Alice eyed the gun thoughtfully. “Are you sure it
“It was the only.45 U.S. Army-issue automatic found at the scene of the crime.”
My sarcasm rolled off her. “And it was loaded when you found it?”
“It stayed loaded until I got it home and learned the trick of releasing the magazine. There were five bullets inside, of the same type as the one fired in the barn.”
She gave a nod. “I saw them in the box.”
“That’s it, then,” I said with an air of finality, getting up from the table. ‘There’s nothing else I can tell you.”
I really believed I was about to show her the door. I’d scraped my memory almost bare, and it was a painful activity. I wanted to turn my mind to the present now. Just a quiet Sunday. The newspapers, a stroll down to the pub for a couple of beers at lunchtime, maybe some serious reading later. Next week’s lectures had to be faced. And I’d probably find myself ringing Val when she came off duty, to smooth the ruffled feathers.
Alice stayed where she was, drawing a circle round the gun with her finger. I might have guessed she wouldn’t be easy to shift.
I limped around the kitchen, tidying up, sourly brooding over ways to evict her. I had the feeling that even if I yanked her up from the chair by her plait, she wouldn’t take the hint.
“Want a lift to the station?” I asked.
I don’t remember what answer she gave, if any, because I was distracted by the sight of something through the window: a red Ford Anglia moving slowly up the lane. It stopped at my front gate. Two men were inside. They both stared out. There was some hesitation, as if they were checking the address. Then the driver’s door opened and there emerged a stout figure in a blue raincoat and one of those small green trilbys with a feather in the side. He peered at the house, made up his mind, and stepped splayfooted towards the front door. So much for my quiet Sunday.
NINE
Close up, he was even more gross. Features obscured in folds of blotchy flesh. Wisps of colorless hair for eyebrows. As so often in fat men, the voice was the compensating factor, fruity as wedding cake, sonorous, confident, with a saving hint of self-mockery.
“What a salubrious place to live, sir.” A quick revelation of baldness under the hat. “Digby Watmore,
I shook my head. “There’s a mistake, I think.”
The creases formed a pattern of excessive concern. “Mistakes by the million, sir, I’m the first to concede. But the blame lies with the typesetters, not the reporters. It pains me to see how they multilate my copy, and I speak as a man who can spell diarrhea without the aid of a dictionary.” He waited solemnly for me to react, his small, opaque eyes locked with mine.
Trying to sound tolerant, I said, “Do me a favor. Try somewhere else, will you?”
He didn’t budge. He looked past me and raised the hat again. “How timely! The winsome Miss Ashenfelter, from Waterbury, Connecticut. Tell me, my dear, is this the gentleman?”
“Why, yes.” Alice confirmed it by stepping forward and slipping her hand around my arm. “I finally tracked him down.”
Digby Watmore beamed his congratulations, then ran his eyes appraisingly over me. “So! The little evacuee grown up. Enchanting. It’s a wonderful human-interest story.”
I’d already unhitched my arm from Alice’s. I said firmly, “As far as I’m concerned, it’s no story at all. I don’t know who set this up, but I want you off my property now.”
He put up a pacifying hand. “Rest assured, my friend, we’ll keep your address out of it. I don’t even need a statement.”
“You’re not getting one.”
“Merely a head-and-shoulders shot with Miss Ashenfelter. My photographer is waiting in the limousine.”
“Piss off.”
He stood his ground, unimpressed.
Alice spoke up. “Digby, would you mind if I had a few words in private with Dr. Sinclair?”
He dipped his head into his chins. “I sense that it might be opportune. I shall confer with the cameraman.” He made a wide turn and retreated.
As soon as the door was closed, Alice said, “Okay, I deserve to have my butt kicked.” Back in the kitchen, she stood in front of me, nervously tugging the hem of her sweater. “Theo, you’ve got to forgive me. I was so caught up in all the things you told me that I totally forgot Digby. I really planned to tell you about him.”
I said ungraciously, “Don’t bother. Just pick up your things, walk to the car, and tell him to drive you away. Now.”
She colored deeply. “No.”
It was like dealing with a defiant twelve-year-old, except that she knew I couldn’t enforce my instruction.
While I stood dumbly with my blood pressure rocketing, she added, “Listen, Theo, you don’t suppose I came to England and found you without any help, do you? I went to the newspaper, the one those clippings were from. They were really helpful. They tracked you down to Reading University and gave me an intro to Digby. He’s just a local guy, a free-lance who sends them stories from here.”
“And so incredibly cute,” I said, aping her accent. “A wonderful English eccentric who wants nothing more than a little old photograph. Have you ever read that paper? It wallows in sex and violence. Your chum Digby’s sniffing out a story here. It’s old stuff, but he’ll dust it off and give it a fresh slant. MURDER QUEST OF GI KILLER’S DAUGHTER. I WATCHED HAYLOFT RAPE, SAYS COLLEGE LECTURER. Is that what you came to England for?”
Alice countered with her own shaft of sarcasm. “So where would you have preferred me to go for help-
“Clear out, will you? I’ve got things to do.” I picked the plates off the table and carried them to the sink.
There was a long silence.
Then she announced in a flat voice, “If that’s what you really want.” She went through to the living room while I busied myself with the washing-up.
In a moment she returned with the rucksack hoisted, looking immense on her slim back. If you think I had a flicker of concern, you’re right. I couldn’t see how it would fit into Digby’s car.
She told me, “I’m sorry I was such a drag, but thanks for everything, anyway. I can let myself out.”
I nodded. I’d said enough.
Let’s admit that I did feel a twinge of something-guilt, remorse, I don’t know precisely what-as I watched from the window. That heavily burdened figure walking staunchly out of my life was, after all, Duke’s daughter. He’d helped me through the most difficult patch in my life. The fact that he’d killed a man didn’t take anything from his kindness to me. He’d good-naturedly filled the gap in a small boy’s life that a father’s death had left. I’d loved him with the passionate loyalty of a son. And when my evidence had helped to convict him, I’d been sick with grief. Yet here I was, twenty years on, cold-shouldering his daughter.
I turned away, not wanting to look anymore, and slumped in my chair. I reached for the Sunday papers. I heard the click of the front door as she closed it.
Although I had
Then I remembered what I should have done: put the gun away. It was no longer there.
Alice.
Thieving bitch.
