‘It feels like a lifetime-no, I don’t mean that I mean, it feels as if we’d always been married.’
‘So we have-from the foundation of the world-Confound you, Bunter, what do you want?’
‘The menu, my lord.’
Oh! Thanks. Turtle soup… That’s a little citified for Paggleham-a trifle out of key. Never mind. Roast duck and green peas are better. Local produce? Good. Mushrooms on toast-’
‘From the field behind the cottage, my lord.’
‘From the-? Good God, I hope they are mushrooms-we don’t want a poison-mystery as well.’
‘Not poison, my lord, no. I consumed a quantity myself to make sure.’
‘Did you? Devoted Valet Risks Life for Master. Very well, Bunter. Oh! and, by the way, was it you playing hide-and-seek with Miss Twitterton on our stairs?’
‘My lord?’
‘All right, Bunter,’ said Harriet, quickly.
Bunter took the hint and vanished murmuring, ‘Very good.’
‘She was hiding from us, Peter, because she’d been crying when we came in and she didn’t want to be caught.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Peter. The explanation satisfied him, and he turned his attention to the wine.
‘Crutchley’s been behaving like a perfect beast to her.’
‘Has he, by jove?’ He gave the decanter a half-turn.
‘He’s been making love to the poor little wretch.’
As though to prove himself a man and no angel, his lordship gave utterance to a faintly derisive hoot.
‘Peter-it isn’t funny.’
‘I beg your pardon, my dear. You’re quite right. It’s not.’ He straightened himself suddenly and said, with some emphasis: ‘It’s anything but funny. Is she fond of the blighter?’
‘My dear, pathetically. And they were going to be married and start the new garage-with the forty pounds and her little savings-only they’re gone, too. And now he finds she won’t come into any money from her uncle… What are you looking at me like that for?’
‘Harriet, I don’t like this at all.’ He was gazing at her with an expression of growing consternation.
‘Of course, he’s chucked her over now-the brute!’
‘Yes. yes-but don’t you see what you’re telling me? She’d have given him the money, of course? Done anything in the world for him?’
‘She said nobody knew what she had done for him-Oh. Peter! You can’t mean that! It couldn’t be the little Twitterton!’
‘Why not?’
He flung the words out like a challenge; and she faced it squarely, standing up to him with her hands on his shoulders, so that their eyes met level.
‘It’s a motive-I see it’s a motive. But you didn’t want to hear about motive.’
‘But you’re cracking my ear-drums with it,’ he cried, almost angrily. ‘Motive won’t make a case. But once you’ve got the How, the Why drives it home.’
‘All right, then.’ He should fight on his own ground. ‘How? You made no case against her.’
“There was no need. Her How is child’s play. She had the key of the house, and no alibi after 7.30. Killing hens is no alibi for killing a man.’
‘But to smash in a man’s head with a blow like that-she’s tiny, and he was a big man. I couldn’t break your head open like that, though I’m nearly as tall as you are.’
‘You’re about the one person who could. You’re my wife. You could take me unawares-as a loving niece might her uncle. I can’t see Noakes sitting down and letting Crutchley or Sellon go pussy-footing about behind him. But a woman one knows and trusts-that’s different.’
He sat down at the table, with his back towards her, and picked up a fork.
‘Look! Here I am, writing a letter or doing my accounts.
… You’re fidgeting round somewhere in the background… I take no notice; I’m used to it… You take up the poker quietly… don’t be afraid, you know I’m slightly deaf… Come up on the left, remember; my head leans over a little to the side of the pen… Now… two quick steps and a brisk rap on the skull-you needn’t hit too hard-and you’re an exceedingly wealthy widow.’
Harriet put the poker down rather hastily.
‘Niece-widow’s a hateful word; so weedy-let’s stick to niece.’
‘I slump down, and the chair slips away, so that I bruise my right side against the table in falling. You remove any finger-prints from the weapon-’
‘Yes-and then just let myself out with my own key and lock the door behind me. Quite simple. And you, I suppose, when you come to, obligingly tidy away whatever you were writing-’
‘And tidy myself into the cellar. That’s the idea.’
‘I suppose you’ve seen this all along?’
‘I have. But I was irrational enough to tell myself that the motive was insufficient. I couldn’t see the Twitterton doing murder for money to extend her hen-runs. Serve me right for being weak-minded. The moral is. Stick, to How, and somebody will hand you the Why on a silver salver.’
He read remonstrance in her eyes, and added earnestly:
‘It’s a whacking great motive, Harriet. A middle-aged woman’s last bid for love-and the money to make the bid.’
‘It was Crutchley’s motive, too. Couldn’t she have let him in? Or lent him the key, not knowing what he wanted it for?’
‘Crutchley’s times are all wrong. Though he may have been an accomplice. If so, he’s got damned good reason for giving her the chuck now. In fact, it’s the best move he can possibly make, even if he only suspects she did it.’ His voice was like flint. It jarred on Harriet.
‘It’s all very well, Peter, but where’s your proof?’
‘Nowhere.’
‘What did you say yourself? It’s no good showing how it might have been done. Anybody might have done it-Sellon, Crutchley, Miss Twitterton, you, I, the vicar or Superintendent Kirk. But you haven’t proved how it was done.’
‘Good God, don’t I know that? We want proofs. We want facts. How? How? How?’ He sprang up and struck at the air passionately with his hands. ‘This house would tell us, if roof and walls could but speak. All men are liars! Send me a dumb witness that cannot lie!’
‘The house?… We’ve silenced the house ourselves, Peter. Gagged and bound it. If we’d asked it on Tuesday night but it’s hopeless now.’
‘That’s what’s biting me. I hate fooling about with maybe and might-have-been. And Kirk isn’t likely to examine the thing too closely. He’ll be so damned thankful to get a likelier suspect than Sellon that he’ll hare off after the Crutchley-Twitterton motive.’
‘But, Peter-’
‘And then, as like as not,’ he went on, absorbed in the technical aspect of the thing, ‘he’ll fall down on it in court for lack of direct proof. If only-’
‘But, Peter-you’re not going to tell Kirk about Crutchley and Miss Twitterton!’
‘He’ll have to know, of course. It’s a fact, as far as it goes. The point is, will he see-’
‘Peter-no! You can’t do that! That poor little woman and her pathetic love-affair. You can’t be so cruel as to tell the police-the police, good heavens!’
For the first time he seemed to realise what she was saying. ‘Oh!’ he said, softly, and turned away towards the fire. ‘I was afraid it might come to this.’ Then, over his shoulder: ‘One can’t suppress evidence, Harriet. You said to me, “Carry on.”’
‘We didn’t know these people then. She told me in confidence. She-she was grateful to me. She trusted me. You can’t take people’s trust and make it into a rope for their necks. Peter-’ He stood staring down into the flames. ‘It’s abominable!’ cried Harriet, in a sort of consternation. Her excitement broke against his rigidity like water against a stone. ‘It’s-it’s brutal-’
‘Murder is brutal.’
‘I know-but-’
‘You have seen what murdered men look like. Well, I saw this old man’s body.’ He swung round and faced her. ‘It’s a pity the dead are so quiet; it makes us ready to forget them.’