Disordered Minds

Eileen hesitated, as if debating the merits of truth. 'I thought it was to do with Cill,' she said after a moment. *I was afraid they'd found her body and the whole thing was going to become even more of a nightmare.' She made a small noise that sounded like a laugh. 'It was such a relief when they said Mrs. Jefferies was dead. I thought, oh, thank goodness, no one can say we had anything to do with that. It was a small lie, Billy, and I wasn't the only one,' she went on. 'No one admitted to knowing her. It was bad enough what happened, without being singled out for questioning. We all just wanted it to go away, and it did, of course, as soon as the wretched grandson confessed.'

Billy stared at the wall again. 'Why would you think Cill's body was in Mullin Street?'

More hesitation. 'I didn't mean it to sound like that. I just meant I was afraid they'd found her body ... not where it might be, just that it was somewhere. I'd been thinking about nothing else for days ... when were they going to find the poor child's body? And with all those policemen around...' She petered into silence.

Billy wanted to believe her. Even at ten years old, it had been his first thought-that the police had come to Mullin Street because of Cill Trevelyan. 'Cill and Lou used to go into Mrs. Jefferies's house to watch her telly. I know you knew that because I heard Mrs. Jefferies tell you.'

Eileen didn't answer.

'Did you never think Cill might have gone there when she ran away? You should have told the police, Mum. So should Lou.'

A tiny edge of malice entered his mother's voice. 'And what do you think the Trevelyans' reaction would have been if I'd suggested Cill was involved in a murder? Jean was already screaming at me like a fishwife every time she saw me.' She took a breath. 'It's all very well criticizing, Billy, but I had two seconds to make up my mind and I'm still sure I did the right thing.'

Perplexed, Billy rubbed his head. 'I'm not saying she had anything to with the murder,' he protested, 'I'm just saying she might have gone there when she ran away.'

'Well, if she did, it was nothing to do with us.'

'Except everyone was trying to find her. Why didn't you or Lou say something when Lou was questioned about the rape?'

There was a catch in his mother's voice. 'She wasn't asked, neither was I ... and I don't understand why you're being so beastly to me-'

The receiver was taken by his father. 'You're upsetting your mother, son. What's the point you're trying to make? Because if you're suggesting she had something to do with that bloody woman's death, you'll have me to deal with. Understood?'

Billy thought of his mother's long, red hair, which he used to fumble into loose plaits whenever she let him. It had been an intimacy they shared until she dyed it a deep auburn when they moved. After that he was never allowed so close again, and the intimacy was reserved for Louise, who, at the same time, became a brown-haired urchin called Daisy. Until now he'd forgotten how jealous he'd been. 'Did she have anything to do with it, Dad?' he asked harshly. 'Councillor Gardener said it was someone with ginger hair killed Mrs. Jefferies ... and Ma sure as hell had ginger hair before you made us cut and run from Mullin Street. So did Louise. You called them 'the terrible twins.' Remember?'

The line went dead immediately.

THE CROWN AND FEATHERS, HIGHDOWN, BOURNEMOUTH

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 23, 2003, 8:15 P.M.

George was intensely skeptical. 'That would mean three people were all suspected of murder in the same place, at the same time-' she ticked them off on her fingers-'Howard Stamp, David Trevelyan and Jean Trevelyan- and with two different victims. Don't you think that's a trifle unlikely, Roy? It's not as though murder's a common crime in this country. Manslaugher, maybe, but not murder. There wouldn't have been more than three to four hundred during 1970, and to have two of them happen a couple of streets apart and within days of each other is a statistical improbability.'

'Unless they were connected,' said Jonathan.

'We don't even know if Cill's dead,' George pointed out, leveling the tip of her pencil at the photograph of Priscilla Fletcher. 'That might be her.'

Jonathan watched Roy's gaze stray toward the picture. 'Is it, Mr. Trent?'

'No.'

'Do you mind telling us who she is?'

The other man shrugged. He was growing more relaxed as each minute passed, and Jonathan wondered why. Because they'd strayed from Howard Stamp? 'She was calling herself Priscilla Curtis when I wed her.'

'Then how can you be so certain she wasn't Cill Trevelyan? She looks just like her.' He watched for a reaction, but Roy's expression remained deadpan. 'You can't have it both ways, Mr. Trent,' he went on. 'If you never met Cill, then you have no way of knowing if she was the woman you married.'

Roy stared at George's busily writing hand. 'You're on the wrong track, mate,' he said, allowing irritation into his voice. 'I don't deny I was caught up in a bad crowd when I was a lad, but I wasn't involved in murder and I don't know what happened to Cill Trevelyan-' he jabbed a finger at the tabletop to reinforce his next sentence-'and neither does my ex. Now you can take my word for that or you can go to the cops and run this crap past them, because I've had enough. I may not have told George precisely how I knew Howard-I wasn't proud of teasing the poor little bugger-but everything else I've said is true.' He stood up and moved toward the door in clear dismissal. 'Take it or leave it, because this conversation ends now.'

Jonathan exchanged a glance with George. 'Then you won't object if we ask Priscilla to corroborate this,' she said to Roy.

He eyed her with some amusement. 'Go ahead, but you'll have to find her first.' He nodded at the monitor. 'I watched her sneak out about ten minutes ago.'

George frowned at the screen. 'Why does that please you?' she asked. 'I'd be mad as a hatter if the only person who could prove I was telling the truth left me in the lurch.'