It was the first time Grogan had asked that question. And yet, thought Buckley, it was at the heart of every murder investigation, and, if it were possible to find the answer, most other questions would become superfluous. Whittingham said:
'I was going to say that you've seen her face, but, of course, you haven't. A pity. One needed to know the physical Clarissa to get any clue to what else there might have been to know. She lived intensely in and through her body. The rest is a list of words. She was egocentric, insecure, clever but not intelligent, kind or cruel as the mood took her, restless, unhappy. But she had certain skills which a gentlemanly reticence inhibits me from discussing but which weren't unimportant. She probably gave more joy than she caused misery. Since that can't be said of many of us, it's unbecoming of me to criticize her. I remember that I once sent to her the words of Thomas Malory, Lancelot speaking to Guinevere: "Lady, I take record of God, in thee I have had my earthly joy." I don't take them back, whatever she may have done.'
'Whatever she may have done, sir?'
'A form of words merely, Chief Inspector.'
'So you mourn her?'
'No. But I shan't forget her.'
There was a pause. Then Grogan asked quietly:
'Why are you here, sir?'
'She asked me to come. But there was another reason. One of the Sunday papers commissioned me to do a piece on the island and the theatre. What was wanted was period charm, nostalgia and salacious legend. They should have sent a crime reporter.'
'And that was enough to tempt a reviewer of your eminence?'
'It must have been, mustn't it, since here I am.'
When Grogan asked him, as he had the other suspects, to describe the events of the day, he showed signs of tiredness for the first time. The body sagged in its chair like a puppet jerked from its string.
'There isn't much to tell. We had a late breakfast and then Miss Lisle suggested we see the Church. There's a crypt with some ancient skulls and a secret passage to the sea. We explored both and Gorringe entertained us with old legends about the skulls and a reputed drowning of a wartime internee in the cave at the end of the passage. I was tired and didn't listen very closely. Then back to luncheon at twelve. Miss Lisle went to rest immediately afterwards. I was in my room by quarter past one and stayed there resting and reading until it was time to dress. Miss Lisle had insisted that we change before the play. I met Roma Lisle at the head of the staircase as she came down from her room and we were together when Gorringe appeared with Miss Gray and told us that Clarissa was dead.'
'And during the morning, the visit to the Church and the cave, how did Miss Lisle seem to you?'
'I think I would say, Chief Inspector, that Miss Lisle was her usual self.'
Lastly Grogan spilled out from the folder the sheaves of messages. One of them fluttered to the floor. He bent and picked it up, then handed it to Whittingham'.
'What can you tell us about these, sir?'
'Only that I knew she was getting them. She didn't tell me, but one does tend to pick up bits of theatre gossip. But I don't think it was generally known. And here, again, I seem to be the natural suspect. Whoever sent these knew Miss Lisle and knew his Shakespeare. But I don't think I would have added the coffin and the skull. An unnecessarily crude touch, don't you think?'
'And that is all that you want to tell us, sir?'
'It's all that I can tell you, Chief Inspector.'
CHAPTER THIRTY
It was nearly seven o'clock before they got round to seeing the boy. He had changed into a formal suit and looked, thought Buckley, as if he were attending his stepmother's funeral instead of an interview with the police. He guessed that there was no more than eight years' difference in their ages, but it could have been twenty. Lessing looked as neatly pressed and nervous as a child. But he had himself well under control. Buckley felt that there was something vaguely familiar about his entrance, the care with which he seated himself, the serious expectant gaze which he fixed on Grogan's face. And then he remembered. This was how he had looked and behaved at his final interview to join the police. He had been advised then by his headmaster. 'Wear your best suit, but no fountain pen or fancy handkerchief peeping coyly out of the jacket pocket. Look them straight in the eye, but not so fixedly that you embarrass them. Be slightly more deferential than you feel; they're the ones with the job on offer. If you don't know an answer, say so, don't waffle. And don't worry if you're nervous, they prefer that to over-confidence, but show that you've got the guts to cope with nervousness. Call them "sir" or "madam" and thank them briefly before you leave. And for God's sake, boy, sit up straight.'
And as the interview progressed beyond the first easy questions designed, Buckley could almost believe, to put the candidate at his ease, he sensed something else, that Lessing was beginning to feel as he had done; if you followed the advice, the ordeal wasn't so bad after all. Only his hands betrayed him. They were broad and unpleasantly white with thick stubbed fingers, but narrow – almost girlish – nails cut very short and so pink that they looked painted. He held his hands in his lap and from time to time he would stretch and pull at the fingers as if he were routinely performing some prescribed strengthening exercise.
Sir George Ralston remained standing with his back to them looking out of the window through the partly drawn curtains. Buckley wondered whether the intention was to demonstrate that he wasn't influencing the boy by word or glance. But the pose looked perverse, the more so as there was nothing in that still darkness which he could possibly see. Buckley had never known such silence. It had a positive quality; not the absence of noise but a silence which sharpened perception and gave importance and dignity to every word and action. He wished, not for the first time, that they were at headquarters with the sound of passing feet, of doors closing, of distant voices calling, all the comfortable background noises of ordinary life. Here it wasn't only the suspects who were under judgement.
This time Grogan's doodle looked innocuous, even charming. He seemed to be redesigning his kitchen garden. Neat rows of chubby cabbages, climbing runner beans and fern-topped carrots grew under his hand. He said:
'So after your mother died you went to live with her brother and his family and you were there when Lady Ralston came to visit you in the summer of 1978 and decided to adopt you?'
'There was no formal adoption. My uncle was my guardian and he agreed that Clarissa would be… well, a kind of foster mother, I suppose. She took over the whole responsibility for me.'
'And you welcomed that arrangement?'
'Very much, sir. Life with my uncle and aunt wasn't really congenial to me.'
And that was an odd word for the boy to use, thought Buckley. It made it sound as if they'd taken the Mirror instead of The Times and he hadn't been able to get his after-dinner port.
'And you were happy with Sir George and his wife?' Grogan couldn't resist the small note of sarcasm. He added:
'Life was congenial to you?'
'Very, sir.'
'Your stepmother – is that how you thought of her, as a stepmother?'
The boy blushed and glanced sideways at the silent figure of Sir George. He moistened his lips and said: 'Yes, sir. I suppose so.'
'Your stepmother has been receiving some rather unpleasant communications during the last year or so. What do-you know about that?'