And now, as he looked back, he saw that although certain circumstances in the lives of the two girls had seemed alike or coincidental, Loveday had never really matched Louise. He asked himself whether a wealthy girl brought up like Louise would have shown horror when asked to a party or baulked at being taken into a pub; if such a girl would have scuttled off for comfort to a non-denominational church; if Louise, who had been Dearborn's friend before he was her mother's, would have needed to carry his office number in her handbag, a number she must long have known by heart. He knew it was all impossible. Why hadn't he known before? Because he had so desperately wanted to prove his abilities, and in order to do so had sacrificed probability to wild speculation. He had been guilty of the very sin he had laid at Baker's door, that of formulating a theory and forcing the facts to fit it. Fame had been more important to him than truth.
'Good-bye, MrsDearborn,' he said, and he added hollowly, 'I'm very glad for you.'
She shook hands with him on the doorstep but she didn't look at him. She was looking past him towards the arch. And she hadn't long to wait. As Wexford crossed Laysbrook Square, he saw the girl coming from the King's Road direction, saw her disappear under the shadows of the arch, a slim fair girl but otherwise quite unlike Howard's photograph of the dead.
Angrily cursing himself for an idiot, he walked for miles about Chelsea. Soon he would have to face Howard. By now Clements would have told him and he would be reflecting how unwise he had been to let family feeling and sentimentality persuade him into seeking his uncle's help. Baker would be told and Baker would shake his head, inwardly derisive.
At last he went home to Theresa Street, hoping there would be no one there, but both women were at home and a third with them, Denise's sister-in-law, who asked after his health, told him he could expect nothing else at his age, and assured him she could get any number of copies of Utopia he might desire from her bookshop.
'We all make mistakes, Reg.' said Howard gently when they sat down to dinner. 'And, Reg . ., ? We're not all competing for some sort of national forensics certificate, you know. It's just a job.'
'How many times have I said that, or something very like it, to my own men?' Wexford sighed and managed a grin. 'You can laugh if you like, but last week I really had some sort of idea that I was going to step in and solve the baffling case that eluded the lot of you. An elderly Lord Peter Wimsey. You were going to sit back and gasp in admiration while I expounded.'
'I daresay real life and real police work aren't like that.' He might have added, Wexford thought, that his uncle had, however, given them some useful tips. But he hadn't really, so Howard couldn't. Instead he said almost as generously, 'I'd have felt the same if I'd come down to your manor.'
'It's odd, though, how convinced I was about that girl.'
'And you convinced me, but Baker would never go along with it. I know you don't like him and I admit he's a peculiar character, but the fact is he seldom does make mistakes. Even when his wife went off and there was that business about the unborn child, he went emotionally to pieces but his work didn't suffer. If he says Gregson's guilty and he's got a bee in his bonnet about it the probability is Gregson is guilty.
Wexford said rather sourly, 'He doesn't seem to be getting very far with proving it.'
'He's a lot further than he was. He's breaking up that Psyche club alibi. Two of the men who were there with Harry Slade have cracked and admitted they never saw Gregson after eight o'clock. And another thing. Slade's girl friend remember the one he was supposed to be playing Monopoly with last Saturday? she's got a record. Baker's having another go at Gregson now without, we hope, the damping pre- sence of Mr de Traynor.'
Wexford took two of his tablets and noticed how far the levy in the bottle had gone down. No one could say he had failed there, at any rate.
'I don't think I'll come in with you tomorrow, Howard,' he said. 'We're off on Saturday and there'll be the packing and . . .'
'Come off it. Dora will do all that.' Howard surveyed his uncle's burly figure. 'Besides, the only thing you could pack is a punch.'
Wexford thought of Lamont. Had he avoided seeking a further interview with him because he was physically afraid? Perhaps. Suddenly he realised how deeply his illness had demoralised him. Fear of getting tired, fear of getting wet, fear of being hurt all these fears had contributed to his failure.
Wasn't it ready fear of over-exerting himself that had made him waste the morning at Garmisch Terrace rather than go to Somerset House where a quick examination of records would have prevented today's faux pas? Kenbourne Vale police station was no place for him and Howard, for all his kindness, knew it.
'Well, I seem to have time on my hands for once, Reg. May as well catch up on my reading and dip into those Russian short stories my sister-in-law brought round. Curious stuff, but interesting, don't you find? One of these days I'd like your opinion . . .'
Literary chit-chat.
Four short stories and two hours later, Howard got up to answer the phone. Gregson had confessed, Wexford thought The relentless Baker, Baker with the bee in his bonnet, had finally broken him.
But when Howard came back into the room, he could see from his nephew's face that it wasn't going to be as simple as that.
Howard didn't look at all pleased. 'Gregson's bolted,' he said. 'Baker was having a go at him in that Psyche Club, Gregson apparently doing his customary dumb act, when suddenly he found his fists if not his tongue, clouted Baker one and made a getaway in a stolen car. Baker fell off the bar stool and cut his head open on, of all things, a glass of advocaat.'
'Oh, poor Mr Baker!' said Denise, coming in from the kitchen with a white urn full of African violets.
'You weren't supposed to be listening. Here, let me take that thing, or give it to Reg. It's too heavy for you.'
'Gregson shouldn't take you too long to find,' said Wexford.
'God, no. He'll be under lock and key by morning.'
'Will you have to go over to Kenbourne, darling?' asked Denise, still hugging the urn.
'Not me. I'm going to bed. My days of running round in squad cars chasing little villains are ova. Will you mind that thing?'
Each put out his arms to grasp the urn which looked as if it weighed half a hundredweight. It was partly the idea that Howard had already got hold of it, partly a sudden terror of the effect on him of supporting so heavy a weight, that made Wexford draw back at the last moment. The urn crashed on to the carpet with a ponderous juddering thud, sending earth and broken leaves and pink and mauve petals flying against the walls and the pale hitherto immaculate Wilton.
Denise screamed so loudly that Wexford didn't hear Howard's hollow groan. Muttering apologies although all apologies were inadequate falling to his knees among the mess, he tried to scoop earth up in his hands and only made matters worse.
'At least the vase thing isn't broken,' he said stupidly.
'Never mind the bloody vase,' said Howard. 'What about me?' He had collapsed into a chair and was nursing his right foot. 'That landed fair and square on my toes.'
Denise had burst into tears. She sat in the middle of the wreckage and cried.
'I'm terribly sorry,' said Wexford miserably. 'I'd like to . . . I mean, is there anything I can . . . ?'
'Just leave it,' said Denise, drying her eyes. 'I'll see to it. Leave it to me. You go to bed, Uncle Reg.'
Ever polite, although he was white with pain, Howard said, 'Forget it. You couldn't help it, Reg. You're not fit enough to cope with things like that yet. No wonder you dropped it. God, my foot! I hope nothing's broken.'
He got his shoe off and limped towards the door. Denise fetched a dustpan and brush and began rescuing those of her plants that were still intact while Dora, summoned from up- stairs by the uproar, picked grains of soil from the wallpaper.