‘And that will be it, I suppose. You’ll stay out of my life.’
‘That I can’t promise, but you are low on my list of priorities. I am more concerned with murder than with deceit.’
Geoffrey Clifton considered the matter and then stubbed out his cigarette. He sat down. ‘I found out that she’d been doing the same thing for someone else; I simply offered her a better deal. She told this other person that her doctor was refusing to supply, or some other excuse, and she did me the favour. I, in turn, paid her well enough to make it worth her while and I also helped out from time to time when she needed to come up to London.
‘It was simple really. There is nothing else to tell.’
Henry considered. ‘There is one more thing, Mr Clifton. Who was this other person?’
Clifton shrugged dismissively. ‘Someone at the studio. Some cameraman or other. Owens, I believe she called him.’
‘And she was happy with the arrangement? She didn’t worry that he might find out? That he might not be pleased? That he might feel she had deceived him?’
Clifton frowned. ‘She seemed content at first. I will admit that she had grown more anxious in the past few weeks. She said he was pressuring her again.’
Henry nodded. ‘Thank you, Mr Clifton.’
EPILOGUE
Henry sat in the quiet of his own apartment and gazed out at the river. The evening light played upon the water and the river traffic had eased – though it never completely ceased.
He picked up his journal and began to write.
He confessed in the end that he had killed her, and that he had suggested to Bailey’s men that Jimmy Cottee had kept a list of all the houses his gang had robbed and all the random items of jewellery and other trinkets that had been fenced. Knowing that Cissie was fond of the young man, Owens seems genuinely to have believed that she would have confided in Jimmy Cottee. It seems more likely that she simply hid the pawn ticket without his knowledge. No doubt she saw this as some kind of insurance.
No doubt, Cissie Rowe was terribly naïve.
Fred Owens had indeed been drawn into that other world, the world his wife had done her best to escape. He had wanted money. Simply that, and he had acted occasionally as lookout or driver. He had been indulged, if that’s the right word. He had been permitted his little perks, and told how to dispose of them.
It had given him pleasure, I think, to involve attractive young women like Cissie in his schemes. Young women who, I suspect, reminded him of the way his wife had been in her younger, more ambitious days.
And then he discovered that Cissie had once had a habit. She had broken herself of it but Owens gave her a reason to continue with her prescription. Until Clifton gave her a better one.
He says he killed her because she deceived him. That, initially, he had no intent to kill – but no one could believe that. Cissie Rowe died a violent, terrifying and painful death and each stage of it speaks of full intent.
Henry paused and thought of Muriel Owens.
I’m still not convinced. What did she know? What did she suspect? Her life is ruined and I doubt she will recover either way.
He continued to watch the river for a while, pondering on the ill logic that led him to love the deep dark water that flowed through London and yet to hate the sea. Then he turned back to his desk and picked up the letter that had arrived that day. It was from Melissa. She wrote,
Dear Uncle Henry,
Now that you have finished with your murder, I thought it would be all right to remind you about our shopping trip. Mummy says that London has some excellent bookshops. Perhaps you would like to telephone and arrange a day.
Your loving niece,
Melissa.
P.S. I have decided that Mr Conan Doyle might be mistaken in his view of fairies.
Death Scene Page 23