by Hazel Holt
He nodded slowly. “Yes. Yes, he was dead. Lying there with his eyes wide open. I pulled out the knife”—he shuddered—“and wrapped it in something—I don’t know what. Then I snatched up Norma’s bag and ran away. I drove up onto West Hill and hid it in some gorse bushes where no one would find it.”
“Did you tell Norma what you’d done?”
“No, she was too ill—I couldn’t. Then, when things seemed to go on as normal—no one knew I was there that night—I thought I wouldn’t tell her at all. I remembered how awful it had been for her before and I couldn’t bear to think she’d have to go all through that again. Worse this time, because it was murder. I suppose that’s the real reason I killed him—it wasn’t just to keep him quiet at that particular moment. I wanted to be sure he’d be quiet about what he knew forever.”
“But you did tell her eventually?”
“Yes. I’d been having bad dreams and got into quite a state. I had to tell her then.”
“That’s when she made all those plans about Switzerland?”
“She said the police would never make the connection. They’d never imagine we could have any sort of motive for killing Desmond. Our moving to Switzerland could be for business reasons. She had it all worked out. But now, of course.” He struck the harbor wall with his hand. “Those damned books!”
“Yes.”
We were both silent for a while. He looked exhausted and I was so overwhelmed by what I’d heard that I couldn’t say anything. Then Marcus, who’d been leaning on the wall, straightened up. “Now you’ve heard how it was, can you please, please not tell the police until tomorrow? I have one more thing I have to do. Then I promise…” He looked at me, not appealingly, but with a kind of despair in his eyes.
“All right,” I said reluctantly. “I’ll go to the police tomorrow.”
When I told Rosemary what had happened, she said, “Can he can be trusted? What makes you sure that he really will do that?”
“You didn’t see his face. He looked absolutely defeated.”
“But Norma might whisk him away. She’s quite capable of it.”
“Somehow, I don’t think he’s going to tell Norma. Anyway,” I continued briskly, “I’ll phone Bob as soon as he gets back tomorrow afternoon.”
But the next afternoon, just as I was about to phone the police station, Foss knocked a glass off the work top and Tris, investigating as usual, cut his leg quite badly, the other one this time, so I spent the afternoon waiting at the vet’s until someone could patch him up. I’d just got back and was making myself a much-needed cup of tea when the doorbell rang. It was Bob Morris.
“I was just going to ring you,” I said.
“I thought I’d come and tell you in person,” he said. “There was a letter waiting for me at the station when I got back. From Marcus Stanley.”
“A letter?”
“Yes. Confessing to the death of Desmond Barlow.”
“I see.”
“That’s not all. There was a report of an accident last night, on the back road leading to Dunster. Marcus Stanley had driven into a tree. At speed.”
“Was he killed?”
“No, he’s badly smashed up: broken leg and ribs, a serious head wound.”
“Have you told his wife?”
“Yes.” He paused as if he couldn’t bring himself to say the words. “She said, ‘He couldn’t even get that right.’”