"That's offensive," said Dick angrily.
"Not as offensive as accusing a loving husband of murder and inciting other people to do the same."
"I'll have you for slander if you say things like that. All Prue ever did was tell the police what she heard. You can't blame her if idiots draw their own conclusions."
"I suggest you talk to your wife before you sue me, Mr. Weldon. You might end up with a very expensive legal bill." There was the sound of a voice in the background. "Hang on a moment." The line was muted for several seconds. "James has come into the room. If you want to go over this business of the travelers again, I'll put you on loudspeaker so we can both hear it. I'll call you back with a decision after we've discussed it… though I wouldn't hold your breath for a favorable one."
Dick had had a lousy morning, and his volatile temper exploded. "I couldn't give a damn what you decide. It isn't my problem. The only reason I phoned is because Julian Bartlett didn't have the guts to deal with it himself and the police aren't interested. You and James can sort it yourselves. Why should I care? My house is half a mile away. I'm out of it." He thumped the phone down and went in search of Prue.
Mark replaced the handset as the line went dead. "I was merely giving him some facts of life," he explained, in belated response to James's agitated reaction when he entered the room and heard Mark talking about incitement to slander. "Mrs. Weldon's a menace. I don't understand why you're so reluctant to do something about her."
James moved to the window and peered out over the terrace, his head bent forward as if he couldn't see very well. They'd been through this the day before. "I have to live here," he said, repeating the same arguments he'd used then. "Why stir up a hornet's nest unnecessarily? It'll blow over as soon as the women get bored."
Mark's eyes strayed to the answerphone on the desk. "I can't agree," he said bluntly. "There were five calls last night, and none of them was from a woman. Do you want to listen to them?"
"No."
Mark wasn't surprised. There was nothing new. They were simply repeat liturgies of the information that was on the stack of tapes he'd worked through the previous day, but the anonymous voice, distorted electronically, rasped on the listener's nerves like a dentist's drill. He turned his chair to address the elderly man directly. "You know as well as I that this won't go away of its own accord," he said gently. "Whoever it is knows he's being recorded and he'll just keep on with it until you agree to involve the police. That's what he's angling for. He wants them to hear what he's saying."
The Colonel continued to stare through the window as if reluctant to meet the younger man's gaze. "It's all lies, Mark."
"Of course it is."
"Do you think the police will agree with you?" There was a tiny inflection in his voice that sounded like irony.
Mark ignored it and gave a straightforward answer. "Not if you keep putting off the decision to involve them. You should have told me about these calls when they began. If we'd acted immediately we could have nipped it in the bud. Now I'm worried the police will ask what you've been trying to hide." He massaged the back of his neck where a sleepless night, beset by doubt and punctuated by the ringing of the telephone, had given him a headache. "Put it this way, this bastard has obviously been passing information to Mrs. Bartlett or she wouldn't be so well informed… and, if he's spoken to her, what makes you think he hasn't been to the police already? Or that she hasn't?"
"The police would have questioned me."
"Not necessarily. They may be conducting an investigation behind your back."
"If he had any evidence he'd have gone to them before the inquest-that was the time to destroy me-but he knew they wouldn't listen." He turned 'round and stared angrily at the telephone. "It's a form of terror, Mark. When he sees he can't break me, he'll stop. It's a waiting game. All we have to do is hold our nerve."
Mark shook his head. "I've been here two days and I haven't slept at all. How long do you think you can last before you keel over?"
"Does it matter?" said the old man wearily. "I don't have much left except my reputation and I'm damned if I'll give him the satisfaction of placing these lies in the public domain. The police won't keep their mouths shut. Look how the details of their investigation into Ailsa's death leaked out."
"You have to trust someone. If you die tomorrow these allegations will become fact simply because you failed to challenge them. What price your reputation then? There are always two sides to a story, James."
The remark brought a faint smile to the Colonel's face. "Which is precisely what my friend on the telephone is saying. He's really quite persuasive, isn't he?" There was a painful beat of silence before he went on. "The only thing I've ever been good at is soldiering, and a soldier's reputation is won on the battlefield, not by kowtowing to grubby little blackmailers." He rested a light hand on his solicitor's shoulder before walking toward the door. "I'd rather deal with this in my own way, Mark. Would you care for a coffee? It's about time for one, I think. Come into the drawing room when you've finished."
He didn't wait for an answer and Mark remained where he was until he heard the latch click. Through the window he could see the discolored paving stone where animal blood had sunk into the worn surface. A yard or two to the left beside the sundial was where Ailsa had lain. Was the caller right? he wondered. Did people die of shock when truth was unpalatable? With a sigh he turned back to the desk and rewound the last message. It had to be Leo, he thought, pressing play to listen to the Darth Vader voice again. Apart from Elizabeth, no one knew so much about the family, and it was ten years since Elizabeth had been able to string two coherent words together.
"Do you ever ask yourself why Elizabeth's such an easy lay… and why she's drunk all the time…? Who taught her to debase herself…? Did you think she'd keep the secret forever…? Perhaps you thought your uniform would protect you? People look up to a man with bits of metal pinned to his chest… You probably felt like a hero every time you brought out your swagger stick…"
Sickened, Mark closed his eyes, but he couldn't prevent his mind playing relentless images of Captain Nancy Smith, whose likeness to her grandfather had been remarkable.
Dick Weldon found his wife in the spare room, making up beds for their son and daughter-in-law, who were arriving that evening. "Have you been phoning James Lockyer-Fox?" he demanded.
She frowned at him, stuffing a pillow into its case. "What are you talking about?"
"I've just been on to the Manor, and his solicitor said someone from here has been making abusive calls to James." His ruddy face was dark with irritation. "It flaming well wasn't me, so who was it?"
Prue turned her back on him to pat the pillow into shape. "You'll have a heart attack if you don't do something about your blood pressure," she told him critically. "You look as if you've been on the bottle for years."
Dick was well used to her habit of deflecting unwelcome questions by sticking the knife in first. "So it was you," he snapped. "Are you mad? The lawyer said you were panting."
"That's ridiculous." She turned 'round to pick up another pillowcase before flicking him a disapproving glance. "There's no need to look so huffy. As far as I'm concerned, that brute deserves everything he gets. Have you any idea how guilty I feel about leaving Ailsa in his clutches? I should have helped her instead of walking away. She'd still be alive if I'd shown some spirit."