‘No, you have to repeat exactly what I say,’ insisted Charles.
‘No, you have to repeat exactly what I say,’ repeated Julian, who was catching on. As he said it, he threw a cushion, which went woomph into the side of Charles’s head.
‘But it’s nonsense,’ objected Damian.
‘Even if it’s nonsense. You just repeat it like a machine.’
‘Even if it’s nonsense. You just repeat it like a machine,’ crowed Julian.
‘Even if it’s nonsense. You just repeat it like a machine,’ agreed Damian.
‘Whatever I say, you have to repeat without thinking.’
‘Whatever I say, you have to repeat without thinking.’
‘Whatever I say, you have to repeat without thinking.’
Like a light switched on, Charles’s mind was suddenly clear. He knew what it was that had struck him as odd about Michael Banks’s death. And he knew that Alex Household had not committed the murder.
‘Good God! I’ve got it!’ he shouted.
‘Good God! I’ve got it!’ shouted Julian.
‘Good God! I’ve got it!’ shouted Damian.
He was dialling when Miles and Frances came in from the kitchen.
‘Sorry. Hope you don’t mind my using the phone.’
‘Feel free.’ But Miles didn’t look very pleased.
It rang for a long time, and he thought he was going to be out of luck, but eventually the receiver was picked up the other end.
‘Hello.’ Her voice was rather woolly.
‘Lesley-Jane, it’s me — Charles.’
‘Charles?’
‘Charles Paris.’
‘Oh.’ She didn’t say what on earth are you ringing for; she put it all into the oh. ‘Sorry, I was asleep.’
‘I was glad to find you in. I thought you might be away for the weekend.’
‘Yes, I was going to my parents, but I. . I decided not to.’
‘Listen, I’ve just thought of something important.’
‘Oh yes.’ She sounded belligerent and slightly resentful. Was he going to give her some note on performance, some idea he’d had for a new bit of business in the play? Surely it could wait till tomorrow.
‘It’s about Alex.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’ve just remembered something he said to me in Taunton.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘He said that one should always sort out a bolt-hole for oneself.’
‘Well, what does that mean?’
‘I thought you might know.’
‘No idea.’
‘What I mean is. . when you were in Taunton, you were fairly discreet about your affair. . I wondered where. .’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘You said something last week about “gambolling in the countryside”. Was there somewhere. .’
‘There was, but. .’
‘Where?’
‘Do you think. .?’
‘It’s a possibility. I think it’s worth investigating.’
‘You?’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know. It just seems vindictive. The idea of bringing him to justice. Still, I suppose you could just tell the police and — ’
‘I wasn’t thinking of bringing him to justice. I was thinking of finding out from him what actually did happen.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Tell me where it is.’
She told him. ‘But I’ve a nasty feeling,’ she concluded dismally, ‘that if you do find anything there, it’ll just be Alex’s body.’
He put the phone down and turned round to see the whole family looking at him, open-mouthed. Juliet stood half-way down the stairs, familiarly pale. Charles’s mind was working well, making connections fast. He felt confident.
‘Frances,’ he asked, ‘do you fancy a little trip?’
‘Where to?’
‘Somerset.’
‘When?’
‘Now.’
Miles’s face contorted. ‘Oh really, Pop! It’s a hell of a long way. You can’t just do things like that, on a whim.’
‘Why not?’ Charles looked at Frances. ‘It’s your half-term, isn’t it? Be good to see some real countryside. We could stay in a nice hotel.’
‘But,’ objected Juliet, whose every holiday was planned at least six months in advance, ‘you haven’t booked anywhere!’
‘What do you say, Frances?’
‘All right.’
Good old Frances. She wasn’t where Juliet got it from either.
It was a nice hotel. On the edge of Exmoor. There was no problem booking. Indeed, after another bad summer for British tourism, they were welcomed with open arms.
They had a drink before dinner sitting in a bay window, watching dusk creep up on Dunkery Beacon. They talked a lot during dinner and then after a couple of brandies, went up to the bedroom.
It was a family room, with one double bed and one single. They sat down on the double one. Charles’s hand stroked the so-familiar contours of his wife’s shoulders.
‘This is another of your detective things, isn’t it, Charles?’
He nodded. ‘Yes. Tomorrow will, I hope, be a significant day.’
‘Dangerous?’
He shrugged. ‘I suppose it might be. I hadn’t thought. Or it might just be nothing. Me barking up yet another wrong tree.’
Frances took his hand. ‘I wish you wouldn’t do it, Charles. I do worry about you, you know.’
He felt closer to her than he had for years, as he tried to explain. ‘It’s strange. When something like a murder happens, I just feel I have to sort out what really happened. I feel. .’ he struggled for the right word, ‘. . responsible.’
Frances laughed wryly. ‘Responsible for anonymous corpses, but when it comes to those close to you. .’
He felt suitably chastened. ‘I’m sorry, Frances.’ He looked out of the window at the clear night over Exmoor. ‘I was thinking about that today over lunch. About you and me, about. . you know, responsibility.’
‘Oh yes?’ It wasn’t quite cynical, but nearly.
‘And whether responsibility and truth are compatible. I’ve always found truth a problem. That’s really why I left you.’
‘I thought you left me for other women.’
‘In a way. But it was because I needed other women, and I needed to be truthful about it. I hated all the subterfuges, I hated lying to you. At the time it seemed more truthful to make a break; then at least the position was defined. If I had left you, then I wasn’t expected to be. .’
‘Responsible?’ Frances supplied.
