Inspector?'
'Of course not,' smiled Pascoe. 'But he'd need money for repairs. He doesn't sound as if he'd carry much insurance.'
'You may be right,' said Kingsley indifferently. 'He certainly wouldn't get it here. I only wish he'd had the cheek to try!'
'And now we come to the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question,' said Pascoe.
'And what's that?'
'Did Kate Swithenbank have any idea what her brother was up to all those years?'
There was a long silence.
'And if she did, what then, Inspector?'
'What indeed, Mr Kingsley? Something perhaps that some people might call a motive.'
There was a knock on the door.
Jesus! thought Pascoe. They time their interruptions here better than a French farce!
'Come in,' called Kingsley.
A wizened old head with eyes like a blackbird's thrust itself round the door.
'Can ah see thee about t'supper?' it demanded.
'Just coming, Mrs Warnock,' said Kingsley.
The blackbird's eyes regarded Pascoe unblinkingly for twenty seconds, then the head withdrew.
'Mostly duty calls,' said Kingsley, rising. 'Motive, you say? Hardly for me, though. I mean, I didn't find out about Lightfoot's bit of nastiness till six months after Kate disappeared, did I?'
'So you say, Mr Kingsley,' agreed Pascoe.
'But as for the others, well, I'll leave you to find your own motives there, you're clearly so good at it. Must fly now. Work up an appetite, dear boy. I'll send Ursula in, shall I? That should start the juices running!'
'Boris seemed very pleased to get away from you,' said Ursula, rippling into the red leather armchair. 'What were you talking about?'
'I'm not sure,' said Pascoe. 'He was on occasion a trifle obscure. Though he seemed to find no difficulty in accepting that someone in your little group might have been capable of murdering Kate Swithenbank. But he wouldn't say who he had in mind.'
'Me,' said Ursula promptly.
'Really? Why should he think that?'
'He likes playing Noel Coward, does Boris, but in fact he's terribly straightforward and conventional. His wisdom is proverbial in the strict sense. I mean his mind works in maxims. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned has all the ring of eternal truth to Boris.'
'Meaning you have been scorned by…?'
'John Swithenbank, of course. And it's true. I was furious. But only for a time.'
'How long a time?'
'Till the wedding. John so clearly regarded the whole business as farcical and whatever Kate regarded it as just as clearly had nothing to do with all those loving vows they made at the altar. Resentment has to have an object. I seemed to have lost mine on that day.'
'So you don't think the marriage was happy?' said Pascoe.
'What's happy?'
'I don't know what, but I know where. It's somewhere this side of either running off or committing murder,' said Pascoe.
She didn't seem to feel this required any answer. She was probably right, he thought. He was beginning to see possibilities but the problem was like one of those trick drawings beloved of psychologists – sometimes he saw a rabbit and sometimes he saw a goose. A frightened rabbit that had nothing to do with the missing woman, or a Christmas goose being led to an early slaughter.
'Why do you think he married her?'
'She wanted him to.'
She spoke as if this should have been obvious. Was it an. answer? There were women, and men, too, in whom volition and achievement appeared contiguous. This Kate Lightfoot was emerging as a formidable woman.
'And Kate, why should she wish to marry a man she didn't love, perhaps even like?'
Ursula leaned forward and opened her arms and knees to the electric fire. Pascoe shuddered but not from the cold.
'John offered her an escape route from Wearton.'
'Why should she need that?' he asked. 'No one was keeping her prisoner.'
'Strictly speaking, no. But she had no training, no employment. She left school and looked after Arthur's cottage, that was all. She'd been doing it for years, and taking care of the business paperwork, too. She was surprisingly ignorant of the world in many ways. She asked my advice once…'
'About what?' interrupted Pascoe.
'Getting away, of course. She wanted to go to London. I told her there were two ways for a country girl to go to London, as a typist or as a tart. Unless, that is, she could find some nice well-heeled fellow and marry him! Next thing she and John were engaged.'
Ursula laughed ruefully and rubbed her hands together, then crossed her arms and rubbed her bare shoulders, making a sound which Pascoe found very disturbing.
'That was, what? Nine, ten years ago?'
'Something of the sort.'
'And. since their marriage, what have your relations with her been?'
'Excellent,' she said promptly. 'Why? You don't really think I killed her, do you? I used to see her a couple of times a year in Wearton, and on the odd occasion I saw her in London. She was always the same, me too, I hope. I enjoyed her company and she never had occasion to push me around. No, that's the wrong phrase. There was never anything Kate wanted me to do except be myself, so I never got taken over.'
'And your feelings for Mr Swithenbank?'
'I'm very fond of John,' she said. 'I might have had an affair with him if he'd suggested it, but he never did. And Kate never showed the slightest interest in Peter.'
'What about your brother?' enquired Pascoe. 'Did she ever show any interest there?'
Now her expression turned cold as though the electric fire had been switched off.
'I'm sure you've discovered they were once very close, Inspector,' she said. 'But I'm equally sure you know that Geoff has the perfect alibi for that weekend. He was lying in hospital half dead.'
'Yes. Did you notice anything odd in his behaviour before the accident?'
'Odd? No. Why do you ask?'
'Just that Mr Kingsley said he was rather moody at that time. That's all.'
She laughed.
'Boris! The great psychologist now! It must do dreadful things to your ears, having to admit so much rubbish.'
Pascoe decided the time was ripe for a hard push.
'I think you're being rather unkind to Mr Kingsley,' he said. 'After all, it was he who took care of your husband tonight.'
'What's that mean?' she asked fiercely.
'Nothing, except that he got him out of the way when he started drawing attention to himself. He brought him to talk to me. Mr Kingsley seemed to feel your husband wanted to get something off his chest.'
That was stretching things a bit but Boris was big enough to look after himself.
'He said what? Then obviously Boris was talking even more stupidly than he usually does.' She stood up abruptly. 'I'll go and have a word with him and with Peter. That is, if you're finished with me, Inspector?'
There was clearly no way that he was going to get her to stay – the words were a challenge, not a request for permission to leave – so Pascoe shrugged philosophically.
At the door she paused.
'One thing I will tell you about Kate. She was the same in London as she was in Wearton. If she wanted out
