At 7:30 the police were still in the house. Paul invited the Chief Constable to dinner, but he declined, less, I thought, because of any reluctance to break bread with possible suspects than from a need to return to his grandchildren.
Before leaving he paid a prolonged visit to my grandmother in her room, then returned to the sitting-room to report on the results of the day’s activities. I wondered whether he would have been as forthcoming if the victim had been a farm labourer and the place the local pub.
He delivered his account with the staccato self-satisfaction of a man confident that he’d done a good day’s work.
“I’m not calling in the Yard. I did eight years ago when we had our last murder. Big mistake. All they did was upset the locals. The facts are plain enough. He was killed by a single blow delivered with great force from across the desk and while he was rising from the chair. Weapon, a heavy blunt instrument. The skull was crushed but there was little bleeding—well, you saw for yourselves. I’d say he was a tall murderer; Maybrick was over six foot two. He came through the French windows and went out the same way.
“We can’t get much from the footprints, too indistinct, but they’re plain enough, the second set overlaying the first. Could have been a casual thief, perhaps a deserter, we’ve had one or two incidents lately. The blow could have been delivered with a rifle butt. It would be about right for reach and weight. The library door to the garden may have been left open. Your grandmother told her butler Seddon she’d see to the locking up but asked Maybrick to check on the library before he went to bed.
“In the blackout the murderer wouldn’t have known the library was occupied. Probably tried the door, went in, caught a gleam of the money and killed almost on impulse.”
Paul asked: “Then why not steal the coins?”
“Saw that they weren’t legal tender. Difficult to get rid of. Or he might have panicked or thought he heard a noise.”
Paul asked: “And the locked door into the hall?”
“Murderer saw the key and turned it to prevent the body being discovered before he had a chance to get well away.”
He paused, and his face assumed a look of cunning which sat oddly on the aquiline, somewhat supercilious features. He said: “An alternative theory is that Maybrick locked himself in. Expected a secret visitor and didn’t want to be disturbed. One question I have to ask you, my boy. Rather delicate. How well did you know Maybrick?”
Paul said: “Only slightly. He’s a second cousin.”
“You trusted him? Forgive my asking.”
“We had no reason to distrust him. My grandmother wouldn’t have asked him to sell the coins for her if she’d had any doubts. He is family. Distant, but still family.”
“Of course. Family.” He paused, then went on: “It did occur to me that this could have been a staged attack which went over the top. He could have arranged with an accomplice to steal the coins. We’re asking the Yard to look at his London connections.”
I was tempted to say that a faked attack which left the pretend victim with a pulped brain had gone spectacularly over the top, but I remained silent. The Chief Constable could hardly order me out of the sitting-room—after all, I had been present at the discovery of the body—but I sensed his disapproval at my obvious interest. A young woman of proper feeling would have followed my grandmother’s example and taken to her room.
Paul said: “Isn’t there something odd about that smashed watch? The fatal blow to the head looked so deliberate. But then he strikes again and smashes the hand. Could that have been to establish the exact time of death? If so, why? Or could he have altered the watch before smashing it? Could Maybrick have been killed later?”
The Chief Constable was indulgent to this fancy: “A bit far-fetched, my boy. I think we’ve established the time of death pretty accurately. Bywaters puts it at between ten and eleven, judging by the degree of rigor. And we can’t be sure in what order the killer struck.
“He could have hit the hand and shoulder first, and then the head. Or he could have gone for the head, then hit out wildly in panic. Pity you didn’t hear anything, though.”
Paul said: “We had the gramophone on pretty loudly and the doors and walls are very solid. And I’m afraid that by 11:30 I wasn’t in a state to notice much.”
As Sir Rouse rose to go, Paul asked: “I’ll be glad to have the use of the library if you’ve finished with it, or do you want to seal the door?”
“No, my boy, that’s not necessary. We’ve done all we need to do. No prints, of course, but then we didn’t expect to find them. They’ll be on the weapon, no doubt, unless he wore gloves. But he’s taken the weapon away with him.” The house seemed very quiet after the police had left. My grandmother, still in her room, had dinner on a tray and Paul and I, perhaps unwilling to face that empty chair in the dining room, made do with soup and sandwiches in the sitting-room. I was restless, physically exhausted; I was also a little frightened.
It would have helped if I could have spoken about the murder, but Paul said wearily: “Let’s give it a rest. We’ve had enough of death for one day.”
So we sat in silence. From 7:40 we listened to Radio Vaudeville on the Home Service—Billy Cotton and His Band, the BBC Symphony Orchestra with Adrian Boult. After the nine o’clock news and the 9:20 war commentary, Paul murmured that he’d better check with Seddon that he’d locked up.
It was then that, partly on impulse, I made my way across the hall to the library. I turned the door-handle gently as if I feared to see Rowland still sitting at the desk, sorting through the coins with avaricious fingers. The blackout was drawn, the room smelled of old books, not blood. The desk, its top clear, was an ordinary unfrightening piece of furniture, the chair neatly in place.
I stood at the door convinced that this room held a clue to the mystery. Then, from curiosity, I moved over to the desk and pulled out the drawers. On either side was a deep drawer with two shallower ones above it. The left was so crammed with papers and files that I had difficulty in opening it. The right-hand deep drawer was clear. I opened the smaller drawer above it. It contained a collection of bills and receipts. Rifling among them I found a receipt for £3,200 from a London coin dealer listing the purchase and dated five weeks previously.
There was nothing else of interest. I closed the drawer and began pacing and measuring the distance from the desk to the French windows. It was then that the door opened almost soundlessly and I saw my cousin.
Coming up quietly beside me, he said lightly: “What are you doing? Trying to exorcise the horror?”
I replied: “Something like that.”
For a moment we stood in silence. Then he took my hand in his, drawing it through his arm. He said:
“I’m sorry, cousin, it’s been a beastly day for you. And all we wanted was to give you a peaceful Christmas.” I didn’t reply. I was aware of his nearness, the warmth of his body, his strength. As we moved together to the door I thought, but did not say: “Was that really what you wanted, to give me a peaceful Christmas? Was that all?”
I had found it difficult to sleep since my husband had been killed, and now I lay rigid under the canopy of the four-poster re-living the extraordinary day, piecing together the anomalies, the small incidents, the clues, to form a satisfying pattern, trying to impose order on disorder. I think that is what I’ve been wanting to do all my life. It was that night at Stutleigh which decided my whole career.
Rowland had been killed at half-past ten by a single blow delivered across the width of a three-foot-six desk. But at half-past ten my cousin had been with me, had indeed been hardly out of my sight all day. I had provided an indisputable alibi. But wasn’t that precisely why I had been invited, cajoled to the house by the promise of peace, quiet, good food and wine, exactly what a young widow, recently recruited into the Forces, would yearn for?