Death of an Expert Witness (35 page)

After that there was no speech, no conscious thought, only instinctive action. They moved as one. Massingham grasped and lifted the dangling legs and Dalgliesh, seizing the chair upturned by Brenda’s slumping body, slipped the double loop of cord from Stella Mawson’s neck and lowered her to the floor. Massingham tore at the fastenings of her duffel coat, forced back her head and, flinging himself beside her, closed his mouth over hers. The bundle huddled against the wall stirred and moaned, and Dalgliesh knelt beside her. At the touch of his arms on her shoulders she struggled madly for a moment, squealing like a kitten, then opened her eyes and recognized him. Her body relaxed against his. She said faintly: “The murderer. In the new Lab. He was waiting for me. Has he gone?”

There was a panel of light switches to the left of the door. Dalgliesh clicked them on with a single gesture, and the inner chapel blazed into light. He stepped through the carved organ-screen into the chancel. It was empty. The door to the organ loft was ajar. He clattered up the narrow winding
stairway into the gallery. It, too, was empty. Then he stood looking down at the quiet emptiness of the chancel, his eyes moving from the exquisite plaster ceiling, the chequered marble floor, the double row of elegantly carved stalls with their high-arched backs set against the north and south walls, the oak table, stripped of its altar cloth, which stood before the reredos under the eastern window. All it now held were two silver candlesticks, the tall white candles burnt half down, the wicks blackened. And to the left of the altar, hanging incongruously, was a wooden hymn-board, showing four numbers:

29
10
18
40

He recalled old Mr. Lorrimer’s voice. “She said something about the can being burnt and that she’d got the numbers.” The last two numbers had been 18 and 40. And what had been burned was not a can, not cannabis, but two altar candles.

Forty minutes later, Dalgliesh was alone in the chapel. Dr. Greene had been sent for, had briefly pronounced Stella Mawson dead, and had departed. Massingham had left with him to take Brenda Pridmore home and to explain to her parents what had happened, to call at Sprogg’s Cottage and to summon Dr. Howarth. Dr. Greene had given Brenda a sedative by injection, but had held out no hope that she would be fit to be questioned before morning. The forensic pathologist had been summoned and was on his way. The voices, the questions, the ringing footsteps, all for the moment were stilled.

Dalgliesh felt extraordinarily alone in the silence of the chapel, more alone because her body lay there, and he had the sense that someone—or something—had recently left, leaving bereft the unencumbered air. This isolation of the spirit was not new to him; he had felt it before in the company of the recently dead. Now he knelt and gazed intently at the dead woman. In life only her eyes had lent distinction to that haggard face. Now they were glazed and gummy as sticky sweetmeats forced under the half-opened lids. It was not a peaceful
face. Her features, not yet settled in death, still bore the strain of life’s inquietude. He had seen so many dead faces. He had become adept at reading the stigmata of violence. Sometimes they could tell him how, or where, or when. But essentially, as now, they told him nothing.

He lifted the end of the cord still looped loosely around her neck. It was made of woven silk in royal blue, long enough to drape a heavy curtain, and was finished with an ornate silver and blue tassel. There was a five-foot panelled chest against the wall and, putting on his gloves, he lifted the heavy lid. The smell of mothballs came up to him, pungent as an anaesthetic. Inside the chest was a folded pair of faded blue velvet curtains, a starched but crumpled surplice, the black and white of an MA hood and, lying on top of this assorted bundle, a second tasselled cord. Whoever had put that cord round her neck—herself or another—had known in advance where it could be found.

He began to explore the chapel. He walked softly, yet his feet fell with portentous heaviness on the marbled floor. Slowly, he paced between the two rows of splendidly carved stalls towards the altar. In design and furnishing the building reminded him of his college chapel. Even the smell was the same, a scholastic smell, cold, austere, only faintly ecclesiastical. Now that the altar had been denuded of all its furnishing except the two candlesticks, the chapel looked purely secular, unconsecrated. Perhaps it always had. Its formal classicism rejected emotion. It enshrined man, not God; reason, not mystery. This was a place where certain reassuring rituals had been enacted, reaffirming its proprietor’s view of the proper order of the universe and his own place in that order. He looked for some memento of that original owner and found it. To the right of the altar was the chapel’s only
memorial, a carved bust, half draped with a looped marble curtain, of a bewigged eighteenth-century gentleman, with the inscription:

D
IEU AYE MERCI DE SON AME
.

This simple petition, unadorned, so out of period, was singularly inapposite to the formal confidence of the memorial, the proud tilt of the head, the self-satisfied smirk on the opulent marble lips. He had built his chapel and set it in a triple circle of trees, and death had not stayed its hand even long enough to give him time to make his carriage drive.

On either side of the organ-screen and facing the east window were two ornate stalls under carved canopies, each shielded from draughts by a blue velvet curtain similar to those in the chest. The seats were fitted with matching cushions; soft cushions with silver tassels at each corner lay on the book-rests. He climbed into the right-hand stall. On the cushion was a heavy black leather Book of Common Prayer which looked unused. The pages opened stiffly and the bold black and red lettering shone from the page.

“For I am a stranger with thee: and a sojourner, as all my fathers were. O spare me a little, that I may recover my strength: before I go hence, and be no more seen.”

He held the book by its spine and shook it. No paper fluttered from its rigid leaves. But where it had lain, four hairs, one fair and three dark, had adhered to the velvet pile. He took an envelope from his pocket and stuck them to the gummed flap. He knew how little the forensic scientists could hope to do with only four hairs, but it was possible that something could be learned.

The chapel, he thought, must have been ideal for them.

Shielded by its trees, isolated, secure, warm even. The fen villagers kept indoors once darkness fell and, even in the evening light, would have a half-superstitious dread of visiting this empty and alien shrine. Even without a key they need fear no casual intruder. She need only watch that she was unobserved when she drove the red Jaguar into Hoggatt’s drive to park it out of sight in one of the garages in the stable block. And then what? Wait for the light in the Biology Department to go out at last, for the advancing gleam of light from Lorrimer’s torch as he joined her for that walk through the Lab grounds and into the trees. He wondered whether she had dragged the velvet cushions to the sanctuary, whether it had added to the excitement to make love to Lorrimer in front of that denuded altar, the new passion triumphing over the old.

Massingham’s flame of hair appeared in the doorway. He said: “The girl’s all right. Her mother got her straight to bed and she’s asleep. I called next at Sprogg’s Cottage. The door was open and the sitting-room light was on, but there’s no one there. Howarth was at home when I rang, but not Mrs. Schofield. He said he’d be along. Dr. Kerrison is at the hospital at a medical committee meeting. His housekeeper said that he left just after seven. I didn’t ring the hospital. If he is there, he’ll be able to produce plenty of witnesses.”

“And Middlemass?”

“No answer. Out to dinner, or at the local perhaps. No answer either from the Blakelocks’ number. Anything here, sir?”

“Nothing, except what we’d expect to find. You’ve got a man posted to direct Blain-Thomson when he arrives?”

“Yes, sir. And I think he’s arriving now.”

Dr. Reginald Blain-Thomson had a curious habit, before beginning his examination, of mincing round the body, eyes fixed on it with wary intensity as if half afraid that the corpse might spring into life and seize him by the throat. He minced now, immaculate in his grey pinstriped suit, the inevitable rose in its silver holder looking as fresh in his lapel as if it were a June blossom, newly plucked. He was a tall, lean-faced, aristocratic-looking bachelor with a skin as freshly pink and soft as that of a girl. He was never known to put on protective clothing before examining a body, and reminded Dalgliesh of one of those television cooks who prepare a four-course dinner in full evening dress for the pleasure of demonstrating the essential refinement of their craft. It was even rumoured, unjustly, that Blain-Thomson performed his autopsy in a lounge suit.

But, despite these personal idiosyncrasies, he was an excellent forensic pathologist. Juries loved him. When he stood in the box and recited, with slightly world-weary formality and in his actor’s voice, the details of his formidable qualifications and
experience, they gazed at him with the respectful admiration of men who know a distinguished consultant when they see one, and have no intention of being so disobliging as to disbelieve what he might choose to tell them.

Now he squatted by the body, listened, smelt and touched. Then he switched off his examination torch and got to his feet. He said: “Yes, well. Obviously she’s dead and it’s very recent. Within the last two hours, if you press me. But you must have reached that conclusion yourselves or you wouldn’t have cut her down. When did you say you found her? Three minutes after eight. Dead one and a half hours then, say. It’s possible. You’re going to ask me whether it’s suicide or murder. All I can say at the moment is that there’s only the double mark encircling the neck and the cord fits. But you can see that for yourselves. There’s no sign of manual throttling, and it doesn’t look as if the cord were superimposed on a finer ligature. She’s a frail woman, little more than seven stone, I’d estimate, so it wouldn’t need strength to overpower her. But there’s no sign of a struggle and the nails look perfectly clean, so she probably didn’t get the chance to scratch. If it is murder, he must have come up behind her very swiftly, dropped the looped cord over her head, and strung her up almost as soon as unconsciousness supervened. As for the cause of death—whether it’s strangulation, broken neck or vagal inhibition—well, you’ll have to wait until I get her on the table. I can take her away now if you’re ready.”

“How soon can you do the PM?”

“Well, it had better be at once, hadn’t it? You’re keeping me busy, Commander. No questions about my report on Lorrimer, I suppose?”

Dalgliesh answered: “None, thank you. I did try to get you on the phone.”

“I’m sorry I’ve been elusive. I’ve been incarcerated in committees practically all day. When’s the Lorrimer inquest?”

“Tomorrow, at two o’clock.”

“I’ll be there. They’ll adjourn it, I suppose. And I’ll give you a ring and a preliminary report as soon as I’ve got her sewn up.”

He drew on his gloves carefully, finger by finger, then left. They could hear him exchanging a few words with the constable who was waiting outside to light him across the field to his car. One of them laughed. Then the voices faded.

Massingham put his head outside the door. The two dark-uniformed attendants from the mortuary van, anonymous bureaucrats of death, manoeuvred their trolley through the door with nonchalant skill. Stella Mawson’s body was lifted with impersonal gentleness. The men turned to trundle the trolley out through the door. But suddenly the way was blocked by two dark shadows, and Howarth and his sister stepped quietly and simultaneously into the light of the chapel. The figures with the trolley paused, stock-still like ancient helots, unseeing, unhearing.

Massingham thought that their entrance seemed as dramatically contrived as that of a couple of film stars arriving at a premiere. They were dressed identically in slacks and fawn leather jackets, lined with shaggy fur, the collars upturned. And for the first time he was struck by their essential likeness. The impression of a film was reinforced. Gazing at the two pale, arrogant heads framed with fur, he thought that they looked like decadent twins, their fair, handsome profiles theatrically posed against the dark oak panelling. Again simultaneously, their eyes moved to the shrouded lump on the trolley, then fixed themselves on Dalgliesh. He said to Howarth: “You took your time coming.”

“My sister was out driving and I waited for her to return.

You said you wanted both of us. I wasn’t given to understand that it was of immediate urgency. What has happened? Inspector Massingham wasn’t exactly forthcoming when he so peremptorily summoned us.”

“Stella Mawson is dead by hanging.” He had no doubt that Howarth appreciated the significance of his careful use of words. Their eyes moved from the two hooks on the chapel wall, one with the bell-rope hitched over it, to the blue cord with its dangling tassel held lightly in Dalgliesh’s hand.

Howarth said: “I wonder how she knew how to find the cord. And why choose here?”

“You recognize the cord?”

“Isn’t it from the chest? There should be two identical cords. We had an idea of hanging the curtains at the entrance to the chancel when we held our concert on 26th August. As it happens, we decided against it. The evening was too hot to worry about draughts. There were two tasselled cords in the chest then.”

“Who could have seen them?”

“Almost anyone who was helping with the preparations: myself, my sister, Miss Foley, Martin, Blakelock. Middlemass gave a hand arranging the hired chairs, and so did a number of people from the Lab. Some of the women helped with the refreshments after the concert and they were fussing about here during the afternoon. The chest isn’t locked. Anyone who felt curious could have looked inside. But I don’t see how Miss Mawson could have known about the cord. She was at the concert, but she had no hand in the preparations.”

Dalgliesh nodded to the men with the trolley. They pushed it gently forward, and Howarth and Mrs. Schofield stood aside to let it pass. Then Dalgliesh asked: “How many keys are there to this place?”