I warned her, “You’ll need to think like a nine-year-old to understand this. Last night I told you about Cliff Morton raping Barbara, how I saw it happening and ran out of the bam and blurted it out to Duke. You remember Duke dashed in there. I rushed back to the farmhouse and sobbed out the news to Mrs. Lockwood and Sally Shoesmith. That was the end of my active part in what happened.”
“You remained in the farmhouse?”
“Yes, with Sally. I was shocked and frightened.”
“Did you hear a shot?”
“We wouldn’t have. The cider mill was still making its racket. After a while the door burst open, and Mrs. Lock-wood came through the kitchen with Barbara, crying out in distress, as I mentioned. After a bit Sally went out to the yard, and I went up to my room and remained there for the rest of the day. Through the wall I could hear Barbara crying. It was very disturbing. I remember wishing Duke would come up and comfort her, but when I looked out of my window into the yard, the jeep was gone.”
“He left? What time was this?” asked Alice.
“I couldn’t say. Before it got dark, anyway. I felt desolate. Later Mrs. Lockwood brought me some supper on a tray. It was difficult getting to sleep with that violent scene in my mind, and Barbara’s crying. I’m not sure how long I stayed awake. I got some sleep eventually, because towards morning I woke up in a panic. I’d remembered something very important: the present Duke had given me.”
“The carving?”
“I knew where I’d left it. I’d had it in my hands when I went into the barn. I’d put it down on a bale to climb up to the hayloft. I was in such a state when I came out that I’d left it there. The sense of loss was overwhelming. Duke had made it for me personally.”
“You don’t have to explain,” said Alice in a whisper. “I understand exactly how you felt.”
I’d touched a chord.
I went on, “I just had to get it back, and soon. A child’s imagination foresees all sorts of catastrophes. I was scared of the dark, but I knew the Lockwoods were always up by five-thirty, so I had to whip up some courage. I crept out of bed and downstairs. There was a flashlight by the back door, and I was grateful for that. Even so, it was creepy approaching the barn, especially after the shock I’d had the day before. Inside, I could hear creaks and scufflings. Mice, I suppose. There was no going back without my carving, so I scrambled around, searching. I found it too. But first I put my hand on something else.”
Alice’s eyes focused on the gun.
I nodded. “It was lying between two sheaves where it had slipped out of sight. Obviously, I decided, someone had taken it in there and lost it. You’ve got to realize that I knew nothing about Morton being shot. Now this is where you have to put yourself into the mind of a nine-year-old boy. That gun belonged to Duke. I’d found it for him. I wanted to return it personally, get some credit, you see, from the man I idolized. So I slipped it inside my shirt, and a few minutes later I located my precious carving. Luck was with me. I got back unseen to my room.”
“And you kept the gun?”
“I didn’t intend to. For the time being, I had it in the space below the bottom drawer of the tallboy in my room. At breakfast I asked whether Duke would be coming in that day. Mrs. Lockwood’s answer came as a shock. She said it was unlikely if we’d see him again. She was so emphatic that I believed her.”
Alice asked, “Did she give you a reason?”
“I don’t remember any. People then didn’t bother to explain things to children. So I had the gun in my room, and I’d never see Duke again. At the back of my mind I formed a wild idea of’ making my way to the U.S. base at Shepton Mallet and returning it to him in person.”
She softened her mouth into the beginning of a smile. “I doubt whether he’d have appreciated the gesture.”
I shrugged. “It hadn’t occurred to me that he must have smuggled it out of the armory.”
“You could have replaced it in the hallstand drawer in the farmhouse,” suggested Alice, then added, thinking aloud, “But I guess it wouldn’t have earned you the credit you were looking for.”
“True. And I didn’t want the Lockwoods acquiring it by default. But events overtook me. The tragedy of Barbara’s suicide had swift implications for me. Mr. Lillicrap came in a taxi from Frome to collect me. I had to pack my things in such a rush that I almost forgot the gun. At the last minute I retrieved it from the tallboy, wrapped it up in a shirt, and stuffed it inside my suitcase.” I spread my hands, inviting her to fill in the rest. I believe I’d dispelled some of her worst suspicions.
However, she was still frowning. “So what happened when the police came to London to interview you a year later? Didn’t you tell them about the gun?”
“They didn’t ask.”
“At some stage you must have figured how important it was.”
“Yes.”
“You were scared of speaking up?”
“Certainly,” I admitted. “But that wasn’t the reason. I wanted Duke to be acquitted, even though he was guilty. I wasn’t handing the murder weapon to the prosecution.”
“So you kept it all this time.”
“I had a loose floorboard in my bedroom. It went under there with No Orchids for Miss Blandish and some other secrets of my preadolescence.”
Alice eyed the gun thoughtfully. “Are you sure it was the murder weapon?”
“It was the only.45 U.S. Army-issue automatic found at the scene of the crime.”
My sarcasm rolled off her. “And it was loaded when you found it?”
“It stayed loaded until I got it home and learned the trick of releasing the magazine. There were five bullets inside, of the same type as the one fired in the barn.”
She gave a nod. “I saw them in the box.”
“That’s it, then,” I said with an air of finality, getting up from the table. ‘There’s nothing else I can tell you.”
I really believed I was about to show her the door. I’d scraped my memory almost bare, and it was a painful activity. I wanted to turn my mind to the present now. Just a quiet Sunday. The newspapers, a stroll down to the pub for a couple of beers at lunchtime, maybe some serious reading later. Next week’s lectures had to be faced. And I’d probably find myself ringing Val when she came off duty, to smooth the ruffled feathers.
Alice stayed where she was, drawing a circle round the gun with her finger. I might have guessed she wouldn’t be easy to shift.
I limped around the kitchen, tidying up, sourly brooding over ways to evict her. I had the feeling that even if I yanked her up from the chair by her plait, she wouldn’t take the hint.
“Want a lift to the station?” I asked.
I don’t remember what answer she gave, if any, because I was distracted by the sight of something through the window: a red Ford Anglia moving slowly up the lane. It stopped at my front gate. Two men were inside. They both stared out. There was some hesitation, as if they were checking the address. Then the driver’s door opened and there emerged a stout figure in a blue raincoat and one of those small green trilbys with a feather in the side. He peered at the house, made up his mind, and stepped splayfooted towards the front door. So much for my quiet Sunday.
NINE
Close up, he was even more gross. Features obscured in folds of blotchy flesh. Wisps of colorless hair for eyebrows. As so often in fat men, the voice was the compensating factor, fruity as wedding cake, sonorous, confident, with a saving hint of self-mockery.
“What a salubrious place to live, sir.” A quick revelation of baldness under the hat. “Digby Watmore, News on Sunday, and before you mention it, not in the least surprised that you never read the offensive rag.”