burst open; and as the blackness swept over me I was aware only of his footsteps receding toward the door, from behind which Cleo’s voice could still be heard, saying: “Daddy?”
How long did I lie there? What happened at the door of the barn? It seems I will never know. But it’s impossible not to speculate on what I might be now, if Fledge had raised the alarm immediately, if he had not simply left me there to die. Is it unreasonable, then, that I should take this obscure attempt on my own life as proving beyond a shadow of a doubt his guilt with regard to Sidney’s?
Cleo is comfortable in the kitchen. She can talk freely here, not oppressed, as she always is in the drawing room, by her conviction that Fledge is the evil creeping thing that murdered Sidney, and that Harriet is complicit with him. Doris is a nonthreatening figure, and I, Hugo, the girl has come to realize, am the perfect ally, for while I understand all she says, and she knows I understand it, I will never reprimand her, nor, worse still, show her the pitying sympathy that Harriet invariably displays toward her. With the result that she has gradually opened up to me, and as Doris goes about her duties, peeling potatoes and whistling tunelessly between sips of sherry, Cleo sits beside me at the kitchen table, smoking cigarettes and endlessly arranging her and my intermingled nail clippings in those elaborate circular designs, and chattering away about any odd thing that comes into her head as long as it doesn’t touch upon Sidney or Harriet or Fledge. She was occupied thus the day Harriet came into the kitchen and said: “Mrs. Fledge, I’m going to have to ask you a favor. Mrs. Giblet is coming down to see me on Thursday, and Fledge won’t be here. Could you stand in for him, I wonder?”
“Yes madam,” said Doris, meekly.
“Oh good. Thank you so much. Cleo—”
Nothing. The girl was at the kitchen window, gazing into the yard. She did not turn round. Harriet was not within my line of vision, but I could all too easily imagine the moue of irritability and concern that this behavior provoked. “I do wish,” said Harriet, “that you wouldn’t drink in the afternoon, Mrs. Fledge. So bad for you”—and then she was gone. The point was, though, that the old woman would undoubtedly bring news of George. Two months had passed since his arrest, and I had heard nothing.
Fledge was away from Crook the day Mrs. Giblet came—the reason for his absence will become clear in due course—so it was Doris who announced the old woman’s arrival. I was in the drawing room, gazing at the chimneypiece, and Harriet was sitting by the fire, reading a novel. It was rather a damp, cool afternoon, I seem to remember, and I had my tartan horse blanket tucked about my legs. Harriet sighed, and after carefully marking her place in the book with a dead matchstick, rose to her feet. In came Mrs. Giblet, in that huge fur coat of hers, and took both Harriet’s hands in her own. “Dear Lady Coal,” she wheezed, in husky tones, “such difficult times, for all of us.”
“Indeed Mrs. Giblet,” said Harriet. “Do sit down, won’t you? Tea, please, Mrs. Fledge.”
But Mrs. Giblet did not sit down. Instead, she turned toward me. Harriet, too, turned toward me, and the pair of them stood there, gazing at me, and I gazing back. The old woman was without her lapdog, but she did have her stick, and as she gazed at me she wrapped her claws about the handle and leaned on the thing. Her eyes bored into me like a pair of spiral drills, and as the seconds ticked by Harriet grew visibly uncomfortable. She laid a hand on her visitor’s sleeve. “Do sit down, won’t you, Mrs. Giblet?” she repeated.
“Poor fellow,” said Mrs. Giblet, and began fumbling in the pockets of her coat for cigarettes; still she did not sit down. “Terrible thing, Lady Coal”—she turned toward Harriet—“how distressing for you. And him such a sprightly man, in his way.”
“Life goes on, Mrs. Giblet,” murmured Harriet. She found it distasteful, I know, to have to account for her feelings. I was now a source of embarrassment to her.
“And there’s no hope, they say?” Mrs. Giblet’s eyes were on me again. “His faculties will not return?”
“Apparently not, Mrs. Giblet.”
“And he will live out his normal span, Lady Coal?”
Harriet winced at the brutal candor of this inquiry. “One doesn’t know,” she murmured. “One hopes and prays for the best, Mrs. Giblet.”
“Whatever that may be. Tragic. And him still a young man.”
“Hugo is over fifty,” said Harriet quietly.
Mrs. Giblet snorted. “That’s young, Lady Coal, believe me!” She had managed to get a cigarette into her mouth by this stage. There was the flare of a match and a cloud of blue smoke. “He can still smoke, I suppose?”
“Good heavens, Mrs. Giblet, it never occurred to me!” said Harriet and, apparently abandoning the effort to get the old woman to sit down, herself resumed her armchair. In point of fact I should have greatly enjoyed a cigar, but this was the first time anyone had thought of it. Mrs. Giblet did not pursue the point, unfortunately; she shuffled over to the armchair opposite Harriet’s, and lowered herself stiffly into it. “Such a sad thing to lose a husband before his time,” she said. “You’re still a young woman yourself, Lady Coal. Not as young as I was—I lost Sidney’s father when I was barely thirty, you know.”
“No,” said Harriet, “I didn’t know. Ah, Mrs. Fledge.” Doris appeared with the tea tray.
“Struck by a locomotive in Victoria Station. But that’s by the by. Lady Coal, I spoke to the solicitors this morning. The news is not good, I’m afraid. Lecky refuses to plead insanity.”
“Oh dear,” said Harriet, who was not really equipped to deal with any of this.
“Oh dear indeed,” said Mrs. Giblet. “We must think very hard what’s best, Lady Coal. I’m afraid if he sticks to his story he’ll swing.”
Swing!
“But I believe it’s the truth, Mrs. Giblet! George Lecky simply doesn’t have that sort of violence in him.”
“Oh, I agree,” said Mrs. Giblet. “But if I understand Sir Fleckley correctly”—she referred to Sir Fleckley Tome, a barrister —“he will not be believed. This business has aroused strong emotion in the popular breast, Lady Coal; even a partial admission of guilt, he says, will tip the scales.”
“But George must tell the truth,” said Harriet. “Surely that’s enough? This is England, after all.”
Her faith was touching.
“Dear Lady Coal,” said Mrs. Giblet, “your faith is touching. But you see, it will be assumed that a man who could stumble upon a dead body and feed it to his pigs is a man who could kill. We tend to lose the fine distinctions when it comes to such things.” It was hard to believe she was talking about her own son.
“Yes, I do see, Mrs. Giblet. All the same—”
“Public opinion is already strongly against him, Lady Coal. Have you been reading the papers?”
“Oh, Mrs. Giblet, I haven’t. I find it all too distressing. To think that George Lecky—no, it doesn’t bear contemplating. But this is frightful, Mrs. Giblet! You mean that if George tells the truth he’ll be hanged, and if he lies he won’t?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Giblet.
There was a silence. “Then what is to be done?” said Harriet. “That,” said Mrs. Giblet, “is precisely what I came to Crook to talk to you about. My interest in the case is very simple, Lady Coal; perhaps it’s unnecessary for me to say this, but like you, I don’t believe George Lecky killed my son. But if he swings—”
“Please, Mrs. Giblet,” said Harriet; the word clearly distressed her.
“If he is found guilty, Lady Coal, then Sidney’s murderer will go free. This I most emphatically do not wish to happen.”
“No,” said Harriet, “of course not.”
“Lady Coal,” said Mrs. Giblet, “let me ask you frankly: who killed Sidney?”
“Oh, Mrs. Giblet, if I knew—”
“Tell me your suspicions, Lady Coal, no matter how bizarre they seem.”
“Well, I don’t know, I hardly think—”
“Has it ever occurred to you, Lady Coal, that your husband was in any way involved?”
“Rubbish!” The door flew open, and there stood Cleo—she had been listening in the hallway! Into the room she darted, her eyes flashing, and over to the fireplace, where she stood with her back to the fire between the two seated women, who, clasping their teacups, gazed at her in wide-mouthed astonishment. “Rubbish!” she hissed, all coiled up in her baggy black cardigan like a scorpion. “You foul old woman,” she cried, her voice charged with scorn
