P James: Unnatural Causes

Jane Dalgliesh replied for him. “Something very shocking, I’m afraid. Maurice Seton’s body was in the boat.”

“Maurice’s body! Maurice? But that’s ridiculous!” Miss Calthrop’s sharp didactic voice cut across the room in futile protest. “It can’t be Maurice. He never takes the boat out. Maurice doesn’t like sailing.”

The Inspector moved forward into the light and spoke for the first time.

“He hadn’t been sailing, Madam. Mr. Seton was lying dead in the bottom of the boat. Dead, and with both hands taken off at the wrists.”

Celia Calthrop, as if relishing her own obstinacy, said for the tenth time: “I keep telling you! I didn’t say a word about the plot to anyone except Maurice. Why should I? And it’s no good harping on about the date. It was about six months ago-perhaps longer. I can’t remember just when. But we were walking along the beach to Walberswick and I suddenly thought that it would make a good start to a detective story if one described a handless corpse drifting out to sea in a boat. So I suggested it to Maurice. I certainly never mentioned it to anyone else until tonight. Maurice may have done so, of course.”

Elizabeth Marley burst out irritably: “Obviously he told someone! We can hardly suppose that he cut his own hands off in the cause of verisimilitude. And it’s stretching coincidence too far to suggest that you and the murderer happened to think of the same idea. But I don’t see how you can be so certain that you didn’t talk about it to anyone else. I believe you mentioned it to me once when we were discussing how slow Maurice was to get his plots under way.”

No one looked as if they believed her. Justin Bryce said softly, but not so softly that the others couldn’t hear: “Dear Eliza! So loyal always.”

Oliver Latham laughed and there was a short, embarrassed silence broken by Sylvia Kedge’s hoarse, belligerent voice. “He never mentioned it to me.”

“No dear,” replied Miss Calthrop sweetly. “But then, there were a great many things which Mr. Seton didn’t discuss with you. One doesn’t tell everything to one’s maid. And that, my dear, was how he thought of you. You should have had more pride than to let him use you as a household drudge. Men prefer a little spirit, you know.”

It was gratuitously spiteful and Dalgliesh could sense the general embarrassed surprise. But no one spoke. He was almost ashamed to look at the girl but she had bent her head as if meekly accepting a merited rebuke, and the two black swathes of hair had swung forward to curtain her face. In the sudden silence he could hear the rasping of her breath, and he wished he could feel sorry for her. Certainly Celia Calthrop was intolerable; but there was something about Sylvia Kedge which provoked unkindness. He wondered what lay behind that particular impulse to savagery.

It was nearly an hour since Inspector Reckless and his Sergeant had arrived, an hour in which the Inspector had said little and the rest of the company, except Dalgliesh and his aunt, had said a great deal. Not all of it had been wise. Reckless had settled himself on arrival in a high chair against the wall and sat there still, solid as a bailiff, his sombre eyes watchful in the light of the fire. Despite the warmth of the room he was wearing his raincoat, a grubby gaberdine which looked too fragile to sustain the weight of its armour of metal buttons, buckles and studs. On his lap he nursed with careful hands a pair of immense gauntlet gloves and a trilby hat as if fearful that someone was going to snatch them from him. He looked like an interloper; the minor official there on sufferance, the little man who dares not risk a drink on duty. And that, thought Dalgliesh, was exactly the effect he aimed to produce. Like all successful detectives, he was able to subdue his personality at will so that even his physical presence became as innocuous and commonplace as a piece of furniture. The man was helped by his appearance, of course. He was small-surely only just the regulation height for a policeman-and the sallow, anxious face was as neutral and unremarkable as any of a million faces seen crowding into a football ground on a Saturday afternoon. His voice, too, was flat, classless, giving no clue to the man. His eyes, wide-spaced and deep-set under jutting brows, had a trick of moving expressionlessly from face to face as people spoke, which the present company might have found disconcerting if they had bothered to notice. By his side, Sergeant Courtney sat with the air of one who has been told to sit upright, keep his eyes and ears open and say nothing, and who is doing just that.

Dalgliesh glanced across the room to where his aunt sat in her usual chair. She had taken up her knitting and seemed serenely detached from the business in hand. She had been taught to knit by a German governess and held the needles upright in the Continental manner; Celia Calthrop seemed mesmerised by their flashing tips and sat glaring across at them as if both fascinated and affronted by her hostess’s unusual expertise. She was less at ease, crossing and uncrossing her feet and jerking back her head from the fire as if she found its heat intolerable. It was certainly getting hot in the sitting room. All the other visitors, except Reckless, seemed to feel it too. Oliver Latham was pacing up and down, his brow wet with sweat, his restless energy seeming to raise the temperature still higher. Suddenly he swung round at Reckless: “When did he die?” he demanded. “Come on, let’s have some facts for a change! When did Seton die?”

“We shan’t know that precisely until we get the PM report, Sir.”

“In other words, you’re not telling. Let me phrase it another way then. For what hours are we expected to provide alibis?”

Celia Calthrop gave a little squeak of protest but turned to Reckless as anxious as the rest for his reply.

“I shall want a statement from all of you covering the time Mr. Seton was last seen, which was, I understand, seven-thirty on Tuesday evening, until midnight on Wednesday.”

Latham said: “That’s putting it a bit late surely? He must have been shoved out to sea long before midnight. Sunset and evening star and one clear call for me… I’ll begin, shall I? I was at the New Theatre Guild first night on Tuesday and afterwards went on to a party given by our dear theatrical knight. I got back to my flat shortly after one and spent what remained of the night with a friend. I can’t say who at present but I expect I’ll be able to give you the name tomorrow. We got up late, lunched at the Ivy and parted when I got out my car to drive down here. I arrived at my cottage shortly after seven-thirty yesterday evening and didn’t go out again except to take a short walk along the beach before bed. Today I’ve spent driving around the country and getting in supplies. After dinner I discovered I hadn’t bought any coffee and came to the one neighbour who could be relied upon to provide a drinkable blend without a coy accompanying lecture on men and their inefficient housekeeping. To make it easy for you, I would emphasise that I have, apparently, an alibi for the time of death-presuming him to have died on Tuesday-but not for the time he was sent off on his last journey, presuming that to have been yesterday night.”

During the first part of this recital Miss Calthrop had assumed a quick variety of expressions-curiosity, disapproval, lubricity and a gentle sadness-as if trying to decide which suited her best. She settled for the gentle sadness, a good woman grieving once more over the frailty of men.

Inspector Reckless said quietly: “I shall have to ask you for the lady’s name, Sir.”

“Then you’ll ask in vain, at least until I’ve had a chance to talk to her. Charming of you to assume that it was a woman, though. Look, Inspector, be reasonable! If I had anything to do with Seton’s death I should have fixed my alibi by now. And if I set out to concoct a false one it would hardly involve a woman. Apart from considerations of misplaced chivalry we could hardly fox you for long. No one remembers all the details. You would only have to ask what we talked about, who drew the curtains, on what side of the bed I slept, how many blankets, what we ate for breakfast. It amazes me that anyone tries to concoct an alibi. One would need a better head for detail than I lay claim to.”