A Murder of Quality AND Call for the Dead Page 10

  “How long ago did this happen?”

  “They left exactly three weeks ago,” said Ann to her husband. “Stella told me about it when she came to supper the night you were in Oxford for your interview. That was three weeks ago tonight.” She turned to Smiley:

  “Poor Simon’s been having an awful time. Felix D’Arcy unloaded all Rode’s exam. correcting on to him. It’s bad enough doing one person’s correction—two is frantic.”

  “Yes,” replied Simon reflectively. “It’s been a bad week. And rather humiliating in a way. Several of the boys who were up to me for science last Half are now in Rode’s forms. I’d regarded one or two of them as practically unteachable, but Rode seems to have brought them on marvellously. I corrected one boy’s paper— Perkins—sixty-one per cent for elementary science. Last Half he got fifteen per cent in a much easier paper. He only got his remove because Fielding raised hell. He was in Fielding’s house.”

  “Oh I know—a red-haired boy, a prefect.”

  “Good Lord,” cried Simon. “Don’t say you know him?”

  “Oh, Fielding introduced us,” said Smiley vaguely. “Incidentally— no one else ever mentioned that incident to you about Miss D’Arcy’s refugees, did they? Confirmed it, as it were?”

  Ann Snow looked at him oddly. “No. Stella told us about it, but of course Dorothy D’Arcy never referred to it at all. She must have hated Stella, though.”

  He saw them to their car, and waited despite their protests while Simon cranked it. At last they drove off, the car bellowing down the silent street. Smiley stood for a moment on the pavement, an odd, lonely figure peering down the empty road.

  11

  A COAT TO KEEP HER WARM

  A dog that had not bitten the postman; a devil that rode upon the wind; a woman who knew that she would die; a little, worried man in an overcoat standing in the snow outside his hotel, and the laborious chime of the Abbey clock telling him to go to bed.

  Smiley hesitated, then with a shrug crossed the road to the hotel entrance, mounted the step and entered the cheap, yellow light of the residents’ hall. He walked slowly up the stairs.

  He detested the Sawley Arms. That muted light in the hall was typical: inefficient, antiquated and smug. Like the waiters in the dining-room and the lowered voices in the residents’ lounge, like his own hateful bedroom with its blue and gilt urns, and the framed tapestry of a Buckinghamshire garden.

  His room was bitterly cold; the maid must have opened the window. He put a shilling in the meter and lit the gas. The fire bubbled grumpily and went out. Muttering, Smiley looked around for some paper to write on, and discovered some, much to his surprise, in the drawer of the writing desk. He changed into his pyjamas and dressing-gown and crawled miserably into bed. After sitting there uncomfortably for some minutes he got up, fetched his overcoat and spread it over the eiderdown. A coat for to keep her warm …

  How did her statement read? “There’s one will thank me, that’s my darling and I took her jewels for the saints I did, and a coat for to keep me warm …” The coat had been given to Stella last Wednesday for the refugees. It seemed reasonable to assume from the way the statement read that Janie had taken the coat from the outhouse at the same time as she took the beads from Stella’s body. But Dorothy D’Arcy had been round there on Friday morning—of course she had, with Mr Cardew—she was talking about it at her party that very evening: “There wasn’t a thing out of place—every bit of clothing she had was all packed up and addressed—a damn’ good little worker, I will say …” Then why hadn’t Stella packed the overcoat? If she packed everything else, why not the overcoat too?

  Or had Janie stolen the coat earlier in the day, before Stella made her parcel? If that was so, it went some way to weakening the case against her. But it was not so. It was not so because it was utterly improbable that Janie should steal a coat in the afternoon and return to the house the same evening.

  “Start at the beginning,” Smiley muttered, a little sententiously, to the crested paper on his lap. “Janie stole the coat at the same time as she stole the beads—that is, after Stella was dead. Therefore either the coat was not packed with the other clothes, or …”

  Or what? Or somebody else, somebody who was not Stella Rode, packed up the clothes after Stella had died and before Dorothy D’Arcy and Mr Cardew went round to North Fields on Friday morning. And why the devil, thought Smiley, should anyone do that?

  It had been one of Smiley’s cardinal principles in research, whether among the incunabula of an obscure poet or the laboriously gathered fragments of intelligence, not to proceed beyond the evidence. A fact, once logically arrived at, should not be extended beyond its natural significance. Accordingly he did not speculate with the remarkable discovery he had made, but turned his mind to the most obscure problem of all: motive for murder.

  He began writing:

  “Dorothy D’Arcy—resentment after refugee fiasco. As a motive for murder—definitely thin.” Yet why did she seem to go out of her way to sing Stella’s praises?

  “Felix D’Arcy—resented Stella Rode for not observing Carne’s standards. As a motive for murder—ludicrous.”

  “Shane Hecht—hatred.”

  “Terence Fielding—in a sane world, no conceivable motive.”

  Yet was it a sane world? Year in year out they must share the same life, say the same things to the same people, sing the same hymns. They had no money, no hope. The world changed, fashion changed; the women saw it second-hand in the glossy papers, took in their dresses and pinned up their hair, and hated their husbands a little more. Shane Hecht—did she kill Stella Rode? Did she conceal in the sterile omniscience of her huge body not only hatred and jealousy, but the courage to kill? Was she frightened for her stupid husband, frightened of Rode’s promotion, of his cleverness? Was she really so angry when Stella refused to take part in the rat race of gentility?

  Rigby was right—it was impossible to know. You had to be ill, you had to be sick to understand, you had to be there in the sanatorium, not for weeks, but for years, had to be one in the line of white beds, to know the smell of their food and the greed in their eyes. You had to hear it and see it, to be part of it, to know their rules and recognise their transgressions. This world was compressed into a mould of anomalous conventions: blind, pharisaical but real.

  Yet some things were written plain enough: the curious bond which tied Felix D’Arcy and Terence Fielding despite their mutual dislike; D’Arcy’s reluctance to discuss the night of the murder; Fielding’s evident preference for Stella Rode rather than her husband; Shane Hecht’s contempt for everyone.

  He could not get Shane out of his mind. If Carne were a rational place, and somebody had to die, then Shane Hecht should clearly be the one. She was a depository of other people’s secrets, she had an infallible sense of weakness. Had she not found even Smiley out? She had taunted him with his wretched marriage, she had played with him for her own pleasure. Yes, she was an admirable candidate for murder.

  But why on earth should Stella die? Why and how? Who tied up the parcel after her death? And why?

  He tried to sleep, but could not. Finally, as the Abbey clock chimed three, he put the light on again and sat up. The room was much warmer and at first Smiley wondered if someone had switched on the central heating in the middle of the night, after it had been off all day. Then he became aware of the sound of rain outside; he went to the window and parted the curtains. A steady rain was falling; by tomorrow the snow would be washed away. Two policemen walked slowly down the road; he could hear the squelch of their boots as they trod in the melting snow. Their wet capes glistened in the arc of the street lamp.

  And suddenly he seemed to hear Rigby’s voice: “Blood everywhere. Whoever killed her must have been covered in it.” And then Mad Janie calling to him across the moonlit snow: “Janie seed ’im … silver wings like fishes … flying on the wind … there’s not many seen the devil fly …” Of course: the parcel! He remained a long time at th
e window, watching the rain. Finally, content at last, he climbed back into bed and fell asleep.

  He tried to telephone Miss Brimley throughout the morning. Each time she was out and he left no message. Eventually, at about midday, he spoke to her:

  “George, I’m terribly sorry—some missionary is in London— I had to go for an interview and I’ve got a Baptist Conference this afternoon. They’ve both got to be in this week. Will first thing tomorrow do?”

  “Yes,” said Smiley. “I’m sure it will.” There was no particular hurry. There were one or two ends he wanted to tie up that afternoon, anyway.

  12

  UNCOMFORTABLE WORDS

  He enjoyed the bus. The conductor was a very surly man with a great deal to say about the bus company, and why it lost money. Gently encouraged by Smiley, he expanded wonderfully so that by the time they arrived at Sturminster he had transformed the Directors of the Dorset and General Traction Company into a herd of Gadarene swine charging into the abyss of voluntary bankruptcy. The conductor directed Smiley to the Sturminster kennels, and when he alighted in the tiny village, he set out confidently towards a group of cottages which stood about a quarter of a mile beyond the church, on the Okeford road.

  He had a nasty feeling he wasn’t going to like Mr Harriman. The very fact that D’Arcy had described him as a superior type of person inclined Smiley against him. Smiley was not opposed to social distinctions but he liked to make his own.

  A notice stood at the gate: “Sturminster Kennels, proprietor, C. J. Reid-Harriman, Veterinary Surgeon. Breeder of Alsatian and Labrador Dogs. Boarding.”

  A narrow path led to what seemed to be a backyard. There was washing everywhere, shirts, underclothes, and sheets, most of it khaki. There was a rich smell of dog. There was a rusted hand-pump with a dozen or so dog leads draped over it, and there was a small girl. She watched him sadly as he picked his way through the thick mud towards the door. He pulled on the bell-rope and waited. He tried again, and the child said:

  “It doesn’t work. It’s bust. It’s been bust for years.”

  “Is anyone at home?” Smiley asked.

  “I’ll see,” she replied coolly, and after another long look at him she walked round the side of the house and disappeared from view. Then Smiley heard from inside the house the sound of someone approaching, and a moment later the door opened.

  “Good day to you.” He had sandy hair and a moustache. He wore a khaki shirt and a khaki tie of a lighter shade; old Service dress trousers and a tweed jacket with leather buttons.

  “Mr Harriman?”

  “Major,” he replied lightly. “Not that it matters, old boy. What can we do for you?”

  “I’m thinking of buying an Alsatian,” Smiley replied, “as a guard dog.”

  “Surely. Come in, won’t you. Lady wife’s out. Ignore the child: she’s from next door. Just hangs around; likes the dogs.” He followed Harriman into the living-room and they sat down. There was no fire.

  “Where are you from?” Harriman asked.

  “I’m staying at Carne at the moment; my father lives over at Dorchester. He’s getting on and he’s nervous, and he wants me to find him a good dog. There’s a gardener to look after it in the daytime, feed it and exercise it and so on. The gardener doesn’t live in at night, of course, and it’s at night that the old man gets so worried. I’ve been meaning to get him a dog for some time—this recent business at Carne rather brought it home to me.” Harriman ignored the hint.

  “Gardener good chap?”

  “Yes, very.”

  “You don’t want anything brilliant,” said Harriman. “You want a good, steady type. I’d take a bitch if I were you.” His hands were dark brown, his wrists too. His handkerchief was tucked into his cuff. Smiley noticed that his wrist-watch faced inwards, conforming with the obscure rites of the military demi-monde from which he seemed to come.

  “What will it do, a dog like that? Will it attack, or what?”

  “Depends how she’s trained, old boy; depends how she’s trained. She’ll warn, though; that’s the main thing. Frighten the fellers away. Shove a notice up, ‘Fierce Dog,’ let her sniff at the tradesmen a bit and the word will get around. You won’t get a burglar within a mile of the place.”

  They walked out into the garden again, and Harriman led the way to an enclosure with half a dozen Alsatian puppies yapping furiously at them through the wire.

  “They’re good little beasts, all of them,” he shouted. “Game as hell.” He unlocked the door and finally emerged with a plump bitch puppy chewing fiercely at his jacket.

  “This little lady might do you,” he said. “We can’t show her— she’s too dark.”

  Smiley pretended to hesitate, allowed Harriman to persuade him and finally agreed. They went back into the house.

  “I’d like to pay a deposit,” said Smiley, “and collect her in about ten days. Would that be all right?” He gave Harriman a cheque for five pounds and again they sat down, Harriman foraging in his desk for inoculation certificates and pedigrees. Then Smiley said:

  “It’s a pity Mrs Rode didn’t have a dog, isn’t it? I mean, it might have saved her life.”

  “Oh, she had a dog, but she had it put down just before she was killed,” said Harriman. “Damned odd story between ourselves. She was devoted to the beast. Odd little mongrel, bit of everything, but she loved it. Brought it here one day with some tale about it biting the postman, got me to put it down—said it was dangerous. It wasn’t anything of the sort. Some friends of mine in Carne made inquiries. No complaints anywhere. Postman liked the brute. Damned silly sort of lie to tell in a small community. Bound to be found out.”

  “Why on earth did she tell it then?”

  Harriman made a gesture which particularly irritated Smiley. He ran his forefinger down the length of his nose, then flicked either side of his absurd moustache very quickly. There was something shamefaced about the whole movement, as if he were assuming the ways of senior officers, and fearful of rebuke.

  “She was trouble,” he said crisply. “I can spot ’em. I’ve had a few in the regiment, wives who are trouble. Little simpering types. Butter-wouldn’t-melt, holier-than-thou. Arrange the flowers in the church and all that—pious as you please. I’d say she was the hysterical kind, self-dramatising, weeping all over the house for days on end. Anything for a bit of drama.”

  “Was she popular?” Smiley offered him a cigarette.

  “Shouldn’t think so. Thanks. She wore black on Sundays, I gather. Typical. We used to call them ‘crows’ out East, the ones who wore black—Sunday virgins. They were OD mostly—other denominations. Not C of E—some were Romans, mind … I hope I’m not …”

  “Not at all.”

  “You never know, do you? Can’t stand ’em myself; no prejudice, but I don’t like Romans—that’s what my old father used to say.”

  “Did you know her husband?”

  “Not so well, poor devil, not so well.”

  Harriman, Smiley reflected, seemed to have a great deal more sympathy for the living than the dead. Perhaps soldiers were like that. He wouldn’t know.

  “He’s terribly cut up, I hear. Dreadful shock—fortunes of war, eh?” he added and Smiley nodded. “He’s the other type. Humble origin, good officer qualities, credit to the mess. Those are the ones that cut up most, the ones women get at.”

  They walked along the path to the gate. Smiley said good-bye, and promised to return in a week or so to collect the puppy. As he walked away Harriman called to him:

  “Oh—incidentally …”

  Smiley stopped and turned round.

  “I’ll pay that cheque in, shall I, and credit you with the amount?”

  “Of course,” said Smiley. “That will do very well,” and he made his way to the bus stop pondering on the strange byways of the military mind.

  The same bus took him back to Carne, the same conductor railed against his employers, the same driver drove the entire distance in second gear. He got
out at the station and made his way to the red-brick Tabernacle. Gently opening the Gothic door, made of thickly varnished ochre pine, he stepped inside. An elderly woman in an apron was polishing the heavy brass chandelier which hung over the centre aisle. He waited a moment, then tiptoed up to her and asked for the Minister. She pointed towards the vestry door. Obeying her mimed directions, he crossed to it, knocked and waited. A tall man in a clerical collar opened the door.

  “I’m from the Christian Voice,” said Smiley quietly. “Can I have a word with you?”

  Mr Cardew led him through the side entrance and into a small vegetable garden, carefully tilled, with bright yellow paths running between the empty beds. The sun shone through the crisp air. It was a cold, beautiful day. They crossed the garden and entered a paddock. The ground was hard despite last night’s rain, and the grass short. They strolled side by side, talking as they went.

  “This is Lammas Land, belonging to the School. We hold our fêtes here in the summer. It’s very practical.”

  Cardew seemed a little out of character. Smiley, who had a rather childish distrust of clergymen, had expected a Wesleyan hammer, a wordy, forbidding man with a taste for imagery.

  “Miss Brimley, our editor, sent me,” Smiley began. “Mrs Rode subscribed to our journal; her family has taken it since it began. She was almost a part of the family. We wanted to write an obituary about her work for the Church.”

  “I see.”

  “I managed to have a word with her husband; we wanted to be sure to strike the right note.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said I should speak to you about her work—her refuge work particularly.”

  They walked on in silence for a while, then Cardew said, “She came from up North, near Derby. Her father used to be a man of substance in the North—though money never altered him.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ve known the family for years, off and on. I saw her old father before the funeral.”