"Old people usually do get on well with kids," said Burden.
"They had to be the right kind of children, Mike. Angela and Isabel, yes, and she had a very soft spot for young Liz Crilling."
Burden put down his spoon and stared at the Chief Inspector.
"I thought you said you'd read all this up at the time?" Wexford said suspiciously. "Don't say it was a long time ago. My customers are always saying that to me and it makes me see red. If you read the account of that trial you must remember that Elizabeth Crilling, aged precisely five at the time, found Mrs. Primero's body."
"I assure you I can't remember, sir." That must have been the day he'd missed, the day he hadn't bothered with the papers because he'd been nervous about an interview. "She didn't appear at the trial, surely?"
"Not at that age—there are limits. Besides, although she was actually the first to go into the drawing room and come upon the body, her mother was with her."
"Digressing a hide," Burden said, "I don't quite get this stuff about the right kind of children. Mrs. Crilling lives over there in Glebe Road." He turned to the window and waved his hand in the direction of the least attractive part of Kingsmarkham where long streets of small terraced brown houses had sprung up between the wars, "She and the girl live in half a house, they haven't a penny to bless themselves with..."
"They've come down a lot," said Wexford. "In September 1950 Crilling himself was still alive—he died of T.B. soon after—and they lived opposite Victor's Piece."
"In one of those white semi-detached places?"
That's right. A Mrs. White and her son lived next door. Mrs. Crilling was about thirty at the time, little bit over thirty."
"You're joking," said Burden derisively. "That makes her only in her late forties now."
"Look, Mike, people can say what they like about hard work and childbearing and all that. I tell you there's nothing like mental illness to make a woman look old before her time. And you know as well as I do Mrs. Crilling's been in and out of mental hospitals for years." He paused as their coffee came and pursed his lips censoriously at the anaemic brown liquid.
"You did say black, sir?" the waiter asked.
Wexford gave a sort of grunt. The church clock struck the last quarter. As the reverberation died away, he said to Burden: "Shall I keep the parson waiting ten minutes?"
Burden said neutrally, "That's up to you, sir. You were going to tell me how Mrs. Primero and the Crilling woman became friends. I suppose they were friends?"
"Not a doubt of it. Mrs. Crilling was ladylike enough in those days and she had a way with her, sycophantic, sucking up, you know. Besides, Crilling had been an accountant or something, just enough of a professional man, anyway, in Mrs. Primero's eyes to make his wife a lady. Mrs. Crilling was always popping over to Victor's Piece and she always took the child with her. God knows, they must have been pretty close. Elizabeth called Mrs. Primero "Granny Rose" just as Roger and his sisters did."
"So she 'popped over' that Sunday night and found Granny Rose dead?" Burden hazarded.
"It wasn't as simple as that. Mrs. Crilling had been making the kid a party frock. She finished it by about six, dressed Elizabeth up and wanted to take her over and show her off to Mrs. Primero. Mind you, she and Alice Flower were always at loggerheads. There was a good bit of jealousy there, spheres of influence and so on. So Mrs. Crilling waited until Alice had gone off to church and went over alone, intending to go back and fetch the child if Mrs. Primero was awake. She dozed a good bit, you see, being so old.
"That first time—it was about twenty past six—Mrs. Primero was asleep and Mrs. Crilling didn't go in. She just tapped on the drawing room window. When the old woman didn't stir she went back and returned again later. By the way, she saw the empty scuttle through the window so she knew Painter hadn't yet been in with the coal."
"You mean that Painter came in and did the deed between Mrs. Crilling's visits?" Burden said.
"She didn't go back again till seven. The back door had to be left unlocked for Painter, so she and the child went in, called out 'yoo-hoo' or some damn thing, and marched into the drawing room when they didn't get an answer. Elizabeth went first—more's the pity—and Bob's your uncle!"
"Blimey," said Burden, "that poor kid!"
"Yes," Wexford murmured, "yes ... Well, much as I should like to while away the rest of the afternoon, reminiscing over the coffee cups, I do have to see this clerical bloke."
They both got up. Wexford paid the bill, leaving a rather obviously exact ten per cent for a tip.
"I can't see where the parson comes into it at all," Burden said when they were in the car.
"He can't be an abolitionist because they've done away with the death penalty. As I say, he's writing a book, expects to make a big thing out of it and that's why he's laid out good money on a transcript."
"Or he's a prospective buyer of Victor's Piece. He's a haunted house merchant and he thinks he's got another Borley Rectory."
An unfamiliar car stood on the forecourt of the police station. The numberplate was not local and beside it was a little metal label that bore the name Essex with the county coat of arms of three scimitars on a red field.
"We shall soon know," said Wexford.
3
There are false witnesses risen up against me and such as speak wrong.
In general Wexford disliked the clergy. To him the dog collar was like a slipped halo, indicating a false saintliness, probably hypocrisy and massive self-regard. As he saw it vicars were not vicarious enough. Most of them expected you to worship God in them.
He did not associate them with good looks and charm. Henry Archery, therefore, caused him slight surprise. He was possibly not much younger than Wexford himself, but he was still slim and exceedingly good-looking, and he was wearing an ordinary rather light-coloured suit and an ordinary collar and tie. His hair was thick enough and fair enough for the grey not to show much, his skin was tanned and his features had a pure evenly cut regularity.
During the first preliminary small-talk remarks Wexford had noticed the beauty of his voice. You felt it would be a pleasure to hear him read aloud. As he showed him to a chair and sat down opposite him, Wexford chuckled to himself. He was picturing a group of tired ageing female parishioners working their fingers to the bone for the pitiful reward of this man's smile. Archery was not smiling now and he looked anything but relaxed.
"I'm familiar with the case, Chief Inspector," he began. "I've read the official transcript of the trial and I've discussed the whole thing with Colonel Griswold."
"What exactly do you want to know, then?" Wexford asked in his blunt way.
Archery took a deep breath and said rather too quickly: "I want you to tell me that somewhere in your mind there is just the faintest doubt, the shadow of a doubt, of Painter's guilt."