I were a religious man I’d go down on my knees and thank God that he’s dead. But I didn’t kill him. You have to believe me. If you don’t, Mr. Dauntsey, my God, who will?”

The figure at his side didn’t move or speak but stood staring out over the black waste of the river. At last, humbly, he had asked: “What are you going to do?”

“Nothing. I had to see you to find out whether you’ve told the police, whether you propose to tell them. I was asked, of course, whether I’d seen anyone going into Innocent House. We all were. I lied. I lied and I’m proposing to go on lying, but it will be pointless if you’ve told them or are likely to lose your nerve.”

“No, I didn’t tell them. I said I got home at the usual time, just before seven. I rang my wife as soon as I heard the news, before the police arrived, and told her to confirm that I was home on time if anyone rang to ask. It was lucky I was the first one in. I had the office to myself. I hated having to ask her to lie but she didn’t think it mattered. She knew that I was innocent, that I hadn’t done anything to be ashamed of. I’ll explain more fully to her tonight. She’ll understand.”

“You rang her before you knew that his death might be murder?”

“I thought it was murder from the start. The snake, that half-naked body. How could that be a natural death?” He added simply: “Thank you for keeping silent, Mr. Dauntsey. I won’t forget this.”

“You don’t need to thank me. It’s the sensible thing to do. I’m not doing you a favour. You don’t have to be grateful. It’s a matter of common sense, that’s all. If the police waste time suspecting the innocent they’ll have less chance of catching the guilty. And I haven’t quite the confidence I once had that they don’t make mistakes.”

He had said, greatly daring: “And you care about that? You want them to catch the guilty?”

“I want them to find out who put that snake round Gerard’s neck and stuffed its head in his mouth. That was an abomination, a desecration of death. I prefer the guilty to be convicted and the innocent vindicated. I suppose most people do. That, after all, is what we mean by justice. But I don’t feel personally outraged by Gerard’s death, not by any death, not any longer. I doubt whether I have the capacity to feel strongly about anything. I didn’t murder him; I have done more than my share of killing. I don’t know who did, but this murderer and I have something in common. We didn’t have to look our victim in the eyes. There’s something particularly ignoble about a murderer who doesn’t even have to face the reality of what he has done.”

He had brought himself to the final humiliation: “My job, Mr. Dauntsey. Do you think it’s safe now? It is important to me. You don’t know what Miss Etienne has in mind—what any of the partners has in mind? I know that there have to be changes. I could learn new methods if you think it necessary.
And I don’t mind if you bring someone in over my head if he’s better qualified. I can work loyally as a subordinate.” He added with bitterness: “That’s all Mr. Gerard thought I was good for.”

Dauntsey had said: “I don’t know what will be decided but I dare say we’ll make no major changes for at least six months. And if I have anything to do with it, your job will be safe.”

Then they had turned together and walked without speaking to the side road where both had parked their cars.

The house which Sydney and Julie Bartrum had chosen, and which he was buying on the highest mortgage obtainable, was close to Buckhurst Hill Station on a sloping narrow road which was more like a country lane than a suburban street. It was a conventional 1930s house with a front bay window and porch and narrow back garden. Everything in it he and Julie had chosen together. Neither had brought anything from the past except memories. It was this home, this hard-won security, which Gerard Etienne had threatened to take from him with so much else. If he lost his job at fifty-two, what hope would there be of an equal salary? His lump sum would drain away, month after month, until even paying the mortgage became an impossible burden.

She came out of the kitchen as soon as she heard his key in the lock. As always she put out both arms and kissed him on the cheek, but tonight her arms were taut and she clung to him almost desperately.

“Darling, what is it? What’s happened? I didn’t like to phone you back. You said not to ring.”

“No, that wouldn’t have been wise. Darling, there’s nothing for you to worry about. Everything is going to be all right.”

“But you said that Mr. Etienne is dead. Killed.”

“Come into the sitting room, Julie, and I’ll tell you.”

She sat very close to him and very still while he spoke. Afterwards she said: “They can’t think you had anything to do with it, darling. I mean, that’s ridiculous, that’s stupid. You wouldn’t hurt a soul. You’re kind, good, gentle. They can’t believe that.”

“Of course they won’t. But innocent people do sometimes get harassed, questioned and put under suspicion. Sometimes they even get arrested and tried. It does happen. And I was the last person to leave the office. I had some important work to do and stayed a little late. That’s why I rang as soon as I heard the news. It seemed sensible to tell the police that I was home at the usual time.”

“Of course it was, darling. You’re right. I’m glad you did.”

He was a little surprised that his request to her to lie had caused her no unease, no guilt. Perhaps women lied more easily than men provided they believed the cause was just. He needn’t have worried that he was causing her a crisis of conscience. Like him, she knew where her allegiance lay.

He said: “Has anyone been in touch—anyone from the police?”

“Someone rang. He said he was a Sergeant Robbins. He just asked what time you got back last night. Nothing else. He didn’t give me any information or say that Mr. Gerard was dead.”

“And you didn’t let on that you knew?”

“Of course not. You’d warned me. I did ask what it was all about and he said you would explain when you got home, that you were all right and that I wasn’t to worry.”

So the police had been quick off the mark. Well, that was to be expected. They had wanted to check before he had had time to arrange an alibi.

He said: “You see what I mean, darling. It really was wise to be prepared.”

“Of course it was. But you don’t really think Mr. Gerard was murdered?”

“They don’t seem to know how he died. Murder’s a possibility, but only one. He could have had a heart attack and the snake been put round his neck afterwards.”

“Darling, how terrible! That’s a horrible thing for anyone to do. It’s wicked.”

He said: “Don’t think about it. It’s nothing to do with us. It can’t touch us. If we stick to our story, there’s nothing anyone can do.”

She had no idea how closely it touched them. This death was his salvation. He hadn’t confided in her about the risk to his job or his hatred and fear of Etienne. This had partly been because he didn’t want to worry her, but he knew that the main motive had been pride. He needed her to believe that he was successful, respected, invaluable to the firm. Now she need never know the truth. He decided, too, to say nothing of the earlier interview with Dauntsey. Why worry her? Everything was going to be all right.

As usual before supper, they went up together to look at their sleeping daughter. The baby was in the nursery at the back of the house, which he with Julie’s help had decorated. Seeing her for the first time promoted from the basket crib to the railed cot, pillowless, supine, Julie had explained that this was the recommended position. She didn’t speak the words “to avoid cot death,” but both of them knew what she meant. That anything should happen to the child was their greatest unspoken horror. He put out a hand and touched the downy head. It was incredible that any human hair could feel so soft, any scalp so vulnerable. Overcome with love, he wanted to pick up the
child and hold her against his cheek, to enfold mother and daughter in an embrace that was strong, eternal and unbreakable, to shield them against all the terrors of the present and all the terrors to come.

This house was his kingdom. He told himself that he had won it by love but he felt for it some of the fierce possessiveness of a conqueror. It was his by right and he would kill a dozen Gerard Etiennes before he lost it. No one before Julie had ever found him lovable. Plain, scrawny, humourless and shy, he knew that he wasn’t lovable, the years in the children’s home had taught him that. Your father didn’t die, your mother didn’t walk out on you, if you were lovable. The staff at the home had done their best according to the received wisdom of the times, but the children hadn’t been loved. The caring, like the food, had been carefully allocated to go round. The children knew that they were rejects. He had taken in that knowledge with his porridge. After the children’s home there had been a succession of landladies, of bed-sitting rooms, of small rented flats, of evening classes and examinations, watery cups of coffee, solitary meals in inexpensive restaurants, breakfast cooked in a shared kitchen, of solitary pleasures, solitary, unsatisfying, guilt-inducing sex.