In Dalgliesh’s view men, including himself, frequently were but he thought it prudent not to say so. Suddenly he felt middle-aged, bored and irritated. He had neither wanted nor expected company and if his solitude had to be disturbed he could have named more agreeable companions than this peevish and dissatisfied adolescent. He hardly heard the rest of her complaint. She had dropped her voice and the words were blown from him on the freshening breeze. But he caught the final mutterings. “It’s so completely amoral in the real sense of the term. Virginity as a carefully preserved bait for eligible males. In this day and age!”
“I haven’t much sympathy with that point of view myself,” Dalgliesh said. “But then, as a man, your aunt would no doubt consider me prejudiced. But at least it’s realistic. And you can hardly blame Miss Calthrop for dishing out the same advice week after week when she gets so many letters from the readers wishing they’d taken it in the first place.”
The girl shrugged: “Naturally she has to adopt the orthodox line. The hag rag wouldn’t employ her if she dared to be honest. Not that I think she knows how. And she needs that column. She hasn’t any money except what she earns and the novels can’t go on selling for ever.”
Dalgliesh caught the note of anxiety in her voice. He said brutally: “I shouldn’t worry. Her sales won’t fall. She writes about sex. You may not like the packaging but the basic commodity will always be in demand. I should think your £400 is safe for the next three years.”
For a moment he thought she was going to smack his face. Then surprisingly, she gave a shout of laughter and moved away from the stile. “I deserved that! I’ve been taking myself too seriously. Sorry for boring you. You’re on your way to Seton House, I suppose?”
Dalgliesh said that he was and asked if he should give any message to Sylvia Kedge if she were there.
“Not to Sylvia. Why should you pimp for Auntie? No, it’s to Digby. Just to say that there will be meals for him at the cottage until he gets fixed up if he cares to come. It’s only cold meat and salad today so he won’t be missing much if he can’t make it. But I don’t suppose he’ll want to depend on Sylvia. They hate each other. And don’t get any wrong ideas, Superintendent. I may be willing to drive Digby home and feed with him for a day or two. But that’s as far as it goes. I’m not interested in pansies.”
“No,” said Dalgliesh. “I wouldn’t suppose that you were.” For some reason she blushed. She was turning away when, prompted by no more than mild curiosity, Dalgliesh said: “One thing intrigues me. When Digby Seton telephoned to ask you to meet him at Saxmundham, how did he know you weren’t at Cambridge?”
She turned back and met his gaze without embarrassment or fear. She didn’t even appear to resent the question. Instead, to his surprise, she laughed. “I wondered how long it would be before someone asked that. I might have known it would be you. The answer’s simple. I met Digby in London, quite by chance, on Tuesday morning. At Piccadilly Underground to be precise. I stayed in London that night and on my own. So I probably haven’t an alibi… Are you going to tell Inspector Reckless? But of course you are.”
“No,” replied Dalgliesh. “You are.”
11
Maurice Seton had been fortunate in his architect and his house had that characteristic of all good domestic building: it seemed indigenous to its site. The grey stone walls curved from the heather to buttress the highest point of Monksmere Head, with a view north over Sole Bay and south over the marshes and the bird reserve as far as Sizewell Gap. It was an unpretentious and agreeable building, double-storeyed and L-shaped, and built only fifty yards from the cliff edge. Presumably, these elegant walls, like those of Sinclair’s sturdy bastion, would one day crumble into the North Sea, but there seemed no immediate danger of it. The cliffs here had a strength and height which gave some hope of permanence. The long arm of the L faced south-east and was composed almost entirely of double-glazed windows which opened on to a terrace of paved stones. Here Seton had taken a hand in the planning. Dalgliesh thought it unlikely that the architect had chosen to set up the two ornate urns which marked the ends of the terrace and in which a couple of bushes, their boughs contorted by the cold winds of the Suffolk coast, were failing to thrive, nor the pretentious sign swinging between two low posts on which the words “Seton House” were carved in Gothic lettering.
It didn’t need the car parked at the terrace edge to tell Dalgliesh that Reckless was there. He could see no one, but he knew that his approach was being watched. The tall windows seemed full of eyes. One of them was ajar. Dalgliesh drew it open and stepped into the living room.
It was like walking onto a stage set. Every corner of the long, narrow room was warm with light as if bathed in the glare of arc lamps. It was a modern set. From centre back an open staircase curved to the upper storey. Even the furniture-contemporary, functional and expensive-looking-added to the air of impermanence and unreality. Almost the whole of the window space was taken up with Seton’s desk, an ingeniously designed fitment with a complex of drawers, cupboards and bookcases spreading each side of the central working surface. It had probably been made to the owner’s specification, a functional status symbol in light polished oak. On the pale grey walls there were two popular Monet prints unimaginatively framed.
The four people who turned to watch unsmiling as Dalgliesh stepped over the window sill were as immobile and carefully disposed about the room as actors who have taken up their pose ready for the curtains to rise. Digby Seton was lying on a couch placed diagonally across the centre of the room. He was wearing a mauve dressing gown of artificial silk over red pyjamas and might have looked more the part of romantic lead had it not been for the cap of grey stockinette which fitted close to his head and came down level to his eyebrows. The modern method of bandaging is effective but scarcely becoming. Dalgliesh wondered whether Seton had a temperature. He would hardly have been discharged from hospital unfit and Reckless, who was neither inexperienced nor a fool, would have telephoned the doctor to make sure that the man was fit to be questioned. But his eyes were unnaturally bright and a red moon burnt high on each cheekbone so that he looked like a gaudy circus clown, a bizarre focus of interest against the grey couch. Inspector Reckless sat at the desk with Sergeant Courtney by his side. In this morning light Dalgliesh saw the boy clearly for the first time and was struck by his pleasant good looks. He had the type of honest, open face which looks out of advertisements extolling the advantages of a career in banking for the intelligent and ambitious young man. Well, Sergeant Courtney had chosen the police. In his present mood Dalgliesh thought it rather a pity.
The fourth player was hardly on stage. Through the open door which led to the drawing room Dalgliesh caught a glimpse of Sylvia Kedge. She was sitting at the table in her wheelchair. There was a tray of silver in front of her and she was engaged in polishing a fork with as little enthusiasm as a bit player who knows that the attention of the audience is elsewhere. She lifted her eyes momentarily to Dalgliesh and he was shocked by the misery in her drawn face. She looked very ill. Then she bent again to her task. Digby Seton heaved his legs from the couch, walked deliberately to the dining-room door and prodded it gently shut with his stockinged foot. None of the policemen spoke.
Seton said: “Sorry and all that. Don’t want to be rude, but she gives me the willies. Damn it all, I’ve said I’ll pay her the £300 Maurice left her! Thank God you’ve come, Superintendent! Are you taking over the case?”