Mrs. Fenton’s knuckles whitened. The hands grasping the bridge began to shake. She said: “I’m afraid I’ve been very stupid. I mustn’t waste any more of your time. It’s getting cold, isn’t it? Shall we go indoors?”
They turned towards the house, neither of them speaking. Dalgliesh shortened his stride to the slow pace of the thin, upright figure at his side. He glanced at her anxiously. She was very pale and he thought he saw her lips moving soundlessly. But she walked firmly. She was going to be all right. He told himself that he mustn’t hurry things. In half an hour, perhaps less, he would have the motive securely in his hands like a bomb that would blow the whole case wide open. But he must be patient. Once again he was touched by an indefinable unrest as if, even at this moment of imminent triumph, his heart held the sure knowledge of failure. The dusk closed in around them. Somewhere a bonfire smouldered, filling his nostrils with acrid smoke. The lawn was a wet sponge under his feet.
The house welcomed them, blessedly warm and smelling faintly of home-baked bread. Mrs. Fenton left him to put her head into a room at the far end of the hall. He guessed that tea was being ordered. Then she led him into the drawing-room to the comfort of a wood fire which threw immense shadows over the chintz-covered chairs and sofa and the faded carpet. She switched on a huge standard lamp at the side of the fireplace and tugged the curtains across the windows, shutting out desolation and decay. Tea arrived, the tray set on a low table by a stolid and aproned maid, almost as old as her mistress, who carefully avoided looking at Dalgliesh. It was a good tea. Dalgliesh saw with an emotion which was too like compassion to be comfortable that trouble had been taken on his behalf. There were fresh-baked scones, two kinds of sandwiches, homemade cakes and an iced sponge. There was too much of everything, a schoolboy’s tea. It was as if the two women, faced with their unknown and most unwelcome visitor, had sought relief from uncertainty in the provision of this embarrassingly liberal feast. Mrs. Fenton herself seemed surprised at the variety which faced her. She manoeuvred cups on the tray like an anxious, inexperienced hostess. It was only when Dalgliesh was provided with his tea and sandwich that she spoke again about the murder.
“My husband attended the Steen Clinic for about four months, nearly ten years ago, soon after he left the army. He was living in London at the time and I was in Nairobi staying with my daughter-in-law who was expecting her first baby. I never knew about my husband’s treatment until he told me a week ago.”
She paused and Dalgliesh said: “I ought to say now that we aren’t, of course, interested in what was wrong with Colonel Fenton. That is a confidential medical matter and it isn’t the concern of the police. I didn’t ask Dr. Etherege for any information and he wouldn’t have given it to me if I had. The fact that your husband was being blackmailed may have to come out—I don’t think that can be avoided—but his reason for going to the clinic and the details of his treatment are no one’s business but his and yours.”
Mrs. Fenton replaced her cup on the tray with infinite care. She looked into the fire and said: “I don’t think it is my business, really. I wasn’t upset because he didn’t tell me. It’s so easy to say now that I would have understood and would have tried to help but I wonder. I think he was wise not to speak about it. People make such a fuss about absolute honesty in marriage but it isn’t very sensible to confess hurtful things unless you really mean to hurt. I wish Matthew had told me about the blackmail, though. Then he really needed help. Together I’m sure we could have thought of something.”
Dalgliesh asked how it had started.
“Just two years ago, Matthew says. He had a telephone call. The voice reminded him about his treatment at the Steen and actually quoted some of the very intimate details Matthew had told the psychiatrist. Then the voice suggested that he would like to help other patients who were trying to overcome similar difficulties. There was a lot of talk about the dreadful social consequences of not getting cured. It was all very subtle and clever, but there wasn’t the least doubt what the voice was after. Matthew asked what he was expected to do and was told to send fifteen pounds in notes to arrive by the first post on the first day of every month. If the first was a Saturday or Sunday, the letter was to arrive on Monday. He was to address the envelope in green ink to the administrative secretary and enclose with the money a note to say that it was a donation from a grateful patient. The voice said that he could be sure that the cash would go where it could do most good.”
“It was a clever enough plan,” said Dalgliesh. “Blackmail would be difficult to prove and the amount was nicely calculated. I imagine that your husband would have been forced to take a different line if the demand had been too exorbitant.”
“Oh, he would! Matthew would never let us be ruined. But you see, it was such a small amount, really. I don’t mean that we could afford to lose fifteen pounds a month but it was a sum which Matthew could just find by personal economies without making me suspicious. And the demand never rose. That was the extraordinary thing about it. Matthew said that he always understood a blackmailer was never satisfied but kept increasing the demand until the victim couldn’t pay another penny. It wasn’t like that at all. Matthew sent the money to arrive on the first day of the next month and he had another call. The voice thanked him for his kind donation and made it quite clear that no more than fifteen pounds was expected. And no more ever was. The voice said something about sharing the sacrifice equally. Matthew said he could almost persuade himself that the thing was genuine. About six months ago he decided to miss a month and see what happened. It wasn’t very pleasant. There was another call and the menace was unmistakable. The voice talked about the need to save patients from social ostracism and said how distressed the people of Sprigg’s Green would be to hear about his lack of generosity. My husband decided to go on. If the village really got to know, it would mean leaving this house. My family have lived here for two hundred years and we both love it. Matthew would be heartbroken to leave the garden. And then there’s the village. Of course, you haven’t seen it at its best, but we love it. My husband is a church-warden. Our small son, who was killed in a road accident, is buried here. It isn’t easy to pull up your roots at seventy.”
No, it wouldn’t be easy. Dalgliesh didn’t question her assumption that discovery would mean that they must leave. A younger, tougher, more sophisticated couple would no doubt ride the publicity, ignore the innuendoes and accept the embarrassed sympathy of their friends in the sure knowledge that nothing lasts for ever and that few things in village life are as dead as last year’s scandal. Pity was less easy to accept. It was probably the fear of pity that would drive most victims to retreat.
He asked what had brought the matter to a head. Mrs. Fenton replied: “Two things, really. The first is that we needed more money. My husband’s younger brother died unexpectedly a month ago and left his widow rather badly off. She is an invalid and not likely to live more than a year or two but she is very happily settled in a nursing home near Norwich and would like to stay there. It was a question of helping with the fees. She needed about another five pounds a week and I couldn’t understand why Matthew seemed so worried about it. It would mean careful planning, but I thought we ought to be able to manage it. But he knew, of course, that we couldn’t if he had to go on sending the fifteen pounds to the Steen. Then there was his operation. It wasn’t a very serious one, I know, but any operation is a risk at seventy and he was afraid that he might die and the whole story come out without his being able to explain. So he told me. I was very glad he did. He went into hospital perfectly happy as a result and the operation went very well. Really very well indeed. Could I give you some more tea, Superintendent?”