‘I tell you I was scared, and I didn’t know!’

  ‘You told him I was a murderer. You told him I murdered Keith for the money.’

  ‘Simon, I couldn’t help it.’

  ‘What a pal. What a friend in need.’

  She was back to the window now and pressing herself against the bars, but so far Simon hadn’t moved, he continued to guard the only exit. He was staring at her with biting scorn.

  ‘Well, you haven’t hung me yet. And I’ve a feeling that you’re never going to – what do you think of that, Miss Rushton?’

  ‘It isn’t going to help you, Simon—’

  ‘Not strangling you, my favourite witness?’

  ‘Your father – your father will tell them.’

  ‘My dear, I shall settle his hash, of course.’

  ‘Oh God, Simon, you’re mad!’

  He gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘You think so? From where I’m standing the case is different. But you’re so loyal, aren’t you, Stella? You’re just the girl to stand by a man. You go poking around behind his back, then carry your dirt to the nearest policeman. As if there wasn’t enough to bring them running, without your prying and hysterical nonsense.’

  ‘It’s too late, Simon. They know it all.’

  ‘They do, my dear. But small thanks to you.’

  ‘You can’t do anything but plead guilty.’

  ‘Oh thank you so much. I must tell my lawyer.’

  He took some steps nearer to her, but keeping between her and the door. Then his anger faded suddenly, he looked older, tireder. He said wearily:

  ‘Oh, hell! Do you suppose I couldn’t guess what you were thinking? I could and I did. You gave it away a score of times. I nearly had it out with you yesterday after lunch, then . . . I don’t know! It could be that I was too ashamed.’

  She gulped tremulously. ‘Ashamed . . . ?’

  ‘Yes – that’s what I said! Hasn’t it occurred to your ingenious mind that I should be ashamed, my dear? You’ve done an awful lot of snooping and guessing and suspecting – isn’t it a little ironical that you’ve missed the sordid truth?’

  ‘But it’s too obvious, Simon . . .’

  He gave that bitter laugh again. ‘It’s obvious all right, and that’s probably why you missed it. But I’m damned if I’m going to confess to you or anyone else – particularly to you, who are so prone to think the best of me. We’re quits, Stella Rushton, we break about even. I’m a bit of a blackguard and you’re a bit of a traitor. And we’re both of us experts at explaining it away.’

  ‘That’s untrue – it’s unfair!’

  ‘Have I got to take all the blame?’

  ‘I didn’t trust you, Simon. And I never pretended I did.’

  ‘You didn’t have to trust me, but you might have drawn a line somewhere. It isn’t funny when a familiar acquaintance tries to slip a noose round your neck. And as far as Keith went, you were willing enough there, Stella. You can’t talk your way out of that – you needn’t have grabbed him quite so readily.’

  Her colour came. ‘I didn’t know . . . I didn’t guess what it was about! And I needn’t ever have met him. That was your doing, all of it. You had it schemed out from the start that I would be in a mood to respond to him. And Keith . . . you knew about that too, didn’t you? That he had romantic ideas about me.’

  ‘I didn’t, as a matter of fact. But it was damnably convenient.’

  ‘And you – you talk of shame!’

  ‘I’m not ashamed of being successful.’

  She stared at him unbelievingly, at his cool, assured complacence. She had heard that all murderers were mad, and Simon was scarcely sane at that moment.

  ‘And you have no remorse at all?’

  ‘Yes. It’s illogical, but I have.’

  ‘I suppose the logic is to blame your father?’

  ‘No, that’s the illogic. We’re in the same boat.’

  ‘I can’t understand you, Simon.’

  ‘My dear, that is too appallingly obvious. But you’ll have to work it out as you go along, because dearest Simon isn’t going to explain it. And now I think we’ve had enough of this farce. It’s time we got down to the miserable business.’

  He turned to the door, but as though on cue the door opened to reveal George. He stood smiling at them apologetically, and certainly they had heard no sound of his approach. He said mildly:

  ‘I’m sorry to have kept you. Now, if you will just step into the office . . .’

  He led the way. Stella followed Simon. She was completely at a loss. There was no sign of a guard on Simon, and the street door stood invitingly open. But Simon paid no heed to this, he seemed impatient to get to the office; he strode into it energetically and took a seat without being asked.

  ‘We will deal with you first, Mr Lea-Stephens.’

  The office was a cluttered and ill-lit room. Behind a desk sat the inspector and the sergeant, the latter looking more bored than ever. Stella found a chair at the side and George wedged himself in at the desk. Over all there was a smell of duplicating fluid, of floor polish and George’s pipe.

  ‘We will go over the details of what you were telling the inspector yesterday . . . I believe it is three years since you bought Lazy Waters?’

  At Stella’s elbow the WPC was scratching away with her pencil, a flesh-and-blood robot who came to life at the spoken word.

  ‘You bought the cottage a little later?’

  ‘In the March of the following year.’

  ‘And you let it to a tenant?’

  ‘I gave a friend of mine the use of it.’

  ‘What was the friend’s name?’

  ‘She was Vanessa Lorraine. An actress.’

  ‘Have you her present address?’

  ‘No, but you can get it from her agent. A man called Abey Reynolds. You’ll find him in the directory.’

  ‘At what dates was she at the cottage?’

  ‘If you mean last summer . . . from June till the middle of August.’

  None of it was making sense as far as Stella was concerned, but she had given up expecting the police to make her kind of sense. Perhaps George was loosening Simon up, getting a steady flow of responses from him. George, she recalled, could go to the point fast enough when it suited him.

  ‘Was there a daily woman at the cottage?’

  ‘A Mrs Yaxley. I still employ her.’

  ‘And Samuel Fulcher looked after the garden?’

  ‘He was supposed to go twice a week.’

  ‘He gave satisfaction?’

  ‘That was the impression. Certainly Vanessa never complained.’

  ‘Did she ever discuss him?’

  ‘Let’s say she made some remarks that were highly suggestive.’

  ‘Touching her relations with him?’

  ‘Yes. And he confirmed that in a recent conversation.’

  George paused, and the flickering pencil came to an expectant halt. ‘What are your personal impressions of Fulcher?’ he asked.

  Simon tapped his forehead. ‘He isn’t strong up there . . . paranoia is my diagnosis, but then, I’m only a layman. And of course he is over-sexed. But so was Vanessa.’

  ‘You had a complaint about him from Miss Rushton?’

  ‘Yes – and I spoke to him. On the morning of Regatta Day.’

  ‘How did he take it?’

  ‘You might describe him as being surly and abusive. He said he wasn’t paid by me any longer and I knew what I could do.’

  ‘Was that when he confirmed that he had been intimate with Miss Lorraine?’

  For the first time Simon looked uncomfortable. ‘That was in a subsequent conversation.’

  ‘When was that, Mr Lea-Stephens?’

  ‘It was after lunch yesterday.’

  ‘What was the substance of the conversation?’

  ‘He had come to discuss what had happened.’

  George eased round in his chair to stare flatly at the wall. ‘Fulcher had lately come into two hundred pounds in five-pound notes, Mr Lea-Stephens. Would I be correct in supposing that he obtained the money from you by threat . . . knowing, for instance, that you had lied to the police?’

  ‘That isn’t true!’ A flush had appeared on Simon’s face. Stella’s heart thumped: now it was coming, the inevitable steel from under the cloak. George picked up the fatal sheets which were stacked ready on the desk. He turned them over casually, skimming the typewritten lines.

  ‘On the morning after the tragedy you came down the Broad in your launch. You say that the time was at or about nine a.m. You saw Fulcher babbing for eels and you stopped to enquire of him about your nephew.’

  ‘That is perfectly true!’

  ‘But at nine a.m? Is that when one goes babbing for eels?’

  ‘He – he was fishing then, or something!’

  George shook his head cheerfully. ‘He was babbing for eels all right, because he was hawking them in the village later. Now I put it to you that one a.m. is a more likely time for the pursuit?’

  Simon glared at him, but he was caught, and Stella was holding her breath. For a few moments there was silence except for a murmur of voices from the direction of reception. Then George added, very quietly:

  ‘I want to remind you of the importance of this. You must have gathered by now the direction of our enquiries.’

  ‘Oh, hell!’ Simon threw out his hands in a pettish gesture. ‘You are going to have it, aren’t you? You won’t be happy till you do!’

  George was staring at the wall again. ‘The details don’t concern us, Mr Lea-Stephens. You would naturally be a little anxious about these moonlight swims of your nephew.’

  ‘All right then – it was just that!’

  ‘You were out looking for him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And at about one a.m. you met Fulcher, babbing for eels. So you enquired if he had seen your nephew, who was out on one of his swims. He hadn’t, so you gave it up and returned to the yacht. Is that the substance of your testimony?’

  ‘It’s all you’re getting out of me!’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Lea-Stephens. That is really all we require.’

  There was another and shorter pause, then Simon jerked to his feet.

  ‘You have finished with me? I can go?’

  ‘Yes . . . but please remain available to sign your statement.’

  Simon dashed a look at Stella in which triumph and bitterness were mingled, then he went quickly through the door and closed it very hard after him. Nobody moved to prevent him. Now the inspector, too, was looking bored. Only George, in his pacific way, seemed to be enjoying the proceedings. He gave Stella a little twinkle.

  ‘Now it is your turn, Miss Rushton.’

  She caught her breath snatchingly. ‘But Simon . . . aren’t you going to . . .?’

  ‘Simon?’ George looked surprised. ‘You heard his statement. It places Fulcher at the scene of the tragedy, which was the testimony we needed.’

  ‘Fulcher?’

  ‘Yes, Fulcher. I thought perhaps Lea-Stephens would have explained to you. Fulcher is under arrest and we are about to charge him, but naturally we want your amended statement first.’

  Somehow she got through it, with generous prompts from George. Her bewilderment, almost angry, was pushing her to the edge of tears again. She didn’t believe it, George had sprung it from nowhere, it didn’t square with her aching ideas. It had to be another one of those police fancies, so strangely wide of her intuitive certainty . . . And yet all George was getting from her had to do with Fulcher; he was ignoring her detective work, her proof positive against Simon. Could this be the truth at last, so dully commonplace and undramatic? Had she to shed her perfect interpretation and to accept this homespun, makeshift alternative?

  ‘I think that covers it, for us.’

  George had done all he could to let her off lightly. He had smoothed over facts, neglected to clarify, and simply turned his back on things that would have embarrassed her.

  ‘We will get this typed . . . it will take about an hour. Then you can sign it, and that will be that, Miss Rushton. I may perhaps add that a trial seems unlikely. The doctor’s impression is that Fulcher will be classed unfit to plead.’

  It was anticlimax after anticlimax. She could but shake her head stupidly. No trial, no publicity, no hideous ordeal waiting ahead. It was as though George had pricked with a pin the tremendous fantasy she had created and now, deflated, it lay at her feet, mocking her with its absurdity. The truth was not dramatic at all. It was only surprising and wretchedly commonplace.

  Still shaking her head she rose and made her way to the door. George followed her after a few parting words to his colleagues. It had the air of a breaking up after a show or a sporting fixture, the issue settled, nothing left but to go home. Outside in the street he pointed to a café and fell into step behind her. She went with him unresistingly. She was glad to be provided with an object.

  ‘I’m sorry if it didn’t quite come up to expectation.’

  She smiled weakly at him, no longer surprised when he read her thoughts.

  ‘You thought it would teach me a lesson, didn’t you? Being shoved in there with Simon.’

  ‘I thought you might straighten things out between you.’

  ‘We did. We’re on intimate terms of enmity.’

  ‘You were both of you a bit to blame . . .’

  ‘Oh, he told me that himself.’

  ‘Let’s grab ourselves some coffee. Then I will give you my version of it.’

  THIRTY-THREE

  THE CAFÉ WAS a conversion of two old cottages and they had no difficulty in finding a secluded corner. Coffee came in large, pastel-tinted cups and was accompanied by a plate of solid-looking pastries. George drank coffee and ate a cake before he said anything else, then he filled and lit his pipe, directing the puffs towards the ceiling.

  ‘Well . . . you were right about one thing,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks. But don’t flatter me too much.’

  He smiled. ‘There really was a lot of driving power in the Lea-Stephen millions. Our friend Simon is wealthy, but wealth is a comparative term. And Simon, as you may have noticed, is fond of spending the stuff as he gets it.’

  ‘I’m glad to have your confirmation.’

  ‘So far you read the situation correctly. But you were wrong in your deductions as they applied to Mr Simon.’

  ‘It was sufficient motive, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Oh yes. Almost too much! But you should have made an allowance for character, and violence isn’t obviously Simon’s line. He is more civilized, more devious, the product of a steadily affluent culture. He was certainly after his father’s money, but by methods that fell short of criminal.’

  ‘Then all that pushing of Keith on to me . . .’ Stella’s cup clattered in her saucer. Why did it come like a revelation, what ought to have been plain from the beginning? ‘And the spying – the photographs! They were all part of his plan?’

  George shaped a small smoke ring. ‘That’s the way I see it. To be frank, you were his second string, an alternative to Miss Le Fay. Simon was out to seduce his nephew and Miss Le Fay was his original choice, but then you applied for the cottage and he realized that you would make a likely reserve. And his second string did the trick . . . I’m sorry, but isn’t that how it worked out?’

  She bowed her head over her plate. ‘The kid was a lost soul,’ she said. ‘He needed help . . . he really did. But of course, it was selfish too.’

  ‘Yes. It had to be, a little.’

  ‘A lot. Oh, and I loathe Simon!’

  ‘It isn’t one-sided, don’t forget. You did credit him with murdering his nephew.’

  She wanted to tell him that this was different, that it arose from no baseness of her own, but she didn’t: she accepted the reproof at his hands. He was right, after all. She should have known Simon better. And she did know him better, but she had chosen to set that knowledge aside. She had had reason, God knew; yet in a way she was still to blame. She saw that she had perversely wanted him guilty, a scapegoat for the guilt she had felt herself. It balanced out: she had very small grounds for a pose of righteousness.

  ‘And Fulcher,’ George went on. ‘Well . . . we know a little about his background. He comes from a local family with a history of instability. He’s something of a hermit. He lives on his own in a clay-lump cottage on the marsh. He’s given a bit of trouble before . . . with women, you know. And occasional violence.’

  She shivered, remembering the night before. ‘Why have they never locked him up?’

  ‘Oh, you have to give people their chance . . . they’re all human under the skin.’

  ‘But Keith . . .’

  He gave his comfortable shrug. ‘I doubt whether Fulcher meant to kill him. There was his successful rival swimming home, and Fulcher gave him a bang, just to go on with. A spiteful and jealous blow . . . but it chanced to render the young man unconscious.’

  ‘Please, George! Don’t go into that.’

  ‘I am sure that’s the way it happened.’

  ‘I can’t – I can’t bear to think of it.’

  ‘But you must have it out before you can forget it.’

  Yes, she must have it out: she understood the truth of that. There must be a time to think it through, to collect the vision of it into a focus. But not now, not at that very moment. Her mind wasn’t ready for it, yet.

  ‘Someone told me I was a foolish woman . . . and that’s true, George, isn’t it?’

  He chuckled, wrinkling his eyes. ‘Do you mind much?’ he countered.

  ‘I’m not sure whether I mind. But I can’t help being foolish. I just panic, and imagine things . . . and I’m a selfish woman, too.’

  ‘It isn’t without its charm, you know. When so much frankness goes with it.’

  ‘But I would rather not be foolish in the company of sensible people.’

  ‘You’ll do,’ he said, signalling the waitress. ‘You’ll do on weekdays, if not on Sundays.’

  It was too light-hearted, nearly flirtatious, and her treacherous tears were upon her again. She bit her lips and forced a smile. No hands, she thought. It had just occurred to her that she wasn’t wearing a smudge of make-up.