The Lighthouse Read online

  5

  * * *

  Clara Beckwith was Emma Lavenham’s closest friend. They had first met when they were both freshers at Cambridge, and she was the only one in whom Emma confided. They could not have been more different: the one heterosexual and burdened by her dark beauty, the other stocky, her hair close-cropped above a chubby, spectacled face and with—in Emma’s eyes—the gallant sturdiness of a pit pony. She wasn’t sure what Clara valued in her, half suspecting, as she always did, that it was largely physical. In her friend she relied on her honesty, common sense and an unsentimental acceptance of the vagaries of life, love and desire. She knew that Clara was sexually attracted to both men and women, but had for five years been happily settled with the gentle-faced Annie, who was as frail and vulnerable as Clara was strong. Clara’s ambivalence about Emma’s relationship with Dalgliesh might have produced complications if Emma had suspected that it was grounded in jealousy rather than in her friend’s instinctive suspicions of the motives of men. The two had never met. Neither had yet suggested that they should.

  Clara had been awarded a starred First in mathematics at Cambridge and worked in the City as a highly successful fund manager, but she still lived with her partner in the Putney flat she had bought when leaving university and spent little on clothes—her only extravagances, her Porsche and the holidays they took together. Emma suspected that a sizable proportion of her earnings went on charity and that Clara was saving for some future enterprise with her lover, as yet unplanned. The City job was intended to be temporary; Clara had no wish to be sucked into that seductive world of over-dependence on treacherous and precarious wealth.

  They had been to an evening concert at the Royal Festival Hall. It had ended early, and by eight-fifteen they had struggled through the cloakroom queue and joined the crowd making its way along the Thames to Hungerford Bridge. As was their custom, they would discuss the music later. Now, with it echoing in their minds, they walked in silence, their eyes on the glitter of the lights strung like a necklace on the opposite bank. Before reaching the bridge, they paused and both leaned on the stone parapet to gaze down on the dark, pulsating river, its surface as supple and rippling as the hide of an animal.

  Emma gave herself up to London. She loved the city, not with Dalgliesh’s passionate commitment, he who knew both the best and the worst of his chosen territory, but with a steady affection, as strong as that she felt for Cambridge, her native city, but different in kind. London withheld some part of her mystery even from those who loved her. London was history solidified in brick and stone, illuminated in stained glass, celebrated in monument and statue, and yet to Emma it was more a spirit than a place, a vagrant air which breathed down the hidden alleyways, possessed the silence of empty city churches, and lay dormant under her most raucous streets. She gazed across the river at the moon of Big Ben and the illuminated Palace of Westminster, its flagstaff unadorned, the light on the clock tower switched off. It was Saturday night; the House was not sitting. High above, a plane was descending slowly, its wing-lights like moving stars. The passengers would be craning down at the black curving river, its fairy-tale bridges painted in coloured light.

  She wondered what Dalgliesh was doing. Still working, sleeping or walking out on that unnamed island to look at the night sky? In London the stars were eclipsed by the city’s glare, but on an isolated island the dark would be luminous under a canopy of stars. Suddenly the longing for him was so intense and so physical that she felt a rush of blood to her face. She longed to be returning to that flat high above the river at Queenhithe, to his bed, to his arms. Tonight she and Clara would take the District Line from Embankment Station to Putney Bridge and Clara’s riverside flat. So why not to Queenhithe, which was almost within walking distance? It had never occurred to her to invite Clara there, nor did her friend seem to expect it. Queenhithe was for her and Adam. To let anyone else in would be to let them in on his private life, his and hers. But was she at home there?

  She remembered a moment in the early days of their love when Adam, coming out of his shower room, had said, “I’ve left my spare toothbrush in your bathroom. Is it all right if I get it?”

  Laughing, she had replied, “Of course, darling. I live here now—at least for part of the time.”

  He had come up behind her chair, his dark head bent, his arms encircling her. “So you do, my love, and that’s the wonder of it.”

  She was aware that Clara had been looking at her. Her friend said, “I know you’re thinking of your Commander. I’m glad the poetry isn’t a substitute for performance. What’s that quotation from Blake about the lineaments of gratified desire? That’s you all right. But I’m happy you’re coming back to Putney tonight. Annie will be pleased to see you.” There was a pause, then she said, “Is anything wrong?”

  “Not wrong. The times we have together are so short, but they’re wonderful, perfect. But you can’t live for ever at that intensity. Clara, I do want to marry him. I’m not sure why I feel it so strongly. We couldn’t be happier than we are, or more committed. I couldn’t be more certain. So why do I want a legal tie? It isn’t rational.”

  “Well, he proposed to you, on paper too, and before you went to bed together. That suggests a sexual confidence amounting to arrogance. Doesn’t he still want to marry you?”

  “I’m not sure. He may feel that living and working apart as we do, coming together so wonderfully but briefly, is all either of us needs.”

  Clara said, “You heterosexuals make life so complicated for yourselves. You speak to each other, don’t you? I mean, you do communicate? He proposed to you. Tell him it’s time to set a date.”

  “I’m not sure I know how.”

  “I can suggest a number of alternatives. You could say, ‘I’ll be busy in December once the interviews begin for next year’s intake. If you’re thinking of a honeymoon as opposed to just a weekend in the flat, the best time is the New Year.’ Or you could take your Commander to be introduced to your father. I take it he’s been spared that traditional ordeal. Then get the Prof to ask him what his intentions are. That has an original old-fashioned touch which might appeal to him.”

  “I doubt whether it would appeal to my father—that is, if he took his attention away from his books long enough to understand what Adam was saying. And I wish you’d stop calling him my Commander.”

  “The last and only time we spoke, I remember calling him a bastard. I think we’ve got some way to go before we’re on first-name terms. If you don’t want to throw him unprepared to the Prof, what about a spot of blackmail? ‘No more weekends until the ring’s on my finger. I’ve developed moral scruples.’ That’s been remarkably efficacious over the centuries. No point in rejecting it just because it’s been used before.”

  Emma laughed. “I’m not sure I could carry it off. I’m not a masochist. I could probably hold out no longer than two weeks.”

  “Well, settle the method for yourself, but stop agonising. You’re not really afraid of rejection?”

  “No, not that. It’s just that at heart he may not want marriage, and I do.”

  They were crossing the bridge home. After a silence, Clara said, “If he were ill—sweaty, smelling horrible, vomiting, a mess—would you be able to clean him up, comfort him?”

  “Of course.”

  “Suppose you were the one who was sick. What then?”

  Emma didn’t reply. Clara said, “I’ve diagnosed the problem for you. You’re afraid he loves you because you’re beautiful. You can’t bear the thought he might see you when you’re less than beautiful.”

  “But isn’t that important, at the beginning anyway? Wasn’t it like that with you and Annie? Isn’t that how love starts, with physical attraction?”

  “Of course. But if that’s all you have, then you’re in trouble.”

  “It isn’t all we have. I’m sure of that.”

  But in some corner of her mind she knew that the treacherous thought had taken hold. She said, “It’s nothin
g to do with his job. I know we have to be apart when we don’t want to be. I know he had to go away this weekend. Only this time it feels different. I’m afraid he may not come back, that he’s going to die on that island.”

  “But that’s ridiculous. Why should he? He’s not there to confront terrorists. I thought his speciality was upmarket murder, cases too sensitive for the local PC Plod to plant his boots on. He’s probably in no more danger than we will be on the Tube to Putney.”

  “I know it’s irrational, but I can’t shake it off.”

  “Then let’s go home.”

  Emma thought, And that’s a word she can use. So when I’m with Adam, why can’t I?

  6

  * * *

  Rupert Maycroft had explained to the team that after the death of Padgett’s mother Dan had moved from the stable block to the one-bedded Puffin Cottage, between Dolphin and Atlantic Cottages on the north-west coast. Kate had phoned him early on the Monday morning and arranged to see him at midday. He opened the door immediately to their knock and, without speaking, stood aside.

  Benton’s first reaction was to wonder how Padgett occupied himself when he was at home. The sitting room bore no sign of interests—or indeed of any activity—and, except for a few paperback books on the top shelf of an oak bookcase and a row of china figurines on the mantelpiece, was bare of everything but the furniture. Most of that was of heavy oak, a table set in the middle of the room with bulbous legs and two leaves which could be drawn out, six dining chairs of similar design and a heavy matching sideboard with its doors and top panel intricately carved. The only other furniture was a divan set under the window and covered with a patchwork quilt. Benton wondered if Mrs. Padgett had been nursed here when she was bedridden, leaving the one bedroom for whoever was caring for her during the night hours. Although there was no tincture of sickness in the room, it still smelled stale, perhaps because all three windows were closely shut.

  Padgett drew out three of the chairs, and they sat down facing him. To Benton’s relief, Padgett made no offer of tea or coffee but sat, his hands under the table, like an obedient child, his eyes blinking. His thin neck rose from a heavy jersey in an intricate cable-stitch design which emphasised the pallor of his face and the delicate bones of the high domed skull visible through cropped hair.

  Kate said, “We’re here to go over again what you told us on Saturday in the library. Perhaps it would be easier if you went through your routine on Saturday morning from the moment of getting up.”

  Padgett began a recital which sounded like a statement learnt by rote. “I have the job of taking round any food ordered by phone by the visitors the previous evening, and I did that at seven o’clock. The only one who wanted supplies was Dr. Yelland in Murrelet Cottage. He wanted a cold lunch, some milk and eggs and a selection of CDs from the music library. His cottage has a porch like most of the others, so I left the food there. That’s what I’m instructed to do. I didn’t see Dr. Yelland, and I was back at the house with the buggy by seven-forty-five. I left it in its usual place in the courtyard and came back here. I’ve applied for a place at a university in London to take a course in psychology, and the tutor’s asked me to write a paper explaining my choice. I haven’t got good A-levels, but that doesn’t seem to matter. I was here in the cottage working until Mr. Maycroft phoned just after nine-thirty to say that Mr. Oliver was missing and he wanted me for the search party. It was beginning to get misty by then, but of course I went. I joined the group in the courtyard in front of the house. I was just behind Mr. Maycroft at the lighthouse when the mist suddenly lifted and we saw the body. Then we heard Millie screaming.”

  Kate said, “And you’re quite certain that you saw no one, either Mr. Oliver or anyone else, until you joined the search party?”

  “I’ve told you. I saw no one.”

  It was then that the phone rang. Padgett got up quickly. He said, “I have to answer that. The phone’s in the kitchen. We had it moved so that Mother wouldn’t be disturbed.”

  He went out of the door, closing it behind him. Kate said, “If that’s Mrs. Burbridge trying to get hold of him he shouldn’t be long.”

  He didn’t come back. Kate and Benton got up and Kate moved over to the bookcase. She said, “Obviously his mother’s paperbacks, mostly popular romantic fiction. There’s one Nathan Oliver, though, The Sands of Trouville. Looks as if it’s been read, but not often.”

  Benton said, “It sounds like the title of a blockbuster. Not his usual style.” He was examining the china figurines on the mantelpiece. “These too presumably belonged to Mother, so why are they still here? Surely these were candidates for the trip to the charity shop in Newquay, unless Padgett is keeping them out of sentiment.”

  Kate joined him. “You’d think these would be the first objects to go overboard.”

  He was pensively turning one of the pieces in his hand, a crinolined woman wearing a beribboned bonnet languidly weeding a garden path with a slender hoe.

  Kate said, “Hardly dressed for the job, is she? Those shoes wouldn’t last five minutes outside the bedroom, and her hat will blow off with the first puff of wind. What’s on your mind?”

  Benton said, “Just the usual question, I suppose. Why do I despise it? Isn’t it a kind of cultural snobbery? I mean, do I dislike it because I’ve been trained to make that kind of value judgement? After all, it’s well made. It’s sentimental, but you can call some good art sentimental.”

  “What art?”

  “Well, Watteau for one. The Old Curiosity Shop if you’re thinking of literature.”

  Kate said, “You’d better put that down or you’ll break it. But you’re right about cultural snobbery.”

  Benton replaced the figurine and they returned to the table. The door opened and Padgett joined them. He said, “I’m sorry about that. It was the college. I’m trying to persuade them to take me early. The new academic year’s begun, but only just, and they might make an exception. But I suppose it depends on how long you expect to be here.”

  Benton knew that Kate could have pointed out that the police at present had no power to detain Padgett on the island, but she didn’t. She said, “You’ll have to speak to Commander Dalgliesh about that. Obviously, if we had to interview you in London, perhaps at the college, it would be more inconvenient for you, and probably for them, than seeing us here.”

  It was a bit disingenuous, thought Benton, but probably justified. They went through the details of all that had happened after the finding of the body, and Padgett’s account agreed with that given by Maycroft and Staveley. He had helped Jago remove the rope from Oliver’s neck and heard Maycroft tell Jago to put it back on its peg, but he hadn’t seen or touched it subsequently. He had no idea who, if anyone, had re-entered the lighthouse.

  Finally Kate said, “We know that Mr. Oliver was angry with you about dropping his blood sample overboard, and we’ve been told that he was critical of you generally. Was that true?”

  “I couldn’t do anything right for him. Of course, we didn’t come into contact all that much. We’re not supposed to speak to the visitors unless that’s what they want. And he was a visitor, although he always acted as if he belonged here, had some kind of right to be on the island. But if he did speak to me it was usually to complain. Sometimes he, or Miss Oliver, was unhappy with the provisions I’d brought, or he’d say I’d got the order wrong. I just sensed that he didn’t like me. He’s . . . he was the kind of man who has to have someone to pick on. But I didn’t kill him. I couldn’t kill even an animal, let alone a man. I know some people here would like me to be guilty, because I’ve never really settled here, that’s what they mean by saying I’m not really an islander. I’ve never wanted to be an islander. I came here because my mother was set on it, and I’ll be glad to get away, start a new life, get qualified for a proper job. I’m worth something better than being an odd-job man.”

  The mixture of self-pity and truculence was unattractive; Benton had to remind himself that it d
idn’t make Padgett a killer. He said, “And there’s nothing else you want to tell us?”

  Padgett gazed down at the table top, then looked up and said, “Only the smoke.”

  “What smoke?”

  “Well, someone must have been up and about in Peregrine Cottage. They’d lit a fire. I was in the bedroom and looked out of the window, and I saw the smoke.”

  Kate’s voice was carefully controlled. “At what time was this? Try to be accurate.”

  “It was soon after I got back. Just before eight anyway. I know that because I usually listen to the eight o’clock news if I’m here.”

  “Why didn’t you mention this before?”

  “You mean when we were together in the library? It didn’t seem important. I thought it would make me look a fool. I mean, why shouldn’t Miss Oliver light a fire?”

  It was time to bring the interview to an end and return to Seal Cottage to report to Dalgliesh. They walked in silence for a time, then Kate said, “I don’t think anyone’s told him about the burning of the proofs. We’ll have to check that. But I wonder why not. Perhaps he’s right, they don’t see him as an islander. He doesn’t get told anything because he’s never been one of them. But if Padgett saw smoke rising from Peregrine Cottage just before eight o’clock, then he’s in the clear.”

  7

  * * *

  After breakfast on Monday morning, Dalgliesh telephoned Murrelet Cottage and told Mark Yelland that he wished to see him. Yelland said he was setting out for a walk, but if there was no urgency he would call in at Seal Cottage shortly before midday. Dalgliesh had expected to go to Murrelet Cottage but decided that, as Yelland probably preferred his privacy to be undisturbed, there was no point in objecting. He had had a restless night, alternately throwing off the bedclothes because he was uncomfortably hot and then waking an hour later shivering with cold. He overslept, waking finally just after eight with the beginning of a headache and heavy limbs. Like many healthy people, he regarded illness as a personal insult best countered by refusing to accept its reality. There was little a good walk in the fresh air couldn’t alleviate. But this morning he wasn’t sorry to let Yelland do the walking.