CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
‘Can you think of any reason why someone might make this sort of accusation?’ asked the Detective-Inspector.
They were sitting quite cosily in the front room. Graham had furnished each of them with a large Scotch. He had been mildly surprised when the policeman had accepted his offer of a drink; he had expected a ‘no, sir, not while I’m on duty’ demur. But he was glad. He recognised the seriousness of the confrontation and wanted it as informal as possible.
‘No, no, I can’t,’ he replied to the question. ‘It just seems very vicious, at a time like this, turning the knife in a wound that hasn’t begun to heal.’
Once again he was surprised at the way the words came to him. He seemed to have an instinct for the expression of bereavement.
‘Yes, I can see that, Mr. Marshall,’ the Detective-Inspector said soothingly. ‘And I’m sorry that I have to be here to add to your troubles. The accusation in the letter is a very serious one, though.’
‘But totally false. God, I mean, it’s not as if there hasn’t been a police investigation. And an inquest.’
‘Yes.’
‘You know the findings of the inquest, don’t you?’
‘I have read the relevant documents, yes, Mr. Marshall.’
‘Well then.’ Graham delivered this as if it were the Q.E.D., the end of the argument; but he watched Laker’s reaction closely.
The detective was silent, and Graham felt impelled to continue. ‘It’s a ridiculous accusation. And very cruel. I mean, why should I have wanted to kill Merrily? Ours was a very happy marriage.’
‘Was it?’ The emphasis of the question was not loaded; Laker appeared to be asking merely for information.
‘Yes, of course it was. Ask anyone. Ask our friends.’
‘Ah, Mr. Marshall, a marriage is the most private relationship two people can have. A profoundly secret contract. What appears on the surface can be very misleading.’
‘O.K., I accept that, but even say I hated Merrily, why should I go to the trouble of murdering her? You can get a divorce easily enough nowadays. I had no motive to kill her. Come on, what did I possibly stand to gain from her death?’
‘Nothing, except to get your mortgage paid off. Thirty thousand pounds.’
Graham flushed. This was getting too near to the truth. He tried to think of a blustering defence, but words wouldn’t come.
The detective held the pause, then said, ‘I’m sorry. This must be very upsetting for you.’
Graham sank his head into his hands. He wasn’t sure. Was Laker interpreting his reaction as a symptom of outraged bereavement or was the sympathy merely delaying an accusation? He decided to stay silent until the Inspector made his position clear.
‘But thirty thousand pounds is surely not sufficient motive for murder,’ Laker went on. ‘Someone in your position would have to be mad to take the risk for that.’
Graham had to look up to check the policeman’s expression. Were the words to be taken at face value or were they to relax him, to lead him into a trap?
Laker appeared to be sincere. Graham felt marginally less tense, though a little wedge of doubt had been driven into his mind. As when Lilian had voiced it, the accusation of madness was what hurt. The Inspector’s indirect aspersion cast doubt on Graham’s motivation, on the system of logic which had dictated his recent actions. He didn’t like it.
‘Anyway,’ Laker continued, moving even further from the role of accuser, ‘it’s ridiculous to think you could have caused your wife’s death, even if you had wanted to. Say you had arranged some form of elaborate electrical boobytrap, what guarantee had you that your wife would go up to the loft?’
‘Exactly,’ Graham concurred.
‘From all accounts she’d never been up there since you’d bought the house.’
‘No.’
‘And you weren’t to know that she’d suddenly decide to make the spare-room curtains while you were away.’
‘No.’
‘No. The accusation’s preposterous.’
Graham didn’t feel he was quite let off the hook yet. If the Inspector was as unsuspicious as he appeared, why was he there?
‘But somebody has made it,’ Laker continued in a measured tone. ‘That’s what I don’t like.’
‘I’m not too keen on it myself.’ Graham felt he could risk this amount of wry humour.
‘No. Have you had any other hate-mail?’
‘No.’
‘Accusing telephone calls?’
‘No.’
‘Right, so we come to the crux of the matter. Have you any idea who might have sent this letter?’
‘None at all.’ Graham hadn’t had time to think of that. Since the revelation of the letter’s existence he had been too anxious about Laker’s possible suspicions.
‘Because I think this sort of thing’s despicable!’ The Inspector was suddenly incensed. ‘I know how you must be feeling at the moment. I had a. . my wife died not so long ago and I. . I mean, if I’d known of a letter like this, I’d have. . I don’t know what I would have done to the person who sent it.’
He paused to recover himself. This was not good, not professional. It wasn’t the first time he had become too emotional since Helen’s death. However much he tried to keep his private life apart from his work, he seemed now to have no control over its incursions. He knew his reasons for coming to see Graham Marshall were suspect. It was a chore he could have delegated, but the letter had unleashed such raw anger in him that he had wanted to follow it up himself. He kept projecting himself into Graham’s circumstances, imagining how he would have felt in that terrible month after Helen’s death if this kind of spurious allegation had been Ievelled at him.
‘What I’m saying, Mr. Marshall,’ he continued, calmer, ‘is that the person who sent this letter has committed an offence. If you wished to prefer charges, you would be quite within your rights. Which is why I want to know if you have any idea who might have sent it.’
‘Am I allowed to see the letter?’
Detective-Inspector Laker took a folded sheet from his inside pocket and handed it over. ‘This is a photocopy. We may need to run tests on the original.’
Graham read the typewritten words.
He had not a second’s doubt about their origin. The defiant flamboyance of the gesture gave it away, and the hinting style of the letter confirmed it. It had all the hallmarks of Lilian Hinchcliffe’s work.
‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘I might have an idea.’
He didn’t want to commit himself yet, till he had thought through the implications of an accusation.
‘Who?’
‘Well, I’m. . I’m not sure that I would want any further action. That is, of course, assuming I have your assurance that you don’t take the accusation in the letter seriously.’
‘You can rely on that, Mr. Marshall. But, since you obviously do know who sent the letter, are you sure you don’t want it followed up?’
Graham was tempted. There was an attraction in the idea of getting his own back on Lilian, of having her publicly reprimanded and his own absolution from guilt publicly proclaimed. But there were dangers to be weighed against that. At the moment the case was quiet, dead and buried. The inquest’s findings had been satisfactory and now he had Detective-Inspector Laker’s assurance that he was believed innocent. Better to leave well enough alone than risk unknown consequences by stirring it. Regretfully, he decided to deny himself the pleasure of that little extra revenge on Lilian.
‘No, I think not, Inspector. As you say, the recently bereaved are in a very vulnerable state, and I think enough damage has been done.’ Oh, he could sound smug when he tried.
‘Well, I think that’s a very altruistic position for you to take, Mr. Marshall.’ Laker paused. ‘From what you say, incidentally, it’s not difficult for me to work out who is the author of that letter.’
Graham raised a quizzical eyebrow, but said nothing.
‘I did hear of your mother-in-law’s suicide attempt last week. She’s obviously in a very unstable state. Death has this effect on people. They feel guilt and they want to attribute that guilt. When someone close dies, most of us blame ourselves in some way. I dare say at times, Mr. Marshall, you’ve blamed yourself for your wife’s death.’