The Dead of Jericho

before those unblinking, unseeing eyes.

***

Later the same morning, Conrad Richards dialled a number in Spain.

'That you, Charles? Buenos something or other! Come esa? '

'Fine, fine. Everything OK with you?'

'The police rang this morning. Wanted to know how long we'd been in Abingdon.'

'Was that all?'

'Yes.'

'I see,' said Charles Richards slowly. 'Celia all right?'

'Fine, yes. She's gone over to Cambridge to see Betty. She'll probably stay overnight, I should think. I tried to persuade her, anyway.'

'That's good news.'

'Look, Charles. We've had an enquiry from one of the Oxford examination boards. They want five hundred copies of some classical text that's gone out of print. No problem over royalties or copyright or anything. What do you think?'

The brothers talked for several minutes about VAT and profit margins, and finally the decision was left with Conrad.

A few minutes later Charles Richards walked out into the bright air of the Calle de Alcata and, entering the Cafe Leon, he ordered himself a Cuba Libre. On the whole, things seemed to be working out satisfactorily.

***

All the way, Celia Richards's mind was churning over the events of the past two weeks, and she was conscious of driving with insufficient attention. At Bedford she had incurred the honking displeasure of a motorist she had not noticed quite legitimately overtaking her on the inside in the one-way system through the centre; and on the short stretch of the A1 she had almost overshot the St. Neots turn, where the squealing of her Mini's brakes had frightened her and left her heart thumping madly. What a terrible mess her life had suddenly become!

In the early days at Croydon, when she had first met the Richards brothers, she had almost immediately fallen for Charles… Charles with his charm and vivacity, his sense of enjoyment, his forceful masculinity. Yet, even then, before they agreed to marry, she was conscious of other sides to his nature: a potential broodiness; a weakness for false flattery; a slightly nasty, hard streak in his business dealings; the suspicion-yes, even then-that his eye would linger far too long on the lovely limbs and the curving breasts of other women. But for several years they had been as happy as most couples: probably more so. Social events had brought her into an interesting circle of friends, and on more than one occasion other men had shown more interest in her own young and attractive body than their wives would have wished. Just a few times she had been fractionally disloyal to her marriage vows, but never once had she entertained the idea of any compromising entanglement. But Charles? He had been unfaithful, she knew that now: knew it for certain, because at long last-when there was no longer any hope of screening his impulsive affairs with his fond, if wayward, affection towards her-he had told her so… And then there was Conrad. Poor, faithful, lovely Conrad! If only she'd been willing to get to know him better when, in the early days, his own love for her had blazed as brightly as that of Charles… But he'd never had the sparkle or the drive of his elder brother, and he'd never really had a chance. A bit ineffectual, a bit passive-a bit 'wet', as she'd once described him to Charles. Oh dear! As things had turned out, he'd always been wonderful to her. No one could have been more kind to her, more thoughtful, more willing to forget himself; and she thought again now of that mild and self-effacing smile that reflected a dry, fulfilled contentment in the happiness of others… What would it have been like if she'd married Conrad? Not that he'd ever asked her, of course: he was far too shy and diffident to have joined the lists with Charles. Physically he and Charles looked very similar, but that was only on the surface. Underneath-well, there was no electric current in Conrad… or so she'd thought until so very recently.

In Cambridge she turned into the Huntingdon Road and drove out to Girton village, where her sister lived.

When Betty brought a glass of sherry into the lounge, she found her sister in tears-a series of jerky sobs that stretched her full and pretty mouth to its furthest extent.

'You can tell me about it later, Celia, if you want to. But I shan't mind if you don't. A drop of booze'll do you good. Your bed's aired, and I've got a couple of tickets for the theatre tonight. Please stay!'

Dry-eyed at last, Celia Richards looked sadly at her sister and smiled bleakly. 'Be kind to me, Betty! You see- you see-I can't tell you about it, but I've done something terribly wrong.'

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The time is out of joint.

– Hamlet Act I, scene v

Although Morse insisted (that lunch-time) that a liquid diet without blotting-paper was an exceedingly fine nutrient for the brain cells, Lewis opted for his beloved chips-with sausages and egg-to accompany the beer. 'Are we making progress?' he asked, between mouthfuls.

'Progress? Progress, Lewis, is the law of life. You and I would be making progress even if we were going backwards. And, as it happens, my old friend, we are actually going forward at this particular stage of our joint investigations.'

'We are?'

'Indeed! I think you'll agree that the main facts hang pretty well together now. Anne Scott goes to a bridge evening the night before she kills herself, and I'm certain she learns something there that's the final straw to a long and cumulative emotional strain. She writes a note to Edward Murdoch, telling him she can't see him for a lesson the next afternoon, and from that point the die is cast. She gets home about 3 a.m. or thereabouts, and we shall never know how she spends the next few hours. But whatever doubt or hesitation she may have felt is finally settled by the Wednesday morning post, when a letter arrives from the birth clinic. She burns the letter and she- hangs herself.'

'Now Jackson has been doing some brickwork for her, and he goes over to have a final look at things-and to pick up his trowel. He lets himself in, pushes the kitchen door open, and in the process knocks over the stool on which Anne Scott has stood to hang herself-and finds her swaying there behind the door after he's picked up the stool and put it by the table. Now, just think a minute, Lewis. Anyone, virtually anyone, in those circumstances would have rung up the police immediately. So why not Jackson? He's got nothing to worry about. He does lots of odd jobs in the neighbourhood and it must be common knowledge that he's patching up the wall at number 9. So why doesn't he ring the police at that point!-because I'm sure it was Jackson who rang up later. It's because he finds something, Lewis-apart from the body: something which proves too tempting for his cheap and greedy little soul.'

'I thought for a start it may have been money, but I doubt it now. I think she'd written some sort of letter or note and left it on the kitchen table-a letter which Jackson takes. He's anxious to get out of the house quickly, and he forgets to lock the door behind him. Hence all our troubles, Lewis! You see, since Jackson has been coming over regularly-sometimes when she was still in bed-she's got in the habit of locking her front door, then taking the key out, and leaving it on the sideboard, so that he can put his own key in.'

'Surely she wouldn't have done that if she'd already decided to kill herself?'

But Morse ignored the objection and continued. 'Then Jackson goes over to his own home and reads the letter-'

'But you told me he couldn't read!'