body.”
Dalgliesh said: “You’ve worked quickly. So the time he was last seen alive is pushed forward to about ten-ten. And he died less than two hours later.”
“Of natural causes, Mr. Dalgliesh.”
“I think he was intended to die.”
“Maybe. But I’m not arguing with facts. Seton died at midnight last Tuesday and he died because he had a weak heart and it stopped beating. That’s what Dr. Sydenham tells me and I’m not going to waste public money trying to prove that he’s wrong. Now you’re telling me that someone induced that heart attack. I’m not saying it’s impossible. I am saying that there’s no evidence yet to support it. I’m keeping an open mind on this case. There’s a lot we don’t know yet.”
That remark struck Dalgliesh as a considerable understatement. Most of the facts Reckless didn’t yet know were surely almost as crucial as the cause of death. He could have catalogued the unanswered questions. Why had Seton asked to be dropped at Paddington? Who, if anyone, was he on the way to meet? Where had he died? Where was his body from midnight on Tuesday onwards? Who moved it to Monksmere and why? If the death had indeed been premeditated how did the murderer contrive so successfully to make it look like natural death? And this led on to a question which Dalgliesh found the most intriguing of all. Having done so, why didn’t he leave the body in London, dumped perhaps at the side of the road to be later identified as that of a middle-aged, unimportant detective novelist, who had been walking in London on his own mysterious business and had been overcome by a heart attack? Why bring the body back to Monksmere and stage an elaborate charade which couldn’t fail to arouse suspicion of foul play and which would inevitably bring the whole Suffolk CID buzzing around his ears?
As if he could read Dalgliesh’s thoughts Reckless said: “We’ve no evidence that Seton’s death and the mutilation of his body are directly related. He died of natural causes. Sooner or later we shall find out where. Then we shall get a lead on the person responsible for all the subsequent nonsense; the mutilation; the false telephone call to Digby Seton-if it were made; the two manuscripts sent to Miss Kedge-if they were sent. There’s a joker in this pack and I don’t like his sense of humour; but I don’t think he’s a killer.”
“So you think that it’s all an elaborate hoax? With what purpose?”
“Malice, Mr. Dalgliesh. Malice against the dead, or the living. The hope of throwing suspicion on other people. The need to make trouble. For Miss Calthrop, maybe. She doesn’t deny that the handless corpse in a dinghy was her idea. For Digby Seton. He stands to gain most by his half-brother’s death. For Miss Dalgliesh, even. After all, it was her chopper.”
Dalgliesh said: “That’s pure conjecture. The chopper’s missing, that’s all we know. There’s no evidence whatsoever that it was the weapon.”
“There’s evidence now. You see, it’s been returned. Switch on the lights, Mr. Dalgliesh, and you’ll see.”
The chopper had, indeed, been returned. At the far end of the room stood a small eighteenth-century sofa table, a delicate and charming thing which Dalgliesh remembered from his childhood as part of the furniture of his grandmother’s sitting room. The chopper had been driven into the centre, the blade splitting the polished wood almost in two, the shaft curving upward. In the bright centre light which now flooded the room Dalgliesh could see clearly the brown stains of blood on the blade. It would be sent for analysis, of course. Nothing would be left to chance. But he had no doubt that it was Maurice Seton’s blood.
Reckless said: “I came to let you know the PM report. I thought you might be interested. The door was half open when I arrived so I came in, calling for you. I saw the chopper almost at once. In the circumstances I thought I’d take the liberty of staying around until you arrived.”
If he were gratified by the success of his little charade, he made no sign. Dalgliesh hadn’t credited him with a dramatic instinct. It had been quite cleverly stage managed; the soft conversation in the gloaming, the sudden blaze of light, the shock of seeing something beautiful and irreplaceable wantonly and maliciously destroyed. He would have liked to have asked whether Reckless would have broken his news with such spectacular eclat if Miss Dalgliesh had been present. Well, why not? Reckless knew perfectly well that Jane Dalgliesh could have driven that chopper into the table before she and Dalgliesh left for Priory House. A woman who could cleave off a dead man’s hands to provide herself with a little private entertainment was hardly likely to jib at the sacrifice of a sofa table in the same cause. There had been method in the Inspector’s excursion into drama. He had been hoping to watch his suspect’s eyes for the absence of that first unmistakable flicker of surprise and shock. Well, he hadn’t got much out of Dalgliesh’s reaction. Suddenly, cold with anger, he made up his mind. As soon as he could control his voice he said: “I shall be going to London tomorrow. I would be grateful if you would keep an eye on this place. I don’t expect to be any longer than one night.”
Reckless said: “I shall be keeping an eye on everyone at Monksmere, Mr. Dalgliesh. I shall have some questions for them. What time did you and your aunt leave the cottage?”
“At about six-forty-five.”
“And you left together?”
“Yes. If you’re asking whether my aunt popped back on her own to fetch a clean hankie the answer is no. And, just to set the record straight, the chopper was not where it is now when we left.”
Unprovoked, Reckless said calmly: “And I arrive here just before nine. He had nearly two hours. Did you tell anyone about the dinner engagement, Mr. Dalgliesh?”
“No. I didn’t, and I’m sure my aunt wouldn’t have talked about it. But that’s not really significant. We can always tell at Monksmere whether people are at home by the absence of lights.”
“And you always leave your doors conveniently unlocked. It’s all made very easy. And if things run true to form on this case, either all of them will be able to produce alibis, or none of them will.” He walked over to the sofa table, and pulling an immense white handkerchief from his pocket he wrapped it round the shaft of the chopper and jerked the blade out of the table. He carried it to the door, then turned to face Dalgliesh: “He died at midnight, Mr. Dalgliesh. Midnight. When Digby Seton had been in police custody for over an hour; when Oliver Latham was enjoying himself at the theatrical party in full view of two Knights, three Dames of the British Empire and half the culture hangers-on in London; when Miss Marley was safely tucked up in her hotel bed as far as I or anyone else knows; and when Justin Bryce was battling with his first attack of asthma. At least two of them have fool-proof alibis and the other two don’t seem particularly worried… I forgot to tell you, by the way. There was a telephone call for you while I was waiting. A Mr. Max Gurney. He wants you to ring back as soon as possible. He said that you knew the number.”
Dalgliesh was surprised. Max Gurney was the last of his friends to ring him when he was on holiday. More to the point, Gurney was a senior partner in the firm which published Maurice Seton. He wondered whether Reckless knew this. Apparently not, since he made no comment. The Inspector had been working at tremendous pace and there were few people connected with Seton who hadn’t been interviewed. But either he hadn’t yet got round to seeing Seton’s publisher, or he had decided that there was nothing to be gained.
Reckless finally turned to go: “Goodnight, Mr. Dalgliesh… Please tell your aunt that I’m sorry about the table… If you’re right about this being murder we know one thing about our killer, don’t we? He reads too many detective stories.”
He was gone. As soon as the departing roar of his car had died away, Dalgliesh telephoned Max Gurney. Max must have been waiting for he answered immediately.
“Adam? Good of you to telephone so promptly. The Yard were very naughty about letting me know where you were but I guessed it might be Suffolk. When are you coming back to town? Could I see you as soon as you do?”
Dalgliesh said that he would be in London next day. He could hear Max’s voice lighten with relief.
“Then could we lunch together? Oh, lovely. At one o’clock say? Have you any preference about the place?”
“Max, weren’t you once a member of the Cadaver Club?”
“I still am; would you like to lunch there? The Plants really do one very well. Shall we say one o’clock then at the Cadaver? Are you sure that’s all right?”
Dalgliesh said that nothing would suit him better.
