The Lighthouse by P. D. James
This time they looked at each other. Dalgliesh could see that the question was both unexpected and unwelcome. There was a pause. Dennis Tremlett said, “He did say something to me earlier in the week about going to the mainland for the day. He didn’t say why. I had a feeling it was something to do with research.”
Kate said, “To order the launch after lunch wouldn’t give him a full day on the mainland. Did he ever leave the island once he’d arrived?”
Again there was a pause. If either Tremlett or Miss Oliver was tempted to lie, a moment’s thought would warn them that the police could check anything they said with Jago Tamlyn. At last Tremlett said, “He did occasionally but not often. I can’t remember the last time.”
Dalgliesh could sense a change, subtle but unmistakable, in the tenor of the questions and in their response. He changed tack. “Did your father tell you about his will? Are there any organisations, for example, which will benefit by his death?”
This question, he saw, was more easily dealt with. Miranda said, “I’m his only child and naturally the main beneficiary. He told me that some years ago. He may have left something to Dennis as a way of thanking him for his services over the last twelve years, and I think he did mention that. He also told me that he was leaving two million pounds to the Combe Island Trust, to be used in part to have another cottage built and named after him. I don’t know whether he’s altered his will recently. If he has, he didn’t tell me. I know that he was increasingly unhappy that the Trust wouldn’t put Atlantic Cottage at his disposal. I expect they were acting on the advice of Mr. Maycroft. No one here has any idea what that cottage meant to Daddy. Where he works is important to him, and this place isn’t really suitable. I know it has two bedrooms, which most of the cottages haven’t got, but he never felt at home here. Mr. Maycroft and Emily Holcombe never seemed to realise that my father was one of England’s greatest novelists and there are things he needed for his work—the right place, the right view, enough room as well as privacy. He wanted Atlantic Cottage and it could perfectly well have been arranged. If he has cut the Trust out of his will I’ll be glad.”
Kate asked, “When exactly did you break the news to your father about your engagement?”
“At about five o’clock yesterday, perhaps a little later. Dennis and I had been for a walk along the cliff, and I came back alone. Daddy was here reading, and I made tea for him and told him then. He was very sweet about it, but he didn’t say very much except that he was glad for us and he’d seen it coming. Then he said he would have dinner in the big house, so would I ring Mrs. Burbridge and let her know there’d be one extra. He said there would be a guest there he wanted particularly to meet. It must have been Dr. Speidel or Dr. Yelland, because they’re the only other visitors.”
“Did he tell you what it was about?”
“No, he didn’t. He said he was going to his room to rest until it was time to change for dinner. I didn’t see him again until he came down just before half-past seven and left for Combe House. All he said was that he wouldn’t be late.”
Dalgliesh turned to Tremlett. “And when did you see him last?”
“Just before one o’clock. I went back to my rooms in the stable block for lunch as usual. He said he wouldn’t need me in the afternoon—he doesn’t usually on a Friday—so that’s when I decided on the walk. I told Miranda where I was going, and I knew she’d come to meet me so that we could talk about our plans. Afterwards she agreed she’d speak to her father, and I went back to my room in the stable block. I came back at eight o’clock expecting him to be here for dinner with the two of us, and Miranda told me that he’d gone to the big house. I didn’t see him again.”
This time the words came quickly and more easily. Had they, perhaps, been rehearsed?
Kate looked at Miranda. She said, “He must have come in very late.”
“He came back later than I expected, but I heard the door and looked at my bedside clock. It was just after eleven. He didn’t come to say good night. He usually does but not always. I expect he didn’t want to disturb me. I saw him leave from my window at twenty past seven this morning. I’d just come out of the shower and was dressing at the time. When I came down I saw that he’d made tea and eaten a banana. I thought that he’d gone for an early walk and would be back for his usual cooked breakfast.”
There had been no mention of the pile of charred paper in the grate. Dalgliesh was a little surprised that it hadn’t been cleared away, but perhaps Miranda Oliver and Tremlett had realised that this would be pointless, since Maycroft and Staveley would almost certainly have reported what they had seen.
He said, “Some paper has been burned. Can you tell me about that?”
Tremlett swallowed but didn’t reply. He glanced appealingly at Miranda, but she was prepared. “They were the proofs of my father’s last book. He’d been working on them, making important alterations. My father wouldn’t have done this. Someone must have got into the cottage during the night.”
“But wasn’t the door locked?”
“No. It very rarely is, because there’s no need on the island. When he returned late last night, he would normally have locked the door just as a matter of habit, but he might easily have forgotten or not bothered. It wasn’t locked when I got up this morning, but, then, it wouldn’t have been. Daddy would have left it unlocked when he left.”
“But surely he would have seen the destruction. It must have horrified him. Wouldn’t it have been natural to wake you and ask how it happened?”
“Perhaps, but he didn’t.”
“Don’t you find that rather surprising?”
And now he was facing frankly antagonistic eyes. “Everything that’s happened since yesterday is surprising. It’s surprising that my father’s dead. He might not have noticed or, if he did, might not have wanted to disturb me.”
Dalgliesh turned to Dennis Tremlett. “How important is the loss? If those were galleys, presumably there’s a second set here and more at his publishers.”
Tremlett found his voice. “They were very important. He would never have burned them. He always insisted on having galley proofs so that he could do the editing at that stage rather than on the manuscript. It made things very difficult for his publishers, of course, and more expensive for him, but he never revised until he got the proofs. And he did a lot of editing. That’s how he liked to work. Sometimes he even made alterations between printings. He could never quite believe a novel was perfect. And he wouldn’t have a publisher’s editor. We did it together. He would write his alterations in pencil, and I would copy them in ink on my set of proofs. That copy is missing as well as his.”
“And they were kept where?”
“In the top drawer of his desk. They weren’t locked up. It wouldn’t have occurred to him that that was necessary.”
Dalgliesh wanted to talk to Tremlett alone, but it wasn’t going to be easy. He turned to Miranda. “I think I’ll change my mind about the tea or coffee. Perhaps some coffee, if it won’t be too much trouble.”
If the request was unwelcome, she concealed her irritation well and without a word left the sitting room. He saw with relief that she closed the door after her. He wondered whether coffee had been the right choice. If Oliver had been particular, she would probably have to grind the beans and that would take time, but if she had no intention of going to any trouble he couldn’t rely on more than a few minutes of privacy.
Without preamble he said to Tremlett, “What was Mr. Oliver like to work for?”
Tremlett looked up. And now he seemed almost anxious to speak. “He wasn’t easy, but, then, why should he be? I mean, he didn’t make a confidant of me and he could be impatient at times, but I didn’t mind. I owe him everything. I’ve worked for him for twelve years, and they’ve been the best years of my life. I was a freelance copy-editor when he took me on, and I mostly worked for his publisher. I’d been ill a lot, so it was difficult to get a more regular job. He saw that I was meticulous, so after I??
He was close to tears. Dalgliesh asked gently, “How much did you help him? I mean, did he ever discuss progress with you, what he was trying to do?”
“He didn’t need my help. He was a genius. But he did sometimes say—perhaps about a piece of action—do you believe that? Does it seem reasonable to you? And I would tell him. I don’t think he much enjoyed plotting.”
Oliver had been fortunate to find an acolyte with a genuine love of literature and a sensibility to match his own, someone perhaps happy to undervalue his minor talent in the service of the greater. But his grief was genuine, and it was difficult to see him as Oliver’s murderer. Still, Dalgliesh had known killers with equal acting ability. Grief, even if genuine, could be the most duplicitous of emotions and was seldom uncomplicated. It was possible to mourn the death of a man’s talent while rejoicing in the death of the man. Yet the burning of the proofs was surely different. That showed hatred for the work itself, and a pettiness of mind which he hadn’t detected in Tremlett. What was it that the man was grieving for—a mentor horribly done to death, or a heap of blackened paper with the careful pencilled notes of a great writer? He couldn’t share the grief but he did share the outrage.
And now Miranda came in. Kate got up to help her with the tray. The coffee, which Miranda poured and which he hadn’t needed, was excellent. After the coffee, which Dalgliesh and Kate drank quickly, the interview seemed to have come to a natural conclusion. Tremlett got to his feet and stumbled out of the room, and Miranda saw Dalgliesh and Kate to the door, carefully closing it behind them.
They walked towards Seal Cottage. After a moment’s silence Dalgliesh said, “Miss Oliver left her options carefully open, didn’t she? Adamant that her father couldn’t possibly have killed himself while previously enumerating the reasons why he might have done just that. Tremlett’s distressed and terrified, while she has herself well under control. It’s easy to see who’s the dominant partner there. Did you think Tremlett was lying?”
“No, sir, but I thought she might be. I mean, all that stuff about the engagement—Daddy loves me, Daddy would like his little girl to be happy—does that sound like the Nathan Oliver we know?”
“Not that we know, Kate. Only what others have told us.”
“And the whole business of the engagement initially struck me as odd. At first I kept wondering why they didn’t see Oliver together, why Tremlett took such care to keep out of his way after the news was broken. Then I thought that maybe it wasn’t so strange. Miranda might have wanted to tell her father alone, explain her feelings, set out their plans for the future. And if he cut up rough she might not have told Tremlett. She might have lied to him, told him that Oliver was happy about the marriage.” She thought for a moment, then added, “But there wouldn’t be much point in that. He’d have known the truth soon enough when he came in to work this morning. Daddy would have told him.”
Dalgliesh said, “Yes, he would. Unless, of course, Miranda could be confident that next morning Daddy wouldn’t be there to tell.”
8
* * *
By four o’clock, Dalgliesh and the team had been given their keys, including one to the side entrance of Combe House, and had settled themselves into their accommodation, Dalgliesh in Seal Cottage and Kate and Benton in adjoining apartments in the stable block. Dalgliesh decided to let Kate and Benton interview Emily Holcombe, at least in the first instance. As the last of her family and the longest-standing resident, she could probably tell him more about the islanders than anyone else and, apart from that, he looked forward to talking to her. But the interview could wait, and he, not she, would control it. Meanwhile, it was important that all the suspects realised that Kate and Benton were part of his team.
Returning to the office to settle some administrative details, he was a little surprised at Maycroft’s apparent lack of concern at Dr. Speidel’s non-appearance, but presumably this arose from the long-standing policy of leaving visitors undisturbed. Dr. Speidel had been on the island at the time of the murder; sooner or later his self-imposed solitude would have to be broken.
Maycroft was alone in the office when he arrived, but almost immediately Adrian Boyde put his head round the door. “Dr. Speidel is here. He was asleep, not out walking, when you rang earlier and didn’t get the message until after three.”
“Show him up, please, Adrian. Does he know about Nathan Oliver?”
“I don’t think so. I met him coming in at the back door. I didn’t tell him.”
“Good. Ask Mrs. Plunkett to send in some tea, will you. We’ll have it in about ten minutes. Where’s Dr. Speidel now?”
“Inside the entrance hall, sitting on the oak settle. He doesn’t look at all well.”
“We could have gone to him if only he’d let us know. Why didn’t he ring for the buggy? It’s a longish walk from Shearwater Cottage.”
“I asked that. He said he thought the walk would do him good.”
“Tell him I’d be grateful if he could spare a moment. It shouldn’t take long.” He looked at Dalgliesh. “He only arrived on Wednesday, and this is his first visit. I doubt whether he’ll have anything useful to tell you.”
Boyde disappeared. They waited in silence. The door opened and Boyde said, as if formally introducing an important visitor, “Dr. Speidel.”
Dalgliesh and Maycroft stood up. Dr. Speidel, glancing at Dalgliesh, seemed for a moment disorientated, as if wondering whether this was someone he ought to recognise. Maycroft deferred any introduction. Perhaps feeling that his stance behind the desk conveyed an inappropriate, even slightly intimidating formality, he motioned Speidel to one of the easy chairs before the empty fireplace, then seated himself opposite. The man did indeed look ill. His handsome face with its unmistakable patina of power was flushed and sweaty, and beads of sweat stood out like pustules on his brow. Perhaps he was over-clad for a mild day. The heavy trousers, roll-necked jersey in thick wool, leather jacket and scarf were more suitable for winter than this mild autumn afternoon. Dalgliesh swung his chair round but waited for an introduction before seating himself.
Maycroft said, “This is Commander Dalgliesh, a police officer from New Scotland Yard. He’s here because we have a tragedy. That’s why I found it necessary to disturb you. I’m sorry to have to tell you that Nathan Oliver is dead. We discovered his body at ten o’clock this morning hanging from the railing at the top of the lighthouse.”
Disconcertingly, Speidel’s response was to rise from his chair and shake Dalgliesh’s hand. Despite his flushed face, his hand was unexpectedly cold and clammy. Seating himself again and slowly unwinding his scarf, he appeared to be contemplating the most appropriate response. Finally he said, with only the faintest trace of a German accent, “This is a tragedy for his family, his friends and for literature. He was highly regarded in Germany, especially the novels of his middle period. Are you saying that his death was suicide?”
Maycroft glanced at Dalgliesh and left him to reply. “Apparently so, but there are some contra-indications. Obviously it’s desirable to clear them up, and, if possible, before the news breaks nationally.”
Maycroft broke in. “There’s no question of concealment. Such a death must attract international interest and sorrow. The Trust hopes that, if the full facts can be known quickly, then the life of this island won’t be too long disrupted.” He paused and seemed for a moment to regret his words. “Of course, the tragedy will
Dalgliesh said, “I’m asking everyone here whether they saw Mr. Oliver at any time after dinner last night and particularly early this morning. It would be helpful to have some idea of the state of his mind in the hours preceding his death and, if possible, when that death occurred.”
Speidel’s reply was interrupted by a fit of harsh coughing. Then he looked down at his clasped hands in his lap and seemed for some seconds lost in contemplation. The silence seemed inordinately prolonged. It could hardly, thought Dalgliesh, be a response to grief for a man he had not claimed personally to know. His first reaction to the news had been words of conventional condolence, spoken unemotionally. Nor did it seem feasible that Dalgliesh’s single question required much thought. He wondered if the man was seriously ill. The cough had obviously been painful. He coughed again into his handkerchief, and this time it was more prolonged. Perhaps the silence had been no more than an attempt to suppress it.
Finally he looked up and said, “Please excuse me, the cough is troublesome. I began to feel unwell on the boat coming here, but not enough to cancel my visit. It is nothing that rest and good air will not cure. I should regret being a nuisance by bringing influenza to the island.”
Dalgliesh said, “If you’d rather talk to me later . . .”
“No, no. It is important to speak now. I think I can assist with the time of death. As for his state of mind, of that I have no knowledge. Nathan Oliver was not known to me personally, and I would not presume to understand the man except insofar as I can understand the writer. As to the time of death, there I can be helpful. I made an appointment to meet him in the lighthouse at eight o’clock this morning. I had a restless night with some fever and was a little late in starting out. It was six minutes past eight when I arrived at the lighthouse. I was unable to gain entry. The door was locked.”