Suppose Harry, Duke’s so-called buddy, cynically and deliberately took advantage of their time away from home to promote and encourage an affair between Duke and the first available girl. Suppose it was always Harry’s plan to disclose to Elly that her young husband was unfaithful. Simple, really, to work on a man’s loneliness: “Just make up a foursome, Duke, so I can get some time with Sally.” And to Sally: “You know, my buddy is incredibly shy, but he really fancies your friend Barbara.” A few encouraging signals from Barbara and the fuse was lit.
Then suppose the whole scheme misfired because of Cliff Morton’s attack on Barbara. Duke killed Morton out of some rash notion of honor, and Barbara committed suicide in shame and despair. Harry was shocked, no doubt. But being an opportunist, he waited for the dust to settle. Then he saw his chance. When the law had taken its course, he went to visit poor, widowed Elly as her caring friend.
As an explanation, it fitted the personalities as well as the known facts. It accounted for Harry’s coolness to Alice and me when we arrived on his doorstep wanting to discuss the murder. His first instinct had been to send us away, his second to deny that there was ever anything serious between Duke and Barbara.
It was thanks to Sally that we’d got inside.
So what about Sally?
If there was any truth in my theory, she must have been involved. Yet she’d come to our aid, invited us in when Harry would have shut the door. Clearly there was tension between Harry and her, most apparent when he’d gone out of the room to collect the drinks and she’d been on the point of telling us something about Duke’s relationship with Barbara. What had Sally said when we talked about the fortune-telling game with the apple, when Barbara cut through the last pip-the “soldier pip”? “She was terribly upset, being pregnant and everything… We had no secrets from each other. They were gong to be married.” And when I’d gently pointed out to Sally that Duke already had a wife and child in America, she’d appeared not to know about it, and said, “You’ve got it all wrong.” Poor Sally, Hadn’t Harry ever told her the truth?
I’d have liked another word with Sally.
I didn’t get any further before Alice reappeared. Rather to my disappointment, she’d refastened her plait. She looked more solemn than ever. And, uniquely in my experience of women, she hadn’t taken the opportunity in the ladies’ to touch up her lipstick. Not much encouragement there. I prepared for the worst, and it wasn’t long in coming.
She studied me for a while, as if she’d made up her mind that something had to be resolved between us, and finally said, “I’m staying here tonight. I’ve booked a single room upstairs.”
I said inanely, “What?”
She waited for it to sink it.
Meanwhile I was eyeing the stack of ketchup bottles on the shelf, each with its red deposit caked around the cap. Anyone who contemplated a night in this place had to be desperate.
“Why, for God’s sake? It’s a hole.”
“I can see that.”
“Is it me? Something I said to upset you?”
“No particular thing.”
“What, then?”
The food arrived, dried-up fish and undercooked chips without vegetables or garnish, slammed in front of us, followed by one of the ketchup bottles.
I said with all the consideration I could muster, “Alice, I’d like to know what this is about.”
She tightened her mouth and said nothing.
I told her, “I’m not going to leave you in a dump like this without a very good explanation.”
She pushed her plate aside. She hadn’t touched the food.
I said across the chasm that had opened between us, “Don’t you think I’m entitled to be told?”
Something disturbingly akin to contempt flickered across her face.
I wasn’t giving up. “This relates to something you asked me earlier, doesn’t it?”
A response at last. She nodded.
I said, “About what happened in the hayloft?”
She mouthed the word yes.
So we were back to the rape.
She must have seen the muscles tighten along my jawline.
She gave me a warning look, narrowing her eyes.
I said, “Has something prompted this?”
“Sure. What we just heard from Harry.”
“Harry? He was lying through his teeth.”
After an interval to sharpen up the sarcasm she asked, “How did you get to be such an infallible judge of character, Theo? Is it intuition, sixth sense, or just refusing ever to trust a Yank?”
I smiled ironically. “Harry?”
“Not only Harry. My daddy too.”
“I trusted him.”
“Not when he said things you didn’t want to believe.”
“Such as?”
“The way he really felt about Barbara. There was never anything serious between them.”
I frowned. “He said that?”
“In court. On oath.”
“He was confused.”
“Theo, it’s on record. I read it in one of your books. There was nothing serious. He said it.”
I commented offhandedly, “Depends what you mean by serious. I’d say her condition indicated something serious.”
She scraped back her chair and said witheringly, “Is this the garbage you were trying to peddle to Harry? Are you seriously suggesting my daddy got her pregnant?”
She had every right to feel defensive about Duke. I loved him, too, and the truth hurt. “Someone did, Alice. She wasn’t promiscuous.”
“I’m not questioning that. I question the assumption that my daddy was responsible.”
I leaned back in my chair. “Who do you think was the father, then?”
“Cliff Morton. You told me it was him.”
“I told you what the gossip was in 1943.” I leaned forward. “She was two months’ pregnant when she died at the end of November. She’d been going out with Duke since September.”
Alice clicked her tongue and looked away, as if it were futile listening to me.
I took a mouthful of the pale chips and chewed them, letting her brood on what I’d said. After an interval I said, “I expect you’re thinking of the incident in the apple orchard, when Morton was given his marching orders. You think he may have made her pregnant then? It’s true that she was pretty upset and so were the Lockwoods. She had love bites on her neck and shoulders. But as for full sex, no, that doesn’t fit the facts. They would have treated it more seriously. Everyone would have. I had the impression there was some grappling in the long grass, a few snatched kisses, not much more.”
“With Barbara’s consent?”
I felt my blood run cold. “Of course not.”
Alice’s eyebrows jutted above the level of her glasses. “Why not?”
She was either incredibly wide of the mark or trying to goad me. Deciding to treat it lightly, I gave a laugh that was exhaled more than voiced. “She despised the man. He had a bad reputation. No regular work. He dodged the call-up. The entire family despised him.”
“They employed him to pick apples.”
“Force of circumstance. Men were in short supply.”
She felt for her plait and traced one of the strands with her fingertip.
I said, “You won’t make me believe that Barbara allowed Cliff Morton to… to…”
“You can’t even bring yourself to mention it, can you?” said Alice in a voice that mingled pity and contempt. “Theo, you idiolized that girl. She was sweet to you, and you turned her into a saint. I don’t blame you. I had crushes on people myself when I was a kid. Only you’re not a nine-year-old boy anymore. For God’s sake let’s talk about this in an adult fashion, because I think you’re way off-beam over Barbara. I think she loved Cliff Morton.”
“Impossible.”
“Will you let me finish? Let’s start with some facts of life. Simple mathematics. Barbara was found to be two months’ pregnant at the time of her death, right? When precisely did she kill herself?”
“On the Sunday. November thirtieth.”
“So she conceived in late September or very early the following month.”