The Silver Falcon (32 page)

‘That's not true,' she said. ‘I can't stop thinking about that night at Coolbridge. I feel frozen by it. It wasn't even a burglar – it was a homicidal maniac. The police think he'd been watching the house; that he knew I lived there alone and broke in to kill me.' He got up and went to the fireplace; he turned and faced her, standing under the portrait of his mother.

‘There's no need to be frightened now,' he said. ‘He's hiding somewhere, but they'll get him. You're safe, darling. Safe with me.'

Isabel didn't answer. She sipped the cold wine. She tried to smile at him but her lips were stiff and it felt like a grimace.

The second self was winning. The self that quoted Andrew Graham and Tim:
Don't go with him. For God's sake, for your own safety you've got to listen.…
And the policeman, with his quiet voice asking, ‘Is there anyone who'd want to kill you?' The killer had known his way around the house. Known what time the housekeeper left, watched her through the uncurtained window, while he crouched naked in the rain. No thief but a madman, crazed with hatred, wielding a heavy spanner. A man possessed by violence which was finally unleashed. A glass, held with such force that it had shattered in his hand, leaving a deep cut. A cut that had been reopened and was bleeding badly. A night that was lost in drink, where he remembered nothing but the homing instinct that took him to Farrant's house in the small hours. The pieces were flying together, like fragments of metal to a magnet, fitting and forming a picture. That sudden request to stay at Coolbridge while she went to Paris. ‘He explored all over the house, even the kitchen and the pantries.' Poor dead Mrs Jennings, saying it so innocently. And his reaction when she told him about Andrew's visit to her in Paris. He had gone away that night, leaving her alone in the house.

A psychopathic personality, schizoid tendencies. Fear rushed up and overwhelmed her; she sat immobilized, looking up at him.

He didn't move, he was standing watching her, his glass in his hand.

There was a curious lack of expression on his face. She mustn't let him know; she mustn't arouse his suspicions. If she could get out into the hall and get to the front door. She leaned back on the sofa and prayed to God that nothing of her feelings showed.

‘I'm sorry, darling,' she said. ‘My nerves have gone to pieces. Could I have a brandy instead of this? I'll be all right then. What are you going to cook for lunch – I didn't know you cooked –' It sounded forced and insincere; she was trying too hard.

‘Bœuf Stroganoff,' he said. ‘It's my speciality. They'd forgotten to send the cream and the courgettes. That's what I went out to buy just now. I'll make lunch early and we can have a quiet afternoon. You'll feel more relaxed tomorrow, darling.' His voice was reassuring.

He took the glass of wine away and brought her a balloon with brandy in it. He sat beside her, and to her relief, he didn't touch her. But this was alarming too. He always touched her; he either held her hand or put his arm round her, or sat with his body in close contact. Now there was a deliberate gap between them. He was smiling and concerned but there was something wary about him. She drank some of the brandy.

‘That's lovely,' she said. ‘Thank you, darling. I'm quite hungry.'

He didn't take the hint. He lit a cigarette. ‘Nerves can be hell,' he said. ‘No wonder you're so uptight with me. For a moment I was worried. I thought all those lies Andrew told you had come between us. You haven't stopped loving me, have you?'

‘No,' Isabel said. ‘No, of course not. You mustn't think that.… I'm just nervy.…'

‘You're sure?' he asked her.

‘Of course,' she said again. He leaned slowly towards her; he didn't put his hands on her, he just closed his lips on her mouth and kissed her. It lasted a long time. Then he drew back. He touched her face lightly with his index finger.

‘That's a good girl,' he said. ‘You finish your drink and I'll make lunch for us.' Isabel sat back, sipping the brandy as he went out. He left the door open and she could hear him moving round the kitchen. She stood up. The floor was thickly carpeted and she made no sound. She put the glass down, very gently, moving with exaggerated care; she was trembling, watching the open door. The sense of fear was almost paralysing, it inhibited her power to move quickly. She felt as the dreamer does in the middle of a nightmare, leaden limbed and unable to flee.

‘You all right, darling?' His voice made her freeze in the angle of the doorway.

‘Yes,' she called out. ‘Fine.'

The kitchen was at right angles down a short corridor; the door was wide open and she shrank back as she saw him cross the kitchen and then disappear. The front door was to her left, only a few yards away. She heard a clatter as if he were taking pans out of a cupboard. She fled the short distance to the entrance, wrenched at the catch and dragged the door open. Seconds later she was running down the stairs to the street level, and behind her the door swung back on its hinge and slammed loudly.

She was in the street and it was lunchtime on a Sunday and there was nobody about, no taxis and only the back of a solitary car vanishing down Mount Street. Her heart was drumming so fast that it was difficult to breathe. She had no money, her handbag was left behind in the bedroom. She began to run down the street towards Park Lane; several times she glanced behind her, but there was no one following. He hadn't come after her. She had a terrible feeling that he was watching her flight from the window. At the entrance to Park Lane she saw a cruising taxi and ran towards it, waving. It pulled in and she jumped inside.

‘Where to, lady?'

Isabel hadn't thought where she was going. She sank back into the seat, gasping her breath. ‘Will you take me to Lam-bourn,' she said. ‘I'll pay double fare.…' The driver turned right round in his seat.

‘Lambourn – in Berks.? Sorry dear, no way on a Sunday. I'm going home in half an hour.' He leaned out and opened the passenger door for her to get out. Then she remembered where she could go; where she was known. She slammed the door shut quickly.

‘Never mind,' she said. ‘Take me to the Savoy.'

They gave her a room on the second floor. She shut and locked the door, lay on the bed and after a time she cried. It was more than just a reaction from the dreadful panic of the last hour. She cried for Richard and for herself; for what they had both lost. The rift in his personality was too deep, the balance between sanity and psychosis too precarious. And she herself was responsible for releasing the violent schizoid into full control. She had told him what Andrew Graham had said in Paris.

His reaction was to try and kill her. There was no doubt in her mind now but that he had driven down to Coolbridge, and broken in expecting to find her coming out of the drawing room in the darkness.

Something had to be done, and she couldn't escape that. For his sake as much as to protect herself. She thought of Tim and decided against him. He would have only one solution. The police. Richard didn't need to be arrested, tried, shut up in prison for the rest of his life, or confined in those bleak terms reserved for the insane. ‘During Her Majesty's pleasure.' He needed hospital treatment, sympathetic care. There was only one person she could turn to; the man whose advice and help she had rejected. She asked for a call to his hotel. It took some time to find him. He was in the dining room when they paged him.

‘It's Isabel,' she said. She wiped her eyes as she spoke. ‘Andrew, listen – I'm at the Savoy. I've got to see you. Please come round. It's about Richard.'

She heard his voice change in tone.

‘What about him – what's happened?'

‘Nothing's happened,' she said slowly. ‘But you were right. He needs help, Andrew. Please come over.'

‘I'll be with you in half an hour,' he said. ‘You're all right? Thank God for that. Just wait for me.'

‘I don't know what we
can
do,' Andrew said. He smoothed his thin hair across his scalp. He shook his head, looking at Isabel. ‘Not unless he can be made to face the truth. If we could prove to him what he'd done.… But he's forgotten it, Isabel. Don't you see? If he killed that poor woman in mistake for you, he's buried it completely from his conscious mind. He has to. Why are you so sure of it now? Did he say or do anything –'

‘No,' Isabel said slowly. ‘But the moment I let myself think it through I knew. He disappeared that night. He turned up dead drunk at Roy Farrant's house in the middle of the night, not knowing where he'd been or what he'd done. He told me that himself. He'd cut his hand a few days before; when he came down to Lambourn to see me, the cut was reopened and bleeding right through a thick dressing. Hitting someone with a heavy spanner would have opened it up like that. And the police said it was someone who knew his way round that house. Richard had been staying there. It all fits, Andrew; and now I believe it was because I'd told him I knew about his illness.'

‘He denied it, of course,' Andrew said quietly. ‘I could have told you he would. It was all lies, a conspiracy thought up by Charles and me. Part of him had hated you from the beginning. You took his mother's place. But another part, the normal side of him, fell in love with you. I believe that's true. It kept the schizoid impulses at bay for a time, until you opened the Pandora's box and told him the truth about himself. He had to kill you after that.'

He lit a cigarette. ‘Your instinct saved you today,' he said. ‘You're a very lucky woman.'

‘I want to help him,' Isabel said slowly. ‘I want him looked after. Medical science is always discovering new cures. Maybe in a few years something could be done for him –'

‘Maybe,' he admitted. ‘But I doubt it. I don't see there's anything you can do unless he agrees to commit himself. I could find you a specialist in the States who would take care of him. If you could persuade him to go. Otherwise we'd better go to the police.'

‘No,' Isabel said. ‘No. I must give him the chance.'

‘You still love him, don't you?' Andrew said. He shook his head. ‘You won't thank me for saying this, Isabel, but there are many kinds of mental illness. I know insane people who are like saints. Richard is evil. And I believe in evil. There's an old tradition that the people in the Bible who were possessed of the devil were schizophrenics …'

Isabel got up. ‘I'm going to try and help him,' she said. ‘I won't take any risks, but I'll see if I can get through to him. I wish you could pity him, Andrew. But I suppose you can't.'

‘The best possible solution for him,' Andrew Graham said quietly, ‘would be to go out of this world before he does any more damage. Talk to him, Isabel, but don't ever be alone with him. I'll go now. Call me when you've thought about it.' He got up, and Isabel helped him into his coat. He fumbled for his cigarettes again, stuffed them into his pocket.

‘Goodbye,' he said. ‘Take very great care.'

‘I will,' Isabel said. She watched him button his coat; it was a warm June day, and he didn't really need one.

‘Andrew,' she said. ‘You've dropped something. Here.'

He turned at the door. ‘Oh – yes. Thanks.' He took the plastic bag from her, with the stained and muddied cotton gloves inside and rammed it back in his pocket.

12

Isabel saw him come through the doorway and walk down the short flight of steps into the main lounge bar. Several women turned to look after him as he passed. He came up to the table where she was waiting for him, and she got up. She held out her hand to him.

‘Richard – I'm so glad you came.' He looked at her, and the expression was the one she had seen on his face the first time she met him in the study at Beaumont, the morning of Charles's funeral. Cynical and appraising.

He sat down opposite to her.

‘It was nice of you to call,' he said. ‘I guess you must be feeling better than you were on Sunday. What would you like to drink?'

‘Nothing,' Isabel said. ‘I wanted to talk to you. To try and explain.' Richard smiled, not really looking at her. He signalled a waiter and ordered himself a double Scotch on the rocks.

‘You don't need to explain anything,' he said. ‘All of a sudden you were alone with Andrew's psychopathic patient, and you were scared stiff. I quite understand. In fact,' he took a large swallow of the drink, ‘I half expected you to run out on me.'

‘I'm sorry,' Isabel said slowly. ‘I didn't mean to hurt you. Before we say any more, I want you to believe something.'

‘Try me,' he said. He finished the drink. ‘I'm in a gullible mood.'

‘I love you,' Isabel said. ‘Nothing has changed that. Nothing ever will.'

He still didn't look at her.

She hesitated; tears were in her eyes. ‘Where did you go on Monday night. Before you went to Farrant?'

Richard turned round and stared at her. ‘Monday night – I told you – I went to the Claremont and lost money. Then I got drunk. Why Monday night?'

‘Richard,' Isabel was almost whispering. ‘Richard, darling, didn't you go somewhere else? Didn't you take the car and come back to Coolbridge?'

There was a total silence between them then; the sounds of the busy Savoy bar grew to a crescendo of talk and the subtle clink of glasses became loud. Somebody quite close to them broke into laughter.

Richard leaned a little forward, facing her.

‘Let's get this quite straight. You're saying that I went to Coolbridge that Monday night – the night of the murder?'

‘Didn't you?' Isabel said. ‘Didn't you go down there and didn't something awful happen?' Suddenly she reached out and caught hold of his hand. The tears overflowed. ‘Oh, darling, darling, don't you see it wasn't your fault – you couldn't help it – you're not well.… I love you and I only want to help you.…'