“Don’t be silly,” said Mary uneasily. “Curses didn’t kill your father. And they won’t kill you.”
“Maybe not. It’s just it was something about that place. It was so desolate. It was like that ruin near Oxford that you took me to. What was it called?”
“Minster Lovell?”
“Yes. A locked church and a fallen-down house and a sense that time was standing still. Like it was frozen. Waiting. Marjean was like that, but even more so.”
“But there’s no forbidden lake at Minster Lovell,” said Mary, making an effort to lighten the conversation. “The Windrush is a beautiful river. There were children swimming in it when I went there the first time.”
“How do you know about the lake?” asked Stephen, looking up. “I never told you about a lake at Marjean.”
“Yes, you did,” said Mary. “You described it all to me in your rooms in Oxford the night before we went to see your father, so that I’d be prepared. That’s what you said. Don’t you remember?”
“No. I don’t know. I suppose I must have done. I’m sorry, Mary. I’m so confused,” said Stephen wearily. “It’s being in here that does it to me.”
“It’s all right. I understand. You need to concentrate on your trial now. That’s what matters. And your barrister is right. You should go after Silas, because he’s the one who killed your father. Everything points to him. Not just Mrs. Ritter and the maid. Remember the way he got you to go out to your father’s house?”
“But that wasn’t just him. It was you too. You needed the money for your mother.”
“Yes, but it’s not me who wrote the letter to your father. Don’t you remember him standing behind you at the desk, suggesting what would be the right words to use? And his alibi is so convenient. Didn’t you see the way that he gazed at Sasha when she wasn’t looking that night at dinner?”
“Which night?”
“The night of the murder. Maybe it’s something only women can see. He was watching her so hungrily, and she looked at anyone except him. They weren’t sleeping together. I’d bet my life on it.”
“Would you?”
“Yes, I would.”
“What about my life though? Would you bet that on it?” asked Stephen.
Mary hesitated before she replied. She looked up at the clock at the back of the visits hall and swallowed hard before she looked back at her lover.
“Yes, I would,” she said. “You’ve got no choice, Stephen. You can’t go down with the plane this time.”
Stephen visibly relaxed. “All right,” he said. “You’ve convinced me. Let’s see what Swift can do tomorrow. Perhaps it’s not too late after all.”
Mary smiled back, but as she got up to go, she felt her heart beating hard against her chest and tears starting in her eyes. She turned away suddenly without saying good-bye, and half ran toward the exit at the far end of the hall, without looking back at Stephen. Then, once she was outside the prison gates, she took a moment to compose herself, breathing the free air deep into her lungs, before she got into her car and drove away.
Overhead the sun had disappeared behind thick clouds and there was an icy bite to the wind. And yet Mary kept the windows wound down all the way back into London. The winter air blew all her thoughts away, granting her a temporary oblivion that Stephen couldn’t even begin to hope for. Back in his cell he lay quite still on the wafer-thin mattress of his bunk bed, concentrating hard, trying to shut out the banging of heavy doors and the anonymous shouting, the constant noise of the prison that seemed never to go away. There was something on the edge of his memory, just out of reach. It had come to him for a moment while he was talking to Mary and then disappeared. Something that she’d said, something about Silas. And now he had it. Silas driving their father’s car- the Rolls-Royce, the beautiful car in which his mother died. But Stephen was remembering a time long before that, just after the end of the war when he was no more than seven or eight. A hot summer’s day with his big brother home from school for the holidays. Silas wore long trousers and Stephen wore shorts, and he only came up to just above Silas’s elbow. Silas walked round through the elm trees to the big brick garage at the back of the house, and Stephen followed him at a respectful distance. They were going to look at the Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith, their father’s pride and joy.
It was cool inside, a relief from the hot sun, and Stephen took out a wrinkled linen ball that had once borne some resemblance to a pocket handkerchief and wiped his forehead, while he blinked, getting used to the half darkness. Gently he ran his hand down the gleaming black side of the car and then up over the curve of the great round headlamp to where the silver lady knelt above the radiator grille. Stephen loved the Rolls-Royce mascot, the girl with her arms outstretched behind her, holding her flowing gown, her silver hair flying in the wind. And last time they came here, Silas had told him the lady’s real name. She was called the Spirit of Ecstasy. It was just right, thought Stephen. That was exactly what she was.
But that was last time. This time was different. Silas had brought a key. Stephen knew it was wrong, but he was too excited to protest when his brother opened the doors and invited him into the red morocco interior, sitting next to his brother as Silas handled the wheel, shifted the gear stick, and flicked the indicator up and down, up and down, until the door opened and their father pulled them out of the car one by one, dragging them by their collars out into the sunlight.
Stephen remembered how frightened he’d been at that moment, but as it turned out, his fear had been groundless. His father didn’t touch him; John Cade’s rage was focused entirely on his elder son. Cade let go of Stephen, adjusted his hold on Silas’s collar, and with his free hand smacked Silas across the face one, two, three times. And then, pulling Silas close, Cade spoke through his teeth into his son’s frightened eyes: “Don’t you ever do that again, boy. You hear me? One more time and you’ll be gone for good.”
Silas was white as a sheet, the colour entirely drained from his face, but Cade hadn’t finished.
“Do you hear me?” he shouted.
“Yes.”
Silas barely got the word out through his chattering teeth, but it was enough. Cade pushed him away, letting go of his shirt, and Silas fell back onto the Tarmac drive. And by the time he’d picked himself up, his father was gone.
Silas was a mess, bleeding from the nose and with tears running down his cheeks, and his breath came in strangled gasps. Stephen felt shocked. It was his first experience of violence. Unable to think of any other way to comfort his brother, he offered him the dirty handkerchief that he still had balled up in his hand and then stood there uncertainly while Silas wiped away the blood and tears.
And then, catching his brother’s eye, Stephen realised that Silas wasn’t frightened anymore; he was angry, angrier than Stephen had ever seen him.
“I’ll kill the bastard,” said Silas. “I swear it. When I’m old enough, I’ll get a gun and I’ll shoot him. Like a dog.”
Silas held Stephen’s gaze for a moment and then handed him back his handkerchief before he turned and walked away, limping slightly as he made his way back toward the house. But Stephen remained rooted to the spot, trying to find some way to absorb the trauma of his experience.
And perhaps he’d been unable to, Stephen thought to himself, sitting on the bed in his prison cell fifteen years later. And perhaps that was why he’d forgotten the day in the garage for so long. Until now. The return of the memory seemed like a sign. And Silas’s words spoken all those years ago seemed no empty threat; they seemed like a promise.
SEVENTEEN
The courtroom was full of people but entirely silent as Silas slowly maneuvered himself up the long aisle from the entrance door to the witness box. The only noise was the sound of his crutches hitting the parquet floor as he made his way past the press box and the barristers’ table. Gerald Thompson wore a solemn expression, but inside he felt a glow of satisfaction. Everyone had their eyes fixed on the injured man. He was an object of sympathy even before he’d opened his mouth to speak.
Silas grimaced with pain as he settled himself into the chair that had been specially provided for him beside the witness box, but the truth was that he had been lucky. Ritter’s bullet had not inflicted any lasting damage, and
