Sarah stared back at him, shaken. “But he’d have to. Besides, he’d be furious at being used like that; he’d want to get back at whoever did it.”
“And get his name in the papers in connection with a homicide investigation, if the police see it the way you do . . . Well, maybe.”
“The way I do? But there’s no other way to see it,” said Sarah incredulously. Some of the sick coldness she had felt in the car came back; it was, in a curious way, reflected on Harry’s narrow tightened face.
He wasn’t looking at her, but at the table top. “It’s been three months. Granted that someone could know in advance that Vollmer would be out of the way when Charles died—”
“That’s not so terribly hard,” said Sarah, quiet with an effort. “If you mark off a certain section of the city, and call every psychiatrist in it with a request for weekly appointments, one of them will turn out to be going on a winter vacation, particularly around Christmas, or off to a convention or somewhere.”
“All right, let that go. It’s still been three months and we’ll presume,’’ said Harry, still not looking at her, “that a lot of people go in and out of Vollmer’s office, and he had no reason to be especially interested in that one patient at the time. Suppose he made an honest mistake, or just plain couldn’t remember? The police might put you down as an overwrought widow wanting to get out from under.’’
“Not with the railroad tickets to prove Charles wasn’t even in New York that day.’’
“He could conceivably have gotten those from someone else.’’
Sarah stood up, sweeping gloves and handbag and camera into a heedless bundle. She said softly and unbelievingly, “You don’t want to find out, do you?’’
“Me,’’ said Harry musingly, “or Hunter or Milo or Rob Clemence.’’ He smiled up at her without humor. “Yes, I suppose I do. But if the police start digging into it, they are going to go one hell of a long way back.’’
“Back to Nina Trafton, you mean.’’
“That’s what I mean,’’ said Harry, matching her tone exactly. “I think it’s eminently possible that Charles killed Nina, and that the whole thing is going to make a twenty-four carat mess.’’
xii
SO THIS WAS what Hunter had meant, this was why he had given her that queer compassionate glance.
In the car, Harry said gently, “Sarah, I’m sorry. I’d much rather not have told you, but it’s—something you’ll have to take into consideration.”
“Oh, it is, isn’t it?” said Sarah light-headedly. “You must all have been very relieved when Charles decided to marry. Marriage is so steadying; it weeds out those bad little bachelor habits. But you couldn’t be a witness at the last minute, could you, Harry? You begged off, which shows—which shows. . .”
“I begged off, as you call it, because I found out that I couldn’t stand watching you being married to anybody at all,” said Harry shortly. “And before you go off into a tail-spin, you ought to know a little of the background. For one thing, I’m sure Charles had no intention of killing her beforehand, for another, it was quite—understandable. Nina Trafton . . .”
Sarah had told herself numbly that she wouldn’t listen, but she did. Edward Trafton emerged again, bitter and lonely, a constant reproach to Charles, who after all had his own life to live. Into this bleak personal landscape, on a chance visit to distant relatives she had just discovered she had, came Nina Clemence, ripe and warm as a peach, mature enough for poise and discretion. Her warmth, her mixture of deference and independence, perhaps most of all the fact of a childhood made difficult by extreme poverty, had captivated Charles’s father.
After their marriage, she had taken the reins of the household from Bess and managed—to everybody’s surprise— expertly. The butcher was enslaved, and reserved special cuts of meat. The laundry, never counted by Bess, came back with its full complement of shirts and sheets and pillowcases. Nina liked gardening, and the house began to bloom with flowers. Edward Trafton was a different man.
Largely because of the change in his father, Charles had idolized his stepmother. He could now pursue his own concerns without worry, and Nina, of his own generation, was there to talk to when he wanted. She flirted just enough to flatter her elderly husband—with Milo, with Harry, with Rob Clemence, even, unavailingly, with Hunter—but that was as natural to her as her walk or smile or beautiful heavy hair. But her real attention was for Edward: she went on long expeditions, no matter what the weather, to dig up a rare fern, or log a scarlet tanager out of season. The diary she kept was really a record of success for a marriage that mightn’t have been expected to succeed.
And all of it had been a mockery.
Harry Brendan didn’t know how Charles had found out, nor to what extent it went. Charles, coming to him, had been incoherent with shock and rage and, although he couldn’t put it into words, disillusionment and hurt pride. Nina had been laughing at all of them, all along. She had been carrying on an affair or affairs, bringing home, straight-facedly, a lady’s-slipper or Bixton’s fern after her assignation in the woods, basking in her husband’s approbation while she looked forward to the next secret meeting. It even seemed possible that she had enjoyed the game as much as the candle.
Harry had tried to cool Charles’s dangerous rage, had pointed out that if the object had been to make his father happy, Nina had succeeded, had said when that argument failed, “Wait. If you’re thinking of contesting the will, you’ve got to have proof. Or talk to Nina. Chances are she’ll take a smaller settlement and get out.”
But Nina Trafton had contracted pneumonia by then, and either because of her illness or because she had asked for protection, the nurse would not let Charles
