Starting from tomorrow, the hangman would be visiting the gaol every other day, watching his subject through the eyehole in the cell door, measuring weight and drop with a trained scientific eye. The whole assembly line of death was now in motion. Its wheels were turning in nondescript offices all over London. Warrants and orders were passing backward and forward between the Court of Appeal and the Home Office and the prison at Wandsworth. All stamped with the right stamp and signed by the right person. Everything that needed to happen before a modern British hanging could go ahead.
Trave had always hated the death penalty and its attendant machinery. He didn’t bring murderers to justice to see them murdered. His church said it was wrong to take life, and that at least was something he had no trouble believing. And yet he realised now that he had never really confronted the implications of his own role in the process. Death sentences were not as common now as they used to be, and he had not doubted the guilt of those men whom he had brought to justice, those who had gone on to pay the ultimate penalty. But Stephen Cade was different. And not just because he was young and reminded Trave so forcibly of his own lost son. In his heart, Trave was sure Stephen was innocent, and yet there seemed to be nothing he could do to save him. The trial was over, and Trave had no authority to ask the witnesses any more questions. He had saved Silas from Ritter when he should have saved Ritter’s wife, and now Silas was sending Stephen to his death when Silas should be going there himself. Silas. It had to be Silas, whatever Swift said. He was the one who had the motive, and Jeanne Ritter had seen him in the courtyard. And his alibi was a lie. The jurors were fools to have been taken in by it.
Trave turned the corner and stopped dead in his tracks. The man he was thinking about was standing on the pavement just outside his house, illuminated by the light from a streetlamp overhead. Silas was off the crutches but seemed to be leaning heavily on a tall walking stick for support.
“What are you doing here?” Trave asked furiously as soon as he had got level with Silas. The anger that had been boiling up inside him as he walked home overflowed in this sudden unexpected encounter with the man he held responsible for everything that had happened.
But Silas didn’t seem to notice the animosity in the policeman’s voice. He was too preoccupied with the reason for his visit.
“I found your name in the book,” he said breathlessly. “And I didn’t want to wait until tomorrow. I don’t know why. I needed to know what you think.” Silas blurted his words out in such a rush that Trave found it quite difficult to understand what he was saying.
“Think about what?” he asked, his anger half giving way to curiosity.
“About what I’ve found. Photographs. I need to show them to you.”
Silas held up an old briefcase that he had been holding in his left hand, which Trave had not noticed until then.
“You better come in,” he said grudgingly. Trave didn’t like visitors. His house was where he kept his grief, and he didn’t want to share it with anyone, least of all sneaky Silas Cade. But he felt he didn’t have any option. It was beginning to rain again, and they could hardly examine photographs under a streetlight in the wet, with Silas wobbling unsteadily on his walking stick.
In the living room, Silas sat down awkwardly on the edge of the chair where Trave had been drowning his sorrows in drink less than an hour earlier. Trave remained standing on the other side of the empty fireplace, refusing to provide his visitor with any kind of welcome.
“Is that your boy?” Silas asked, pointing at a photograph of Joe aged thirteen on the mantelpiece. It was Vanessa’s favourite, but Trave had insisted on keeping it when she left.
“He’s not here,” said Trave shortly. “Perhaps you better show me whatever you came here to show me, Mr. Cade. Sunday’s my day off, and I’ve got to work tomorrow.”
This time the hostility got through to Silas.
“I shouldn’t have come,” he said. “I know what you think of me. You’re like Stephen. You think I killed my father.”
“What I think doesn’t matter,” said Trave. “It’s the jury’s decision that counts.”
“But you believe it was the wrong decision, don’t you?” said Silas, refusing to be put off. “You think I should be the one with my head in the noose. Not my precious brother.”
“I’ve got concerns. Yes. But they’re my affair. Not yours.”
Silas met the policeman’s stare for a moment and then dropped his eyes. “I’m here because I don’t think Stephen killed our father either,” he said in an almost inaudible voice. “I used to, but I don’t anymore. And I don’t want him to hang for something he never did. I was hoping that the appeal would work, but it didn’t, and now I’ve got to do something.”
“Well, I’m sure he’ll be pleased to hear that,” said Trave sarcastically. “But just how do you propose to stop them hanging your brother, Mr. Cade? Are you here to make a confession? If so, you’ll have to wait while I go and get a pen and some paper. It shouldn’t take long.”
“No,” said Silas angrily. “I didn’t kill my father any more than Stephen did.”
“That’s not what Mrs. Ritter said.”
“I know,” said Silas slowly. “I thought she was lying at first. God knows she was angry enough to say anything once she got in that courtroom. But now I’m not so sure. I think someone did go into my father’s study after Stephen left it and then slipped away across the courtyard after he came back.”
“Yes. And that person was you.”
“No. Not me. Someone wearing my hat and coat, pretending to be me. Jeanne never said she saw my face, remember? You were in court for her evidence.”
“All right, maybe she didn’t,” said Trave grudgingly. “But who was it she saw in the courtyard if it wasn’t you? Who else had a motive to kill your father?” Trave made no effort to keep the disbelief out of his voice.
“I don’t know,” said Silas. “I wish I did, but I don’t.”
“You don’t know. And yet you’re the one with the motive and the alibi that I’ve never believed in for one second. How much did you pay Miss Vigne to say you were sleeping together, Mr. Cade? It must have been a lot, but I suppose you can afford it now that you’re the lord of Moreton Manor.”
Trave had had no intention of discussing the case with his visitor, but his anger toward Silas had got the better of him. Now he just wished Silas gone so that he could nurse his bitterness in peace.
“Why would I be here talking to you if I were the murderer?” asked Silas, refusing to give up now that he had come so far.
“I don’t know. Perhaps you’ve got a guilty conscience.”
“Oh, come on, Inspector. You can do better than that.” Silas had started to get to his feet while making this angry outburst, but now he sank back into the armchair, and his brow creased as if he was suddenly deep in thought.
The brass clock on the mantelpiece ticked loudly, and Silas nervously fingered the catch on the briefcase that he was holding across his knees.
“It’s not easy for me,” he said, breaking the silence. “Helping to exonerate my brother is just going to make you point the finger at me even more. It’s hardly an incentive. I was a lot better off when I believed that my brother did commit the murder.”
“What made you change your mind?” asked Trave. He was not in the business of making deals with murderers. If Silas had something to say, he should say it. Let the evidence point where it will.
“Jeanne’s dying and my almost getting killed by Ritter shook me up. Changed me more than my father’s death, I think. But in the end it was photographs,” said Silas. “Photographs and a name. They made me change my mind.”
“What name? What photographs?”
“The ones I have here. In my bag. If I show them to you, Inspector, will you do one thing for me? One small thing.”
“What thing?”
“Keep an open mind about who killed my father. That’s all I ask. Just keep an open mind.”
Trave was not won over. The pleading edge to Silas’s voice annoyed him. But the request was a reasonable one. If he’d had more of an open mind at the outset, he might not have been so quick to hand Stephen over to Gerald Thompson. And Silas was right. There was no reason for him to be here if he was the murderer. He would be undoing his best-laid plans just as they were coming to fruition.
“All right,” Trave said grudgingly. “I’ll keep an open mind. Now show me your pictures.”
