Galbraith took another sheaf of papers out of his briefcase. 'We've questioned thirty people in all, William. These are the rest of the statements. There's no one who's prepared to admit they saw you at any time during the ten hours prior to your wife's murder or the ten hours after. We've also checked your hotel account. You didn't use any hotel service, and that includes your telephone, between lunch on Saturday and prelunch drinks on Sunday.' He dropped the papers onto the sofa. 'How do you explain that? For example, where did you eat on Saturday night? You weren't at the conference dinner, and you didn't have room service.'
Sumner set to cracking his finger joints again. 'I didn't have anything to eat, not a proper meal anyway. I hate those blasted conference dinners, so I wasn't going to leave my room in case anyone saw me. They all get drunk and behave stupidly. I used the mini-bar,' he said, 'drank the beer and ate peanuts and chocolate. Isn't that on the account?'
Galbraith nodded. 'Except it doesn't specify a time. You could have had them at ten o'clock on Sunday morning. It may explain why you were in such good spirits when you met your friends in the bar. Why didn't you order room service if you didn't want to go down?'
'Because I wasn't that hungry.' Sumner lurched toward the armchair and slumped into it. 'I knew this was going to happen,' he said bitterly. 'I knew you'd go for me if you couldn't find anyone else. I was in the library all afternoon, then I went back to the hotel and read books and journals till I fell asleep.' He lapsed into silence, massaging his temples. 'How could I have drowned her anyway?' he demanded suddenly. 'I don't have a boat.'
'No,' Galbraith agreed. 'Drowning does seem to be the one method that exonerates you.'
A complex mixture of emotions-
'Why do you want to get even with my mother?' asked Maggie when Ingram returned to the kitchen after settling Celia and phoning the local GP. Some color had returned to her cheeks, and she had finally stopped shaking.
'Private joke,' he said, filling the kettle and putting it on the Aga. 'Where does she keep her mugs?'
'Cupboard by the door.'
He took out two and transferred them to the sink, then opened the cupboard underneath and found some washing-up liquid, bleach, and pan scourers. 'How long has her hip been bad?' he asked, rolling up his sleeves and setting to with the scourers and the bleach to render the sink hygienic before he even began to deal with the stains in the mugs. From the strong whiffs of dirty dog and damp horse blankets that seemed to haunt the kitchen like old ghosts, he had a strong suspicion that the sink was not entirely dedicated to the purpose of washing crockery.
'Six months. She's on the waiting list for a replacement operation, but I can't see it happening before the end of the year.' She watched him sluice down the draining board and sink. 'You think we're a couple of slobs, don't you?'
' 'Fraid so,' he agreed bluntly. 'I'd say it's a miracle neither of you has gone down with food poisoning, particularly your mother, when her health's not too brilliant in the first place.'
'There are so many other things to do,' she said dispiritedly, 'and Ma's in too much pain most of the time to clean properly ... or says she is. Sometimes I think she's just making excuses to get out of it because she thinks it's beneath her to get her hands dirty. Other times...' She sighed heavily. 'I keep the horses immaculate, but cleaning up after myself and Ma is always at the bottom of the list. I hate coming up here anyway. It's so'-she sought a suitable word-'depressing.'
He wondered how she had the nerve to stand in judgment on her mother's lifestyle, but didn't comment on it. Stress, depression, and waspishness went together in his experience. Instead, he scrubbed the mugs, then filled them with diluted bleach and left them to stand. 'Is that why you moved down to the stables?' he asked her, turning around.
'Not really. If Ma and I live in each other's pockets we argue. If we live apart we don't. Simple as that. Things are easier this way.'
She looked thin and harassed, and her hair hung in limp strands about her face as if she hadn't been near a shower for weeks. It wasn't surprising in view of what she'd been through that morning, particularly as the beginnings of a bruise were ripening on the side of her face, but Ingram remembered her as she used to be, pre- Robert Healey, a gloriously vibrant woman with a mischievous sense of humor and sparkling eyes. He regretted the passing of that personality-it had been a dazzling one-but she was still the most desirable woman he knew.
He glanced idly around the kitchen. 'If you think this is depressing, you should try living in a hostel for the homeless for a week.'
'Is that supposed to make me feel better?'
'This one room could house an entire family.'
'You sound like Ava, my bloody sister-in-law,' she said testily. 'According to her, we live in the lap of luxury despite the fact that the damn place is falling down about our ears.'
'Then why don't you stop whinging about it and do something constructive to change it?' he suggested. 'If you gave this room a lick of paint it would brighten it up and you'd have less to feel depressed about and more to be thankful for.'
'Oh, my God,' she said icily, 'you'll be telling me to take up knitting next. I don't need DIY therapy, Nick.'
'Then explain to me how sitting around moaning about your environment helps you. You're not helpless, are you? Or maybe it's you, and not your mother, who thinks that getting her hands dirty is demeaning.'
'Paint costs money.'
'Your flat over the stables costs a damn sight more,' he pointed out. 'You balk at forking out for some cheap emulsion, yet you'll pay two sets of gas, electricity, and telephone bills just in order to avoid having to get on with your mother. How does that make things easier, Maggie? It's hardly sound economics, is it? And what are you going to do when she falls over and breaks her hip so badly she's confined to a wheelchair? Pop in once in a while to see she hasn't died of hypothermia in the night because she hasn't been able to get into bed on her own? Or will that be so depressing you'll avoid her entirely?'
'I don't need this,' she said tiredly. 'It's none of your business anyway. We manage fine on our own.'
He watched her for a moment, then turned back to the sink, emptying the mugs of bleach and rinsing them under the tap. He jerked his head toward the kettle. 'Your mother would like a cup of tea, and I suggest you put
