Scold's Bridle

She looked surprised. 'I don't have any dependants.'

'You have a husband, Dr. Blakeney. I'm told he's dependent on you.'

She stirred some leaves with the toe of her Wellington boot. 'Not any more. We're separated. I don't even know where he is at the moment.'

He took out his notebook and consulted it. 'That must be fairly recent then. According to Mrs. Lascelles, he attended the funeral two days ago, went on to Cedar House afterwards for tea and then asked her to drive him back here at around six o'clock, which she did.' He paused to look at her. 'So when exactly did the separation begin?'

'He left some time that night. I found a note from him in the morning.'

'Was it his idea or yours?'

'Mine. I told him I wanted a divorce.'

'I see.' He regarded her thoughtfully. 'Was there a reason for choosing that night to do it?'

She sighed. 'I was depressed by Mathilda's funeral. I found myself exploring that old chestnut, the meaning of life, and I wondered what the point of her life was. I suddenly realized that my own life was almost as pointless.' She turned her head to look at him. 'You probably think that sounds absurd. I'm a doctor, after all, and you don't enter medicine without some sort of vocation. It's like police work. We're in it because we believe we can make a difference.' She gave a hollow laugh. 'There's an awful arrogance in a statement like that. The presumption is that we know what we're doing when, frankly, I'm not sure that we do. Doctors strive officiously to keep people alive, because the law says we must, and we talk grandly about quality of life. But what is quality of life? I kept Mathilda's pain under control with some sophisticated drugs but the quality of her life was appalling, not because of pain, but because she was lonely, bitter, intensely frustrated and very unhappy.' She shrugged. 'I took a long hard look at myself and my husband during the funeral, and I realized that the same adjectives could be applied to the two of us. We were both lonely, both bitter, both frustrated and both unhappy. So I suggested a divorce, and he left.' She smiled cynically. 'It was as simple as that.'

He felt sorry for her. Nothing was ever that simple, and it sounded to him as if she had tried to bluff a hand at poker, and lost. 'Had he met Mrs. Lascelles before the funeral?'

'Not as far as I know I hadn't, so I can't imagine how he could have done.'

'But he knew Mrs. Gillespie?'

She looked out across the garden, playing for time. 'If he did, then it wasn't through me. He never mentioned meeting her.'

DS Cooper's already lively interest in the absent Jack Blakeney was growing. 'Why did he go to the funeral?'

'Because I asked him to.' She straightened. 'I hate funerals but I always feel I have to go to them. It seems so churlish to turn your back on a patient the minute they're dead. Jack was very good about lending support.' Unexpectedly, she laughed. 'To tell you the truth, I think he rather fancies himself in his black overcoat. He enjoys looking satanic.'

Satanic. The Sergeant pondered over the word. Duncan Orloff had said Mathilda liked Blakeney. Mrs. Lascelles had described him as 'a peculiar man who said very little and then demanded to be taken home.' Ruth had found him 'intimidating.' The vicar, on the other hand, had had a great deal to say when Cooper had approached him about the various members of the funeral congregation. 'Jack Blakeney? He's an artist though not a very successful one, poor chap. If it wasn't for Sarah, he'd be starving. Matter of fact, I like his work. I'd buy a canvas if only he'd lower his sights a little, but he knows his worth, or says he does, and refuses to sell himself cheap. Did he know Mathilda? Yes, he must have done. I saw him leaving her house one day with his sketchpad under his arm. She'd have been a wonderful subject for his type of work. He couldn't have resisted her.'

He took the bull by the horns. 'The Reverend Matthews tells me your husband was painting a portrait of Mrs. Gillespie. He must have known her quite well to do that.' He lit another cigarette and watched Sarah through the smoke.

She sat for a long time in silence, contemplating a distant cow in a far field. 'I feel inclined to say I won't answer any more questions until my solicitor's present,' she murmured at last, 'except that I have a nasty feeling you'd regard that as suspicious.' He didn't say anything, so she glanced at him. There was no sympathy in the pleasant face, only a patient confidence that she would answer in the affirmative, with or without a solicitor. She sighed. 'I could deny a portrait quite easily. They're all in the studio, and there isn't a chance in a million you'd recognize Mathilda's. Jack doesn't paint faces. He paints personalities. And you have to understand his colour- coding and the way he uses dynamics in shape, depth and perspective to interpret what he's done.'

'But you're not going to deny it?' he suggested.

'Only because Jack won't, and I'm not particularly keen to perjure myself.' She smiled and her eyes lit with enthusiasm. 'Actually, it's brilliant. I think it's probably the best thing he's ever done. I found it yesterday just before you came.' She pulled a wry face. 'I knew it would be there because of something Ruth said. According to her, Jack mentioned that Mathilda called me her scold's bridle.' She sighed again. 'And he couldn't have known that unless Mathilda had told him, because I never did.'

'May I see this painting?'

She ignored the question. 'He wouldn't have murdered her, Sergeant, not for money, anyway. Jack despises materialism. The only use he has for money is as a guide to the value of his genius. Which is why he never sells anything. His own valuation of his art is rather higher than everybody else's.' She smiled at his frown of disbelief. 'Actually, it makes sense in a funny sort of way, but it's irritating because it's so conceited. The argument goes something like this: your average prole is incapable of recognizing genius so he won't be interested in buying your picture whatever price you put on it. While a Renaissance man, on the other hand, will recognize genius and will pay handsomely for it. Ergo, if you're a genius, you put a high price on yourself and wait for the right person to come and discover you.'

'If you'll pardon the language, Dr. Blakeney, that is bullshit.' He felt quite angry. 'The man's conceit must be colossal. Has anyone else said he's a genius?'

'No one said Van Gogh was a genius either until after he was dead.' Why, she wondered, did Jack's single- minded view of himself always put people's backs up? Was it because, in an uncertain world, his certainty was threatening? 'It really doesn't matter,' she said calmly, 'what sort of an artist Jack is. Good, bad, indifferent. I happen to think he's good, but that's a personal opinion. The point is he would never have killed Mathilda for her