Michael Dibdin - The Dying of the Light

‘Thriller?’ Rosemary queried acidly. ‘My dear Inspector, I hope you don’t think for a moment that I would concern myself with any such rubbish. My only interest is in the classic English detective story, with its unique and fair play. There is no room for sloppy vulgar sensationalism. If you observe the clues and make the appropriate deductions, you should be able to arrive at the correct solution.’

‘In real life,’ Jarvis continued implacably, ‘poison is the least common method of murder, accounting for less than six per cent of all cases.’

‘Of the cases that come to light, perhaps. But who is to say how many homicidal poisonings are successfully passed off as illness, accidents or-as in the present instance-suicide?’

Jarvis struck his forehead with the heel of his hand.

‘For the love of…!’

He stared into space for some time, running over the results and league positions for January 1958. Eighteen thousand turned out to watch them draw one all at Bury. Happy days! ‘I am a police officer, Miss Travis,’ he declared at last. ’

‘I know that,’ Rosemary replied brightly.

‘As such, I cannot conduct an investigation on the basis of hearsay, innuendo, rumour or fantasy. I require evidence. And as I have already said, there is no evidence whatsoever to suggest that Mrs Dorothy Davenport did not take her own life.’

‘But why should Dorothy go to such pains to disguise the lethal combination of drugs mixed into her cocoa and medicine?’

‘I don’t believe she did.’

‘Exactly!’ Rosemary exclaimed triumphantly. ‘Then who did?’

‘You.’

They confronted each other for a long moment. Then a smile of pure pleasure lit up the woman’s frail, wrinkled features.

‘Do you know, Inspector, you’re not such a fool as you look! How clever of you to notice that I had deliberately excluded myself from the list of suspects.’

Jarvis hid his face in his hands. I don’t believe this, he thought.

‘I don’t believe this,’ he said.

Rosemary frowned.

‘We can’t afford to exclude any possibilities at this stage, however unlikely they may appear. Even George Channing’s innocence should perhaps not be taken for granted. One might argue that the very fact that his alibi seems unbreakable in itself constitutes grounds for suspicion, and his room is of course next door to the victim’s. Secret passages are always a tendentious topic, but I think one might be regarded as permissible in a house such as this. On the other hand, the hideous injuries which Channing sustained might seem to preclude…’

‘What injuries?’

‘…and of course his motive is a good deal less obvious than, say, the Andersons’.’

Jarvis felt the way he had on the never-to-be-forgotten day when Accrington creamed Stockport 4 nil to stay in the promotion race, and his dad let him drink the sediment out of his bottles of White Label. The pitch was tilting, the goalposts moving, the ref nowhere to be seen.

‘Who is this Channing?’ he demanded truculently. ‘What happened to him?’

Rosemary waved vaguely.

‘Don’t let’s get off the point, Inspector. The only aspect of poor Channing’s ordeal which need concern us is that it might appear to give him a perfect alibi…’

‘What happened to him?’

‘…intended to divert suspicion from the real culprit, who has cleverly covered his-or her-tracks by…’

‘FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WOMAN, WHAT HAPPENED?’

Rosemary Travis threw up her hands in exasperation.

‘Oh really, Inspector! Since you persistently refuse to listen to my advice, you can jolly well go and find out for yourself.’

Tell you the truth, I rather fancied a career in the police myself at one time,’ said Miss Davis, leading the way upstairs.

‘And I’m sure you would have been a great credit to the force,’ Jarvis replied gallantly.

Miss Davis tittered.

‘Either that or the Army,’ she went on as they reached the landing. ‘It was not to be, however. As the runt female of the litter, I let myself be talked into taking up the teaching game instead.’

She barked a laugh.

‘Not that it made much difference in the end. The parents apparently thought of education as a suitably ladylike activity, like being a nurse, only more genteel. Maybe it used to be, too, when there was proper discipline at home and the kids came to you already broken in. These days the only thing you have a hope of teaching most of them is that you don’t fuck with the system.’

‘Well this is it,’ murmured Jarvis.

‘And though I have no wish to brag,’ Miss Davis went on, ‘I turned out to be a natural.’

They came to a doorway opening into what looked like a walk-in cupboard.

‘The only thing I really missed was the uniform,’ she concluded reminiscently. ‘That and being able to go all the way. Know what I mean?’

Inside the narrow cubicle were two plywood doors with cheap gilt handles. Miss Davis opened the one to the left and ushered Jarvis inside. An expanse of flowery-patterned wallpaper rose to an inordinately high ceiling. A grimy sash-window overlooked an overgrown walled garden where a large dog was secured by a length of orange rope. The air was as cold and still as marble.

“That’s where she breathed her last,’ Miss Davis remarked, pointing to a metal bed-frame in the opposite corner. ‘Choked, rather. Messy business, but all part of a day’s work round here. And guess who has to get down on her bended knees and do the necessary? God forbid my precious brother should sully his fingers. I mean puleeease!’

Jarvis surveyed the personal effects gathering dust on top of the chest of drawers. He picked up a small bevelled cone of polished stone, which proved on closer inspection to be a souvenir of Land’s End. Rosemary Travis had warned him that if he asked to speak to George Channing directly the Andersons would claim that he wasn’t well enough to receive visitors. She had therefore suggested that he tell them he wished to search Mrs Davenport’s room, as was only natural in the circumstances, and then find some pretext for going next door.

Despite his reluctance to take advice from outsiders on professional matters, Jarvis had been forced to concede the wisdom of this. The last thing he wanted to do was to get on the wrong side of someone like this Anderson, who was related to the local MP and reportedly had the ear of various big noises on the council. He put the statuette down beside a set of miniature bottles in a wooden case and ran one finger along the top of the chest of drawers, tracing a straight line in the gathering dust. A long hair looped up and curled itself about his finger, glinting in the dull light. He brushed it away with a shudder. He’d seen the police photos and even attended the PM, yet it was only now that the fact of Dorothy Davenport’s death came home to him.

In the centre of the room, Miss Davis was going through a brief but energetic workout, stretching and bending alternately to either side. Jarvis pointed to the dead woman’s possessions.

‘Aren’t you going to clear this stuff out?’ he demanded brusquely. ‘Move in another paying customer?’

‘Only wish we could,’ Miss Davis puffed.

Jarvis opened the wooden case and took out a tiny replica of a green gin bottle. He unscrewed the top and turned it up. A drop of brackish water fell to the back of his hand.

‘Recession biting?’ he suggested sarcastically. ‘Bottom fallen out of the caring market, has it?’

Miss Davis laughed.

‘You must be joking! We’ve got people practically beating the door down, they’re that desperate to get rid.’

Jarvis replaced the miniature in its case and picked up a dusty bouquet of dried poppies.