So what had happened? According to Hatchley, Stephen must have got up after the others left and taken his sleeping pills as usual, then gone downstairs and played a record — Mozart’s Jupiter Symphony was still spinning on the turntable — had another drink or two of Scotch from a tumbler, which was still half full, gone back upstairs, taken some more sleeping pills and passed out. By that time, given how much he’d had to drink, he probably wouldn’t have remembered taking the first lot of pills. The only question was, did he do it deliberately or not? And the only person who could answer that was Stephen himself.
It was damned unsatisfactory, Banks thought, but it looked like an end to both the Addison and Allen cases. Stephen Collier had certainly confessed to Anne Ralston. He knew that Banks would find her and that when she heard Bernie had been killed, she would pass on the information. He must have gone through a week of torment trying to decide what to do — make a run for it or stay and brazen it out. After all, it was only her word against his. The strain had finally proved too much for him, and either accidentally or on purpose — or accidentally on purpose — he had put an end to things, perhaps to save himself and the family name the ignominy of a trial and all the publicity it would bring down on them.
Feeling calmer, Banks lit another cigarette. He finished his coffee and determined not to haul Richmond over the coals. After all, as Hatchley had said, the constable couldn’t be everywhere at once. He still felt restless though; his nerves were jangling and his eyes ached. He had that strange and disturbing sensation of wanting to sleep but knowing he couldn’t even if he tried. When he rubbed his chin, he could feel the bristles. He hadn’t even had time for a shave.
When Richmond arrived, they walked over to the Queen’s Arms. After the morning sunshine, it had turned cool and rainy; a wonderful relief after the hellish steam bath of Toronto, Banks thought as he looked up and let the rain fall on his face. Cyril, the landlord, rustled them up a couple of ham and tomato sandwiches. They found an empty table in a corner, and Banks got the drinks in.
‘Look, I’m sorry for dragging you back, Phil,’ he said, ‘but I want to hear your version of what happened.’
‘In the White Rose, sir?’
‘The whole week. Just tell me what you saw and thought.’
‘There’s not very much to tell, really,’ Richmond said, and he gave Banks his version of the week’s events in as much detail as he could.
‘Katie Greenock went off with Stephen Collier on Friday afternoon, is that right?’
‘Yes, sir. They went for a walk up Swainshead Fell. I took a walk up Adam’s Fell and I could see them across the dale.’
‘Did they go towards the hanging valley?’
‘No, sir, they didn’t go over the top — just diagonal, as far as the river’s source. It’s about halfway up and a bit to the north.’
Banks wondered if anything had gone on between Katie and Stephen Collier. It seemed unlikely, given the kind of woman she seemed to be, but he was sure that she had surrendered to Bernard Allen. And in her case, the old-fashioned term ‘surrendered’ was the right word to use. Banks recalled the image of Katie standing in the market square, soaked to the skin, just before he’d left, and he remembered the eerie feeling he’d had that she was coming apart at the seams. It would certainly be worth talking to her again; at the very least she would be able to tell him something more about Collier’s state of mind on the day before he died.
‘What about Saturday night in the White Rose? How long were you there?’
‘From about nine till closing time, sir. I tried to pace myself, not drink too much.’
Banks grinned, remembering his own nights in the Toronto pubs. ‘A tough job, eh? Never mind. Notice anything?’
‘Like I told the super and Sergeant Hatchley, sir, it seemed pretty much of a normal night to me.’
‘You didn’t think Stephen Collier was drinking more than usual?’
‘I don’t know how much he usually drank, sir. I’d say from the other three nights I saw him in the White Rose during my stay, he did drink more on Saturday. But it was Saturday night. People do overdo it a bit then, don’t they? No work in the morning.’
‘Unless you’re a copper.’
Cyril called last orders and Banks hurried to the bar for another two pints.
‘What was the mood like at the table?’ he asked when he got back.
‘A bit festive, really.’
‘No arguments, no sullen silences?’
‘No. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. There was one thing…’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, I couldn’t hear anything because Sam and Stephen were talking quite loudly, but I got the impression that at one point John Fletcher and Nicholas Collier were having a bit of a barney.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m just going by the expressions on their faces, sir. It looked like Nicholas was angry with Fletcher for some reason and Fletcher just brushed him aside.’
‘Did the others appear to notice?’
‘No. Like I said, sir, they were talking, arguing about politics or something.’
‘And this was Nicholas Collier and John Fletcher, not Stephen?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Odd. How did Stephen seem?’
‘I’d say he was a fairly happy drunk. Happier than he ever seemed sober.’
‘What was he drinking?’
‘They were all drinking beer.’
‘How many pints would you say Stephen had?’
Richmond flushed and fiddled with his moustache. ‘I wasn’t really counting, sir. Perhaps I should have been, but…’
‘You weren’t to know he’d be dead in the morning. Don’t worry. It’s the bane of our lives. If we all had twenty-twenty hindsight our job’d be a lot easier. Just try and remember. Picture it as clearly as you can.’
Richmond closed his eyes. ‘At a guess, I’d say about five or six, sir.’
‘Five or six. Not a lot, really, is it? Not for a Yorkshire-man, anyway. And he was practically legless?’
‘Yes, sir. Maybe he was drinking the vodka as well.’
‘What vodka?’
‘I’m not clear on it, but I remember Freddie Metcalfe, the landlord, muttering something about having to change the bottle after one of them had been up and bought a round. It was busy and he said he needed eight hands to do his job.’
‘But you never saw Stephen put a shorts glass to his lips?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Did anyone?’
‘Not that I remember.’
‘Odd, that, isn’t it? What happened to the vodka, then?’
‘Perhaps whoever bought it just drank it down at the bar.’
‘Hmm. It’s possible. But why? Let’s leave it for the moment, anyway. Did you hear any mention at all of Oxford during the week?’
‘You mean the university, sir?’
‘Any mention at all. The name: Oxford.’
Richmond shook his head.
‘All right, that’ll do for now.’ Banks rubbed his eyes.
They drifted out into the street with the others as Cyril prepared to lock up for the afternoon. There was a lot more to think about now. Nothing that Banks had heard since he got back had been at all convincing. Something was wrong, he felt, and the case was far from over. Sending Richmond back home, he decided on a short walk in the rain to freshen himself up before returning to the station.