The Murder Room (49 page)

It was then that they heard, faintly but unmistakably to their keen ears, the sound of a car. Kate made for the door but Dalgliesh grasped her arm. “Not now, Kate. I need you here. Let Piers and Benton-Smith make the arrest. Ring for the ambulance, then ring Piers.”

As she tapped out the number, he knelt by Tally Clutton's body. The flow of blood had stopped, but as he put his fingers to her throat, the pulse suddenly ceased. Quickly he rolled up the mackintosh and put it under her neck, opening her mouth and checking that she had no false teeth. He bent his head and, fastening his mouth over hers, began resuscitation. He wasn't aware of Kate's urgent words or the hiss of the gas fire, only of his own rhythmic breathing and the body he was willing to come alive. And then, it seemed by a miracle, he felt the beat of a pulse. She was breathing. Minutes later she opened her eyes and fixed on him an unseeing gaze, and with a little moan, as if of contentment, turned her head to one side and lapsed again into unconsciousness.

The wait for the ambulance was interminable but Dalgliesh knew it was pointless to phone again. They had received a call; they would come as soon as they could. It was with a sigh of relief that he heard it arrive and the paramedics came into the cottage. Expert help had at last arrived.

One of the paramedics said, “Sorry about the delay. There's been an accident at the end of the drive. The traffic's down to a single stream.”

Kate and Dalgliesh looked at each other but neither spoke. There was no point in questioning the paramedics; their concern was with the job in hand. And there was no hurry, no need to know immediately. By the time they got back to the Yard Piers could have reported whether or not he had made an arrest. Whether Vulcan was alive or not, this was the end of the case.

Dalgliesh and Kate watched as Tally, wrapped in blankets and strapped to the stretcher, was loaded into the ambulance. They gave her name and a few details and were told where she would be taken.

The keys to the front door were in the lock. Kate turned off the gas fire, checked the windows upstairs and down and they left the cottage, turning out the lights and locking the front door.

Dalgliesh said, “Take over the driving, will you, Kate?”

He knew she was happy to do so. Kate enjoyed driving the Jaguar. When they reached the drive, he asked her to stop, then got out, leaving her waiting in the car. He knew that she would neither join him nor question what he was doing. He walked a little way and gazed up at the black mass of the museum, wondering whether he would ever visit it again. He felt both sad and exhausted but the emotion was not strange to him; this was often what he felt at the end of a case. He thought of the lives which his life had so briefly touched, of the secrets he had learned, the lies and the truths, the horror and the pain. Those lives so intimately touched would go on, as would his. Walking back to rejoin Kate, he turned his mind to the weekend ahead and was filled with a precarious joy.

8

Thirty-five minutes earlier Toby Blake, aged nineteen years and two months, rode his Kawasaki into Spaniards Road on the last lap of his journey home. It had been a frustrating drive but Thursday night usually was. Weaving with cunning expertise between the almost stationary cars and buses and getting ahead of expensive cars with their disconsolate drivers had its satisfactions, but that was not what the Kawasaki was for. Now for the first time he saw the road gleaming pale and empty ahead. It was time to see what the machine could do.

He opened the throttle. The engine roared and the bike leapt like a tiger. His eyes glinted under the visor and he grinned with delight as he felt the rush of air, the giddy excitement of speed, the power of being in control. Ahead a car came out at speed from a driveway. The boy had no time to brake, no time even to register that it was there. He had one second of appalling realization and then the Kawasaki banged into the right side of the bonnet, spun across the road and slammed into a tree. He was hurled upwards, arms flailing, and then crashed to the side of the road and lay motionless. The car spun out of control and ploughed on to the verge.

There were ten seconds of absolute silence and then the headlights of a Mercedes lit up the road. The Mercedes stopped, as did the car following. There were hurried footsteps, exclamations of horror, urgent voices speaking into mobile phones. Anxious faces looked at the driver of the crashed car, slumped over the wheel. Voices conferred. It was agreed that they should wait for the ambulance. Other cars drove up and stopped. The procedure for rescue was under way.

At the side of the road the boy lay very still. There was no sign of injury and no blood. It seemed to the watching eyes that he was smiling in his sleep.

9

This time the hospital was modern and for Dalgliesh unfamiliar territory. He was directed to the right department and eventually found himself in a long, windowless corridor. There was no hospital smell but the air was different from any other, as if it had been scientifically cleansed of any taint of fear or illness. There was no doubt which was the right room. Two uniformed police constables were seated at the door and got up and saluted him as he approached. Inside was a WPC who rose and greeted him quietly, then left, closing the door. He and Vulcan were alone together face-to-face.

Muriel Godby was in a chair at the side of the bed. The only sign of injury was the plaster cast on her left arm and wrist, and a livid bruise across the left cheek. She was wearing a checked cotton dressing-gown which looked institutional and she was perfectly calm. The gleaming, extraordinarily coloured hair held back by a tortoiseshell slide had been carefully brushed. The greenish yellow eyes stared into his with the half-concealed resentment of a patient receiving yet one more unwanted visitor. They held no trace of fear.

He didn't go up to her. He said, “How are you?”

“Alive, as you see.”

Dalgliesh said, “I expect you know that the motorcyclist died. He broke his neck.”

“He was going too fast. I've told Miss Caroline many times that there should be clearer warning notices. But you haven't come to tell me that. You've got my confession and in my own handwriting. That's all I have to say.”

The confession was comprehensive but purely factual, making no excuses, showing no remorse. The murder had been planned in advance on the Wednesday after the meeting of the trustees. On the Friday of the murder Godby had come equipped with a bucket, protective overall, gloves, shower cap and long matches in the car boot, together with a large plastic bag into which she could thrust them after the deed. She hadn't gone home, but had returned to the museum after dropping Mrs. Strickland at Hampstead tube station. She knew that Tally Clutton would have left for her Friday evening class and she had that morning taken the precaution of disconnecting her landline telephone in case anyone should call. She had waited in the darkness of the garage until Neville Dupayne was seated in the Jaguar, then had stepped forward, calling his name. Surprised, but recognizing her voice, he had turned his face towards her and had received the full force of the petrol. She had needed only seconds to light and throw the match. The last human sound he heard had been her voice. When Tally telephoned her later she had just reached home. There had been time to replace the receiver, put the protective clothing in the washing machine, scour out the bucket and wash herself thoroughly before setting off for the museum. During the weekend she had wrenched the handle from the bucket, cut up the gloves and shower cap and, under cover of darkness, shoved them among the rubble of a handy skip.

There was little in the confession that was new to Dalgliesh except one fact. Celia Mellock, when at Swathling's, had taunted her, resented her and had tried to get her sacked from her job. The girl had been a redhead then, only later dyeing her brown hair yellow, but from the moment Godby entered the Murder Room to dispose of her the recognition had been absolute on both sides. For Godby the killing had been a pleasure as well as a necessity.

Now she said, “I don't know why you're here, Commander. You and I have finished with each other. I know I'll go to prison for ten years. I've served a longer sentence than that. And I've succeeded in what I wanted, haven't I? The Dupaynes won't close the museum to honour their brother's memory. Every day it's open, every visitor who arrives, every success will be due to me. And they'll know it. But leave my life alone. You're entitled to know what I did and how I did it. You know anyway, you worked it all out. That's your job and you're said to be good at it. You're not entitled to know why I did it, but I didn't mind giving a reason if it made everyone happier. I've written it down and it's quite simple. Dr. Neville Dupayne killed my sister through his negligence. She phoned him and he didn't come. She threw petrol over herself and set it alight. Because of him she lost her life. I wasn't going to let him lose me my job.”

Dalgliesh said, “We've checked up on Dr. Dupayne's life before he came to London. Your sister died fifteen years ago, twelve years after you had left home. Did you ever meet Dr. Dupayne at that time? How close were you to your sister?”

And now she looked at him full in the face and he thought he had never seen such a concatenation of hatred, contempt and—yes—triumph. When she spoke he was amazed that her voice could sound so normal, the same voice in which she had calmly answered his questions throughout the last week.

“I said you're entitled to know what I did. You're not entitled to know what I am. You're neither a priest nor a psychiatrist. My past is my own. I'm not going to get rid of it by making a present of it to you. I know about you, Commander Dalgliesh. Miss Caroline told me after you first arrived. It's the kind of thing she knows. You're a writer, aren't you, a poet? It isn't enough for you to meddle in other people's lives, to get them arrested, to see them sent to prison, their lives broken. You have to understand them, get into their minds, use them as your raw material. But you can't use me. You haven't the right.”

Dalgliesh said, “No, I haven't the right.”

And then it seemed that her face softened and became touched with sadness. She said, “We can never really know each other, you and I, Commander Dalgliesh.”

At the door Dalgliesh turned again to face her. “No,” he said, “we can't. But does that make us different from any other two people?”

10

Tally Clutton's room, in another part of the hospital, was very different. Dalgliesh entered to an almost overpowering scent of flowers. Tally was in bed, her head was partly shaved and unbecomingly covered with a gauze cap beneath which a padded dressing was clearly visible. She stretched out her hand to him, smiling a welcome.

“How good of you to come, Commander. I was hoping you might. Pull up a chair, will you. I know you can't stay long but I wanted to speak to you.”

“How are you feeling now?”

“Much better. The head wound isn't too serious. She didn't have time to finish me off, did she? The doctors say that my heart stopped for a short time because of shock. If you hadn't come I'd be dead. Once I thought that death wouldn't matter very much. I feel differently now. I couldn't bear to think I wouldn't see another English spring.” She paused, then said, “I know about the motorcyclist. That poor boy. They told me he was just nineteen and an only son. I keep thinking about his parents. I suppose you could call him the third victim.”

“Yes,” said Dalgliesh. “The third and the last.”

She said, “You know Ryan has gone back to Major Arkwright?”

“Yes, the Major rang to tell us. He thought we might wish to know where Ryan was.”

“It's his life, of course—Ryan's. I suppose it's what he wants. But I hoped that he would take more time to think about it, his future I mean. If they've quarrelled once they can again, and next time—well, it could be more serious.”

Dalgliesh said, “I don't think it will happen again. Major Arkwright is fond of him. He won't let the boy come to harm.”

“I know Ryan is gay, of course, but wouldn't he be better off with someone nearer his own age, not so rich, not with so much to offer?”

“I don't think Major Arkwright and he are lovers. But Ryan's nearly of age. We can't control his life for him.”

She said, as if speaking more to herself than to Dalgliesh, “I think he might have stayed with me longer, long enough to be sure what he wanted, but he knew I didn't really want him in the cottage. I'm so used to living alone, having the bathroom to myself. It's something I've always hated, sharing a bathroom. He knew that, he's not a stupid boy. But it wasn't just the bathroom. I was afraid of getting too fond of him, letting him into my life. I don't mean seeing him as a son, that would be ludicrous. I mean human kindness, taking trouble about him, caring about him. Perhaps that's the best kind of loving. We use the same word for such different things. Muriel loved Caroline, didn't she? She killed for her. That must have been love.”

Dalgliesh said gently, “Perhaps that was an obsession, a dangerous kind of love.”

“But all love is dangerous, isn't it? I suppose I've been frightened of it, of the commitment of it all my life. I'm beginning to understand now.” She looked up straight into his face. “You're only half alive if you're afraid to love.”

She continued looking up at him, as if seeking some wisdom, some reassurance, but it was impossible to know what he was thinking. He said, “There's something you wanted to tell me.”

She smiled. “It doesn't matter now but it seemed to at the time I rang. It was something I remembered. When Muriel arrived shortly after the fire, the first thing she said was that we ought to have locked up the petrol. I didn't tell her that Dr. Neville had been doused with petrol. I couldn't have told her, I didn't know it myself then. So how did she know? At first I thought that remembering this was important, then I told myself that she could have guessed.” She paused, then said, “I suppose there's no news of Tomcat?”