23
If by none of these means the matter go forward as they would have it, then they procure occasions of debate.
WEXFORD had seen many a dawn in Kingsmarkham, but never till now a London dawn. He parted the curtains at Howard's window and watched the indigo sky split and shred to show between the heavy clouds streaks of greenish light. A little wind, too slight to set the cemetery trees in motion, fluttered a flag on the roof of a distant building. Pigeons had began to coo, to take wing and wheel lazily against the facades of tower blocks which they, foolish creatures and slow to learn, still took for the cliffs of southern Italy from where the Romans had brought them two thousand years before. The roar of the traffic, half-silenced during the small dead hours, was rising again to its full daytime volume.
Apart from himself, the office was empty. As the great red ball of a sun began to rise, thrusting through reddish-black vapourish folds, the street lamps of Kenbourne Vale went out gradually. Wexford went across the room and snapped off the light switch. But no sooner had he found himself in the welcome, restful semi-darkness than the light came on again and Howard limped into the office with Melanie Dearborn.
Her face was haggard, the eye sockets purple with fatigue and fear. She wore trousers and a sweater and over them her husband's sheepskin coat. But for all her pain and her anxiety, she hadn't forgotten her manners. Blinking a little against the light, she came up to Wexford and held out her hand. 'I'm so sorry,' she began, 'that we should meet again like this, that these terrible things . . .'
He shook his head, fetched a chair and helped her into it. Then he met Howard's eyes and Howard gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod, pursing his lips.
'Your husband . . . ?'
'Is going to recover,' Howard answered for her. 'He's in hospital and he's very tired but he's conscious. He'll be all right.'
'Thank God,' Wexford said sincerely.
She looked up at him and managed a weak watery smile. 'Why was I so stupid as to phone him last night? I got in a panic, you see. I couldn't bear to think of him coming home and perhaps finding Alexandra gone. He told me all he'd done to keep her.'
Wexford sat down and drew his chair close to hers.
'What did he do,'Mrs Dearborn?'
'I'm afraid to tell you,' she whispered. 'Because if it comes out . . . they may . . . I mean, they could take Alexandra away and not let us . . .'
Wexford looked at Howard, but Howard didn't move a muscle.'It will be better to tell us,' he said. 'It's always better to tell the truth. And if the bribe wasn't taken . . .'
There was a discouraging cough from Howard and Melanie Dearborn gave a heavy sigh. She snuggled more deeply inside the coat as if, because it was her husband's and he had worn it, she had near to her a comforting part of himself. 'The bribe was offered,' she said.
'How much?' Howard asked gently but succintly.
'Five thousand pounds.'
Wexford nodded. 'She was to promise not to oppose the order in exchange for that?'
'She did promise. When she came to my husband's office. Then and there they made an appointment to meet in Ken- bourne Vale cemetery on February 25th at two-fifteen.'
'Why did she change her mind?'
'She didn't exactly. According to Stephen, she was a very simple sort of girl. When he and she met that day she began to talk about how she was going to use the money and give it to someone to look after Alexandra while she was out at work. She didn't even have the sense to realise what she was saying. Stephen said, "But you won't have Alexandra. I'm giving you the money so that I can keep her." And then she put her hand over her mouth you can imagine and said, "Oh, Mr Dearborn, but I must keep her. She's all I've got in the world and you won't miss the money." She just didn't see.'
Wexford nodded but he said nothing. He had seen the girl, or her ghost, her counterpart, her doppel-ganger. Both had been brought up in a strict morality, but a morality which leaves out what ordinary human beings call ethics.
'Stephen was well, appalled,' Mrs Dearborn went on. 'He said he'd give her more, anything she asked. He was prepared to go up to oh, I don't know fifty thousand, I expect. But she couldn't imagine that amount of money.'
'He didn't give her anything?'
'Of course he didn't. She was chattering on about how she'd give a thousand to someone to look after Alexandra and keep the four for the future, and he saw it wasn't any good and he just turned away and left her. He was very quiet and moody that night I thought it was because he was tired of the way I fretted about Louise. By the middle of the next week he was on top of the world again. I know why that was now. He'd realised who the murdered girl was.'
Howard had listened to it all without intervening, but now he said in a steady cool voice, 'If you're going up to see your husband, Mrs Dearborn, we'd better see about transport for you.'
'Thank you. I'm afraid I'm giving everyone a great deal of trouble.' Melanie Dearborn hesitated and then said in a rush, 'What am I to say to him about about Alexandra?'
'That depends on the outcome of this case and upon the court.'
'But we love her,' she pleaded. 'We can give her a good home. Stephen he tried to kill himself. The bribe wasn't accepted. In the girl's mind it wasn't a bribe at all but a gift, just like the clothes we gave her aunt.'
'Well?' said Wexford to Howard after she had left them, casting over her shoulder a last imploring look.
'The court might, I suppose, see it in that light. But when the evidence given in Dearborn's prosecution . . .'
'What are you going to prosecute him for, Howard? Making a present of money to a poverty-stricken girl, his former servant's niece, so that she could raise a child he was fond of decently? And then withdrawing the offer because the chosen guardians weren't suitable in his eyes?'
'It wasn't like that, Reg. you're being Jesuitical. Dearborn killed her. The scarf was his wife's, in the pocket of that coat which they both wear. He had abundant motive which no one else had. And he had the special knowledge. He put her in a tomb he knew wouldn't be visited until after he had got his adoption order.'
'Knew?' said Wexford. 'He wouldn't have forgotten it was Leap Year. February 29th was his birthday.'
'I don't understand you, Mr Wexford,' said Baker who had just come in and had overheard his last words. 'According to your report you go along with our views entirely.'
'How do you know? You didn't bother to read to the end.'
Howard looked at his uncle, half-smiling as if he understood that this was triumph, this was the end he had asked for and more than Wexford had hoped to attain. He picked up the last two sheets of blue paper and, beckoning Baker to him, read them swiftly. 'We shouldn't be here,' he said when he had finished. 'We should be in Garmisch Terrace.'
'You should,' Wexford retorted. He looked at his watch and yawned. 'I've a train to catch at ten.'
Baker took a step towards him. He didn't hold out this hand or attempt to retract anything or even smile. He said, 'I don't know how Mr Fortune feels, but I'd take it as a personal favour if you'd come with us.' And Wexford understood that this was a frank and full apology.
'There are other trains,' he said, and he put on his coat.
Early morning in Garmisch Terrace, a thin pale sunlight baring the houses in all their dilapidation. Someone had scrawled 'God is dead' on the temple wall, and the Shepherd was in the act of erasing it with a scrubbing brush and a bucket of water. Outside number 22, Peggy Pope, her hair tied up in a scarf, was loading small articles of furniture into a van.
'Going somewhere?' said Wexford.
She shrugged. 'Next week,' she said. 'I thought I owed it to the landlords to give them a week's notice.' Her face, unwashed, unpainted, rather greasy, had a curious spiritual beauty like a young saint's. 'I'm just getting shot of a few of my things.'