The Skull Beneath the Skin (39 page)

Ungrateful for what? she wondered.

He turned and looked down at Munter’s body. He said: “Extraordinary business, putting that wreath on the War Memorial every year. Do you suppose Gorringe will keep up the tradition?”

“I shouldn’t think so.”

“He should. I’ll have a word with him. Oldfield could see to it.”

They turned to make their way across the rose garden, then stopped. Coming across the lawn towards them in the pale apricot light, their footfalls absorbed by the soft grass, were Grogan and his coterie of officers. Cordelia was caught unawares. Facing their silent, inexorable advance, their bleak, unsmiling faces, she resisted the temptation to glance at Sir George. But she wondered whether he shared her sudden and irrational vision of how the two of them must look to the police, as guilty and discomforted as a couple of poachers surprised by the gamekeepers with their dead spoils at their feet.

Munter’s body was taken away with a speed and efficiency which Cordelia thought was almost unseemly. By ten o’clock the metal container with its two long side handles had been slid from the jetty on to the deck of the police launch with as little ceremony as if it had held a dog. But what, after all, had she expected? Munter had been a man. Now he was a weight of latent putrefaction, a case to be given a file and a number, a problem to be solved. She told herself that it was unreasonable to expect that the men—police officers? mortuary attendants? undertaker’s staff?—would bear him away with the solemnity appropriate to a funeral. They were doing a familiar job without emotion, and without fuss.

And with this second death the suspects were able to watch the police at work. They did it discreetly from the window of Cordelia’s bedroom, watching while Grogan and Buckley walked slowly round the body like a couple of marine scientists intrigued by some bedraggled specimen which had been washed up by the tide. They watched while the photographer did his job, hardly seeming to notice or speak to the police,
occupying himself with his own expertise. And this time Dr. Ellis-Jones didn’t appear. Cordelia wondered whether this was because the cause of death was apparent or whether he was busy elsewhere with another body. Instead, a police surgeon arrived to certify that life was extinct and to make the preliminary examination. He was a large and jovial man, dressed in sea boots and a knitted jersey patched on both elbows, who greeted the police like old drinking companions. His cheerful voice rose clearly on the quiet morning air. It was only when he knelt to rummage in his case for his thermometer that the watchers at the window silently withdrew and took refuge in the drawing room, ashamed of what had suddenly seemed an indecent curiosity. And it was from the drawing room windows, less than ten minutes later, that they saw Munter’s body borne through the archway and across the quay to the launch. One of the bearers said something to his mate and they both laughed. He was probably complaining about the weight.

And with this second death even the police questioning didn’t take long. There was, after all, not a great deal that anyone could tell, and Cordelia guessed how suspiciously unanimous that little must sound. When it was her turn she went into the business room weighed down by the conviction that nothing she said would be believed. Grogan stared at her across the desk, his pale, unfriendly eyes red-rimmed as if he had gone without sleep. The two music boxes were on the desk in front of him, carefully positioned side by side.

When she had finished her account of Munter’s appearance at the dining-room windows, of the finding of his body and the recovery of the music box, there was a long silence. Then he said: “Why exactly did you go up to the tower room on Friday afternoon?”

“Just curiosity. Miss Lisle didn’t want me at the rehearsal
and Mr. Whittingham and I had finished our walk. He was tired and had gone to rest. I was at a loose end.”

“So you amused yourself by exploring the tower?”

“Yes.”

“And then you played with the toys?”

He made it sound as if she were a tiresome child who hadn’t been able to keep her hands off someone else’s kiddy car. She realized with a mixture of anger and hopelessness the impossibility of explaining, of making him understand that impulse to set the whole childish menagerie working, to drown wretchedness with a cacophony of sound. And even if she had confided the cause of her distress, Ivo telling her of the death of Tolly’s child, would her story have sounded any more plausible? How did one explain to a policeman, perhaps to a judge, a jury, those small, seemingly irrational compulsions, the pathetic expedients against pain, which hardly made sense to oneself? And if it were difficult for her, so egregiously privileged, how did those others cope; the ignorant, the uneducated, the inarticulate, faced with the esoteric and uncompromising machinery of the law? She said: “Yes, I played with the toys.”

“And you are absolutely certain that the music box you found in the tower room played the tune ‘Greensleeves’?” He smacked his great palm down on the lid of the left-hand box, then lifted the lid. The cylinder turned and the delicate teeth of the long comb once more picked out the nostalgic, plaintive tune. She said: “I’m absolutely sure.”

“Externally, they’re very alike. The same size, the same shape, the same wood, almost the same pattern on the lids.”

“I know. But they play different tunes.”

She could understand the frustration and the irritation which he was keeping so tightly under control. Had she liked
him better, she might have sympathized. If she were telling the truth, then Munter had lied. He had left the ground floor of the castle some time during that critical hour and forty minutes. The only entrance to the tower was from the gallery floor. He had been within feet of Clarissa’s door. And Munter was dead. Even if Grogan believed him innocent, even if some other suspect were brought to trial, her evidence about the music box would be a gift for the defence. He said: “You didn’t mention your visit to the tower when you were questioned yesterday.”

“You didn’t ask me. You were chiefly interested in what I did and saw on Saturday. I didn’t think it important.”

“There’s nothing else that you didn’t think important?”

“I’ve answered all your questions as honestly as I can.”

He said: “Perhaps. But that isn’t quite the same thing, is it, Miss Gray?”

And the small voice of her own conscience, in collusion with him, indicted her. Have you? Have you?

Suddenly he leaned across the desk and put his face close to hers. She thought she could smell his breath, sour and tainted with beer, and had to force herself not to draw back.

“What exactly happened on Saturday morning in the Devil’s Kettle?”

“I’ve told you. Mr. Gorringe told us the story of the young internee who was left to drown. And I found that quotation from the play.”

“And that’s all that happened?”

“It seems to me enough.”

He sat back and she waited. He didn’t speak. At last she said: “I should like to go to Speymouth this afternoon. I want to get off the island.”

“Who doesn’t, Miss Gray?”

“That’s all right, is it? I don’t have to ask permission? I mean, you can’t stop me going where I like unless you arrest me?”

He said: “That, no doubt, is what you’d advise your clients if you had any. And you’d be perfectly right. We can’t stop you. But you must be in Speymouth tomorrow at two o’clock for the inquest. It won’t take long, just a formality. We’ll be asking for an adjournment. But you were the one who found the body. You were the last person to see Miss Lisle alive. The Coroner will want you there.”

She wondered whether it was intended to sound like a threat. She said: “I’ll be there.”

He looked up and said so gently that she almost believed him to be sincere: “Enjoy yourself in Speymouth, Miss Gray. Have a good day.”

It was after twelve-thirty when she was released. Strolling out to join the others who were drinking their pre-luncheon sherry on the terrace, she learned that Oldfield had already gone to the mainland to fetch the post and supplies. Ambrose was expecting a parcel of books from the London Library. Cordelia asked if
Shearwater
could be ordered for her for two o’clock and he agreed without curiosity, merely inquiring when she would like the launch to be at Speymouth quay for the return journey. Cordelia ordered it for six o’clock.

She wasn’t hungry for luncheon and nor, apparently, was anyone else. Mrs. Munter had provided a cold buffet in the dining room, too much food, most of it intended for the party, set out indiscriminately in an appetite-stifling mass. The wonder was, thought Cordelia, that she had bothered at all. No one had spoken of her since the finding of her husband’s body. She too had been interviewed by the police, but had spent most of the morning secluded in her flat or moving silently and unnoticed from pantry to dining room. Cordelia doubted whether Ambrose was greatly concerned about her and there
was no one else to care. She decided to see if she was all right, to ask, before setting out, whether there was anything she could do for her in Speymouth. She doubted that her intrusion would be welcomed. What was there, after all, that she or anyone could do? But at least she could ask.

She didn’t trouble to sit down but cut herself slices of cold beef and put them between bread. Then making her excuses to Ambrose, she helped herself to an apple and a banana and took her picnic on to the beach. Already her mind was moving away from this claustrophobic island towards the mainland. She felt like a refugee, waiting to be rescued from some plague-ridden and violent colony, watching with desperate eyes for the boat which would bear her away from the smell of rotting corpses, the shouting and tumult, the bodies strewn on the shore, towards the safety and normality of home. The mainland which she had seen recede with such high hopes only three days earlier now shone in the imagination with all the refulgence of a promised land. It seemed to her that two o’clock would never come.

Shortly before one-thirty she made her way along the tiled passage past the business room to the baize door which she knew must lead to the servants’ flat. There was no bell or knocker but while she was wondering how to attract attention, Mrs. Munter came quietly up behind her, carrying on her hip a basket of washing. Without speaking, she held open the door and Cordelia passed before her down a shorter passageway and into a sitting room to her right. Like all Victorian architects, Godwin had ensured that from none of their rooms could the servants overlook their betters whether the family were disporting themselves indoors or out, and the single window gave a view only of a wide yard with, beyond it, the stable block with its charming clock tower and weather vane. Across the yard was slung a washing line from which drooped a pair
of Munter’s huge pyjamas. They seemed to Cordelia pathetic and embarrassing and she averted her eyes as if detected in a prurient curiosity.

The room itself was starkly furnished, not uncomfortable, but despite the artful simplicity of the art nouveau furniture almost devoid of character. There was a television set in the corner but no books or pictures and no photographs or ornaments on the dresser. It was as if the inhabitants had no past to remember, no present to celebrate. And no third person, apparently, ever sat here. There were only two easy chairs, one on each side of the elegantly carved iron grate, and only two upright chairs set opposite each other at the dining table.

Mrs. Munter didn’t invite her to sit down. Cordelia said: “I didn’t mean to bother you. I just wanted to see that you are all right. And I’m going into Speymouth shortly. Is there anything I can get or do for you?”

Mrs. Munter swung her basket of washing down on the table and began folding the clothes.

“There’s nothing. I’ll be with you on the boat likely enough. I’m leaving, Miss. I’m getting off the island.”

“I know how you must feel. But if you’re frightened I could share a room with you tonight.”

“I’m not frightened. What is there to be frightened of? I’m leaving, that’s all. I never liked being here and now that he’s gone I don’t have to stay.”

“Of course not, if that’s how you feel. But I’m sure Mr. Gorringe wouldn’t want you to do anything in a hurry. He’ll want to talk to you. There are bound to be, well … arrangements.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. He’s been a good enough master but it was Munter he wanted. I came with Munter. Now we’re separate.”

Separate, thought Cordelia, finally and for ever. There had
been no mistaking the note of satisfaction, almost of triumph. And she had come to the flat out of an embarrassed compassion, inexperienced as she might be, to try to give comfort. None, it appeared, was wanted or necessary. But surely there would be wages outstanding, offers of help to be made, funeral arrangements to be discussed? Ambrose would surely want to reassure her that she could stay on at the castle as long as it suited her. And, of course, there would be the police, Grogan and his ubiquitous experts in death, trained in suspicion and mistrust. If Munter had been deliberately pushed to his death, she could have done it. With one undetected murderer already on the island, what better time to get rid of an unwanted husband? Cordelia didn’t doubt that Grogan, faced with this ungrieving widow, would place her high on his list of suspects. And the police were bound to see this hurried departure as highly suspicious. She was wondering whether she ought to say a word of warning when Mrs. Munter spoke.

“I’ve spoken to the police. They’ve no call to keep me. They know where they can find me. Mr. Gorringe can see to the funeral arrangements. It’s no concern of mine.”

“But you were his wife!”

“I never was his wife. He wasn’t the marrying kind, and nor am I. I’ll be leaving in the launch as soon as Oldfield is ready.”

“Are you all right for money? I’m sure that Mr. Gorringe …”

“I don’t need his help. Munter had money. He had ways of making a bit on the side and I know where he kept it. I’ll take what’s due to me. And I’ll be all right. Good cooks don’t starve.”