Cold Is The Grave

“Nowhere near as bad as mine. You don’t know the half of it.”

“Then why didn’t you sympathize with her?”

“I did. At first. Then she just… she got everything she wanted. Craig started ignoring me. Even Emily deserted me.”

Banks took over again. “Why did you kill her, Ruth?”

Ruth didn’t know whom to look at. She looked at the squashed fly again. “I didn’t. I didn’t mean to kill her.”

“But you did kill her,” Banks pressed on. “Why?”

Ruth paused and her face seemed to go through the kind of contortions as Emily’s must have when the strychnine hit.

“Why did you kill her, Ruth?” Banks persisted, his voice hardly above a whisper. “Why?”

“Because they took her back!” Ruth blurted out. “After all that happened. After everything she did to them. She broke their hearts and they took her back. She threw me out, but she took her back. They took her back! They took her back!” Ruth started crying, fat tears rolling down her acned cheeks.

There was nothing more to say. Banks called in the uniformed officers to take Ruth back to her cell. Now it was time to charge her and bring on the lawyers.

Banks drove out to the Old Mill that night with a heavy heart. He knew he had to be the one to tell Rosalind what had happened, what Ruth had done, just as he had had to break the news about Emily’s murder, but it wasn’t a task he cherished.

The lights were on in the front room. He parked out front, glancing toward the garage as he pulled up his collar against the wind and rain, and rang the doorbell.

Rosalind answered and invited him in. She was wearing a short skirt and a cashmere jumper. He followed her into the living room. Her legs looked good, and it didn’t seem as if she was wearing any tights. He thought he noticed something different about the smell of the place, but he dismissed it; there were far more serious matters on his mind.

“Drink?” Rosalind asked.

“Small whiskey, please.”

“You might as well have a large one. I don’t like the stuff, and there’s no one else to drink it.”

“I have to drive.”

She raised her eyebrow as she poured. “Really?”

“Really.” Christ, Banks thought, she was flirting. He would have to tread carefully. He accepted the crystal glass and sat down in the only uncovered armchair. The room was as sterile as ever, and a couple of packing crates sat on the floor. The baby grand was covered by a white sheet, as was most of the other furniture. He took a sip of whiskey. It was Glenfiddich, not one of his favorites. At the moment, though, anything would do.

“I was just doing some packing,” Rosalind said. “Do you know how remarkably little I have to show for all these years?” She poured herself a large gin and tonic, clearly not her first of the evening, pulled a sheet off one of the armchairs and sat down opposite Banks. As she did so, he caught a glimpse of black silk between her legs. He looked away.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“First?”

“That’s a start.”

“I’m going down to Barnstaple after the funeral to be with Benjamin. We’ll be staying with my parents for a while. I can’t stand hanging about up here any longer. I feel like some crazy old woman all alone in a Gothic mansion. It’s too big to be here alone in. I’ve even started talking to the furniture and the creaks in the woodwork.”

Banks smiled. “And then, after Barnstaple?”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to reinvent myself, won’t I? I rather fancy the coast. A little Devon fishing village, for example. I can become the mysterious woman who paces the widow’s walk in a long black cloak.”

“That was Lyme Regis,” Banks said. “The French Lieutenant’s Woman.”

“I know. I saw the film. But this is my version.”

“What about your job?”

“That’s not important. It never has been. Jerry’s was the only important career in the family, and now that’s gone, none of it really matters.”

“And Benjamin?”

“He can walk with me. It would make me more mysterious. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be flippant. It’s just…” She ran her hand across her brow. “I’ve probably had too much to drink.” She frowned. “Why are you here?”

“I’ve got something to tell you.”

Her eyes widened. “Have you caught him? Emily’s killer?”

Banks swallowed. This was going to be harder than he had imagined. “Yes,” he said. “We’ve got a confession.”

“Clough?”

That was another bridge he’d have to cross: Mal Licious. “No. Not Clough.” He leaned forward and cupped his drink in both hands, staring into the pale liquid and catching a whiff of it. “Look, there’s no easy way to say this.”

“What?”

“It was Ruth.”

“Ruth? But… she can’t… I mean…”

“She confessed. She said she didn’t mean to kill Emily, just to give her a scare.”

“Is that true?”

“I honestly don’t know. She’s contradicted herself quite a bit.”

“Ruth.” Rosalind fell silent and Banks let it stretch. Wind lashed the rain against the windowpanes the way it had the first night he came to the Riddle house. It seemed like years ago.

“Do you want to hear what happened?” Banks asked.

Rosalind looked at him. There was fear in her large blue eyes. “I suppose I’d better,” she said. “Look, do smoke if you want to. I know you’re a smoker.”

“It’s all right.”

“Suit yourself.” Rosalind got up a little unsteadily and pulled a packet of Dunhills and a box of matches from her handbag. She lit up, refreshed her gin and tonic and sat down again.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” said Banks.

“I didn’t. Not for twenty years. But I’ve started again.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

Banks lit up too. “It’s bad for you.”

“So’s life.”

There was no answer to that. Slowly, Banks told her the whole story about Ruth Walker’s twisted, private campaign of hatred and revenge against the Riddle family. First he told her about Ruth’s less-than-perfect life with the overzealous Walkers and about the fire that killed them. Then he told her how Ruth had discovered that Barry Clough was her father and had hooked him up with Emily out of spite, then put the tabloid on the scent of a scandal, and he told her how Ruth arranged to meet Emily and give her the poisoned cocaine, how she didn’t even need to be there, that it was enough for her simply to imagine Emily’s pain and shame as she humiliated herself. As he spoke, what little color there had been left Rosalind Riddle’s face and her eyes filled with tears. They didn’t fall, just gathered there at the rims, waiting, magnifying her despair. Rosalind left her drink and her cigarette untouched as she listened. A long column of ash gathered and fell onto the hardwood floor when a slight tremor passed through her fingers.

When Banks had finished, Rosalind sat in silence for a while, taking it all in, digesting it as best she could, shaking her head slowly as if disagreeing with some inner voice. Then she knocked back the rest of her drink and whispered, “But why? Why did she do it? Can you answer me that one?”

“She’s ill.”