The Lighthouse Page 30

  She had seen it before: killers, often first-time murderers, possessed by horror and disbelief at the enormity of what they had done, striking out in a frenzy as if by destroying the face they could obliterate the deed itself.

  Benton said, “Boyde couldn’t have been wearing the cope. If he fell backwards it would have been under him. So it was probably Calcraft who took it from the box. Perhaps it was open when he came into the chapel. There’s tissue paper here but no string. That’s odd, surely, ma’am.”

  Kate said, “It’s odd that the cope’s here at all. Mrs. Burbridge may be able to explain it. We’ll have to get the residents together, reassure them as far as anyone can and make it plain that we’re in charge. I’ll need you with me, but we can’t leave the body unattended. We’ll do what we need to do now at the scene, then get the stretcher. We could lock him in Chapel Cottage, but I’m not happy about that. It’s too far from the house. Of course, we could use the same sickroom where they put Oliver, but that means he’ll be next door to Mr. Dalgliesh.”

  Benton said, “In the circumstances, ma’am, it’s hardly likely to worry either of them.” As if regretting the crudity of his comment, he added quickly, “But won’t Dr. Glenister want to examine the body in situ?”

  “We’re not even sure we can get her. It may have to be the local pathologist.”

  Benton said, “Why not move him to my apartment, ma’am? I’ve got a key, and it will be handy when the helicopter arrives. He can stay on the stretcher until then.”

  Kate wondered why she hadn’t thought of this, why against all reason she had assumed that the tower sickroom was a destined morgue. She said, “Good idea, Sergeant.”

  Gently she replaced the edge of the cope, then got up and stood for a moment, trying to discipline thought. There was so much to be done, but in what order? Telephone calls to be made to London and the Devon and Cornwall force, photographs to be taken before the body was moved, residents to be seen together and later questioned separately, the scene to be examined, including Chapel Cottage, and efforts made to recover the weapon, if that were possible. Almost certainly AD was right: the natural thing would have been for Calcraft to throw it over the cliff, and a smooth-surfaced stone was the most likely object. The sandy grass was littered with them.

  She said, “If it’s in the sea then it’s lost. It’ll depend on the strength of the throw and whether he chucked it from the cliff edge or the lower cliff. Have you any idea about the tides?”

  “I found a tide table in my sitting room, ma’am. I think we’ve got about a couple of hours before high tide.”

  Kate said, “I wonder what AD would do first.”

  She was thinking aloud, not expecting a response, but after a pause Benton said, “It isn’t a question of what Mr. Dalgliesh would do, ma’am, it’s a question of what you decide to do.”

  She looked at him and said, “Get to your apartment as fast as you can and fetch your camera. You may as well bring my murder case with you. Use one of the bikes in the stable block. I’ll ring Maycroft and ask for the stretcher to be brought here in twenty minutes. That’ll give us time for the photographs. After we’ve moved him, we’ll see the residents. Then we’ll come back here to see if there’s a chance of getting down to the shore. And we’ll need to examine Chapel Cottage. Almost certainly Calcraft will have got blood on him, at least on his hands and arms. That’s where he’ll have washed.”

  He sped off, running easily and very fast across the scrubland. Kate went back to Seal Cottage. There were two phone calls to be made, both of them difficult. The first was to Assistant Commissioner Harkness at the Yard. There was a delay in getting through to him, but finally she heard his quick, impatient voice. But the call proved less frustrating than Kate had expected. Admittedly Harkness gave the impression that the complication of SARS was a personal affront for which Kate was in some way responsible, but she sensed that he had at least the satisfaction of being the first to hear the news. So far it hadn’t broken nationally. And when she had reported fully on the progress of the investigation, his final decision, if not immediate, was at least clear.

  “Investigating a double murder with only yourself and a sergeant is hardly ideal. I can’t see why you can’t call in technical backing from the local force. If the SOCOs and fingerprint people keep away from anyone who is infected, there shouldn’t be a serious risk. It will be for the Home Office to authorise, of course.”

  Kate said, “Sergeant Benton-Smith and I don’t yet know whether we are infected, sir.”

  “There is that, I suppose. Anyway, the control of infection isn’t our concern. The double murders are. I’ll have a word with the CC at Exeter. At least they can cope with any exhibits. You’d better carry on with Benton-Smith, at least for the next three days. That will bring us to Friday. After that we’ll see how things develop. Keep me informed, of course. How is Mr. Dalgliesh, by the way?”

  Kate said, “I don’t know, sir. I haven’t liked to worry Dr. Staveley with enquiries. I’m hoping I’ll be able to speak to him and get some news later today.”

  Harkness said, “I’ll ring Staveley myself and talk to Mr. Dalgliesh if he’s well enough.”

  Kate thought, You’ll be lucky. She had a feeling that Guy Staveley would be highly effective in protecting his patient.

  After ringing off, she steeled herself to make the second, more difficult call. She tried to rehearse what she would say to Emma Lavenham, but nothing seemed right. The words were either too frightening or too reassuring. There were two numbers on the paper AD had left, Emma’s mobile and a landline; staring at them didn’t make the choice any easier. In the end she decided to try the landline first. It was early, Emma might still be in her room at college. Perhaps AD had already spoken to her, but she thought that was unlikely. With no mobile, he would have to use the phone in the surgery, and Dr. Staveley would hardly see that as a priority.

  After only five rings, Emma Lavenham’s clear voice, confident and unconcerned, came on the line, bringing with it a confusion of memories and emotions. As soon as Kate announced herself, the voice changed. “It’s Adam, isn’t it?”

  “I’m afraid it is. He’s asked me to let you know that he’s not well. He’ll ring as soon as he can. He sends you his love.”

  Emma was keeping herself under control, but her voice was edged with fear. “How not well? Has he had an accident? Is it serious? Kate, please tell me.”

  “Not an accident. You’ll hear about it on the next radio news, I imagine. One of the visitors here arrived with SARS; Mr. Dalgliesh caught it. He’s in the sickroom.”

  The silence seemed interminable, and so absolute that Kate wondered whether the line was dead. Then Emma’s voice. “How bad is he? Please, Kate, I have to be told.”

  Kate said, “It’s only just happened. I don’t really know very much myself. I hope to find out how he is when I go to the house later today. But I’m sure he’ll be all right. He’s in good hands. I mean, SARS isn’t like that Asian bird flu.”

  She was speaking from ignorance, trying to reassure, but careful not to lie. But how could she tell the truth when she didn’t know it? She added, “And he’s very strong.”

  Emma said with a heartbreaking lack of self-pity, “He was tired when he took the case. I can’t come to him, I know that. I can’t even try to speak to him. I don’t suppose they’d let me, and he mustn’t be worried about me and what I’m feeling. That’s not important now. But I expect you’ll be able to get a message to him. Tell him I’m thinking of him. Give him my love. And, Kate—you will ring me, won’t you? You will tell me the truth, however bad. Nothing can be worse than what I’ll be imagining.”

  “Yes, Emma, I’ll ring you, and I’ll always tell you as much as I know. Goodbye.”

  Replacing the receiver, she thought, Not “tell him that I love him,” just “give him my love”? That’s the kind of message any friend would send. But what other words were there, unless they could be spoken face to face? She thought, We b
oth want to say the same words. I’ve always known why I can’t say them. But he loves her, so why can’t she?

  She went back to the chapel and began to search, stepping carefully around the body, scrutinising the stone floor, moving slowly, eyes down. Then she went outside into the fresh morning air. Was it her imagination that it smelled sweeter? Surely it was too soon for even the first tentative but unmistakable stench of death. She tried to take in the implications of solving two murders with no resources but Benton and herself. For both of them the stakes were high, but, whatever the outcome, the final responsibility would be hers. And the outside world, their world, would find no excuses for failure. Both murders were copybook killings: a small closed society, no access from outside, a limited number of suspects, even more limited now that Speidel had an alibi for Boyde’s death. Only if she and Benton both fell victim to SARS would failure be excused. Both were at risk of infection. Both had sat closeted with Dalgliesh for an hour in his sitting room at Seal Cottage. Now they would be investigating murder under the threat of a dreaded disease. But she knew that the risk of catching SARS was far less onerous to her—as it would be to Benton—than the fear of public failure, of leaving Combe Island with the case unsolved.

  And now she saw him in the distance, cycling vigorously, the camera strapped round his neck, one hand on the middle of the handlebars, the other holding her murder case. He flung the bike against the wall of Seal Cottage and came towards her. She didn’t speak about the phone call to Emma, but reported her conversation with Harkness.

  Benton said, “I’m surprised he didn’t say that if the body count continues to go up we’ll soon solve the case by the process of elimination. What photographs do you want taken, ma’am?”

  For the next quarter of an hour they worked together. Benton photographed the body with the cope in place, and then the battered face, the chapel, the area round it, and the upper and lower cliff, focusing on a partly demolished dry-stone wall. Then they moved to Chapel Cottage. How strange, thought Kate, that silence could be oppressive; that the dead Boyde was more vividly present to her in this emptiness than he had been in life.

  She said, “The bed’s made up. He didn’t sleep here last night. That means he died where we found him, in the chapel.”

  They moved into the bathroom. The bath and basin were dry, the towels in place. Kate said, “There may be prints on the showerhead or taps, but that’ll be for back-up if and when it’s safe for them to come. Our job is to protect the evidence. That means locking and sealing the cottage. The best chance may be DNA on the towels, so they’d better go to the lab.”

  And now, through the open door, they heard the rumble of the buggy. Looking out, Kate said, “Rupert Maycroft on his own. He’d hardly bring Dr. Staveley or Jo Staveley, they’ll be in the sickroom. I’m glad it’s only Maycroft. It’s a pity he has to see the cope, but at least the face will be covered.”

  The stretcher had been placed crossways in the back of the buggy. Benton helped Maycroft unload it. Maycroft waited while he and Kate wheeled it into the chapel. A few minutes later, the sad procession began its way over the scrubland, Maycroft driving the buggy in front, Kate and Benton behind, pushing and walking one on each side of the stretcher. To Kate the whole scene was unreal, a bizarre and alien rite of passage: the fitful sunlight less strong now and a lively breeze lifting Maycroft’s hair, the bright green of the cope like a gaudy shroud, herself and Benton grave-faced mourners walking behind the lumbering buggy, the body jolting from time to time as the wheels hit a hummock, the silence broken only by the sound of their progress, by the ever-present murmur of the sea and the occasional almost human shrieking of a flock of gulls which followed them, wings beating, as if this strange cortège offered a hope of scraps of bread.

  4

  * * *

  It was nearly nine-thirty. Kate and Benton had spent some twenty minutes with Maycroft discussing the logistics of this new situation, and now it was time to face the rest of the company. At the door of the library, Benton saw Kate hesitate and he heard her deep steadying breath and felt as if it were his own. He could see the tension in her shoulders and neck as she raised her head to face what lay beyond the smooth, excluding mahogany. Looking back later, he was to be astonished at how many thoughts and fears had been crowded into those three seconds of time. He felt a spasm of pity for her; this case would be vital for her and she knew it. It could make or break him too, but it was she who was in charge. And could she ever bear to work for Dalgliesh again if she failed both herself and him? He had a sudden vivid image of Dalgliesh’s final words to her outside the chapel, her face, her voice. He thought, She’s in love with him. She thinks he’s going to die. But the pause could only have lasted for a few seconds before, grasping the knob, she turned it firmly.

  He closed the door behind them. The smell of fear met them, sour as a sickroom miasma. How could the air be so tainted? He told himself that he was being fanciful; it was just that all the windows were closed. They were breathing stale air, infecting each other with fear. The scene which met him was different from that first time in the library. Had it really been only three days ago? Then they had been sitting at the long rectangular table like obedient children awaiting the arrival of the headmaster. Then he had sensed shock and horror, but also excitement. Most in that room had had nothing to fear. For those on the margins of murder, involved but innocent, it could hold a terrible fascination. Now he sensed only fear.

  As if unwilling to meet each other’s eyes across the table, they had arranged themselves about the room. Only three were sitting together. Mrs. Plunkett was sitting next to Millie Tranter, their hands on the table, the cook’s large hand enclosing the girl’s. Jago was on Millie’s left, and at the end of the table a white-faced Mrs. Burbridge sat rigidly, the embodiment of horror and grief. Emily Holcombe had taken one of the high-backed leather chairs before the fireplace, and Roughtwood stood behind her at attention, a guardian on duty. Mark Yelland sat opposite, his head leaning back, his arms held loosely on the rests, as relaxed as if preparing to doze. Miranda Oliver and Dennis Tremlett had placed two of the smaller library chairs together in front of one of the bookcases and were seated side by side. Dan Padgett, also on one of the smaller chairs, sat alone, his arms hanging between his knees, his head bowed.

  As they entered, all eyes turned to them, but at first no one moved. Maycroft, who had entered behind them, went over to the table and took one of the empty chairs. Kate said, “Can we please have a window open?”

  It was Jago who got up and moved from casement to casement. A chill breeze flowed in, and they heard more clearly the pounding of the sea.

  Miranda Oliver said, “Not all the windows, Jago. Two are enough.”

  There was a tinge of petulance in her voice. She looked round at the others as if seeking support, but no one spoke. Jago quietly closed all but two windows.

  Kate waited, then she said, “There are two reasons why we’re all here together now, all except Dr. Staveley and his wife, and they will be joining us shortly. Mr. Maycroft has told you that there has been a second death on the island. Commander Dalgliesh found the body of Adrian Boyde in the chapel at eight o’clock this morning. You will already know that Dr. Speidel is being cared for in hospital and that he has SARS—severe acute respiratory syndrome. Unfortunately, Mr. Dalgliesh has also been taken ill. This means that I am now in charge, with Sergeant Benton-Smith. It also means that all of us here will be quarantined. Dr. Staveley will explain how long that is likely to last. During that time, my colleague and I will, of course, investigate both Mr. Oliver’s death and the murder of Adrian Boyde. In the meantime, we think it would be wise, as well as a convenience, if those of you in the cottages moved to the stable block or to the house. Would you like now to say something, Mr. Maycroft?”

  Maycroft got to his feet. Before he could begin speaking, Mark Yelland said, “You used the word ‘murder.’ Do we understand that this second death can’t be either accident or suic
ide?”

  Kate said, “Mr. Boyde was murdered. I’m not at this moment prepared to say more than that. Mr. Maycroft?”

  No one spoke. Benton had braced himself for a vocal reaction, disjointed muttering, exclamations of horror or surprise, but they seemed in shock. All he heard was a concerted intake of breath so low that it seemed no more than the susurration of the freshening breeze. All eyes turned to Maycroft. He got up and grasped the back of his chair, nudging Jago away, seeming unaware of his presence. His knuckles were white against the wood, and his face, drained not only of colour but of all vitality, was the face of an old man. But when he spoke his voice was strong.

  “Inspector Miskin has given you the facts. Guy and Jo Staveley are at present looking after Mr. Dalgliesh, but Dr. Staveley will be here shortly to talk to you about SARS. All I want to say is to express to the police on behalf of us all our shock and horror at the death of a good man who was part of our community, and to say that we shall cooperate with Inspector Miskin’s inquiry as we did with Mr. Dalgliesh’s. In the meantime, I have discussed with her what domestic arrangements we are to make. With this new, seemingly motiveless murder, all the innocent are in some danger. We may have been too ready to assume that our island is impregnable. We have been wrong. I have to emphasise that that is my opinion, not that of the police, but they are anxious for us all to be together. There are two vacant guest suites here in the house and some accommodation in the stables. You all have keys, and I suggest you lock your cottages and bring what you need here with you. The police may need access to the cottages to search for any intruder, and I am providing Inspector Miskin with a set of keys. Has anyone any questions?”

  Emily Holcombe’s voice was firm and confident. Of all the people in the room, it seemed to Benton that she was the least changed. She said, “Roughtwood and I would prefer to stay in Atlantic Cottage. If I need protection he is perfectly able to provide it. We have locks to protect us from any night marauders. Since we can hardly imprison ourselves here in the house without inconvenience, those of us who feel adequately protected may as well stay where we are.”