'You must still do what your conscience tells you is right. We cannot always judge the consequences. In the case you have postulated, to let the stealing go on unchecked is to connive at dishonesty. Once you have discovered what is happening you can't pretend not to know, you can't abdicate responsibility. Knowledge always brings responsibility; that is as true for Alex Mair at Larksoken Power Station as it is in this study. You said that the children would be injured if you told; they are being injured already by their father's dishonesty and so is the wife who benefits from it. Then there are the other staff to consider: perhaps they might be wrongly suspected. The dishonesty, if undetected, could well get worse so that at the end the wife and children would be in deeper trouble than if it were stopped now. That is why it is safer if we concentrate on doing what is right and leave the consequences to God.'
She wanted to say, 'Even if we're not sure any longer if He exists? Even if that seems only another way of evading the personal responsibility which you have just told me we can't and shouldn't evade?' But she saw with compunction that he was suddenly looking tired and she didn't miss the quick glance down at his book.
He wanted to get back to Inspector Ghote, Keating's gentle Indian detective who, despite his uncertainties, would get there in the end because this was fiction; problems could be solved, evil overcome, justice vindicated, and death itself only a mystery which would be solved in the final chapter. He was a very old man. It was unfair to bother him. She wanted to put her hand on his sleeve and tell him that it was all right, he mustn't worry. Instead she got up and, using for the first time the name that came naturally to her, spoke the comforting lie.
'Thank you, Father, you have been very helpful. It's plainer to me now. I shall know what to do.'
Every turn and hazard of the overgrown garden path leading to the gate which gave access to the headland was so familiar to Meg that she hardly needed to follow the jerking moon of her torch's beam and the wind, always capricious at Larksoken, seemed to have abated the worst of its fury. But when she reached a slight ridge and the light at the door of Martyr's Cottage came in sight, it renewed its strength and came swooping down on her as if it would pluck her from the earth and send her whirling back to the shelter and peace of the rectory. She didn't give battle but leaned against it, her head bent, her shoulder bag bumping at her side, clutching her scarf to her head with both hands until the fury passed and she could again stand upright. The sky, too, was turbulent, the stars bright but very high, the moon reeling frantically between the shredded clouds like a blown lantern of frail paper. Fighting her way towards Martyr's Cottage, Meg felt as if the whole headland was whirling in chaos about her so that she could no longer tell whether the roaring in her ears was the wind, her blood or the crashing sea. When at last, breathless, she reached the oak door she thought for the first time about Alex Mair and wondered what she would do if he were at home. It struck her as strange that the possibility hadn't previously occurred to her. And she knew that she couldn't face him, not now, not yet. But it was Alice who answered her ring. Meg asked: 'Are you alone?'
'Yes, I'm alone. Alex is at Larksoken. Come in, Meg.'
Meg took off and hung up her coat and headscarf in the hall and followed Alice to the kitchen. She had obviously been occupied in correcting her proofs. Now she reseated herself at her desk, swivelled round and looked gravely at Meg as she took her usual fireside chair. For a few moments neither spoke. Alice was wearing a long brown skirt of fine wool with a blouse high-buttoned to the chin and over it a sleeveless, pleated shift in narrow stripes of brown and fawn which reached almost to the floor. It gave her a hieratic dignity, an almost sacerdotal look of composed authority which was yet one of total comfort and ease. A small fire of logs was burning in the hearth, filling the room with a pungent autumnal smell, and the wind, muted by thick sixteenth-century walls, sighed and moaned companionably in the chimney. From time to time it gushed down and the logs flared into hissing life. The clothes, the firelight, the smell of burning wood overlaying the subtler smell of herbs and warm bread were familiar to Meg from their many quiet evenings together and they were dear to her. But tonight was dreadfully different. After tonight the kitchen might never be home to her again.
She asked: 'Am I interrupting?'
'Obviously, but that doesn't mean that I don't welcome interruption.'
Meg bent to extract a large brown envelope from her shoulder bag.
'I've brought back the first fifty pages of proofs. I've done what you asked, read the text and checked for printing errors only.'
Alice took the envelope and, without glancing at it, placed it on the desk. She said: 'That's what I wanted. I'm so obsessed with the accuracy of the recipes that errors in the text sometimes slip through. I hope it wasn't too much of a chore.'
'No, I enjoyed it, Alice. It reminded me of Elizabeth David.'
'Not too much, I hope. She's so marvellous that I'm always afraid of being over-influenced by her.'
There was a silence. Meg thought: We're talking as if the dialogue has been scripted for us, not as strangers exactly, but as people who are careful of their words because the space between them is loaded with dangerous thoughts. How well do I really know her? What has she ever told me about herself? Just a few details of her life with her father, snatches of information, a few phrases dropped into our conversations like a falling match, briefly illuminating the contours of a vast unexplored terrain. I've confided almost everything about myself, my childhood, the racial trouble at the school, Martin's death. But has it ever been an equal friendship? She knows more about me than any other living creature. All I really know about Alice is that she's a good cook.
She was aware of her friend's steady, almost quizzical look. Alice said: 'But you didn't fight your way in this wind just to bring back fifty pages of proofs.'
'I have to talk to you.'
'You are talking to me.'
Meg held Alice's own unflinching gaze. She said: 'Those two girls, Caroline and Amy, people are saying that they killed Hilary Robarts. Is that what you believe?'
'No. Why do you ask?'
'Nor do I believe it. Do you suppose the police will try to pin it on them?'
Alice's voice was cool. 'I shouldn't think so. Isn't that rather a dramatic idea? And why should they? Chief Inspector Rickards strikes me as an honest and conscientious officer, if not particularly intelligent.'
'Well, it's convenient for them, isn't it? Two suspects dead. The case closed. No more deaths.'
'Were they suspects? You seem to be more in Rickards's confidence than I am.'
'They didn't have alibis. The man at Larksoken Caroline was supposed to be engaged to – Jonathan Reeves, isn't it? – apparently he's confessed that they weren't together that night. Caroline forced him to lie. Most of the staff at Larksoken know that now. And it's all over the village, of course. George Jago rang to tell me.'
'So they didn't have alibis. Nor did other people – you, for example. Not having an alibi isn't proof of guilt. Nor did I, incidentally. I was at home all that evening but I doubt whether I could prove it.'
And this at last was the moment which had filled Meg's thoughts since the murder, the moment of truth which she had dreaded. She said through dry unyielding lips: 'But you weren't at home, were you? You told Chief Inspector Rickards that you were when I was here sitting in this kitchen on the Monday morning, but it wasn't true.'
There was a moment's silence. Then Alice said calmly: 'Is that what you've come to say?'
'I know that it can be explained. It's ridiculous even to ask. It's just that I've had it on my mind for so long. And you are my friend. A friend should be able to ask. There should be honesty, confidence, trust.'