‘ “If I was rid of you, it’d be cheap at the price, believe me. But the lawyers say there’s no chance of that.” ’ Miss Potter was speaking slowly, stickily, as if she didn’t want to form the words.
‘Go on,’ I said.
‘I heard a scuffle, as if – as if they were pushing at each other. Then Rollo said, “Don’t be so stupid, Laura. Put that down. You know it’s not loaded.” I realized they were talking about a gun, and I heard the click, click, snap, of the loading process. Then Laura said, “It is now. Don’t you dare come near me or I’ll blow your head off, Rollo, see if I don’t. I’m upset. You’ve upset me,” in her usual querulous tone, as if that was the ultimate sin. I assume, to her, it was. “You’ve upset me, Rollo,” ‘mimicked Miss Potter, in a sickening croon. ‘ “You’ve never loved me. Never. You don’t know what love is. You think it’s rolling round in a sweaty bed with a cheap little tart.” ’
She ground to a halt once more.
‘And then?’
‘And then I heard a shotgun blast. It took me some moments to understand that the noise came from outside, from the terrace. It was mingled with the maddening, insistent thump of the band. It made me jump. Then Rollo spoke again. “Put that bloody thing down,” he said. “Keep away from me,” said Laura. I heard a slap, and a scream. Then the door opened. I retreated to the study with undignified haste, and waited until Laura’s sobs receded down the corridor and up the back stairs.’
Pause. I cleared my throat, but she went on without a prompt. ‘When the sobs had gone, I couldn’t resist going to Rollo.’
‘And?’
‘I told him I had overheard.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He seemed shaken, but he made a visible effort to appear unconcerned. “Hello, Miss Mouse,” he said. He had called me that before, when we were alone.’
‘It sounds an affectionate name.’
‘Patronizing, Alex, not affectionate. He called his daughters “rabbits”, and that was not affectionate either. It was patronizing and dismissive. I may not have been – important, or beautiful, or considerable in his eyes, but at least I was a human being. I said, “Don’t call me that. My name, as you know very well, is Sarah.” I was – very angry with him.’
By now I was driving so slowly that I could afford to watch her I’d have preferred to stop, but was afraid to break her concentration. She was flushed, excited. She was enjoying the memory – or, depressing thought, the fantasy. I didn’t know how much to believe.
‘He seemed to me arrogant and – rather thrilling. I thought – how spoilt he was, how careless, how like Rosalind. “I despise you all,” I said. It was not entirely true. “Why?” he said. “How can you ask that?” I said. I confronted him with it. “I must tell you. Lord Sherwin, I saw you on Sunday.” “Saw me where?” he said. I thought he was affecting innocence. I thought he was dismissing me. “On your wife’s bed. With Rosalind,” I said. I could hardly form the words, and he just laughed. “Christ Almighty. Everyone’s gone mad. Get back to the rabbits. Miss Mouse,” he said, and moved towards me, perhaps to go past me to the door I seized the gun from the chair where Laura had left it, and stopped him. “I demand an explanation,” I said.’
She paused, breathing deeply. ‘I now see that he could not have understood me. At the time, I felt goaded by his barefaced denial of his – misbehaviour “Demand away,” he said. “I don’t know what the bloody hell you’re getting at, and I need a drink. Give me that gun, it’s loaded.” I stood my ground. “I know,” I said. “I’ve done some shooting in Kenya. I will not stand by and allow you to degrade Rosalind.” He laughed again. “Get out of my way. You’re talking rubbish,” he said, moving towards me. “Out of my way, Miss Thing.” It was – the last straw. “My name is Sarah,” I said. I was so angry, so angry, Alex.’
‘Of course. Of course,’ I said. ‘And then?’
‘I—’ she gestured, vaguely, with trembling hands. ‘There was blood and brains, spattered on the walls, on the sofa, on the carpet. He was obviously dead. I stood for a moment. I don’t know what I thought, or if I thought. Then I left the room, closing the door behind me, and made my way to the terrace.’
Miss Potter was crying. I pulled over into a layby, grabbed more Kleenex and wiped the tears from her cheeks as they fell. ‘There, there,’ I said. She didn’t move to push me away.
‘He was all in pieces, Alex. He was so handsome. He was – blown apart.’
‘I know he was handsome. I saw the photographs. Hush, Miss P’
‘The blood was everywhere. It didn’t show against his coat. He was in hunting pink, with hunt buttons. I think I – I think I loved him.’
‘No wonder. Anyone would. Hush now.’ I hugged her I could feel her bones under the flesh. She had very delicate bones. I felt like a hippo comforting a quail.
‘He hadn’t even done what I thought he’d done. He wasn’t guilty. He wasn’t guilty.’
‘It was bad luck. He was furious with Laura, he would have listened otherwise.’
‘He always just – brushed me aside, as if I didn’t exist. He never remembered my name.’
‘He didn’t know what you thought. He couldn’t I read your mind. It was a misunderstanding, that’s all. Here, blow.’ I held the Kleenex to her nose and patted her on the back. ‘Blow your nose. Miss P.’
‘I was of no account, to them. He didn’t even know my name. He didn’t see me.’
Gradually, she calmed down, blew her nose, and gave me a watery blue-eyed smile. ‘I haven’t been sleeping, since you first suggested Rosalind’s – involvement with Mr Revill. It was worse than the night after – after the ball. At least, then, I believed that Rollo was guilty, of corrupting Rosalind, of terrible arrogance, thinking he could do what he liked, with her and with me.’
‘What did you do next?’
‘I waited for the police. The servants didn’t find him until the next morning, but I thought, when they did, they’d come to arrest me.’
‘Why didn’t you tell them you’d done it? What about a citizen’s duty?’
‘They never asked me if I knew the identity of the murderer. If they had asked me specifically, I would have told them. They kept asking me where I’d been, what I’d done, and I gave them an edited version. I was invisible to them, too.’
‘It has its advantages.’
‘I suppose I was lucky.’
‘What did you feel?’
‘My dear, do you really want to know? You’ve been most kind to listen, but your interest is in facts, is it not?’
‘I’m interested in you.’
‘Why?’
‘Don’t fish for compliments. Just tell me. What did you feel?’
‘I was too shocked to feel at all, for weeks. I did the best I could for the children. I kept away from Rosalind. My clearest memory is of Lady Sherwin. I don’t think she felt a moment’s grief for her husband.’
‘Who did she think had killed him?’
‘She was scarcely interested. She was a selfish woman with a commonplace mind. To her, I was merely the children’s priggish governess, too insignificant to pull the trigger of a gun she had loaded. Besides, the death of her husband was a great relief to her. If a tramp could have been apprehended she would have been delighted, but she was chiefly concerned that the police did not discover that she and Lord Sherwin had been arguing, that night. I think she felt that, if I cared to tell the police that I had overheard an argument between them, and moreover an argument that involved the shotgun, they would believe it had culminated in his death. They already suspected her.’
‘You told her you’d overheard?’
‘Yes.’
‘And that’s how you got the cottage? She was still frightened, all those years after?’
‘Yes. She would have lost her inheritance, you see. That was her chief anxiety.’
‘She might have been hanged.’
‘Most unlikely.’
‘So you blackmailed her?’<
br />
Miss Potter pursed her lips, considering the word. ‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Didn’t the police get anything out of you?’
‘The officer conducting the investigation was a very stupid man. Self-righteous and rude. I did not feel encouraged to co-operate. I have always tried to do my job, whatever it might be, to the best of my ability. I saw no reason to do his. Above all, I didn’t want them to find out about Rosalind. I did not want her involved, in any way. However appalling her behaviour had been, the responsibility was overwhelmingly Lord Sherwin’s. She was a young girl. Her life could have been ruined. The publicity was, in any case, intolerable. We were besieged. Reporters hid in every hedge.’
‘It’d have been much worse now.’
‘It was quite bad enough then.’
‘And you didn’t tell Rosalind?’
‘What I knew? Certainly not.’
‘In case she told the police?’
‘No. I was prepared to take my punishment. I was not prepared for her to feel herself responsible for my guilt and my feelings. It would have been an unendurable burden. It was a strange time, Alex. Sometimes the shock lifted for hours at a time and then I felt furious and betrayed and deeply sorry, all at once.’
‘And jealous?’
‘I think, now, I must have done. That is not how I characterized it at the time. I could not understand how I had been so mistaken in her, and how my tutelage had so failed her. It seemed to make a nonsense of my life. Whole days went past in which I worked and spoke and ate, but of which I could remember nothing. I kept the children occupied but I had little to give. Penelope felt the lack, I know. She was hardest hit by her father’s death. I also, looking back, failed Colonel Farrell. But I did my best. I prayed and waited.’
‘What were you waiting for, exactly?’
‘To make amends in any way I could. Particularly to the little girls, who had not only lost a father but who had been left in the sole care of Lady Sherwin. Their father’s death had left their situation changed, irretrievably, for the worse. I tried to convince myself, at the time, that Lord Sherwin’s behaviour towards Rosalind might eventually have extended itself to his daughters, but I did not, even then, believe it. How could I have been so stupid, Alex? Looking back, it’s absolutely clear to me. Lord Sherwin was not at all the incestuous type. But I had seen them, I had seen them, and I could not erase the image from my mind. Not just my mind; it pervaded my body and being.’
We sat in silence for a while. Then she sighed deeply. ‘Drive on, Alex,’ she said. ‘I’ve kept my side of the bargain, have I not? You have your story. Now, please, resume your search for Toad.’
I handed over more Kleenex and restarted the car.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The cleaning woman, Kate, was out when we arrived, bless her. The council house was closed and silent. I pressed the doorbell for an unreasonably long time, pleased by the echoing of the impotent chimes. With any luck I’d have another half-hour or so alone with Miss Potter I dashed through the rain back to the car, composing my face to disappointment.
‘Oh dear,’ she said blankly. The predictable setback seemed to have filleted her. She looked very old. ‘Alex, I . . .’ she trailed away, started again. ‘I must . . .’
‘Never mind,’ I said, ‘she’ll be here soon, surely. We can ask the neighbours.’ The houses on both sides were obviously occupied.
‘Under normal circumstances she would be here by now.’
‘She will be.’
‘Perhaps we should go straight to the hall and break in,’ she said. ‘Surely that is not beyond your powers, Alex?’
It probably wasn’t, not with scaffolding up. People were getting much more sophisticated about burglar alarm systems and security locks, but my bet was that Charlotte was meaner than she was paranoid. Ludovic Mayfield might have persuaded her to fortify the place, though, and in any case I didn’t want to do anything until I’d squeezed Miss Potter dry and it was dark. ‘Let’s hang on for a few minutes,’ I said. ‘Tell me some more. Miss P. Tell me what it was like after the murder.’
‘Must I? I would like to rest.’
‘Soon. When Kate comes back . . .’
‘And if she doesn’t?’
‘Then I’ll break in to look for Toad, but not till it’s dark.’
She could see the sense of that. She watched me weakly while I changed the tape in my recorder. ‘Don’t you ever tire?’ she asked, rather wistfully.
‘Of course. But I’m quite a bit younger than you, and I’ve got a job to do.’ I felt half-bad, forcing her on, but not enough to forgo the story. It was the best chance I’d ever had and it wasn’t my fault she’d got herself into such a mess.
‘I was – as vigorous as you, once.’
Give the woman credit, I’d listened to hours of self-revelation and read two volumes of memoirs, and it was the first time I’d ever known her self-pitying. She must be on her knees, I thought. Or else she was up to something, trying to avoid going on with her story.
‘After the murder . . .’ I said.
She sighed. ‘Very well. Penelope had nightmares. Charlotte had shown her the murder photograph: she told Penelope that Rollo was being eaten by worms. She kept chanting “Daddy’s in his coffin, Weetabix for Worms”, and wriggling her fingers. The young can be very cruel. . . . Rosalind and I tried to reassure Penelope with assurances of an after-life. Charlotte insisted there was no life after death. Penelope often went to Rosalind’s bed in the middle of the night. Rosalind comforted her with stories of her life in Kenya. Laura lay on the sofa. She decided the children must go to boarding-school. I prepared their uniform trunks. Rosalind was to go to London with the Paxtons.’
She ground to a halt, looked at me appealingly, saw I was expecting more and went on. ‘Colonel Farrell was very shaken by Rollo’s death. Partly from genuine feeling, partly because he was anxious about his future, with good reason. Laura was not especially fond of him: the chances were she would have asked him to leave, and he had nowhere to go, and no resources. Rosalind suggested to him that she should buy a flat in London for them to set up house together.’
‘Sounds like a great idea,’ I said. I’d never taken to Farrell, but he was a simple old fool, and by all accounts fond of Rosalind. ‘What went wrong?’
‘He asked my advice. He asked if it would be best for Rosalind. He valued my judgement. I advised him, strongly, against it. I told him that Rosalind had recently shown me that she was by no means a good, girl, and that she needed a very firm hand. I said that he would be the worst possible person to have charge of her. He was very disappointed, but he took my advice and refused Rosalind’s offer. He was innocent, foolish and biddable.’
‘You didn’t really fail him,’ I said bracingly. ‘As far as you knew, Rosalind did need a very firm hand, and she was probably better off with the Paxtons. Farrell died of a heart attack soon after, didn’t he? So it didn’t make much difference. He died before he and Rosalind would have set up house together.’
‘He died holding a shotgun. He intended to kill himself. He left a note confessing to the murder of Lord Sherwin.’
‘Why?’
‘I imagine, because he wanted to protect Rosalind, whom he thought was involved. I must have given him that impression. Rosalind found him and came to me. We removed the gun, and the suicide note. In the event, he had died of natural causes, probably of fear. He had a very timid nature.’
‘Poor old boy,’ I said.
‘I found him exasperatingly dim-witted,’ she said. ‘I blame myself I did not pay attention.’ She lay back in the seat and closed her eyes and I looked at her closely. She still looked old, but less frail: the colour was back in her cheeks. Barty was right, she was unimaginably tough. She might even weather this.
Well, Barty and I had an angle. I had enough for my piece, even if she clammed up on me tomorrow. She’d kept her side of the bargain: now I had to keep mine. ‘OK, Miss P.,’ I said. ‘Let’s go and get some
tea. You must eat something or you really will be ill. Where’s the nearest tea place?’
‘Stratford, at this time of year,’ she said. ‘But—’
‘Trust me,’ I said, and started the car. As I drove, something nagged at me, something wrong about Kate’s house. It was dark, locked up, silent. Why shouldn’t it be? There was a reason: somewhere kicking around in the back of my mind was a reason. I switched my attention away from it. I’d remember if I didn’t try.
After three rounds of dry toast, she looked stronger still. She glanced around the tourist-trap tea shop with its ridiculously small, over-flounced tables littered with grubby stand-up triangles of cardboard advertising the special As You Like It all-inclusive snack lunch, dabbed her mouth with a napkin, took a deep breath. ‘Alex, would you clear up a small point for me? Your name. What is your real name? You cannot have imagined I would believe your fabrication.’
‘My mother meant to call me Alice.’
‘A perfectly acceptable name with both royal and literary associations. Why did you choose Alex?’
‘The registrar did. My mother had a mental illness. Miss P.’
‘Post-natal depression?’
‘In a manner of speaking. It came on after she was born and it’s lasted fifty years, give or take the odd remission.’ If she was making small-talk, she was obviously well enough to go on. ‘Miss Potter, when you originally agreed to help Barty, what did you intend to do? What was going on in your mind? You couldn’t have published your memoirs, could you?’
‘I was behaving stupidly. I was angry with Charlotte. She was extraordinarily unpleasant to me, Alex.’
‘When she picked the fight to get you out?’
‘Yes. She accused me of – she said—’
‘Spit it out. It’s better said.’
‘She said – I had deviant sexual tendencies.’
Chalk it up to me, I didn’t laugh. I didn’t even smile. My Catholic foster-mother (the obsessive cleaner) would have said I added a jewel to my heavenly crown. ‘What’s that to do with your suitability as a tenant?’ I asked, mildly, defusingly.
She looked puzzled.
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