of Tallantire's active dislike of Mickledore plus a mordant sense of irony, the last of the Golden Age murders was to end in proper Golden Age style, with the suspects assembled in the library for the final denouement. 'In fact there was no lengthy unknotting. Oh yes, I was there too. With such advance notice it was easy for me to collect Wendy and get ourselves well hidden in the folds of those musty-smelling velvet curtains across the deep bay. 'Tallantire was straight to the point, speaking with the ponderous certainty of a man who has destroyed doubt. ''I regret to tell you that Mrs Westropp's death was neither accident nor self-slaughter. I believe she was murdered.' 'I heard the gasps. I could feel the shock. Then someone, I believe it was Partridge, said, 'But the room was locked from the inside!' ''I don't think so. True, a key was left on the inside, but not inserted so far that it interfered with the turning of a key on the outside.' ''But it wouldn't turn,' I heard my father say. 'I tried the thing myself. The keyhole was blocked till we shook the inside key loose.' ''I don't think so,' repeated Tallantire. 'I've tried to turn a key on the outside with the inner key fully inserted, and you're right, sir, it won't turn. On the other hand, I bounced myself as hard as I could against that door for a quarter of an hour and I never managed to shake the inside key loose. Conclusion? The inside key was never fully inserted.' ''But dammit, how do you explain that we couldn't turn the key?' demanded my father. ''Simple,' said Tallantire. 'It must have been the wrong key. One near enough the original to deceive the casual glance, but with a little bit filed off a couple of teeth perhaps, that's all it would take.' ''But when Westropp tried it – ' ‘ 'He was given the right key,' said Tallantire. 'And now the full implication of what he was saying must have dawned. There was a moment of complete silence. 'Then Tallantire said, 'Perhaps I should tell you that this has gone beyond speculation. We have a full and detailed confession from one of the perpetrators of this terrible crime…' 'He paused for breath or effect, then went on, 'Miss Cecily Kohler. She has cooperated fully and we are now taking her into town for further questioning. Sir Ralph, I must ask you to accompany us as I believe you also may be able to help us in our inquiries.' 'If it was Tallantire's intention to provoke a guilty reaction in the best tradition, he must have been overwhelmed by his own success.
'Mickledore said, 'What? You say that Cissy…? But she… oh Christ, this is crazy!' 'And then he was running. 'There was so much noise and confusion that I risked a peep. Mickledore was through the library door, Tallantire was shouting, 'Stop him!' The bull's-eye policeman went in pursuit, there was the noise of receding footsteps, then some other kind of noise upstairs. Then silence. 'Tallantire said, 'Ladies, gentlemen, I assume you will be leaving the house shortly. Please make sure that you leave your contact address with one of my officers before you do so, as there may be other questions I need to put to you. Thank you for your cooperation. Good day.' 'And so he left. Wendy and I were by this time both very excited and very frightened. Though not fully understanding everything, we knew that this had been one of those strange adult occasions at which our presence was strictly forbidden, so we did not dare move yet. There was utter silence in the library but it was the silence of shock, not the silence of emptiness. Through the window we could see three police cars parked before the house. At the rear window of the third car I spotted a pale, pale face which I thought I recognized as Miss Kohler's. Then after a while Mickledore came out of the main door between two policemen who led him to the second car. He half- turned before he got in, as if to take a last look at the Hall. Then he was pushed into the car. Finally Tallantire appeared and got in the front passenger seat of the leading vehicle. 'Now the grim procession set off. There was no obstacle they could have anticipated for several miles but, perhaps as a last gesture of triumph over a way of life and a set of people I'm sure he despised, Superintendent Tallantire switched on the flashing lights and warning bells. I watched them glide away down the long drive, lost sight but not sound of them as they dropped down to the tree-lined river, glimpsed the lights once more as they climbed the winding road up the far hillside. Then they passed over the crest and soon the bellnotes were buried deep in the next valley glades and it was as quiet outside the Hall as within.
'Thus ended my direct involvement with the Mickledore Hall murder case. As I said at the beginning, it was the best of crimes, it was the worst of crimes; the best because, though perhaps Cissy Kohler wanted her rival out of the way, it was not this that made her join the murder plot but a deep, altruistic and ultimately destructive love for a worthless man; and the worst, because Mickledore's only motive was cold, calculating, selfish greed. Perhaps you don't think best is a superlative to apply to murder, whatever the motive. But remember this. Cissy Kohler was young and she was foolish and though she helped take a life, in a very real way she has given her own life in exchange. I only knew her briefly as a nanny before she turned into a murderess, but it was long enough to recognize that she loved us too, the children, and we all thought she was marvellous. That's what I remember now – her love. Children need it in abundance, and where it is given abundantly, we never forget, and should always be ready to forgive. 'Sir Ralph Mickledore was hanged on January the fourteenth, nineteen sixty-four. The following year the death penalty for murder was completely abolished, but even a few more months, with a Labour Government back in power, would probably have saved him. Cecily Kohler's death sentence was commuted to life imprisonment. In nineteen seventy-six, within sight of being released on parole, she killed a prison wardress with whom it was alleged she had been having a lesbian relationship. Once again found guilty of murder, she is still in prison, having served the longest continuous period of imprisonment recorded for a woman in the annals of British legal history. 'So ends this series, The Golden Age of Murder. Raymond Chandler said that Hammett took murder and gave it back to the people it really belonged to. But he deliberately missed the point that the class-ridden world of the British Golden Age is based on a reality at least as strong as his mean streets. The Golden Age crime novel to me makes the snobbery of British society laughable, while the hard-boiled thriller makes the violence of American society enjoyable. In which case, who then can claim the moral high ground? 'But philosophical debate has not been my aim in these programmes. What I have wanted to show is that the society which produced the kind of complex, artificial, snobbish detective fiction known as Golden Age produced real life murders to match, carefully planned and cunningly executed by men and women who knew that by taking the lives of others, they were putting their own at risk. 'Do I sound almost nostalgic? If so, for what? For nineteen sixty-three? Perhaps. It is an occupational hazard of amateur historians to see watersheds everywhere, but it seems to me not unfitting that a year which saw the death of the last romantic US president and the destruction of a British government for trying to evade its own moral responsibilities, should also have housed the Mickledore Hall murder case. 'After this, to catch the public imagination crime had to be extremely bestial or involve a great deal of money. As events later the same year showed, it was soon to be possible to steal two million pounds and become a folk hero even if you bludgeoned someone to death in the process. Up to nineteen sixty-three it was still possible for thinking men to believe in progress. A just war had been fought and won, and this time the result would be, if not a land fit for heroes, at least a society fit for humans. We who grew up in the 'sixties and 'seventies and came to our maturity in the dreadful 'eighties have seen the destruction of that dream without ever having had the joy of dreaming it. 'So, is it surprising that I should be nostalgic for an age that still had hope?
And is it reprehensible if my nostalgia should even embrace what was surely the last great murder mystery of the Golden Age?'
EIGHT
'The things you see here are things to be seen, and not spoken of.' When the tape finished Pascoe went out into the garden and looked at the emergent stars. He'd been wrong about other people's troubles. They weren't a diversion, merely an addition. How long the phone rang before it pierced his dullness he didn't know. He rushed back inside and snatched it up. 'You took your time. Not in bed already, are you?' said Dalziel. 'No. I've been listening to that tape.' 'Oh aye? What do you think?' 'You never told me you were personally involved.' 'What makes you say that? Stamper never mentioned my name.' 'You got described. Once seen, never forgotten.'
'Ha-ha. I wish you had been in bed.' 'Why's that?' 'Then you'd have had to get up. I want you down here straight away.' 'Why?' said Pascoe. 'I'm not a dog, comes when you whistle… Shit!' The phone was dead. In any case his aggression was unconvincing. What was the alternative? A couple more hours of his own company till he felt tired enough to risk the waking horrors of sleep? He went out almost cheerfully. As he got out of his car in the HQ car park, he was surprised to see that Dalziel's space was empty and even more surprised when the Fat Man detached himself from the shadow of a parked van. There was something almost furtive about the movement and furtiveness sat uneasily on that bulk. He beckoned Pascoe towards the entrance. ' 'Evening, sir,' said Pascoe. 'Any particular reason why we're going on like a couple of burglars rather than the city's finest?' 'Funny you should say that,' said Dalziel. He led the way in, pausing as if to check there was no one about before starting up the stairs. On the first landing he once more checked that the corridor was empty before moving swiftly along it and stopping before the door upon which Hiller's mahogany name plaque hung. Pascoe's curiosity turned to concern as Dalziel
