Unceremoniously, Ingram shoved her onto a chair beside the Aga and told her to stay put while he dealt with her mother. "Right," he said to Celia, "are you going to be more comfortable lying down in bed or sitting up in a chair?"
"Lying down," she said.
"Then I'll set up a bed on the ground floor. Which room do you want it in?"
"I don't," she said mutinously. "It'll make me look like an invalid."
He crossed his arms and frowned at her. "I haven't got time to argue about this, Mrs. Jenner. There's no way you can get upstairs, so the bed has to come to you." She didn't answer. "All right," he said, heading for the hall. "I'll make the decision myself."
"The drawing room," she called after him. "And take the bed out of the room at the end of the corridor."
Her reluctance, he realized, had more to do with her unwillingness to let him go upstairs than fear of being seen as an invalid. He had had no idea how desperate their plight was until he saw the wasteland of the upper floor. The doors stood open to every room, eight in all, and there wasn't a single piece of furniture in any but Celia's. The smell of long-lying dust and damp permeating through an unsound roof stung his nostrils, and he wasn't surprised that Celia's health had begun to suffer. He was reminded of Jane Fielding's complaints about selling the family heirlooms to look after her parents-in-law, but their situation was princely compared with this.
The room at the end of the corridor was obviously Celia's own, and her bed probably the only one left in the house. It took him less than ten minutes to dismantle and reassemble it in the drawing room, where he set it up close to the French windows, overlooking the garden. The view was hardly inspiring, just another wasteland, untended and uncared for, but the drawing room at least retained some of its former glory, with all its paintings and most of its furniture still intact. He had time to reflect that few, if any, of Celia's acquaintances could have any idea that the hall and the drawing room represented the extent of her remaining worth. But what sort of madness made people live like this? he wondered. Pride? Fear of their failures being known? Embarrassment?
He returned to the kitchen. "How are we going to do this?" he asked her. "The hard way or the easy way?"
Tears of pain squeezed between her lids. "You really are the most provoking creature," she said. "You're determined to take away my dignity, aren't you?"
He grinned as he put one arm under her knees and the other behind her back, and lifted her gently. "Why not?" he murmured. "It may be my only chance to get even."
I don't want to talk to you," said William Sumner angrily, barring the front door to DI Galbraith. Hectic spots of color burned in his cheeks, and he kept tugging at the fingers of his left hand as he spoke, cracking the joints noisily. "I'm sick of the police treating my house like a damn thoroughfare, and I'm sick of answering questions. Why can't you just leave me alone?"
"Because your wife's been murdered, sir," said Galbraith evenly, "and we're trying to find out who killed her. I'm sorry if you're finding that difficult to cope with but I really do have no option."
"Then talk to me here. What do you want to know?"
The DI glanced toward the road, where an interested group of spectators was gathering. "We'll have the press here before you know it, William," he said dispassionately. "Do you want to discuss your alleged alibi in front of an audience of journalists?"
Sumner's jittery gaze jumped toward the crowd at his gate. "This isn't fair. Everything's so bloody public. Why can't you make them go away?"
"They'll go of their own accord if you let me in. They'll stay if you insist on keeping me on the doorstep. That's human nature, I'm afraid."
With a haunted expression, Sumner seized the policeman's arm and pulled him inside. Pressure was beginning to take its toll, thought Galbraith, and gone was the self-assured, if tired, man of Monday. It meant nothing in itself. Shock took time to absorb, and nerves invariably began to fray when successful closure to a case remained elusive. He followed Sumner into the sitting room and, as before, took a seat on the sofa.
"What do you mean, alleged alibi?" the man demanded, preferring to stand. "I was in Liverpool, for God's sake. How could I be in two places at once?"
The DI opened his briefcase and extracted some papers. "We've taken statements from your colleagues, hotel employees at the Regal, and librarians at the university library. None of them supports your claim that you were in Liverpool on Saturday night." He held them out. "I think you should read them."
Witness statement: Harold Marshall, MD Campbell Ltd., Lee Industrial Estate, Lichfield, Staffordshire
I remember seeing William at lunch on Saturday, 9 August 1997. We discussed a paper in last week's Lancet about stomach ulcers. William says he's working on a new drug that will beat the current frontrunner into a cocked hat. I was skeptical, and we had quite a debate. No, I didn't see him at the dinner that evening, but then I wouldn't expect to. He and I have been attending these conferences for years, and it'll be a red-letter day when William decides to let his hair down and join the rest of us for some lighthearted entertainment. He was certainly at lunch on Sunday, because we had another argument on the ulcer issue.
Witness statement: Paul Dimmock, Research Chemist, Wryton's, Holborae Way, Colchester, Essex
I saw William at about 2:00 p.m. Saturday afternoon. He said he was going to the university library to do some research, which is par for the course for him. He never goes to conference dinners. He's only interested in the intellectual side, hates the social side. My room was two doors down from his. I remember seeing the do not disturb notice on the door, when I went up to bed about half past midnight, but I've no idea when he got back. I had a drink with him before lunch on Sunday. No, he didn't seem at all tired. Matter of fact he was in better form than usual. Positively cheerful, in fact.
Witness statement: Anne Smith, Research Chemist, Bristol University, Bristol
I didn't see him at all on Saturday, but I had a drink with him and Paul Dimmock on Sunday morning. He gave a paper on Friday afternoon, and I was interested in some of the things he said. He's researching the drug treatment of stomach ulcers, and it sounds like good stuff.
Witness statement: Jane Riley, Librarian, University Library, Liverpool
(Shown a photograph of William Sumner) Quite a few of the conference members came into the library on Saturday, but I don't remember seeing this man. That doesn't mean he wasn't here. As long as they have a conference badge and know what they're looking for, they have free access.
Witness statement: Carrie Wilson, Chambermaid, Regal Hotel, Liverpool
I remember the gentleman in number two-two-three-flve. He was very tidy, unpacked his suitcase, and put everything away in the drawers. Some of them don't bother. I finished about midday on Saturday, but I made up his room when he went down to breakfast and I didn't see him afterward. Sunday morning, there was a do not disturb notice on his door so I left him to sleep. As I recall, he went down at about 11:30, and I made up his room then. Yes, his bed had certainly been slept in. There were science books scattered all over it, and I think he must have been doing some studying. I remember thinking he wasn't so tidy after all.
Witness statement: Les Allen, Librarian, University Library, Liverpool
(Shown a photograph of William Sumner) He came in on Friday morning. I spent about half an hour with him. He wanted papers on peptic and duodenal ulcers, and I showed him where to find them. He said he'd be back on Saturday, but I didn't notice him. It's a big place. I only ever notice the people who need help.