‘Yes. The mother was dead. But the father was serving abroad.’
‘Well, what about him? Where is he now?’
‘We’ve no information. He obtained his demobilization papers last year.’
‘And if the son was mentally unstable, the father may have been, too.’
‘That is so.’
‘So the murderer may be middle-aged or old. Major Metcalf, remember, was frightfully upset when I told him the police had rung up. He really was.’
Sergeant Trotter said quietly, ‘Please believe me, Mrs Davis, I’ve had all the possibilities in mind since the beginning. The boy, Jim—the father—even the sister. It could have been a woman, you know. I haven’t overlooked anything. I may be pretty sure in my own mind—but I don’t know—yet. It’s very hard really to know about anything or anyone—especially in these days. You’d be surprised what we see in the police force. With marriages, especially. Hasty marriages—war marriages. There’s no background, you see. No families or relations to meet. People accept each other’s word. Fellow says he’s a fighter pilot or an army major—the girl believes him implicitly. Sometimes she doesn’t find out for a year or two that he’s an absconding bank clerk with a wife and family, or an army deserter.’
He paused and went on.
‘I know quite well what’s in your mind, Mrs Davis. There’s just one thing I’d like to say to you. The murderer’s enjoying himself. That’s the one thing I’m quite sure of.’
He went towards the door.
Molly stood very straight and still, a red flush burning in her cheeks. After standing rigid for a moment or two, she moved slowly towards the stove, knelt down, and opened the oven door. A savory, familiar smell came towards her. Her heart lightened. It was as though suddenly she had been wafted back into the dear, familiar world of everyday things. Cooking, housework, homemaking, ordinary prosaic living.
So, from time immemorial women had cooked food for their men. The world of danger—of madness, receded. Woman, in her kitchen, was safe—eternally safe.
The kitchen door opened. She turned her head as Christopher Wren entered. He was a little breathless.
‘My dear,’ he said. ‘Such ructions! Somebody’s stolen the sergeant’s skis!’
‘The sergeant’s skis? But why should anyone want to do that?’
‘I really can’t imagine. I mean, if the sergeant decided to go away and leave us, I should imagine that the murderer would be only too pleased. I mean, it really doesn’t make sense, does it?’
‘Giles put them in the cupboard under the stairs.’
‘Well, they’re not there now. Intriguing, isn’t it?’ He laughed gleefully. ‘The sergeant’s awfully angry about it. Snapping like a turtle. He’s been pitching into poor Major Metcalf. The old boy sticks to it that he didn’t notice whether they were there or not when he looked into the cupboard just before Mrs Boyle was murdered. Trotter says he must have noticed. If you ask me,’ Christopher lowered his voice and leaned forward, ‘this business is beginning to get Trotter down.’
‘It’s getting us all down,’ said Molly.
‘Not me. I find it most stimulating. It’s all so delightfully unreal.’
Molly said sharply, ‘You wouldn’t say that if—if you’d been the one to find her. Mrs Boyle, I mean. I keep thinking of it—I can’t forget it. Her face—all swollen and purple—’
She shivered. Christopher came across to her. He put a hand on her shoulder.
‘I know. I’m an idiot. I’m sorry. I didn’t think.’
A dry sob rose in Molly’s throat. ‘It seemed all right just now—cooking—the kitchen,’ she spoke confusedly, incoherently. ‘And then suddenly—it was all back again—like a nightmare.’
There was a curious expression on Christopher Wren’s face as he stood there looking down on her bent head.
‘I see,’ he said. ‘I see.’ He moved away. ‘Well, I’d better clear out and—not interrupt you.’
Molly cried, ‘Don’t go!’ just as his hand was on the door handle.
He turned round, looking at her questioningly. Then he came slowly back.
‘Do you really mean that?’
‘Mean what?’
‘You definitely don’t want to—go?’
‘No, I tell you. I don’t want to be alone. I’m afraid to be alone.’
Christopher sat down by the table. Molly bent to the oven, lifted the pie to a higher shelf, shut the oven door, and came and joined him.
‘That’s very interesting,’ said Christopher in a level voice.
‘What is?’
‘That you’re not afraid to be—alone with me. You’re not, are you?’
She shook her head. ‘No, I’m not.’
‘Why aren’t you afraid, Molly?’
‘I don’t know—I’m not.’
‘And yet I’m the only person who—fits the bill. One murderer as per schedule.’
‘No,’ said Molly. ‘There are—other possibilities, I’ve been talking to Sergeant Trotter about them.’
‘Did he agree with you?’
‘He didn’t disagree,’ said Molly slowly.
Certain words sounded over and over again in her head. Especially that last phrase: I know exactly what’s in your mind, Mrs Davis. But did he? Could he possibly know? He had said, too, that the murderer was enjoying himself. Was that true?
She said to Christopher, ‘You’re not exactly enjoying yourself, are you? In spite of what you said just now.’
‘Good God, no,’ said Christopher, staring. ‘What a very odd thing to say.’
‘Oh, I didn’t say it. Sergeant Trotter did. I hate that man! He—he puts things into your head—things that aren’t true—that can’t possibly be true.’
She put her hands to her head, covering her eyes with them. Very gently Christopher took those hands away.
‘Look here, Molly,’ he said, ‘what is all this?’
She let him force her gently into a chair by the kitchen table. His manner was no longer hysterical or childish.
‘What’s the matter, Molly?’ he said.
Molly looked at him—a long appraising glance. She asked irrelevantly, ‘How long have I known you, Christopher? Two days?’
‘Just about. You’re thinking, aren’t you, that though it’s such a short time, we seem to know each other rather well.’
‘Yes—it’s odd, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. There’s a kind of sympathy between us. Possibly because we’ve both—been up against it.’
It was not a question. It was a statement. Molly let it pass. She
