I asked him more questions, to show interest and politeness, but I could get nothing more out of him. Most of all, I wanted him to be satisfied by my explanation of Gloria’s disappearance; I certainly didn’t want him to come back and pester Matthew and me.
I needn’t have worried. When he left, he just said, “If you do see her again, tell her George called, will you?” He looked down at the boy. “Tell her George and little Frankie dropped by and send their love.”
I assured him I would. The little boy had said nothing at all, but I felt him staring at me the whole time, as if he were etching my features onto the tissue of his memory. On impulse, I gave him a quarter ounce of gumdrops, quite a rarity, as sweets were still rationed. He thanked me solemnly and then they left.
The following week, Matthew, Mother and I moved to Leeds and Hobb’s End ceased to exist. Our life in Leeds was not without incident, but that’s another story.
“If we go to the CPS with Vivian Elmsley’s story,” Banks said to Annie, “they’ll laugh us out of the office.”
It was Sunday morning, and they were both lounging about Banks’s cottage rereading Vivian Elmsley’s manuscript and drinking coffee. It had been against Annie’s better judgment to take up Banks’s suggestion of spending the weekend together. What she had meant to do after getting in her car at York was drive straight home and spend the rest of the weekend in blissful, idle solitude. But next Friday, she was taking two weeks holiday and was planning to go down to stay with her father at the colony. Best enjoy some time together now, she thought. She would have plenty of time for long, lonely coast walks when she got to St. Ives.
So, on Sunday morning, she was lying back in Banks’s front room, barefoot, wearing shorts, her feet dangling over the arm of the settee, reading about Gwen Shackleton’s war.
“Why would they laugh?” she said. “It’s a confession of sorts, isn’t it? She does admit to interfering with the body. That makes her an accessory.”
“I very much doubt that any judge would admit the manuscript as evidence. All she has to do is say it’s fiction. The Crown knows that. It’s a load of bollocks, Annie. Just as well the woman writes fiction and doesn’t have to solve real crimes.”
“But she uses real names.”
“Doesn’t matter. Any decent lawyer would make mincemeat of it as a confession to aiding and abetting. Look at what we’ve got. We’ve got a woman in her seventies who presented us with a manuscript she wrote nearly thirty years ago hinting that she covered up a murder she thinks her brother committed over twenty years before that in a village that no longer exists. Add to that she makes her living writing detective fiction.” He ran his hand across his head. “Believe me, the CPS have enough of a backlog already. They can’t even keep up with today’s crimes, let alone put staff on prosecuting yesterday’s on evidence so flimsy a puff of wind would blow it away.”
“So that’s it? We go no further? She goes scot-free?”
“Do you want to see her in prison?”
“Not particularly. I’m just playing Devil’s advocate. To be honest, it looks as if the poor woman’s suffered enough to me. What a blighted life.”
“I don’t know. She’s had a fair amount of success.”
“Sometimes that doesn’t mean as much as those who don’t have it seem to think it does.”
“Well,” Banks went on, “we always knew the case might end nowhere. Matthew Shackleton is dead. I think Vivian Elmsley wanted to get what she did off her chest. She wanted us to know. Not for our sake, so we could solve the mystery, but for hers, so she wouldn’t have to bear the burden alone anymore. The discovery of Gloria Shackleton’s skeleton was a tremendous catalyst for her. It pushed her toward some sort of catharsis, and when we found out who she was it was just a matter of time. I would imagine now it seems less important to her to protect Matthew’s memory than it did all those years ago. He’s in no position to hang or spend his days in a psychiatric institution.”
“She still committed a crime, though.”
“Yes, but she’s not the killer.”
“Unless she’s lying in the story.”
“I don’t think so. She did what she did to protect her brother, who had already suffered terribly in the war. And she kept the secret to protect herself and Matthew’s name. If she’d called the police at the time, it’s almost certain he would have been convicted of Gloria’s murder. Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“Unless he didn’t do it. There are a number of things in Gwen’s version that bother me. Look at the scenario. Gwen walks into the cottage and sees Matthew bent over Gloria’s body, a kitchen knife in his hand. So far so good?”
Annie nodded.
“She also notices that Gloria’s fist is clenched and the little finger appears to be broken. Right?”
“Right.”
“And Gloria’s body is still warm.”
“Yes.”
“Which means that the clenched fist wasn’t caused by rigor mortis; it was caused by a cadaveric spasm. What if the killer, the real killer, had been trying to take something out of Gloria’s hand when he was disturbed by Matthew coming home, chucked out of the pub early for causing a ruckus? Something that might have incriminated him.”
“The button?”
“It makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“It’s certainly possible.”
Banks shook his head. “But they’d still probably have arrested Matthew, depending on the copper in charge. Remember, most of the bright young detectives were at war. The crazy husband would have looked the most obvious suspect, and the button, even if they had found it, could have been explained away. From Vivian’s point of view, if Matthew had even a scrap of sanity left before all hell broke loose, he wouldn’t have had any by the time it was over. So she committed a crime. And a serious one at that. But not only would the CPS throw it out; if it ever got as far as a jury, they would chuck it out too. Think of the sympathy angle. Any decent barrister – and I’ll bet you Vivian Elmsley can afford a more-than-decent barrister – would have the whole courtroom in tears.”
“So what do we do next?”
“We could hand the report to Jimmy Riddle and get on with our lives.”
“Or?”
“Or look into those one or two little inconsistencies I mentioned. For a start, I’m not convinced that-”
The doorbell rang.
Banks went to answer it. Curious, Annie let the manuscript drop on her lap. “Maybe it’s that hard-working DS Hatchley of yours?”
“On a Sunday morning? That’d be stretching credibility too far.”
Banks opened the door. Annie heard a woman’s voice, then Banks stepped back slowly and in she walked. Blond hair, black eyebrows, attractive, good figure, nicely dressed in a pastel skirt and a white blouse.
She noticed Annie out of the corner of her eye and turned. For a moment, she seemed speechless, a slight flush suffusing her pale complexion, then she moved forward and said, “Hello, I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”
Feeling foolish, Annie took the manuscript off her stomach and stood up. “Annie Cabbot,” she said. “DS Cabbot.” She felt acutely aware of her bare legs and feet.
“Sandra Banks,” said the other. “Pleased to meet you.”
Banks closed the door and stood behind them looking uncomfortable. “DS Cabbot and I were just discussing the Thornfield Reservoir case,” he said. “Maybe you’ve read about it?”
Sandra looked down at Annie’s bare feet, then gave Banks a withering glance. “Yes, of course,” she said. “And on a Sunday morning, too. Such devotion to duty.” She started moving back toward the door.
Annie felt herself blush to her roots.
“Anyway,” Banks gibbered on, “it’s really nice to see you. Would you like some coffee or something?”