As one piece of the puzzle fell into place, another fell out. If Howard Marsden was telling the truth-as I felt sure he was-then he’d played no part whatever in Louise’s decision to leave Sir Keith. But somebody must have done. Not Oscar Bantock, as Paul had initially suspected. He seemed more likely to have been her pander than her lover. Nor Naylor, since she’d only met him when she had by chance. Who, then? There was no answer. But hovering at the margin of my thoughts was the “perfect stranger” Sophie had spoken of. I’d never quite convinced myself she’d invented him. And now my willingness to do Bella’s bidding revealed itself in my mind for what it truly was. Not an attempt to prove or disprove Paul’s confession. But a pursuit of the most elusive figure in Louise’s life. Who was straying more and more into mine.
“You know as much about Louise’s movements the day she died as I do, Mr. Timariot. Perhaps more. You met her, after all, I didn’t. I have no information-for you or the police.”
“No. I see that now.”
“I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
We’d reached the other side of the square and were standing at the top of a wide street that led down towards the river. Marsden surveyed the view for a moment, then turned to me and said: “The man who’s confessed. Is there any doubt of his guilt?”
“Not really.”
“Which means Naylor was telling the truth all along?”
“Yes.”
“About Louise? About how they met? And why?”
I didn’t need to answer. The look we exchanged said it all. Each of us wanted to cling to our own memory of Louise. But neither of us was going to be allowed to.
“This will destroy her reputation,” he murmured.
“Yes,” I said, unable to offer him the slightest comfort. “I’m very much afraid it will.”
I was careful to leave Howard Marsden with the impression that I’d be heading back to Petersfield straightaway. But I had no intention of quitting Ludlow without running Sophie to earth first. For reasons I certainly couldn’t explain to her husband.
I’d got their address from the telephone directory at the hotel. Frith’s End, Ashford Carbonell, turned out to be an impressively appointed black-and-white house in a well-to-do village a few miles south of Ludlow. The overall effect was one of prosperity neither flaunted nor hidden, but robustly declared. I arrived just after half past nine, reckoning Sophie would be up but not yet out by then. And so she was, though the pink silk bathrobe, casually sashed over not very much, suggested I could safely have delayed my visit by another hour at least.
She must have been surprised to see me, but only a momentary widening of her eyes revealed the fact. “Robin!” she said with a flashing smile. “Won’t you come in?”
I followed her into a large and elegantly furnished drawing-room, parts of which seemed familiar from her Benefit of the Doubt interview-or else from glossy interior design magazines leafed through over the years in dentists’ waiting-rooms. French windows gave onto a gently sloping lawn, recently mown and sparkling with dew. Beyond, trees turning to varying shades of gold lined a long curving reach of the river. While indoors everything was tastefully immaculate: a soothing mix of gleaming walnut and glittering brass; plump-cushioned sofas and thick-piled rugs; fat-bellied urns and slim-stemmed vases.
I watched Sophie as she crossed the room in front of me, the inviting lines and soft folds of the bathrobe drawing half-forgotten images to the surface of my thoughts. She knew I was watching her, of course. The knowledge pleased her. Her movements were probably designed for an audience even when she was alone. A newspaper, some letters and an empty breakfast cup stood on a low table by an armchair that faced the television, on which two figures mouthed silently to each other in a studio. Sophie must have zeroed the sound when she heard the doorbell. Now, stooping to tap a key on the remote control that lay ready on the arm of the chair, she switched off the picture as well-and turned to face me.
“I don’t like being pestered, Robin. But I don’t like to be neglected, either. I think you might have been in touch before now.”
“What happened in London-” I began, eager to erect a line of defence before it could be crossed.
“Was a mistake? A misunderstanding? An unfortunate and never to be repeated lapse?” Her eyes mocked me. “You can do better than that. You did at the time, as I recall.”
“It isn’t going to happen again.”
“You think I want it to?” She sat down in the chair and studied me with a puzzled frown. “You’re no different from most men, you know. Arrogant enough to believe that what you want is all-important. Pusillanimous enough to deny what it is you really want.”
“What I want is the truth about Louise Paxton.”
“No it isn’t. It’s the exact reverse. You want me to validate your fantasies about her. To say ‘Yes, what you wish she’d been is what she truly was.’ Well, I can do that.” She crossed her legs, artfully judging just how much thigh the bathrobe would fall open to reveal. “If you think it’ll add to the excitement.”
“I’m not here for excitement.”
“Really? All this way for a dry debate about verity and falsity? You disappoint me. You also fail to convince me.”
“Why did you make up that story about Louise meeting a man on Hergest Ridge and planning to run away with him?”
“I didn’t. I’d hardly have suggested you were the secret man in her life if I’d invented him in the first place, would I? That would have been absurd.”
So it would. Which left room for only one conclusion. That there had indeed been such a man. And Sophie had mistaken me for him. “It wasn’t me, Sophie. As God’s my witness, it wasn’t me.”
“No?” Her frown softened. “Well, perhaps not. Even I can make mistakes. Though one I never make is to regret them. But if it wasn’t you…”
“Who was it?”
“I don’t know. I felt so sure at first. I felt so certain the mystery of her death would draw him out. That’s why half of me still suspects you, Robin. Still fears you could be cleverer than you seem. There’s something about you. Some impression she left on you, that’s too strong and enduring to explain. Unless you were her lover.”
“I wasn’t.”
“So you say. So you say.” She rose, moved to the window and gazed out for a moment. I saw her flex her shoulders and arch her neck. She tightened the sash around her waist, then turned and walked slowly across to where I stood. “But I don’t quite believe it. And neither do you.”
“It was somebody else.”
“Or nobody else.”
“It wasn’t me.”
“Just like the man who was so… insatiable… that afternoon in Bayswater… wasn’t you?” Her eyes took their measure of me. As the mind behind them judged whether the distance between us could or should be bridged. “Is that what you mean?”
“No. It isn’t.”
“Then why do you keep coming back?”
“I won’t. This will be the last time.”
“I don’t think so. I’m the closest you can get to Louise now. And you just can’t leave her alone, can you? Even in death. Now why should that be? Unless I was right all along.”
“I don’t know. But you’re not right.”
“And not entirely wrong?” She moved closer, smiled and raised one hand to her mouth, slipping first one finger, then two, between her teeth. She bit down gently, then slowly removed them. “Do you want to stay? Or go?”
I wanted to do both, of course. But I knew I couldn’t. If I succumbed a second time, there’d be a third and a fourth and a fifth. Her claws would sink into me, deeper and deeper. Her lies would become mine, her husband my victim as well as hers. How like her had Louise really been? I wondered. Much more so than I could bring myself to admit? Or much less than Sophie cared to pretend? There had to be an answer. But I’d never find it in Sophie’s arms. “I must go,” I said, taking half a step backwards.