Death in Holy Orders (35 page)

Dalgliesh’s voice was calmly uninquisitive: “Why should you think that?”

“Because it’s at least possible. If this is what you call an inside job, then who else could it have been? And there’s one piece of evidence supporting it. When I went back to my room this morning, after I’d phoned everyone to come to the library, I knew that someone had entered it during the night. There was a broken twig inside the door. Unless someone’s removed it, it will still be there. Now you’ve closed the north cloister, I couldn’t go back to check. I suppose it’s evidence of a kind, but evidence of what?”

Dalgliesh asked, “Are you sure that the twig wasn’t in your room when you left after Compline to go and check on Peter Buckhurst?”

“I’m sure it wasn’t. I’d have noticed it. I couldn’t have missed it. Someone entered that room after I left to see Peter. I
must have gone back sometime in the night. Who else could it have been at that hour and in a storm?”

Dalgliesh said, “Have you ever in your life suffered from temporary amnesia?”

“No, never.”

“And you’re telling me the truth, that you say you have no recollection of killing the Archdeacon?”

“Yes, I swear it.”

“All I can tell you is that whoever committed this murder can be in no doubt what he or she did last night.”

“You mean that I would have woken this morning with blood on my hands—literally on my hands?”

“I mean no more than I’ve said. I think that’s all for now. If you later remember anything new, please tell us at once.”

The dismissal was summary and, Kate could see, unexpected. Still keeping his eyes on Dalgliesh, Arbuthnot murmured, “Thank you,” and left.

They waited until the front door had closed behind him. Dalgliesh said, “Well, which is it, Kate, a consummate actor or a worried and innocent young man?”

“I’d say he’s a pretty good actor. With looks like that you probably have to be. I know that doesn’t make him guilty. It’s a clever story though, isn’t it? He more or less confesses to murder in the hope that he’ll learn exactly how much we know. And his night with Buckhurst doesn’t give him an alibi; he could easily have crept out when the boy was asleep, taken the keys to the church and rung the Archdeacon. We know from Miss Betterton that he’s good at imitating voices; he could have pretended to be any of the priests, and if he was seen in the house, well no one would question his right to be there. Even if Peter Buckhurst woke up and found him gone, there’s a good chance he wouldn’t betray his friend. Much easier to make himself believe that the spare bed wasn’t empty.”

Dalgliesh said, “We’d better question him next. You and Piers can do that. But if Arbuthnot took the key, why not put it back when he returned to the house? A strong probability is that whoever killed Crampton didn’t go back into college—unless, of course, that’s exactly what we’re intended to believe. If Raphael did kill the Archdeacon—and until we have spoken to
Yarwood he remains the chief suspect—his cleverest ploy would be to throw the key away. Did you notice that he didn’t once mention Yarwood as a possible suspect? He’s not stupid, he must realize the possible significance of Yarwood’s disappearance. He can’t be naïve enough to assume that no police officer is ever capable of murder.”

Kate said, “And the twig inside his room?”

“He says it’s still there, and no doubt it is. The question is, how did it get there and when? It means that the SOCOs will have to extend the search area to Arbuthnot’s room. If he’s telling the truth—and it’s an odd story—then the twig could be important. But this murder was carefully planned. If Arbuthnot had murder in mind, why complicate things by going to Peter Buckhurst’s room? If his friend had been seriously distressed by the storm, Arbuthnot could hardly leave him. And he couldn’t rely on the boy falling asleep, even at midnight.”

“But if he was hoping to fabricate an alibi, Peter Buckhurst was probably his only chance. After all, a sick and frightened young man would be easy to deceive about the time. If Arbuthnot planned the murder for midnight, for example, he could easily murmur to Buckhurst when they settled down to sleep that it was after twelve o’clock.”

“Which would only be helpful to him, Kate, if the pathologist could tell us more or less precisely when Crampton was killed. Arbuthnot hasn’t an alibi, but that goes for everyone in college.”

“Including Yarwood.”

“And he may hold the key to the whole business. We have to press on but, until he’s fit enough to be interviewed, we could be missing vital evidence.”

Kate asked, “You don’t see him as a suspect, sir?”

“At present he has to be, but he’s an unlikely one. I can’t see a man in such a precarious mental state planning and executing such a complicated crime. If finding Crampton so unexpectedly at St. Anselm’s had roused him to a murderous rage, he could have struck him down in his bed.”

“But that goes for all the suspects, sir.”

“Exactly. We get back to the central question. Why was the murder planned in this way?”

Nobby Clark and the photographer were at the door. Clark’s face assumed a look of solemn reverence, as if he were entering a church. It was a sure sign that he had good news. Coming over to the table, he laid out Polaroids of fingerprints: the index to the little finger of the right hand, and beside them a palm print, again of the right hand, this time showing the side of the thumb and four clear prints of the fingers. He laid a standard fingerprint form beside them.

He said, “Dr. Stannard, sir. You couldn’t hope for anything clearer. The palm print’s on the stone wall to the right of the
Doom
, the other print’s on the seat of the second box pew. We can take a palm print, sir, but it’s hardly necessary with what we’ve got. No point in sending it off to HQ for verification. I’ve seldom seen clearer prints. They’re Dr. Stannard’s, all right.”

P
iers said, “If Stannard is Cain, this will be our shortest investigation to date. Back to the smoke. Pity. I was looking forward to dinner at the Crown and a pre-breakfast walk on the beach.”

Dalgliesh was standing at the east window looking out over the headland to the sea. Turning, he said, “I shouldn’t give up hope of it.”

They had pulled out the desk from under the window and placed it in the middle of the room with the two upright chairs behind it. Stannard would sit in the low armchair now brought forward to face the desk. He would be physically the most comfortable but psychologically disadvantaged.

They waited in silence. Dalgliesh showed no inclination to talk, and Piers had worked with him long enough to know when to keep quiet. Robbins must be having difficulty in finding Stannard. It was nearly five minutes before they heard the front door opening.

Robbins said, “Dr. Stannard, sir,” and settled himself unobtrusively in the corner, notebook in hand.

Stannard came in briskly, responding curtly to Dalgliesh’s “Good morning,” and looked round as if wondering where he was expected to sit.

Piers said, “This chair, Dr. Stannard.”

Stannard looked with deliberate intentness round the room, as if deploring its inadequacies, then sat, leaned back, appeared to decide that the assumption of ease was inappropriate, and resettled himself on the edge of the chair, legs clamped together, hands in his jacket pockets. His gaze, fixed on Dalgliesh, was inquiring rather than belligerent, but Piers
sensed his resentment, and something stronger which he diagnosed as fear.

No one is at his best when involved in an investigation of murder; even reasonable and public-spirited witnesses, fortified by innocence, can come to resent the intrusion of police probing, and no one faces it with an entirely clear conscience. Minor and unrelated ancient delinquencies float to the surface of the mind like scum. Even so, Piers found Stannard singularly unprepossessing. It wasn’t, he decided, only his prejudice against drooping moustaches; he just didn’t like the man. Stannard’s face, a thin over-long nose and close-set eyes, had settled into deeply cleft lines of discontent. This was the face of a man who had never quite achieved what he felt was his due. What, Piers wondered, had gone wrong? The Upper Second degree instead of the expected First? A lectureship at an ex-polytechnic university instead of Oxbridge? Less power, less money, less sex than he felt he deserved? Probably not too little sex; women unaccountably seemed attracted to this Che Guevara amateur-revolutionary type. Hadn’t he at Oxford lost his Rosie to just such a sour-faced wanker? Perhaps, he admitted, that was the cause of his prejudice. He was too experienced not to keep it under control, but even to admit to it gave him a perverted satisfaction.

He had worked with Dalgliesh long enough to know how this scene would be played. He would ask most of the questions; AD would come in when and as he chose. It was never what the witness expected. Piers wondered whether Dalgliesh knew how intimidating was his dark, silent, watchful presence.

He introduced himself, then began asking the usual preliminary questions in an even voice. Name, address, date of birth, occupation, marital state. Stannard’s replies were short. At the end he said, “I don’t see what relevance my marital state has to all this. Actually I have a partner. Female.”

Without replying, Piers asked, “And you arrived when, sir?”

“Friday night for a long weekend. I’m due to leave before dinner tonight. I presume there’s no reason why I shouldn’t?”

“Are you a regular visitor, sir?”

“Fairly. During the last eighteen months or so, the occasional weekends.”

“Could you be more specific?”

“About half a dozen visits, I suppose.”

“When were you last here?”

“A month ago. I forget the exact date. Then I arrived Friday night and stayed until Sunday. Compared with this weekend it was uneventful.”

Dalgliesh interposed for the first time. “Why do you visit, Dr. Stannard?”

Stannard opened his mouth, then hesitated. Piers wondered whether he had been about to reply, “Why shouldn’t I?” and had thought better of it. The answer, when it did come, sounded as if it had been carefully prepared.

“I’m researching a book on the family life of the early Tractarians, covering both their childhood and youth, their later marriages, if any, and their family life. The intention is to explore early experience with religious development and sexuality. As this is an Anglo-Catholic institution the library is particularly useful, and I have an entry to it. My grandfather was Samuel Stannard, a partner in the firm of Stannard, Fox and Perronet in Norwich. They have represented St. Anselm’s since its foundation, and the Arbuthnot family before that. Coming here, I combine research with an agreeable weekend break.”

Piers asked, “How far has research progressed?”

“It’s at an early stage. I don’t get much free time. Contrary to popular belief, academics are over-worked.”

“But you have papers with you, evidence of work done so far?”

“No. My papers are in college.”

Piers said, “These visits—I would have thought you had exhausted the possibilities of the library here. What about other libraries? The Bodleian?”

Stannard said sourly, “There are libraries other than the Bodleian.”

“True. There’s Pusey House at Oxford. I believe they have a remarkable Tractarian collection. The librarian there should be able to help.” He turned to Dalgliesh. “And there’s London, of course. Is the Dr. Williams Library in Bloomsbury still in existence, sir?”

Before Dalgliesh could reply, if he had intended to, Stannard broke out. “What the hell business is it of yours where I choose to do my research? And if you’re trying to show that, occasionally, the Met recruits educated officers, forget it. I’m not impressed.”

Piers said, “Just trying to be helpful. So you’ve visited here some half-dozen times in the last eighteen months to work in the library and enjoy a recuperative weekend. Has Archdeacon Crampton been here on any of those previous occasions?”

“No. I never met him until this weekend. He didn’t arrive until yesterday. I don’t know when exactly, but the first I saw of him was at tea. Tea was laid out in the students’ sitting-room, and the room was pretty full when I arrived at four. Someone—I think it was Raphael Arbuthnot—introduced me to the people I hadn’t met, but I didn’t feel inclined to chat, so I took a cup of tea and a couple of sandwiches and went to the library. That old fool Father Peregrine took his head out of his book long enough to tell me that food and drink weren’t allowed in the library. I went to my room. I saw the Archdeacon next at dinner. After dinner I worked in the library until they all went to Compline. I’m an atheist, so I didn’t join them.”

“And you learned of the murder when?”

“Just before seven, when Raphael Arbuthnot rang to say that a general meeting had been called and that we were to assemble in the library at seven-thirty. I didn’t much care for being spoken to as if I were back at school, but I thought I might as well see what it was all about. As far as the murder is concerned, I know less than you.”

Piers asked, “Have you ever attended any of the services here?”

“No I haven’t. I came here for the library and for a quiet weekend, not to attend services. It doesn’t seem to worry the priests, so I don’t see why it should concern you.”

Piers said, “Oh, but it does, Dr. Stannard, it does. Are you telling us that you have never in fact been in the church?”

“No, I’m not saying that. Don’t put words into my mouth. I may have looked in out of curiosity on one of the visits. I’ve certainly seen the inside, including the
Doom
, which has some interest for me. I’m saying I have never attended a service.”

Without looking up from the paper before him, Dalgliesh asked, “When were you last in the church, Dr. Stannard?”

“I can’t remember. Why should I? Not this weekend anyway.”

“And when during this weekend did you last see Archdeacon Crampton?”

“After church. I heard some of them coming back about quarter-past ten. I was in the students’ sitting-room watching a video. There was nothing worth seeing on television, and they have a small collection of videos. I put on
Four Weddings and a Funeral
. I’d seen it before, but I thought it was worth a second viewing. Crampton looked in briefly but I wasn’t exactly welcoming, so he made off.”