‘Your wife, Laura, killed Alex Petrou?’ Kathy said the words slowly.
He nodded.
‘That’s an affirmation,’ she said, for the tape.
‘That’s what she told you, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘I knew she would tell you in her own time. And I’m convinced that Geoffrey wasn’t involved, not at first. Killing Petrou was an impulsive act, done under great stress and provocation. Geoffrey would have helped later to move the body to the temple.’
‘Did you ever discuss it?’
‘No. After she told me about his threats and … suggestions to her, she said it was all over and she didn’t want us to talk about it ever again. I agreed.’
‘And Rose?’
Beamish-Newell rubbed his forehead again, as if trying to keep his brain functioning. ‘She buried it, you see. On the surface she’d buried it completely. Her behaviour, her manner, seemed completely normal, and I tried to do the same. Geoffrey was much less successful. It took a terrible toll on him, knowing what his sister had done and becoming an accomplice, and so in a way — in the eyes of the law — becoming as guilty himself. He fell ill — he was seized by vomiting fits. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t even make love with his fiancee, Rose.
‘She became very concerned. She spoke to me and Laura about it. It was very hard for us to deal with her. We both tried to help Geoffrey. I gave him a number of herbal treatments for his nerves, but they weren’t very successful. Laura was quite hard with Rose, because of course it was so difficult for her to cope with her own memories, without having to continually reopen them in dealing with her brother. There was also the fact that Rose suspected Geoffrey’s distress was linked to what had happened to Petrou, and she liked Petrou.
‘Rose’s persistence was driving Geoffrey mad — and I use that word advisedly. Eventually he felt compelled to tell her that Petrou’s death had been an appalling accident in which someone close to him had been involved, and he had become involved too in order to protect them. She immediately guessed he was talking about his sister, and she decided to speak to the police about it, so that Geoffrey would be freed of the guilt he was carrying. Rose hinted to him that she would tell Mr Brock herself at his next acupuncture session, and Geoffrey in a panic told Laura.’
Beamish-Newell seemed to be losing control of his speech as he recounted this unravelling of their affairs. His tongue was having difficulty articulating words with the letter V, and longer words faded before their end.
Take your time, Stephen,’ Brock urged him softly.
‘Laura came and told me. I said she should do nothing until I’d had time to reason with Rose. To give us more time, I gave you a sedative in your orange juice you had on your tray that lunch-time. I wanted to make sure you wouldn’t be able to talk to her. When you fell asleep, I had to behave normally. A phone call came for me and I left the room, as if I weren’t trying to prevent her from being left alone with you.
‘When I returned … All I can say is, that the … the violence of what was done to Rose wasn’t Laura. It was a measure of the awful stress that had built inside her. It must have been explosive when she finally let go. Since then she’s been in the deepest torment. The fact that they accused her brother was the final obscenity. I knew that, eventually, she must come to you. But I couldn’t help you. She is my wife.’
His head sagged and his eyes closed; his skin was a jaundiced grey, his breathing laboured. Kathy and Brock exchanged looks. Neither doubted the sincerity of Beamish-Newell’s account. He seemed wrecked by what he had had to live with.
‘Did your wife believe that Rose was pregnant when she died?’ Kathy asked him quietly.
His eyes flicked open, startled. ‘Pregnanti? I had no idea.’
‘If she knew, is it possible she thought that you might be the father, that history was repeating itself?’
Beamish-Newell’s mouth dropped. ‘Oh my God,’ he groaned.
‘Where is your wife, Stephen?’ Brock asked.
His head rocked slightly. ‘Don’t know … I thought you had seen her. We’re avoiding each other. She’s in the cottage, probably.’
‘I’ll go,’ Kathy said quietly to Brock. ‘You’d better stay with him.’
He nodded agreement. ‘Be careful, Kathy. Shall I get help?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘We’re not there yet.’
24
Kathy began by going down to the basement to check Laura’s office and the other therapy rooms along the central corridor. All were locked. She finally came to the external door at the end of the west wing and stepped out into the night. She paused and looked around. There were few lights remaining in the windows of the house, and no signs of light ahead through the trees towards the staff cottages. She was struck by how different the night always smelled compared to the day — cool, remote, secretive. An owl hooted from the area of densest darkness, the temple mound, and she turned her eyes towards it and saw a glimmer.
She started to walk without seeming to make a decision, as if her feet had received some external instruction. The sight of the looming grey skeleton of the temple front caused her heart to start thumping. A couple of times she stopped and blinked, trying to decide if the source of the faint glow was really there and not just a reflection of lights from the house in the glass doors of the temple. But when she mounted the steps and came right up to the doors, she saw there was no mistake: through the glass she could make out the far end of the nave and the dim light from the organ recess.
One of the doors was open a couple of inches, but not enough to squeeze through. Remembering the noise it made as it scraped the ground, she gripped the handle and took the weight, trying to ease it silently open. She was almost successful, but she couldn’t prevent the sudden sharp squeak of the old hinges as she released the weight. She froze and held her breath, but could see and hear nothing. Perhaps after all the place was empty, the light and open door overlooked in Geoffrey Parsons’ absence.
She walked silently down the nave, moving cautiously as she approached the brass rail overlooking the lower chamber. At first there was no sign of anyone, and then her attention was caught by the sight of a small bunch of spring flowers lying down below her at the foot of the side wall, on the unmarked marble panel set into the floor. She glanced down through the swastika grille, but not closely enough to see the face staring up at her from the shadows beneath.
She went to the spiral staircase and carefully descended to the foot. The lower chamber appeared deserted too, and it was only when she took a pace forward towards the flowers on the opposite side that her heart jolted. A figure stepped out from the dark recess beside the organ and she recognized Laura, her face haggard and pale.
Something metallic glittered in each hand. At first Kathy thought of a knife, but then she made out the hypodermic needle in one hand and its metal case in the other. It was a powerful-looking instrument, not a disposable plastic type but stainless steel and glass, and Laura was holding it as if she were ready to use it.
‘What do you want?’ she said, her voice barely carrying across the ten feet that separated them.
‘I came to talk to you, Laura.’
‘It’s too late for that. You shouldn’t have come here.’
Her voice was a monotone of despair and exhaustion. Kathy guessed from her red-rimmed eyes that she had had very little sleep since Rose died.
‘I’ve been talking to Stephen. He’s very worried about you.’
Laura sighed. ‘I can’t do anything. I just can’t do any more.’
‘I know. Please talk to me anyway. Just for a little while. Is that where your child is?’ Kathy pointed to the flowers and the little slab of marble.
Laura nodded, not taking her eyes from Kathy.
‘Stephen told us that Alex Petrou taunted you about that. It was unforgivable.’
‘Please don’t come any closer.’ Laura raised the needle. ‘There’s more than enough in this for both of us.’