realised that she’d never be fooled. So you had to
‘But I didn’t.’
‘She put up quite a fight. Hence the scratches on your face. But you forced the bottle to her lips repeatedly until she had swallowed all of it.’
‘That’s not true!’
‘There were bruises on her face consistent with her mouth being forced open. Her lip had been cut where the bottle was jammed against it.’
‘That wasn’t how it happened.’
‘I suggest that it took you some time to make her swallow it all. I suggest that you left the house round three o’clock.’
‘I left before one.’
‘No one saw you.’
‘Did anyone see me at three?’
‘No, but then ordinary people are very bad witnesses, Mr. Marshall. They don’t notice who comes and goes most of the time, unless the people’s behaviour is very unusual.’
It was true. The success of all Graham’s other murders had been based on that, just luck, the unobservance of ordinary people. And now the luck was working the other way.
‘But at three o’clock I was in the cinema.’
‘You don’t seem to have a very clear recollection of the film. And suddenly buying new clothes and going off to a hotel in Oxford seems strange behaviour. Could look like running away, Mr. Marshall.’
Graham said nothing.
‘Very well, I’ve given you my scenario. All I’m asking you to do is to offer me some proof that it isn’t true. Anything you like. Go on, anything. Give me one reason why I shouldn’t arrest you for this particularly unpleasant and ill-managed murder?’
Stung by the slight, he almost leapt to the defence of his murders. But he caught himself in time and had to be content with conditional justification. ‘If I ever committed a murder, it wouldn’t be mismanaged. It’d be good. I am good. I’m efficient, logical. . systematic. .’ He ran out of self-praise.
‘One reason, Mr. Marshall. That’s all I ask.’
Graham felt the waters closing over his head. The pressure on his lungs was as real as it had been in the darkness of the sea at Bosham. Panic beat about inside him like a bird in a net. He felt sweat against his clothes. His eyes watered as he looked into the grave, unforgiving face of the Inspector.
He wondered if Lilian had worked it all out, foreseen the consequences of her last actions, or if the suicide had been born of simple desperation. Either way, witting or unwitting, she had made her suicide a weapon against her son-in-law and demonstrated another transmutation of the power of death.
And for her, as for him, the circumstances had all connived for success.
Lilian was having her revenge. The old man on the bridge, Merrily, Robert Benham and George Brewer all shared in that revenge.
And Graham Marshall was powerless to stop the adverse flow of his fortunes. There was nothing he could do.
Unless. .
The little glimmer of memory glowed into hope, then burst into confidence that filled him again with warmth and power.
‘Actually, Inspector,’ said Graham, ‘I do have a witness to my leaving the house before one on Saturday.’
The announcement caught Laker wrong-footed. He could only gape.
‘A former secretary of mine was waiting for me. She claimed to have some grievance against me. We exchanged a few words when I came out of the house. She said then she was going to wait till I returned.’ He shrugged. ‘When I came back an hour ago, she had gone. Her name is Stella Davies. If you care to check, here’s her number.’
Laker took the proffered address-book, and Graham treasured the stunned look of frustration on the Inspector’s face.
As before, the relief after a close shave (and this had been the closest yet) made Graham light-headed. The Inspector had gone into the hall to telephone, but Graham still curbed the urge to laugh. He must play his last scene of triumph with becoming dignity.
Stella. Good old Stella. The eternal alibi. For two of his real murders she had unwittingly stood surety, and now she could free him from suspicion for the one he had not committed.
It had been a nasty moment, a tease from the gods of chance, a threat of overtaking in the final lap, but Graham had survived, fought off the challenge, and nothing now could stop his victory.
He poured two large whiskies. He would recapture the previous intimacy with Detective-Inspector Laker. He would be magnanimous, forgiving the policeman’s accusations. He would move the conversation on to their late wives and compare symptoms of bereavement.
He set the Inspector’s whisky ready at a convenient table and sipped his own as he awaited the apology.
The door from the hall opened. He identified the Inspector’s expression as one of sourness.
‘Well?’ Graham raised a confident eyebrow.
‘I spoke to Miss Davies. She confirms that she arrived in her car about twelve on Saturday. She would have come to the house, but she saw Mrs. Hinchcliffe letting herself in.’
‘As I said.’
‘She stayed in her car until three when she saw Mrs. Hinchcliffe stagger out.’
‘Persistent, eh?’ Graham grinned and indicated the Inspector’s Scotch. ‘But what a useful witness.’
Laker did not move. ‘Yes. What a useful witness. She saw you leave the house too, Mr. Marshall.’
Graham allowed himself a little I-told-you-so shrug. ‘At about a quarter to one, right?’
There was a silence. When he finally spoke, Laker’s voice was cold and dull.
‘No. Miss Davies saw you run out of the house just before three.’
‘What?’
‘She started her car to follow you, but was then distracted by Mrs. Hinchcliffe’s appearance staggering out of the front door. When she next looked, you had gone. You were running, she said, “like a man possessed”.’
Graham Marshall mouthed, but no words came. The random gods of chance had changed their allegiance. For him, for so long, they had made what was false seem real; now, with savage impartiality, they were making the real seem false.
He felt himself sinking, sinking.
