The Murder Room (23 page)

The cottage enclosed her as it always did. It was the place to which, after all the long-dead years of drudgery and self-denial, she had opened her arms to life as she had at the moment when huge but gentle hands had lifted her out of the rubble into the light.

Always she gazed into the darkness without fear. Soon after she had arrived at the Dupayne, an old gardener, now retired, had taken some pleasure in telling her of a Victorian murder which had taken place in the then private house. He had relished the description of the body, a dead servant girl, her throat cut, sprawled at the foot of an oak tree on the edge of the Heath. The girl had been pregnant and there had been talk that one of the family members, her employer or one of his two sons, had been responsible for the girl's death. There were those who claimed that her ghost, unappeased, still walked on the Heath by night. It had never walked for Tally, whose fears and anxieties took more tangible forms. Only once had she felt a
frisson,
less of fear than of interest, when she had seen movement under the oak, two dark figures forming themselves out of greater darkness, coming together, speaking, walking separately away. She had recognized one of them as Mr. Calder-Hale. It was not the only time she was to see him walking with a companion by night. She had never spoken of these sightings to him or to anyone. She could understand the attraction of walking in the darkness. It was none of her business.

Partly closing the window, she went at last to bed. But sleep eluded her. Lying there in the darkness, the events of the day crowded in on her mind, each moment more vivid, more sharply etched than in reality. And there was something beyond the reach of memory, something fugitive and untold, but which lay at the back of her mind as a vague, unfocused worry. Perhaps this unease arose only from guilt that she hadn't done enough, that she was in some way partly responsible, that if she hadn't gone to her evening class Dr. Neville might still be alive. She knew that the guilt was irrational and resolutely she tried to put it out of her mind. And now, with her eyes fixed on the pale blur of the half-open window, a memory came back from those childhood years of sitting alone in the half-light of a gaunt Victorian church in that Leeds suburb, listening to Evensong. It was a prayer she had not heard for nearly sixty years, but now the words came as freshly to her mind as if she were hearing them for the first time.
Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, O Lord; and by thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night; for the love of thy only Son, our Saviour Jesus Christ.
She held the image of that charred head in her mind and spoke the prayer aloud and was comforted.

9

Sarah Dupayne lived on the third floor of a period house in an undistinguished road of nineteenth-century terraced houses on the borders of Kilburn, which local estate agents no doubt preferred to advertise as West Hampstead. Opposite number sixteen was a small patch of rough grass and distorted shrubs which could be dignified as a park but was little more than a green oasis. The two half-demolished houses beside it were now a building site and were apparently being converted into a single dwelling. There was a high number of house agents' boards fixed to the small front gardens, one outside number sixteen. A few houses proclaimed by their gleaming doors and repointed brickwork that the aspiring young professional class had begun to colonize the street but, despite its nearness to Kilburn station and the attractions of Hampstead, it still had the unkempt, slightly desolate look of a street of transients. For a Saturday morning it was unusually calm, and there was no sign of life behind the drawn curtains.

There were three bells to the right of the door of number sixteen. Dalgliesh pressed the one with
DUPAYNE
written on a card above it. The name beneath had been strongly inked out and was no longer decipherable. A woman's voice answered the ring and Dalgliesh announced himself. The voice said, “It's no good me pressing the buzzer to let you in. The bloody thing's broken. I'll come down.”

Less than a minute later the front door opened. They saw a woman, solidly built with strong features and heavy dark hair tugged back from a broad forehead and tightly tied with a scarf at the nape of the neck. When worn loose its luxuriance would have given her a gypsy-like raffishness, but now her face, devoid of make-up except for a slash of bright lipstick and drained of animation, looked nakedly vulnerable. Dalgliesh thought that she was probably in her late thirties but the small ravages of time were already laid bare, the lines across the forehead, the small creases of discontent at the corners of the wide mouth. She was wearing black trousers and a low-necked collarless top with a loose overshirt of purple wool. She wore no bra and her heavy breasts swung as she moved.

Standing aside to let them in, she said, “I'm Sarah Dupayne. I'm afraid there's no lift. Come up, will you?” When she spoke there was a faint smell of whisky on her breath.

As she preceded them, firm-footed, up the stairs, Dalgliesh thought that she was younger than she had at first appeared. The strain of the last twelve hours had robbed her of any semblance of youth. He was surprised to find her alone. Surely, at such a time, someone could have come to be with her.

The flat into which they were shown looked out over the small green opposite and was filled with light. There were two windows and a door to the left which stood open and obviously led to the kitchen. It was an unsettling room. Dalgliesh had the impression that it had been furnished with some care and expense, but that the occupants had now lost interest and had, emotionally if not physically, moved out. There were grubby lines on the painted walls suggesting that pictures had been removed and the mantel-shelf above the Victorian grate held only a small Doulton vase with two sprays of white chrysanthemums. The flowers were dead. The sofa, which dominated the room, was made of leather and modern. The only other large piece of furniture was a long bookcase covering one of the walls. It was half empty, the books tumbling against each other in disorder.

Sarah Dupayne invited them to sit and settled herself on the square leather pouf beside the fireplace. She said, “Would you like some coffee? You're not supposed to have alcohol, are you? I think I've got enough milk in the fridge. I've been drinking myself, as you've probably noticed, but not much. I'm quite able to answer questions, if that's what you're worried about. D'you mind if I smoke?”

Without waiting for a reply she dug in her shirt pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. They waited while she lit up and began vigorously inhaling as if the nicotine were a life-saving drug.

Dalgliesh said, “I'm sorry we have to bother you with questions so soon after the shock of your father's death. But in the case of a suspicious death, the first days of the investigation are usually the most important. We need to get essential information as quickly as possible.”

“A suspicious death? Are you sure? That means murder. Aunt Caroline thought it could be suicide.”

“Did she give any reason for thinking that?”

“Not really. She said you were satisfied that it couldn't be an accident. I suppose she thought that suicide was the only probable option. Anything is more likely than murder. I mean, who would want to murder my father? He was a psychiatrist. He wasn't a drug dealer or anything like that. As far as I know he hadn't any enemies.”

Dalgliesh said, “He must have had at least one.”

“Well, it's no one I know about.”

Kate asked, “Did he talk to you about anyone who might wish him ill?”

“Wish him ill? Is that police talk? Chucking petrol over him and burning him to death is certainly wishing him ill. God, you can say that again! No, I don't know anyone who wished him ill.” She emphasized each word, her voice heavy with sarcasm.

Kate said, “His relationship with his siblings was good? They got on well?”

“You aren't very subtle, are you? No, I should think they occasionally loathed each other's guts. Families do, or haven't you noticed? The Dupaynes aren't close but that's not so unusual. I mean, you can be a dysfunctional family without wanting to burn each other to death.”

Dalgliesh asked, “What was his attitude to the signing of the new lease?”

“He said he wouldn't do it. I went to see him on Tuesday, the evening before they were due to have a trustees' meeting. I told him I thought he should hold out and not sign. I wanted my share of the money, to be honest. He had other considerations.”

“How much would each trustee expect to get?”

“You'll have to ask my uncle. About twenty-five thousand, I think. Not a fortune by today's standards but enough to give me a year or two off work. Dad wanted the museum to close for more laudable reasons. He thought we cared too much about the past, a kind of national nostalgia, and that it stopped us from coping with the problems of the present.”

Dalgliesh asked, “Those weekends away, it seems to have been a regular practice, collecting the car every Friday at six. Do you know where he went?”

“No. He never told me and I never asked. I know he was out of London at weekends but I didn't realize it happened every Friday. I suppose that's why he worked so late on the other four weekdays, to leave the Saturday and Sunday free. Perhaps he had another life. I hope he did. I'd like to think he had some happiness before he died.”

Kate persisted. “But he never mentioned where he went, whether there was someone he was seeing? He didn't talk to you about it?”

“We didn't talk. I don't mean that we weren't on good terms. He was my father. I loved him. It's just that we didn't communicate much. He was overworked, I was overworked, we lived in different worlds. What was there to talk about? I mean, at the end of the day he was probably like me, collapsed exhausted in front of the box. He worked most evenings anyway. Why should he travel up to Kilburn just to tell me what a bloody day he'd had? He had a woman though, you could try asking her.”

“Do you know who she is?”

“No, but I expect you'll find out. That's your job, isn't it, hunting people down.”

“How do you know he had a woman?”

“I asked if I could use the flat one weekend while I was moving here from Balham. He'd been pretty careful, but I knew. I snooped round a bit—a woman always does. I won't tell you how I knew, I'll spare your blushes. It wasn't any business of mine anyway. I thought, good luck to him. I called him Dad, by the way. On my fourteenth birthday he suggested that I might like to call him Neville. I suppose he thought that's what I'd like, making him more a friend, less a father. Trendy. Well he was wrong. What I wanted was to call him Daddy and to climb on his lap. Ridiculous, isn't it? But I can tell you one thing. Whatever the rest of the family tell you, Dad wouldn't have killed himself. He'd never do that to me.”

Kate saw that she was close to tears. She had stopped drawing on the cigarette and threw it, half smoked, into the empty grate. Her hands were trembling.

Dalgliesh said, “This isn't a good time to be alone. Have you a friend who could be with you?”

“No one I can think of. And I don't want Uncle Marcus spouting platitudinous condolences, or Aunt Caroline looking at me sardonically and daring me to show any emotion, wanting me to be a hypocrite.”

Dalgliesh said, “We could come back later if you'd rather stop now.”

“I'm all right. You go on. I don't suppose you'll be here much longer anyway. I mean, there's not much more I can tell you.”

“Who is your father's heir? Did he ever discuss his will?”

“No, but I suppose I am. Who else is there? I haven't got siblings and my mother died last year. She wouldn't have got anything anyway. They divorced when I was ten. She lived in Spain and I never saw her. She didn't remarry because she wanted the alimony, but that didn't exactly impoverish him. And I don't suppose he's left anything to Marcus or Caroline. I'll go to the Kensington flat later today and find out the name of Dad's solicitor. The flat'll be worth something, of course. He bought sensibly. I suppose you'll want to go there too.”

Dalgliesh said, “Yes, we'll need to look at his papers. Perhaps we can be there at the same time. Have you a key?”

“No, he didn't want me walking in and out of his life. I usually brought trouble with me and I suppose he liked to be warned. Didn't you find his keys on the—in his pocket?”

“Yes, we have a set. I'd prefer to have borrowed yours.”

“I suppose Dad's have been collected as part of the evidence. The porter can let us in. You go when you like, I'd rather be there alone. I'm planning to spend a year abroad as soon as things are settled. Will I have to wait until the case is solved? I mean, can I leave after the inquest and the funeral?”

Dalgliesh asked gently, “Will you want to?”

“I suppose not. Dad would warn me that you can't escape. You carry yourself with you. Trite but true. I'll be carrying a hell of a lot more baggage now, won't I?”

Dalgliesh and Kate got to their feet. Dalgliesh held out his hand. He said, “Yes. I'm sorry.”

They didn't speak until they were outside and walking to the car. Kate was thoughtful. “She's interested in the money, isn't she? It's important to her.”

“Important enough to commit patricide? She expected the museum to close. She could be certain eventually of getting her twenty-five thousand.”

“Perhaps she wanted it sooner rather than later. She's feeling guilty about something.”

Dalgliesh said, “Because she didn't love him, or didn't love him enough. Guilt is inseparable from grieving. But there's more on her mind than her father's murder, horrible though that was. We need to know what he did at weekends. Piers and Benton-Smith might get something from the garage mechanic but I think our best bet could be Dupayne's PA. There's very little a secretary doesn't know about her boss. Find out who she is, will you, Kate, and make an appointment—for today if possible. Dupayne was a consultant psychiatrist at St. Oswald's. I should try there first.”