A Mind to Murder (3 page)

There were less welcome diversions than the brief appearance of Sir Hubert. Few of the guests knew that Dalgliesh was a detective and not all of them expected him to talk about his job. But there were inevitably those who thought it inappropriate that a man who caught murderers should also write verse and who said so with varying degrees of tact. Presumably they wanted murderers caught, however much they might argue about what should happen to them afterwards; but they displayed a typical ambivalence towards those who did the catching. Dalgliesh was used to this attitude and found it less offensive than the common assumption that there was a particular glamour in being a member of the murder squad. But if there had been the expected quota of furtive curiosity and the inanities common to all such parties, there had also been agreeable people saying agreeable things. No writer, however apparently detached about his talent, is immune to the subtle reassurance of disinterested praise and Dalgliesh, fighting the suspicion that few of those who admired had actually read and fewer still had bought, found that he was quietly enjoying himself and was honest enough to admit why.

The first hour had been hectic but, soon after seven o’clock, he found himself standing alone, glass in hand, beside the ornate James Wyatt chimney piece. A thin wood fire was burning, filling the room with a faint country smell. It was one of those inexplicable moments when one is suddenly completely alone in the middle of a crowd, when the noise is muted
and the pressing bodies seem to recede and become remote and mysterious as actors on some distant stage. Dalgliesh leaned the back of his head against the mantelpiece, savouring this momentary privacy and noting appreciatively the elegant proportions of the room. Suddenly he saw Deborah Riscoe. She must have come into the room very quietly. He wondered how long she had been there. Immediately his diffuse sense of peace and happiness gave way to a pleasure as keen and painful as that of a boy in love for the first time. She saw him at once and, glass in hand, edged her way across the room to him.

Her appearance was wholly unexpected and he did not deceive himself that she was there on his account. After their last encounter, that would hardly be likely.

He said, “It’s very pleasant to see you here.”

“I should have come anyway,” she replied. “But actually I work here. Felix Hearne got me the job after Mummy died. I’m quite useful. I’m the general dogsbody. Shorthand and typing, too. I took a course.”

He smiled. “You make it sound like a cure.”

“Well, in a way it was.”

He did not pretend not to understand. They were both silent. Dalgliesh knew that he was morbidly sensitive to any allusion to the case which, nearly three years ago, had led to their first meeting. That sore could not stand even the gentlest of probes. He had seen the announcement of her mother’s death in the paper about six months ago, but it had seemed impossible and impertinent then to send her a message or to speak the customary words of condolence. After all, he was partly responsible for her death. It was no easier now. Instead they talked of his verse and of her job. Taking his share of this casual, undemanding small talk, he wondered what she would
say if he asked her to have dinner with him. If she didn’t turn him down flat—and she probably would—it could be for him the beginning of involvement. He didn’t deceive himself that he only wanted an agreeable meal with a woman he happened to think beautiful. He had no idea what she thought of him but, ever since their last meeting, he had known himself to be on the brink of love. If she accepted—for this or for any evening—his solitary life would be threatened. He knew this with complete certainty and the knowledge frightened him. Ever since the death of his wife in childbirth he had insulated himself carefully against pain: sex little more than an exercise in skill; a love affair merely an emotional pavan, formalized, danced according to the rules, committing one to nothing. But, of course, she wouldn’t accept. He had absolutely no reason to think that she was interested in him. It was only this certainty that gave him the confidence to indulge his thoughts. But he was tempted to try his luck. As they talked he mentally rehearsed the words, wryly amused to recognize after so many years the uncertainties of adolescence.

The light tap on his shoulder took him by surprise. It was the chairman’s secretary to say that he was wanted on the telephone. “It’s the Yard, Mr. Dalgliesh,” she said, with well-controlled interest as if Hearne and Illingworth’s authors were accustomed to calls from the Yard.

He smiled his excuses at Deborah Riscoe and she gave a little resigned shrug of her shoulders.

“I won’t be a moment,” he said. But even as he threaded his way through the crush of chatterers, he knew that he wouldn’t be back.

He took the call in a small office next to the boardroom, struggling to the telephone through chairs heaped with manuscripts, rolled galley proofs and dusty files. Hearne and
Illingworth fostered an air of old-fashioned leisureliness and general muddle which concealed—sometimes to their authors’ discomfiture—a formidable efficiency and attention to detail.

The familiar voice boomed in his ear. “That you, Adam? How’s the party? Good. Sorry to break it up but I’d be grateful if you’d look in over the way. The Steen Clinic, Number 31. You know the place. Upper-class neuroses catered for only. It seems that their secretary or administrative officer or what have you has got herself murdered. Bashed on the head in the basement and then stabbed expertly through the heart. The boys are on their way. I’ve sent you Martin, of course. He’ll have your gear with him.”

“Thank you, sir. When was it reported?”

“Three minutes ago. The medical director rang. He gave me a concise account of practically everyone’s alibi for the supposed time of death and explained why it couldn’t possibly be one of the patients. He was followed by a doctor called Steiner. He explained that we met about five years ago at a dinner party given by his late brother-in-law. Dr. Steiner explained why it couldn’t have been him and favoured me with his interpretation of the psychological makeup of the killer. They’ve read all the best detective fiction. No one has touched the body, they’re not letting anyone in or out of the building and they’ve all collected into one room to keep an eye on each other. You’d better hurry over, Adam, or they’ll solve the crime before you arrive.”

“Who is the medical director?” asked Dalgliesh.

“Dr. Henry Etherege. You must have seen him on television. He’s the establishment psychiatrist, dedicated to making the profession respectable. Distinguished looking, orthodox and earnest.”

“I’ve seen him in court,” said Dalgliesh.

“Of course. Remember him in the Routledge case? He practically had me weeping into my hankie and I knew Routledge better than most. Etherege is the natural choice of any defence counsel—if he can get him. You know their bleat. Find me a psychiatrist who looks respectable, speaks English and won’t shock the jury or antagonize the judge. Answer, Etherege. Ah, well, good luck!”

The AC was optimistic in supposing that his message could break up the party. It had long reached the stage when the departure of a solitary guest disconcerted no one. Dalgliesh thanked his host, waved a casual good-bye to the few people who caught his eye and passed almost unnoticed out of the building. He did not see Deborah Riscoe again and made no effort to find her. His mind was already on the job ahead and he felt that he had been saved, at best from a snub and, at worst, from folly. It had been a brief, tantalizing, inconclusive and unsettling encounter but, already, it was in the past.

Walking across the square to the tall Georgian building that housed the Steen Clinic, Dalgliesh recalled some of the scant items of information about the place that had come his way. It was a well-known witticism that you had to be exceptionally sane to be accepted for treatment at the Steen. Certainly it had a reputation—Dalgliesh thought probably undeserved—for selecting its patients with more regard to their intelligence and social class than their mental condition, subjecting them to diagnostic procedures designed to deter all but the most enthusiastic, and then placing them on a waiting list for treatment long enough to ensure that the curative effects of time could exert their maximum influence before the patient actually attended for his first psychotherapy session. The Steen, Dalgliesh remembered, had a Modigliani. It was not a well-known painting nor did it represent the artist at
his best, but it was, undeniably, a Modigliani. It hung in the first-floor boardroom, the gift of a former grateful patient, and it represented much that the clinic stood for in the public eye. Other National Health Service clinics brightened their walls with reproductions from the Red Cross picture library. The Steen staff made no secret that they preferred a second-rate original to a first-class reproduction any day. And they had a second-rate original to prove it.

The house itself was one of a Georgian terrace. It stood at the south corner of the square, comfortable, unpretentious and wholly pleasing. At the rear a narrow passage ran into Lincoln Square Mews. There was a railed basement; in front of the house the railings curved on each side of the broad steps which led to the door and supported two wrought-iron lamp standards. On the right of the door an unpretentious bronze plaque bore the name of the Hospital Management Committee which administered the unit and, underneath, the words “The Steen Clinic.” No other information was given. The Steen did not advertise its function to a vulgar world nor did it wish to invite an influx of the local psychotics seeking treatment or reassurance. There were four cars parked outside but no signs yet of the police. The house looked very quiet. The door was shut but a light shone from the elegant Adam fanlight above the door and between the folds of drawn curtains in the ground-floor rooms.

The door was opened almost before he had taken his finger from the bell. They had been waiting for him. A stockily built young man in porter’s uniform opened the door and let him in without speaking. The hall blazed with light and struck very warm after the coolness of the autumn night. To the left of the door was a glass-panelled reception kiosk with a telephone switchboard. A second, and much older, porter sat at the board
in an attitude of utter misery. He looked round and glanced briefly at Dalgliesh with rheumy eyes then returned to his contemplation of the board as if the arrival of the superintendent was the last straw of an intolerable burden which, if ignored, might be lifted from him.

In the main body of the hall the reception committee came forward, the medical director with outstretched hand as if welcoming a guest. “Superintendent Dalgliesh? We’re very glad to see you. May I introduce my colleague, Dr. James Baguley, and the secretary of the Hospital Management Committee, Mr. Lauder.”

“You got here very promptly, sir,” said Dalgliesh to Lauder.

The group secretary said: “I didn’t know about the murder until I arrived two minutes ago. Miss Bolam telephoned me at lunchtime today and said she wanted to see me urgently. Something was going on at the clinic and she needed advice. I came as soon as I could and found that she’d been murdered. In the circumstances, I had more reasons than one for deciding to stay around. It looks as if she needed advice more than she knew.”

“Whatever it was, you’ve come too late, I’m afraid,” said Dr. Etherege.

Dalgliesh saw that he was much shorter than his television appearances suggested. His large, high-domed head, with its aureole of white hair soft and fine as a baby’s, looked too weighty for the slight supporting body which seemed to have aged independently, giving him an oddly disintegrated appearance. It was difficult to guess his age but Dalgliesh thought that he must be nearer seventy than sixty-five, the normal retiring age for a consultant. He had the face of an indestructible gnome, the cheeks mottled with high colour so that they looked painted, the eyebrows springing above eyes of a piercing blue. Dalgliesh felt that those eyes and the soft,
persuasive voice were not the least of the medical director’s professional assets.

In contrast, Dr. James Baguley was six feet tall, nearly as tall as Dalgliesh, and the immediate impression he gave was of intense weariness. He was wearing a long white coat which hung loosely from his bowed shoulders. Although he was much the younger man, he had none of the medical director’s vitality. His hair was straight and turning iron-grey. From time to time he swept it out of his eyes with long, nicotine-stained fingers. His was a handsome, bony face but the skin and eyes were dulled as if with permanent tiredness.

The medical director said: “You will, of course, want to see the body straight away. I’ll ask Peter Nagle, our second porter, to come down with us if you’ve no objection. His chisel was one of the weapons used—not that he could help that, poor fellow—and no doubt you will want to ask him questions.”

“I shall want to question everyone here in due course,” replied Dalgliesh.

It was apparent that the medical director had taken charge. Dr. Baguley, who had not yet spoken, seemed glad to accept that position. Lauder had apparently decided to adopt a watching brief. As they moved towards the basement stairs at the back of the hall, he caught Dalgliesh’s eye. The momentary glance was hard to analyse, but Dalgliesh thought he detected an amused gleam and a certain wry detachment.

They stood in silence as Dalgliesh knelt by the body. He did not touch it except to part the cardigan and blouse, both of which were unbuttoned, and expose the handle of the chisel. It had been driven in up to the hilt. There was very little bruising of the tissues and no blood. The woman’s vest had been rolled up above her breasts to expose the flesh for that vicious, calculated thrust. Such deliberation suggested that the killer
had a confident knowledge of anatomy. There were easier ways of killing than to pierce the heart with one thrust. But for those with the knowledge and the strength, there were few ways so sure.

He got to his feet and turned to Peter Nagle. “Is that your chisel?”

“Apparently. It looks like it and mine isn’t in the box.” Despite the omission of the usual “sir,” the voice, educated and unemphatic, held no trace of insolence or resentment.