‘What?’
‘Why did she work in a flower shop on Fridays?’
‘She... she... l... likes...’
I interrupted brusquely. ‘She was a florist before she married Donald. She liked to keep her hand in. She used to spend Fridays making those table arrangement things for dances and weddings and things like that...’ And wreaths, too, I thought, and couldn’t say it.
‘Thank you, sir, but I’m sure Mr Stuart can answer for himself.’
‘And I’m sure he can’t.’
The Detective Inspector diverted his attention my way.
‘He’s too shocked,’ I said.
‘Are you a doctor, sir?’ His voice held polite disbelief, which it was entitled to, no doubt. I shook my head impatiently. He glanced at Donald, pursed his lips, and turned back to me. His gaze wandered briefly over my jeans, faded denim jacket, fawn polo-neck, and desert boots, and returned to my face, unimpressed.
‘Very well, sir. Name?’
‘Charles Todd.’
‘Age?’
‘Twenty-nine.’
‘Occupation?’
‘Painter.’
The constable unemotionally wrote down these scintillating details in his pocket-sized notebook.
‘Houses or pictures?’ asked the Inspector.
‘Pictures.’
‘And your movements today, sir?’
‘Caught the two-thirty from Paddington and walked from the local station.’
‘Purpose of visit?’
‘Nothing special. I come here once or twice a year.’
‘Good friends, then?’
‘Yes.’
He nodded non-committally. Turned his attention again to Donald and asked more questions, but patiently and without pressure.
‘And what time do you normally reach home on Fridays, sir?’
Don said tonelessly, ‘Five. About.’
‘And today?’
‘Same.’ A spasm twitched the muscles of his face. ‘I saw... the house had been broken into... I telephoned..’
‘Yes, sir. We received your call at six minutes past five. And after you had telephoned, you went into the sitting-room, to see what had been stolen?’
Donald didn’t answer.
‘Our sergeant found you there, sir, if you remember.’
‘Why?’ Don said in anguish. ‘Why did she come home?’
‘I expect we’ll find out, sir.’
The careful exploratory questions went on and on, and as far as I could see achieved nothing except to bring Donald ever closer to all-out breakdown.
I, with a certain amount of shame, grew ordinarily hungry, having not bothered to eat earlier in the day. I thought with regret of the dinner I had been looking forward to, with Regina tossing in unmeasured ingredients and herbs and wine and casually producing a gourmet feast. Regina with her cap of dark hair and ready smile, chatty and frivolous and anti-bloodsports. A harmless girl, come to harm.
At some point during the evening her body was loaded into the ambulance and driven away. I heard it happen, but Donald gave no sign of interpreting the sounds. I thought that probably his mind was raising barriers against the unendurable, and one couldn’t blame him.
The Inspector rose finally and stretched the kinks caused by the kitchen stool out of legs and spine. He said he would be leaving a constable on duty at the house all night, and that he would return himself in the morning. Donald nodded vaguely, having obviously not listened properly to a word, and when the police had gone still sat like an automaton in the chair, with no energy to move.
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Let’s go to bed.’
I took his arm, persuaded him to his feet, and steered him up the stairs. He came in a daze, unprotesting.
His and Regina’s bedroom was a shambles, but the twin-bedded room prepared for me was untouched. He flopped full-length in his clothes and put his arm up over his eyes, and in appalling distress asked the unanswerable question of all the world’s sufferers.
‘Why? Why did it have to happen to us?’
I stayed with Donald for a week, during which time some questions, but not that one, were answered.
One of the easiest was the reason for Regina’s premature return home. She and the flower-shop friend, who had been repressing annoyance with each other for weeks, had erupted into a quarrel of enough bitterness to make Regina leave at once. She had driven away at about two-thirty, and had probably gone straight home, as it was considered she had been dead for at least two hours by five o’clock.
This information, expressed in semi-formal sentences, was given to Donald by the Detective Inspector on Saturday afternoon. Donald walked out into the autumnal garden and wept.
The Inspector, Frost by name and cool by nature, came quietly into the kitchen and stood beside me watching Donald with his bowed head among the apple trees.
‘I would like you to tell me what you can about the relationship between Mr and Mrs Stuart.’
‘You’d like what?’
‘How did they get on?’
‘Can’t you tell for yourself?’
He answered neutrally after a pause. ‘The intensity of grief shown is not always an accurate indication of the intensity of love felt.’
‘Do you always talk like that?’
A faint smile flickered and died. ‘I was quoting from a book on psychology.’
‘ “Not always” means it usually is,’ I said.
He blinked.
‘Your book is bunk,’ I said.
‘Guilt and remorse can manifest themselves in an excess of mourning.’
‘Dangerous bunk,’ I added. ‘And as far as I could see, the honeymoon was by no means over.’
‘After three years?’
‘Why not?’
He shrugged and didn’t answer. I turned away from the sight of Donald and said, ‘What are the chances of getting back any of the stuff from this house?’
‘Small, I should think. Where antiques are involved, the goods are likely to be halfway across the Atlantic before the owner returns from his holidays.’
‘Not this time, though,’ I objected.
He sighed. ‘Next best thing. There have been hundreds of similar break-ins during recent years and very little has been recovered. Antiques are big business these days.’
‘Connoisseur thieves?’ I said sceptically.
‘The prison library service reports that all their most requested books are on antiques. All the little chummies boning up to jump on the bandwagon as soon as they get out.’
He sounded suddenly quite human. ‘Like some coffee?’ I said.
He looked at his watch, raised his eyebrows, and accepted. He sat on a kitchen stool while I fixed the mugs, a fortyish man with thin sandy hair and a well-worn grey suit.
‘Are you married?’ he asked.
‘Nope.’
‘In love with Mrs Stuart?’
‘You do try it on, don’t you?’
‘If you don’t ask, you don’t find out.’
I put the milk bottle and a sugar basin on the table and told him to help himself. He stirred his coffee reflectively.
‘When did you visit this house last?’ he said.
‘Last March. Before they went off to Australia.’
‘Australia?’
‘They went to see the vintage there. Donald had some idea of shipping Australian wine over in bulk. They were away for at least three months. Why didn’t their house get robbed then, when they were safely out of the way?’
He listened to the bitterness in my voice. ‘Life is full of nasty ironies.’ He pursed his lips gingerly to the hot coffee, drew back, and blew gently across the top of the mug. ‘What would you all have been doing today? In the normal course of events?’