Death in Holy Orders (52 page)

Piers said, “I know what I’d have done with it, sir. I’d have fed it to the pigs. Those animals will eat anything, particularly if it’s bloodstained, in which case we’ll be lucky to find anything except perhaps the small brass chain at the back of the neck.”

Dalgliesh said, “Then look for it. You and Robbins had better make a start with St. John’s Cottage. We’ve been given authority by Father Sebastian to go where we like, so no warrant is necessary. If any of the people in the cottages makes trouble, we may need a warrant. It’s important no one knows what we’re looking for. Where are the ordinands at present, does anyone know?”

Kate said, “I think they’re in the lecture room on the first floor. Father Sebastian is giving them a seminar on theology.”

“That should keep them occupied and out of the way. Mr. Clark, will you and your team take the headland and the shore. I doubt whether Cain would have made his way through that storm to chuck the cloak into the sea, but there are plenty of hiding places on the headland. Kate and I will take the house.”

The group dispersed, the SOCOs turning seaward and Piers and Robbins making their way towards St. John’s Cottage. Dalgliesh and Kate went through the iron gate into the west courtyard. The north cloister was now free of leaves, but nothing of interest had been discovered from the SOCOs’ meticulous search except the small twig, its leaves still fresh, on the floor of Raphael’s set.

Dalgliesh unlocked the door of the cloakroom. The air smelt unfresh. The five hooded cloaks hung on their pegs in a sad decrepitude, as if they had been there for decades. Dalgliesh put on his search gloves and turned back the hood of each cloak. The name tabs were in place: Morby, Arbuthnot, Buckhurst, Bloxham, McCauley. They passed into the laundry-room. There were two high windows with a Formica-topped table beneath them, and under it four plastic laundry baskets. To the left was a deep porcelain sink with a wooden draining-board on each side, and a tumble-drier. The four large washing machines were fixed to the right-hand wall. All the porthole doors were closed.

Kate stood in the doorway while Dalgliesh opened the first three doors. As he bent to the fourth, she saw him stiffen and went up to him. Behind the thick glass, blurred but identifiable, were the folds of a brown woollen garment. They had found the cloak.

On the top of the machine was a white postcard. Kate picked it up and silently passed it to Dalgliesh. The writing was black; the letters were meticulously formed. “
This vehicle should not be parked in the forecourt. Kindly remove it to the rear of the building. P.G
.”

Dalgliesh said, “Father Peregrine, and it looks as if he turned off the machine. There are only about three inches of water here.”

Kate said, “Is it bloody?” and, bending, peered close.

“It’s difficult to see, but the lab won’t need much to get a
match. Ring Piers and the SOCOs, will you, Kate. Call off the search. I want this door removed, the water drained off and the cloak sent to the lab. I need hair samples from everyone at St. Anselm’s. Thank God for Father Peregrine. If a machine this size had gone full-cycle I doubt whether we’d have got anything useful, either blood, fibres or hair. Piers and I will have a word with him.”

Kate said, “Surely Cain was taking an extraordinary risk. It was crazy coming back, even crazier to set the machine going. It was only by chance we didn’t find the cloak earlier.”

“He didn’t mind if we did find it. He may even have wanted it found. All that mattered was that it couldn’t be linked to him.”

“But he must have known that there was a risk that Father Peregrine would wake up and turn off the machine.”

“No, he didn’t know, Kate. He was one of the people here who never uses those machines. Remember Mrs. Munroe’s diary? George Gregory had his washing done by Ruby Pilbeam.”

Father Peregrine was sitting at his desk at the west end of the library, hardly visible behind a pile of volumes. No one else was present.

Dalgliesh said, “Father, did you turn off one of the washing machines on the night of the murder?”

Father Peregrine lifted his head and appeared to take some seconds recognizing his visitors. He said, “I’m sorry. It’s Commander Dalgliesh, of course. Of what are we speaking?”

“Saturday night. The night Archdeacon Crampton was killed. I’m asking if you went into the laundry-room and turned off one of the machines.”

“Did I?”

Dalgliesh handed over the postcard. “You wrote this, I presume. Those are your initials. This is your handwriting.”

“Yes, that is my hand, certainly. Dear me, it seems to be the wrong card.”

“What did the right one say, Father?”

“It said that ordinands should not use the washing machines after Compline. I go to bed early and sleep lightly. The machines are old, and when they start up the noise is extremely disrupting. The defect, I understand, is in the water system
rather than in the machines themselves, but the cause is immaterial. Ordinands are supposed to keep silence after Compline. It is not an appropriate time to do their personal laundry.”

“And did you hear the machine, Father? Did you place this note on it?”

“I must have done. But I expect I was half asleep at the time and it slipped my mind.”

Piers said, “How could it have slipped your mind, Father? You weren’t too sleepy to write the note, find a card and a pen.”

“Oh, but I explained, Inspector. This is the wrong note. I have quite a number already written. They’re in my room if you care to see.”

They followed him through the door that led into his cell-like room. There, on the top of the crowded bookcase, was a card-board box containing some half-dozen cards. Dalgliesh rifled through them. “
This desk is for my use only. Ordinands should not leave their books here.” “Kindly replace the books on these shelves in their precise order.” “These machines should not be used after Compline. In future any machines working after ten o’clock will be turned off.” “This board is for official notices only, not for the exchange of trivia by ordinands.
” All bore the initials P.G.

Father Peregrine said, “I’m afraid I was very sleepy. I picked up the wrong card.”

Dalgliesh said, “You heard the machine start up sometime in the night and went out to turn off the noise. Didn’t you realize the importance of this when Inspector Miskin questioned you?”

“The young woman asked me whether I had heard anyone come in or leave the building, or whether I had gone out myself. I remember the words exactly. She told me I must be very precise in answering her questions. I was. I said no. Nothing was said to me about washing machines.”

Dalgliesh said, “The doors of all the machines were closed. It’s usual, surely, for them to be left open when not in use. Did you close them, Father?”

Father Peregrine said complacently, “I can’t remember, but I expect I did. It would be a natural thing to do. Tidiness, you know. I dislike seeing them left open. There’s no good reason for it.”

Father Peregrine’s thoughts seemed to be on his desk and the work in hand. He led the way back into the library and they followed him. He settled himself down at the desk again, as if the interview were over.

Dalgliesh said with all the force he could command, “Father, are you at all interested in helping me to catch this murderer?”

Father Peregrine, not in the least intimidated by Dalgliesh’s six feet two inches towering over him, appeared to consider the question as a proposition rather than an accusation. He said, “Murderers should be caught, certainly, but I don’t really think I’m competent to help you, Commander. I have no experience of police investigation. I think you should call on Father Sebastian or Father John. They both read a great deal of detective fiction, and that probably gives them an insight. Father Sebastian lent me a volume once. I think it was by a Mr. Hammond Innes. It was too clever for me, I’m afraid.”

Piers, speechless, raised his eyes to heaven and turned his back on the débâcle. Father Peregrine dropped his eyes to his book, but then showed signs of animation and looked up again.

“Just a thought. This murderer, having done his murdering, would surely want to make his getaway. I expect he had a getaway car ready outside the west gate. The expression is familiar to me. I can’t believe, Commander, that he would think it a convenient time to do his personal laundry. The washing machine is a kipper.”

Piers muttered “red herring,” and took a step away from the desk as if he could bear no more.

Father Peregrine said, “Kipper or red herring, the meaning is the same. Red herrings were, of course, the staple protein on this coast for many years. It’s a curious word. I imagine the etymology is Middle English
kypre
from the Old English
cypera
. I’m surprised you don’t use it in place of ‘red herring.’ You could say that an investigation was ‘kippered’ when its success was jeopardized by irrelevant and misleading information.” He paused, then added, “Like my note, I’m afraid.”

Dalgliesh said, “And you saw and heard nothing when you left your room?”

“As I have explained, Commander, I have no memory of having left my room. However, the evidence of my note and the
fact that the machine was turned off seem incontrovertible. Certainly if anyone had entered my room to take the postcard I should have heard. I’m sorry not to be more helpful.”

Father Peregrine again turned his attention to his books, and Dalgliesh and Piers left him to his work.

Outside the library, Piers said, “I don’t believe it. The man’s mad. And he’s supposed to be competent to teach postgraduates!”

“And does it brilliantly, so I’m told. I can believe it. He wakes, hears a noise he detests, pads out half asleep and picks up what he thinks is his usual note, then fumbles back into bed. The difficulty is that he doesn’t for one moment believe that anyone in St. Anselm’s is a murderer. He doesn’t admit the possibility to his mind. It’s the same with Father John and the brown cloak. Neither of them is trying to obstruct us, they are not being deliberately unhelpful. None of them thinks like a policeman, and our questions seem an irrelevance. They refuse to accept even the possibility that someone at St. Anselm’s was responsible.”

Piers said, “Then they’re in for one hell of a shock. And Father Sebastian? Father Martin?”

“They’ve seen the body, Piers. They know where and how. The question is, do they know who?”

I
n the laundry-room the dripping cloak had been carefully lifted and placed in an open plastic bag. The water, so faintly pink that the colour seemed more imagined than real, was siphoned into bottles and labelled. Two of Clark’s team were dusting the machine for prints. It seemed to Dalgliesh a pointless exercise; Gregory had worn gloves in the church and was unlikely to have taken them off before he returned to his cottage. But the job had to be done; the defence would look for any opportunity to question the efficiency of the investigation.

Dalgliesh said, “This confirms Gregory as prime suspect, but then, he was from the time we knew about the marriage. Where is he, by the way? Do we know?”

Kate said, “He drove to Norwich this morning. He told Mrs. Pilbeam he’d be back by mid-afternoon. She cleans his cottage for him and she was there this morning.”

“We’ll question him as soon as he returns, and this time I want the interview recorded under the Police and Criminal Evidence Act. Two things are important. He mustn’t know that Treeves’s cloak was left in college or that the washing machine was turned off. Speak to Father John and Father Peregrine again, will you, Piers? Be tactful. Try to ensure that the message gets through to Father Peregrine.”

Piers went out. Kate said, “Couldn’t we get Father Sebastian to announce that the door to the north cloister is open and that students can use the laundry-room? We could then keep watch to see if Gregory comes for the cloak. He’ll want to know if we’ve found it.”

“Ingenious, Kate, but it will prove nothing. He’s not going to fall into that trap. If he does decide to come he’ll bring some
soiled washing with him. But why should he? He planned for the cloak to be found, one more piece of evidence to convince us that this was an inside job. All that concerns him is that we can’t prove that he wore it on the night of the murder. Normally he’d have been safe. It was bad luck for him that Surtees went to the church on Saturday night. Without his evidence there would have been no proof that the murderer wore a cloak. Bad luck for him, too, that the machine was turned off. If the washing cycle had been completed any evidence would almost certainly have been destroyed.”

Kate said, “He could still claim that Treeves had lent him the cloak sometime previously.”

“But how likely is that? Treeves was a young man jealous of his possessions. Why would he lend anyone his cloak? But you’re right. That will probably be part of his defence.”

Piers had returned. He said, “Father John was in the library with Father Peregrine. I think they’ve both got the message. But we had better wait for Gregory and intercept him as soon as he arrives back.”

Kate asked, “And if he wants a lawyer?”

Dalgliesh said, “Then we’ll have to wait until he gets one.”

But Gregory had no wish for a lawyer. An hour later he seated himself at the table in the interview room with every appearance of calm.

He said, “I think I know my rights and just how far you are permitted to go without incurring the expense of a lawyer. Those who would be any good I can’t afford, and those I can afford wouldn’t be any good. My solicitor, although perfectly competent when it comes to drawing up a will, would be an irritating encumbrance to us all. I didn’t kill Crampton. Not only is violence repugnant to me, I had no reason to wish him dead.”

Dalgliesh had decided that he would leave the questioning to Kate and Piers. Both sat opposite Gregory, and Dalgliesh himself moved to the east-facing window. It was, he thought, a curious setting for a police interview. The barely furnished room, with the square table, the four upright chairs and the two armchairs, was just as they had first seen it. The one change was a brighter bulb in the single overhanging light over the
table. Only in the kitchen, with its collection of mugs and the faint smell of sandwiches and coffee, and in the more comfortably furnished sitting-room opposite, where Mrs. Pilbeam had actually provided a jug of flowers, were there any signs of their occupation. He wondered what a casual watcher would have made of the present scene, of this bare functional space, of the three men and one woman so obviously intent on their private business. It could only be an interrogation or a conspiracy, and the rhythmic booming of the sea emphasized the atmosphere of secrecy and menace.