"Then why the gun?"
"Because he'll have two, and a crossbow."
The car slowed and she pulled in, angry as hell. "Who?"
"The murderer."
"Is that where we're going?"
"Yes." There was a prolonged silence. For a moment I thought she was going to make me get out and walk.
"Does she know?" she asked after a while.
"No."
"Certain?"
"No." I paused. "But she might have guessed. You know how people guess the truth sometimes."
We resumed the journey.
"Aren't you going to tell me?" she said.
"Lagrange, the Reverend gentleman from near the wrong bird sanctuary."
"So that's what all those lies were about stuffed birds?"
"Well, the odd white lie," I mumbled.
"You mean it was him? The shooting? The… Sheila's accident? Everything?"
"And poor Eric Field."
"And you?"
"And nearly me," I corrected.
"But he's a… a reverend."
"Borgia was a pope."
I told her how my suspicions gradually rose about Lagrange. Who had the best opportunity of learning of Eric Field's find? Who couldn't afford a car yet would need a small put-put for frequent local visits in a rural community? And what was more natural than a woman's bike for somebody who occasionally had to wear priestly garb? An authentic collector-friend of Eric Field's, he'd started revisiting Muriel's house. Collectors, like all addicts, need money. He was with Muriel in her posh gray Rover when Sheila gave me the turnkey at the war memorial. Muriel had blossomed with his feet under her table, and he'd started watching me from then on, using Muriel's place as a base. Not a lot of trouble with a small motorized bike and only a narrow valley to cross.
I'd stirred things up and reaped the consequences.
It fitted together.
"Are you… fond of this Muriel?" Margaret wanted to know.
"I suppose so."
"More than that?"
"I'm always more than that where women are concerned," I said starchily, then added, "She's just a child, gormless and bright."
"Poor Lovejoy," Margaret commented in a way that told me I'd had my lot. You can tell from how they say things, can't you?
She asked if Lagrange would be at Muriel's. I said I couldn't be sure.
"He's her boyfriend, though," I said sardonically. "The gardeners set me off thinking the other day, by being embarrassed at the odd innocent cussword. Thought I was him for a moment. He's a cool customer. Insists on having tea in the same room where he killed poor Eric Field stone dead. A right nutter."
"Couldn't we get the police—?"
"Not just yet."
After that I got a dose of the thick silence they give you as corrective when you've transgressed. Nothing short of a miracle would make her smile on me again.
There was a small blue motorized bike to one side of the Field drive, no surprise. We rolled to a stop.
"Lovejoy?"
I paused, already at the door.
"Is there no… jealousy in this?"
"Jealousy?"
"You. Of him."
"No." Nothing had ever seemed so true. She accepted it and came with me.
"Good heavens!" Muriel, open-mouthed, was in the doorway. Her reaction was a disappointment to me. They are supposed to faint or at least go white, but then she hadn't felt quite so gone over me when I was alive, so I couldn't really expect too much.
"You remember me, Muriel?" I'd planned a much cuter entrance line and forgotten it like a fool.
"Why of course, Lovejoy!" She drew me in. "We heard the most dreadful things about you. The papers said you'd had a frightful accident! Do come in."
"I'm Margaret."
"I'm Muriel Field— Oh, you telephoned. I remember. Please come in. What a perfect nuisance the newspapers are!"
"Aren't they!" The bastard would be in the study glugging tea from the Spode. Hearing my name would have made him slurp.
"What's happened to your face?"
"The odd crossbolt," I said airily. "Nothing much."
"Look, Mrs. Field," Margaret started to say, but I cut in sharply.
"Where's Lagrange?"
Muriel looked blank. "How did you know he was here?"
"His scooter, and a good guess."
"Hello, Lovejoy."
He was standing in the doorway to the study, pale but polite as ever. For some strange reason he was actually glad to see me.
"You bastard," I said. "You killed Sheila."
"Have you brought the police?"
"No. They'll have to wait their turn."
"Just one witness." He nodded at Margaret.
"Don't fret," I snapped.
"This is the man, Lovejoy," Margaret said to me quietly.
"Eh? What man?"
"He came to the arcade asking about you some time ago. I tried to tell you but didn't see you for days." The phone message to ring Margaret I'd not followed up.
"Darling what is this?" Muriel went to stand by Lagrange.
He shook her from his arm impatiently. "Nothing of any importance, my dear." He was even beginning to talk like a squire.
"He killed your husband, Muriel," I said. "He used the Judas guns your Eric had found. Some 'accident' while Eric was showing them to him, probably. Then he stole them for himself, only he couldn't quite make up the set. The turnkey was missing. I got it from the auctioneers. He saw me and Sheila. You remember coming out of the car park and seeing us by the war memorial. Then he killed her and tried to do the same for me."
"That set of sharks—incompetent sharks!"
I understood his anguish and rejoiced. "You'll never get it now, Lagrange."
His eyes blazed. "Won't I?"
"Lovejoy, what did you mean?" Muriel glanced from me to Lagrange. "What does he mean?"
"He killed Eric," I explained. "Then he realized your brother-in-law had asked me to find the Judas pair. He assumed Sheila'd kept the turnkey in her handbag for safety when his burglary at my cottage proved fruitless. So he snatched it and he pushed her under the train."
"No!" Muriel stood facing me practically spitting defiance. No compassion for Sheila now, I observed.
"Yes," I said calmly.
The pig was smiling. "Well, yes," he admitted, shrugging.
"You must recognize the truth, love," I told Muriel gently. "He's mad, a killer. He tried to kill me with a crossbow, and he burned my cottage down."
"I knew you'd get out," he said regretfully. "There wasn't a trace of you. I had a suspicion you were still around, an odd feeling you were there. Know what I mean?"
"Oh, yes," I said bitterly. "I know."
"Lovejoy," Muriel said.
"What?"
"He is my husband."
"Eh?"
"We were married three days ago." I swallowed but it was too late to change things.
"Don't be tiresome, my dear," Lagrange said to her. "You'd all better come into the study. No use standing in the hall."
I uncovered the Nock and brought both flints to full cock. "Stay where you are."
He gave me an amused glance. "Don't you be tiresome, either," he said, and walked ahead of us all into the study. That's the trouble with conviction. It can be as crackpot as anything, like the great political capers throughout history, but if it's utterly complete even sane people become meek in its presence. We three followed obediently. He paused at the desk and gestured us to be seated. I remained standing as an act of defiance. The swine actually smiled at that. "Now, Lovejoy," he said conversationally. "What to do about all these goings-on, eh?"
"Police," I said.
"Rubbish. Act your age."
"I'm going for them now. And I'd advise Muriel to come with us for her own safety."
"You're getting more fantastical every minute." He put his fingertips together, a thin burning little guy intense as hate, certain of success. How the hell had he got Muriel under his thumb? "I shall simply deny everything. And you, Lovejoy, aren't exactly the most convincing witness, are you?"
"You'll never get away with it."
He snorted with disgust. "That the best you can do, Lovejoy —a line from a third-rate play?" He grinned. "I already have, you see."