“It was well known to her,” said the old lady, pointing toward the dock. “Greta knew. That’s why she sent those men.”
“All right, Mrs. Martin. Let’s talk about that. Let’s move on to the day of the murder. You say that my client told you that Mrs. Ball had invited Thomas for the night.”
“That’s right.”
“When did she tell you this?”
“The day before, I think — the Sunday, unless it was the morning of the day it happened. I’m not sure.”
“You’re not sure. And do you remember where you were when this conversation took place?”
“No, I don’t. It’s more than a year ago now.”
“That’s right. You don’t remember where or when you spoke to my client, so how can you be so sure of what she said?”
“I know what she said.”
“But why should you remember it, Mrs. Martin? Surely it wasn’t the issue of who came up with the idea of Thomas going to Edward’s that would have been significant to you. What was important was that you could give Thomas a lift.”
“So who made the arrangement if it wasn’t Mrs. Ball?” asked the housekeeper, trying to turn the tables on the defense barrister.
“Lady Anne asked Greta to ring up Mrs. Ball. Greta didn’t tell you that because she had no reason to. She simply told you about the arrangement.”
“My Lady would never have asked Greta to do that. She’d have asked me.”
“But you were out on the Sunday afternoon, weren’t you, Mrs. Martin? Out and inaccessible.”
“What’s Sunday afternoon got to do with it?”
“Because that’s when the call was made. Mrs. Ball has told us that.” Miles’s tone suggested that he felt he had won this particular argument.
“Let’s go on to Monday afternoon. You say you checked all the doors and windows before you left.”
“All except the door in the south wall.”
“It’s the one in the north wall that concerns me. Are you quite sure that it was locked?”
“Positive. I remember walking across the lawn and turning the key in the lock.”
“I see. And what about the windows?”
“All shut except for the ones in the drawing room.”
“And that would include the window in Thomas’s bedroom?”
“Yes. All of them.”
“It was a warm afternoon, wasn’t it, Mrs. Martin? That’s why Sir Peter and Lady Anne had the window open in the drawing room.”
“I expect so. It was a summer’s day.”
“Yes. Now, one last question about that day, Mrs. Martin. We know that Lady Anne took a sleeping tablet in the evening. It was normal, was it not, for her to do this?”
“Yes. She always had trouble sleeping, poor love. Ever since she was a girl.”
“Thank you. Now finally, Mrs. Martin, I want to ask you about what happened at the House of the Four Winds nine days ago. On the evening of Wednesday July fifth, to be precise.”
“What about it?” The old lady suddenly looked suspicious and distrustful.
“You went out at about six o’clock to the Women’s Institute meeting in Flyte. Is that right?”
“Yes. About that time.”
“Before you left, you checked the doors and gates, I expect. All except the one in the south wall.”
“I did.”
“And the door in the north wall, was it locked?”
“It was.”
“You’re as sure about that as you are about it being locked on the night of the murder?”
“I am.”
“What about the doors of the house? Were they also locked?”
“Yes, they were. Tom had the keys if he wanted to open them.”
“And when you came back from the Women’s Institute, there were policemen in the house?”
“Yes, there were four of them. Looking in everything, turning the place upside down. Those men had come again. That’s what Tom told me.”
“Ah, yes, unless of course he was making it up.”
Miles Lambert sat down suddenly, leaving the old housekeeper high and dry in the witness box.
Chapter 15
“How was it, honey?” asked Peter.
He was sitting in the back of the Daimler with Greta. John the chauffeur was driving them home from court. London went by smoothly outside the car’s black tinted windows.
“It was good, I suppose,” she replied. Her voice was tired and came as if from far away, even though she was sitting right beside her husband, leaning against his shoulder. It was like the voice of a soldier who’d come back from the front, he thought: shell-shocked.
Peter felt the anger rising in him again like it had a thousand times before, invading his throat, making his temples throb. He couldn’t get used to the unfairness, the injustice, and he fought for self-control. He didn’t speak until he had unclenched his fists and got sure of his voice again. Peace and calm were what his wife needed now.
“Who were the witnesses today?” he asked.
“There was a policeman and then Mrs. Ball from Flyte and Jane Martin. It’s incredible how that woman hates me. It’s like she won’t be satisfied until she sees me hanging from a tree. A tall tree.”
“Don’t talk like that.”
“She kept pointing at me. Looking at me. Saying I was poison. Things like that.”
“I should have dismissed her ages ago. It’s just I didn’t know what to do about Thomas.”
“It’s not just her. I feel like some caged animal in there. A caged animal who everyone’s got a license to mistreat.”
“I just wish I could be there with you. Perhaps I should talk to Miles.”
“No,” said Greta, and her voice was suddenly firm. “I don’t want you to hear those things they’re saying, and we must do what Miles says. He’s good, you know. He made Aunt Jane look just like the nasty bit of work she is.”
“Well, that’s something,” said Peter. He took her delicate hand in his and gently stroked the back of it with the tips of his fingers, mapping all the tiny bones that radiated out from her thin wrist. It was something that he’d often done with Anne in the early years, before they grew apart.
“What about the other witnesses? How did Miles deal with them?”
“All right. He’s made it so it’s perfectly possible that Anne took a walk down to the beach after we’d gone and then left the door unlocked when she came back.”
“Which door?”
“The one in the north wall. There would’ve been time for her to do that and go to bed before Thomas came back. She’d have been out when he telephoned.”
“Well, that’s good,” he said, trying to sound a note of encouragement when it was the opposite of what he really felt.
Not for the first time Peter was aware of a tiny pinprick of doubt on the outer edge of his consciousness. He remembered Anne lying on the sofa in the drawing room with her face knotted in pain. She didn’t look like she was about to go for a walk, but perhaps she felt the air would clear her head. Peter fought down his momentary feeling of unease almost without thinking.
“I won’t need you again today, John,” he said to the chauffeur as he helped his wife out of the car. “Lady Greta and I will be staying in tonight.”
“Very good, sir,” said the chauffeur, touching his peaked cap. Peter could not read his expressionless features. Perhaps he was looking for another job. Scandal does not sit well with men in high places.
Later, lying in bed, Peter could not sleep. Greta was turned away from him with her knees brought up almost to her stomach. She had slept in this fetal position for weeks now, and he could feel the tension in her back even without touching her. Sometimes she cried out strange words and names that made no sense, and he would be struck with how little he really knew his wife. She seemed to have no real friends or relatives; just the half-disabled mother in Manchester that she traveled up to visit every few weeks. Greta’s solitude in the world made Peter even more painfully protective toward her than he might otherwise have been. The trial made him feel that he was letting her down even though he knew that there was nothing he could have done to prevent it. He contrasted the way in which Greta had helped him over the years with his inability to help her now.