Mary said impatiently: "You just imagine things, Philip. You make up a lot of things that can't possibly be true."
"They're quite likely to be true. I'm going to try and make Tina tell me what she knows."
"I don't believe she knows anything. Do you really think she knows who did it?"
"I wouldn't go as far as that. I think she either saw, or heard - something. I want to find out what that something is."
"Tina won't tell if she doesn't want to."
"No, I agree. And she's a great one for keeping things to herself. Little poker face, too. Never shows anything. But she's not really a good liar - not nearly as good a liar as you are, for instance... My method will be to guess. Put my guess to her as a question. To be answered yes or no. Do you know what will happen then? One of three things. She'll either say yes - and that will be that. Or she will say no -and since she isn't a good liar I shall know whether her no is genuine. Or she will refuse to answer and put on her poker face - and that, Polly, will be as good as yes. Come now, you must admit that there are possibilities with this technique of mine."
"Oh, leave it all alone, Phil! Do leave it alone! It will all die down and be forgotten."
"No. This thing has got to be cleared up. Otherwise we'll have Hester throwing herself out of windows and Kirsty having a nervous breakdown. Leo's already freezing up into a kind of stalactite. As for poor old Gwenda, she's on the point of accepting a post in Rhodesia."
"What does it matter what happens to them?" "Nobody matters but us - that's what you mean."
His face was stern and angry. It startled Mary. She had never seen her husband look like that before.
She faced him defiantly.
"Why should I care about other people?" she asked.
"You never have, have you?"
"I don't know what you mean."
Philip gave a sharp exasperated sigh. He pushed his breakfast tray aside.
"Take this thing away. I don't want any more."
"But Philip -"
He made an impatient gesture. Mary picked up the tray and carried it out of the room. Philip wheeled himself over to the writing-table. Pen in hand, he stared out of the window. He felt a curious oppression of spirit. He had been so full of excitement a short while ago. Now he felt uneasy and restless.
But presently he rallied. He covered two sheets of paper rapidly. Then he sat back and considered.
It was plausible. It was possible. But he wasn't entirely satisfied. Was he really on the right track? He couldn't be sure. Motive. Motive was what was so damnably lacking. There was some factor, somewhere, that had escaped him.
He sighed impatiently. He could hardly wait for Tina to arrive. If only this could be cleared up. Just among themselves. That was all that was necessary. Once they knew - then they would all be free. Free of this stifling atmosphere of suspicion and hopelessness. They could all, except one, get on with their own lives. He and Mary would go back home and his thoughts stopped. Excitement died down again.
He faced his own problem. He didn't want to go home...
He thought of its orderly perfection, its shining chintzes, its gleaming brass. A clean bright, well-tended cage!
And he in the cage, tied to his invalid-chair, surrounded by the loving care of his wife.
His wife... When he thought of his wife, he seemed to see two people. One the girl he had married, fair-haired, blue-eyed, gentle, reserved. That was the girl he had loved, the girl he teased whilst she stared at him with a puzzled frown. That was his Polly. But there was another Mary - a Mary who was hard as steel, who was passionate, but incapable of affection - a Mary to whom nobody mattered but herself. Even he only mattered because he was hers.
A line of French verse passed through his mind - how did it go. C'est Venus toute entiere sa proie attachee...
And that Mary he did not love. Behind the cold blue eyes of that Mary was a stranger - a stranger he did not know...
And then he laughed at himself. He was getting nervy and het up like everybody else in the house. He remembered his mother-in-law talking to him about his wife. About the sweet little fair-haired girl in New York. About the moment when the child had thrown her arms round Mrs. Argyle's neck and had cried out: "I want to stay with you. I don't want to leave you ever!"
That had been affection, hadn't it? And yet - how very unlike Mary. Could one change so much between child and woman? How difficult, almost impossible it was for Mary ever to voice affection, to be demonstrative?
Yet certainly on that occasion - His thoughts stopped dead. Or was it really quite simple? Not affection, just calculation. A means to an end. A show of affection deliberately produced. What was Mary capable of to get what she wanted?
Almost anything, he thought - and was shocked with himself for thinking it.
Angrily he dashed down his pen, and wheeled himself out of the sitting-room into the bedroom next door, wheeled himself up to the dressing-table. He picked up his brushes and brushed back his hair from where it hanging over his forehead. His own face looked strange to him.
Who am I, he thought, and where am I going? Thoughts that had never occurred to him before...
He wheeled his chair close to the window and looked out. Down below, one of the daily women stood outside the kitchen window and talked to someone inside. Their voices, softly accented in the local dialect, floated up to him...
His eyes widening, he remained as though tranced. A sound from the next room awakened him from his preoccupation. He wheeled himself to the connecting door.
Gwenda Vaughan was standing by the writing-table. She turned towards him and he was startled by the haggardness of her face in the morning sunshine.
"Hallo, Gwenda."
"Hallo, Philip. Leo thought you might like the Illustrated London News."
"Oh, thanks."
"This is a nice room," said Gwenda, looking round her. "I don't believe I've ever been in it before."
"Quite the Royal Suite, isn't it?" said Philip. "Away from everybody. Ideal for invalids and honeymoon couples."
Just too late he wished he had not used the last two words. Gwenda's face quivered.
"I must get on with things," she said vaguely.
"The perfect secretary."
"Not even that nowadays. I make mistakes."
"Don't we all?" He added deliberately: "When are you and Leo getting married?"
"We probably never shall."
"That would be a real mistake," said Philip.
"Leo thinks it might cause unfavourable comment - from the police!"
Her voice was bitter.
"Dash it all, Gwenda, one has to take some risks."
"I'm willing to take risks," said Gwenda. "I've never minded taking risks. I'm willing to gamble on happiness. But Leo -"
"Yes? Leo?"
"Leo," said Gwenda, "will probably die as he has lived, the husband of Rachel Argyle."
The anger and bitterness in her eyes startled him.
"She might just as well be alive," said Gwenda. "She's here - in the house - all the time..."
Chapter 22
Tina parked her car on the grass by the churchyard wall.
She removed the paper carefully from the flowers she had brought, then she walked in through the cemetery gates and along the main path. She did not like the new cemetery. She wished it had been possible for Mrs. Argyle to have been buried in the old churchyard which surrounded the church. There seemed an old-world peace there. The yew tree and the moss-grown stones.
In this cemetery, so new, so well arranged, with its main walk and the paths radiating off it, everything seemed as slick and mass-produced as the contents of a supermarket.
Mrs. Argyle's grave was well kept. It had a square marble surround filled with granite chips, a granite cross rising from the back of it.
Tina, holding her carnations, bent to read the inscription.
"In loving memory of Rachel Louise Argyle." Below it was the text: "Her children shall rise up and call her blessed."
There was a footstep behind her and Tina turned her head, startled.
"Micky!"
"I saw your car. I followed you. At least -1 was coming here anyway."
"You were coming here? Why?"
"I don't know. Just to say good-bye, perhaps."
"Good-bye to - her?"
He nodded.
"Yes. I've taken that job with the oil company I told you about. I'm going off in about three weeks."
"And you came here to say good-bye to Mother first?"
"Yes. Perhaps to thank her and to say I'm sorry."
"What are you sorry for, Micky?"
"I'mnot sorry that I killed her if that's what you're trying to imply. Have you been thinking I killed her, Tina?"
"I was not sure."
"You can't be sure now, either, can you I mean it's no good my telling you that I didn't kill her."
"Why are you sorry?"
"She did a lot for me." said Micky slowly. "I was never the least bit grateful. I resented ever single damn thing she did. I never gave her a kind word, or a loving look. I wish now that I had, that's all."
"When did you stop hating her? After she was dead?"
"Yes. Yes, I suppose so."
"It wasn't her you hated, was it?"
"No - no. You were right about that. It was my own mother. Because I loved her. Because I loved her and she didn't care a button for me."
"And now you're not even angry about that?"
"No. I don't suppose she could help it. After all, you're born what you are. She was a sunny, happy sort of creature. Too fond of men and too fond of the bottle, and she was nice to her kids when she felt like being nice. She wouldn't have let anyone else hurt them. All right, so she didn't care for me! All these years I refused to live with that idea. Now I've accepted it." He stretched out a hand. "Give me just one of your carnations, will you, Tina?" He took it from her and bending down, laid it on the grave below the inscription.
"There you are, Mum," he said. "I was a rotten son to you, and I don't think you were a very wise Mother to me. But you meant well." He looked at Tina. "Is that a good enough apology?"
"I think it will do," said Tina.
She bent down and put her own bunch of carnations.
"Do you often come here and put flowers?"
"I come here once a year," said Tina.
"Little Tina," said Micky.
They turned together and walked back down the cemetery path.
"I didn't kill her, Tina," said Micky. "I swear I didn't. I want you to believe me."
"I was there that night," said Tina.
He wheeled round.
"You were there? You mean at Sunny Point?"
"Yes. I was thinking of changing my job. I wanted to consult Father and Mother about it."
"Well," said Micky, "go on."
When she did not speak, he took her arm and shook her. "Go on, Tina," he said. "You've got to tell me."
"I haven't told anyone so far," said Tina. "Go on," said Micky again.
"I drove there. I didn't take the car right up to the gate. You know there's a place half-way where it's easier to turn it?"
Micky nodded.
"I got out of the car there and I walked towards the house. I felt unsure of myself. You know how difficult it was in some ways to talk to Mother. I mean, she always had her own ideas. I wanted to put the case clearly as I could. And so I walked to the house and then back towards the car, and then back again. Thinking things out."
"What time was this?" asked Micky.
"I don't know," said Tina. "I can't remember now. I - time doesn't mean very much to me."
"No, darling," said Micky. "You always have that air of infinite leisure."
"I was under the trees," said Tina, "and walking very softly..."
"Like the little cat you are," said Micky affectionately.
"When I heard them."
"Heard what?"
"Two people whispering."
"Yes?" Micky's body had tensed. "What did they say?"
"They said - one of them said, 'Between seven and seven-thirty. That's the time. Now remember that and don't make a muck of it. Between seven and seven-thirty.' The other person whispered,' You can trust me,' and then the first voice said, 'And after that, darling, everything will be wonderful.'"
There was a silence, then Micky said: "Well - why have you held this up?" "Because I didn't know," said Tina. "I didn't know who was speaking." "But surely! Was it a man or a woman -"
"I don't know," said Tina. "Don't you see, when two people are whispering, you don't hear the voice. It's just - well, just a whisper. I think, of course I think, it was a man and a woman because -"
"Because of what they said?"
"Yes. But I didn't know who they were."
"You thought," said Micky, "that it might have been Father and Gwenda?"
"It's possible, isn't it?" said Tina. "It might have meant that Gwenda was to leave the house and come back between those times, or it might have been Gwenda telling Father to come down between seven and half past."
"If it was Father and Gwenda, you wouldn't want to turn them over to the police. Is that it?"
"If I were sure," said Tina. "But I'm not sure. It could have been someone else. It could have been - Hester and someone? It could even have been Mary, but not Philip. No, not Philip, of course."
"When you say Hester and someone, who do you mean?"
"I don't know."
"You didn't see him - the man, I mean?"
"No," said Tina. "I didn't see him."
"Tina, I think you're lying. It was a man, wasn't it?"
"I turned back," said Tina, "towards the car, and then someone came by on the other side of the road, walking very fast. He was just a shadow in the darkness. And then I thought -1 thought I heard a car start up at the end of the road."
