“Nothing. There’s nothing you can do other than what you have done. Nothing at all. I’ll go alone, and I just hope I’m doing the right thing.”
Hearing himself, Trave realised that he had already decided what to do before he had even known of his own decision. He was going to follow his instinct. That was what had deserted him in this case. Perhaps it would take him in the right direction now. He’d take a leave of absence. With luck he could be in Rouen by Tuesday evening.
Silas went back to the manor house in a taxi. His injured foot made it impossible for him to drive the Rolls- Royce, which had stood parked in the garage behind the house since the day the Ritters died. The road to Moreton was full of landmarks: the bottom of the hill where his mother died, the place where the unknown driver of the black Mercedes was stopped by a traffic policeman and gave the name Noirtier and a false address in Oxford. But Silas was not looking out the window. He had taken the photographs back out of his briefcase and was gazing with rapt attention at his father’s last game of chess. So many secrets. The Marjean codex hidden inside the board and the black king mated. Under attack and with nowhere left to go, just like Silas’s brother up in London. Alone in his cell, awaiting the coup de grace.
TWENTY-THREE
Early the next morning, Trave went to his police station in the centre of Oxford. He itched to be on his way now that he had decided to go to France, but he couldn’t leave without getting the superintendent’s blessing. There should be no problem with his cases. They were mostly quiet, and Adam Clayton could look after them while he was away. All in all, Trave didn’t anticipate Creswell making any objection. The superintendent had only a few years left before his retirement, and he was content to let Trave and the other two inspectors get on with their jobs without too much interference, as long as their activities didn’t add to his own workload.
“I need a leave of absence,” said Trave almost as soon as he was inside the superintendent’s office. He was in too much of a hurry to take in that Creswell looked like thunder.
“Why?”
“I want to go to France for a few days. I’ll be back by the end of the week.”
“So tell me, has this sudden desire to go south got something to do with the case of Mr. Stephen Cade?” asked Creswell, leaning back in his chair and giving his subordinate a look of unconcealed distaste.
“Why do you say that?” asked Trave, taken aback. Silas hadn’t mentioned talking to anyone else about his suspicions.
“Let’s just say it’s an educated guess,” said Creswell acidly. “You’d better sit down and read this. It’s from that barrister up in London. He doesn’t seem to like you very much.”
Tiny Thompson had certainly made good on his promise to write a letter of complaint. On two pages of closely typed paper, he had portrayed Trave as having been engaged in a sort of guerrilla operation to sabotage Stephen Cade’s prosecution almost from the outset. The last straw had been the maid’s statement that Trave had taken to Thompson’s chambers after the Ritters died.
“Well?” asked Creswell once Trave had finished reading the prosecutor’s diatribe.
“It’s rubbish. Every word of it. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Maybe not. But it doesn’t look good, does it? I don’t need this Thompson character causing me grief. Or you making it worse. And this trip to France isn’t going to help, is it? Why’ve you got to go?”
“Because I think there might be something over there that everyone’s missed up to now. I just don’t believe Stephen Cade killed his father. I haven’t done so for a long time now. And I don’t want him to hang for something he never did.”
“Well, if you’ve got evidence that he’s innocent, you should take it to the powers that be. And they’re in London, not France. What you shouldn’t be doing is slinking around trying to undermine your own case just because you’ve got some kind of hunch about it. You’re not the damned jury, Bill, do you hear me? It’s done its job. Now you get on and do yours.”
Trave remained silent, but the stubborn scowl that had formed around his mouth was more expressive than any mere words could be.
After a moment, the superintendent sighed and pushed Thompson’s letter to the side of his desk, where it joined a growing pile of unanswered correspondence.
“I can’t stop you from taking a holiday, Bill,” he said resignedly. “You’re due for one. But remember this: It’s your trip and not mine. You’re not taking anyone else down with you if down is where you’re going. I’ll see to that. And don’t claim any expenses,” he added as Trave got up to go.
Trave nodded. “Thank you, sir,” he said, and he meant it. Creswell could have made it a lot harder for him if he’d chosen to, although it wouldn’t have stopped his leaving. Trave had made his mind up, and he’d have disobeyed a direct order to stay in Oxford if he’d had to. But that didn’t stop him from being grateful it hadn’t come to that.
Trave took Clayton out to lunch at a nearby pub. In recent weeks he’d warmed to the young man. He made mistakes, but there was an innocent, wide-eyed enthusiasm about him that Trave had grown to like. Clayton asked questions and worked late because he was doing what he’d always wanted to do, not because he had his eyes set on the next promotion, like so many of the other young detectives on the force. And there was a human side to the boy that made Trave feel almost fatherly toward him. He hadn’t forgotten Clayton’s sudden nausea at Cade’s postmortem or his panic outside the courtroom in London. The memory of these episodes made Trave smile as he paid for two pints of Oxford bitter and took them over to a table by the fire.
“There’s something that I want you to do for me while I’m away,” he said, wiping the froth of the beer away from his lips after taking his first sip.
“Sure. Shoot.”
Trave smiled at the Americanism. Clayton had clearly been watching too much television on his days off. “It’s about one of the exhibits in the Cade case,” he said. “The key to the study door.”
“The one with our man’s fingerprints on it?”
“Yes. That’s the one. Not surprisingly, our friend Mr. Thompson attached a great deal of importance to it at the trial, because Sergeant Ritter heard Stephen turning the key in the lock before he opened the door. And both the Ritters said that the professor never locked the internal door of the study, so the jurors were left to infer that Stephen must have done so himself sometime before he unlocked it to let Ritter in. Pretty incriminating on the face of it, you have to admit.”
“Unless someone else locked the door after Stephen left the room and then didn’t have time to remove the key before Stephen came back,” said Clayton slowly.
“Yes, exactly,” said Trave, pleased by Clayton’s understanding. “Neither of the Ritters ever said anything about Cade’s leaving the key in the door, and in fact there’s no reason for him to have done so if he never locked it. He was an orderly man, and so he’d have kept the key on the ring in his desk drawer. And that’s not all. This murder was premeditated. I know it was. You don’t bring a gun to an interview unless you’re intending to use it. This killer didn’t lose his temper, Adam. He did what he came to do. And if he locked the door to stop anyone from following him in, he wouldn’t have relied on there being a key in the door waiting for him to use. He’d have brought one with him.”
“Which he would’ve had copied before.”
“Yes. Using either Cade’s key or Mrs. Ritter’s for the purpose. It’s a long shot, Adam, but what I want you to do is get hold of Cade’s key ring. It should still be with the other exhibits up at the Bailey. If one of the keys on it fits the study door, then the one with Stephen’s prints on it is a copy, and you’ll need to start checking with all the locksmiths in the area. I’ll call you tomorrow evening after I’ve arrived, and you can tell me how you’ve got on. But keep your enquiries quiet. The superintendent isn’t exactly wild about what we’re doing.”
“How long are you going for?” asked Clayton.
“I don’t know. It would help if I knew what I was looking for. I told Creswell that I’d be back by the end of the week, but maybe it’ll take longer. Not much, though, or there won’t be any point. Stephen Cade’ll be dead.”
“When’s the execution fixed for?” asked Clayton, feeling his blood run suddenly cold as the reality of the situation got through to him.
