Death in Holy Orders Page 25

  Piers said, “If there’s a chance he might have a vital clue, or if he’s a suspect, shouldn’t he be kept unobtrusively under guard?”

  Dalgliesh said, “He is being kept unobtrusively under guard.

  Suffolk are helping there. He was out of his room that night. He could even have seen the murderer. That’s why I’m not leaving him without protection.” There was the sound of a car bumping across the headland. Sergeant Robbins went to the window.

  “Mr. Clark and the SO COs have arrived, sir.”

  Piers looked at his watch.

  “Not bad, but they’d have been better driving the whole way. It’s getting out of Ipswich that takes the time. Lucky the train didn’t foul up.”

  Dalgliesh said to Robbins, “Ask them to bring their gear in here. They can use the second bedroom. And they’ll probably want coffee before they start.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Dalgliesh decided that the Scene of Crime Officers could change into their search clothes in the church, but well away from the actual scene. Brian Clark, the head of the team and inevitably called Nobby, hadn’t worked with Dalgliesh before. Calm, unemotional and humourless, he was not the most inspiring of colleagues, but he came with a reputation for thoroughness and reliability and, when he did condescend to communicate, spoke sense. If there were anything to find, he would find it. He was a man who distrusted enthusiasm and even the most potentially valuable clue was apt to be greeted with, “All right, lads, keep calm. It’s only a palm print, it’s not the Holy Grail.” He also believed in the separation of functions. His job was to discover, collect and preserve the evidence, not to usurp the job of the detective. For Dalgliesh, who encouraged teamwork and was receptive to ideas, this reserve amounting to taciturnity was a disadvantage.

  Now, and not for the first time, he missed Charlie Ferris, the SOCO who had been on the job when he had investigated the Berowne/Harry Mack murders. They too had taken place in a church. He could clearly recall Ferris small, sandy-haired, sharp-featured and lithe as a greyhound prancing gently like an eager runner awaiting the starting pistol, recall too the extraordinary working garb which the Ferret had devised for the job: the diminutive white shorts and short-sleeved sweat-shirt, the tight-fitting plastic cap which made him look like a swimmer who had forgotten to take off his underclothes. But the Ferret had retired to run a pub in Somerset where his orotund bass, so incongruous in his slight frame, was adding power to the village church choir.

  A different pathologist, a different team of SO COs soon to have their name changed again. He supposed that he was lucky still to have Kate Miskin. But now was not the time to concern himself with Kate’s morale, or with her possible future. Perhaps, he thought, it was increasing age which made him less tolerant of change.

  But at least the photographer was familiar. Barney Parker was past retirement age and now worked on a part-time basis. He was a voluble, wiry, eager-eyed, jaunty little man who had looked exactly the same for all the years Dalgliesh had known him. His other part-time job was taking wedding photographs and perhaps this soft-focus beautifying of brides provided a relief from the uncompromising starkness of his police work. He had, indeed, something of the irritating importunity of a wedding photographer, looking round at the scene as if to ensure that there were no other bodies anxious for his attention. Dalgliesh almost expected him to chivvy them all for the family line-up. But he was an excellent photographer whose work couldn’t be faulted.

  Dalgliesh walked over to the church with them, passing through the sacristy and skirting the murder scene. They changed in a pew near the south door in a silence which Dalgliesh judged had nothing to do with the sacredness of the scene, and stood like a little group of spacemen in their white cotton over suits and hoods, watching Nobby Clark follow Dalgliesh back towards the sacristy. With the hood of his suit puckered round his face and his slightly protruding upper teeth, Dalgliesh thought that Clark needed only a pair of ears to make him look like a large disgruntled rabbit.

  Dalgliesh said, “The murderer almost certainly came in through the sacristy door from the north cloister. That means the cloister floor will need examining for prints although I doubt you’ll get anything useful under this weight of leaves. No knob on the door, but the prints of almost everyone here could validly be on any part of the door.”

  Moving into the church, he said, “There’s a possibility of prints on the Doom and on the wall beside it, although he would’ve been crazy not to wear gloves. This candlestick on the right has traces of blood and hair, but again we’ll be lucky to get prints. What is interesting is here.” He led the way up the central aisle to the second box pew.

  “Someone has hidden himself under the seat. There’s a considerable amount of dust which has been disturbed. I don’t know whether you’ll get prints on the wood, but it’s a possibility.”

  Clark said, “Right sir. What about the team’s lunch? There doesn’t seem to be a pub near and I don’t want to break off. I’d like as much natural light as possible.”

  “The college is providing sandwiches. Robbins will be fixing beds for the night. We can look at progress tomorrow.”

  “I think I’ll need more than two days, sir. It’s those leaves in the north cloister. They’ll all need shifting and examining.”

  Dalgliesh doubted whether any joy would result from this tedious exercise, but had no wish to discourage Clark’s obvious attention to detail. He said a last word to the other two members of the team and left them to it.

  Before the individual interviews began, the fingerprinting of everyone at St. Anselm’s had priority. The task fell to Piers and Kate. Both knew that Dalgliesh preferred all women to be fingerprinted by a member of their own sex. Before they began, Piers said, “It’s a long time since I’ve done this. You’d better see to the women as usual. Seems an unnecessary refinement to me. Anyone would think it was a form of rape.”

  Kate was making the preparations. She said, “You could see it as a form of rape. Innocent or not innocent, I’d hate to have some police officer grabbing hold of my fingers.”

  “It’s hardly a grab. Looks as if we’ve got a full waiting-room except for the priests. Who do we start with?”

  “Better make it Arbuthnot.”

  Kate was interested in the different reactions of the suspects who presented themselves during the next hour with varying degrees of meekness. Father Sebastian, arriving with his fellow-priests, was grimly co-operative, but could not resist a moue of distaste when Piers took his fingers to cleanse them in soap and water, then firmly rolled them on the ink pad He said, “Surely I can do it for myself.”

  Piers was unconcerned.

  “I’m sorry, sir. It’s a question of making sure we get a good print at the edges. A matter of experience really.”

  Father John didn’t speak from start to finish but his face was deathly white and Kate saw that he was shaking. Throughout the brief procedure he kept his eyes closed. Father Martin was frankly interested, and gazed with almost childish wonder at the complicated pattern of whorls and loops which proclaimed his unique identity. Father Peregrine, his eyes straining towards the college to which he was impatient to return, seemed hardly aware of what was happening. Only when he caught sight of his ink-smeared fingers was he provoked to grumble that he hoped the stain would be easily washed off and that ordinands should ensure that their fingers were thoroughly clean before coming to the library. He would put up a note on the board.

  None of the ordinands or staff made any difficulty, but Stannard came prepared to see the procedure as a gross infringement of civil liberty. He said, “I suppose you have authority for doing this?”

  Piers said calmly, “Yes sir, with your consent, under the provisions of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act. I think you know the legislation.”

  “And if I didn’t consent I’ve no doubt you could get some kind of court order. After you’ve made an arrest if you ever get that far -and I’m proved innocent, I take it my prints will be
destroyed. How can I be sure they will?”

  “You have the right to witness the destruction if you make an application.”

  “And I will,” he said as his fingers were placed on the ink pad

  “You can be bloody sure I will.”

  Now they had finished and the last to be fingerprinted, Emma Lavenham, had left. Kate said, with such careful casualness that even she found her tone unnatural, “What do you suppose AD thinks about her?”

  “He’s a heterosexual male and a poet. He thinks what any heterosexual male and a poet thinks when he meets a beautiful woman. What I think, come to that. He’d like to take her to the nearest bed.”

  “Oh come on, d’you have to be that crude? Can’t any of you think of a woman except in terms of bed ?”

  “What a puritan you are, Kate. You asked me what he’d think, not what he’d do. He has all his instincts under control, that’s his trouble. She’s an anomaly here, isn’t she? Why do you think Father Sebastian imported her? To provide a temporary exercise in resisting temptation? You’d think a pretty boy would be a better bet. The four we’ve met so far, though, seem a depressingly hetero bunch to me.”

  “And you’d know, of course.”

  “So would you. Talking of beauty, what do you think of the Adonis Raphael?”

  “The name’s too appropriate, isn’t it? I wonder if he’d look the same if he’d been christened Albert. Too good looking, and he knows it.”

  Turn you on?”

  “No, and nor do you. Time to make some visits. Who shall we start with? Father Sebastian?”

  “At the top?”

  “Why not? And after that AD wants me with him when he interviews Arbuthnot.”

  “Who’ll take the lead with the Warden?”

  “Me. To begin with anyway.”

  “You think he’ll open up more to a woman? You may be right, but I shouldn’t bank on it. These priests are used to the confessional. That makes them good at keeping secrets, including their own.”

  Father Sebastian had said, “You will, of course, wish to see Mrs. Crampton before she leaves. I’ll send you a message when she’s ready. If she should want to visit the church I assume that would be permissible.”

  Dalgliesh replied briefly that it would. He wondered whether Father Sebastian had taken it for granted that if Mrs. Crampton wished to see where her husband had died, he would be the one to escort her. Dalgliesh had other ideas but judged that now was not the time to argue the point; Mrs. Crampton might not wish to visit the church. Whether she did or not, it was important that they met.

  The message that she was ready to see him was brought to the incident room by Stephen Morby, who was now being used by Father Sebastian as a general messenger. Dalgliesh had noticed how much Morell disliked the telephone.

  When he entered the Warden’s office Mrs. Crampton got up from her chair and came towards him, holding out her hand and regarding him steadily. She was younger than Dalgliesh had expected, heavily-breasted above a neat waist and with a pleasant open and unadorned face. She was hatless and her short mid-brown hair, brushed to shininess, looked expensively cut; he could almost believe she had come straight from the hairdresser if the idea were not preposterous. She was wearing a tweed suit in blue and fawn with a large cameo brooch in the lapel. It was obviously modern and looked incongruous against the country tweed. Dalgliesh wondered whether it had been a gift from her husband and she had fastened it in her jacket as a badge of allegiance or defiance. A short travelling coat lay across the back of a chair. She was perfectly calm and the hand which clasped Dalgliesh’s was cold but firm.

  Father Sebastian’s introduction was brief and formal. Dalgliesh said the customary words of sympathy and regret. He had spoken them to the family of a murder victim more times than he could remember: to him they always sounded insincere.

  Father Sebastian said, “Mrs. Crampton would like to visit the church and has asked that you go with her. If I’m needed you’ll find me here.”

  They walked together through the south cloister and across the cobbles of the courtyard to the church. The Archdeacon’s body had been removed but SO COs were still busy in the building and one of them was now clearing the leaves from the north cloister, carefully examining each one. There was already a clear path to the sacristy door.

  The church struck cold and Dalgliesh was aware that his companion shivered. He asked, “Would you like me to fetch your coat?”

  “No thank you, Commander. I shall be all right.”

  He led the way to the Doom. It was not necessary to tell her that this was the place; the stones were still stained with her husband’s blood. Unselfconsciously and a little stiffly she knelt. Dalgliesh moved away and walked up the central aisle.

  Within a few minutes she had joined him. She said, “Shall we sit down for a little while? I expect you have some questions you want to ask.”

  “I could ask them in Father Sebastian’s office or in the incident room in St. Matthew’s Cottage if that would be more comfortable for you.”

  “I shall be more comfortable here.”

  The two SO COs had moved tactfully into the sacristy. They sat for a brief moment in silence, then she said, “How did my husband die, Commander? Father Sebastian seemed reluctant to say.”

  “Father Sebastian hasn’t been told, Mrs. Crampton.”

  Which didn’t, of course, mean he didn’t know. Dalgliesh wondered whether this possibility had occurred to her. He said, “It’s important for the success of the investigation that the details are kept secret for the present.”

  “I understand that. I shall say nothing.”

  Dalgliesh said gently, “The Archdeacon was killed by a blow to the head. It would have been very sudden. I don’t think he suffered. He may not even have had time to feel shock or fear.”

  “Thank you, Commander.”

  Again there was a silence. It was curiously companionable and he was in no hurry to break it. Even in her grief, which she was bearing with stoicism, she was restful to be with. Was it this quality, he wondered, which had drawn the Archdeacon to her? The silence lengthened. Glancing at her face he saw the glisten of a tear on her cheek. She put up a hand to brush it away but when she spoke her voice was steady.

  “My husband was not welcome in this place, Commander, but I know that no one at St. Anselm’s could possibly have killed him. I refuse to believe that a member of a Christian community could be capable of such evil.”

  Dalgliesh said, “This is a question I have to ask. Had your husband any enemies, anyone who might wish him harm?”

  “No. He was much respected in the parish. One might say that he was loved, although it wasn’t a word he would have used. He was a good, compassionate and conscientious parish priest and he never spared himself. I don’t know whether anyone has told you that he was a widower when we married. His first wife committed suicide. She was a very beautiful but disturbed woman and he was greatly in love with her. The tragedy affected him deeply, but he had come through it. He was learning how to be happy. We were happy together. It’s cruel that all his hopes should come to this.”

  Dalgliesh said, “You said that he wasn’t welcome at St. Anselm’s. Was this because of theological differences or were there other reasons? Did he discuss his visit here with you?”

  “He discussed everything with me, Commander, everything that hadn’t been told him in confidence as a clergyman. He felt that St. Anselm’s had outgrown its usefulness. He wasn’t the only one who felt that. I think even Father Sebastian realizes that the college is an anomaly and will have to close. There were differences of church-man ship of course, which didn’t make things any easier. And then I expect you know about the problem of Father John Betterton.”

  Dalgliesh said carefully, “I gained the impression that there was a problem but I don’t know the details.”

  “It’s an old and rather tragic story. Some years ago Father Betterton was found guilty of sexual of fences against some of his choir boys
and was sentenced to prison. My husband uncovered part of the evidence and was a witness at the trial. We weren’t married at the time it was shortly after his first wife’s death but I know it caused him much distress. He did what he saw as his duty and it caused him a great deal of pain.”

  Dalgliesh privately thought that the greater pain had been suffered by Father John.

  He said, “Did your husband say anything to you before coming on this visit, anything to suggest that he might have arranged to meet someone here or that he had reason to suppose that this visit would be particularly difficult?”

  “No, nothing. I’m sure no meeting was arranged other than with the people here. He wasn’t looking forward to the weekend but he wasn’t dreading it either.”

  “And had he been in touch with you since he arrived yesterday?”

  “No, he hadn’t telephoned and I wouldn’t have expected him to. The only call I had apart from parish business was from the diocesan office. Apparently they’d lost my husband’s mobile phone number and wanted it for the records.”

  “What time was this call?”

  “Quite late. I was surprised because it must have been after the office was closed. It was just before half-past nine on Saturday.”

  “Did you speak to the person who rang? Was it a man or a woman?”

  “It sounded like a man. I thought at the time that it was a man, although I couldn’t swear to it. No, I didn’t really speak except to give the number. He just said thank you and rang off at once.”

  Of course he did, thought Dalgliesh. He wouldn’t want to speak an unnecessary word. All he wanted was the number he could get in no other way, the number he would ring that night from the church to summon the Archdeacon to his death. Wasn’t this the answer to one of the problems at the heart of the case? If Crampton had been lured to the church by a call on his mobile, how had the caller discovered the number? It wouldn’t be difficult to trace that nine-thirty call and the result could be damning for someone at St. Anselm’s. But there still remained a mystery. The murderer better still think of him as Cain wasn’t unintelligent. This crime had been carefully planned. Wouldn’t Cain have expected Dalgliesh to speak to Mrs. Crampton? Wasn’t it possible no, more than possible that the telephone call would come to light? Another possibility occurred to Dalgliesh. Could this have been precisely what Cain had intended?