“I put them to bed early,” she said. “They were so tired.”
He took off his coat and put it over a chair.
“There’s some wine in the fridge,” she said. “Would you like to open it?”
Why do we have to be so polite to each other? he thought. Do we have to start from the beginning again?
“Did you have a busy afternoon?” she asked.
“Hmm.” He took white wine from the fridge, opened it, and poured her a glass. “Not too bad.” He expected her then to ask why he was late, but she said nothing.
“Do you want to eat now?”
“If it’s ready.”
He sat at the table and she brought out the food. She had changed into a loose brown top and her hair was brushed out in chestnut curls. If only it were always like this, he thought. But he realised it could not be that easy. Now there were other complications, deeper anxieties, and he could not think clearly. They ate for a while in silence.
“Peter was very upset tonight,” she said. “Did you realise he was still awake when Alice went out to see Colin Henshaw? He watched her from the window.”
Max looked up sharply. “ No,” he said. “I didn’t realise. How long was he awake? Did he see Alice come back?”
“No,” she said uncertainly. “He says not. But he was so distressed it was hard to tell.”
There was another period of silence. Judy’s attempts to please had confused him. He supposed she would want something in return for her efforts-some reassurance that he still cared for her-but he no longer knew what he wanted.
Suddenly the doorbell, which was worked by an old-fashioned pull, jangled above them. Max jumped to his feet, glad of an excuse to leave the table.
He expected it to be one of Judy’s friends. They turned up regularly, often in tears, with tales of insensitive husbands, uncaring boyfriends. Sometimes he overheard the women talking together. “Of course,” one of them had once said, “ if I only had a husband like Max, things would be quite different!” He wondered what Judy could have told them about him. Was it loyalty that prevented her from sharing her dissatisfaction or pride that would not allow her to admit that she had made a mistake in her marriage? He was so certain that he would find a woman on the doorstep, probably a distraught woman with a child, that he greeted Ramsay almost with pleasure.
“Come in,” he cried. “It must be cold out there.”
“I wondered,” Ramsay said, “ if I could talk to your son. I thought it might be better to do it now, so he can return to normal as soon as possible.”
“He’s in bed,” Max said. “He was worn out.”
“Oh, well,” Ramsay said. “Don’t disturb him. I’ll come back another day.” But he did not move from the doorstep.
“Come in anyway now that you’re here,” Max said. “ Judy’s making coffee.”
“Thank you,” Ramsay said. “ There are a few questions…” Through the door he had a glimpse of a warm, untidy house and he wondered how he could have found the Laidlaws so unappealing at the Tower. The cottage in Heppleburn was empty and uninviting in contrast. He was in no hurry to return home.
They walked down the stairs from the brightly lit hall and the kitchen seemed dark and gloomy.
“Let’s have a bit more light in here,” Max said, and switched on the central electric light. The muddle and dust were illuminated and the sense of intimacy was lost. Even Judy looked different. He could see the dark rings under her eyes and the sharp nose and pinched chin. The chestnut curls looked matted and untidy. He stood behind her with his arm on her shoulder, aware that they looked to Ramsay like a perfect, happily married couple.
“I came to talk to your son,” Ramsay said, “but your husband says he’s asleep.”
“Yes,” she said. “We don’t have to wake him, do we?”
“No,” Ramsay said. “ It’ll do another day.”
He sat on the sofa, still wearing his overcoat, to show them that he did not intend to take up too much of their time. He was jealous of their companionship, their home, their children. If he sensed any tension between them, he put it down to the shock of their aunt’s death.
“We’ve discovered that Mrs. Parry returned to the Tower at about midnight,” Ramsay said. He turned towards Max. “You were the last person to go to bed. Were you still up at midnight?”
Max seemed uncertain and confused. “Yes,” he said. “I think so. I told you I was watching the television.”
“But you didn’t hear Mrs. Parry come into the house?”
“No,” he said. “ I suppose she might have come in through the kitchen. I wouldn’t have seen her then.”
That was possible, Ramsay thought. If Alice Parry came back into the house after her meeting with Henshaw, she might have wanted to avoid the family. Especially if she was upset. But what had so distressed her about the meeting with Henshaw, a meeting he had described as a friendly discussion?
“She went to the pub on her way back from the Henshaws’,” Ramsay said. “ Did she go there regularly?”
“Almost every night,” Max said. “She claimed she had to go to catch up with the village gossip, but I think she liked the company. She never had a lot to drink.”
“A young woman was seen in the churchyard on the night of your aunt’s death,” Ramsay said. “ Have you any idea who that might have been?”
“No,” Max said. “ I can’t imagine.” He looked at Judy. “ What about you, love? Did you see anyone?”
She shook her head. “ No,” she said. She turned away to pour coffee into tall blue mugs. “I expect it was one of the girls from the village hanging round the bus shelter for the lads.”
She handed coffee and sugar to Ramsay, and they waited for him to speak again.
“There was a discussion on Saturday night about Mrs. Parry’s will,” he said. “If she’d carried out her threat and refused to leave the Tower to James, presumably you would have benefited.”
“Yes,” Max said vaguely. “I suppose we would.”
“That must have put some stress on your relationship with your brother.”
“I don’t know,” Max said. “We’ve never been particularly close. He’s ten years older than me. When you’re a child, that’s too big a gap for friendship. He was always like an uncle, a bit prim and pompous. I resented him rather. We used to go to the Tower together when Alice asked us because it pleased her, but we rarely meet each other socially otherwise.”
“Can you explain his reluctance to help Mrs. Parry in her campaign against the new houses in Brinkbonnie?”
“Oh, yes,” Max said. “It would have been a matter of principle to him, of ethics. He’s a great one for editorial independence.”
There was a moment’s silence while Ramsay drank coffee, then set the mug carefully on the table.
“We’ve discovered who wrote the anonymous letter to Mrs. Parry,” the inspector said. “It was Charlie Elliot. Do you know him?”
“I’ve met him in the pub a couple of times. Has he been arrested?”
“Not yet. We’re having some difficulty in tracing him.”
Judy was sitting on one of the wooden chairs and turned it to face the policeman. As the legs moved over the tiles, they made the harsh sound of chalk on a damp blackboard.
“Do you think he killed Aunt Alice?”
“We don’t know,” Ramsay said. “ Not yet.” He stood up. Judy saw that his coat was creased and crumpled from where he had been sitting. She thought that he probably lived on his own. He made his way up the stairs towards the front door and Max followed. At the doorstep he hesitated, as if reluctant to leave, then turned quickly and walked over the frozen path to his car.
In the kitchen Judy was stacking plates in the dishwasher. Max stood beside her and stroked a strand of hair from her neck.
“Leave that,” he said. “ I’ll do it. You look exhausted. You should go to bed.”
“All right,” she said. She stood and faced him. “Are you coming, too?”