A Final Reckoning

by Susan Moody

  ‘Who knifed them, then?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know at this point. I’m not even saying it wasn’t Clio. Just that there’s reasonable doubt. And since she never spoke a word from that day onwards, we don’t have any idea what really happened. It was much easier for the police simply to seize on the most likely person, and she didn’t offer any defence, refused even to have a defence lawyer, if I remember rightly.’

  He nodded. ‘Good point.’

  ‘Moving on. Was there anything suspicious on the floor? I had a look at the photographs you brought … so what’s that lying by the skirting board?’

  He peered at it, then reached into his breast pocket and brought out a pair of glasses before looking more closely. ‘I’d say it’s a recorder. If you read the SOC report, it’ll tell you.’

  ‘Why was it there?’

  ‘The third boy came back at about seven thirty. He was a pretty good pianist, so he sat down at the piano and one of the others played the recorder, or so he told us. He said they were practising carols, ready for Christmas Day. You can see right there, on the grand piano, that there’s a carol-book open on the music holder. Perhaps one of the boys left the recorder there and it rolled off later.’

  I looked more closely. The Holly and the Ivy, I read. George, the youngest, would still have his soprano voice, and Gavin might have been singing alto, if his voice had broken. The scene was all too poignantly clear in my mind. ‘What about the tree?’ I asked.

  ‘You can see for yourself: no problems there.’

  ‘What about the presents?’

  ‘What about them?’

  I told him about the book which I’d sent Sabine as a Christmas present. We stared at the police photographs of the presents piled under the tree. There were not a great many of them yet – there were still forty-eight hours until Christmas Day – and I imagined that a lot more would have been put under the tree the night before. There was a big old-fashioned magnifying glass in the desk which had once belonged to Hamilton’s grandmother; I got up and brought it over to the table.

  ‘Look,’ I said. ‘My present for my sister was wrapped in shiny red foil with silver ribbon, and in one of her letters, she specifically mentions that she put it under the tree when it arrived for her from California. I can’t see anything wrapped in red there, can you?’

  Stonor examined the photo with great care. Shook his head. Said, ‘If it’s there at all, it must have fallen behind the tree, because it’s certainly not in front of it. And there aren’t enough presents out there yet for it to be hidden under a pile of others.’

  ‘So who would have taken it?’

  ‘Certainly seems an odd thing for the murderer to steal. He or she would hardly want to make off with an art book, even if he or she knew exactly what you’d sent your sister.’ He looked at me sadly. ‘I know you want to exonerate Clio Palliser, but it seems to me that she’s easily the most obvious person to have stolen it.’

  ‘So in your eyes, as well as being a murderer, she’s also a thief.’

  ‘I didn’t say that. But she’s right there on the spot, she can see it’s too big to be a novel, Sabine’s studying art at the university, so it’s pretty likely to be a book on art. Which was one of Clio’s own interests.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. She had plenty of money. Why would she steal someone else’s art book? Especially when it’s wrapped up so she doesn’t even know what the package contains. And when would she have stolen it? After she’d killed everyone? She wouldn’t have done it before because at some point I’d have asked my sister if she liked her present from me.’

  ‘Well, it looks like someone stole it. And who else but her?’

  ‘Something we should clarify to ourselves,’ I said. ‘These murders weren’t premeditated. There has to have been a tipping factor of some kind – doesn’t really matter what it was – which triggered them.’

  ‘Very true.’

  Which still didn’t explain how the book had ended up on Gavin’s bookshelf.

  Outside the windows, grey clouds were pouring rain on the city, fat droplets drumming at the windows, darkening the room. I switched on lamps and the overhead lights so we could see more clearly. And while I was doing that, it came back to me. ‘Didn’t you say that Gavin Vaughn was allowed to pack up his things before the house was sealed?’

  ‘That’s right. Some of his belongings from their shared room. His presents from under the tree.’

  I felt an enormous sense of relief. There was no sinister edge to the fact of Gavin having the book, just a simple mistake. So at least one small mystery appeared to have been solved. Gavin must have picked up my present for Sabine, along with his own. Perhaps he had even taken some of Edward’s. All too easy to do, whether by design or by accident. The boy was traumatized, unable to think clearly, sobbing his heart out, according to the police report, dying to get away from the house and into the safety of his mother’s arms. He must have just snatched at a few things … and probably been mortified when he discovered what he’d done.

  ‘All right: carry on with your description of what happened that night.’

  ‘The woman – Clio Palliser – simply refused to speak. The man – Harry Redmayne – was in such a nervous state he could hardly speak himself. But he did come upstairs with us and identify the bodies of George Palliser and Sabine Monroe. He said there were two other boys, so we started looking for them. It didn’t take us too long to find the body of Edward Palliser, hidden in a cupboard under the back stairs which led down into the kitchen.’

  ‘What about the third boy?’

  ‘Neither hide nor hair. Later we went all through the house looking for him: cupboards, attics, under beds and so on, calling his name, telling him everything was OK, but we couldn’t find him. It was pitch dark by then, and the whole house was a crime scene, so it was hard to organize a search party. Of course we went outside and shouted for him, but he couldn’t have been anywhere close by or he would have heard us and answered. The poor kid must have been too terrified to do anything but stay where he was, I imagine.’

  ‘Yes. I guess so. Anyway, moving on from when you first arrived at the house.’

  ‘Like I said, we went upstairs … and found the two bodies. I’m not going to show you photographs of either of them.’ He quickly turned over several shots, but not before I’d caught glimpses of a prone body, outflung arms, my sister’s russet hair.

  I gulped a bit, feeling my eyes moisten.

  ‘Later we took shots of Sabine’s room, both that night and the next day …’ He handed me a couple. A nice room, the opposite end of the house from where I’d stayed on the special bank holiday weekend. There was pretty much the same view as I’d had: trees, fields, grazing sheep.

  On the table by her bed I could actually make out the titles of some books, and there was a desk where she would have sat to write her letters to me. An open box of Tampax stood on the window sill: she must have been having her period. This was a detail I’d not known before; it brought her suddenly closer. A small kilted teddy-bear in a tam-o’-shanter holding a tiny red heart stood on top of a pile of papers: a present from Malcolm Macdonald, I guessed. The same one my mother had been holding when she died.

  More barely held-back tears. More gulping. Without looking at me, Brian put his hand over mine. Brushing my eyes, I stared intently at the photos but could see nothing that shouted significance at me. But why would there be anything? It had been a perfectly routine evening for her until she heard George screaming, came out into the passage outside her room, was struck down.

  ‘Right,’ Brian said, trying to sound brisk. ‘There’s nothing in these bathroom shots that would—’

  ‘I want to see them. The ones after poor little George was taken away,’ I added hastily.

  ‘Yes.’ He handed over a set of prints. A big old-fashioned bathroom, chequered floor, towels hanging on thick metal rails, a half-open linen cupboard containing folded laundry, more towels, Georgie’s jea
ns and sweatshirt lying in a heap on the tiles. There was blood everywhere: the edge of the bathtub was smeared with it, the water was a dull crimson, blood had pooled on the wet floor and spread across to the boy’s crumpled clothes.

  ‘Then what?’ I said.

  ‘There was this trail of bloody footsteps leading to the door of the room where the older boys were. They’d been playing together but came out in the passage when they heard George yelling.’ He rested his chin on his hand, looking down at the file in front of him. ‘Can you imagine? It must have absolutely terrifying to see her coming towards them with a bloodied knife in her hand. I imagine by then, having killed George and your sister, she must have looked like something out of a horror film. Anyway, they both took off towards the back stairs, and she went after them. You can see traces of blood on the wooden steps, though by then most of it would have been wiped off the soles of her shoes by the carpets along the corridor. Edward tried to hide in the cupboard where the brooms and mops were kept, while the third boy carried on to the kitchen, into the pantry and out through the gap into the paved area outside.’

  Stonor passed over the relevant prints and again I studied them, without the slightest idea of what I was looking for. Edward’s and Gavin’s shared room looked like the bedroom of any couple of young teens. Two beds stood against either wall of the room. One was tidy, the duvet pulled up to the pillow and carefully straightened, the other with the bedding thrown carelessly back. I could guess which had been Gavin’s since he was always meticulous about keeping things neat. Lying on the tidied bed was a carrying case which must once have held a camera. A big panda sat in one corner, with a school cap on its head and a pair of football boots tied together and strung round its neck. Model planes hung from the ceiling. A large globe stood in one corner. On a central work table, there was a microscope, a boxed chemistry set, another box with the lid off, holding the paraphernalia for performing conjuring tricks, and a couple more planes, half-finished.

  Low bookshelves held what looked like pretty standard fare. With the magnifying glass I was able to read most of the titles: Treasure Island, the William books, Enid Blyton, Beano and Dandy albums, the Narnia books, T.H. White, Rider Haggard, Roald Dahl … and dozens of others, most of which I’d read myself as a child. I could make out the tattered covers of Dr Seuss books, and a copy of The Night Before Christmas lay open on the floor, the photograph so sharp that I could easily make out the words on the page.

  It was a boy’s room, a child’s room, innocent as milk, until the killer had destroyed it forever. Nausea curdled the pit of my stomach, and I clenched my teeth. But there was no stopping now. One way or another I had to get through this ordeal. ‘What was Edward wearing when you found him?’

  ‘Jeans. Checked shirt. Sweater. Trainers. More or less what you’d expect from a kid that age.’

  ‘So, what next?’

  ‘Well … here’s a shot of the big old kitchen, as it was then. Since converted into ground floor bedrooms. No bloodied footprints – the murderer obviously gave up after realizing that the third boy had got away. I imagine she went back up the stairs, along the passage, down the front stairs and on to the chair by the fire.’

  ‘Look,’ I said. ‘Let’s keep this neutral, shall we?’

  ‘I am trying,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll say.’

  ‘If it wasn’t Clio, how did she get covered in blood?’ he said.

  ‘Haven’t we been over this before? If she wasn’t the killer, it seems fairly obvious to me that at some point she must have come out of her room, gone upstairs to kiss the boys goodnight or whatever, found the bodies, gone into shock, held them against herself saying oh no, oh no, or words to that effect, gone back downstairs into the hall and sat there to wait for her husband to arrive home.’

  ‘Wouldn’t she have wondered where the third boy was?’

  ‘She was so out of it most of the time, if she even registered that he wasn’t there she probably assumed he was still having supper with his parents’ friends.’

  ‘Our problem really is that we only have one witness to what happened and he was so traumatized that he probably wasn’t a very reliable source of information. And strictly speaking, he wasn’t even a witness.’

  ‘We came up with at least two other possible killers,’ I said. ‘Harry Redmayne. And Jenny Forshawe.’

  ‘It can’t have been Redmayne. I’ve gone over and over his alibi, interviewed everybody again, and there really isn’t any way he could have been on the scene. As for Jennifer Forshawe, she could have done it, I suppose, but it seems incredibly unlikely. Too many questions to be answered, such as what did she do with her dogs while she was laying about her with a knife upstairs? There were no signs of any dogs at all, though I know we weren’t looking for any. Would she really have gone haring up the stairs with a knife and killed everyone because her painting had been defaced?’

  ‘Her own husband outlined the whole scenario and how it might have played out,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll bet you he’d be horrified to think you’d taken him seriously.’

  ‘The arguments against it being Clio are the same for her. She’d have known that even though it was a wicked bit of vandalism, the swear words on her picture would easily clean off. And why would she have a knife with her?’

  ‘If you lived in the country, you’d never ask such a question. From clipping a trailing bramble to freeing a trapped animal, you never know when you’ll need one, is the simple answer. Especially if you’re walking through woodland.’

  ‘Here’s another reason why it was unlikely to have been Clio,’ I said. ‘The older boys hadn’t even had their baths when the killings happened, but according to the staff at the house, she normally never emerged from her study until nine o’clock or after. Or so it said in the various reports I read at the time. And remember she was desperately trying to meet a deadline with her book. I just don’t see her coming out as early as eight o’clock, which was when George was supposed to have started his bath. Especially since, according my sister, the boys were allowed to stay up pretty late during the holidays. The older ones didn’t have to get into bed until half-past ten or even later. So Clio wouldn’t be kissing anyone goodnight as early as eight or so.’

  ‘If she ever did. From what we’ve heard, kissing wasn’t high on the agenda.’

  ‘Were you there when they found Gavin?’

  ‘Yes. It was about four thirty in the morning. Obviously not yet daylight but we had powerful torches. I was with a colleague, a uniform, so that the lad would know we genuinely were the good guys. We were calling his name, shouting that we were the police, and he suddenly emerged from this tumbledown sort of stone hut and stood staring at us. Very wary, very unsure that we were who we said we were.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Half-frozen. Completely out of it. He was in his underwear, barefooted, feet all cut up.’

  ‘What sort of underwear?’

  ‘Vest and Y-fronts, in that thick white cotton stuff they used to wear back then. Winceyette, is it called?’

  ‘That’s something else, I think.’ I couldn’t repress the image of Gavin as he was now, bare-chested and sexy as hell in his grey Calvin Kleins. Not that I was about to share the thought with Stonor.

  ‘He told us that he was undressed because he’d been getting ready for his turn in the bath when she showed up with the knife – the killer, that is.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘More or less what you’d expect. Shivering, scratches all over his arms and legs from running through the wood in the dark. Face and hands streaked with dirt.’

  ‘Is there a picture in the file?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let’s look at it.’

  Stonor leafed through the file and found the picture he was looking for. An unmistakable Gavin, hunched and freezing in the filthy bit of sacking he’d wrapped round his shoulders and was holding over himself like a cloak. His hands were filt
hy, his fingernails caked with dirt, his hair full of leaves and twigs and more soil. In a second photograph, he was wearing a policeman’s parka over his dirty underwear.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘He kept saying, “Where is she? Where is she? Don’t let her get me!” Staring round as though he was expecting Clio to leap at him any moment with a knife in her hand. It was pitiful to see. Poor kid, we felt so sorry for him. The sergeant put his jacket round the boy’s shoulders, and we half-carried him back to the house.’

  ‘Apart from that, did anything else strike you about him?’

  Stonor frowned. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘No blood on him?’

  ‘Only from the scratches. Mind you, his underclothes were so filthy that you couldn’t have told whether there was blood or not. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I’m just trying to cover all the bases. I wonder why he was in his underwear, when Edward was still fully dressed.’

  ‘As I said, they were expecting to get into the bath.’ Stonor stared out at the weather in the street below. ‘You ask me, it’s going to snow any minute now. I ought to get back before they stop the buses and the Underground.’

  ‘Will you leave the file with me?’

  ‘All right.’ He sounded doubtful.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll keep it safe. And I’m not going to give myself nightmares by looking at the … the awful ones.’

  As I helped him into his parka and saw him to the door, I said, ‘Don’t forget your niggle, will you? If you can remember what it is, it could be the key to the whole thing.’

  After Stonor had gone home, I spent the next couple of hours minutely studying his police notes, poring over photographs, rereading witness statements, drawing up a timetable as far as it was possible. I started at the beginning, when the police first entered the house. There was the tree, the presents. There were the bloody footprints leading across the hall to the chair where they found Clio Palliser sitting. Apart from the missing present from me to Sabine, I could see nothing odd or unexpected about the scene.