Before the ex-Mrs Halley arrives, I thought, but didn’t say so.
‘Right you are, sir,’ she said.
‘I wish you’d call me Sid.’
‘I’ll try, sir.’ She would never change and I realised that I liked her all the more for that.
Aynsford was a peaceful west Oxfordshire village where the march of the metropolis had still to reach. The south of England was all too quickly becoming one joined-up housing estate with thousands and thousands of box- like town houses with postage-stamp gardens springing up around every town. The green belt was doing its best to hold in the expansion of the urban stomach but, at the present rate, the belt would soon run out of holes and burst open altogether.
But, for now, Aynsford remained as it had been for decades, with stone cottages nestling around the Norman church, while the large and imposing old vicarage reflected the power and wealth that the clergy once wielded. Nowadays, the vicar was more likely to live in a small bungalow in a different village, such was the decline in the influence of the Church of England, the fall-off of congregations and the uniting of parishes. I saw from the church notice board that services were on alternate Sundays. It could be worse.
It took me only five minutes to walk to the far end of the village so I continued on down the lane between the high hedge-rows to the little humpback bridge over the canal. I sat on the parapet and threw stones into the still, brown water.
Where do I go from here? I thought.
Could I really disregard what had happened to Marina? She had been adamant that I should go on. But we had been lucky. A couple of nasty blows to the face could so easily have been a knife between the ribs. Would I be able to live with myself if anything dreadful were to happen to Marina, or to Charles, as a result of my investigations? Conversely, would I be able to live with myself if I did nothing and stood idly by?
What would happen, I asked myself, if I did nothing more? The inquest on Huw Walker would eventually conclude that he had been murdered by person or persons unknown. That on Bill Burton would say that he had taken his own life while the balance of his mind was disturbed. It would be implied that his mind was disturbed due to the fact that his wife had left him, coupled with his overpowering guilt at having murdered her lover, his jockey. And that would be that, end of investigation, end of story. A miscarriage of justice.
I knew as well as I knew anything that Bill had not killed Huw. In my opinion, it just wasn’t possible. So if I did nothing more, then the real killer of Huw, and of Bill, would literally get away with murder and the name of Bill Burton would forever be unfairly tarnished. Was I really considering leaving Bill’s family that legacy?
In my heart, I knew that I would continue to search for the truth, but I didn’t want to be too hasty. I needed to be comfortable with the decision; at ease, if not exactly relaxed, about the possible consequences. I promised myself that I would be less reckless in the future. That is, if I remembered.
*
By the time I made my way back to the house, both Marina and Charles were in the kitchen, munching on toast and marmalade.
‘Beginning to think you’d left me,’ said Marina.
‘Never.’
‘Where have you been?’ she asked.
‘For a walk,’ I said. ‘I went down to the bridge over the canal.’
‘Didn’t feel like throwing yourself in, I hope?’ said Charles helpfully.
‘Not today,’ I said. ‘Far too cold.’
Mrs Cross had made me scrambled eggs on an array of inch squares of toast and I gratefully wolfed down the lot.
‘My,’ said Marina, ‘that walk has given you quite an appetite.’
It certainly had and not just for food. I was now itching to get back on the trail of a killer.
After breakfast Marina and I went up to pack our bags, which we put in the car ready for our quick get-away after lunch.
‘Are you sure you want to go back to Ebury Street?’ I asked her.
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I am absolutely certain. I’m not going to hide for the rest of my life so I’m not going to do so now. And another thing, I want you to take me to the races in future.’
‘OK, you’re on.’
We went to join Charles for a pre-lunch drink in his expansive drawing room with its large open fireplace. He had lit the fire and was standing in front of it, warming his back.
‘Ah, there you are,’ he said. ‘Have a glass of bubbles.’ He gave us one each from a tray.
‘Lovely,’ said Marina.
‘To you two,’ said Charles, raising his glass.
‘To all of us,’ I said, raising mine.
‘Now, when are you two going to get married?’ asked Charles.
Marina nearly choked on her champagne.
‘We haven’t discussed it,’ I said.
‘You haven’t discussed the date?’ he persisted.
‘We haven’t discussed whether.’
‘Oh, sorry. I’m a bit premature then.’
‘You could say that.’
I am sure that Charles had been a great sailor but, as a diplomat, he still needed lessons.
‘I just thought,’ Charles went on, digging himself deeper into trouble, ‘that you might want to get married from here.’
‘We’ll talk about it, thank you,’ said Marina. ‘It’s a very kind offer.’
We all smiled at one another, lost for words.
Then, into this domestic tableau as we were discussing whether and where Marina might become the second Mrs Sid Halley, walked the first.
CHAPTER 12
‘Hello, Sid,’ said Jenny. ‘I wasn’t expecting
You neither, I thought. Surely she wasn’t due until much later? Not until after Marina and I had left for London.
‘Ah, hello, Jenny,’ said Charles all of a fluster. ‘I thought you were coming for dinner.’
‘Well, we are, but also for lunch. Mrs Cross knew. I spoke to her about it yesterday.’
I wished Mrs Cross had told us.
‘Anyway,’ said Charles, ‘you’re here now. Lovely to see you. Where’s Anthony?’
‘Getting our things out of the car.’
He went over and gave her a peck on the cheek. Charles and Jenny had never really enjoyed an intimate relationship. He had been away at sea for long periods during her early childhood and even the untimely death of Jenny’s mother had not brought them close.
Jenny was looking at Marina.
‘Oh, so sorry,’ said Charles. ‘Jenny, can I introduce Marina van der — ’ He tailed off.
‘Meer,’ I said, adding to Charles’s state of unease.
‘Yes, that’s right, Marina van der Meer — Jenny Wingham, my daughter. Marina is Sid’s friend,’ he added unnecessarily.
Jenny’s eyebrows lifted a notch.
Whilst Charles and I had become somewhat used to the state of Marina’s damaged face, to Jenny, on first seeing the ugly black eyes and the still swollen lip, it must have appeared shocking.
‘I hope Sid didn’t do that,’ she said.
‘Oh, no,’ said Marina with a nervous little laugh. ‘Car accident.’
‘Who was driving?’ asked Jenny.
