P James: Unnatural Causes

“Well, you seem to be in the clear, Oliver,” proclaimed Celia severely. “It is a matter of murder after all. No reasonable woman could make difficulties.”

Latham laughed. “But she’s not reasonable, my dear Celia. She’s an actress. Not that I’m expecting trouble. My father gave me one piece of useful advice. Never go to bed with a woman if either of you would be embarrassed to admit the fact next morning. It’s a little restricting to one’s sex life but now you can see the practical advantages.”

Dalgliesh doubted whether Latham found it in fact so very restricting. In his sophisticated circle few people minded a liaison becoming public provided it enhanced their standing, and Oliver Latham, wealthy, handsome, urbane and reputedly hard to get, stood high in the market.

Bryce said peevishly: “Well, you’ve nothing to worry about then if, as seems likely, Seton died on Tuesday night. Unless, of course, the Inspector is unkind enough to suggest that your sleeping partner would provide you with an alibi in any case.”

“Oh, she would provide almost anything if asked nicely,” said Latham lightly. “But it would be dangerous surely. It’s a question of histrionics. As long as she was playing the gallant little liar, risking her reputation to save her lover from jail, I should be all right. But suppose she decided to change her role? It’s probably as well that I shall be requiring her merely to tell the truth.”

Celia Calthrop, obviously tired of the general interest in Latham’s sex life, broke in impatiently: “I hardly think I need to describe my movements. I was a very dear friend of poor Maurice, perhaps the only real friend he ever had. However, I haven’t any objection to telling you, and I suppose it may help to clear someone else. Every piece of information is important, isn’t it? I was at home for most of the time. On Tuesday afternoon, however, I drove Sylvia to Norwich and we both had our hair washed and set. Estelle’s near the Maddermarket. It makes a pleasant little treat for Sylvia and I do think it’s important not to let oneself go just because one lives in the country. We had a late tea in Norwich and I took Sylvia home at about eight-thirty; then I drove back to my cottage. I spent yesterday morning working-I dictate on tape-and I drove to Ipswich yesterday afternoon to do some shopping and call on a friend, Lady Briggs of Well Walk. It was just a chance call. Actually she wasn’t in, but the maid will remember me. I’m afraid I got a little lost coming home and wasn’t back until nearly ten. By then my niece had arrived from Cambridge and she, of course, can vouch for me for the rest of the night. Just before lunch this morning Sylvia telephoned to tell me about the manuscript and Maurice being missing. I wasn’t at all sure what to do for the best but when I saw Superintendent Dalgliesh driving past this evening I rang Mr. Bryce and suggested that we all come to consult him. By then I had a premonition that something was dreadfully wrong, and how right I am proved!”

Justin Bryce spoke next. Dalgliesh was intrigued by the readiness with which the suspects were volunteering information for which no one had yet officially asked. They were reciting their alibis with the glib assurance of converts at a revivalist meeting. Tomorrow, no doubt, they would pay for this indulgence with the usual emotional hangover. But it was hardly his job to warn them. He began to feel a considerably increased respect for Reckless; at least the man knew when to sit still and listen.

Bryce said: “I was at my Bloomsbury flat in town until yesterday too, but if Seton died late on Tuesday night I’m definitely out of the running, my dears. I had to telephone the doctor twice that night. I was really dreadfully ill. One of my asthma attacks; you know how I suffer, Celia. My doctor, Lionel Forbes-Denby, can confirm it. I phoned him first just before midnight and begged him to visit at once. He wouldn’t come, of course. Just told me to take two of my blue capsules and ring again if they hadn’t acted in an hour. It was really naughty of him. I told him I thought I was dying. That’s why my type of asthma is so dangerous. You can die with it if you think you’re going to.”

“But not if Forbes-Denby forbids it, surely?” said Latham. “That’s all very well, Oliver, but he can be wrong.”

“He was Maurice’s doctor, too, wasn’t he?” asked Miss Calthrop. “Maurice always swore by him. He had to be terribly careful of his heart and he always said that Forbes-Denby kept him alive.”

“Well, he should have visited me Tuesday night,” said Bryce, aggrieved. “I rang again at three-thirty and he came at six but I was over the worst by then. Still, it’s an alibi.”

“Not really, Justin,” said Latham. “We’ve no proof that you rang from your flat.”

“Of course I phoned from the flat! I told you. I was practically at death’s door. Besides, if I sent a false message and was rushing around London murdering Seton what would I do when Forbes-Denby turned up at the flat? He’d never treat me again!”

Latham laughed: “My dear Justin! If Forbes-Denby says he isn’t coming he isn’t coming. And well you know it.”

Bryce assented sadly; he seemed to take the destruction of his alibi remarkably philosophically. Dalgliesh had heard of Forbes-Denby. He was a fashionable West End practitioner who was also a good doctor. He and his patients shared a common belief in the medical infallibility of Forbes-Denby and it was rumoured that few of them would eat, drink, marry, give birth, leave the country or die without his permission; they gloried in his eccentricities, recounted with gusto his latest rudeness and dined out on the recent Forbes-Denby outrage whether it were hurling their favourite patent medicine through the window or sacking the cook. Dalgliesh was glad that it would be Reckless or his minions who would have the task of asking this un-amiable eccentric to provide medical information about the victim and an alibi for one of the suspects.

Suddenly Justin burst out vith a violence that caused them all to turn and stare at him: “I didn’t kill him, but don’t ask me to be sorry about it! Not after what he did to Arabella!”

Celia Calthrop gave Reckless the resigned, slightly apologetic look of a mother whose child is about to make a nuisance of himself but not altogether without excuse. She muttered confidentially: “Arabella. His Siamese cat. Mr. Bryce thought that Maurice had killed the animal.”

“One didn’t think, Celia. One knew.” He turned to Reckless. “I ran over his dog about three months ago. It was the purest accident. I like animals. I like them, I tell you! Even Towser who, admit it, Celia, was the most disagreeable, ill-bred and unattractive mongrel. It was the most horrible experience! He ran straight under my wheels. Seton was utterly devoted to him. He practically accused me of deliberately running the dog down. And then, four days later, he murdered Arabella. That’s the kind of man he was! Do you wonder someone has put a stop to him?”

Miss Calthrop, Miss Dalgliesh and Latham all spoke at once, thus effectively defeating their good intentions.

“Justin dear, there really wasn’t a particle of proof…”

“Mr. Bryce, no one is going to suppose that Arabella has anything to do with it.”

“For God’s sake, Justin, why drag up…”

Reckless broke in quietly: “And when did you arrive at Monksmere, Sir?”

“Wednesday afternoon. Just before four. And I didn’t have Seton’s body in the car with me either. Luckily for me, I had trouble with the gear box all the way from Ipswich and had to leave it in Baines garage just outside Saxmundham. I came on by taxi. Young Baines brought me. So if you want to check the car for blood and fingerprints you’ll find it with Baines. And good luck to you.”