Digby’s photograph didn’t turn out, by the way, but he still had his exclusive story, and I’m sure he was well paid for it.
If you’re looking for an upbeat ending, there’s not much I can offer. George Lockwood admitted to his part in disposing of Morton’s body in 1943. He took the police to a lake near Frome where he’d weighted and sunk the headless corpse. They sent some frogmen down, but after so long, it wasn’t surprising that nothing was found.
Mrs. Molly Lockwood was convicted of the murder of Sally Ashenfelter and was given a life sentence. She also confessed to shooting Clifford Morton in 1943 and to perjury at the trial of Duke Donovan. In view of her advanced age, the Director of Public Prosecutions deferred bringing her to court on these charges.
The Home Secretary recommended a posthumous Royal Pardon for Duke, which I know pleased Alice. It pleased me.
People have been telling me for years not to blame myself for my part in Duke’s conviction. They say I couldn’t have done any different, that I spoke what I understood to be the truth. Right. But I can’t forget. I never will.
I promised you an extraordinary story, and I’ve done my best to deliver it. One more development may be of interest. In 1965, I applied for a visiting lectureship to Yale University, and to my delight and good fortune I was taken on. Yale is only twenty-five miles south of Waterbury, Connecticut.
At the time I told myself I must be out of my mind. On occasions I still say that I was, and then Alice laughs and pours me another drink.
Of lager, from a can.