and, you know, I couldn’t go through with it. I got halfway to his chambers in a taxi and then I had to turn around. I had no choice. The ride along the river reminded me of the prison van. I rang him from the station and got on the first train home.”
“Was Swift understanding?”
“Yes, completely. He couldn’t have been nicer. Said he’d come and see me at the manor house next week. And he wrote me a letter after the pardon came through saying it meant more to him than any verdict he’d ever achieved. I was touched by that.”
“Yes,” said Trave. “He told me the same. He’s a good man.”
“Like you, Inspector. I’ve been lucky.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” said Trave. It felt like a serious understatement.
“No, perhaps not,” said Stephen with a wry smile. “All I seem to be able to do at the moment is drink too much and put off making any decisions about my future. The university says I can go back, but I can’t face it at the moment. All the students looking at me, pointing me out to their friends in the street. Like I was some weird exhibit at the circus. I’m nervous enough as it is. Still, I suppose it’s what you’d expect from someone who’s come so close to being strung up. The doctor says I’ll take time to heal. But you know, Inspector, I’m not sure that’s true. Sometimes I feel like there’s something broken inside me. Something final.”
Stephen’s sadness cut Trave to the quick. It was how he’d felt after Joe died. He felt responsible for what had happened.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have believed in you. I wish I’d gone to France when it all started. Then you might never have had to go through any of this.”
“Don’t say that,” said Stephen. “You did your best when it mattered. That’s why I wanted to see you. To thank you. And as for what happened before, if my own brother didn’t believe me until after I’d been sentenced to death, what were you supposed to think?”
“What’s happened to Silas?” asked Trave, genuinely curious. He’d heard nothing more from Stephen’s brother since the night that he came to the house with the old atlas and the photographs of his father’s last game of chess.
“He’s better than he was. Less reclusive, more at ease with himself somehow. It’s like, I don’t know, like he was ashamed of himself before, but he’s not now.”
“Well, he shouldn’t be,” said Trave. “It took a lot of courage for him to do what he did. You know he came to see me, don’t you? He was the one who got me to go to France.”
“Yes, he told me,” said Stephen with a smile. “He said you needed quite a lot of persuading.”
“That’s true. I thought he was the murderer,” said Trave ruefully. “I was sure of it.”
“I know. I tried to think the same for a while. Mr. Swift wanted me to, but deep down I could never really believe it,” said Stephen meditatively. “The truth is I don’t think Silas is capable of killing anyone, not even if he wanted to. He’s a watcher at heart, my brother, not an actor. It’s why he’s such a good photographer.”
“Perhaps that’ll be his redemption,” said Trave hopefully. “His way out.”
“Maybe. He’s certainly making a good job of photographing my father’s manuscripts. He’s got a darkroom rigged up in one corner of the gallery now and he seems to spend most of his time in there. The pictures will make a beautiful book if he can find the right publisher, but I think sometimes that it’s more than that, that he’s really doing it to keep a connection going with our father. He never gave up on loving the old man, you know. Not even when he found out who our father really was.”
“Perhaps he never had anything else to hold on to.”
“Perhaps. Although I can understand how he feels. Our father’s still our father, whatever he’s done. Except that there can be no forgiveness now because he’s dead-gone for good. There’s not a day goes by that I don’t wish I’d saved him.”
“There was nothing you could do. You know that. What you need is a new start. Somewhere completely different. Away from all these memories.”
“You’re right. If I had my way, I’d like to sell the house and put all the manuscripts up for auction. But Silas won’t hear of it, even though the money would make us rich. Sometimes I think they’re more his ghosts than mine at home. The Ritters and Sasha and the old man. He stands in their rooms sometimes with his eyes half closed, and I don’t know what he’s thinking.”
“Well, it can’t be easy for either of you being together,” said Trave sympathetically. “You both thought that the other one had committed the crime. You can’t take that back.”
“No, you can’t. But it’s also like the experience has brought us together as well,” said Stephen slowly. His brow creased as he tried to find the right words. “You see, it’s not just Silas who has suffered now; it’s me as well. I’m not the lucky one anymore. You could search pretty hard to find two people who are more unlike one another, and yet we are brothers. We weren’t before but we are now, and I don’t think that’ll change.”
“He told me the truth about his alibi the other day,” Stephen went on after a pause. “It was like he felt he had to.”
“That it was false?”
“No. More than that. It turns out he wasn’t in his room that night at all. He was out in the grounds taking photographs of Sasha. That’s why the west-wing door was open. He came back inside when he heard me shouting in my father’s study, and he forgot to lock it back up in all the commotion.”
Trave failed to suppress the look of disgust that sprang involuntarily to his face in response to this further revelation of Silas’s depravity. But it was soon replaced by a look of puzzlement. “Why did Sasha support him, though?” he asked. “That’s what I don’t understand.”
“Perhaps he paid her.”
“No, it’s more than that. There are things about this case that I just can’t fathom. Like what she was doing at Marjean Church on the day I went there. And why she ran away. I suppose I’ll never know. Not unless she decides to tell me, and that doesn’t seem very likely.”
“Why? Don’t you know where she is?”
“No. She’s still alive, because she writes letters to her mother from somewhere in France, but there’s never a return address. And I can’t trace her, because she’s done nothing wrong. Not like Mary Rocard or whatever she calls herself now.”
A cloud passed across Stephen’s face, and the trembling of his hand became far more noticeable than before. This was really why he was here, Trave realised with a start. For news of Mary. Surely he couldn’t still love her. Not after what she’d done to him. It defied all logic.
“Have you heard anything?” Stephen asked in a low voice.
“Not a whisper. Nothing since the first flurry of information came through from Laroche, the policeman in Marjean, at the end of last month. He found out that she went to a place near the Swiss border after her parents were killed back in 1944 and that it was the brother of the priest at Marjean who took her in. It turns out he was a rich man who made a fortune after the war in some kind of speculation. And his only child was our friend, Paul Martin. The two of them grew up together, and I expect they’re still together now. Where I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure they’ve got enough money to stay out of sight for a long time.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the landlord of the inn at Marjean knows something about them, but he’s not saying. I think he was the one who tipped them off that I was coming back to England. But there are no other leads. They’ve disappeared off the face of the earth. And if I had to guess, I’d say it’ll stay that way.”
Trave had not anticipated the effect that his final words would have on Stephen. The young man’s face seemed to collapse in on itself, and he began to cry in great shuddering gasps that visibly shook his thin, undernourished body from top to bottom.
Trave didn’t know what to do. He felt the normal English embarrassment in the presence of another person’s strong emotion, but he held himself still, resisting the temptation to get up and walk away.
Slowly Stephen pulled himself together. “She broke my heart,” he said, and the words didn’t seem melodramatic. Just a statement of fact. “I loved her like she was the sun and the moon and the stars. And all she was doing was playing with me. Setting me up to die on the end of a rope. I gave her everything I had and it meant nothing to her. Nothing at all.”
“But she changed her mind. She confessed to the crime in order to save you at the end. She didn’t need to do that. It was because she hated herself for what she’d done to you. She told me that,” said Trave, desperately
