‘Phil?’ said Oliver again. He was no doubt worrying about the state of my mind.
‘Sorry. Just a thought.’ I returned my attention to Clare. ‘But don’t you see, Clare, that if it was locked—this door here—with the key inside—’
‘I’m telling you that it was.’ She nodded. An item of truth had been hurled at me, and she was pleased with the reaction. With a nod, she now hitched herself back on the edge of the table.
‘Then nobody could have got in here and shot him,’ I told her. ‘Not in by way of the French windows, because they were jammed, and not through the door because it was locked.’
‘Somebody did shoot him, though.’ She nodded emphatically. There was almost a childish glee that she’d found something—and a truth, into the bargain—that had thrown me.
‘But the police claimed that you managed to do it.’
‘Tcha!’
‘And was the door still locked when you came back into the house, from round the front?’
‘How do I know? I didn’t even try it, just assumed it still was.’
I paused. Then I went on, ‘Did you tell the police what you’ve just told me—that little detail about following him to the door with the intention of grabbing the key?’
She shrugged elaborately. ‘What would’ve been the point?’
‘The point was…’ I found I was shouting, and moderated my voice. ‘The point is that it indicates you were telling the truth about it.’
‘Of course I was telling the truth.’
I didn’t comment on that. She so annoyed me that I felt like slapping her in the face and walking out of there. I had to content myself with a sigh.
‘But Clare…don’t you see…if the door was locked then, and was unlocked when the police arrived, that could’ve happened in only one way. You have to think in terms of where the key was —inside. In other words, it would’ve had to be opened from the inside, and as Harris was in no condition to have done it, then there must have been somebody else in that room with him. And it was that person who unlocked the door.’
Oliver gave a long sigh of relief. He saw this as a major break-through. Clare completely ruined the impact, though.
‘Don’t you think I realised that? Oh—you are slow, Philipa.’
‘Realised it…’ I glanced at Oliver. His face was expressionless. ‘And realising that, you shouted at him through the door that he was a sterile bastard, and he could go and tell that to his pregnant bitch?’
‘Words’, she said, ‘to that effect. If you want the full truth, it’d take me quite a while to remember every precious word I threw at him.’
‘Knowing somebody was in there…here? What good could that have done?’
‘Good! I wanted to do bad. It’d flash around the district—Harris Steadman couldn’t get a mouse pregnant. Shame him…that was what I wanted.’
You just couldn’t tell, with Clare. Either she was very clever, or very stupid. Harris had already been basking in exactly the opposite reputation.
‘So tell me’, I ventured, testing her story, ‘how you knew Harris had somebody in here with him.’
She smiled at me in a most condescending manner. ‘But my dear, you don’t know him. He never came home and then straight into here, to leave his gun. And he never went into the kitchen to leave his coat where it could drip. Oh no. Not Harris. And it was obvious that he had come in here—straight in here when he got home—because the key was on the inside of the lock. This side. And I knew I’d left it on the outside. So it was common sense. Slovenly, he was. He would always dump his jacket and his gun on the hallstand—leave it for me to tidy up after him. For me to clean and oil his gun.’
‘You did that? Clean his gun…’
‘He knew I couldn’t let a gun hang around, all wet and fouled.’
‘All right.’ I was hurrying on, now, as I clearly had her in a truthful mood. Every word had struck home. ‘All right, so they were there on the hallstand…’
‘So I knew,’ she said, nodding, a tiny complacent smile on her lips. ‘I knew the moment I saw the key had been changed from outside the door to inside. That he’d brought somebody back with him. And that he didn’t want us to meet. The Barbour jacket and the gun on the hallstand—they only confirmed it. And there they were, when I ran out the front.’
‘Bloody hell!’ I heard Oliver whisper. I trod back on his toe, to warn him not to interrupt.
Then I tried to pretend that all this was of only a casual interest. ‘But you didn’t tell the police that?’
She shrugged. ‘It was irrelevant. Can’t you just imagine it! He owed somebody money. He’d say, “Come back with me—I’ll get it out of Clare. And if she won’t cash up, you can take a gun or two.” So they’d go straight to the gunroom, here, quietly, Harris and this Tom, Dick or Harry or whatever, and Harris would say, “Don’t make a sound.” Then he’d go in to me—but he already knew I wasn’t going to be signing a cheque for him. I’d told him. The last one was the last. So he just had to make a scene. He was like that—had to work himself into a fury, as a kind of self-justification. Does that make sense?’
‘It makes sense. But Clare, the police ought to have been told.’
‘Of course not! That friend of his didn’t come into it. He’d have been off and away across the lawn…with my Darne in his grubby hands. Like a flash. Now I know it. Then, I didn’t, because I didn’t know at that time that a gun was missing. What chance had I got to check on the guns—that night? Oh, Philipa, talk sense.’
I glanced round at Oliver, who stood stolidly at my shoulder. He raised his eyebrows. I shook my head, more to clear it than to keep him quiet. Then I returned my attention to Clare.
‘So it wasn’t a complete surprise to find your collection was a gun short?’
She hesitated a fraction. ‘No. If I’m telling the truth, I suppose I might as well tell the lot. I only guessed it, till I went to see the guns. Why d’you think I was so anxious to get it done?’
‘But you’d had time. You’d been out more than a week. That doesn’t sound to me like being anxious.’
‘Oh, don’t keep pouncing on every word I say, Philipa. I kept putting it off because I didn’t want to face it alone. I could’ve been wrong…all the time…wrong about assuming he had a friend in here, who’d taken a gun away. I—sort of—couldn’t face the disappointment, if I’d been wrong.’ She explained this simply, like a child caught in a misdemeanour. ‘But you turned up here, you and Oliver, and Oliver knew his way around there, where they’d got my guns. I’ve always been so sure Harris had given one away. Certain. But if he hadn’t…Anyway, as you know, it turned out all right. I just wish it hadn’t been the Darne.’
She seemed restless even now, having to put it into words, not being certain of her own reactions at that time. She was more insecure than I’d suspected, still not having recaptured her proper place in life.
‘I could’ve killed him,’ she said reflectively.
‘Who? Charlie Green?’
‘Harris. If he’d been around now, I could’ve killed him.’
‘So that was the third shot—your Darne.’ I hadn’t really accepted that third shot.
‘Must have been.’
‘You did genuinely hear a third shot?’
‘I told you that. I did.’
‘But possibly you were in your lying mood at the time.’ I looked round at Oliver again, and spoke to him quietly. ‘Is that how you see it, Oliver? This person, he hung around outside for a while, possibly to watch the fun. Then, when it seemed to be over, he fired a single shot. That would’ve been intended as a signal to Harris that he’d got clear away.’
‘Clear away?’
‘The police arriving on the scene. You turned up, Oliver.’
‘Ah yes. But…watched the fun? Watched the throwing and the shot at the glass?’
‘Possibly. But he wouldn’t realise exactly what’d happened. Yes. I can see that. And he’d say nothing, because he’d discove
r later that there’d been a murder here.’
‘You can bet he’d keep his head down,’ he agreed.
I turned back to Clare. ‘But don’t you realise’, I asked her, ‘that if you’d said all this to the police they’d have had a thorough go at Harris’s shooting friends, and if they’d traced one who’d just acquired a new gun there’d have been some evidence to back up your story.’
She slid down from the table and took up a stance she intended to be seen as dignified, though it rested on her insecurely.
‘For every question,’ she said coolly, ‘I answered with the truth. And how could this person, who must have been off and away the moment Harris opened the French windows, have seen anything of the actual murder? Talk sense, please, if you’re going to talk at all. That came after it was all over, the throwing and the scrambling and the shutting of the French windows again.’
‘And also, of course, you’d have to bear in mind that this mystery person might have noticed you taking your shotgun round to the front with you—and then you’d have had no leg to stand on at all. So you said nothing. It was probably for the best.’
But she was unshakeable. She shook her head, even managing a wry smile. ‘He’d have seen I didn’t.’
‘Then he’d have been useful to you as a witness.’ Was she stupid, or something?
‘No, he wouldn’t. They couldn’t have tied him down. D’you think he’d ever have admitted to having the Darne? And I can tell you they’re so rare he couldn’t have claimed it as his own. Not him. He’d act dumb and innocent. It would’ve been theft, after all.’
So it had been. It had robbed Clare of one sliding-breech Darne and five, nearly six, years of her life.
I felt weak and empty, and lost. There seemed to be no way in which I could understand this woman, who appeared to be able to wriggle through a maze of self-contradictions and evasions in order to reach a situation satisfactory to herself—to her understanding of herself. I sighed.
‘But don’t you see, Clare, you’ve now just about admitted that you, yourself, callously killed Harris, because there’s only you left who could possibly have done it.’
‘If you say so.’ She shrugged elaborately. ‘It doesn’t matter now, so I don’t see why you can’t drop it. Drop it and go away.’ This last was said in a sharp and bitter voice.
‘But it does matter. Oh…you’re so damned thick! You’re down in the Big Book as the murderer of Harris Steadman. Yes, I know you’re out on licence. But only on licence. There’re inconvenient and difficult things involved. Reporting regularly—you’ll probably not be able to hold a passport…Oh, I don’t know it all. But you’re not free, Clare. Your conviction still stands. There has to be an answer to it all. Give me time, and I’ll find it for you.’
She was staring at me with contempt. ‘As though all that matters.’
‘To you, to the whole community, it matters. Especially to the real murderer, it matters. You have to be shown positively as innocent.’
‘No, I don’t. I’d lose my standing in the community. Oh no—no thanks.’ This she said with fierce possessiveness.
I wanted to grab her shoulders and shake her till her teeth rattled. For long moments we stared at each other, she with a smile of superiority glowing all over her face, and me with heaven knows what.
‘To hell with you then!’ I burst out.
The shortest route out of her house—out of that gunroom—was by way of the French windows. I walked over to them, my legs stiff, and flung open the right-hand one. Then I was out on the terrace.
Oliver was at my side. He said, ‘We’ll have to hand this information over to Superintendent Vosper, Phil.’
‘What information? Clare would either deny she said it, or wrap it all up in pretty words and obscure it.’
I stood there, hugging myself, my arms crossed. The sun was going down, and it felt distinctly cooler. Here, we were in the shade.
‘Do we have to care?’ he asked softly.
‘Yes, of course we do.’
I led him away from Clare’s hearing, to the far end of the terrace. ‘You’re forgetting something, aren’t you, Oliver!’
‘Am I? What?’
‘The visitor…it all explains where the Darne went to, and puts it neatly out of the way as far as we’re concerned. And it explains the locked door that wasn’t locked, and how that came about. Possibly. But Oliver—remember? You were on the possible suspect list.’
‘You’re talking nonsense.’
‘No! I have it from Ralph Purslowe, and I suspect that you were dropped off the suspect list only because of the gunroom door being possibly locked. Now we know it wasn’t locked, and we know who could have unlocked it—except that we’d never be able to place a name to him. But it puts you right slap bang in the middle…’
‘This is ridiculous. As though they’d take that up, after all this time.’
‘But Clare might. Clare would. If it amuses her.’
He stared at me fixedly for a moment, then he gave a small, choked laugh. ‘Nonsense!’ he said flatly.
‘It is not nonsense.’ I nearly stamped a foot. ‘To her it’s logical and sensible, and she’s a dangerous woman.’
‘Now what’re you saying? Really…Phillie!’
‘If Clare suspects…if she actually allows herself to believe you killed Harris, that would mean you deliberately planted the murder on her. How many times do I have to hammer it into your head…’
He considered me gravely for a few moments, his eyes empty of any emotion. ‘Let’s go and see if we can get your car out, Phil.’
‘What d’you mean? We can’t just run…’
‘If I’m in such danger, we’d better go running, and fast.’ He tilted his head at me.
‘Don’t you take that attitude with me.’
‘It’s all been too much for you, Phil.’
‘Damn you, Oliver, don’t be so bloody insulting.’
‘Now we’ve got some anonymous person who’s supposed to have unlocked that door. But not to get out of there. Oh no. For the specific purpose of involving me—according to you. And he must’ve done that in a fully lit room with the windows wide open and Clare able to see the back of the room—and she wouldn’t have noticed this stranger? The whole thing’s just stupid.’
‘Will you please…stop!’
‘And on top of that,’ he went on, at full steam like that tractor down in the field, ‘firing a farewell shot from out in the night somewhere. To tell Harris he’d got clean away? Choff!’
It is difficult to put into one word the full dismissive contempt that Oliver managed to convey. It was like a slap in the face.
‘Sometimes’, I said heavily, though feeling I would prefer to shout it, ‘you can be very stupid, Oliver. Don’t you realise…we’re both now in danger.’
His smile was sympathetic. ‘You’d make a lousy wife, I’ll tell you that. I can see where my danger really lies.’
I turned away from him. ‘I’m not sure I want to marry you,’ I said coldly. ‘What use will you be if they give you a life sentence?’
‘Phil!’ He tried to put his arm round my shoulders.
I shrugged him off. For a few moments he was silent. I didn’t dare to turn in order to observe his attitude.
Then he said, ‘You stay here. I’m going to look for Glenn Thomas.’
‘I’m supposed to stay with you, though what protection I’d get from a murderer, I don’t know.’
He ought to have understood me by that time. One correct word and we’d have been laughing together.
‘You’ll have to come with me and risk it.’ He’d hit the correct note. I put my fingers on his arm.
‘What d’you want him for?’
‘To get his team together and get your car free.’
‘No.’
‘I’m taking you away from here, Phil.’ Now he was taking exactly the wrong attitude. ‘The whole thing’s upset you.’
I’d been poised on a sharp edge, a
nd about to step back. His condescension pushed me that fraction too far.
‘Upset! Upset! Who’s upset? Somebody tries to kill me, but do I care? Of course not. Nonchalant, that’s me. Cool in the face of danger. I see the murder, face to face, but does it shake me? Oh, not a bit. Philipa presses on. And I’m asked to run away from it—when the only peace of mind I’ll get is when I can get a grip on the truth. Oh…I’m not upset. Not a bit. Not even when you start giving me orders.’
‘Phillie!’ He tried, this time, to take my arm.
‘No!’ I shook him off. ‘You want Glenn, I’ll get him for you. And you can damn well drive yourself home. Here…here’s the keys.’
I threw them at him, and they hit him in the chest. Then I began to run, starting with one great leap down to the lawn, and then heading off, stumbling because I could barely see through the tears, aiming for the gap in the hedge that I’d used before. He couldn’t follow me through there, that was my thought. Too narrow.
‘Phillie!’ he bellowed, and he was not too far behind.
Taking no other protection against the stiff branches of the rhododendrons, I raised my arms across my face, and plunged through, tripped over, and went flying forward on the grass the other side, sliding until I dug in my toes and fingers.
I lay there, panting and wailing in sheer infuriated frustration.
I was then aware that Oliver, having gone through the larger gap in the corner, was bending over me. ‘Now look what you’ve done,’ he said, not really the comforting words I would have welcomed.
‘It’s my ankle,’ I said miserably. ‘I tripped over something. Oh hell—it hurts.’
‘Let me see. Which is it?’
‘The right.’
My anger had melted away. He needed only to touch me gently, and all other emotions were swamped—as he well knew—by a warm flow of contentment. I rolled over on to my back. He carefully removed my shoe, which was half off anyway, and his strong fingers gently caressed my ankle.
‘It’s not broken,’ he said confidently.
A Shot at Nothing Page 19
