Mr. Scott made no reply. He was concentrating on Wexford and the chief inspector realised that no explanation of his visit had been given to the old man. True, there had been a passing reference to Kingsmarkham and a cousin, but Wexford had not been identified by name or rank.
Perhaps it was the look in his wife’s eyes or perhaps something that he had overheard while they were in the kitchen that made him say suddenly in his harsh monotone:
“You a policeman?”
Wexford hesitated: Scott was a very sick man. It was possible that the only real contact he had ever had with the police was when his beloved daughter died. Would it be wise or kind or even necessary to bring memories back to that exhausted, fuddled brain?
Before he could make up his mind, Mrs Scott said brightly. “Oh, no dear. Whatever gave you that idea? This gentleman’s just a friend of Eileen’s from over Kingsmarkham way.”
“That’s right,” said Wexford heartily.
The old man’s hand trembled and the cup rattled in its saucer. “Shan’t go there any more, not in my state. Shan’t last much longer.”
“What a way to talk!” Mrs Scott’s brisk manner did little to cover her distress. “Why, you’re almost your old self again.” She mouthed incomprehensible things to Wexford and followed them up with a louder, “You should have seen him last March, a couple of weeks after he had that stroke. More dead than alive he was, worse than a new-born baby. And look at him now.”
But Wexford could hardly bear to look. As he left them, he reflected that the interview hadn’t been entirely fruitless. At least it would spur him on to take Crocker’s tablets with renewed zeal.
Chapter 18
The impressions Swan made on other people had subtly altered Wexford’s own image of him, investing him with a callous coldness and a magnetic beauty, making him godlike in appearance and power, so that when he came face to face with the man himself once more he felt a sense of letdown and almost of shock. For Swan was just Swan, still the idle good-looking young man leading his slow aimless existence. It was strange to reflect that the mere mention of his name might be enough to kill Mr. Scott and that, incubus- like, he lived a separate life as the haunter of Frensham’s dreams.
“Does Roz have to know about this?” he asked, and went on when Wexford looked surprised, “I’d more or less forgotten it myself, except that going to that inquest brought it back. Do we have to talk about it?”
“I’m afraid we do.”
Swan shrugged. “We won’t be overheard. Roz is out and I got rid of Gudrun.” Wexford’s face showed the absurd effect this had on him and Swan gave a low ironical laugh. “Told her to go, sacked her, I mean. What did you think I’d done? Made away with her? In your eyes my path is strewn with corpses, isn’t it? Roz and I love to be alone and Gudrun got in our way, that’s all.”
That phrase again. “She got in his way . . .” Wexford was beginning to get the shivers every time he heard it.
“D’you want a drink? It’ll have to be something out of a bottle. Making tea and coffee is Roz’s province and, anyway, I don’t know where she keeps the things.”
“I don’t want a drink. I want to hear about Bridget Scott.”
“Oh God, it was such a hell of a long time ago, ancient history. I suppose you’ve already had a splendid selection of biased accounts.” Swan sat down and rested his chin in his hands. “I don’t know what you want me to say. I went to this hotel with another man and a girl. If you’ll give me a minute I’ll try and re member their names.”
“Bernard Frensham and Adelaide Turner.” Poor Frensham, Wexford thought. Swan lived on in his dreams but he had no reciprocal place in Swan’s memory.
“Why ask me if you’ve already talked to them?”
“I want your version.”
“Of what happened on the lake? All right. I did let her drown, but I didn’t know she was drowning.” Swan’s face was petulant. In the November light, fitful and fading, he might have been nineteen again, but Wexford could see no shadow of vine leaves in his hair. “She plagued the life out of me,” he said, the sullen look deepening. “She hung about me and tried to get me to go swimming and walking with me and she staged scenes to attract my attention.”
“What sort of scenes?”
“Once she was out in a rowing boat and I was swimming and she started shouting she’d dropped her purse overboard and would I dive for it. I didn’t but what’s-his-name – Frensham - did and after we’d all been messing about for about ten minutes she produced it from the bottom of the boat. It was all a ploy. Then she came into my room once in the afternoon when I was trying to sleep and said if I wouldn’t speak to her she’d scream and when people came she’d tell them I’d done something to her. A kid of eleven!”
“So that when you heard her cry for help you thought it was another ruse to attract your attention?”
“Of course I did. That other time when she’d threatened to scream, I said, ‘Scream away.’ I can’t be taken in by that kind of thing. Out in the boat, I knew she was putting on an act. I couldn’t believe it when they said she’d drowned.”
“Were you sorry?”
“I was a bit shattered,” said Swan. “It made an impression on me, but it wasn’t my fault. For quite a long time after that I didn’t like having kids of that age around me. I don’t now, come to that.”
Had he realised what he had said? “Stella was just that age when you first saw her, Mr. Swan,” said Wexford.
But Swan seemed unaware of the innuendo. He went on to make matters worse. “She used to try the same things on, as a matter of fact, always trying to get attention.” The petulance returned, making him almost ugly. “Could she have a dog? Could she have a horse? Always trying to involve me. I sometimes think . . .” He directed at Wexford a gaze full of fierce dislike. “I sometimes think the whole world is trying to get between me and what I want.”
“And that is?”
“To be left alone with Rosalind,” said Swan simply. “I don’t want children. All this has made me loathe children. I want to be in the country with Roz, just the two of us, in peace. She’s the only person I’ve ever known who wants me for what I am. She hasn’t made an image of me that’s got to be lived up to, she doesn’t want to jolly me along and encourage me. She loves me, she really knows me and I’m first with her, the centre of her universe. Once she’d seen me she didn’t even care about Stella any more. We only kept her with us because I said we ought, that Roz might regret it later if she didn’t. And she’s jealous. Some men wouldn’t like that, but I do. It gives me a wonderful feeling of happiness and security when Roz says if I so much as looked at another woman she’d do that woman the worst injury in her power. You don’t know what that means to me.”
I wonder what it means to me? Wexford thought. He said nothing but continued to keep his eyes fixed on Swan who suddenly flushed. “I haven’t talked so much to anyone for years,” he said, “except to Roz. That’s her coming in now. You won’t say anything about . . . ? If she began suspecting me I don’t know what I’d do.”
It was the sound of a car Swan had heard, the Ford shooting brake crunching on the gravel outside Hall Farm.
“I was under the impression you couldn’t drive a car, Mrs. Swan,” he said as she came in.
“Were you? I let my licence lapse while I was out in the East but I took a new test last month.”