No Love Lost (26 page)

He paused, but I did not speak and he nodded as though with satisfaction.

‘Do you want to know what happened to him?'

‘Yes,' I said. ‘Yes of course I do.'

‘He was shot.' He pulled out the information like a rabbit from a hat and held it up for comment.

‘Shot …' I echoed. The light was full in my eyes and I blinked as I spoke.

‘With his own gun.'

This was another rabbit from the hat and this one did astound me.

‘With …? Are you saying he shot himself?'

He smiled broadly. It was the first time I had seen him do that, but I was to find out that he did it all the time. He smiled if he was condoling with the bereaved, or giving evidence in court. It was said to have cost him a career in the Metropolitan C.I.D. and to be the reason why he was still a provincial.

‘I'm not saying anything.'

‘But he can't have!' I protested.

‘Why not?'

‘Because he wouldn't. He wasn't that sort of person.'

‘No,' he agreed, and made a gesture with his hands as if he was throwing away some little trifle he had picked up and now decided was useless. ‘No, and he wasn't an acrobat either, so he didn't shoot himself through the back of the head whilst falling down a well. That's right.'

‘Then someone else shot him?'

He nodded, holding me with those bright dancing eyes.

‘Who?' I demanded. ‘Do you know?'

He nodded again, still with the same expression. For the first time I began to feel afraid of him. There was something sinister in that knowing twinkle with its undercurrent of irrepressible gaiety. Almost I expected him to invite me to guess who. By that time I had begun to notice that he was forcing me to do all the talking. Detective Root had said something about him. What
was it? ‘You think he's your father and mother and then – crash! he's bitten your head off.'

I grew very still. Perhaps he did suspect me and was trying to make me give myself away. My lips were very dry and I licked them.

He noted the fact openly, with another nod of satisfaction.

‘What can I tell you?' I murmured at last.

‘Nothing.' He got up and moved about the room, still keeping his eyes on me. It was an odd performance and I could not think what it was in aid of until I realized that he was simply seeking the position in which he could best see my face. ‘Nothing,' he repeated. ‘Nothing now. I'm going to leave you to sleep. That old woman can stay the night and she can make you some hot grog. All this tea, very lowering. Doesn't get you anywhere. I shall leave my poor little boy with the great thick boots and the great thick head here too. He can chase away visitors and you can sleep. Good night.'

I was amazed and utterly relieved. ‘Good night,' I said breathlessly.

He walked to the door, paused with his hand on the knob as if he'd suddenly recollected something, and walked back into the room to the exact spot on the carpet which he had just left.

‘We pulled him in,' he remarked, still beaming. ‘I thought you'd like to know. He was very gentlemanly about it. Came at once without any bother. Hopped on the train with the sergeant and they were down here by supper-time.'

I hadn't the faintest idea what he was talking about and I gaped at him like an idiot.

‘Who?'

‘The young feller we want.' The country voice shook with suppressed exuberance and his gaze never once left my face. ‘The young man you slipped your husband's gun to. The lad you curled your hair for. The doctor fellow who couldn't bear to see you so unhappy. I hear he sent you some flowers this morning to tell you it was safely done … little blue flowers meaning “success”. Pretty idea, really. I like that. But I'm not condoning it, mind. He's been a very bad boy and he'll have to pay for it. There's no getting round that.'

The Superintendent's voice died away but the words hung terrifyingly in the quiet room. For a long time I could not even believe that I had heard them, or that they meant what I thought. I sat up in bed, looking at him woodenly and feeling that the world had come abruptly to an end.

‘Well?' he inquired at last.

I just sat and shook my head at him, too appalled at first even to protest. He was watching my face eagerly and my silence seemed to puzzle him.

‘Go on,' he insisted. ‘Admit it. It's true, isn't it?'

‘No.' I got the word out at last and, having done so, did not seem able to stop saying it. ‘No, no, no.' I knew I was shouting and could not keep quiet. His expression changed immediately and his voice rose with authority.

‘Look out, that's not the way. That's not the way. Pull yourself together.'

‘I'm sorry,' I muttered, ‘but you were
too
wrong.'

His chin shot up and his eyes were narrow. ‘What exactly do you mean by that? Take your time. Explain yourself. I'm here to listen.'

I did my best but things seemed to be happening to me. For one thing, I suddenly became so tired that I could hardly speak at all. I heard myself ploughing on hopelessly.

‘It's not only rubbish, it's wicked rubbish,' I was saying wearily. ‘You could ruin his career with your silly mistakes. You've got it utterly wrong.'

At that point I realized I was making it sound as though it wasn't Andy because it was me, but I was too exhausted to explain. My head fell forward and I straightened up with an effort and made myself look at him.

He was eyeing me very curiously and I could see him hesitating in the middle of the room. He looked ridiculous, like a captive balloon swaying there on the balls of his feet. It went through my mind that he was trying to choose between two
entirely different courses of action and at last he came to a decision and pointed a long finger at me.

‘This has upset you a thousand times more than the death of your husband. Why?'

I remember making a gesture of helplessness as my eyes widened and my vision began to blur.

‘Well,' I said brokenly, ‘it's come on top of it.'

The point got home to him. I felt the impact of his comprehension as clearly as if it had been a physical contact. He stepped back, made a startled cluck of a sound and immediately, like a conjuring trick, his personality changed back to the avuncular gnome again.

‘Now I'll tell you what,' he said. ‘We'll both have a spot of steak-and-kidney pudding. You haven't had any dinner, that's what's wrong with you. I haven't either. We shall be getting ourselves upset. Let's have a bite and talk later.'

The extraordinary thing was that he actually had some steak-and-kidney pudding, in fact he had a whole meal, enough for a family, packed up in an old-fashioned open basket covered with a cloth. It was down with the police car, being kept hot on the radiator, and he had it brought up into our dining-room. I put on my dressing-gown again and had some with him, and Detective Root waited on us, with Mrs Veal hovering and whispering in the passage outside. Izzy was brought in and he had some as well.

Uncle Fred South explained this latter-day miracle with a nonchalance which, I was to learn, was all part of his legendary personality. His wife did not like him to miss his meals, he said, and now that he was so high up in the police hierarchy that he could afford to be unconventional he got her to send his dinner out to him whenever he had to stay late at the office. He mentioned cheerfully that at the moment his office was downstairs. He smiled at me confidingly.

‘She
likes
doing it,' he said.

It was a peculiar pudding of a hard old-fashioned kind and it had dried fruit and heaven knows what else in it, besides meat, but I think it saved my life. The pause snapped the tension and my feet touched ground again. It also gave me time to think. I
could see that our only hope, Andy's and mine, was for me to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, and to be double quick about it, but my fear was that even so it wasn't going to be good enough. In my efforts to save the appearances of my ‘ordinary' marriage I had made some colossal blunders, and by making them I had involved one of the few people I had to care about in the world. I decided to let the Superintendent talk first and we had our meal almost in silence.

He was eating some very strong green cheese, which he had pressed me to share but had seemed relieved when I refused, when he looked up suddenly and asked me if I knew Izzy was deaf. I said I did not think so.

‘He is. A little.' The round man nodded at me. He was glowing again, the meaningful twinkle which I had grown to fear reappearing in his eyes. ‘It's not much, probably only a bit of wax. We'll take him down to Mr Cooper the vet and get his ears syringed sometime.' As usual, he made me feel that there was some hidden significance behind this statement which he expected me to follow and share, and his next remark was equally bewildering. ‘Have you ever been to the zoo, Mrs Lane?'

‘The – the zoo?'

‘That's right. In London. They've got a beehive there in a glass case. You can stand and see everything in it, the bees all moving and working and eating and talking and quarrelling.' He paused again, and again the alarming twinkle invited me to understand and be as entertained as he was. When I continued to look at him blankly, he laughed. ‘I always go and look at it,' he said. ‘It reminds me of home. Just like Tinworth.'

At last I saw what he was talking about and it was like suddenly understanding a new and frighteningly economical language. I saw that he was telling me that I had not a hope of hiding anything from him, and that the gossipy interest of Tinworth in everything and everybody had ensured that every move I had made and every word I had spoken had gone back to him with the speed of light.
I
was in a glass case, that's what he was saying. I also thought I understood what he meant about Izzy. The dog had not barked when I had thought we were alone with Detective Root.

‘How long have you and your people been in the house?' I demanded.

His twinkle grew approving as if I were a pupil who was coming along nicely.

‘Hours and hours,' he said cheerfully. ‘You gave us a lot of work with that piece of blotting-paper from your husband's desk. It's not complete yet. What do you think we are – jigsaw puzzle experts? What was on it?'

I looked down. ‘Part of a letter Victor had written to some woman, arranging to meet her yesterday.'

He was not in the least surprised. ‘Did it say where?'

‘No.'

‘Did you read it with a looking-glass?”

‘No, I can read that kind of writing.'

‘Can you? That's useful. Done a bit of printing – at school, I suppose. When did you tear it up?'

‘This afternoon, when I came in.'

‘Ah.' I'd told him something he didn't know at last. ‘When you knew he was dead, eh? That's why it was upstairs. What were you saving it for? Divorce evidence?'

‘I don't know much about divorce evidence,' I said. ‘I was going to show it to him as soon as he came in.'

‘In that case why did you move it?'

‘Because I didn't know when he was coming in. I didn't want it to get tidied up or inked over, but I wasn't going to sit by it.'

He grunted, not too pleased. ‘It's a good story.'

‘It's not a story, it's true.'

‘All right,' he said testily, ‘I'm not questioning you.'

‘But you are.'

‘Now look' – he pointed his table knife at me – ‘I am doing no such thing and don't you forget it. You and I are having a quiet preliminary chat. Once I want to start questioning you I've got to caution you, and once I caution you I've got to charge you, and once I charge you I've got to bring you up before a magistrate pretty
toute suite
. That's the law of the land. You don't want that, do you?'

‘No.'

‘And you want to find out who shot your husband, don't you?'

‘Of course.'

‘Well then, don't be so silly. Let's go on chatting away about it and see where we get to. Did you enjoy your bike ride yesterday afternoon?'

I leant forward impulsively. ‘I've been thinking about that. The gardener saw me go and Williams saw me come back, but I shall never be able to prove where I went.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because I only went to the river.'

He settled back in his chair with a cigarette, loosening his belt very discreetly, convinced, I am certain, that he was unobserved.

‘Tell us about it,' he suggested. ‘We've got all night.'

There was very little to tell, but I made it as circumstantial as I could. It did not sound very convincing even to me, and when I came to the end I said so.

‘I hardly expect you to believe this,' I finished lamely.

The knowing gleam returned to his eyes. ‘I don't believe you could invent anything worse as an alibi,' he admitted cheerfully. ‘So you just went peacefully to sleep under a willow, did you? And very nice too.'

‘I didn't see any willows that I remember,' I said uncertainly.

‘No,' he agreed, ‘you wouldn't There aren't any there. Funny thing, it's the one stretch of bank where they won't grow. Well, that doesn't get us anywhere, does it? Suppose we get back to the Headmaster, Mrs Lane. When did you see him last?'

‘On Wednesday night.'

He looked up at that but did not ask the obvious question about Thursday morning. Instead he said casually, ‘I don't suppose you can remember what his last actual words to you were?'

I remembered them very well, but I hesitated. As well as being distasteful in the extreme, the prospect looked horribly dangerous. He was waiting, however, and I took the plunge. I remember feeling that my only hope was to shut off every part of my mind except the actual bit I should need to recollect, and go on steadily regardless of everything except the exact truth.