Die Happy

by J M Gregson

  ‘But what possible reason could I have for killing Peter? He’d made a few scathing references to my writing, but I found them pathetic rather than wounding.’

  ‘I agree with you on that. I think you are too sensible a woman to kill a man because of his opinions of your work, however derogatory they might be. But it was you who pointed out that “few of us are completely objective about our own work”. You were trying to convince us at the time that Preston’s contemptuous dismissal of Sam Hilton’s poetry and Ros Barker’s paintings might have driven them to kill him. You even took the care to point out that “young people seem to react more violently to criticism than my generation”.’

  ‘I still think that’s true, you know. Perhaps it just reflects a tendency in our present society to resort more quickly to violence.’ She seemed to be weighing his point as if she were engaged only in some complex intellectual argument that interested her.

  ‘But Preston was a malevolent and unscrupulous man, not just a petty critic. He knew how to hurt you: by revealing the stuff he had grubbed up on your husband.’

  ‘You told me about that. I didn’t know anything of it until then.’ With the mention of her husband, her face had turned to stone.

  ‘Oh, I think you did, Mrs Charles. Preston used his material to threaten the other people on the literature festival committee. He was hardly likely to deny you his unwelcome revelations, particularly since he thought of you as the most vulnerable, as he recorded in his notes.’

  She said dully, ‘I couldn’t let him attack George like that. I couldn’t let him go around saying and writing these things, as he threatened to do.’

  It was her first admission of guilt. Hook made a note of it, though he knew in his heart that it would not be necessary to quote this in court. He referred again to his notes and said gently, ‘You said to us on Saturday, “It doesn’t happen often, but I can be very direct when I’m upset”. You were very upset when he made these accusations about your George, weren’t you?’

  It was less an accusation than a helping hand towards the confession they all knew was coming, and she took it as such. ‘It was George’s pistol I used on Peter Preston. That seemed like poetic justice to me.’

  ‘It was a weapon your husband had retained from his army days, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes. I always wanted George to get rid of it, but he said he wasn’t going to live in fear of the young ruffians who practised burglary as a hobby. He was rather an old-fashioned man, my husband, but I loved him.’

  For a moment, it looked as if she would weep at the memories that besieged her. Hook said softly, ‘Loved him enough to kill the man who was besmirching his memory.’

  She glanced at him for an instant, as if she was surprised to see him sitting there, as if she resented his intrusion into her memories. ‘I don’t know what I intended to do when I went to see Peter that night. I think I thought that if I threatened him with the pistol I’d frighten him off. But he laughed in my face – he obviously thought an elderly middle-class lady wouldn’t use a firearm on him.’

  ‘As we did also, for rather too long,’ Lambert said quietly, with a strange combination of grimness and tenderness.

  ‘I waved the pistol at him and asked for a guarantee that he wouldn’t speak and would destroy whatever vile notes he’d made on George and his business career. He refused and laughed at the idea. When I levelled the weapon at him he grabbed it and we struggled for a few seconds. It was quite ridiculous, two people of our ages struggling like that. But then the gun went off – twice in quick succession – and it wasn’t ridiculous any more. I couldn’t believe what had happened for a moment, but I could see that he was dead without even checking. I got out as quickly as I could.’

  ‘And took the pistol with you. Where is it now, Mrs Charles?’

  At the bottom of the River Wye. I can take you to the spot, but I doubt you’ll recover it.’

  Lambert doubted it too. But it wouldn’t be necessary now. There was material for a plea of involuntary manslaughter in her account, once it had been shaped by a clever defence lawyer. But the prosecution would argue that she had gone to see Preston with murderous intent, with a loaded pistol in her handbag. That was fortunately not police business. Hook stepped forward and pronounced the words of arrest in a muted, almost apologetic tone.

  She nodded her recognition of the formal phrases familiar to any crime writer, then stood and signified that she was ready to accompany them. She said, ‘I wouldn’t have allowed it to go to trial, you know, if you’d arrested someone else. I’d have come forward immediately. It’s important to me that you know that. I suppose I just hoped that it might go down as an unsolved case.’

  Hook had the completely unprofessional thought as he stood beside her that he might not have minded that. This killer was worth much more than her despicable victim.

  She strode steadily before them to the door of her sitting room, then stopped and turned. There was no need for words. Lambert said quietly, ‘We’ll make sure that Roland is looked after, Mrs Charles. He’ll have a happy home.’