The Murder Room (20 page)

Muriel said, “Nothing. He sounds like a typical museum visitor but no one I specifically recognize. It's unfortunate that Tally didn't get the car number. What is so odd is what he said. I don't know whether you visited the Murder Room, Commander, when you were here with Mr. Ackroyd, but one of the cases featured is a death by fire.”

“Yes, I know the Rouse case. And I remember what Rouse said.”

He seemed to be waiting for one of them to comment further. Tally looked from him to Inspector Miskin. Neither was giving anything away. She burst out, “But it's not the same! It can't be. This was an accident.”

Still neither of them spoke. Then Muriel said, “The Rouse case wasn't an accident, was it?”

No one replied. Muriel, red-faced, looked from the Commander to Inspector Miskin as if desperately seeking reassuring.

Dalgliesh said quietly, “It's too early to say with certainty why Dr. Dupayne died. All we know at present is how. I see, Mrs. Clutton, that you have security locks on the front door, and window bolts. I don't think you're in any danger here but it would be sensible to make sure that you lock up carefully before you go to bed. And don't answer the door after dark.”

Tally said, “I never do. No one I know would arrive after the museum is closed without telephoning first. But I never feel frightened here. I shall be all right after tonight.”

A minute later, with renewed thanks for the coffee, the police rose to go. Before leaving, Inspector Miskin handed both a card with a telephone number. If anything further occurred to either of them, they should telephone at once. Muriel, proprietorial as ever, went with them to the door.

Sitting alone at the table, Tally stared intently at the two empty coffee mugs as if these commonplace objects had the power to reassure her that her world hadn't broken apart.

6

Dalgliesh took Piers with him to interview the two Dupaynes, leaving Kate and Benton-Smith to liaise with the Fire Investigation Officer and, if necessary, have some final words with Tally Clutton and Muriel Godby. Moving to the front of the house he saw with surprise that the door was now ajar. A shaft of light streamed from the hall, its thin band illuminating the bed of shrubs in front of the house, bestowing on them an illusion of spring. On the gravel path small pellets of gravel glittered like jewels. Dalgliesh pressed the bell before he and Piers entered. The half-open door could be construed as a cautious invitation, but he had no doubt that limits would be set on what could be presumed. They entered the wide hall. Empty and utterly silent, it looked like a vast stage set for some contemporary drama. He could almost imagine the characters moving on cue through the ground-floor doors and ascending the central staircase to take up their positions with practised authority.

As soon as their footsteps rang on the marble, Marcus and Caroline Dupayne appeared at the door of the picture gallery. Standing aside, Caroline Dupayne motioned them in. During the few seconds it took to make the introductions, Dalgliesh was aware that he and Piers were as much under scrutiny as were the Dupaynes. The impression that Caroline Dupayne made on him was immediate and striking. She was as tall as her brother—both slightly under six feet—wide-shouldered and long-limbed. She was wearing trousers and a matching jacket in fine tweed with a high-necked jumper. The words “pretty” or “beautiful” were inappropriate but the bone structure on which beauty is moulded revealed itself in the high cheekbones and the well-defined but delicate line of the chin. Her dark hair, faintly streaked with silver, was cut short and brushed back from her face in strong waves, a style which looked casual but which Dalgliesh suspected was achieved by expensive cutting. Her dark eyes met and held his for five seconds in a gaze speculative and challenging. It was not overtly hostile but he knew that, here, he had a potential adversary.

Her brother's only resemblance to her was in the darkness of the hair, his more liberally streaked with grey, and the jutting cheekbones. His face was smooth and the dark eyes had the inward look of a man whose preoccupations were cerebral and highly controlled. His mistakes would be mistakes of judgement, not of impulsiveness or carelessness. For such a man there was a procedure for everything in life, and a procedure, too, for death. Metaphorically he would even now be sending for the file, looking for the precedent, mentally considering the right response. He showed none of his sister's covert antagonism but the eyes, deeper set than hers, were wary. They were also troubled. Perhaps after all this was an emergency for which precedent offered no help. For nearly forty years he would have been protecting his Minister, his Secretary of State. Who, Dalgliesh wondered, would he be concerned to protect now?

He saw that they had been sitting in the two upright armchairs each side of the fireplace at the end of the room. Between the chairs was a low table holding a tray with a cafetière, a jug of milk and two mugs. There were also two tumblers, two wine glasses, a bottle of wine and one of whisky. Only the wine glasses had been used. The only other seating was the flat leather-buttoned bench in the centre of the room. It was hardly appropriate for a session of questions and answers, and no one moved towards it.

Marcus Dupayne looked round the gallery as if suddenly aware of its deficiencies. He said, “There are some folding chairs in the office. I'll fetch them.” He turned to Piers. “Perhaps you'd help me.” It was a command, not a request.

They waited in silence during which Caroline Dupayne moved over to the Nash painting and seemed to be studying it. Her brother and Piers appeared with the chairs within a few seconds and Marcus took control, placing them with care in front of the two armchairs in which he and his sister reseated themselves. The contrast between the deep comfort of the leather and the uncompromising slats of the folding chairs made its own comment.

Marcus Dupayne said, “This isn't your first visit to the museum, is it? Weren't you here about a week ago? James Calder-Hale mentioned it.”

Dalgliesh said, “Yes, I was here last Friday with Conrad Ackroyd.”

“A happier visit than this. Forgive me for introducing this inappropriate social note into what for you must be essentially an official visit. For us too, of course.”

Dalgliesh spoke the customary words of condolence. However carefully phrased they always sounded to him banal and vaguely impertinent, as if he were claiming some emotional involvement in the victim's death. Caroline Dupayne frowned. Perhaps she resented these preliminary courtesies as both insincere and a waste of time. Dalgliesh didn't blame her.

She said, “I realize you've had things to do, Commander, but we've been waiting for over an hour.”

Dalgliesh replied, “I'm afraid it's likely to be the first of many inconveniences. I needed to speak to Mrs. Clutton. She was the first person at the fire. Do you both feel able to answer questions now? If not, we could return tomorrow.”

It was Caroline who replied. “No doubt you'll be back tomorrow anyway, but for God's sake let's get the preliminaries over. I thought you might be in the cottage. How is Tally Clutton?”

“Shocked and distressed, as we would expect, but she's coping. Miss Godby is with her.”

“Making tea no doubt. The English specific against all disasters. We, as you see, have been indulging in something stronger. I won't offer you anything, Commander. We know the form. I suppose there can't be any doubt it is our brother's body in the car?”

Dalgliesh said, “There will have to be a formal identification, of course, and if necessary the dental records and DNA will prove it. But I don't think there's room for doubt. I'm sorry.” He paused, then said, “Is there a next of kin or close relative other than yourselves?”

It was Marcus Dupayne who replied. His voice was as controlled as if he were addressing his secretary. “There's an unmarried daughter. Sarah. She lives in Kilburn. I don't know the exact address but my wife does. She has it on our Christmas card list. I telephoned my wife after I arrived here and she's driving over to Kilburn to break the news. I'm expecting her to ring back when she's had an opportunity to see Sarah.”

Dalgliesh said, “I shall need Miss Dupayne's full name and address. Obviously we won't be troubling her tonight. I expect your wife will be giving her help and support.”

There was the trace of a frown on Marcus Dupayne's face but he replied evenly. “We've never been close, but naturally we shall do everything we can. I imagine my wife will offer to stay the night if that's what Sarah wishes, or she may, of course, prefer to come to us. In either case, my sister and I will see her early tomorrow.”

Caroline Dupayne stirred impatiently and said curtly, “There's not much we can tell her, is there? There's nothing we know for certain ourselves. What she'll want to know, of course, is how her father died. That's what we're waiting to hear.”

Marcus Dupayne's brief glance at his sister could have conveyed a warning. He said, “I suppose it's too early for definite answers, but is there anything you can tell us? How the fire started for example, whether it was an accident?”

“The fire started in the car. Petrol was thrown over the occupant's head and set alight. There is no way it could have been an accident.”

There was a silence which lasted for a quarter of a minute, then Caroline Dupayne said, “So we can be clear about this. You're saying that the fire could have been deliberate.”

“Yes, we're treating this as a suspicious death.”

Again there was a silence. Murder, that ponderous uncompromising word seemed to resonate unspoken on the quiet air. The next question had to be asked and even so it was likely to be at best unwelcome and at worst cause pain. Some investigating officers might have thought it more acceptable to defer all questioning until the next day; that was not Dalgliesh's practice. The first hours after a suspicious death were crucial. But his earlier words—“Do you feel able to answer some questions?”—hadn't been merely a matter of form. At this stage—and he found the fact interesting—it was the Dupaynes who could control the interview.

Now he said, “This is a difficult question both to ask and to answer. Was there anything in your brother's life which might cause him to wish to end it?”

They would be ready for the question; after all, they had been alone together for an hour. But their reaction surprised him. Again there was a silence, a little too long to be wholly natural, and he gained an impression of controlled wariness, of the two Dupaynes deliberately not meeting each other's eyes. He suspected that they had not only agreed what they would say, but who would speak first. It was Marcus.

“My brother wasn't a man to share his problems, perhaps least with members of the family. But he has never given me any reason to fear that he was or might be suicidal. If you had asked me that question a week ago I might have been more definite in saying that the suggestion was absurd. I can't be so certain now. When we last met at the trustees' meeting on Wednesday, he seemed more stressed than usual. He was worried—as we all are—about the future of the museum. He wasn't convinced that we had the resources to keep it going successfully and his own instinct was strongly for closure. But he seemed unable to listen to arguments or to take a rational part in discussions. During our meeting someone phoned from the hospital with news that the wife of one of his patients had killed herself. He was obviously deeply affected and soon afterwards walked out of the meeting. I'd never seen him like that before. I'm not suggesting that he was suicidal; the idea still seems preposterous. I'm only saying that he was under considerable stress and there may have been worries about which we knew nothing.”

Dalgliesh looked at Caroline Dupayne. She said, “I hadn't seen him for some weeks prior to the trustees' meeting. He certainly seemed distracted and under stress then, but I doubt whether it was about the museum. He took absolutely no interest in it and my brother and I weren't expecting him to. The meeting we held was our first and we only discussed preliminaries. The trust deed is unambiguous but complicated and there's a great deal to sort out. I've no doubt Neville would have come round in the end. He had his share of family pride. If he was seriously under stress—and I think he was—you can put it down to his job. He cared too much and too deeply, and he's been overworked for years. I didn't know much about his life but I did know that. We both did.”

Before Marcus could speak, Caroline said quickly, “Can't we continue this some other time? We're both shocked, tired and not thinking very clearly. We stayed because we wanted to see Neville's body moved, but I take it that that won't happen tonight.”

Dalgliesh said, “It will happen as early as possible tomorrow morning. I'm afraid it can't be tonight.”

Caroline Dupayne seemed to have forgotten her wish for the interview to end. She said impatiently, “If this is murder, then you have a prime suspect immediately. Tally Clutton must have told you about the motorist driving so quickly down the drive that he knocked her over. Surely finding him is more urgent than questioning us.”

Dalgliesh said, “He has to be found if possible. Mrs. Clutton said that she thought she had seen him before, but she couldn't remember when or where. I expect she told you how much she saw of him in that brief encounter. A tall, fair-haired man, good-looking and with a particularly agreeable voice. He was driving a large black car. Does that brief description bring anyone to mind?”

Caroline said, “I suppose it's typical of some hundred thousand men throughout Great Britain. Are we seriously expected to name him?”

Dalgliesh kept his temper. “I thought it possible that you might know someone, a friend or a regular visitor to the museum, who came to mind when you heard Mrs. Clutton's description.”

Caroline Dupayne didn't reply. Her brother said, “Forgive my sister if she seems unhelpful. We both want to co-operate. It's as much our wish as our duty. Our brother died horribly and we want his murderer—if there is a murderer—brought to justice. Perhaps further questioning could wait until tomorrow. In the meantime, I'll give some thought to this mysterious motorist, but I don't think I'll be able to help. He may be a regular visitor to the museum, but not one I recognize. Isn't it more likely that he was parking here illegally and took fright when he saw the fire?”