Death in Holy Orders (47 page)

It was impossible to avoid the first banal question as they shook hands.

“How are you feeling now?”

Yarwood avoided a direct answer. “If Pilbeam and the lad hadn’t found me when they did I’d have been a goner. An end of feeling. An end to claustrophobia. Better for Sharon, better for the kids, better for me. Sorry to sound such a wimp. In that ditch, before I became unconscious, there was no pain, no worry, just peace. It wouldn’t have been a bad way to go. The truth is, Mr. Dalgliesh, I wish they’d left me there.”

“I don’t. We’ve had enough deaths at St. Anselm’s.” He didn’t say that now there had been another.

Yarwood stared out over the rooftops. “No more trying to cope, and no more feeling such a bloody failure.”

Searching for the words of comfort which he knew he couldn’t find, Dalgliesh said, “You have to tell yourself that, whatever hell you’re in at present, it won’t last for ever. Nothing ever does.”

“But it could get worse. Difficult to believe, but it could.”

“Only if you let it.”

There was a pause, then Yarwood said with an obvious effort, “Point taken. Sorry I let you down. What happened exactly? I know that Crampton’s been murdered, but nothing else. You’ve managed so far to keep the details out of the national papers, and the local radio only gave the bare facts. What happened? I suppose you came for me after you discovered the body and found I’d gone. Just what you needed, a murderer on the loose and the one man you could look to for a spot of professional help doing his best to qualify as a suspect. It’s odd, but I just can’t work up any interest in it, I just can’t make myself care. Me, who used to be branded an over-zealous officer. I didn’t kill him, by the way.”

“I didn’t think you did. Crampton was found in the church, and the facts so far suggest he was lured there. If you’d wanted a bloody encounter, you’d only have had to go next door.”

“But that’s true of everyone in college.”

“The killer wanted to incriminate St. Anselm’s. The Archdeacon was intended as the chief but not the only victim. I don’t think you feel like that.”

There was a pause. Yarwood shut his eyes, then shifted his head restlessly on the pillow. He said, “No, I don’t feel like that. I love that place. And now I’ve spoilt that too.”

“It’s not so easy to spoil St. Anselm’s. How did you meet the fathers?”

“It was about three years ago. I was a sergeant then, new to the Suffolk force. Father Peregrine had backed into a lorry on the Lowestoft road. No one was hurt, but I had to interview him. He’s too absent-minded to be a safe driver, and I managed to persuade him to stop. I think the fathers were grateful. Anyway, they never seemed to mind when I started turning up. I don’t know what it was about the place, but I felt different when I was there. When Sharon left me I began driving over for Sunday-morning Mass. I’m not religious and I really hadn’t a clue what was going on. It didn’t seem to matter. I just liked being there. The fathers have been kind to me. They don’t pry, they don’t invite confidences, they just accept. I’ve had it all, doctors, psychiatrists, counsellors, the lot. St. Anselm’s was different. No, I wouldn’t harm them. There’s a police constable
outside this room, though, isn’t there? I’m not stupid. A bit crazy, but not stupid. It’s my leg that got broken, not my head.”

“He’s there for your protection. I’d no way of knowing what you’d seen, what evidence you might be able to give. Someone could have wanted you out of the way.”

“A bit far-fetched, isn’t it?”

“I preferred not to risk it. Can you remember what happened on Saturday night?”

“Yes, until I actually lost consciousness in the ditch. The walk against the wind is a bit hazy—it seems to have lasted a shorter time than it did—but I remember the rest of it. Most of it, anyway.”

“Let’s start from the beginning. What time did you leave your room?”

“About five past twelve. The storm woke me. I’d been dozing but not sleeping soundly. I switched on my light and looked at my watch. You know how it is when you’re having a bad night. You lie there hoping that it’s later than you think, that it’ll soon be morning. And then the panic struck. I tried to fight it. I lay there sweating, rigid with terror. I had to get out, out of the room, out of Gregory, away from St. Anselm’s. It would’ve been the same wherever I was. I must have put on a coat over my pyjamas and my shoes without waiting to put on socks. I can’t remember that bit. The wind didn’t worry me much. In a way I think it helped. I’d have walked out even into a blizzard and twenty feet of snow. God, I wish I had.”

“How did you leave?”

“By the iron gate between the church and Ambrose. I’ve got a key—all the visitors are given one. But you know that.”

Dalgliesh said, “We found the gate locked. Do you remember locking it after you?”

“I must have done, mustn’t I? It’s the sort of thing I’d do automatically.”

“Did you see anyone near the church?”

“No one. The courtyard was empty.”

“And you didn’t hear anything, see any lights? See the door of the church open, for example?”

“I heard nothing but the wind and I don’t think there was a
light in the church. If there was I didn’t see it. I think I’d have noticed if the door had been wide open, but not if it had just been ajar. I did see someone, but not near the church. It was earlier, just when I was passing the front door of Ambrose. It was Eric Surtees, but he was nowhere near the church. He was in the north cloister, letting himself into the house.”

“Didn’t that strike you as strange?”

“Not really. I can’t describe what I felt at that moment. Breathing in that great rushing air, the sense of being outside the walls. If I’d thought about Surtees at all, I suppose I’d have taken it for granted that he’d been called in to cope with some domestic emergency. He is the handyman, after all.”

“After midnight, in the middle of a storm?”

There was a silence between them. It was interesting, thought Dalgliesh, how his questioning, so far from worrying Yarwood, seemed to have lifted his spirits and deflected his mind, at least temporarily, from the weight of his own troubles.

Now Yarwood said, “He’s an unlikely murderer, isn’t he? A gentle, unassuming, useful kind of chap. He had no reason to hate Crampton as far as I know. Anyway, he was letting himself into the house, not into the church. What was he doing if he wasn’t on call?”

“Perhaps collecting the keys to the church. He’d know where to find them.”

“A bit foolhardy, wouldn’t it be? And why the hurry? Wasn’t he supposed to be painting the sacristy on Monday? I think I heard Pilbeam mention it. And if he’d wanted a key, why not take it earlier? He could move about the main building as he chose.”

“That would have been riskier. The ordinand who prepared the church for the service would have noticed that one set of keys was missing.”

“All right, I give you that, sir. But the same argument applies to Surtees as it does to me. If he’d wanted to pick a fight with Crampton he knew where to find him. He knew that the door of Augustine would be open.”

“You’re sure it was Surtees? Sure enough to swear to it in court if necessary? It was after midnight and you were in a pretty bad state.”

“It was Surtees. I’ve seen him often enough. The lights in the cloisters are dim but I couldn’t be mistaken. I’d maintain that in court under cross-examination, if that’s what you’re asking. Not that it would do much good. I can hear defending counsel’s final address to the jury. Poor visibility. Figure seen only for a second or two. Witness a deeply disturbed man, crazy enough to walk out into a raging storm. And then, of course, the evidence that, unlike Surtees, I disliked Crampton.”

But now Yarwood was beginning to tire. His sudden spurt of interest in the murder inquiry seemed to have exhausted him. It was time to go, and with this new information Dalgliesh was anxious to leave. But first he must be sure there was nothing more to learn. He said, “We’ll need a statement, of course, but there’s no great urgency. By the way, what do you think brought on your panic attack? The quarrel with Crampton after tea on Saturday?”

“You’ve heard about that? Well, of course you would. I didn’t expect to see him at St. Anselm’s and I imagine it was just as much of a shock for him. And I didn’t start the row, he did. He just stood there spitting the old accusations at me. He was shaking with anger, like a man in some kind of fit. It goes back to the death of his wife. I was a detective sergeant then and it was my first murder case.”

“Murder?”

“He killed his wife, Mr. Dalgliesh. I was sure of it at the time and I’m sure now. OK, I was over-zealous, I made a cock-up of the whole inquiry. In the end he complained of harassment and I was reprimanded. It did my career no good. I doubt I’d have made inspector if I’d stayed with the Met. But I’m as sure now as I was then that he killed her and got away with it.”

“On what evidence?”

“There was a bottle of wine by her bed. She died from an overdose of aspirin and alcohol. The bottle had been wiped clean. I don’t know how he got her to take a whole bottle of tablets but I’m damned sure he did. And he was lying, I know he was lying. He said he never went up to the bed. He did a bloody sight more than that.”

Dalgliesh said, “He could have been lying about the bottle and about not approaching the bed. That doesn’t make him a
murderer. He could have found her dead and panicked. People behave oddly under stress.”

Yarwood reiterated obstinately, “He killed her, Mr. Dalgliesh. I saw it in his face and in his eyes. He was lying. That doesn’t mean I took the opportunity to avenge her.”

“Is there anyone who might? Had she close relations, siblings, a former lover?”

“No one, Mr. Dalgliesh. Just her parents, and they didn’t strike me as being particularly sympathetic. She never got justice, and nor did I. I’m not sorry Crampton’s dead, but I didn’t kill him. And I don’t think I’ll care over-much if you never discover who did.”

Dalgliesh said, “But we shall. And you’re a police officer. You can’t really believe what you just said. I’ll be in touch. Keep what you’ve told me to yourself. But you know all about discretion.”

“Do I? I suppose so. It’s difficult to believe now that I’ll ever get back on the job.”

He turned his face away in a gesture of deliberate rejection. But there was one final question Dalgliesh needed to ask. He said, “Did you discuss your suspicions about the Archdeacon with anyone at St. Anselm’s?”

“No. It wasn’t the kind of talk they’d have wanted to hear. Anyway, it was all in the past. I never expected to see the man again. They’ll know now—that is, if Raphael Arbuthnot bothers to tell them.”

“Raphael?”

“He was in the south cloister when Crampton tackled me. Raphael heard every word.”

T
hey had driven to the hospital in Dalgliesh’s Jaguar. Neither he nor Piers spoke while they buckled themselves into their seats, and they had thrown off the eastern suburbs of the city before Dalgliesh briefly reported what he had learned.

Piers listened in silence, then said, “I can’t see Surtees as a killer, but if he did do it he wouldn’t have been alone. His sister would’ve had a hand in it somehow. I can’t believe anything happened at St. John’s Cottage on Saturday night that she didn’t know about. But why should either of them want Crampton dead? OK, so they probably knew he was hell-bent on getting St. Anselm’s closed down at the first opportunity. That wouldn’t have suited Surtees—he seems to have set himself up very nicely with his cottage and his pigs—but he wasn’t going to stop closure by killing Crampton. And if he had a private quarrel with the man, why bother to set up an elaborate scheme to lure him into the church? He knew where Crampton was sleeping; he must have known too that the door was unlocked.”

Dalgliesh said, “So did everyone in the college, including the visitors. Whoever killed Crampton wanted to make sure that we’d know it was an inside job. That much was apparent from the beginning. There’s no obvious motive for either Surtees or his half-sister. If we’re considering motive, George Gregory has to be prime suspect.”

None of that needed reiterating, and Piers wished he’d kept his mouth shut. He had learned that when AD was in one of his silent moods it was sensible to stay quiet, particularly if one had nothing original to contribute.

Back at St. Matthew’s Cottage, Dalgliesh decided to interview the two Surteeses with Kate. Five minutes later, escorted
by Robbins, they arrived. Karen Surtees was shown into the waiting-room and the door firmly closed.

It was apparent that Eric Surtees had been mucking out the piggery when Robbins arrived to summon him, and he brought into the interview room a strong but not disagreeable smell of earth and animal. He had taken time only to wash his hands and now sat with them lying side by side, knuckles clenched, in his lap. They were held with such controlled stillness that they seemed curiously at odds with the rest of his body, reminding Dalgliesh of two small animals curled in petrified fear. He would have had no time to consult his sister, and his backward glance at the door as he came in betrayed his need for her presence and support. Now he sat in unnatural stillness; only his eyes moved from Dalgliesh to Kate and back again, then settled on Dalgliesh. Dalgliesh was experienced in recognizing fear and he didn’t misinterpret. He knew that it was often the innocent who were the most obviously frightened; the guilty, once they had concocted their ingenious story, were eager to tell it, borne through their interrogation by a surge of hubris and bravado which could sweep before it any embarrassing manifestations of guilt or fear.

He wasted no time on formalities. He said, “When my officers questioned you on Sunday you said that you hadn’t left St. John’s Cottage during Saturday night. I shall now ask you again. Did you go either to the college or to the church after Compline on Saturday?”

Surtees gave a quick glance at the window, as if it offered escape, before again willing himself to meet Dalgliesh’s eyes. His voice sounded unnaturally high.

“No, of course not. Why should I?”

Dalgliesh said, “Mr. Surtees, you were seen by a witness entering St. Anselm’s from the north cloister just after midnight. There can be no doubt about the identification.”