“I watched him die without pity and without remorse. I think I hated them both equally. The grandfather who had adored, petted and indulged me all through my childhood and deteriorated into this disgusting old lecher, unable to keep his hands off this woman even when I was in the room. He had rejected me and his family, jeopardised my engagement, made our name a laughingstock in the county, and all for a woman that my grandmother wouldn’t have employed as a kitchen maid. I wanted them both dead. And they were both going to die. But it would be by other hands than mine. I could deceive myself that it wasn’t my doing.”
Dalgliesh asked: “When did she find out?”
“She knew that evening. When my grandfather’s agony began she went outside for the jug of water. She wanted a cool cloth for his head. It was then that she noticed that the level of water in the jug had fallen and that a small pool of liquid on the washstand had been mopped up. I should have realised that she would have seen that pool. She had been trained to register every detail. She thought at the time that Mary Huddy had spilt some of the water when she set down the tray and the gruel. But who but I could have mopped it up? And why?”
“And when did she face you with the truth?”
“Not until after the trial. Allegra had magnificent courage. She knew what was at stake. But she also knew what she stood to gain. She gambled with her life for a fortune.”
And then Dalgliesh understood what had happened to the Goddard inheritance.
“So she made you pay?”
“Of course. Every penny. The Goddard fortune, the Goddard emeralds. She lived in luxury for sixty-seven years on my money. She ate and dressed on my money. When she moved with her lovers from hotel to hotel it was on my money. She paid them with my money. And if she has left anything, which I doubt, it is my money. My grandfather left very little. He had been senile and had let money run through his fingers like sand.”
“And your engagement?”
“It was broken, you could say by mutual consent. A marriage, Mr. Dalgliesh, is like any other legal contract. It is most successful when both parties are convinced they have a bargain. Captain Brize-Lacey was sufficiently discouraged by the scandal of a murder in the family. He was a proud and highly conventional man. But that alone might have been accepted with the Goddard fortune and the Goddard emeralds to deodorise the bad smell. But the marriage couldn’t have succeeded if he had discovered that he had married socially beneath him, into a family with a major scandal and no compensating fortune.”
Dalgliesh said: “Once you had begun to pay you had no choice but to go on. I see that. But why did you pay? She could hardly have told her story. It would have meant involving the child.”
“Oh no! That wasn’t her plan at all. She never meant to involve the child. She was a sentimental woman and she was fond of Hubert. No, she intended to accuse me of murder outright. Then, if I decided to tell the truth, how would it help me? After all, I wiped up the spilled liquid, I topped up the bowl. She had nothing to lose remember, neither life nor reputation. They couldn’t try her twice. That’s why she waited until after the trial. It made her secure for ever.
“But what of me? In the circles in which I moved at that time reputation was everything. She needed only to breathe the story in the ears of a few servants and I was finished. The truth can be remarkably tenacious. But it wasn’t only reputation. I paid in the shadow of the gallows.”
Dalgliesh asked, “But could she ever prove it?”
Suddenly she looked at him and gave an eerie screech of laughter. It tore at her throat until he thought the taut tendons would snap violently.
“Of course she could! You fool! Don’t you understand? She took my handkerchief, the one I used to mop up the arsenic mixture. That was her profession, remember. Some time during that evening, perhaps when we were all crowding around the bed, two soft plump fingers insinuated themselves between the satin of my evening dress and my flesh and extracted that stained and damning piece of linen.”
She stretched out feebly towards the bedside locker. Dalgliesh saw what she wanted and pulled open the drawer. There on the top was a small square of very fine linen with a border of hand-stitched lace. He took it up. In the corner was her monogram delicately embroidered. And half of the handkerchief was still stiff and stained with brown.
She said: “She left instructions with her solicitors that this was to be returned to me after her death. She always knew where I was. But now she’s dead. And I shall soon follow. You may have the handkerchief, Mr. Dalgliesh. It can be of no further use to either of us now.”
Dalgliesh put it in his pocket without speaking. As soon as possible he would see that it was burnt. But there was something else he had to say. “Is there anything you would wish me to do? Is there anyone you want told, or to tell? Would you care to see a priest?”
Again there was that uncanny screech of laughter but softer now:
“There’s nothing I can say to a priest. I only regret what I did because it wasn’t successful. That is hardly the proper frame of mind for a good confession. But I bear her no ill will. One should be a good loser. But I’ve paid, Mr. Dalgliesh. For sixty-seven years I’ve paid. And in this world, young man, the rich only pay once.”
She lay back as if suddenly exhausted. There was a silence for a moment. Then she said with sudden vigour:
“I believe your visit has done me good. I would be obliged if you’d return each afternoon for the next three days. I shan’t trouble you after that.”
Dalgliesh extended his leave with some difficulty and stayed at a local inn. He saw her each afternoon. They never spoke again of the murder. And when he came punctually at 2:00 p.m. on the fourth day it was to be told that Miss Goddard had died peacefully in the night with apparently no trouble to anyone. She was, as she had said, a good loser.
A week later, Dalgliesh reported to the Canon.
“I was able to see a man who has made a detailed study of the case. I have read the transcript of the trial and visited Colebrook Croft. And I have seen one other person, closely connected with the case but who is now dead. I know you will want me to respect confidence and to say no more than I need.”
The Canon murmured his quiet assurance. Dalgliesh went on quickly:
“As a result I can give you my word that the verdict was a just verdict and that not one penny of your grandfather’s fortune is coming to you through anyone’s wrongdoing.”
He turned his face away and gazed out of the window. There was a long silence. The old man was probably giving thanks in his own way. Then Dalgliesh was aware of his godfather speaking. Something was being said about gratitude, about the time he had given up to the investigation.
“Please don’t misunderstand me, Adam. But when the formalities have been completed I should like to donate something to a charity named by you, one close to your heart.”
Dalgliesh smiled. His contributions to charity were impersonal; a quarterly obligation discharged by banker’s order. The Canon obviously regarded charities as so many old clothes; all were friends but some fitted better and were consequently more affectionately regarded than others.
But inspiration came:
“It’s good of you to think of it, Sir. I rather liked what I learned about Great Aunt Allie. It would be pleasant to give something in her name. Isn’t there a society for the assistance of retired and indigent variety artists, conjurers and so on?”