"She must have seen him in prison?"
"With a prison officer present. Look, sir, you appear to be satisfied and so do all the parties concerned. Surely that's the main thing. You must forgive me if I can't agree with you."
Silently Archery took a snapshot from his wallet and laid it on the desk. Wexford picked it up. Presumably it had been taken in the vicarage garden. There was a great magnolia tree in the background, a tree as tall as the house it partly concealed. It was covered with waxen cup flowers. Under its branches stood a boy and a girl, their arms round each other. The boy was tall and fair. He was smiling and he was plainly Archery's son. Wexford wasn't particularly interested in him.
The girl's face was in sad repose. She was looking into the camera with large steady eyes. Light-coloured hair fell over her forehead in a fringe and down to the shoulders of a typical undergraduate's shirtwaister, faded, tightly belted and with a crumpled skirt. Her waist was tiny, her bust full. Wexford saw the mother again, only this girl was holding a boy's hand instead of a bloody rag.
"Very charming," he said dryly. "I hope she'll make your son happy." He handed the photograph back. "No reason why she shouldn't."
A mixture of emotions, anger, pain, resentment, flared in the clergyman's eyes. Interestedly, Wexford watched him.
"I do not know what or whom to believe," Archery said unhappily, "and while I'm in this state of uncertainty, Chief Inspector, I'm not in favour of the marriage. No, that's putting it too coolly." He shook his head vehemently. "I'm bitterly, bitterly against it," he said.
"And the girl, Painter's daughter?"
"She believed—perhaps accepts is the better word—in her father's innocence, but she realises others may not. When it comes to it, I don't think she would marry my son while his mother and I feel as we do."
"What are you afraid of, Mr. Archery?"
"Heredity."
"A very chancy thing, heredity."
"Have you children, Chief Inspector?"
"I've got two girls."
"Are they married?"
"One is."
"And who is her father-in-law?"
For the first time Wexford felt superior to this clergyman. A kind of schadenfreude possessed him. "He's an architect, as a matter of fact, Tory councillor for the North Ward here."
"I see." Archery bowed his head. "And do your grandchildren already build palaces with wooden bricks, Mr. Wexford?" Wexford said nothing. The only sign of his first grandchild's existence was so far envinced in its mother's morning sickness. "I shall watch mine from their cradle, waiting to see them drawn towards objects with sharp edges."
"You said if you objected she wouldn't marry him."
"They're in love with each other. I can't..."
"Who's going to know? Palm Kershaw off as her father."
"I shall know," said Archery. "Already I can see Painter when I look at her. Instead of her mouth and her eyes I can see his thick lips and his bloodlust. It's the same blood, Chief Inspector, the blood that mingled with Mrs. Primero's, on the floor, on the clothes, down the water pipes. That blood will be in my grandchild." He seemed to realise that he had allowed himself to be carried away, for he stopped suddenly, blushed, and shut his eyes briefly as if wincing at the sight he had described.
Wexford said gently, "I wish I could help you, Mr. Archery, but the case is closed, over, finished. There is nothing more I can do."
Archery shrugged and quoted softly, almost as if he could not stop himself, " 'He took water and washed his hands before the multitude, saying, I am innocent of the blood of this just person...' " Then he jumped up, his expression suddenly contrite. "Forgive me, Chief Inspector. That was an appalling thing to say. May I tell you what I intend to do?"
"Pontius pilate, that's me," said Wexford. "So see you show more respect in future."
Burden grinned. "What exactly did he want, sir?"
"Firstly to tell him Painter may have been unjustly executed, which I can't. Damn it all, it would be tantamount to saying I didn't know my job. It was my first murder case, Mike, and it was fortunate for me it was so straightforward. Archery's going to do a spot of enquiry on his own. Hopeless after sixteen years but it's useless telling him. Secondly, he wanted my permission to go around hunting up all the witnesses. Wanted my support if they come round here, complaining and foaming at the mouth."
"And all he's got to go on," said Burden thoughtfully, "is Mrs. Painter's sentimental belief in her husband's innocence?"
"Aah, that's nothing! That's a load of hooey. If you got the chop, wouldn't Jean tell John and Pat you were innocent? Wouldn't my wife tell the girls? It's natural. Painter didn't make any last-minute confessions—you know what the prison authorities are like for watching out for things like that. No, she dreamed it up and convinced herself."
"Has Archery ever met her?"
"Not yet, but he's making a day of it. She and her second husband live in Purley and he's got himself an invite for tea."
"You say the girl told him at Whitsun. Why has he waited so long? It must be a couple of months."
"I asked him that. He said that for the first couple of weeks he and his wife just let it ride. They thought the son might see reason. But he wouldn't. He got his father to get hold of a transcript of the trial, nagged him into working on Griswold. Of course he's an only child and as spoilt as they come. The upshot was that Archery promised to start poking his nose into it as soon as he got his fortnight's holiday."
"So he'll be back?"
"That will depend on Mrs. Painter," said Wexford.
5
...That they may see their children christianly and virtuously brought up.
The Kershaws' house was about a mile from the town centre, separated from shops, station, cinema and churches by thousands of other large suburban villas. For number 20 Craig Hill was large, halfheartedly Georgian and built of raspberry red brick. The garden was planted with annuals, the lawn was clover-free and the dead heads had been nipped off the standard rose bushes. On the concrete drive a boy of about twelve was washing down a large white Ford.
Archery parked his car at the kerb. Unlike Wexford he had not yet seen the coach house at Victor's Piece, but he had read about it and it seemed to him that Mrs. Kershaw had climbed high. Sweat started on his forehead and his upper lip as he got out of the car. He told himself that it was unusually hot and that he had always been prone to feel the heat.
"This is Mr. Kershaw's house, isn't it?" he asked the boy.
"That's right." He was very like Tess, but his hair was fairer and his nose was freckled. "The front door's open. Shall I give him a shout?"
"My name is Archery," said the clergyman and he held out his hand.
The boy wiped his hands on his jeans. "Hallo," he said.
By now a little wrinkled man had come down the porch steps. The bright hot air seemed to hang between them. Archery tried not to feel disappointment. What had he expected? Certainly not someone so small, so unfinished looking and so wizened as this scrawny creature in old flannels and tieless knitted shirt. Then Kershaw smiled and the years fell from him. His eyes were a bright sparkling blue, his uneven teeth white and clean.
"How do you do?"
"Good afternoon, Mr. Archery. I'm very happy to meet you. As a matter of fact I've been sitting in the window, looking for you."