In this man's presence it was impossible not to feel hope, cheerfulness almost. Archery detected at once a rare quality in him, a quality he had come upon perhaps only half a dozen times in his life. This was a man who was interested in all things. Energy and enthusiasm radiated from him. On a winter's day he would warm the air. Today, in this heat, his vitality was overwhelming.
"Come inside and meet my wife." His voice was a hot breeze, a cockney voice that suggested fish and chips, eels and mash and East End pubs. Following him into the square panelled hall, Archery wondered how old he was. Perhaps no more than forty-five. Drive, the fire of life, lack of sleep because sleep wasted time, could prematurely have burnt away his youth. "We're in the lounge," he said, pushing open a reeded glass door. "That's what I like about a day like this. When I get home from work I like to sit by the french windows for ten minutes and look at the garden. Makes you feel all that slogging in the winter was worthwhile."
"To sit in the shade and look upon verdure?" After the words were out Archery was sorry he had spoken. He didn't want to put this suburban engineer in a false position.
Kershaw gave him a quick glance. Then he smiled and said easily, "Miss Austen certainly knew what she was talking about, didn't she?" Archery was overcome. He went into the room and held out his hand to the woman who had got up from an armchair. "My wife. This is Mr. Archery, Rene."
"How do you do?"
Irene Kershaw said nothing, but holding out her hand, smiled a tight bright smile. Her face was Tess's face as it would be when time had hardened it and finished it. In her youth she had been blonde. Now her hair, evidently set that day and perhaps in his honour, was dyed a dull leaf-brown and arranged in unreal feathery wisps about her forehead and ears.
"Sit down, Mr. Archery," said Kershaw. "We won't keep you a minute for your tea. Kettle's on, isn't it, Rene?"
Archery sat in an armchair by the window. Kershaw's garden was full of experimental rose pergolas, eruptions of rockery and stone sporting geraniums. He gave the room a quick glance, noting at once its cleanliness and the enormous mass of things which had to be kept clean. Books abounded, Readers Digests, encyclopaedias, dictionaries, works on astronomy, deep sea fishing, European history. There was a tank of tropical fish on a corner table, several model aircraft on the mantelpiece; stacks of sheet music covered the grand piano, and on an easel was a half-finished, rather charming, portrait in oils of a young girl. It was a large room, conventionally furnished with Wilton carpet and chintz covers, but it expressed the personality of the master of the house.
"We've had the pleasure of meeting your Charlie," said Kershaw. "A nice unassuming boy. I liked him." Charlie! Archery sat very still, trying not to feel affronted. Charles's eligibility, after all, was not in question.
Quite suddenly Rene Kershaw spoke. "We all like him," she said. Her accent was just the same as Wexford's. "But I'm sure I don't know how they plan to manage, what with everything being such an awful price—the cost of living, you know—and Charles not having a job in line..." Archery felt amazement. Was she really concerned with this trivia? He began to wonder how he would broach the subject that had brought him to Purley. "I mean where will they live?" Mrs. Kershaw asked primly. "They're just babies really. I mean, you've got to have a home of your own, haven't you? You've got to get a mortgage and..."
"I think I can hear the kettle, Rene," said her husband. She got up, holding her skirt modestly down to cover her knees. It was a very suburban skirt of some permanently pleated material banded in muted blue and heather pink and of dead sexless respectability. With it she wore a short-sleeved pink jumper and around her neck a single string of cultured pearls. If cultured meant tended and nurtured, Archery thought he had never seen such obviously cultured pearls. Each night, he was sure, they were wrapped in tissue and put away in the dark. Mrs. Kershaw smelt of talcum powder, some of which lingered in the lines of her neck.
"I don't think we've got to the mortgage stage yet," said Kershaw when she had gone. Archery gave a wry smile. "Believe me, Mr. Archery, I know you haven't come here just for an in-laws' get-together over the tea cups."
"I'm finding it more awkward than I thought possible."
Kershaw chuckled. "I daresay. I can't tell you anything about Tess's father that isn't common knowledge, that wasn't in the papers at the time. You know that?"
"But her mother?"
"You can try. At times like this women see things through a cloud of orange blossom. She's never been very keen on Tess being an educated woman. She wants to see her married and she'll do her best to see nothing stands in her way."
"And you, what do you want?"
"Me? Oh, I want to see her happy. Happiness doesn't necessarily begin at the altar." Suddenly he was brisk and forthright. "Frankly, Mr. Archery, I'm not sure if she can be happy with a man who suspects her of homicidal tendencies before she's even engaged to him."
"It isn't like that!" Archery hadn't expected the other man to put him on the defensive. "Your stepdaughter is perfect in my son's eyes. I'm making the inquiries, Mr. Kershaw. My son knows that, he wants it for Tess's sake, but he doesn't even know I'm here. Put yourself in my position..."
"But I was in your position. Tess was only six when I married her mother." He looked quickly at the door, then leaned closer to Archery. "D'you think I didn't watch her, look out for the disturbance to show itself? When my own daughter was born Tess was very jealous. She resented the baby and one day I found her leaning over Jill's pram striking her on the head with a celluloid toy. Luckily, it was a celluloid toy."
"But, good heavens...!" Archery felt the pallor drawing at his face muscles.
"What could I do? I had to go to work and leave the children. I had to trust my wife. Then we had a son—I think you bumped into him outside cleaning the car—and Jill resented him in just the same way and with just the same violence. All children behave like this, that's the point."
"You never saw any more—any more of these tendencies?"
"Tendencies? A personality isn't made by heredity, Mr. Archery, but by environment. I wanted Tess to have the best sort of environment and I think I can say, with all due modesty, that she has."
The garden shimmered in the heat haze. Archery saw things he hadn't noticed at first, chalk lines on the lawn, where, regardless of herbaceous borders, the grass had been marked out for a tennis court; a shambles of rabbit hutches attached to the garage wall; an ancient swing. Behind him on the mantelpiece he saw propped against ornaments two party invitations. A framed photograph above it showed three children in shirts and jeans sprawled on a haystack. Yes, this had been the best of all possible environments for the murderer's orphan.
The door was pushed open and the girl in the portrait came in pushing a tea trolley. Archery, who was too hot and troubled to feel hungry, saw with dismay that it was laden with homebaked pastries, strawberries in glass dishes, fairy cakes in paper cases. The girl looked about fourteen. She was not so beautiful as Tess and she wore a bunchy school tunic, but her father's vitality illumined her face.
"This is my daughter Jill."
Jill sprawled in a chair, showing a lot of long leg.
"Now sit, nicely, dear," said Mrs Kershaw sharply. She gave the girl a repressive look and began to pour tea, holding the pot with curled ringers. "They don't realise they're young women at thirteen these days, Mr. Archery." Archery was embarrassed but the girl didn't seem to care. "You must have one of these cakes. Jill made them." Unwillingly he took a pastry. "That's right. I've always said to both my girls, schooling is all very well in its way, but algebra won't cook the Sunday dinner. Tess and Jill are both good plain cooks..."