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Authors: P. D. James
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back for it. Too much blood, too much risk of leaving a clue. Better to use what he found to hand.'
It was apparent that the kitchen was the only room with water and a sink; hand washing as well as washing up must be done here, if at all. Above the sink was a mirror composed of glass tiles stuck to the wall, and under it a simple glass shelf. Upon this was a sponge bag, its zip open, containing a toothbrush and a tube of paste, a dry face flannel and a used bar of soap. Beside this was a more
42
interesting find, a narrow leather case with the initials PSB stamped on it in faded gold. With his gloved hands Dal-gliesh lifted the lid and found what he had expected to see, the twin to the cut throat razor lying so incriminat-ingly close to Berowne's fight hand. On the satin lining of the lid was a sticker with the maker's name in old-fashioned twirls, P. J. Bellingham, and the Jermyn Street address. Bellingham, the most expensive and prestigious barber in London and supplier still of razors to those clients who had never adjusted to the shaving habits of the twentieth century.
There was nothing of apparent interest in the lavatory and they made their way into the robing vestry. It was obvious that this was where Harry Mack had settled himself for the night. What looked like an old army blanket, frayed at the edges and stiff with dirt, had been loosely spread in a corner, its fumy stink mingling with the smell of incense to produce an incongruous amalgam of piety and squalor. Beside it was an overturned bottle, a length of grubby cord and a sheet of newspaper on which lay a crust of brown loaf, the core of an apple and some crumbs of cheese. Massingham picked them up and rubbed them between his palms and thumbs and sniffed. He said:
'Roquefort, sir. Hardly a cheese which Harry would have provided for himself.'
There was no evidence that Berowne had started his own meal - that in itself might be of some help in deciding on the approximate time of death - but he had apparently either cajoled Harry into the church with the promise of a meal or, more likely, had supplied an obvious and immedi-ate need before he was ready for his own share of the supper.
The vestry itself was so familiar from childhood memories that Dalgliesh could have taken one quick glance, shut his eyes and spoken aloud an inventory of high church piety: the packets of incense on top of the cupboard; the incense holder and censer; the crucifix and, behind the faded red serge curtain, the lace-trimmed vestments and the short starched surplices of the choir.
43
But now his mind was on Harry Mack. What had roused him from his half-drunken sleep; a scream, the sound of a quarrel, a falling body? But could he have heard it from this room? As if echoing his thoughts, Massingham said:
'He could have been roused by thirst, gone to the kitchen for a drink of water and stumbled into the crime. That enamel mug looked as if it might be his. Father Barnes will know whether it belongs to the church and with luck there may be prints. Or he could have gone to the lavatory, but I doubt whether he would have heard anything from there.'
And, thought Dalgliesh, he was unlikely to have gone afterwards into the kitchen to wash. Massingham was probably right. Harry had settled himself for the night and then felt the need for a drink of water. But for that fatal thirst, he might still be quietly sleeping.
Outside in the passage Ferris was prancing gently on his
toes like a runner limbering for a race.
Massingham said:
'The blotter, the enamel mug, the tea towel and the diary are all important and there's what looks like a recently struck match in the grate; we need that. But we shall want all the debris in the fireplace and the S-bends in the pipes. The probability is that the murderer washed himself in the kitchen.'
None of it really needed saying, least of all to Clharlie Ferris. He was the most expert of the Met's scene of crime officers and the one Dalgliesh always
It was apparent that the kitchen was the only room with water and a sink; hand washing as well as washing up must be done here, if at all. Above the sink was a mirror composed of glass tiles stuck to the wall, and under it a simple glass shelf. Upon this was a sponge bag, its zip open, containing a toothbrush and a tube of paste, a dry face flannel and a used bar of soap. Beside this was a more
42
interesting find, a narrow leather case with the initials PSB stamped on it in faded gold. With his gloved hands Dal-gliesh lifted the lid and found what he had expected to see, the twin to the cut throat razor lying so incriminat-ingly close to Berowne's fight hand. On the satin lining of the lid was a sticker with the maker's name in old-fashioned twirls, P. J. Bellingham, and the Jermyn Street address. Bellingham, the most expensive and prestigious barber in London and supplier still of razors to those clients who had never adjusted to the shaving habits of the twentieth century.
There was nothing of apparent interest in the lavatory and they made their way into the robing vestry. It was obvious that this was where Harry Mack had settled himself for the night. What looked like an old army blanket, frayed at the edges and stiff with dirt, had been loosely spread in a corner, its fumy stink mingling with the smell of incense to produce an incongruous amalgam of piety and squalor. Beside it was an overturned bottle, a length of grubby cord and a sheet of newspaper on which lay a crust of brown loaf, the core of an apple and some crumbs of cheese. Massingham picked them up and rubbed them between his palms and thumbs and sniffed. He said:
'Roquefort, sir. Hardly a cheese which Harry would have provided for himself.'
There was no evidence that Berowne had started his own meal - that in itself might be of some help in deciding on the approximate time of death - but he had apparently either cajoled Harry into the church with the promise of a meal or, more likely, had supplied an obvious and immedi-ate need before he was ready for his own share of the supper.
The vestry itself was so familiar from childhood memories that Dalgliesh could have taken one quick glance, shut his eyes and spoken aloud an inventory of high church piety: the packets of incense on top of the cupboard; the incense holder and censer; the crucifix and, behind the faded red serge curtain, the lace-trimmed vestments and the short starched surplices of the choir.
43
But now his mind was on Harry Mack. What had roused him from his half-drunken sleep; a scream, the sound of a quarrel, a falling body? But could he have heard it from this room? As if echoing his thoughts, Massingham said:
'He could have been roused by thirst, gone to the kitchen for a drink of water and stumbled into the crime. That enamel mug looked as if it might be his. Father Barnes will know whether it belongs to the church and with luck there may be prints. Or he could have gone to the lavatory, but I doubt whether he would have heard anything from there.'
And, thought Dalgliesh, he was unlikely to have gone afterwards into the kitchen to wash. Massingham was probably right. Harry had settled himself for the night and then felt the need for a drink of water. But for that fatal thirst, he might still be quietly sleeping.
Outside in the passage Ferris was prancing gently on his
toes like a runner limbering for a race.
Massingham said:
'The blotter, the enamel mug, the tea towel and the diary are all important and there's what looks like a recently struck match in the grate; we need that. But we shall want all the debris in the fireplace and the S-bends in the pipes. The probability is that the murderer washed himself in the kitchen.'
None of it really needed saying, least of all to Clharlie Ferris. He was the most expert of the Met's scene of crime officers and the one Dalgliesh always
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