“It’s all right, Inspector. I know you only did what you had to do, as they say. Like I said outside, everyone thinks you’re quite the hero. Me included.” Thompson laughed and picked up his cup of coffee. Trave noticed with surprise that it was an antique, made of a delicately painted bone china. Thompson blew into the liquid several times before he took his first sip. It was like he was preparing a kiss.
“It’s in both our interests to carry on, you see, Inspector,” he said after a moment. “The defence have Mrs. Ritter, and we have her husband. The jurors may not have liked him, but they believed his evidence. And the key turning in the lock is the jewel in our crown, particularly when you add in the fingerprint evidence. No, I’m content. I understand your anxieties after what happened at the manor house last week, but you can rest calmer now, Inspector. We’re still on course.”
Trave stirred uneasily in his seat. The interview was not going at all as he’d anticipated. It was as if the prosecutor was deliberately misinterpreting the reason for his visit. Trave wasn’t worried that Stephen Cade might be acquitted; it was the precise opposite that concerned him. After all that had happened, he felt sure that the boy was innocent, and he’d come to London to try to persuade Thompson that the prosecution should stop for good. Obviously he should have realised before he set out that it would be a wasted journey, but still, he was here now, and it was his duty to try.
“You say the defence have Mrs. Ritter, but what do you think about her evidence?” he asked. “What about the man in the courtyard?”
“I don’t really see her as a problem, to be honest with you, Inspector,” said Thompson patiently. “The Crown takes the view that the poor woman can no longer be seen as a witness of truth. It’s quite clear that she changed her evidence and perjured herself at the last moment, because of what she overheard in the cafeteria just before she went into court. Your colleague Detective Constable Clayton has provided us with a most helpful statement about what happened, and you yourself heard the Ritter woman admit her feelings for Silas when she was giving her evidence.
“Of course, it’s really unacceptable that prosecution witnesses aren’t kept isolated from one another in important cases like this. It’s something I’ve already raised with the people in charge over at the Bailey, although I doubt I’ll get anywhere. The court staff tend to be a law unto themselves. More coffee, Inspector?”
“I don’t think you understand what I’m trying to say, Mr. Thompson,” said Trave, ignoring the offer. “I actually believe Mrs. Ritter did see a man in the courtyard crossing to the front door. Her evidence fits with Stephen Cade’s interview. And Silas had a motive. He stood to be disinherited. Now, if we carry on, he’ll get everything. I don’t believe a word of his alibi, Mr. Thompson. Not a word of it.”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that, Inspector,” said Thompson, taking off his glasses and fixing Trave with a cold stare. “Fortunately, however, you’re not the one conducting this case. That task has been entrusted to me. And I’m carrying it out without fear or favour, as is my duty. Perhaps you should bear that in mind, Inspector. You seem to have become rather clouded in your judgements recently, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“What the hell do you mean by that?” asked Trave angrily.
“I mean that you appear to have developed something of a personal interest in the defendant in this case,” Thompson replied evenly. “I understand that you lost your only child in a motorcycle accident several years ago and that he would have been the same age as young Mr. Cade if he’d lived. It must have been terrible for you, Inspector.”
There was no sympathy at all in the prosecutor’s voice to match his words, and he continued to stare coldly at Trave across his desk.
“My son’s got nothing to do with it,” said Trave, trying to sound sure of himself, although he couldn’t prevent a flush of colour rising to his cheeks. The prosecutor’s well-directed thrust had cut right through his defences.
“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” said Thompson, with a thin smile. “Let’s just say that a reminder of where your duty lies should not go amiss, Inspector.”
“I am doing my duty and obtaining this statement was part of that,” said Trave, drawing two sheets of folded paper from the inside pocket of his jacket and banging them down on the desk so that the two cups rattled in their saucers.
“Please, Inspector. This isn’t one of your police stations,” said Thompson, injecting a note of contempt into his voice, designed to irritate Trave even further. “You’d better tell me what this is,” he said, nodding at the documents without picking them up. “I hope you haven’t done something you’re going to regret.”
“I’ve done my job. That’s all,” said Trave, finding it easier to regain his composure, now that Thompson had become so obviously rude. “The statement was made to me yesterday by Esther Rudd. I wrote it down and brought it to you, which is correct police practice, I think.”
“Who’s Esther Rudd?”
“She was a housemaid at Moreton Manor at the time of the murder.”
“Ah, yes. Now I remember. One of your colleagues took a statement from her. It wasn’t very helpful, as I recall. All about how she was a heavy sleeper and only came downstairs shortly before the police arrived. Have you helped her remember something else, Inspector? Is that what all this is about?”
“She’s saying that when she got to the top of the stairs, she looked down and saw Mrs. Ritter in the hallway by the front door with a man’s hat in her hand,” said Trave, ignoring Thompson’s accusation that he’d manipulated the witness. “There was no one else in the hall, and Mrs. Ritter hung the hat on the coat stand.”
“Whose hat was it?”
“She can’t say. She went straight to the east wing when she got to the bottom of the stairs because that’s where all the shouting was coming from. There was no reason for her to worry about Mrs. Ritter and a hat.”
“Which is, I suppose, why it didn’t find its way into her first statement.”
“Yes. But what she says now backs up Mrs. Ritter’s account. If Silas came running into the house after committing the murder, then he might well have dropped his hat on the floor before he went to his room.”
“If he went to his room. He says that he was with Miss Vigne in her room, and she backs up his account. Remember that this is not the only new statement that we have, Inspector,” said Thompson tartly. “Anyway, I better read what this Rudd woman has to say.”
It didn’t take the prosecutor long. He carefully put his glasses back on and held the statement between his thumb and forefinger as he read it, as if it was something offensive that it pained him even to look at, and then when he was done, he dropped the two sheets of paper back onto his desk with a look of derision.
“So the good Esther saw Madame Ritter with a hat,” he said, with a sneer. “She can’t say whose hat. Only that it was a hat. But with no coat to accompany it, as we might have hoped for. And she says nothing about anyone locking the front door. You remember Mrs. Ritter’s evidence, don’t you, Inspector? She saw Silas come inside, and so she went downstairs and put his hat and coat back on the hat stand and locked the front door. I don’t really think that any of this helps your friend in Wandsworth, Inspector. What’s missing from the statement is more significant than what’s in it.”
“Mrs. Ritter could already have locked the door,” said Trave. “The statement at least puts her in the right place at the right time. And why would she have the hat unless she was trying to cover for Silas?”
“I don’t know, Inspector. Perhaps because Mrs. Ritter was the housekeeper and didn’t like things lying around on the floor. And, more important, I don’t understand what you mean by ‘the right place.’ It was Stephen Cade who was in the right place, complete with gun and key and his dead father. He killed his father, and he’s going to have to pay for it. It’s as simple as that. And now I’m afraid I’ve got work to do, even if you haven’t,” said Thompson, getting up from his chair.
“I’m going to send Esther Rudd’s statement to the defence, and they can do with it what they will. Or perhaps I should leave it to you to take it round to them. Swift’s chambers are only four doors down the lane. After all, you appear to have become a fully paid-up member of the defence team, Inspector,” added Thompson sarcastically.
Trave could think of nothing else to say. All he seemed to have achieved was to increase Thompson’s determination to get his man. Trave picked up his hat and coat and turned to go, but at the door, the prosecutor called him back.
“I think you said that Esther Rudd was a housemaid, Inspector.”
“That’s right.”
“So she isn’t any more?”
“No. Not at the manor house.”
“Did she leave, or was she fired?”
“I think she said that she was asked to leave a few months ago. She’s got another job in Oxford now.”
“I’m glad to hear it. But that’s not the point of my question, Inspector. Who asked the good lady to leave? Do you know that?”
“I believe it was Silas Cade,” said Trave after a moment.
“Yes, I thought that might be the case,” said Thompson, smiling again. “Part of me wonders whether friend Swift will even want to call the good Esther to give evidence. I shall certainly enjoy cross-examining her if he does.”
Trave tried to think of an answer, but he gave up almost immediately. The prosecution case against Stephen Cade was like a runaway train, and there seemed to be nothing he could do to stop it. His gut instinct counted for nothing in the face of overwhelming evidence. Trave turned away, but Thompson hadn’t yet finished.
“You had no business interfering like this, Inspector,” he said angrily. “It’s nothing short of professional misconduct. I shall write to your superintendent telling him what has occurred, and he will no doubt take whatever action is appropriate. But in the meantime, stay out of my way, Inspector. Do you hear me? Stay out.”
The prosecutor had come out from behind his desk as he was speaking, and now he took a final venomous look at Trave and then shut the door hard, leaving the policeman alone in the corridor.
Outside it had begun to rain, and Trave pulled the collar of his coat around his neck and hurried away toward the river. He didn’t look back, and so he missed the sight of Thompson gazing down at him from above, with a look of utter contempt written across his curiously hairless face.
Then, once the policeman had disappeared from view, Thompson crossed over to the fireplace and added another perfectly shaped log to the blaze.
SIXTEEN
There were dark circles under Mary’s eyes, and her hands were in continual motion, with the nails bitten down to the quick. Obviously Stephen wasn’t the only one feeling the strain of the trial. The visits to the prison were taking a visible toll on his girlfriend. She longed for everything to be over.
“So why doesn’t he visit you?” she asked. They’d been talking about Silas for ten minutes already. He had been the only topic of conversation since Mary had first come into the visits hall and Stephen had fanned the new witness statements out across the table between them.
“Because he’s not allowed to,” said Stephen.
“Why?”
“Because he’s a prosecution witness.”
“But he didn’t need to be, did he? I didn’t make a statement to the police. They wanted me to, but I didn’t.”
Stephen stared intently into a space just above Mary’s head. He was unable to make his mind up about what to do.
“You know, he didn’t look at me once all the time he was giving his evidence,” he said after a moment, remembering the bent, averted head of his brother as Silas slowly answered the barristers’ questions. “It was like he couldn’t bear to.”
“Well, he can bear to drive your father’s Rolls-Royce. I’ve seen him in it, gliding up and down the High Street in Oxford like he owns the place,” said Mary.
“Why are you so against him suddenly?” asked Stephen, picking up on a vehemence in his girlfriend’s voice that he hadn’t heard before.
“Because you’ve got to save yourself. And this is the only way.”
“Save myself! I still might be acquitted, you know. I mean, I am innocent—in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Stephen bit his lip, fighting to control his emotions. Months inside Wandsworth Prison had taught Stephen to live in the present and not think about the fate that awaited him if he was convicted. It was the only way to survive, although he wasn’t always successful.
“I know you’re innocent. But that’s not enough,” said Mary, refusing to give ground. “You can’t leave this to chance, Stephen.”
“I’m not leaving it to chance. I’m going to tell the jury the truth. The whole truth and nothing but the truth. That I couldn’t kill anyone even if I wanted to, let alone my own flesh and blood. I’m simply not that kind of person. The whole thing’s completely crazy: I mean, why would I have sat there playing chess with my father if I was going to shoot him in the head at the end of the game? You know, Mary, sometimes I feel like Alice in bloody Wonderland, like I’ve gone through the looking glass backward.”
“I know you do. I can understand that. But the trouble is that murderers do crazy things. And you were there in the room with him. That’s the problem. I know you don’t want to hear it, but I think the jury is going to need someone else to blame if it’s going to let you off.”
“And that someone’s my brother. I know. But if I’m so up against it, why didn’t you push me to accuse Silas before? Why now?”
“Because of Mrs. Ritter and the maid. The new evidence gives you an opportunity that you didn’t have before. And I don’t want you to die, Stephen. You’re running out of time. Can’t you see that?” asked Mary, with sudden passion.
But Stephen was silent, gnawing his knuckles.
“Swift wanted to go for my brother from the first, you know,” he said eventually. “But I wouldn’t let him.”
“Why not?”
“Because I didn’t believe Silas killed our father. I couldn’t believe it.”
“But what did that matter if you got acquitted?” asked Mary impatiently. “He’s not the one on trial.”
“No. But he might be. Afterward. And I wanted to do what was right. It must seem mad to you, Mary, but I felt—I still feel—I owe him something. I suppose it’s because he’s adopted and I’m not. It’s like I came along and took everything away from him. My mother always preferred me. She was like that. She did what she wanted without thinking too much about other people. And Silas got a raw deal. I was at home, and he was away at school, and during the holidays nobody took any notice of him except to point out how much better I was at everything.
“But I never knew what he was thinking. He always kept everything to himself. And then, when I was sent away to school after my mother died, he didn’t spend much time with me. He was a lot older, and I suppose there was no reason for him to.”
“Except that it would’ve been kind,” interjected Mary.
“Yes, but still it wasn’t unusual. No, what sticks in my mind is something that happened near the end of my first term. There were some boys in my class who were picking on me, making my life miserable, and one day I came round a corner and Silas was with them. I don’t know if he was telling them to stop or encouraging them to carry on. I never asked him because the bullying stopped soon after that, but I often wondered.
“And then there was another time. We went to the movies with my mother to watch a film called The Way to the Stars. In it, there’s a young American pilot with engine trouble flying over this village, and he has to decide whether to eject and hope for the best or steer the plane onto somewhere safe and then go down with it in a ball of flame.”
“So what does he do?”
“He stays with the plane, o
f course,” said Stephen, smiling. “This was a war movie, and that’s what war heroes do. But afterward Silas and I had this big discussion about it. And he said that he’d have bailed out because, chances are, nothing would have happened and the plane would’ve crashed beyond the village anyway.”
“But you voted to go down with the plane?”
“Yes, although there’s no virtue in that. It was just a conversation. Why I’m telling you about it is because Silas was so cold-blooded about the whole thing. He was only interested in calculating the chances. It was obvious that concepts like honour and sacrifice didn’t mean anything to him. And I was thinking before you came that that’s the kind of mind-set you need to have if you’re going to sit down and plan out how to kill someone.”
“I suppose so,” said Mary. “I don’t know.”
“No, of course you don’t. You’re not like that. I’m just saying that maybe my sense of guilt has got in the way of my seeing Silas for who he really is.”
“A cold-blooded killer?”
“Yes. Maybe. My father was certainly that. I keep thinking of what he did to those people in France. I can’t get the place out of my mind. I wish I’d never gone there. It feels like a curse, like something I’ve got to pay for. Not just my father, but me as well.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Mary uneasily. “Curses didn’t kill your father. And they won’t kill you.”
“Maybe not. It’s just it was something about that place. It was so desolate. It was like that ruin near Oxford that you took me to. What was it called?”
“Minster Lovell?”
“Yes. A locked church and a fallen-down house and a sense that time was standing still. Like it was frozen. Waiting. Marjean was like that, but even more so.”
“But there’s no forbidden lake at Minster Lovell,” said Mary, making an effort to lighten the conversation. “The Windrush is a beautiful river. There were children swimming in it when I went there the first time.”
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