‘It’s true, of course. We were expecting Harry Conrad. He’s more Arthur’s friend than mine. But Mrs Pringle doesn’t know that. A lawyer in London. He was to have come down here this week. But Arthur cancelled it just before he left.’
‘Did Mrs Pringle know he’d cancelled it?’
‘No. I’m sure she doesn’t. Arthur left in such a hurry. And I forgot to tell her.’
‘So it’s possible she actually does think I’m him?’
‘Yes.’
‘But she must be perfectly well aware… of this hunt for me around here: the police all round the place this afternoon, for example.’
‘She may know about them. I was out when she got back. I thought you might have hidden somewhere in the garden. But she probably didn’t see any of the police here this afternoon. They left almost an hour ago — full of apologies.’
‘Has anyone ever locked themselves into that cellar?’
‘Yes. Arthur did, only a week or so ago. The door swings to. There’s a breeze along the corridor, if the back door out to the yard is open.’
‘Well, maybe she does think I’m Conrad,’ I said.
‘Why shouldn’t she?’ Alice asked hopefully. ‘She’s always been a perfectly reliable, sensible, honest person.’
‘I wondered … Is she really just a housekeeper? Those eyes: I’m not so sure she’s honest. And that puffy face.’
‘Oh, that’s her only problem. But it’s just physical. She’s overweight, got a frightful sweet tooth. Always eating candy and baking marvellous cakes, and eating most of them herself. But she’s not calculating, I’m sure. She’d stop feeding if she was, since she likes to look smart. I’ve tried to help, given her several diets. But she’ll never stick at them.’
‘And her husband? The chauffeur? Of course she’ll tell him about me.’
‘Tom? Yes, but why should he bother about you? It’s true he’s more calculating, maybe. He’s thin, wiry. Just the opposite of her. A real Jack Sprat. He was in the army here, before they came to us. But he’s totally honest.’
‘Well, if so that’s what worries me: if they think I am … who I am, well, they’re going to let the police know at once.’
‘They won’t think, I’m sure. They’re not like that.’
‘What happens if Mrs Pringle finds I have no luggage, in the guest bedroom? If she goes up to turn the bed down or something?’
‘We’ll go back now. And I’ll put some luggage in the room. There are plenty of suitcases in the house she’s never seen. And plenty of Arthur’s clothes. I can fix that. You’ll see.’
Alice had regained all her confidence and enthusiasm. ‘I told you,’ she went on, ‘I told you, when you first changed into Arthur’s clothes: you’re a completely different person. You’re free! The police found nothing up here. The Superintendent said he was quite convinced that you’d got a car out of here that first night. He told me before he left how this whole new search for you was just a wild goose chase. It was only that man, with the shotgun — Ross wasn’t it? — from London who thought you might be still here.’
‘Yes. And that worries me too.’
‘Well, don’t let it,’ Alice said lightly. ‘Ross won’t be back; he’s not going to bother the local police a third time. Don’t you see? You can stay here quite openly now, for a bit anyway. You don’t have to go back to the woods like a savage. And we can start thinking about Clare. I asked the Superintendent —’
‘Yes, I heard you. In Banbury hospital. Her grandparents obviously haven’t been allowed to collect her yet.
‘But I told you at lunch: it was in the papers. Laura — your wife: they sent the body back to Lisbon for burial. And the child, well, she must be in some state of shock. Unable to move yet, maybe —’
‘It’s all nonsense,’ I suddenly interrupted. ‘Running like this, pretending to be Harry Conrad, thinking of kidnapping my daughter. I don’t know what I’m, doing. I wanted — just wanted revenge, when I first got away that night. I wanted to kill Marcus. Or Ross. Or anyone. But now it’s different. All this childish plotting. If you hadn’t encouraged me,’ I said angrily, confused and annoyed at my predicament now that I recognised how that first wild need for revenge had died in me. Revenge wouldn’t bring Laura back, which was all I wanted just then, for Laura had gone back to Lisbon for ever. They had probably buried her in the Anglican graveyard by the Estrela gardens on that windy summer hill where I had first met her.
And it was the thought of this and the state I was in generally, exhausted and overwrought, that made the tears prick my eyes, so that I turned away, unable to stop them.
But Alice confronted me the moment I stood up — her arms suddenly around my shoulders, kissing me, kissing me.
They weren’t the kisses of a lover, I thought then. They simply represented the concern of a close friend whose sympathies could no longer be restrained and whose artless nature it was to express them in such a way. Of course, I was still in love with Laura. And I hadn’t yet realised that Alice had already started to fall in love with me.
She drew back from me, perspiration, hers and mine, smudging her long, angular face. It was too hot again now in the little pavilion, exposed all day to the glare of the sun. Sweat had come to mark both our shirts beneath our arms and where she had pressed against me her breasts showed through the damp of the fine material.
Oh, I liked Alice; I was attracted by her — that would never have been difficult, God knows. But I held back. It all seemed too convenient. It was nonsense, really.
‘It’s not nonsense, you know,’ she said at last, as though listening to my thoughts. ‘You’ll see. Everyone can start again. You’ll see.’
I thought she was simply invoking the American right to happiness here, that hopelessly optimistic amendment to their Constitution. I have never had such expectations. On the other hand, I could not but be drawn forward by her optimism, by what she offered me, both spiritual and material. Certainly I couldn’t go back. In the space of six hours I seemed a part of Alice’s life already, as though I’d known her for years. I was responsible for her now, just as she, almost from the beginning, had so clearly meant to take charge of me. And I thought: such a sense of responsibility belongs as much to friendship as to love, especially with her, who lacked friends. I was a friend at last for Alice, I thought.
So I kissed her myself then, briefly, but just long enough to sense the ache in her lips, in her body, which I should have known had little to do with friendship.
‘I’ll put the luggage and some clothes in your bedroom,’ she said. ‘We can have some tea then.’
We walked back up to the house, the great Gothic pile shimmering in the afternoon light. And the thought first brushed across the edges of my mind. What if I was ever free again, if they caught the man who’d really killed Laura and I had Clare back with me? What if Alice and I ever came to love and marry? Would we all live together here, in this great place, the scheming, mean-spirited, penny-pinching world outside well forgotten? Would all three of us live happily ever afterwards? I let the thought die at once, unlikely as a fairy story: or a medieval romance.
But I was wrong here. The same thoughts soon crossed Alice’s mind. She was quite an actress, of course. More than most of us, she saw inviting, if quite unlikely or unsuitable parts ahead of her in life, which she had but to choose to fulfil. But that’s no excuse. I should never have encouraged her in this role of courtly damsel with me. On the other hand I encouraged her by my very presence. She was in love with me — if not that very afternoon in the summerhouse, then very shortly afterwards. The only way I could have changed things was by going back, there and then, to my oak tree in the woods. And of course I didn’t do that.