“Because he feels responsible for Rowena’s death? Come on.”
“It’s true he’s never got over it,” said Mr. Bryant. “But I can’t believe-”
“What about the postcard?” His wife had seized her husband’s elbow and jerked forward in her chair, spilling tea into her saucer. “I told you I didn’t imagine it.”
Mr. Bryant sighed. “Not that again.” He shook his head and looked across at me. “You know Paul went round Europe by train that summer, Mr. Timariot?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Well, he sent us several postcards. Half a dozen all told, I should think. Just tourist stuff. The Eiffel Tower. The Acropolis. That sort of thing. I can’t remember much about them. But Dot seems to think-”
“One of them was of Mount Blank, Mr. Timariot,” his wife put in. “And that place he told his friend he was going to when they split up…”
“Chamonix?”
“Yes. It’s right underneath Mount Blank, isn’t it? I looked it up in the atlas.”
“Are you saying the card was posted in Chamonix?”
“Well… Not exactly. I don’t recall where…”
“And she’s thrown it away since,” Mr. Bryant explained.
“I thought I’d kept them,” Mrs. Bryant said stubbornly. “For the stamps. I can’t think how they came to be-”
“Dot’s a great one for clear-outs,” said her husband, with a rueful smile.
“It must have been some peak in the Austrian Alps, Mum,” said Cheryl, her tone suggesting she’d already heard enough of the topic.
But Mrs. Bryant wasn’t to be moved, even though her excruciating mispronunciation of Mont Blanc only underlined her capacity for error-as well as self-delusion. “It was Mount Blank,” she insisted.
“Maybe it was,” said Cheryl, glancing at me as she spoke. “Maybe Paul sent it specifically to make us think he’d been to Chamonix. But when and where was it posted? That’s the question.”
“I don’t know.” Her mother was becoming irritated now. “I didn’t take down the details of the postmark.”
“What does Paul say?” I asked, anxious to calm the waters.
“We haven’t asked him,” Mr. Bryant replied. “He’d gone by the time Dot thought of it.”
“And the card’s gone too,” said Cheryl. “So there’s not really much point talking about it, is there?”
“Perhaps not,” I said, still trying to sound like the embodiment of sweet reason. “But it’s the sort of thing that could be helpful. If Paul is lying, some little slip he’s made is what will find him out. I mean, if he wasn’t in Kington on the night in question, he must have been somewhere else, mustn’t he? And somebody must have seen him there.”
Cheryl sighed. “He wasn’t anywhere else.”
“But supposing he was… for the sake of argument… Then-and on those other occasions. In Cambridge and-”
“He did stay up there after the end of term,” tolled Mrs. Bryant’s mournful voice. “I remember that.”
“During the Easter vacation that year, then. Did he seem… in a strange mood?”
“He was always in a strange mood,” said Cheryl. “From birth, as far as I could tell.”
Mr. Bryant looked round sharply at her, then said: “Paul’s never been what you’d call open. It’s never been easy to know what’s going on inside his head.”
“We know now,” murmured Cheryl.
Her mother, meanwhile, had been casting her mind back to April 1990. “He seemed the same as usual, Mr. Timariot. Like Norman says, he’s always had a… private nature. Never one to make friends easily, our Paul.”
“Or at all,” Cheryl threw in.
“What about Peter Rossington?”
“We’ve never met him,” Mr. Bryant replied. “I think they were just travelling companions.”
“Paul must have some friends.”
Mr. Bryant shrugged. “Not really. The boy’s always been a bit of a lone wolf.” He seemed to wince, as if suddenly struck by the predatory connotations of the description. “That’s why we were so pleased when he and Rowena…” He tailed off into silence, realizing every word only took him in deeper.
“Somebody ought to check with that Peter Rossington,” his wife resumed. “He might know when Paul was in… what do you call it?… Chamonicks.”
“He was never in Chamonicks,” snapped Cheryl. She took a deep breath and pressed a hand to her forehead before quietly correcting herself. “Chamonix.”
“The police will check with him, love,” Mr. Bryant consoled his wife.
“I’d be happy to speak to him myself,” I said, coming rapidly to terms with the likelihood that my visit was going to leave me with no other avenue to explore. “Do you know where he can be contacted?”
“Paul said he worked for some big advertising agency in London,” Mrs. Bryant replied. “But I can’t quite…”
“Schneider Mackintosh,” said Cheryl, smiling coolly at me. “You know? The people we can thank for the result of the last election.”
“Ah yes. Of course.”
“Are you going to see him?” asked Mrs. Bryant.
“If he’ll see me, certainly.”
“Good.” She risked a sidelong glance at her husband. “I’m glad somebody’s doing something.”
“You’re wasting your time,” said Cheryl. “He’ll only confirm what Paul’s already told us.”
“Perhaps. But-”
“And do you know why? Because it’s the truth.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because he’s my brother, Mr. Timariot. I’ve known him all his life. I’ve watched him grow up. But I’ve never really understood him. Until now. He’s always been hiding something before. Keeping something back. But not any more. It’s all out in the open now. I wish it wasn’t. But it is. And the sooner we face up to it, the better.”
“Cheryl’s right,” said Mr. Bryant as he walked me to my car. “We have to accept what Paul did as best we can. There’s no sense in… blocking our ears to it.”
“I just want to be sure, Mr. Bryant. Only your wife doesn’t seem to be.”
“She’s his mother. What else would you expect? She can’t bring herself to believe he could commit murder.”
“But you can?”
We reached the car and stopped. He didn’t look directly at me or answer my question specifically. But a shuffle of his feet and a droop of his chin gave me some kind of response. “It was good of you to call, Mr. Timariot. I appreciate it. But I have to think of Dot, you see. I have to help her come to terms with what’s happened. And what’s going to happen. Raising her hopes will only make her feel worse when they’re dashed.” Now he did look at me. “As you and I both know they will be.”
“I’m trying to keep an open mind on the subject. I think you should do the same.”
“Paul’s walked out on his job, you know. It was a good job too. The basis of a fine career.”
“You think that proves something?”
“I think it proves he’s preparing for the worst. That’s why we have to do the same.” He frowned. “I’d be grateful, Mr. Timariot… for Dot’s sake… if you didn’t come to see us again… in the circumstances.” Then he sighed and added: “Sorry.”
“What if I learn something useful from Peter Rossington?”
A car drove past us and Mr. Bryant waved over my shoulder to the driver, a smile coming instantly to his lips-and leaving as quickly. His eyes followed the vehicle for a moment, as if he were wondering how many neighbourly waves he’d have to do without, once Paul’s guilt became widely known. Then he looked back at me. “You won’t,” he said, without the least hint of animosity.
“I might.”
An expression of politely restrained scepticism crossed his face, such as I could imagine him having worn when a heavily overdrawn customer of the bank sought an extension of credit on the flimsiest of grounds. “Goodbye, Mr. Timariot,” he said, shaking my hand and turning dolefully back towards the house.