An Air That Kills (38 page)

‘Miss Harcutt, I shall have to ask you to come to the police station with me. Perhaps you'd like to ask Miss Francis to come with you. And you may like to telephone your solicitor before you leave.'

‘I haven't got a solicitor,' Antonia said. ‘Anyway, I'm not sure I could afford one.'

‘You needn't worry about the money,' Jill said.

Antonia stared at Thornhill, her face puzzled, almost disappointed. ‘Why don't you just arrest me?'

‘I'd like you to make a statement. Then I'll need to talk to my superiors.'

Antonia put her head in her hands. Jill pushed back her chair and stood up.

‘Mr Thornhill, may I have a word with you in private?'

He nodded. They went out into the hall together. To Jill's surprise, the drawing-room door was closed: Charlotte, or possibly Philip, must be exercising a superhuman control over her curiosity. Nevertheless, both Jill and Thornhill automatically stood close together beside the big chest and kept their voices down. As they whispered, Jill watched their blurred and unrecognisable reflections moving on the polished wood.

‘Why don't you let it alone?' Jill said. ‘Does it really matter?'

His shoulders slumped. ‘It matters to Charlie Meague. I don't want him charged for a murder he didn't commit. Nor does Miss Harcutt, I think.'

‘That's not what I mean. Why does Harcutt's death have to be murder? Everyone else seems to think that it was an accident. He was an ill and lonely man. Nobody liked him. And he died peacefully in his sleep. Wouldn't it be kinder to leave it like that?'

He shook his head. ‘I can't do that.'

‘Why not, for God's sake?' She came a little nearer to him, aware that something in him was unsettled by her nearness. ‘Does anyone else know about this? Is there other evidence that you haven't mentioned?'

‘I can't discuss that with you.'

‘Don't be such a damned stuffed shirt.' Almost at once, she added, ‘I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.'

‘It doesn't matter.'

‘Listen. Your job's all about justice, isn't it? And justice should be concerned with the spirit of the law, not its letter. Isn't one of the principles of justice that the punishment be proportionate to the offence? Antonia's been punished enough already. And she'll go on punishing herself, too. Don't you agree?'

‘What I think doesn't come into it.'

‘Of course it does. It's up to you whether this goes any further.'

Thornhill raised his head and stared at her. He looked like a man who had failed, she thought, not like a hunter who was on the verge of tracking down his prey.

‘I don't think in the long run there's anything to be gained by tinkering with the truth,' he said slowly. ‘And I think Miss Harcutt wants to tell the truth. That's partly because she doesn't want Charlie Meague to be prosecuted for something he didn't do. And it's partly just to be honest. She's been living a lie, you know. It can be a great relief when you start telling the truth.'

‘That's cant,' she said. ‘The next thing you'll say is that you're only doing this for her own good. And that's only one step removed from what Harcutt probably told himself when he raped her: that she deserved it, that she was asking for it.'

‘I know.'

‘I warn you, this won't be easy for you. I don't think you've got much of a case, and we'll fight it all the way.'

He looked at her without saying anything. She noticed the dark smudges under his eyes: his skin was tinged with grey. His face is hungry, she thought irrelevantly, and so terribly sad. He turned away and opened the dining-room door.

‘Miss Harcutt?' he said. ‘Is there anything you need to do before we leave?'

Chapter Twenty-three

The dark blue Rover slid along the kerb and drew up outside police headquarters. The engine died and the headlights faded. Philip Wemyss-Brown opened the driver's door and got out. He went quickly up the steps into the station.

Sergeant Fowles was on duty. ‘They're in Mr Williamson's office, sir. Shall I get someone to take you up?'

‘That's all right. I know the way.'

Fowles opened the flap to let him past the counter. Philip walked up the stairs. The big building was quiet. Sunday was usually the most peaceful night of the week. The first floor had been partitioned into offices before the war. Williamson had one of the larger ones – half of what had once been a bedroom; the window overlooked the High Street. Philip tapped on the door and went in.

‘There you are,' Williamson said. ‘Take a pew.'

The superintendent's face was pink. Jill and Thornhill, on the other hand, who were sitting as far apart as possible on the other side of the desk, looked tired and drawn. As Philip came in, Jill glanced at him and the relief on her face was obvious; something which Philip was accustomed to identify as his heart lurched within his ribcage.

‘I think this calls for a drink,' Williamson said. ‘We all deserve one. It's been one hell of a day.' He slid open a drawer in his desk and took out a bottle of whisky. He opened another drawer, fished out two glasses and stood them on the blotter beside the bottle. ‘Thornhill, would you get a couple more glasses from the kitchen? And maybe a jug of water. I like it neat myself, but some people prefer to dilute their pleasures.'

‘I don't want a drink, thank you,' Jill said.

‘I'd rather not either,' Thornhill put in. ‘Not on an empty stomach.'

‘Well, that's all right.' Williamson pulled the cork out of the bottle and began to pour. ‘I was just saying to Miss Francis that if the chief constable agrees, we'll have a press conference tomorrow. The sooner the better, of course. There are enough rumours flying around town already.'

Philip took the glass which Williamson gave him and turned to Jill. ‘How's Antonia?'

‘As well as can be expected in the circumstances,' Jill said. ‘Mr Williamson says I can see her tomorrow morning.'

‘Of course you may, my dear,' Williamson said, beaming at her; she looked at him with loathing; he appeared not to notice. ‘Miss Francis has been a great help,' he said to Philip. ‘Hasn't she, Thornhill?'

‘I'm sure Miss Harcutt thinks so,' Thornhill said.

Jill glanced quickly at him and then down at her lap.

‘We're not ogres, you know,' Williamson went on. ‘It's always awkward when a lady like Miss Harcutt is in this sort of position. Not that it happens often, I'm glad to say. But when it does, we like to smooth the way as much as we can.'

‘Charlotte sent her love to Antonia,' Philip said awkwardly. ‘And of course if there's anything we can do, you must just let us know.'

Williamson cleared his throat. ‘I know we all feel deeply moved by the tragedies which have recently occurred,' he said. ‘And on Remembrance Sunday, too. It's a sad business.' He sipped his whisky. ‘Still, I think we have cause for a little celebration. Don't you agree? At least this business hasn't been allowed to drag on. There's every chance that the guilty will be dealt with as soon as possible. I think the force has responded magnificently.'

He looked round the room. Perhaps, Philip thought, Williamson was hoping that someone would respond with ‘Hear, hear!' or a toast to the county's glorious CID.

Jill picked up her handbag and stood up. ‘Don't think me rude, but perhaps we'd better be getting back to Troy House. I'm sure Mr Williamson and Mr Thornhill have work to do.'

In an instant, all three men were on their feet. Philip swallowed the rest of his whisky and put the glass on the desk. Jill moved towards the door which Thornhill was holding open for her. As she passed him, Philip could have sworn that the pair of them stared at each other for an instant longer than was normal; and she didn't acknowledge his courtesy in any way. But the moment passed so quickly that he decided that he had imagined it. He knew from experience that he was inclined to read too much into Jill's behaviour, especially where other men were concerned. Not that it was any of his business.

Williamson escorted them downstairs. ‘The chief constable's over the moon, you know. He's got the Standing Joint Committee next week, and this is just the sort of thing he likes to tell them. Feather in our cap – not every County CID could deal so promptly with a case like this.'

The superintendent stood at the front door waving to them as they went down the steps and got into the car. He was pink-faced and triumphant, like a Dickensian host waving farewell to the last of his guests.

Philip started the engine, and drove slowly down the High Street.

‘I've never met such a stupid, conceited man,' Jill said.

‘Which one?'

‘Williamson, of course,' she said, sounding surprised that he'd needed to ask.

‘He's conceited, all right. But he's not stupid. If he thinks he's got the case wrapped up, he almost certainly has.'

‘Antonia made a statement,' Jill said. ‘She insisted. They were very good about it – made sure she had a solicitor and so on. And they tried to be terribly considerate – endless cups of tea. But she's admitted everything. And she's piled on the detail, too. I think she feels it might help Charlie Meague. Do you know what she said to me? “Charlie's the only male who was ever really kind to me.” Christ, it's a mess.'

‘What did you do to Williamson? He practically tried to kiss your hand as we were leaving.'

‘I rather overemphasised my contacts in the national press.'

They drove through the deserted streets. It was another cold night and a fat moon was hanging in the sky. Philip liked the smell of Jill's perfume, and he liked knowing she was in the seat beside him. Happiness took him by surprise – just for a second and then it was gone.

‘Thornhill was very quiet, I thought,' he said.

‘Yes.' Jill hesitated. ‘Have you got a cigarette?'

‘I didn't think you still smoked.'

‘Sometimes I do. Could we stop for a moment?'

He pulled over at once. They were near Lydmouth's war memorial, a stone pillar surmounted by a life-size statue of a soldier in helmet and leggings, with a rifle slung over his shoulder. There were wreaths stacked around the base of the column.

‘I just need a moment to calm down,' Jill said. ‘Sort things out in my mind.'

‘There's no hurry.' Philip felt for his cigarette case.

Jill nodded at the memorial. ‘The book was right. November is the month of the dead.'

‘What book?'

She took a cigarette. ‘Something a man was reading on the train.'

‘It must have been bloody awful for you, all this.'

‘How's Charlotte coping?' Jill asked, taking him, as so often, by surprise.

‘She's rather upset, actually.' Philip flicked his lighter and lit their cigarettes; the flame brought colour to her face. ‘A lot of people don't realise that she's really quite sensitive. It's not just that Antonia's someone she knows and someone who was staying in her house. In a funny way, she blames herself for the whole thing.'

‘But that's nonsense.'

‘She says it wouldn't have happened if she hadn't dragged Antonia back to Lydmouth. And she also feels bad about sacking Mrs Meague. You remember? She tried to pinch a snuffbox? The poor woman must have already had pneumonia then. She can't have been responsible for her actions.'

‘Charlotte did everything from the best of motives,' Jill said. ‘You could just as easily say it was my fault because I drove Antonia back to Lydmouth. If you leave out guilty intent, where do you draw the line?'

‘You're right,' Philip said, staring at Jill's darkened profile. ‘There's no rational reason for her to feel guilty. But guilt isn't an altogether rational process, is it?'

‘No.' She drew on her cigarette and turned her face towards his. ‘Philip,' she said suddenly. ‘You've got a job going on the
Gazette
, haven't you? Would you consider me, if I applied for it?'

‘Is that a joke?'

‘No. I have to do something, you see. And I'd like to work down here.'

‘Something happened in London, didn't it?' Philip felt a hot rush of jealousy. ‘Something to do with that chap who rang up?'

‘Yes. I'll tell you about it sometime. Not now. But that's not why I want the job. What about it?'

‘Are you really sure you'd want to do it? You'd spend half your time checking the names of the bridesmaids.'

‘I realise that. And I am sure.'

‘Makes one think of racehorses pulling carts. Still, if you're really serious, I'll think about it.' Philip leant forward and fumbled for the key in the ignition; his jealousy had vanished and he felt enormously cheerful. ‘Of course I'd have to have a word with Charlotte about it, too.'

Chapter Twenty-four

It was half past eleven by the time Richard Thornhill let himself into his house. Victoria Road was cold and silent. As he twisted the key in the lock, he glanced up at the night sky. It was sprinkled with stars.

A light was burning on the landing. He went through to the kitchen and checked that Edith had banked up the boiler. She had left him some cold beef sandwiches and a Thermos flask of coffee. He ate half a sandwich and took a few sips of the coffee. He felt too tired even to swallow. He drank some more coffee in the hope that it would warm him.

There were footsteps on the stairs. A moment later, Edith came into the kitchen. She was wearing a quilted dressing gown which stretched to her ankles. Her face looked scrubbed and very young.