A Murder of Quality (16 page)

‘And what exactly was in the writing-case,’ Smiley asked, ‘when you opened it that evening to look at Tim’s exam. paper?’

‘A sheet of transparent plastic … it may have been one of those pack-away cape things – an old pair of gloves, and a pair of home-made galoshes.’

‘Home-made?’

‘Yes. Hacked from a pair of Wellington boots, I should think.’

‘That’s all?’

‘No. There was a length of heavy cable, I presumed for demonstrating something in his science lessons. It seemed natural enough in winter to carry waterproofs about. Then, after the murder, I realised how he had done it.’

‘Did you know,’ Smiley asked him, ‘
why
he had done it?’

Fielding seemed to hesitate: ‘Rode’s a guinea-pig,’ he began, ‘the first man we’ve had from a grammar school. Most of us are old Carnians ourselves, in fact. Focused when we start. Rode wasn’t, and Carne thrilled him. The very name Carne means quality, and Rode loved quality. His wife wasn’t like that. She had her standards and they were different, but just as good. I used to watch Rode in the Abbey sometimes on Sunday mornings. Tutors sit at the end of pews, right by the aisle, you know. I used to watch his face as the choir processed past him in white and scarlet, and the Master in his doctor’s robes and the Governors and Guardians behind him. Rode was drunk – drunk with the pride of Carne. We’re heady wine for the grammar school men, you know. It must have hurt him terribly that Stella wouldn’t share any of that. You could see it did. The night they came to dinner with me, the night she died, they argued. I never told anyone, but they did. The Master had preached a sermon at Compline that evening: “Hold fast to that which is good.” Rode talked about it at dinner; he couldn’t take much drink, you know, he wasn’t used to it. He was full of this sermon and of the eloquence of the Master. She never came to the Abbey – she went to that drab tabernacle by the station. He went on and on about the beauty of the Abbey service, the dignity, the reverence. She kept quiet till he’d finished, then laughed, and said: “Poor old Stan. You’ll always be Stan to me.” I’ve never seen anyone so angry as he was then. He went quite pale.’

Fielding swept his white hair from his eyes and went on, with something like the old panache: ‘I’ve watched her, too, at meals. Not just here, but at dinner parties elsewhere, when we’ve both been invited. I’ve watched her do the simplest things – like eating an apple. She’d peel it in one piece, round and round till the whole peel fell off. Then she’d cut the apple and dice the quarters, getting it all ready before she ate it. She might have been a miner’s wife preparing it for her husband. She must have
seen
how people do things here, but it never occurred to her that she ought to copy them. I admire that. So do you, I expect. But Carne doesn’t – and Rode didn’t; above all, Rode didn’t. He’d watch her, and I think he grew to hate her for not conforming. He came to see her as the bar to his success, the one factor which would deprive him of a great career. Once he’d reached that conclusion, what could he do? He couldn’t divorce her – that would do him more harm than remaining married to her. Rode knew what Carne would think of divorce; we’re a Church foundation, remember. So he killed her. He plotted a squalid murder, and with his little scientist’s mind he gave them all the clues they wanted. Fabricated clues. Clues that would point to a murderer who didn’t exist. But something went wrong; Tim Perkins got sixty-one per cent. He’d got an impossible mark – he must have cheated. He’d had the opportunity – he’d had the papers in the case. Rode put his little mind to it and decided what had happened: Tim had opened the case and he’d seen the cape and the boots and the gloves. And the cable. So Rode killed him too.’

With surprising energy, Fielding got up and gave himself more brandy. His face was flushed, almost exultant.

Smiley stood up. ‘When did you say you’ll be coming to London? Thursday, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes. I had arranged to lunch with my crammer man at one of those dreadful clubs in Pall Mall. I always go into the wrong one, don’t you? But I’m afraid there’s not much point in my seeing him now, is there, if all this is going to come out? Not even a crammer’s will take me then.’

Smiley hesitated.

‘Come and dine with me that evening. Spend the night if you want. I’ll ask one or two other people. We’ll have a party. You’ll feel better by then. We can talk a bit. I might be able to help you … for Adrian’s sake.’

‘Thank you. I should like to. Interview apart, I’ve got some odds and ends to clear up in London, anyway.’

‘Good. Quarter to eight. Bywater Street, Chelsea, number 9A.’ Fielding wrote it down in his diary. His hand was quite steady.

‘Black tie?’ asked Fielding, his pen poised, and some imp made Smiley reply:

‘I usually do, but it doesn’t matter.’ There was a moment’s silence.

‘I suppose,’ Fielding began tentatively, ‘that all this
will
come out in the trial, about Tim and me? I’ll be ruined if it does, you know, ruined.’

‘I don’t see how they can prevent it.’

‘I feel much better now, anyway,’ said Fielding; ‘much.’

With a cursory good-bye, Smiley left him alone. He walked quickly back to the police station, reasonably confident that Terence Fielding was the most accomplished liar he had met for a long time.

17 Rabbit Run

He knocked on Rigby’s door and walked straight in.

‘I’m awfully afraid you’ll have to arrest Stanley Rode,’ he began, and recounted his interview with Fielding.

‘I shall have to tell the Chief,’ said Rigby doubtfully. ‘Would you like to repeat all that in front of him? If we’re going to pull in a Carne master, I think the Chief had better know first. He’s just come back. Hang on a minute.’ He picked up the telephone on his desk and asked for the Chief Constable. A few minutes later they were walking in silence down a carpeted corridor. On either wall hung photographs of rugby and cricket teams, some yellow and faded from the Indian sun, others done in a sepia tint much favoured by Carne photographers in the early part of the century. At intervals along the corridor stood empty buckets of brilliant red, with FIRE printed carefully in white on the outside. At the far end of the corridor was a dark oak door. Rigby knocked and waited. There was silence. He knocked again and was answered with a cry of ‘Come!’

Two very large spaniels watched them come in. Behind the spaniels, at an enormous desk, Brigadier Havelock, OBE, Chief Constable of Carne, sat like a water rat on a raft.

The few strands of white hair which ran laterally across his otherwise bald head were painstakingly adjusted to cover the maximum area. This gave him an oddly wet look, as if he had just emerged from the river. His moustache, which lavishly compensated for the scarcity of other hair, was yellow and appeared quite solid. He was a very small man, and he wore a brown suit and a stiff white collar with rounded corners.

‘Sir,’ Rigby began, ‘may I introduce Mr Smiley from London?’

He came out from behind his desk as if he were giving himself up, unconvinced but resigned. Then he pushed out a little, knobbly hand and said, ‘From London, eh? How d’you do, sir,’ all at once, as if he’d learnt it by heart.

‘Mr Smiley’s here on a private visit, sir,’ Rigby continued. ‘He is an acquaintance of Mr Fielding.’

‘Quite a card, Fielding, quite a card,’ the Chief Constable snapped.

‘Yes, indeed, sir,’ said Rigby, and went on:

‘Mr Smiley called on Mr Fielding just now, sir, to take his leave before returning to London.’ Havelock shot a beady glance at Smiley, as if wondering whether he were fit to make the journey.

‘Mr Fielding made a kind of statement, which he substantiated with new evidence of his own. About the murder, sir.’

‘Well, Rigby?’ he said challengingly. Smiley intervened:

‘He said that the husband had done it; Stanley Rode. Fielding said that when his head boy brought him Rode’s writing-case containing the examination papers …’

‘What examination papers?’

‘Rode was invigilating that afternoon, you remember. He was also doing Chapel Duty before going on to dinner at Fielding’s house. As an expediency, he gave the papers to Perkins to take …’

‘The boy who had the accident?’ Havelock asked.

‘Yes.’

‘You know a lot about it,’ said Havelock darkly.

‘Fielding said that when Perkins brought him the case, Fielding opened it. He wanted to see how Perkins had done in the science paper. It was vital to the boy’s future that he should get his remove,’ Smiley went on.

‘Oh, work’s the only thing now,’ said Havelock bitterly. ‘Wasn’t the way when I was a boy here, I assure you.’

‘When Fielding opened the case, the papers were inside. So was a plastic cape, an old pair of leather gloves, and a pair of rubber overshoes, cut from Wellingtons.’

A pause.

‘Good God! Good God! Hear that, Rigby? That’s what they found in the parcel in London. Good God!’

‘Finally, there was a length of cable, heavy cable, in the case as well. It was this writing-case that Rode went back for, you remember, on the night of the murder,’ Smiley concluded. It was like feeding a child – you couldn’t overload the spoon.

There was a very long silence indeed. Then Rigby, who seemed to know his man, said:

‘Motive was self-advancement in the profession, sir. Mrs Rode showed no desire to improve her station, dressed in a slovenly manner and took no part in the religious life of the school.’

‘Just a minute,’ said Havelock. ‘Rode planned the murder from the start, correct?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘He wanted to make it look like robbery with violence.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Having collected the writing-case, he walked back to North Fields. Then what does he do?’

‘He puts on the plastic cape and hood, overshoes and gloves. He arms himself with the weapon, sir. He lets himself in by the garden gate, crosses the back garden, goes to the front door and rings the bell, sir. His wife comes to the door. He knocks her down, drags her to the conservatory and murders her. He rinses the clothes under the tap and puts them in the parcel. Having sealed the parcel, he walks down the drive, this time to the front gate, following the path, sir, knowing that his own footprints will soon be obscured by other people’s. Having got to the road, where the snow was hard and showed no prints, he turned round and re-entered the house, playing the part of the distressed husband, taking care, when he discovers the body, sir, to put his own finger prints over the glove-marks. There was one article that was too dangerous to send, sir. The weapon.’

‘All right, Rigby. Pull him in. Mr Borrow will give you a warrant if you want one; otherwise I’ll ring Lord Sawley.’

‘Yes, sir. And I’ll send Sergeant Low to take a full statement from Mr Fielding, sir?’

‘Why the devil didn’t he speak up earlier, Rigby?’

‘Have to ask him that, sir,’ said Rigby woodenly, and left the room.

‘You a Carnian?’ Havelock asked, pushing a silver cigarette-box across the desk.

‘No. No, I’m afraid not,’ Smiley replied.

‘How d’you know Fielding?’

‘We met at Oxford after the war.’

‘Queer card, Fielding, very queer. Say your name was Smiley?’

‘Yes.’

‘There was a fellow called Smiley married Ann Sercombe, Lord Sawley’s cousin. Damned pretty girl, Ann was, and went and married this fellow. Some funny little beggar in the Civil Service with an OBE and a gold watch. Sawley was damned annoyed.’ Smiley said nothing. ‘Sawley’s got a son at Carne. Know that?’

‘I read it in the press, I think.’

‘Tell me – this fellow Rode. He’s a grammar-school chap, isn’t he?’

‘I believe so, yes.’

‘Damned odd business. Experiments never pay, do they? You can’t experiment with tradition.’

‘No. No, indeed.’

‘That’s the trouble today. Like Africa. Nobody seems to understand you can’t build society overnight. It takes centuries to make a gentleman.’ Havelock frowned to himself and fiddled with the paper-knife on his desk.

‘Wonder how he got his cable into that ditch, the thing he killed her with. He wasn’t out of our sight for forty-eight hours after the murder.’

‘That,’ said Smiley, ‘is what puzzles me. So does Jane Lyn.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘I don’t believe Rode would have had the nerve to walk back to the house after killing his wife knowing that Jane Lyn had seen him do it. Assuming, of course, that he
did
know, which seems likely. It’s too cool … too cool altogether.’

‘Odd, damned odd,’ muttered Havelock. He looked at his watch, pushing his left elbow outwards to do so, in a swift equestrian movement which Smiley found comic, and a little sad. The minutes ticked by. Smiley wondered if he should leave, but he had a vague feeling that Havelock wanted his company.

‘There’ll be a hell of a fuss,’ said Havelock. ‘It isn’t every day you arrest a Carne tutor for murder.’ He put down the paper-knife sharply on the desk.

‘These bloody journalists ought to be horsewhipped!’ he declared. ‘Look at the stuff they print about the Royal Family. Wicked, wicked!’ He got up, crossed the room and sat himself in a leather armchair by the fire. One of the spaniels went and sat at his feet.

‘What made him do it, I wonder. What the devil made him do it? His own wife, I mean; a fellow like that.’ Havelock said this simply, appealing for enlightenment.

‘I don’t believe,’ said Smiley slowly, ‘that we can ever entirely know what makes anyone do anything.’

‘My God, you’re dead right … What do you do for a living, Smiley?’

‘After the war I was at Oxford for a bit. Teaching and research. I’m in London now.’

‘One of those clever coves, eh?’

Smiley wondered when Rigby would return.

‘Know anything about this fellow’s family? Has he got people, or anything?’

‘I think they’re both dead,’ Smiley answered, and the telephone on Havelock’s desk rang sharply. It was Rigby. Stanley Rode had disappeared.

18 After the Ball

He caught the 1.30 train to London. He just made it after an argument at his hotel about the bill. He left a note for Rigby giving his address and telephone number in London and asking him to telephone that night when the laboratory tests were completed. There was nothing else for him to do in Carne.