Unnatural Causes

10

Dalgliesh was woken next morning by the ring of the telephone. His aunt must have answered it quickly for the ringing stopped almost immediately and he dozed again into that happy trance between waking and sleeping which follows a good night. It must have been half an hour before the telephone rang again, and this time it seemed louder and more insistent. He opened his eyes wide and saw, framed by the window, a translucent oblong of blue light with only the faintest hairline separating the sea and the sky. It promised to be another wonderful autumn day. It was already another wonderful autumn day. He saw with surprise that his watch showed 10.15. Putting on his dressing gown and slippers, he pattered downstairs in time to hear his aunt answering the telephone.

“I’ll tell him, Inspector, as soon as he wakes. Is it urgent? No, except that this is supposed to be his holiday… I’m sure that he’ll be glad to come as soon as he’s finished breakfast. Goodbye.”

Dalgliesh bent over and placed his cheek momentarily against hers. It felt, as always, as soft and tough as a chamois glove.

“Is that Reckless?”

“Yes. He says he is at Seton’s house and would be glad if you would join him there this morning.”

“He didn’t say in what capacity I suppose? Am I supposed to work or merely to admire him working? Or am I, possibly, a suspect?”

“It is I who am the suspect, Adam. It was almost certainly my chopper.”

“Oh, that’s been taken notice of. Even so, you rate lower than most of your neighbours, I imagine. And certainly lower than Digby Seton. We police are simple souls at heart. We like to see a motive before we actually make an arrest. And no motive so gladdens our heart as the prospect of gain. I take it that Digby is his half-brother’s heir?”

“It’s generally supposed so. Two eggs or one, Adam?”

“Two, please. But I’ll see to them. You stay and talk. Didn’t I hear two calls? Who telephoned earlier?”

His aunt explained that R. B. Sinclair had rung to invite them both to dinner on Sunday night. She had promised to ring back. Dalgliesh, paying loving attention to his frying eggs, was intrigued. But he said little beyond expressing his willingness to go. This was something new. His aunt, he guessed, was a fairly frequent visitor to Priory House but never when he was at Pentlands. It was after all well understood that R. B. Sinclair neither visited nor received visitors. His aunt was uniquely privileged. But it wasn’t hard to guess the reason for this innovation. Sinclair wanted to talk about the murder with the one man who could be expected to give a professional opinion. It was reassuring, if a little disillusioning, to discover that the great man wasn’t immune to common curiosity. Violent death held its macabre fascination even for this dedicated non-participant in the human charade. But, of course, Dalgliesh would go to dinner. The temptation was too great to resist. He had lived long enough to know that few experiences can be so disenchanting as meeting the famous. But, with R. B. Sinclair, any writer would be willing to take the risk.

Dalgliesh made an unhurried business of washing-up after his breakfast, put on a tweed jacket over his sweater and hesitated at the cottage door where a jumbled collection of walking sticks, left by past guests as hostages against a happy return, tempted him to add a final touch to the part of an energetic holiday-maker. He selected a sturdy ash, balanced it in his hand, then replaced it. There was no point in overdoing the act. Calling “Goodbye” to his aunt he set off across the headland. The quickest way would have been by car, turning right at the road junction, driving about half a mile on the Southwold road, then taking the narrow but reasonably smooth track which led across the headland to the house. Perversely, Dalgliesh decided to walk. He was, after all, supposed to be on holiday and the Inspector’s summons had made no mention of any urgency. He was sorry for Reckless. Nothing is more irritating and frustrating to a detective than any uncertainty about the extent of his responsibility. In fact, there was none. Reckless was in sole charge of the investigation and both of them knew it. Even if the Chief Constable decided to ask for the help of the Yard it was highly improbable that Dalgliesh would be given the case. He was too personally involved. But Reckless would hardly relish conducting his investigation under the eyes of a CID Superintendent, particularly one with Dalgliesh’s reputation. Well, it was hard luck on Reckless; but harder luck, thought Dalgliesh, on himself. This was the end of his hope of a solitary, uncomplicated holiday, that blessed week of undemanding peace which almost without effort on his part was to soothe his nerves and solve his personal problems. From the first this plan was probably an unsubstantial fabrication built on tiredness and his need to escape. But it was disconcerting to see it fall so early into ruin. He was as little inclined to interfere in the case as Reckless was to seek his help. There would have been tactful telephone calls to and from the Yard, of course. It would be understood by all concerned that Dalgliesh’s familiarity with Monksmere and his knowledge of the people concerned would be at the Inspector’s service. That was no more than any citizen owed the police. But if Reckless thought that Dalgliesh craved any more positive participation he must be speedily disillusioned.

It was impossible not to rejoice in the beauty of the day and as he walked much of Dalgliesh’s irritation fell away. The whole headland was bathed in the yellow warmth of the autumn sun. The breeze was fresh but without chill. The sandy track was firm under his feet, sometimes passing straight between the gorse and heather, sometimes twisting among the thick brambles and stunted hawthorn trees which formed a succession of little caverns where the light was lost and the path dwindled to a thread of sand. For most of the walk Dalgliesh had a view of the sea except when he passed behind the grey walls of Priory House. It stood four square to the sea within a hundred yards of the cliff edge and was bounded on the south by a tall stone wall and on the north by a fringe of fir trees. At night there was something eerie and unwelcoming about the house which reinforced its natural privacy. Dalgliesh thought that Sinclair, if he craved seclusion, could hardly have found a more perfect site. He wondered how long it would be before Inspector Reckless violated that privacy with his questions. It would hardly take him long to learn that Sinclair had a private flight of steps leading to the beach from his land. Assuming that the body had been taken to the boat and not the boat rowed some considerable distance along the coast to the body, it must have been carried down to the beach by one of three paths. There was no other access. One way, and perhaps the most obvious, was Tanner’s Lane which led past Sylvia Kedge’s cottage. As the dinghy had been beached at the bottom of Tanner’s Lane this would have been the most direct route. The second was the steep and sandy slope which led from Pentlands to the shore. It was difficult enough in daylight. At night it would be hazardous even to the experienced and unburdened. He could not see the murderer risking that route. Even if his aunt did not hear the distant car she would know that someone was passing the cottage. People who lived alone and in so remote a place were quick to sense the unfamiliar noises of the night. His aunt was the most detached and incurious of women, to whom the habits of birds had always appeared of greater interest than those of humans. But even she would hardly watch unconcerned while a dead body was carried past her door. There would, too, be the problem of carrying the corpse the half-mile along the shore to where Sheldrake was beached. Unless, of course, the killer left it half-buried in the sand while he collected the dinghy and rowed it to the corpse. But that would surely add unnecessarily to the risks and it would be impossible to remove all traces of sand from the body. More to the point, it would require oars and rowlocks. He wondered whether Reckless had checked on these.

The third way of access to the beach was by Sinclair’s steps. These were only some fifty yards from the bottom of Tanner’s Lane and they led to a small secluded cove where the cliffs, taller here than at any other point, had been crumbled and eroded by the sea into a gentle curve. This was the only part of the beach where the killer-if killer there were-could have worked on the corpse without fear of being watched either from the north or south. Only in the unlikely event of one of the local inhabitants deciding to take a late walk along the shore would there be danger of discovery; and in this place, once dusk had fallen, the countryman did not choose to walk alone on the shore.

Priory House was behind Dalgliesh now and he had come to the thin beech wood which fringed Tanner’s Lane. Here the earth was brittle with fallen leaves and through the lattice of the bare boughs there was a haze of blue which could have been sky or sea. The wood ended suddenly and Dalgliesh clambered over a stile and dropped into the lane. Immediately before him was the squat, red-bricked cottage where Sylvia Kedge had lived alone since the death of her mother. It was an ugly building, as uncompromisingly square as a doll’s house with its four small windows, each heavily curtained. The gate and the front door had been widened, presumably to take the girl’s wheelchair, but the change had done nothing to improve the proportions of the house. No attempt had been made to prettify it. The diminutive front garden was a dark patch cut in two by a gravel path; the paint on doors and windows was a thick, institutional brown. Dalgliesh thought that there must have been a tanner’s cottage here for generations, each built a little higher up the lane until it too crumbled or was swept away in the great storms. Now this square, red, twentieth-century box stood firm to take its chance against the sea. Obeying an impulse, Dalgliesh pushed open the garden gate and walked up the path. Suddenly his ears caught a sound. Someone else was exploring. Round the corner of the house came the figure of Elizabeth Marley. Unembarrassed, she gave him a cool glance and said: “Oh, it’s you! I thought I heard someone snooping around. What do you want?”

“Nothing. I snoop by nature. Whereas you, presumably, were looking for Miss Kedge?”

“Sylvia’s not here. I thought she might be in her little dark room at the back but she isn’t. I’ve come with a message from my aunt. Ostensibly she wants to make sure that Sylvia’s all right after the shock of last night. Really, she wants her to come and take dictation before Oliver Latham or Justin nab her. There’s going to be great competition for La Kedge, and I’ve no doubt she’ll make the most of it. They all like the idea of having a private secretary on call for two bob a thousand words, carbons supplied.”

“Is that all Seton paid her? Why didn’t she leave?”

“She was devoted to him, or pretended to be. She had her own reasons for staying, I suppose. After all, it wouldn’t be easy for her to find a flat in town. It’ll be interesting to know what she’s been left in the will. Anyway, she enjoyed posing as the loyal, overworked little helpmeet who would be so happy to transfer to auntie if only it didn’t mean letting poor Mr. Seton down. My aunt never saw through it, of course. But then, she’s not particularly intelligent.”

“Whereas you have us all neatly catalogued. But you’re not suggesting that someone killed Maurice Seton to get his shorthand typist?”

She turned on him furiously, her heavy face blotched with anger. “I don’t care a damn who killed him or why! I only know that it wasn’t Digby Seton. I met him off that train Wednesday night. And if you’re wondering where he was on Tuesday night, I can tell you. He told me on the drive home. He was locked up in West Central Police Station from eleven o’clock onwards. They picked him up drunk and he came before the Magistrate on Wednesday morning. So, luckily for him, he was in police custody from eleven o’clock on Tuesday night until nearly midday on Wednesday. Break that alibi if you can, Superintendent.”

Dalgliesh pointed out mildly that the breaking of alibis was Reckless’s business, not his. The girl shrugged, dug her fists into her jacket pockets and kicked shut the gate of Tanner’s Cottage. She and Dalgliesh walked up the lane together in silence. Suddenly she said: “I suppose the body was brought down this lane to the sea. It’s the easiest way to where Sheldrake was beached. The killer would have had to carry it for the last hundred yards, though. The lane’s much too narrow for a car or even a motorcycle. He could have got it by car as far as Coles’s meadow and parked the car on the grass verge. There were a couple of plainclothes men there when I came past, looking for tyre marks. They won’t get much joy. Someone left the gate open last night and Coles’s sheep were all over the lane this morning.”

This, as Dalgliesh knew, was not unusual. Ben Coles, who farmed a couple of hundred unproductive acres on the east of the Dunwich road, did not keep his gates in the best of repair and his sheep, with the blind perversity of their kind, were as often in Tanner’s Lane as in their own meadow. At tripper time the lane became a shambles when the bleating flock in full cry mingled with the herd of horn-happy motorists frantically trying to edge each other out of the only parking space in the lane. But that open gate might have been highly convenient for someone; Coles’s sheep in their happy scamperings might have been following an old local tradition. It was well known that, in the smuggling days, the flocks were driven nightly along the sheep paths which crossed the Westleton marshes so that all traces of horses’ hoofs were obliterated before the Excise Officers made their morning search.

They walked on together until they came to the stile which gave access to the northern half of Monksmere Head. Dalgliesh was pausing to say goodbye when the girl suddenly blurted: “I suppose you think I’m an ungrateful bitch. She makes me an allowance, of course. Four hundred pounds a year in addition to my grant. But I expect you know that. Most people here seem to.”

There was no need to ask whom she meant. Dalgliesh could have replied that Celia Calthrop was not the woman to let her generosities go unremarked. But he was surprised by the amount. Miss Calthrop made no secret of the fact that she had no private income-”Poor little me. I’m a working girl. I earn every penny I get”-but it was not therefore assumed that she lacked money. Her sales were large and she worked hard, incredibly hard by the standards of Latham or Bryce who were apt to assume that dear Celia had only to lean back in a comfortable armchair with her tape recorder on and her reprehensible fiction would gush forth in an effortless and highly rewarding stream. It was easy to be unkind about her books. But if one were buying affection, and the price of even a reluctant toleration was a Cambridge education and £400 a year, much might be necessary. A novel every six months; a weekly stint in Home and Hearth; appearances whenever her agent could get them on those interminably boring television panels; short stories written under one name or another for the women’s weeklies; the gracious appearances at church bazaars where the publicity was free even if the tea had to be paid for. He felt a spasm of pity for Celia. The vanities and ostentations which were such a source of amused contempt to Latham and Bryce suddenly appeared no more than the pathetic trappings of a life both lonely and insecure. He wondered whether she had really cared for Maurice Seton. And he wondered, too, whether she was mentioned in Seton’s will.

Elizabeth Marley seemed in no hurry to leave him and it was difficult to turn away from that resolutely persistent figure. He was used to being a confidant. That, after all, was part of his job. But he wasn’t on duty now and he knew well that those who confided most were apt to regret it soonest. Besides, he had no real wish to discuss Celia Calthrop with her niece. He hoped the girl didn’t intend to walk all the way to Seton House with him. Looking at her he could see where at least some of that £400 allowance went. Her fur-lined jacket was real leather. The pleated skirt of thin tweed looked as if it had been tailored for her. Her shoes were sturdy but they were also elegant. He remembered something he had once heard Oliver Latham say, he couldn’t remember when or why: “Elizabeth Marley has a passion for money. One finds it rather engaging in this age when we’re all so busy pretending to have minds above mere cash.”

She was leaning back against the stile now, effectively blocking his way. “She got me to Cambridge, of course. You can’t do that without either money or influence if you’re only moderately intelligent like me. It’s all right for the alpha people. Everyone’s glad to get them. For the rest of us it’s a matter of the right school, the right crammers and the right names on your application form. Aunt could manage even that. She has a real talent for making use of people. She’s never afraid of being a vulgar nuisance which makes it easier of course.”

“Why do you dislike her so much?” enquired Dalgliesh.

“Oh, it’s nothing personal. Although we haven’t much in common, have we? It’s her work. The novels are bad enough. Thank God we haven’t the same name. People are pretty tolerant at Cambridge. If, like the waterman’s wife, she was a receiver of stolen property under guise of keeping a brothel no one would care a damn. And nor would I. But that column she writes. It’s utterly humiliating! Worse even than the books. You know the kind of muck.” Her voice rose to a sickly falsetto. “Don’t give in to him, dear. Men are only after one thing.”

In Dalgliesh’s view men, including himself, frequently were but he thought it prudent not to say so. Suddenly he felt middle-aged, bored and irritated. He had neither wanted nor expected company and if his solitude had to be disturbed he could have named more agreeable companions than this peevish and dissatisfied adolescent. He hardly heard the rest of her complaint. She had dropped her voice and the words were blown from him on the freshening breeze. But he caught the final mutterings. “It’s so completely amoral in the real sense of the term. Virginity as a carefully preserved bait for eligible males. In this day and age!”

“I haven’t much sympathy with that point of view myself,” Dalgliesh said. “But then, as a man, your aunt would no doubt consider me prejudiced. But at least it’s realistic. And you can hardly blame Miss Calthrop for dishing out the same advice week after week when she gets so many letters from the readers wishing they’d taken it in the first place.”

The girl shrugged: “Naturally she has to adopt the orthodox line. The hag rag wouldn’t employ her if she dared to be honest. Not that I think she knows how. And she needs that column. She hasn’t any money except what she earns and the novels can’t go on selling for ever.”

Dalgliesh caught the note of anxiety in her voice. He said brutally: “I shouldn’t worry. Her sales won’t fall. She writes about sex. You may not like the packaging but the basic commodity will always be in demand. I should think your £400 is safe for the next three years.”

For a moment he thought she was going to smack his face. Then surprisingly, she gave a shout of laughter and moved away from the stile. “I deserved that! I’ve been taking myself too seriously. Sorry for boring you. You’re on your way to Seton House, I suppose?”

Dalgliesh said that he was and asked if he should give any message to Sylvia Kedge if she were there.

“Not to Sylvia. Why should you pimp for Auntie? No, it’s to Digby. Just to say that there will be meals for him at the cottage until he gets fixed up if he cares to come. It’s only cold meat and salad today so he won’t be missing much if he can’t make it. But I don’t suppose he’ll want to depend on Sylvia. They hate each other. And don’t get any wrong ideas, Superintendent. I may be willing to drive Digby home and feed with him for a day or two. But that’s as far as it goes. I’m not interested in pansies.”

“No,” said Dalgliesh. “I wouldn’t suppose that you were.” For some reason she blushed. She was turning away when, prompted by no more than mild curiosity, Dalgliesh said: “One thing intrigues me. When Digby Seton telephoned to ask you to meet him at Saxmundham, how did he know you weren’t at Cambridge?”

She turned back and met his gaze without embarrassment or fear. She didn’t even appear to resent the question. Instead, to his surprise, she laughed. “I wondered how long it would be before someone asked that. I might have known it would be you. The answer’s simple. I met Digby in London, quite by chance, on Tuesday morning. At Piccadilly Underground to be precise. I stayed in London that night and on my own. So I probably haven’t an alibi… Are you going to tell Inspector Reckless? But of course you are.”

“No,” replied Dalgliesh. “You are.”