‘She the old stalker’s wife?’
‘That’s her. We saw her this morning.’
‘Well, she told you there was something fishy about her son that night. He was helping out with serving dinner and clearing up; now he lives in New York. You tracked him down over there, and got him to spill the beans. He told you that on his way home on his bike he saw Nathan whacking you over the head with the oar. But Nathan gave him two hundred pounds on the spot to shut him up, and then set him up in business in America to keep him shut up.’
‘This was last October?’ said Alastair.
‘I think so. Then you went to see Nathan. You confronted him. He admitted it was he who had killed Sophie.’
‘Was Madeleine there?’
‘You saw Nathan alone in his study.’
‘So Aunt Madeleine was telling the truth!’ said Clémence. ‘She didn’t know Nathan killed Sophie after all.’
Stephen shook his head. ‘After you had spoken to Nathan, you insisted on telling Madeleine. You said she had a right to know who had killed her sister.’
‘How did she take that?’ Alastair said.
‘She didn’t like it one bit. She was furious with Nathan. There was an almighty row and you were thrown out of the house. I’m surprised you can’t remember that.’
‘Why?’ asked Alastair. ‘Did Nathan say why he killed Sophie?’
‘Not exactly. But you seem to have pieced it together. Sophie had told him earlier that evening that she had made up her mind to go to the police about how Alden had really died in 1935 or whenever it was. Nathan tried to blackmail Sophie, threatening to tell me about you and the boathouse if she went to the police about Alden.’ Stephen shook his head. ‘That was never going to work.’
He paused and swallowed. Clémence and Alastair watched him, gave him time.
‘Nathan said when she refused he lost his temper and killed Sophie in a rage. An impulsive murder, just like Alden’s.’
‘Did I believe him?’
‘No. You said it was opportunistic rather than impulsive. You seemed to think that in Deauville Nathan had spotted the opportunity to kill Alden under the guise of the mock swordfight. He knew all along that he would inherit a lot. Nathan was very ambitious then; I remember he wanted to be one of the men with money in college. “Swells” he used to call us. So quaint.’
‘People like you?’
‘Like me.’ Stephen laughed. ‘It’s extraordinary to think now that I ever had that much money. Not you though. You never had two shillings to rub together.’
‘So Nathan killed Sophie to keep her quiet?’
‘That’s about the size of it.’
The old man thought through what Stephen had said. It all made sense, it all fitted. It injected some logic into what had seemed an illogical life.
‘How do you know all this?’ Alastair asked. ‘I wrote to you, didn’t I? We saw your reply.’
‘Yes, you did. You wrote saying you were going to publish everything you had found out. I told you not to be so damned stupid. Then you came down to London, oh a month ago, maybe. You had written everything down in an exercise book. Everything I’ve just told you. I read it through. I told you I still didn’t want you to publish, and neither did Madeleine. You insisted. We had quite an argument. Are you sure you don’t remember? It was only a few weeks ago.’
‘It seems to be the most recent stuff that is hardest to get back,’ said Clémence.
Alastair nodded. ‘I don’t remember the argument at all. But I do remember I needed to give you something. Show you something. It must have been the exercise book. Do you know where it is now?’
‘Isn’t it here?’ said Stephen.
‘No,’ said Clémence.
‘Well, I don’t know where it is. Look.’ Stephen leaned forward, staring at Alastair. ‘I’ve told you everything. You know it all now. There’s nothing to find out. It’s done. So you can go back to Australia, Madeleine can go back to New York, Clémence can go back to St Andrews and I can go home. And none of us need talk about this again.’
‘It’s not that easy,’ said Alastair.
‘Why not? Why the hell not?’ Stephen glared. ‘Now you know what you’ve forgotten, can’t you just forget it again?’
Alastair listened to his old friend, the man whose life he and Nathan had ruined. His brain was tumbling, trying to comprehend the rearranged jigsaw of his life. He wasn’t a murderer. But he had let down his friends, Stephen above all.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. He wouldn’t ask for forgiveness this time. He knew he wouldn’t get it.
Stephen didn’t answer. His handsome face was ravaged with sadness. Anger. Bitterness. Alastair knew he had betrayed this man, and he was truly sorry. Although he barely remembered him, Stephen seemed very familiar, not a stranger at all.
‘We used to be good friends,’ he said.
Stephen spluttered in impatience. ‘And now we’re not,’ he said. ‘Don’t talk to me about the past.’
‘Why not?’ said the old man. ‘At our age, what else is there?’
‘The past is nothing,’ Stephen said. ‘Do you know, I actually feel jealous of you? I wish I could forget my past. Erase it.’
Alastair listened. He understood, or at least he thought he did.
‘And don’t start pitying me either,’ Stephen said, recognizing something in Alastair’s eyes. ‘My life is pretty good. I get up. I do the crossword. I have a pint with a mate. I put something on a nag; sometimes I win, sometimes I don’t. Life’s all right. Until you bring all this bullshit back into it.’
Alastair wasn’t going to apologize again. Nor was he going to back down.
‘Do you know who Jerry Ranger is, Grandpa?’ Clémence asked.
Stephen tore his eyes away from Alastair. ‘Jerry Ranger? No. Sounds like a cowboy.’
‘He’s a singer. More of a song writer really. He’s American. And he chased us over Ben Wyvis last night with a rifle.’
‘Really?’ Stephen’s eyes narrowed. ‘Where is he now?’
‘We have no idea. He may have assumed we have called the police and disappeared. Or he may still be after us.’
‘All the more reason for us all to go home. He won’t follow us. Not if we stay quiet.’
‘How do you know?’ said Alastair.
‘I know,’ said Stephen.
Jerry made good time to Evanton. Although Madeleine had said he should still be safe, he kept his eyes open for police cars, but didn’t spot any.
At Evanton, he turned up the glen and was soon at the gates to the estate. He jumped out of the car to open them, and as he slowly drove through, Terry MacInnes appeared.
Jerry wound down the window. Stay calm.
‘Did you have a good trip?’ Terry asked.
‘Yes, I’ve been over to Loch Maree. I stayed overnight there at a hotel. I hoped to go walking, but couldn’t with the weather. Mind you, it’s awesome in the snow.’
‘It can be very dangerous up on the hills in this weather. Alastair and the wee lassie who’s looking after him went up Ben Wyvis yesterday. Can you believe it? They ended up staying the night up there. They were lucky they didn’t die of hypothermia, if you see what I mean.’
‘Really?’ said Jerry. ‘That’s awful. Are they OK?’
‘Aye. Sheila saw them an hour or so ago. They ended up going down the mountain on the southern side and getting a taxi.’
‘Well, I’m glad they’re all right,’ said Jerry.
‘I see you’ve been to the barber’s,’ Terry said.
‘Yes,’ said Jerry, rubbing his smooth chin. ‘The beard was only ever temporary.’
Terry glanced up doubtfully at Jerry’s poorly cropped scalp. ‘Aye, well, I can recommend Tommy in Dingwall next time you need a wee trim.’