Authors: P D James
He was aware of a small noise at his side and looked round to see Detective Inspector Kate Miskin looking, not at the corpse, but at him. She quickly turned her eyes away but not before he had detected, to his discomfort, ;
look &grave, almost maternal solicitude. He said roughly: 'Well, Inspector?'
'It looks obvious, sir, murder followed by suicide. The classical pattern of self-inflicted wounds - three cuts, two tentative, the third cutting through the trachea.' She added:
'It could be used as an illustration in a textbook of
forensic medicine.'
He said:
'There's no difficulty in recognizing the obvious. One should be slower to believe it. I want you to break the news to his family. The address is 62 Campden Hill Square. There is a wife and an elderly mother, Lady Ursula Berowne, and a housekeeper of sorts. Use your discretion about which is best able to take it. And take a DC. When the news breaks they may be pestered and need protection.'
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'Yes, sir.' She showed scene. She knew. routine chore, th she was the only woman's job. S cretion, even wi enough practice still be a traitor she spoke the for an eyelid, the unwise word, for house in Campd all.
resentment at being ordered from the lat the job of breaking the news wasn't a
she hadn't been chosen merely because vOnlan in his team and he saw this as a Wtuld break the news with tact, dis-CCmpassion. God knew she had had ten years of policing. But she would
grief, watching and listening, even as Vords of condolence, for the flicker of ng of hands and face muscles, for the ny ain that for someone in that waiting t HilSquare this might not be news at
5
Before he concehl Dalgliesh always surroundings to the scene of mur but he recognize, a psychological plore a country before, with a open the door discovery to the remaining minut print officers, the
atel on the actual scene of the crime, kecl to make a cursory survey of the
entate himself, and, as it were, to set r. 'he exercise had its practical value,
thtt, in some obscure way, it fulfilled ed, just as in boyhood he would ex arch by first walking slowly round it )ri of awe and excitement, pushing
Ieginning his planned progress of trtl mystery. And now, in these few bfore the photographer, the finger
he had the plae relasic biologists arrived at the scene,
passage he wontl almost to himself. Moving into the
with the scent o1',red whether this quiet air tinctured
Anglican smell oldncelase, candles, and the more solidly
flowers, had heltt Uty prayer books, metal polish and
covery, of a scer or Bcrowne also the promise of dis escapable, already set, a task inevitable and in
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The brightly lit passage with its fior of encaustic tiles and its white painted walls ran the whole west end of the church. The Little Vestry was the first roora on the left. Next to it and with a connecting door, was a small kitchen about ten feet by eight. Then came a narrow lavatory with an old-fashioned bowl of decorated porcelain and a mahogany seat with, above it, a hanging chain set under a single high window. Lastly an open door showed him a high square room, almost certainly set under the campanile, which was obviously both the vestry proper and the bell room. Opposite it the passage was separated from the body of the church by a ten foot long grille in delicate wrought iron which gave a view up the nave to the cavernous glitter of the apse and the Lady Chapel on the right. A central door in the grille topped with figures of two trumpeting angels gave entry to the church for the processing priest and choir. To the right a padlocked wooden box was fixed to the grille. Behind it, but within reach of stretching hands, stood a branching candlestand, also in wrought iron, with a box of matches in a brass holder attached to it with a chain, and a tray con-taining a few small candles. Presumably this was to enable people who had business in the vestry to light a candle when the grille door to the church was locked. Judging from the cleanness of the candleholders it was a facility of which they seldom, if ever, took advantage. There was only one candle in place, stuck upright like a pale wax finger, and this had never been lit. Two of the brass chandeliers suspended above the nave gave a gentle diffused light but the church looked dimly mysterious compared with the glare of the passage and the figures of Massingham and the detective sergeant quietly conferring, of Miss Wharton and the boy patiently sitting like hump-backed dwarfs on low chairs in what must be the children's corner, seemed as distanced and insubstantial as if they moved in a different dimension of time. As he stood watching Massingham looked up, caught his eye, and moved down the nave to-wards him.
He returned to the Little Vestry and, standing in the doorway, drew on his latex gloves. It always surprised him
$7
a little that it was possible to fix the attention on the room itself, its furniture and objects, even before the bodies had been packaged and taken away, as if in their fixed and silent decrepitude they had for a moment become part of the room's artefacts, as significant as any other physical clue, no more and no less. As he moved into the room he was aware of Massingham behind him, alert, already drawing on his gloves but, for him, unnaturally subser-vient, pacing quietly behind his chief like a recently quali-fied houseman deferentially attendant on the consultant. Dalgliesh thought: Why is he behaving as if I need tactful handling, as if I'm suffering from a private grief?. This is a job like any other. It promises to be difficult enough with out John and Kate treating me as if I'm a sensitive con-valescent.
Henry James, he remembered, had said of his approach ing death, 'So here it is at last, the distinguished thing!' I Berowne had thought in these terms, then this was an in congruous place in which to receive so honoured a visita--tion. The room was about twelve foot square and lit by z fluorescent tube running almost the full length of the ceil-ing. The only natural light came from two high curved windows. They were covered outside by a protective mesh which looked like chicken wire on which the dirt of decades had accumulated, so that the panes were honeycombs of greenish grime. The furniture, too, looked as if it had been gradually acquired over the years; gifts, rejects, the un-regarded remnants of long-forgotten jumble sales. Opposite the door and set under the windows was an ancient oak desk with three right-hand drawers, one without handles On its top was a simple oak cross, a much used blotter in leather pad, and an old fashioned black telephone, the re
ceiver off the rest and lying on its side.
Massingham said:
'Looks as if he took it off. Who wants the telephone t ring just when he's concentrating on slitting his jugular?'
'Or his killer was taking no chances on the bodies beint discovered too soon. If Father Barnes took it into his heac to ring and got no reply he'd probably come round to se
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ifBerowne was all right. If he continued to get the engaged sound he'd probably assume that Berowne was having an
evening of telephoning and let it go.'
'We might get a palm print, sir.'
'Unlikely, John. If this is murder, we're not dealing with a fool.'
He continued his exploration. With his gloved hands, he pulled open the top drawer and found a stack of white writing paper, of cheap quality, headed with the name of the church, and a box of envelopes. Apart from these, the desk held nothing of interest. Against the left-hand wall was an assortment of canvas and metal chairs neatly stacked, presumably for the occasional use of the parochial church council. Beside them was a five-drawer metal filing cabinet, and next to it a small glass-fronted bookcase. He slipped the catch and saw that it contained an assortment of old prayer books, missals, devotional pamphlets, and a pile of booklets about the history of the church. There were only two easy chairs, one set on each side of the fireplace; a compact brown chair in torn leather with a patchwork cushion, and a grubby, mor modern chair with fitted pads. One of the stacked chairs had been up-righted. A white towel hung over its back and on the seat rested a brown canvas bag, its zip open. Massingham rummaged gently inside and said:
'A pair of pyjamas, a spare pair of socks, and a table napkin wrapped round half a sliced loaf, wholemeal, and a piece of cheese. Roquefort by the look of it. And there's
an apple. A Cox if that's relevant.'
'Hardly. Is that all, John?'
'Yes, sir. No wine. Whatever he thought he was doing here, it doesn't look like an assignation, not with a woman anyway. And why choose this place with the whole of London open to him? Bed too narrow. No comfort.'
'Whatever he was looking for, I don't think it was comfort.'
Dalgliesh had moved over to the fireplace, a plain wooden overmantel with an iron surround patterned with g,pes and convolvulus set in the middle of the right-hand
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a little that it was possible to fix the attention on the room itself, its furniture and objects, even before the bodies had been packaged and taken away, as if in their fixed and silent decrepitude they had for a moment become part of the room's artefacts, as significant as any other physical clue, no more and no less. As he moved into the room he was aware of Massingham behind him, alert, already drawing on his gloves but, for him, unnaturally subser-vient, pacing quietly behind his chief like a recently quali-fied houseman deferentially attendant on the consultant. Dalgliesh thought: Why is he behaving as if I need tactful handling, as if I'm suffering from a private grief?. This is a job like any other. It promises to be difficult enough with-out John and Kate treating me as if I'm a sensitive con-valescent.
Henry James, he remembered, had said of his approach-ing death, 'So here it is at last, the distinguished thing!' If Berowne had thought in these terms, then this was an in-congruous place in which to receive so honoured a visita-tion. The room was about twelve foot square and lit by a fluorescent tube running almost the full length of the ceil-ing. The only natural light came from two high curved windows. They were covered outside by a protective mesh which looked like chicken wire on which the dirt of decades had accumulated, so that the panes were honeycombs of greenish grime. The furniture, too, looked as if it had been gradually acquired over the years; gifts, rejects, the un-regarded remnants of long-forgotten jumble sales. Opposite the door and set under the windows was an ancient oak desk with three right-hand drawers, one without handles. On its top was a simple oak cross, a much used blotter in a leather pad, and an old fashioned black telephone, the re ceiver off the rest and lying on its side.
Massingham said:
'Looks as if he took it off. Who wants the telephone to ring just when he's concentrating on slitting his jugular?'
'Or his killer was taking no chances on the bodies being discovered too soon. If Father Barnes took it into his head to ring and got no reply he'd probably come round to see
38
ifBerowne was all right. If he continued to get the engaged sound he'd probably assume that Berowne was having an
evening of telephoning and let it go.'
'We might get a palm print, sir.'
'Unlikely, John. If this is murder, we're not dealing with a fool.'
He continued his exploration. With his gloved hands, he pulled open the top drawer and found a stack of white writing paper, of cheap quality, headed with the name ot the church, and a box of envelopes. Apart from these, the desk held nothing of interest. Against the left-hand wall was an assortment of canvas and metal chairs neatly stacked, presumably for the occasional use of the parochial church council. Beside them was a five-drawer metal filing cabinet, and next to it a small glass-fronted bookcase. He slipped the catch and saw that it contained an assortment of old prayer books, missals, devotional pamphlets, and a pile of booklets about the history of the church. There were only two easy chairs, one set on each side of the fireplace; a compact brown chair in torn leather with a patchwork cushion, and a grubby, mor/ modern chair with fitted pads. One of the stacked chairs had been up-righted. A white towel hung over its back and on the seat rested a brown canvas bag, its zip open. Massingham rummaged gently inside and said:
'A pair of pyjamas, a spare pair of socks, and a table napkin wrapped round half a sliced loaf, wholemeal, and a piece of cheese. Roquefort by the look of it. And there's
an apple. A Cox if that's relevant.'
'Hardly. Is that all, John?'
'Yes, sir. No wine. Whatever he thought he was doing here, it doesn't look like an assignation, not with a woman anyway. And why choose this place with the whole of London open to him? Bed too narrow. No comfort.'
'Whatever he was looking for, I don't think it was comfort.'
Dalgliesh had moved over to the fireplace, a plain
wooden overmantel with an iron surround patterned with . grapes and convolvulus set in the middle of the right-hand
wall. It must, he thought, have been decades since a fire was lit in it for warmth. In front of the grate was a tall electric fire with artificial coals, a high curved back and a triple set of burners. He moved it gently forward and saw that the grate had, in fact, been recently used; someone had tried to burn a diary. It lay open in the firebasket, its leaves curled and blackened. Some pages had apparently been torn out and separately burnt; the brittle fragments of black ash had floated down to lie on top of the debris under the grate, old twisted matchends, coal dust, carpet fluff, the accumulated grit of years. The blue cover of the diary with the year clearly printed had been more resistant to the flames; one corner only was slightly scorched. Whoever had burnt it had evidently been in a hurry, unless, of course, he had been concerned only to destroy certain pages. Dalgliesh made no attempt to touch it. This was a job for Ferris, the scene of crime officer, already hovering impatiently in the passage. The Ferret was never happy when anyone other than himself was examining a scene of crime and it seemed to Dalgliesh that his im-patience to get on with the job came through the wall as a palpable force. He crouched low and peered into the debris under the grate. Among the fragments of blackened paper he saw a used safety match, the unburnt half of the stem clean and white as if it had only recently been struck. He said: