“You do realize, don’t you, Mr. Timariot? He did it. Trying to trip him up over dates and places isn’t going to work.”
“You may be right. I just want to be sure.”
“Who are you doing this for? Paul said you had only the most tenuous connection with the case. And with the family.”
“Maybe I’m doing it for him.”
“He doesn’t seem to think so.”
“For myself, then.”
“But you already believe he’s telling the truth. You told him so, apparently.”
“I’m just double-checking, that’s all.”
“And what’s your double-checking turned up so far? Any doubts or discrepancies?”
I smiled in spite of myself. “Not one.”
“There you are, then.” He picked up his knife and cut off a yielding slice of duckling. “Seems to me you’d do better following my example.”
“And what is your example, Mr. Rossington?”
“Look after number one.” A pink morsel of flesh slipped between his polished teeth. “And let Paul Bryant look after himself.”
Rossington’s advice was sound but impractical. Paul knew I was up to something and the least I owed him now was a prompt if necessarily incomplete explanation. When I left the restaurant, I hopped into a taxi and went not to Waterloo but to Paddington. From there I caught the next train to Bristol. And by four o’clock I was standing outside the chic little town house on Bathurst Wharf that Rowena had been walking towards the last time I’d ever seen her.
Paul answered the door quickly, as if he’d seen me approaching. He was looking smarter than when he’d come to Petersfield, but Sir Keith’s description of him-“like a man in a trance”-held good. His self-control had become so total, his sense of purpose so dominant, that a calmness amounting almost to blankness had descended on him. He gazed at me as a committed member of some closed religious order might gaze at a hapless stranger who’d knocked at their gate. With disdain and pity equally mingled. “Hello, Robin,” he said quietly. “Come on in.”
I followed him along a short passage past a dining-room and kitchen, brushing against a coat hanging on a hook that had surely belonged to Rowena. I glanced into the kitchen and glimpsed other traces of her presence. A casserole dish moulded and painted to look like a broody hen. A calendar above the sink illustrated with Beatrix Potter characters. I couldn’t make out which month it was, but the word was too short to be September. It could easily have been June, though-the month of her death.
The thought stayed with me as we climbed the stairs to the first-floor lounge. And there it was strengthened. The curtains and carpets, the upholstery of the sofa, the oval rug in the centre of the room, the bowl of pot-pourri, the vase of dried flowers: she’d chosen them all. And there was a scent in the air reminiscent of the delicate floral perfumes she’d worn. So reminiscent, in fact, that I was tempted to ask Paul if the pot-pourri had the same aroma. But a sudden fear that he might tell me I was imagining it got the better of me. I went to the window and looked down at the yachts moored along the wharf, at the swing-bridge across the harbour that I’d watched her cross that day in June. Craning forward, I could even make out the floating pub on the other side of St. Augustine’s Reach I’d watched her from. Everything was the same. Everything was exactly as I remembered. But no lone figure with flowing hair was approaching. Nor ever would be.
“Looking for something?” asked Paul from the other side of the room.
“No.” I turned round to meet his gaze. “Nothing.”
“Like me, then. I stand there and stare out at nothing quite a lot. It helps me think.” He slowly rounded the sofa as he spoke. Then he stopped, propped himself against its back, folded his arms and frowned at me with mild curiosity. “What’s all this about, Robin? I take it you did have lunch with Peter Rossington today.”
“Yes. I did.”
“Is he the only person you’ve been questioning about me?”
“Actually, no. I spoke to your family.”
“Did you? They haven’t mentioned it.”
“Perhaps they didn’t think there was any need to.”
“Perhaps not. Mind explaining why you went to them?”
“Not at all. It’s why I came. To explain.” I tried to smile, but only succeeded in producing a tight-lipped grimace. “I just wanted to confirm your story… to check some of the details… before the police became involved.”
“Why? Don’t you think they’ll do a thorough job?”
“It’s not that. I…”
“You don’t doubt the truth of what I told you?”
“No.” I said, happy to be able to answer honestly. “I don’t.”
“Then what are you trying to accomplish?”
I shrugged. “Absolute certainty, I suppose.”
He pushed himself upright, walked to the window where I was standing and leant against the sill. He rested his head against the glass and looked at me thoughtfully. “Who put you up to this, Robin?”
“Nobody.”
“Sir Keith?”
“I told you. Nobody.”
“Sarah, then. If so, she’s disappointed me. I should have thought a lawyer would prefer to handle such things personally.”
“Sarah has no idea what I’ve been doing.”
“It must be Bella in that case.” He raised his head from the glass and clicked his tongue. “Yes. On reflection, it has to be Bella. She’d always ask whether something was deniable before she wondered whether it was true. What does she have on you that obliges you to act as her errand-boy?” Before I could reply, he’d moved back across the room and slumped down into an armchair, his arms still firmly crossed, his brow still quizzically furrowed. “Don’t bother to answer. It’s really none of my business. Besides, I don’t mind you questioning whoever you please. I’ve nothing to hide. If you can persuade my mother to face the truth about me, or Sir Keith the truth about Louise, so much the better. They’ll have to do so eventually. As for Bella, she can do as she pleases as far as I’m concerned. So can you. The police will subject my statement to far closer and more critical scrutiny than you’ll be able to. But the result will be the same. In a few months from now, you’ll have what you claim to want. Absolute certainty.”
“Perhaps I can have it now.”
“Be my guest.”
“Your mother thinks you sent her a postcard of Mont Blanc. From Chamonix.”
“Mum remembers that, does she? Well, well, well. I did, as it happens. But not from Chamonix. I bought it in Chambéry, where I got off the train from Lyon. Posted it before getting the next train back. Thought it might help to cover my tracks. Said I was in Chamonix, of course. ‘A few lines as I sit in a cable-car being winched up Mont Blanc.’ That sort of thing. Dated it the following day. There was no chance of Mum making much sense of a blurred French postmark. I thought it might come in useful. Hasn’t she got it, then?”
“No.”
“Well, it doesn’t make much difference. It’s just another of those little details. The police will go through them all with a fine-tooth comb.”
“It can’t do any harm for me to check a few of them myself, can it?”
“None whatever.” He shook his head and looked at me intently. “But do me a favour, will you? Tell Bella it won’t work. I’ve set my course and nothing’s going to blow me off it. The sooner you and she and everyone else involved confronts what that means for them, the less painful it will be when the truth comes out. As I mean to make sure it does.”
I’d intended to set off back to Petersfield as soon as I left Bathurst Wharf. But when it came to the point, a long and solitary rail journey, with an empty house waiting at the end of it, didn’t appeal. Whereas a walk out to Clifton and an impromptu visit to Sarah did. I badly needed to discuss my difficulties with somebody and she was about the only person I could rely on being at all sympathetic.