‘No.’
‘Why did you—’
‘Choose that? Oh, it seemed rather a pleasant whimsy. They used to jeer at me and call me Christopher Robin at school. Robin—Wren—association of ideas, I suppose.’
‘What’s your real name?’
Christopher said quietly, ‘I don’t think we’ll go into that. It wouldn’t mean anything to you. I’m not an architect. Actually, I’m a deserter from the army.’
Just for a moment swift alarm leaped into Molly’s eyes.
Christopher saw it. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Just like our unknown murderer. I told you I was the only one the specification fitted.’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Molly. ‘I told you I didn’t believe you were the murderer. Go on—tell me about yourself. What made you desert—nerves?’
‘Being afraid, you mean? No, curiously enough, I wasn’t afraid—not more than anyone else, that is to say. Actually I got a reputation for being rather cool under fire. No, it was something quite different. It was—my mother.’
‘Your mother?’
‘Yes—you see, she was killed—in an air raid. Buried. They—they had to dig her out. I don’t know what happened to me when I heard about it—I suppose I went a little mad. I thought, you see, it happened to me. I felt I had to get home quickly and—and dig myself out—I can’t explain—it was all confused.’ He lowered his head to his hands and spoke in a muffled voice. ‘I wandered about a long time, looking for her—or for myself—I don’t know which. And then, when my mind cleared up, I was afraid to go back—or to report—I knew I could never explain. Since then, I’ve just been—nothing.’
He stared at her, his young face hollow with despair.
‘You mustn’t feel like that,’ said Molly gently. ‘You can start again.’
‘Can one ever do that?’
‘Of course—you’re quite young.’
‘Yes, but you see—I’ve come to the end.’
‘No,’ said Molly. ‘You haven’t come to the end, you only think you have. I believe everyone has that feeling once, at least, in their lives—that it’s the end, that they can’t go on.’
‘You’ve had it, haven’t you, Molly? You must have—to be able to speak like that.’
‘Yes.’
‘What was yours?’
‘Mine was just what happened to a lot of people. I was engaged to a young fighter pilot—and he was killed.’
‘Wasn’t there more to it than that?’
‘I suppose there was. I’d had a nasty shock when I was younger. I came up against something that was rather cruel and beastly. It predisposed me to think that life was always—horrible. When Jack was killed it just confirmed my belief that the whole of life was cruel and treacherous.’
‘I know. And then, I suppose,’ said Christopher, watching her, ‘Giles came along.’
‘Yes.’ He saw the smile, tender, almost shy, that trembled on her mouth. ‘Giles came—everything felt right and safe and happy—Giles!’
The smile fled from her lips. Her face was suddenly stricken. She shivered as though with cold.
‘What’s the matter, Molly? What’s frightening you? You are frightened, aren’t you?’
She nodded.
‘And it’s something to do with Giles? Something he’s said or done?’
‘It’s not Giles, really. It’s that horrible man!’
‘What horrible man?’ Christopher was surprised. ‘Paravicini?’
‘No, no. Sergeant Trotter.’
‘Sergeant Trotter?’
‘Suggesting things—hinting things—putting horrible thoughts into my mind about Giles—thoughts that I didn’t know were there. Oh, I hate him—I hate him.’
Christopher’s eyebrows rose in slow surprise. ‘Giles? Giles! Yes, of course, he and I are much of an age. He seems to me much older than I am—but I suppose he isn’t, really. Yes, Giles might fit the bill equally well. But look here, Molly, that’s all nonsense. Giles was down here with you the day that woman was killed in London.’
Molly did not answer.
Christopher looked at her sharply. ‘Wasn’t he here?’
Molly spoke breathlessly, the words coming out in an incoherent jumble. ‘He was out all day—in the car—he went over to the other side of the county about some wire netting in a sale there—at least that’s what he said—that’s what I thought—until—until—’
‘Until what?’
Slowly Molly’s hand reached out and traced the date of the Evening Standard that covered a portion of the kitchen table.
Christopher looked at it and said, ‘London edition, two days ago.’
‘It was in Giles’s pocket when he came back. He—he must have been in London.’
Christopher stared. He stared at the paper and he stared at Molly. He pursed up his lips and began to whistle, then checked himself abruptly. It wouldn’t do to whistle that tune just now.
Choosing his words very carefully, and avoiding her eye, he said, ‘How much do you actually—know about Giles?’
‘Don’t,’ cried Molly. ‘Don’t! That’s just what that beast Trotter said—or hinted. That women often didn’t know anything about the men that they married—especially in wartime. They—they just took the man’s own account of himself.’
‘That’s true enough, I suppose.’
‘Don’t you say it, too! I can’t bear it. It’s just because we’re all in such a state, so worked up. We’d—we’d believe any fantastic suggestion—It’s not true! I—’
She stopped. The kitchen door had opened.
Giles came in. There was rather a grim look on his face. ‘Am I interrupting anything?’ he asked.
Christopher slipped from the table. ‘I’m just taking a few cookery lessons,’ he said.
‘Indeed? Well, look here, Wren, tête-à-têtes aren’t very healthy things at the present time. You keep out of the kitchen, do you hear?’
‘Oh, but surely—’
‘You keep away from my wife, Wren. She’s not going to be the next victim.’
‘That,’ said Christopher, ‘is just what I’m worrying about.’
If there was significance in the words, Giles did not apparently notice them. He merely turned a rather darker shade of brick red. ‘I’ll do the worrying,’ he said. ‘I can look after my own wife. Get the hell out of here.’
Molly said in a clear voice, ‘Please go, Christopher. Yes—really.’
Christopher moved slowly towards the door. ‘I shan’t go very far,’ he said, and the words were addressed to Molly and held a very definite meaning.
‘Will you get out of here?’
Christopher gave a high childish giggle. ‘Aye, aye, Commander,’ he said.
The door shut behind him. Giles turned on Molly.
‘For
