The Lighthouse Page 18

  “How did you get to the lighthouse, Dr. Speidel? Did you order the buggy?”

  “No, I walked. After I had passed the cottage nearer to me—Atlantic I think it is called—I clambered down and took the under-cliff path until it became impassable some twenty metres from the lighthouse. I was hoping to be unobserved.”

  “Did you see anyone?”

  “No one, either on that walk or on my return.”

  There was a silence. Without being prompted, Speidel went on, “I looked at my watch when I arrived at the lighthouse door. Despite my being six minutes late, I expected that Mr. Oliver would have waited for me, either outside the door or in the lighthouse. However, as I have said, the door was locked.”

  Maycroft looked at Dalgliesh. “It would’ve been bolted from the inside. As I’ve explained to Mr. Dalgliesh, there was a key but it’s been missing for some years.”

  Dalgliesh asked, “Did you hear the bolts being shot home?”

  “I heard nothing. I knocked on the door as loudly as I could, but there was no response.”

  “Did you walk round the lighthouse?”

  “It did not occur to me to do that. There would have been no point in it, surely. My first thought was that Mr. Oliver had arrived to find the lighthouse locked and had gone to get the key. Other possibilities were that he had had no intention of meeting me, or that my message had not reached him.”

  Dalgliesh asked, “How was the assignation arranged?”

  “Had I been well enough to be at dinner, I would have spoken to Mr. Oliver. I was informed he was expected to be present. Instead I wrote a note. When the young woman came with my soup and whisky, I gave it to her and asked her to deliver it. She was driving the buggy, and as I was at the door I saw her put it in the leather pouch marked Post attached to the dashboard. She said she would deliver it to Mr. Oliver personally at Peregrine Cottage.”

  Dalgliesh didn’t say that no note had been found on the body. He asked, “Did you say in the note that the assignation should be kept secret?”

  Speidel managed a wry smile interrupted by another but shorter bout of coughing. He said, “I did not add, ‘Burn this or eat it after reading.’ There were no schoolboy histrionics. I wrote simply that there was a private matter important to us both that I wished to discuss.”

  Dalgliesh said, “Can you remember your exact words?”

  “Of course. I wrote it yesterday, before the young woman—Millie, isn’t it?—arrived with the provisions I had requested. That is less than twenty-four hours ago. I used a sheet of plain white paper and headed the message with the name and the telephone number of my cottage, and the time and date. I wrote that I was sorry to disturb his solitude but that there was a matter of great importance to me, and one of interest also to him, that I wished to discuss with him privately. Could he please meet me at the lighthouse at eight o’clock the next morning. If that were inconvenient, I would be grateful if he would telephone Shearwater Cottage so that we could arrange another time.”

  “Was the time—eight o’clock—written in words or in numerals?”

  “In words. When I found the lighthouse locked, it occurred to me that the young woman might have forgotten to deliver the note, but I was not particularly concerned. Mr. Oliver and I were both on the island. He could hardly escape me.”

  The phrase, spoken almost casually, was still unexpected and, thought Dalgliesh, perhaps significant. There was a silence. He asked, “Was the envelope sealed?”

  “No, it was not sealed, but the flap was tucked in. I would not normally close an envelope that was being delivered by hand. Is that not also your custom? It could of course have been read, but it never occurred to me that anyone would do that. It was the matter I wished to discuss that was confidential, not the fact of our meeting.”

  “And after that?” Dalgliesh spoke as gently as if he had been interrogating a vulnerable child.

  “I then decided to see if Mr. Oliver was at his cottage. I had enquired of the housekeeper where he was staying when I arrived. I began to walk there and then thought better of it. I was not feeling well and decided that, perhaps, it might be advisable to postpone a meeting which could have been painful until I felt stronger. There was no urgency. As I have said, he could hardly avoid an encounter. But I decided to walk back to my own cottage by way of the lighthouse and make one last check. This time the door was ajar. I pushed it open and went up the first two flights, calling out. There was no reply.”

  “You didn’t go to the top of the lighthouse?”

  “There was little point, and I had become tired. My cough was beginning to trouble me. I realised I had already walked too far.”

  Now, thought Dalgliesh, for the vital question. He thought carefully about the words he would use. It would be futile to ask Speidel if he had noticed anything different on the ground floor, since this was the first time he had entered it. At the risk of it being a leading question, it had to be asked direct. “Did you notice the coils of climbing ropes hung on the wall just inside the door?”

  Speidel said, “Yes, I noticed them. There was a wooden chest underneath. I assumed it held other climbing equipment.”

  “Did you notice how many ropes were hanging there?”

  Speidel said, “There were five. There was no rope on the hook furthest from the door.”

  “You’re certain about that, Dr. Speidel?”

  “I am certain. I tend to notice such details. Also, I have done some rock-climbing in my youth and was interested to see that there were facilities for climbing on this island. After that I closed the door and made my way back to my cottage across the scrubland, which of course was the easier route, avoiding the clamber down to the lower plateau.”

  “So you didn’t walk round the lighthouse?”

  Dr. Speidel’s cough and obvious temperature had not robbed him of his intelligence. He said with a hint of asperity, “If I had, Commander, I think I would have noticed a hanging body, even in the morning mist. I did not circle the lighthouse, I did not look up and I did not see him.”

  Dalgliesh asked quietly, “What was it you wished to discuss with Mr. Oliver in private? I’m sorry if the question seems intrusive, but I’m sure you will realise that I need to know.”

  Again there was a silence, then Speidel said, “A purely family matter. It could have no possible bearing on his death, I can assure you of that, Commander.”

  With any other suspect—and Speidel was a suspect, as was everyone else on the island—Dalgliesh would have pointed out the imperatives of a murder investigation, but Speidel would need no reminding. He waited as the man wiped his forehead and seemed to be summoning strength. Dalgliesh glanced at Maycroft, then said, “If you feel unable to continue we can speak later. You look as if you have a fever. As you know, there is a doctor on the island. Perhaps you should see Guy Staveley.”

  He did not add that there was no urgency about a further interview. There was urgency, and the more so if Dr. Speidel was likely to be confined in the sickroom. On the other hand, apart from his reluctance to worry a sick man, there could be danger in continuing if Speidel was unfit.

  There was a touch of impatience in Speidel’s voice. “I’m all right. This is no more than a cough and a slight temperature. I would rather we got on with it. One question first, if you please. Do I take it that this inquiry has now become a murder investigation?”

  Dalgliesh said, “That was always a possibility. Until I get the pathologist’s report I’m treating it as a suspicious death.”

  “Then I had better answer your question. Could I have some water, please?”

  Maycroft was moving over to a carafe on the side table when there was a knock on the door followed immediately by Mrs. Plunkett, wheeling a small trolley with three cups, a teapot, milk jug and sugar bowl.

  Maycroft said, “Thank you. I think we would also like some fresh water. As cold as possible, please.”

  While they waited, Maycroft poured the tea. Speidel shook his head, as
did Dalgliesh. The wait was not long before Mrs. Plunkett returned with a jug and a glass. She said, “It’s very cold. Shall I pour it for you?”

  Speidel had got up and she handed him the glass. They nodded briefly, then she placed the jug on the trolley. She said, “You don’t look too good, Doctor. I think bed would be the best place for you.”

  Speidel seated himself again, drank thirstily and said, “That is better. My story will not take long.” He waited until Mrs. Plunkett had left then put down his glass. “As I have said, it is a family matter, and one I had hoped to keep private. My father died on this island under circumstances into which the family have never fully inquired. The reason is that my parents’ marriage had begun to fail even before I was born. Mother was from a distinguished military Prussian family and her marriage to my father was regarded as a misalliance. During the war he was stationed with the occupying force on Guernsey in the Channel Islands. That itself was no matter of pride to my mother’s family, who would have preferred a more distinguished regiment, a more important role. The rumour was that, with two fellow officers, he made an excursion here after the island was known to have been evacuated. I had no knowledge why this happened or whether it was with his commanding officer’s authority. I suspected not. None of the three returned. After an investigation which revealed the escapade, it was assumed that they had been lost at sea. The family were thankful that the marriage had ended, at least not in ignominy or divorce, which they strongly opposed, but by a convenient death on active service, if not with the glory traditional in the family.

  “I was told very little about my father during my childhood and gained the impression, as children do, that questions would be unwelcome. I married again after the death of my first wife, and I now have a twelve-year-old son. He asks questions about his grandfather and I think very much resents the fact that the details of his life are unrecorded and unspoken of, as if they are somehow disgraceful. I told him that I would try to discover what had happened. I got little help from official sources. Records show that the three young men had gone absent without leave, taking a thirty-foot sailing boat with an engine. They never returned and were posted as missing believed drowned. I was more fortunate when I managed to track down a fellow officer in whom my father had confided under the seal of secrecy. He said his comrades intended to raise the German flag on a small island off the Cornish coast, probably to show that it could be done. Combe was the only possible island and my first choice for investigation. I came to Cornwall last year, but not to Combe Island. I met a retired fisherman, well over eighty, who was able to give me some information, but it was not easy. People were suspicious, as if we were still at war. With your national obsession about our recent history, particularly the Hitler era, I sometimes feel that we could be.” There was a trace of bitterness in his voice.

  Maycroft said, “You wouldn’t get much out of the natives if you asked about Combe Island. This place has a long and unhappy history. There’s a folk memory about its past, not helped by the fact that it’s privately owned and no tourists are allowed.”

  Speidel said, “I got enough to make a visit here worthwhile. I knew that Nathan Oliver had been born here and that he visited quarterly. He revealed that in a newspaper article in April 2003. Much was made then in the press about his Cornish boyhood.”

  Maycroft said, “But he was only a child when the war broke out. How could he help?”

  “He was four in 1940. He might remember. And if not, his father could have told him something of what went on here during the evacuation. My informant told me that Oliver was one of the last to leave.”

  Dalgliesh said, “Why choose to meet in the lighthouse? Surely there’s privacy almost anywhere on the island. Why not your own cottage?”

  And now he sensed a change, subtle but unmistakable, in Dr. Speidel’s response. The question had been unwelcome.

  “I have always had an interest in lighthouses. It’s something of a hobby of mine. I thought Mr. Oliver would be helpful in showing this one to me.”

  Dalgliesh thought, Why not Maycroft or Jago? He said, “So you know its history, that it’s a copy of an earlier and more famous lighthouse by the same builder, John Wilkes, who built Eddystone?”

  “Yes, I know that.”

  Speidel’s voice had suddenly become weaker, and the beads of moisture on his brow coalesced, the sweat running so freely that the flushed face looked as if it were melting.

  Dalgliesh said, “You’ve been very helpful, particularly in placing the time of death. Can we please get the timings absolutely clear. You first arrived at the lighthouse when?”

  “As I have said, a little late. I looked at my watch. It was six minutes past eight.”

  “And the door was bolted?”

  “Presumably so. I couldn’t get in or make anyone hear.”

  “And you later returned when?”

  “About twenty minutes later. It would have taken me about that time, but I did not look at my watch.”

  “So at about eight-thirty the door was open?”

  “Ajar, yes.”

  “And during all this time did you see anyone either at the lighthouse or when you were walking?”

  “I saw no one.” He put his hand to his head and closed his eyes.

  Dalgliesh said, “Thank you, we’ll stop now.”

  Maycroft said, “I think it would be wise to let Dr. Staveley have a look at you. The sickroom here might be a better place for you at present than Shearwater Cottage.”

  As if to refute what he heard, Speidel got to his feet. He tottered and Dalgliesh, hurrying over, managed to support him and help him back into the chair.

  Speidel said, “I’m all right. It’s just a cough and a slight fever. I have a tendency to chest infections. I would prefer to return now to my cottage. If I could have the use of the buggy, perhaps Commander Dalgliesh could drive me there.”

  The request was unexpected; Dalgliesh could see that it had surprised Maycroft. It surprised him too, but he said, “I’ll be glad to.” He looked at Maycroft. “Is the buggy outside?”

  “By the back door. Are you fit to walk, Dr. Speidel?”

  “Perfectly fit, thank you.”

  He seemed indeed to have regained his strength, and he and Dalgliesh took the lift down together. In the confined space, Speidel’s breath came to him sour and warm. The buggy was parked on the rear forecourt, and they drove together in silence, at first on the rough road and then bumping gently over the scrubland. There were questions Dalgliesh wanted to ask, but instinct told him the moment was not propitious.

  At Shearwater Cottage he helped Speidel into the sitting room and supported him while he sank into a chair. He said, “Are you quite sure you’re all right?”

  “Perfectly, thank you. Thank you for your help, Commander. There are two questions I want to ask you. The first is this. Did Nathan Oliver leave a note?”

  “None that we’ve found. And your second question?”

  “Do you believe that his death was murder?”

  “Yes,” said Dalgliesh, “I believe that.”

  “Thank you. That was all I wanted to know.”

  He rose. Dalgliesh moved to help him up the stairs, but Speidel grasped the rail, refusing the offer. “I can manage, thank you. This is nothing a night’s sleep cannot cure.”

  Dalgliesh waited until Speidel was safely in his bedroom, then shut the door of the cottage and drove back to Combe House.

  Back in the office, he accepted a cup of tea and took it over to a fireside chair. He said, “Speidel knows nothing about lighthouses. I invented the name John Wilkes. He didn’t build your lighthouse or Eddystone.”

  Maycroft seated himself in the chair opposite, cup in hand. He stirred his tea thoughtfully, then said without looking at Dalgliesh, “I realise you only allowed me to be present because Dr. Speidel is a guest and I’m responsible on behalf of the Trust for his well-being. I also realise that if this is murder, I’m as much a suspect as anyone else. I don’
t expect you to tell me anything, but there is something I’d like to tell you. I thought he was speaking the truth.”

  “If he wasn’t, the fact that I questioned him when he could argue that he was not physically fit to be interrogated could be a problem.”

  “But he insisted on going on. We both asked him if that was what he wanted. He was not coerced. How could it be a problem?”

  Dalgliesh said, “For the prosecution. The defence could argue that he was too ill to be questioned or to know what he was saying.”

  “But he said nothing to throw any light on Oliver’s death. It was all about the past, the old unhappy far-off things, and battles long ago.”

  Dalgliesh didn’t reply. It was a pity that Maycroft had been present during the interview. It would have been difficult to banish him from his own office or to request an obviously sick man to move to Seal Cottage. But if Speidel was speaking the truth, they now had vital confirmation about the time of death which he would prefer to have kept to himself and the team. Oliver had died between seven-forty-five that morning and quarter past eight. By the time Speidel had first arrived at the lighthouse, Oliver’s killer was somewhere behind that bolted door and the body could already have been slowly swinging against the seaward wall.

  9

  * * *

  Dalgliesh asked Maycroft for the continued use of his office to interview Millie. It might, he thought, be less intimidating for her than asking her to come to Seal Cottage, and it would certainly be quicker. Maycroft agreed, adding, “I’d like to be present, unless you object. Perhaps Mrs. Burbridge could join us. She’s the one with the most influence over Millie. It might be helpful to have a woman present, I mean other than a police officer.”