A Murder of Quality AND Call for the Dead Page 4
“Know any of the staff, do you, sir?”
“Only Mr Terence Fielding. We met at an Oxford dinner some time ago. I thought I’d call round and see him. I knew his brother pretty well.”
Rigby appeared to stiffen slightly at the mention of Fielding, but he said nothing, and Smiley went on:
“It was Fielding I rang when Miss Brimley brought me the letter. He told me the news. That was last night.”
“I see.”
They looked at one another again in silence. Smiley discomfited and slightly comic, Rigby appraising him, wondering how much to say.
“How long are you staying?” he said at last.
“I don’t know,” Smiley replied. “Miss Brimley wanted to come herself, but she has her paper to run. She attached great importance, you see, to doing all she could for Mrs Rode, even though she was dead. Because she was a subscriber, I mean. I promised to see that the letter arrived quickly in the right hands. I don’t imagine there’s much else I can do. I shall probably stay on for a day or two just to have a word with Fielding … go to the funeral, I suppose. I’ve booked in at the Sawley Arms.”
“Fine hotel, that.”
Rigby put his spectacles carefully back into their case and dropped the case into a drawer.
“Funny place, Carne. There’s a big gap between the Town and Gown, as we say; neither side knows nor likes the other. It’s fear that does it, fear and ignorance. It makes it hard in a case like this. Oh, I can call on Mr Fielding and Mr D’Arcy and they say, ‘Good day, Sergeant,’ and give me a cup of tea in the kitchen, but I can’t get among them. They’ve got their own community, see, and no one outside it can get in. No gossip in the pubs, no contacts, nothing … just cups of tea and bits of seed cake, and being called Sergeant.” Rigby laughed suddenly, and Smiley laughed with him in relief. “There’s a lot I’d like to ask them, a lot of things; who liked the Rodes and who didn’t, whether Mr Rode’s a good teacher and whether his wife fitted in with the others. I’ve got all the facts I want, but I’ve got no clothes to hang on them.” He looked at Smiley expectantly. There was a very long silence.
“If you want me to help, I’d be delighted,” said Smiley at last. “But give me the facts first.”
“Stella Rode was murdered between about ten past eleven and quarter to twelve on the night of Wednesday the sixteenth. She must have been struck fifteen to twenty times with a cosh or bit of piping or something. It was a terrible murder … terrible. There are marks all over her body. At a guess I would say she came from the drawing-room to the front door to answer the bell or something, when she opened the door she was struck down and dragged to the conservatory. The conservatory door was unlocked, see?”
“I see … It’s odd that he should have known that, isn’t it?”
“The murderer may have been hiding there already: we can’t tell from the prints just there. He was wearing boots—Wellington boots, size 10½. We would guess from the spacing of the footprints in the garden that he was about six foot tall. When he had got her to the conservatory he must have hit her again and again—mainly on the head. There’s a lot of what we call travelled blood in the conservatory, that’s to say, blood spurted from an open artery. There’s no sign of that anywhere else.”
“And no sign of it on her husband?”
“I’ll come to that later, but the short answer is, no.” He paused a moment and continued:
“Now, I said there were footprints, and so there were. The murderer came through the back garden. Where he came from and went to, Heaven alone knows. You see, there are no tracks leading away— not Wellingtons. None at all. Of course, it’s possible the outgoing tracks followed the path to the front gate and got lost in all the to-ing and fro-ing later that night. But I don’t think we’d have lost them even then.” He glanced at Smiley, then went on:
“He left one thing behind him in the conservatory—an old cloth belt, navy blue, from a cheap overcoat by the look of it. We’re working on that now.”
“Was she … robbed or anything?”
“No sign of interference. She was wearing a string of green beads round her neck, and they’ve gone, and it looks as though he tried to get the rings off her finger, but they were too tight.” He paused.
“I need hardly tell you that we’ve had reports from every corner of the country about tall men in blue overcoats and gumboots. But none of them had wings as far as I know. Or seven-league boots for jumping from the conservatory to the road.”
They paused, while a police cadet brought in tea on a tray. He put it on the desk, looked at Smiley out of the corner of his eye and decided to let the Inspector pour out. He guided the teapot round so that the handle was towards Rigby and withdrew. Smiley was amused by the immaculate condition of the tray cloth, by the matching china and tea-strainer, laid before them by the enormous hands of the cadet. Rigby poured out the tea and they drank for a moment in silence. There was, Smiley reflected, something devastatingly competent about Rigby. The very ordinariness of the man and his room identified him with the society he protected. The nondescript furniture, the wooden filing cupboards, the bare walls, the archaic telephone with its separate earpiece, the brown frieze round the wall and the brown paint on the door, the glistening linoleum and the faint smell of carbolic, the burbling gas-fire, and the calendar from the Prudential—these were the evidence of rectitude and moderation; their austerity gave comfort and reassurance. Rigby continued:
“Rode went back to Fielding’s house for the examination papers. Fielding confirms that, of course. He arrived at Fielding’s house at about 11.35, near as Fielding can say. He hardly spent any time there at all—just collected his papers at the door—they were in a small writing-case he uses for carrying exercise books. He doesn’t remember whether he saw anyone on the road. He thinks a bicycle overtook him, but he can’t be sure. If we take Rode’s word for it, he walked straight home. When he got there he rang the bell. He was wearing a dinner-jacket and so he hadn’t got his key with him. His wife was expecting him to ring the bell, you see. That’s the devil of it. It was a moonlit night, mind, and snow on the ground, so you could see a mighty long way. He called her, but she didn’t answer. Then he saw footprints going round to the side of the house. Not just footprints, but blood marks and the snow all churned up where the body had been dragged to the conservatory. But he didn’t know it was blood in the moonlight, it just showed up dark, and Rode said afterwards he thought it was the dirty water from the gutters running over on to the path.
“He followed the prints round until he came to the conservatory. It was darker in there and he fumbled for the light switch, but it didn’t work.”
“Did he light a match?”
“No, he didn’t have any. He’s a non-smoker. His wife didn’t approve of smoking. He moved forward from the door. The conservatory walls are mainly glass except for the bottom three feet, but the roof is tiled. The moon was high that night, and not much light got in at all, except through the partition window between the drawing-room and the conservatory—but she’d only had the little table light on in the drawing-room. So he groped his way forward, talking all the time, calling Stella, his wife. As he went, he tripped over something and nearly fell. He knelt down and felt with his hands, up and down her body. He realised that his hands were covered in blood. He doesn’t remember much after that, but there’s a senior master living a hundred yards up the road— Mr D’Arcy his name is, lives with his sister, and he heard him screaming on the road. D’Arcy went out to him. Rode had blood all over his hands and face and seemed to be out of his mind. D’Arcy rang the police and I got there at about one o’clock that morning. I’ve seen some nasty things in my time, but this is the worst. Blood everywhere. Whoever killed her must have been covered in it. There’s an outside tap against the conservatory wall. The tap had been turned on, probably by the murderer to rinse his hands. The boffins have found traces of blood in the snow underneath it. The tap was lagged recently by Rode I gather …”
“Mr Rode’s were everywhere. On the floor, the walls and windows, on the body itself. But there were other prints; smudges of blood, little more, made with a gloved hand probably.”
“And they were the murderer’s?”
“They had been made before Rode made his. In some cases Rode’s prints were partly superimposed on the glove prints.”
Smiley was silent for a moment.
“These examination papers he went back for. Were they as important as all that?”
“Yes. I gather they were. Up to a point anyway. The marks had to be handed in to Mr D’Arcy by midday on Friday.”
“But why did he take them to Fielding’s in the first place?”
“He didn’t. He’d been invigilating exams all afternoon and the papers were handed in to him at six o’clock. He put them in his little case and had them taken to Fielding’s by a boy— head boy in Mr Fielding’s house, name of Perkins. Rode was on Chapel duty last week, so he didn’t have time to return home before dinner.”
“Where did he change then?”
“In the Tutors’ Robing Room, next to the Common Room. There are facilities there, mainly for games tutors who live some distance from Carne.”
“The boy who brought this case to Fielding’s house—who was he?”
“I can’t tell you much more than I’ve said. His name is Perkins; he’s head of Mr Fielding’s house. Fielding has spoken to him and confirmed Rode’s statement … House tutors are very possessive about their boys, you know … don’t like them to be spoken to by rough policemen.” Rigby seemed to be slightly upset.
“I see,” Smiley said at last, helplessly, and then: “But how do you explain the letter?”
“It isn’t only the letter we’ve got to explain.”
Smiley looked at him sharply.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” said Rigby slowly, “that Mrs Rode did several pretty queer things in the last few weeks.’
4
TOWN AND GOWN
“Mrs Rode was Chapel, of course,” Rigby continued, “and we’ve quite a community in Carne. Truth to tell,” he added with a slow smile, “my wife belongs to it.
“A couple of weeks ago our Minister called round to see me. It was in the evening, about half past six, I suppose. I was just thinking of going home, see. He walked in here and sat himself down where you’re sitting now. He’s a big fellow, the Minister, a fine man; comes from up North, where Mrs Rode came from. Cardew, his name is.”
“The Mr Cardew in the letter?”
“That’s him. He knew all about Mrs Rode’s family before the Rodes ever came here. Glaston’s quite a name up North, and Mr Cardew was very pleased when he heard that Stella Rode was Mr Glaston’s daughter; very pleased indeed. Mrs Rode came to the Tabernacle regular as clockwork, you can imagine, and they like to see that round here. My wife was pleased as Punch, I can tell you. It was the first time, I suppose, that anyone from the School had done that. Most of the Chapel people here are tradespeople—what we call the locals.” Rigby smiled again. “It isn’t often that Town and Gown come together, so to speak. Not here.”
“How about her husband? Was he Chapel too?”
“Well, he had been, so she told Mr Cardew. Mr Rode was born and bred in Branxome, and all his family were Chapel people. That’s how Mr and Mrs Rode first met, I gather—at Branxome Tabernacle. Ever been there, have you? A fine church, Branxome, right up on the hill there, overlooking the sea.”
Smiley shook his head and Rigby’s wide brown eyes rested on him thoughtfully for a moment.
“You should,” he said, “you should go and see that. It seems,” he continued, “that Mr Rode turned Church of England when he came to Carne. Even tried to persuade his wife to do the same. They’re very strong at the School. I heard that from my wife, as a matter of fact. I never let her gossip as a rule, being a policeman’s wife and that, but Mr Cardew told her that himself.”
“I see,” said Smiley.
“Well now, Cardew came and saw me. He was all worried and bothered with himself. He didn’t know what he should make of it, but he wanted to talk to me as a friend and not as a policeman.” Rigby looked sour, “When people say that to me, I always know that they want to talk to me as a policeman. Then he told me his story. Mrs Rode had called to see him that afternoon. He’d been out visiting a farmer’s wife over in Okeford and didn’t come home until half past five or thereabouts, so Mrs Cardew had had to talk to her and hold the fort until the Minister came home. Mrs Rode was white as a sheet, sitting very still by the fire. As soon as the Minister arrived, Mrs Cardew left them alone and Stella Rode started talking about her husband.”
He paused. “She said Mr Rode was going to kill her. In the long nights. She seemed to have a kind of fixation about being murdered in the long nights. Cardew didn’t take it too seriously at first, but thinking about it afterwards, he decided to let me know.”
Smiley looked at him sharply.
“He couldn’t make out what she meant. He thought she was out of her mind. He’s a down-to-earth man, see, although he’s a Minister. I think he was probably a bit too firm with her. He asked her what put this dreadful thought into her head, and she began to weep. Not hysterical, apparently, but just crying quietly to herself. He tried to calm her down, promised to help her any way he could, and asked her again what had given her this idea. She just shook her head, then got up, walked over to the door, still shaking her head in despair. She turned to him, and he thought she was going to say something, but she didn’t. She just left.”
“How very curious,” said Smiley, “that she lied about that in her letter. She went out of her way to say she hadn’t told Cardew.”
Rigby shrugged his great shoulders.
“If you’ll pardon me,” he said, “I’m in a darned awkward position. The Chief Constable would sooner cut his throat than call in Scotland Yard. He wants an arrest and he wants one quick. We’ve got enough clues to cover a Christmas tree; footprints, time of the murder, indication of murderer’s clothing, and even the weapon itself.”
Smiley looked at him in surprise.
“You’ve found the weapon, then?”
Rigby hesitated. “Yes, we’ve found it. There’s hardly a soul knows this, sir, and I’ll trouble you to remember that. We found it the morning after the murder, four miles north of Carne on the Okeford road, tossed into a ditch. Eighteen inches of what they call coaxial cable. Know what that is, do you? It comes in all sizes, but this piece is about two inches in diameter. It has a copper rod running down the middle and plastic insulation between the rod and the outer cover. There was blood on it: Stella Rode’s blood group, and hairs from her head, stuck to the blood. We’re keeping that very dark indeed. By the Grace of God, it was found by one of our own men. It pinpoints the line of the murderer’s departure.”
“There’s no doubt, I suppose, that it is the weapon?” Smiley asked lamely.
“We found particles of copper in the wounds on the body.”
“It’s odd, isn’t it,” Smiley suggested reflectively, “that the murderer should have carried the weapon so far before getting rid of it? Specially if he was walking. You’d think he’d want to get rid of it as soon as he could.”
“It is odd. Very odd. The Okeford road runs beside the canal for half of those four miles; he could have pitched the cable into the canal anywhere along there. We’d never have been the wiser.”
“Was the cable old?”
“Not particularly. Just standard type. It could have come from almost anywhere.” Rigby hesitated a minute, then burst out:
“Look, sir, this is what I am trying to say. The circumstances of this case demand a certain type of investigation: wide-scale search, detailed laboratory work, mass inquiry. That’s what the Chief wants, and he’s right. We’ve no case against the husband at all, and to be frank he’s precious little use to us. He seems a bit lost, a bi
t vague, contradicting himself on little things that don’t matter, like the date of his marriage or the name of his doctor. It’s shock, of course, I’ve seen it before. I know all about your letter, sir, and it’s damned odd, but if you can tell me how he could have produced Wellington boots out of a hat and got rid of them afterwards, battered his wife to death without leaving more than a few smudges of blood on himself, and got the weapon four miles from the scene of the crime, all within ten minutes of being at Fielding’s house, I’ll be grateful to you. We’re looking for a stranger, six foot tall, wearing newish Dunlop Wellington boots size 10½, leather gloves and an old blue overcoat stained with blood. A man who travels on foot, who was in the area of North Fields between 11.10 and 11.45 on the night of the murder, who left in the direction of Okeford, taking with him one and a half feet of coaxial cable, a string of green beads and an imitation diamond clip, valued at twenty-three and six. We’re looking for a maniac, a man who kills for pleasure or the price of a meal.” Rigby paused, smiled wistfully and added, “Who can fly fifty feet through the air? But with information like this how else should we spend our time? What else can we look for? I can’t put men on to chasing shadows when there’s work like that to be done.”
“I understand that.”
“But I’m an old policeman, Mr Smiley, and I like to know what I’m about. I don’t like looking for people I can’t believe in, and I don’t like being cut off from witnesses. I like to meet people and talk to them, nose about here and there, get to know the country. But I can’t do that, not at the school. Do you follow me? So we’ve got to rely on laboratories, tracker dogs, and nation-wide searches, but somehow in my bones I don’t think it’s altogether one of those cases.”
“I read in the paper about a woman, a Mad Janie …”
“I’m coming to that. Mrs Rode was a kindly woman, easy to talk to. I always found her so, anyway. Some of the women at Chapel took against her, but you know what women are. It seems she got friendly with this Janie creature. Janie came begging, selling herbs and charms at the back door; you know the kind of thing. She’s queer, talks to birds and all that. She lives in a disused Norman chapel over Pylle. Stella Rode used to give her food and clothes— the poor soul was often as not half-starved. Now Janie’s disappeared. She was seen early Wednesday night on the lane towards North Fields and hasn’t been seen since. That don’t mean a thing. These people come and go in their own way. They’ll be all over the neighbourhood for years, then one day they’re gone like snow in the fire. They’ve died in a ditch, maybe, or they’ve took ill and crept away like a cat. Janie’s not the only queer one round here. There’s a lot of excitement because we found a spare set of footprints running along the fringe of trees at the far end of the garden. They were a woman’s prints by the look of them, and at one point they come quite close to the conservatory. Could be a gypsy or a beggar woman. Could be anything, but I expect it’s Janie right enough. I hope to Heaven it was, sir; we could do with an eyewitness, even a mad one.”