Death in Holy Orders (16 page)

Dalgliesh wondered, as he had before, at the capacity of men to be genuinely fond of their animals, to have a lively regard for their welfare and minister to their needs with devotion, and at the same time be so easily reconciled to their slaughter. Now he got down to the business of his visit.

He said, “Did you know Ronald Treeves—know him personally, that is?”

“Not really. I knew he was one of the ordinands and I saw him about the place, but we didn’t really talk. I think he was a bit of a loner. I mean, when I did see him about the place he was usually on his own.”

“What happened on the day he died? Were you here?”

“Yes, I was here with my sister. It was the weekend and she was visiting. We didn’t see Ronald that Saturday, and the first we knew he was missing was when Mr. Pilbeam came round and asked if he’d been here. We said he hadn’t. We didn’t hear anything else until I went out at about five o’clock to sweep up some fallen leaves from the cloisters and the courtyard and to wash down the stones. It had been raining the day before and the cloisters were a bit muddy. I usually go up to sweep and hose the cloisters after the services, but Father Sebastian had asked me after Mass to hose them down before Evensong. I
was doing that when Mr. Pilbeam told me that they’d found Ronald Treeves’s body. Later on, before Evensong, Father Sebastian got us all together in the library and told us what had happened.”

“It must have been a very great shock for you all.”

Surtees was looking down at his hands, still clasped and resting on the table. Suddenly he jerked them both out of sight like a guilty child and hunched forward. He said in a low voice, “Yes. A shock. Well it was, wasn’t it?”

“You seem to be the only gardener at St. Anselm’s. Do you grow for yourself or for the college?”

“Mostly vegetables for myself and for anyone who needs them, really. I don’t grow enough for the college, not when all the ordinands are in residence. I suppose I could extend the garden, but it would take too much time. The soil’s quite good, considering it’s close to the sea. My sister usually takes vegetables back to London when she comes, and Miss Betterton likes to have them. She cooks for herself and Father John. Mrs. Pilbeam too, for herself and Mr. Pilbeam.”

Dalgliesh said, “Mrs. Munroe left a diary. She mentioned that you’d been kind enough to bring her some leeks on October 11th, the day before she died. Do you remember doing that?”

There was a pause, then Surtees said, “Yes, I think so. Perhaps I did. I can’t remember.”

Dalgliesh said gently, “It wasn’t so long ago, was it? Just over a week. Are you sure you can’t remember?”

“I do remember now. I took the leeks up in the evening. Mrs. Munroe used to say she liked leeks with cheese sauce for supper, so I took some to St. Matthew’s Cottage.”

“And what happened?”

He looked up, genuinely puzzled. “Nothing. Nothing happened. I mean, she just said thank you and took them in.”

“You didn’t go into the cottage?”

“No. She didn’t ask me and I wouldn’t have wanted to. I mean, Karen was here and I wanted to get back. She stayed on that week until Thursday morning. I went up on chance really. I thought Mrs. Munroe might have been with Mrs. Pilbeam. If she hadn’t been at home I’d have left the leeks at the door.”

“But she was at home. Are you sure that nothing was said, that nothing happened? You just handed her the leeks?”

He nodded. “I just handed them to her and left.”

It was then that Dalgliesh heard the sound of an approaching car. Surtees’s ears must have caught it simultaneously. He pushed back his chair with obvious relief and said, “That’ll be Karen. She’s my sister. She’s coming for the weekend.”

And now the car had stopped. Surtees hurried out. Dalgliesh, sensing his anxiety to speak to his sister alone, perhaps to warn her of his presence, followed him quietly and stood in the open doorway.

A woman had got out of the car, and now she and her brother stood close together regarding Dalgliesh. Without speaking, she turned and began lugging a large rucksack and an assortment of plastic bags out of the car, then slammed the door. Lumbered with the assorted packages, they came down the path.

Surtees said, “Karen, this is Commander Dalgliesh from New Scotland Yard. He’s asking questions about Ronald.”

She was hatless, her dark hair cropped into short spikes. A heavy gold loop in each ear emphasized the paleness of the delicately boned face. Her eyes were narrow under thin arched brows, the irises dark and glitteringly bright. With a pursed mouth heavily outlined in gleaming red lipstick, her face was a carefully designed pattern in black, white and red. The glance she gave Dalgliesh was initially hostile, a reaction to an unexpected and unwanted visitor. As their eyes held, it became appraising and then wary.

They moved together into the workroom. Karen Surtees dumped her rucksack on the table. Nodding to Dalgliesh, she said to her brother, “Better get these ready-prepared meals from M and S into the freezer straight away. There’s a case of wine in the car.”

Surtees looked from one to the other, then went out. Without speaking, the girl began dragging an assortment of clothes and tins from the rucksack.

Dalgliesh said, “You’re obviously not wanting visitors at present but, as I’m here, it will save time if you can answer a few questions.”

“Ask away. I’m Karen Surtees, by the way. Eric’s half-sister. You’re a bit late on the job, aren’t you? Not much point now asking questions about Ronald Treeves. There’s been an inquest. Accidental death. And there isn’t even a body to exhume. His dad had him cremated in London. Didn’t they bother to tell you that? Anyway, I don’t see what it’s got to do with the Met. I mean, isn’t it for the Suffolk Police?”

“Essentially yes, but Sir Alred has a natural curiosity about his son’s death. I was coming into the county, so he asked me to find out what I could.”

“If he really wanted to know how his son died he’d have gone to the inquest. I suppose he’s got a guilty conscience and wants to show that he’s a concerned dad. What’s he worried about anyway? He’s not saying that Ronald was murdered?”

It was odd to hear that doom-laden word spoken so easily. “No, I don’t think he’s saying that.”

“Well, I can’t help him. I only met his son once or twice when he was out walking and we’d say ‘Good morning’ or ‘Nice day,’ the usual meaningless platitudes.”

“You weren’t friends?”

“I’m not friends with any of the students. And if by friends you mean what I think you mean, I come down here to get a change from London and to see my brother, not to fuck the ordinands! Not that it would do them much harm, to look at them.”

“You were here the weekend Ronald Treeves died?”

“That’s right. I arrived Friday night, much the same time as today.”

“Did you see him that weekend?”

“No, neither of us did. The first we knew he was missing was when Pilbeam came down to ask if he had been here. We said he hadn’t. End of story. Look, if there’s anything else you want to know, can it wait till tomorrow? I’d like to settle in, get unpacked, have some tea, know what I mean? Getting out of London was hell. So if it’s all right by you, I’ll leave it for now, not that there’s anything else to say. As far as I was concerned he was just one of the students.”

“But you must have formed an opinion about the death, both of you. You must have talked about it.”

Surtees had finished stowing away the food and now came in from the kitchen. Karen looked at him. She said, “Of course we talked about it, the whole bloody college must have talked about it. If you want to know, I thought he’d probably killed himself. I don’t know why and it’s none of my business. As I said, I hardly knew him, but it seemed a very odd accident. He must have known that the cliffs are dangerous. Well, we all know, there are enough warning notices. What was he doing on the beach anyway?”

“That,” said Dalgliesh, “is one of the questions.”

He had thanked them and was turning to go when a thought struck him. He said to Surtees, “The leeks you took to Mrs. Munroe, how were they wrapped? Can you remember? Were they in a bag or did you carry them unwrapped?”

Surtees looked puzzled. “I can’t remember. I think I wrapped them in newspaper. That’s what I usually do with the vegetables, the large ones anyway.”

“Can you remember what newspaper you used? I know it isn’t easy.” Then, as Surtees didn’t reply, he added, “Was it a broadsheet or a tabloid? Which newspaper do you take?”

It was Karen who finally answered. “It was a copy of the
Sole Bay Weekly Gazette
. I’m a journalist. I tend to notice newspapers.”

“You were here in the kitchen?”

“I must have been, mustn’t I? Anyway, I saw Eric wrapping the leeks. He said he was taking them up to Mrs. Munroe.”

“You don’t happen to remember the date of the paper?”

“No, I don’t. I remember the paper because, like I said, I tend to look at newspapers. Eric opened it at the middle page and there was a picture of a local farmer’s funeral. He wanted his favourite heifer to attend, so they led the beast to the grave with black ribbons tied to its horns and round its neck. I don’t think they’d have actually let it into the church. Just the kind of shot picture editors love.”

Dalgliesh turned to Surtees: “When does the
Sole Bay Gazette
come out?”

“Every Thursday. I don’t usually read it until the weekend.”

“So the paper you used was probably the one from the previous week.” He turned to Karen and said, “Thank you, you’ve
been very helpful,” and saw again in her eyes that swift appraising glance.

They followed him to the door. As he turned at the gate he saw them standing close together, watching, as it seemed, until they could be sure he had actually left. Then simultaneously they turned, and the door closed behind them.

A
fter his solitary dinner at the Crown in Southwold, Dalgliesh had planned to return to St. Anselm’s in time to attend Compline. But the meal, which was too excellent to be hurried, took longer than expected, and by the time he had got back and parked the Jaguar, the service had started. He waited in his rooms until a beam of light fell over the courtyard and he saw that the south door of the church had been opened and the small congregation was coming out. He made his way to the sacristy door, where Father Sebastian finally emerged and turned to lock up behind him.

Dalgliesh said, “May we speak, Father? Or would you prefer it to wait until tomorrow?”

He knew that it was the practice at St. Anselm’s for the college to keep silence after Compline, but the Warden replied, “Will it take long, Commander?”

“I hope not, Father.”

“Then now, if you wish. Shall we go to my study?”

Once there, the Warden took his seat behind the desk and motioned Dalgliesh to a chair before him. This was to be no comfortable chat in the low chairs before the fire. The Warden had no intention of beginning the conversation or of asking Dalgliesh what conclusions, if any, he had reached about Ronald Treeves’s death. Instead he waited in a silence which, although not unfriendly, gave the impression that he was exercising patience.

Dalgliesh said, “Father Martin has shown me Mrs. Munroe’s diary. Ronald Treeves seems to have spent more time with her than one might expect and it was, of course, she who found the
body. That makes any reference to him in her diary important. I am thinking particularly of the last entry, the one she wrote on the day she died. You didn’t take it seriously, the evidence that she had discovered a secret and was worried by it?”

Father Sebastian said, “Evidence? What a forensic word, Commander. I did take it seriously because it was obviously serious for her. I had misgivings about our reading a private diary, but as Father Martin had encouraged her to keep it, he was interested to see what she had written. Perhaps it was a natural curiosity, although I can’t help feeling that the diary should have been destroyed unread. The facts, however, seem to be plain. Margaret Munroe was an intelligent, sensible woman. She discovered something which worried her, confided in the person concerned and was satisfied. Whatever the explanation she was given, it put her mind at rest. Nothing would have been gained and much harm done if I had started probing. You’re not suggesting that I should have called the college together and asked whether any of them had a secret which they had shared with Mrs. Munroe? I preferred to take her written word that the explanation she was given had made no further action necessary.”

Dalgliesh said, “Ronald Treeves seems to have been something of a loner, Father. Did you like him?”

It was a dangerously provocative question, but Father Sebastian took it unflinchingly. Watching him, Dalgliesh thought that he detected a slight hardening of the handsome face, but he couldn’t be certain.

The Warden’s answer, when it came, might have held an implied rebuke, but his voice betrayed no resentment. “In my relations with the ordinands I don’t concern myself with questions of liking or disliking, nor would it be proper to do so. Favouritism, or perceived favouritism, is particularly dangerous in a small community. Ronald was a singularly charmless young man, but since when has charm been a Christian virtue?”

“But you did concern yourself with the question of whether he was happy here?”

“It is not the business of St. Anselm’s to promote private
happiness. I would have concerned myself had I thought that he was unhappy. We take our pastoral responsibility for students very seriously. Ronald neither sought help nor gave any indication that he was in need of it. That doesn’t exclude my own culpability. Ronald’s religion was important to him and he was deeply committed to his vocation. He would have had no doubt that suicide is a grave sin. The act could not have been impulsive; there was that half-mile walk to the mere, the trudge along the shore. If he killed himself it could only have been because he was in despair. I should have known this about any student and I didn’t.”

Dalgliesh said, “The suicide of the young and healthy is always mysterious. They die and no one knows why. Perhaps even they wouldn’t have been able to explain.”