“You can’t prove that Felicity was involved,” Lady Harwood said again in her new, hard voice. “Quite apart from the ethics of it all, she simply wouldn’t have the strength to —” She broke off, putting up a hand to shield her face.
“I did the actual killing, yes, but Flick acted as decoy. She pretended the car’d broken down, and got Jessel to peer into the bonnet. Then I came up behind him.”
“And you’re saying to commit both these murders you slipped out of the house without our knowing?” Sir Julian this time. He sounded dazed.
“Yes; I’d left the car outside instead of bringing it into the drive. We hoped no one would notice, but we’d an explanation ready if anyone had.”
“Why alert your victims by sending notes?” Webb was still interested in the technicalities. “Didn’t that add to the risk of discovery?”
“Since we weren’t personally involved with them the risk was negligible, and we hoped they’d suffer some of the mental anguish they’d caused their victims. Oh, they might dismiss the note outwardly, but if they woke in the night, it wouldn’t be a pleasant thing to brood on.”
“You realize you’re damning Felicity when she can’t defend herself?” Lady Harwood again.
Hattie said impatiently, “What difference does it make? They can’t hurt her now, and nothing matters to me any more. But if you still doubt me, there are signed confessions lodged with our solicitors. We wrote them some time ago, in case anyone else was ever charged.”
Mark said in a low voice, “I wish I’d never met her. Most of all, I wish I’d never even considered the biography. Because of that, I’ve been used to point the finger at her, which is the last thing I’d have wanted.”
“We know that,” Camilla said softly.
Hattie gave a curious, choked laugh. “You all wondered why she’d turned down the professional biographers; well, now you know. We thought they’d be too thorough, go into everything too closely, and that could be dangerous. Templeton, on the other hand, was a competent reviewer, but also a devoted admirer. He seemed the ideal choice.”
“And there I was, flattering myself.” Mark’s voice was bitter.
“I don’t believe any of this!” Sir Julian announced jerkily. No one answered him, and Hattie Matthews merely shrugged her shoulders.
Webb stood up. “We took the precaution of bringing a wheelchair with us. If you’d bring it in, Miss Pierce?”
Sally left the room. Camilla turned in the circle of Mark’s arm and began to cry softly. No one else moved until Sally returned, when she and Nina, assisted by Jackson, manoeuvred the heavy woman off the sofa and into the chair.
“You were very sure of yourself,” she remarked, but put up no resistance. Webb’s last impression, as he followed the police procession out of the room, was of Mark and the Harwoods staring after them.
*
The following evening, Hannah arrived at Webb’s door with a basket of groceries.
“Thanks, love. This’ll be the last time you’ll have to shop for me.”
“Till the next case!” she said. She went ahead of him into the kitchen, and emptied the goods out of her basket on to the table.
“It’s time you had a clean newspaper in here,” she commented, tipping the bag of carrots into the vegetable tray. Then her voice changed. “David, look at this.”
He joined her, bending over to read the soiled paper which lined the basket.
MAN FOUND MURDERED IN RANKIN CLOSE, read one headline. And the other, alongside it: COMPOSER RETURNS TO SHILLINGHAM.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” Webb said softly. “The answer was staring me in the face all the time!”
“I suppose the Abbey service will be cancelled?”
“It’s highly likely. A shame, really, because whatever else she was, she was a superb musician.”
“If she’d simply devoted herself to helping the oppressed, she’d have received nothing but praise. But she couldn’t stop there, and the ‘avenging angel’ role was her downfall. It’s odd, isn’t it, how often genius is flawed, specially musical genius? Almost as though there’s a price to pay for it.”
Webb smiled and put an arm round her. “What are you on about now?”
“Well, for a start there was Beethoven, who began to go deaf at the age of twenty-seven. Can you imagine anything worse for a composer? Then Delius was blind and paralyzed for the last ten years of his life. Schumann went mad and died in an asylum after attempting suicide, and Mozart died at thirty-five and was buried in a pauper’s grave. Even in this century, Lili Boulanger died of TB at the age of twenty-four. Does that convince you?”
“Painters haven’t fared much better,” Webb reminded her. “Aren’t you glad I’m not a genius?”
“I’m serious.”
“Oh, so am I. It’s poor Sir Julian I’m most sorry for. His beloved sister’s killed, and while he’s still suffering from shock, he learns she was a murderess. What’s more, she even murdered their father. I shouldn’t be surprised if he chucks in his musical career after this.”
“I should. To some extent, he was always in her shadow. When the grieving period’s over, and the nine days’ wonder, I think he’ll emerge a greater conductor than ever.”
“I hope you’re right,” Webb said, moving to the cabinet. “Now, I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink.”
“All right, I get the message. Case closed.” She took the glass he handed her. “So what shall we drink to? Music? Genius? The Great Imponderables?”
“A few early nights!” said Webb with a grin.
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