left. He has been through quite an ordeal, I’m afraid. He was hiding, you see, when they killed Lady Anne. Very unpleasant.”
Peter was trying to digest this new horrific information when he was distracted by a sudden gasp from inside the car. It was Greta. All the color had gone out of her face, and her eyes were open wide and frightened.
“Oh my God, is he all right?” she cried. “Did they hurt him?”
“They?” repeated Hearns, making the word into a question.
“The killers. You said men a moment ago, and so I assumed there was more than one.”
“Ah,” said Sergeant Hearns. Greta’s explanation made sense. It was the need that she felt to give it that was interesting.
“No, I’m pleased to say that Thomas is physically fine,” he added. “The men didn’t know he was there. He stayed hidden while they ransacked the bedroom. They took all your wife’s jewelry, I’m afraid. His mental state I cannot, of course, answer for. Shall we go?”
Hearns addressed his invitation to Sir Peter, but Greta didn’t wait to be asked herself. She opened the door of the Range Rover and caught up with the detective and her employer by the time that they were halfway across the road.
“I know it’s a bad time, sir,” Hearns was saying, “but perhaps you could help me with just a couple of questions. It’s just so our forensic boys know to look in all the right places.”
“Very well, but make it quick,” said Sir Peter, refusing to slow his pace to match that of the detective. “I want to see my son.”
“It’s that door in the wall, sir. The one leading to that little roadway.”
“The lane.”
“That’s right. Was it locked, as far as you know, when you left?”
“Yes, Mrs. Martin would have locked it. I didn’t go through there after she left. What about you, Greta?”
“No.”
“Thank you, sir. Just one other question. The windows in the study. Did you happen to leave one of them open before you left?”
“No, I was in the drawing room with my wife. Why?”
“It’s just that your son has told us that he found one of them open when he came home at about eight- thirty.”
“Well, it wasn’t me. It could’ve been Greta, I suppose. She was working in there, I think. Wait a minute. I’ll ask her.”
Greta had walked on ahead, and Peter quickened his pace to catch up to her. She was almost at the Marshes’ front door.
“Greta, did you leave the study window open before we left? The detective needs to know.”
She turned around to face him. She looked terrible, he suddenly thought. As if the full force of the tragedy had only just hit her. It was the detective who pressed the question in the insistent voice that Peter found so grating.
“Can you help us, Miss Grahame?” he asked.
She looked cornered, uncertain of what to say, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, she blurted out her answer: “I don’t know. I may have done. It was a warm evening.”
“It certainly was, madam,” said Hearns, moving past her to knock on the door. “A fine summer’s evening.”
The detective did not wait for the door to open but instead turned back toward them. It was Peter he addressed now.
“I’m going back up to the house, Sir Peter. We’re still busy with the forensics, but come and ask for me at the gate when you’re finished here. I can ring forward to the hospital at Rowston, like I said before. I’m very sorry, Sir Peter. Very sorry indeed.”
Peter walked through the open door of the cottage, but he was hardly aware of the man greeting him in the hallway. Christopher Marsh was wrapped up in a dressing gown, making inarticulate sympathetic noises. Nothing could have prepared him or his wife for what had unfolded since they had been woken from sleep four hours earlier by a terrible knocking at the door and had come down to find Thomas crying on the step.
Peter moved past his neighbor, bending at the waist to avoid hitting his head on the low lintel of the living room doorway.
He found Thomas sitting on the sofa next to Grace. She’d thrown a blanket around his shoulders even though it wasn’t cold, and he was holding a mug of tea between his shaking hands. He got awkwardly to his feet just after his father came through the door and spilled half the mug’s contents onto the hearth rug at his feet.
“Tom, I am so sorry,” Peter said, then stopped in midsentence, suddenly aware of the inadequacy of his words to match the significance of the moment in both their lives. He wanted to leap across the ten feet of carpet that separated them and take the boy in his arms, but something held him back. It was as if they didn’t know each other well enough.
And there was no time. Greta came in behind Peter. Lacking the English reserve that afflicted her employer, she took a step toward Thomas, holding her hands out as she did so.
“Oh, Tom, Tom!” she cried, and there were tears in her green eyes.
He stepped back, half falling into the sofa behind him, and then coming forward again almost immediately, he threw his mug at Greta. Perhaps he would have hit her if he hadn’t been off-balance. There was no doubt that that was what he had intended to do. As it was, the mug exploded into fragments as it smashed against the edge of the Marshes’ fireplace, and all that came into contact with Greta was a little of the warm tea splashing out of the mug as it flew past her through the air.
Peter reacted instantly, rushing forward to put himself between Greta and his son, just as he had gotten between Greta and his wife a few weeks earlier. He had no difficulty reacting to violence; it was emotion that held him back.
“Get her out! Get her out!” Thomas screamed the words over and over again, full in his father’s face. Peter felt he would have carried on until his lungs burst if Greta hadn’t backed away out of the door, edging past Christopher Marsh as she did so.
“I’m sorry, Miss Grahame,” said Christopher, following her out onto the front step. “The boy’s not himself. He’ll get over it.”
“No he won’t,” she muttered, pulling her coat up above her shoulders and turning her haggard face away as she walked out into the road. “No he won’t.”
With Greta gone, Thomas fell back onto the sofa, leaving his father standing over him. Grace had moved to the fireplace and begun picking up bits of the shattered mug. She was very fond of Thomas, whom she had known all his life, but her concern for the boy was battling with a longing for all these people to go. She was by nature a timid woman, and the boy’s act of sudden violence had terrified her. She was tired too; it was nearly two-thirty in the morning.
“Why did you do that, Thomas?” His son’s full name came far easier to Peter than the affectionate Tom that he had used when he first came into the room. He persisted when the boy did not answer. “What’s Greta got to do with it? She’s only here to help.”
“She sent that man. He killed my mother.”
“What man?”
“He’s got a scar. I saw him through the hole in the wall.”
“What wall?”
“The bookcase wall when he killed Mummy. When you were in London with her.”
“Yes, Thomas. A man has killed your mother. I don’t know what to say to you. I wish it wasn’t true. I wish I’d been here for her, and for you, but I wasn’t. I just don’t understand what it’s got to do with Greta.”
Thomas breathed deeply and then looked up at his father. It was as if he had time for one final effort at communication before he was sucked back down into the seeping black quagmire into which he’d been pushed.
“I saw the man with the scar before. In London with Greta that first night I came up with Mummy. Greta lied about it. She said she was with her mother, but she wasn’t. She was with that man. I heard them talking down in the basement. She was telling him to wait.”
