Death in Holy Orders (53 page)

Kate switched on the machine and they went through the preliminaries. Gregory gave his name and address, and the three police officers stated their names and ranks.

It was Piers who began the questioning. He said, “Archdeacon Crampton was murdered at about midnight last Saturday. Where were you after ten o’clock that night?”

“I told you that earlier, when you first questioned me. I was in my cottage, listening to Wagner. I didn’t leave the cottage until I was summoned by telephone to attend Sebastian Morell’s assembly in the library.”

“We have evidence that someone went to Raphael Arbuthnot’s room that night. Was it you?”

“How could it be? I just told you I didn’t leave my cottage.”

“On 27 April 1988 you married Clara Arbuthnot, and you have told us that Raphael is your son. Did you know at the time of the marriage that the ceremony would make him legitimate, the heir to St. Anselm’s?”

There was a slight pause. Dalgliesh thought, He doesn’t know how we found out about the marriage. He’s not sure how much we know.

Then Gregory said, “I wasn’t aware of it at the time. Later—and I can’t remember when—it came to my knowledge that the 1976 Act had legitimized my son.”

“At the time of the marriage did you know the provisions of Miss Agnes Arbuthnot’s will?”

There was no hesitation now. Dalgliesh was confident that Gregory would have made it his business to know, probably by research in London. But he wouldn’t have done that under his
own name and could be reasonably sure that this at least was evidence they wouldn’t easily find. He said, “No, I didn’t know.”

“And your wife didn’t tell you before or after the marriage?”

Again the slight hesitation, the flicker of the eyes. Then he decided to take a risk. “No, she didn’t. She was more concerned with saving her soul than with financial benefit to our son. And if these somewhat naïve questions are intended to stress that I had motive, may I point out that so did all four resident priests.”

Piers broke in, “I thought you told us you were unaware of the provisions of the will.”

“I wasn’t thinking of pecuniary advantage. I was thinking of the obvious dislike felt for the Archdeacon by virtually everyone in college. And if you’re alleging that I killed the Archdeacon to ensure an inheritance for my son, may I point out that the college was scheduled to close. We all knew that our time here was limited.”

Kate said, “Closure was inevitable, perhaps, but not immediate. Father Sebastian might well have negotiated a further year or two. Long enough for your son to complete his training and to be ordained. Was that what you wanted?”

“I’d have preferred another career for him. But this, I understand, is one of the smaller irritations of parenthood. Children seldom make sensible choices. As I have ignored Raphael for twenty-five years, I can hardly expect to have a say now in how he runs his life.”

Piers said, “We have learned today that the Archdeacon’s murderer almost certainly wore an ordinand’s cloak. We have found a brown cloak in one of the washing machines in St. Anselm’s laundry-room. Did you put it there?”

“No I did not, nor do I know who did.”

“We also know that someone, probably a man, phoned Mrs. Crampton at nine-twenty-eight on the night of the murder pretending to call from the diocesan office and asking for the number of the Archdeacon’s mobile phone. Did you make that call?”

Gregory suppressed a faint smile. “This is a surprisingly simplistic interrogation for what I understand is regarded as
one of Scotland Yard’s more prestigious squads. No, I did not make that call, nor do I know who did.”

“It was a time when the priests and the four ordinands in residence were due in church for Compline. Where were you?”

“In my cottage marking essays. And I wasn’t the only man not to attend Compline. Yarwood, Stannard, Surtees and Pilbeam resisted the temptation to hear the Archdeacon preach, as did the three women. Are you sure it was a man who made that call?”

Kate said, “The Archdeacon’s murder wasn’t the only tragedy that put the future of St. Anselm’s at risk. The death of Ronald Treeves didn’t help. He was with you on the Friday evening. He died the next day. What happened that Friday?”

Gregory stared at her. The spasm of dislike and contempt in his face was as raw and explicit as if he had spat. Kate flushed. She went on, “He’d been rejected and betrayed. He came to you for comfort and reassurance and you sent him away. Isn’t that what happened?”

“He came to me for a lesson in New Testament Greek, which I gave him. Shorter than usual, admittedly, but that was at his wish. Obviously you know about his stealing the consecrated wafer. I advised him to confess to Father Sebastian. It was the only possible advice, and you would have given the same. He asked me if this would mean expulsion and I said, given Father Sebastian’s peculiar view of reality, I thought it would. He wanted assurance but I couldn’t honestly give it to him. Better to risk expulsion than fall into the hands of a blackmailer. He was the son of a rich man; he could have been paying that woman for years.”

“Have you any reason to suppose that Karen Surtees is a blackmailer? How well do you know her?”

“Well enough to know that she is an unscrupulous young woman who likes power. His secret would never have been safe with her.”

Kate said, “So he went out and killed himself.”

“Unfortunately. That I could neither have foreseen nor prevented.”

Piers said, “And then there was a second death. We’ve
evidence that Mrs. Munroe had discovered that you are Raphael’s father. Did she confront you with this knowledge?”

There was another pause. He had placed his hands on the table and now sat regarding them. It was impossible to see his face, but Dalgliesh knew that the man had reached a point of decision. Again he was asking himself how much the police knew and with what certainty. Had Margaret Munroe spoken to someone else? Had she perhaps left a note?

The pause lasted for less than six seconds but seemed longer. Then he said, “Yes, she came to see me. She had made some inquiry—she didn’t say what—that confirmed her suspicions. Two things apparently worried her. The first was that I was deceiving Father Sebastian and working here under false pretences; more important, of course, was that Raphael ought to be told. None of it was her business, but I thought it wise to explain why I hadn’t married Raphael’s mother when she was pregnant, and why I changed my mind. I said I was waiting to tell my son until I had reason to believe that the news wouldn’t be too unwelcome to him. I wanted to choose my own time. She could be assured that I would speak before the end of term. On that undertaking—which incidentally she had absolutely no right to extract—she said she would keep the secret.”

Dalgliesh said, “And that night she died.”

“Of a heart attack. If the trauma of the discovery and the effort it took to confront me proved fatal, then I’m sorry. I can’t be held responsible for every death that takes place at St. Anselm’s. You will be accusing me next of pushing Agatha Betterton down the cellar steps.”

Kate said, “And did you?”

This time he was clever at concealing his dislike. He said, “I thought you were investigating the murder of Archdeacon Crampton, not attempting to cast me as a serial killer. Shouldn’t we be concentrating on the one death which was undoubtedly murder?”

It was then Dalgliesh spoke. He said, “We shall be requiring samples of hair from everyone who was in college last Saturday night. I take it you have no objection?”

“Not if the indignity is to be extended to all the other suspects. It’s hardly a procedure needing a general anaesthetic.”

There was little point in prolonging the questioning. They went through the routine for ending the interview and Kate switched off the tape.

Gregory said, “If you want your hairs, you’d better come for them now. I propose to work and have no intention of being interrupted.”

He strode off into the darkness.

Dalgliesh said, “I want those samples taken tonight. Then I’m driving back to London. I’d like to be at the lab when the cloak is examined. We should get a result within a couple of days if they give it priority. You two and Robbins will remain here. I’ll arrange with Father Sebastian for you to move into this cottage. I dare say he can provide sleeping bags or mattresses if there are no spare beds. I want a twenty-four-hour watch kept on Gregory.”

Kate said, “And if we get nothing from the cloak? Everything else we’ve got is circumstantial. Without forensic evidence we haven’t got a case.”

She had only been stating the obvious, and neither Dalgliesh nor Piers replied.

W
hen his sister was alive, Father John seldom appeared at meals except for dinner, when all the community were expected to be present for what Father Sebastian obviously regarded as a unifying celebration of community life. But now, and a little unexpectedly, he arrived for Tuesday-afternoon tea. With this latest death there had been no ceremonial calling together of the whole of the college; the news had been given to priests and ordinands individually by Father Sebastian with the minimum of fuss. The four ordinands had already visited Father John to express their condolences, and now they tried to show sympathy by replenishing his cup and bringing him sandwiches, scones and cake in succession from the refectory table. He sat near the door, a tranquil, diminished little man, unflinchingly polite and occasionally smiling. After tea Emma suggested that she should begin looking through Miss Betterton’s wardrobe and they went up to the flat together.

She had wondered how she could bundle up the clothes and had asked Mrs. Pilbeam for a couple of strong plastic bags, one for items which might be welcomed by Oxfam or some other charity shop and the other for clothes destined to be thrown away. But the two black bags presented to her had looked so intimidatingly unsuitable for anything other than rubbish that she had decided to make a preliminary sorting of the wardrobe and then bag and remove the clothes at a time when Father John wasn’t in the flat.

She left him sitting in the gloaming by the faint blue flames of his gas fire and went through to Miss Betterton’s bedroom. A central pendant light with a dusty old-fashioned shade gave inadequate illumination, but an anglepoise lamp on the table by
the single brass bed was fitted with a more powerful bulb, and by directing the beam on the room she was able to see to begin her task. To the right of the bed was an upright chair and a bow-fronted chest of drawers. The only other furniture was an immense mahogany wardrobe decorated with carved scrolls which occupied the space between the two small windows. Emma opened the door and breathed in a musty smell overlaid with the scent of tweed, lavender and mothballs.

But the task of sorting and discarding proved less formidable than she had feared. Miss Betterton in her solitary life had managed with few clothes, and it was difficult to believe she had purchased anything new in the last ten years. Emma drew from the wardrobe a heavy musquash coat with bare patches, two tweed suits which, with their over-padded shoulders and fitted jackets, looked as if they had last been worn in the 1940s, a motley collection of cardigans and long tweed skirts, and evening dresses in velvet and satin of excellent quality but archaic cut which it was difficult to believe a modern woman would wear except as fancy dress. The chest of drawers held shirts and underclothes, knickers washed but stained at the crotch, long-sleeved vests and rolled balls of thick stockings. There was little here that a charity shop would welcome.

She felt a sudden revulsion and a defensive pity on Miss Betterton’s behalf that Inspector Tarrant and his colleague should have rummaged among these pathetic leavings. What had they expected to find—a letter, a diary, a confession? Medieval congregations, exposed Sunday after Sunday to the terrifying imagery of the
Doom
, prayed to be delivered from sudden death, fearing that they might go to their creator unshriven. Nowadays man, in his last moment, was more likely to regret the untidy desk, the unfulfilled intentions, the incriminating letters.

There was a surprising find in the bottom drawer. Carefully placed between brown paper was an RAF officer’s tunic with wings above the left pocket, two rings on the sleeves and the ribbon of some gallantry award. With it was a squashed, rather battered cap. Moving the musquash coat, she laid them together on the bed and contemplated them for a moment in baffled silence.

She found the jewellery in the top left-hand drawer of the
chest of drawers in a small leather box. There wasn’t much, and the cameo brooches, heavy gold rings and long pearl necklaces looked as if they were family heirlooms. It was difficult to assess their value, although some of the stones looked good, and she wondered how best she could deal with Father John’s request to have the jewellery sold. Perhaps the best plan would be to take all the pieces to Cambridge and get a valuation from one of the city’s jewellers. In the mean time keeping them safe would be a responsibility.

There was a false bottom to the box and, lifting it, she found a small envelope yellowed with age. She opened it and tipped out onto her palm a single ring. It was gold and, although the stones were small, they were prettily mounted, a central ruby in a cluster of diamonds. On impulse she slipped it onto the third finger of her left hand and recognized it for what it was: an engagement ring. If it had been given to Miss Betterton by the airman, he must have been killed; how else would she have come by his uniform? Emma had a vivid image of a single plane, Spitfire or Hurricane, spiralling out of control and trailing its long tongue of fire before plunging into the Channel. Or had he been a bomber pilot, shot down over some enemy target, joining in death those whom his bombs had killed? Had he and Agatha Betterton been lovers before he died?

Why was it, she wondered, so difficult to believe that the old had been young, with the strength and animal beauty of youth, had loved, been loved, laughed and been full of youth’s unmeditated optimism? She pictured Miss Betterton on the few occasions when she had seen her, striding along the cliff path, woollen cap on head, chin forward, as if combating a more bitterly intractable enemy than the wind; passing Emma on the stairs with a brief nod of recognition or a sudden dart from her dark, disturbingly inquisitive eyes. Raphael had liked her, had been willing to spend time with her. But had that been genuine affection or the duty of kindness? And if this were indeed an engagement ring, why had she stopped wearing it? But perhaps that wasn’t so difficult to understand. It represented something that was over and had to be folded away as she had folded away her lover’s tunic. She had had no wish to put on memory every
morning with a symbol which had outlasted the giver and would outlast her, to make grief and loss public knowledge with every gesture of her hand. It was an easy platitude to say that the dead lived on in the memory of the living, but what substitute was memory for the loving voice and the strong enclosing arms? And wasn’t this the stuff of nearly all the world’s poetry, the transitoriness of life and love and beauty, the knowledge that time’s wingèd chariot had knives in its wheels?