“Then the inevitable happened. Helen began to crack. James had left her with the Surrey house and was living with me in the flat. He had to see her fairly often. He didn’t say very much at first, but I knew what was happening. She was ill, of course, and we both knew it. She had played out the role of the patient, uncomplaining wife and, according to the novels and the films, her husband should, by now, have been returning to her. And James wasn’t. He kept most of it from me, but I had some idea what it was doing to him, the scenes, the tears, the entreaties, the threats of suicide. One minute she was going through with the divorce, the next she would never give him his freedom. She couldn’t, of course. I see that now. It wasn’t hers to give. It’s degrading to talk about a husband as if he’s a dog chained up in the back yard. All the time that this was happening, I was realizing more and more that I couldn’t go on. Something that had been a slow process over the years came to a head. There’s no point in talking about it or trying to explain. It isn’t relevant to your inquiry, is it? Nine months ago I started to receive instruction with the hope of being received into the Catholic church. When that happened, Helen withdrew her petition and James went back to her. I think he no longer cared what happened to him or where he went. But you can see, can’t you, that he had no reason to hate Bolam. I was the enemy.”
Dalgliesh thought that there could have been very little struggle. Her rosy, healthy face with the broad and slightly tip-tilted nose, the wide, cheerful mouth, was ill-suited to tragedy. He recalled how Dr. Baguley had looked, seen in the light of Miss Bolam’s desk lamp. It was stupid and presumptuous to try to assess suffering by the lines on a face or the look in the eyes. Miss Saxon’s mind was probably as tough and resilient as her body. It did not mean that she felt less because she could withstand more. But he felt profoundly sorry for Baguley, rejected by his mistress at the moment of the greatest trial in favour of a private happiness which he could neither share nor understand. Probably no one could fully know the magnitude of that betrayal. Dalgliesh did not pretend to understand Miss Saxon. It wasn’t hard to imagine what some people at the clinic would make of it. The facile explanations came easily to mind. But he could not believe that Fredrica Saxon had taken refuge in religion from her own sexuality or had ever refused to face reality.
He thought of some of the things she had said about Enid Bolam. “Who would suppose that Bolam would want to see Anouilh? I suppose she was sent a free ticket … Even Bolam could recognize love when she saw it … She could make practically anything sound vulgar.” People did not automatically become kind because they had become religious. Yet there had been no real malice in her words. She spoke what she thought and would be equally detached about her own motives. She was probably the best judge of character in the clinic.
Suddenly, and in defiance of orthodoxy, Dalgliesh asked: “Who do you think killed her, Miss Saxon?”
“Judging by character and the nature of the crime and taking no account of mysterious telephone calls from the basement, creaking lifts and apparent alibis?”
“Judging by character and the nature of the crime.”
She said without hesitation and with no apparent reluctance: “I’d have said it was Peter Nagle.”
Dalgliesh felt a stab of disappointment. It was irrational to have thought that she might actually know.
“Why Nagle?” he asked.
“Partly because I think this was a masculine crime. The stabbing is significant. I can’t see a woman killing in just that way. Faced with an unconscious victim I think a woman would strangle. Then there’s the chisel. To use it with such expertise suggests an identification of the weapon with the killer. Why use it otherwise? He could have struck her again and again with the fetish.”
“Messy, noisy and less sure,” said Dalgliesh.
“But the chisel was only sure in the hands of a man who had confidence in his ability to use it, someone who is literally ‘good with his hands.’ I can’t see Dr. Steiner killing in that way, for instance. He couldn’t even knock in a nail without breaking the hammer.”
Dalgliesh was inclined to agree that Dr. Steiner was innocent. His clumsiness with tools had been mentioned by more than one member of the clinic staff. Admittedly he had lied in denying that he knew where the chisel was kept, but Dalgliesh judged that he had acted from fear rather than guilt. And his shamefaced confession of falling asleep while awaiting Mr. Burge had the ring of truth.
Dalgliesh said: “The identification of the chisel with Nagle is so certain that I think we were meant to suspect him. And you do?”
“Oh, no! I know he couldn’t have done it. I only answered the question as you posed it. I was judging by character and the nature of the crime.”
They had finished their coffee now and Dalgliesh thought that she would want to go. But she seemed in no hurry. After a moment’s pause, she said: “I have one confession to make; on another person’s behalf actually. It’s Cully. Nothing important but something you ought to know and I promised I’d tell you about it. Poor old Cully is scared out of his wits and they aren’t plentiful at the best of times.”
“I knew he was lying about something,” said Dalgliesh. “He saw someone passing down the hall, I suppose.”
“Oh, no! Nothing as useful as that. It’s about the missing rubber apron from the art-therapy department. I gather you thought that the murderer might have worn it. Well, Cully borrowed it from the department last Monday to wear while he emulsion-painted his kitchen. You know what a mess paint makes. He didn’t ask Miss Bolam if he could take it because he knew what the answer would be and he couldn’t ask Mrs. Baumgarten because she’s away sick. He meant to bring it back on Friday but, when Sister was checking the inventory with your sergeant and they asked him if he’d seen it, he lost his head and said ‘no.’ He’s not very bright and he was terrified that you’d suspect him of the murder if he owned up.”
Dalgliesh asked her when Cully had told her of this. “I knew he had the apron because it just happened that I saw him take it. I guessed that he’d be in a state about it so I went round to see him yesterday morning. His stomach gets upset when he worries and I thought someone had better keep an eye on him.”
“Where is the apron now?” asked Dalgliesh. Miss Saxon laughed.
“Disposed about London in half a dozen litter baskets if they haven’t been emptied. Poor old Cully daren’t put it in his own dustbin in case it was searched by the police and couldn’t burn it because he lives in a council flat with electric heating and no stove. So he waited until his wife was in bed then sat up until eleven cutting it into pieces with the kitchen scissors. He put the pieces into a number of paper bags, shoved the bags into a holdall and took a 36 bus up the Harrow Road until he was well away from his home ground. Then he slipped one of the bags into each litter bin he came across and dropped the metal buttons down the gutter grating. It was a formidable undertaking and the poor fellow could hardly creep home what with fear, tiredness—he’d lost the last bus—and the bellyache. He wasn’t in too good a shape when I called next morning but I did manage to convince him that it wasn’t a matter of life and death—particularly death. I told him I’d let you know about it.”
“Thank you,” said Dalgliesh gravely. “You haven’t any other confessions to pass on, I suppose? Or have you a conscientious objection to handing over an unfortunate psychopath to justice?”
She laughed, pulling on her coat and tying the scarf over her dark, springing hair.
“Oh, no! If I knew who did it, I’d tell you. I don’t like murder and I’m quite law-abiding, really. But I didn’t know we were talking about justice. That’s your word. Like Portia, I feel that in the course of justice none of us would see salvation. Please, I would much rather pay for my own coffee.”