Morgan spread his hands resignedly. 'I thought you'd get round to that. When I heard she was missing, I drove back to look for her. Damn it, wouldn't you? No one saw me— they weren't searching so far afield.'
'When was this, Mr Morgan?' Webb interrupted.
'The Thursday evening, as soon as I heard. I parked where I had before and started walking and calling for her. I realized she mightn't answer if she knew it was me, but I had to try. The Nailsworth road wasn't far away, and I guessed she'd have made for it. And eventually I found her.'
He stared down at the table. 'All right, I should have told you. But it wouldn't have helped Arlette. She was dead. I imagine her neck broke when she fell.'
Webb studied his downcast face. 'What was your reaction when you found her?'
'Horror, guilt, then panic. If I reported finding her, you'd wonder how I knew where to look. And though she died because I left her, it hadn't been intentional.'
'An anonymous call would have been better than nothing.'
'They can be traced, can't they? I daren't risk it. Anyway, you were bound to find her some time.'
'So you were content to let her parents go on worrying and hoping—'
'No!' The word was a shout and Morgan put his head in his hands. 'Not content,' he added more quietly. 'But I had my wife to consider, and—'
'You should have thought of that before,' Ledbetter said primly, and Morgan flashed him a look of dislike. 'Did you touch the body at all?'
'There was no point. I climbed down, praying she'd still be alive, but when it was clear she wasn't, I just left her.' He paused. 'There was one thing I did. Her little scarf had come off and was lying half under her. I pulled it out, using my handkerchief, and stuck it on a bush beside her. I thought someone might see it from the road.'
'Hardly, at sixty miles an hour.'
Morgan shrugged. 'Anyway, gentlemen, that really is the lot. I behaved badly, I don't deny it, and as a result a girl died. I'll have to live with that for the rest of my life.'
Nigel Morgan had waited for his statement to be typed, signed it, and thankfully left.
'So that's it.' Chris Ledbetter leant back in his chair with a contented sigh. 'Case closed. Well done, Dave. I'm grateful for your help.'
Webb sighed also, but not with satisfaction. 'The devil of it is, I don't think it's over.'
Ledbetter straightened. 'You're not saying you don't believe him?'
'Oh, I think it was accidental death, and that'll be the verdict.'
'So what's worrying you?'
'I wish I knew. Call it a hunch. I've a feeling that the girl's death was only the starting-point, though of what, I'm damned if I know.'
Ledbetter smiled crookedly. 'You should try swinging a pendulum!'
'Sounds barmy, I agree. But there are ripples spreading from it that haven't been explained. I just don't think we've-seen the end of it.'
'So what do you propose to do?'
'God knows. Go back to Shillingham and put my head in the sand.' He paused. 'But I'll breathe more easily when the body's released and they all go back to France.'
'What could possibly go wrong now?'
'If I knew that, Chris, I shouldn't feel so helpless. You must have had cases that leave you dissatisfied; that's probably all it is.'
'Well, whatever you say, I'm grateful for your help. I'll do the same for you some day. Now, let's go and have a drink. That'll cheer you up.'
And Webb, pushing his reservations aside, nodded in agreement.
Usually, the days Bernard came home for lunch were the highlight of her week. Today, Beryl was dreading it. All night and all morning, his words had rung in her head.
The reason I killed
my
wife—the reason I killed
my
wife—
Of course he'd been talking in his sleep, and of course he'd not known what he was saying. But the fact that he'd said it, meant it must be in his mind. Sometimes, when she reached this point, she was able to dismiss the whole episode as nonsense. If everyone took seriously what was said or done in dreams . . . But at others, her response was less logical; because over the last week Bernard's manner had become more and more unbalanced, and to her horror she realized she was afraid of him.
He came into the house and without a word seated himself at the table. Beryl said, 'Plaice and parsley sauce today.' It struck her as the most banal of remarks at this crisis point, but he answered automatically, 'Very nice, dear.' It was an echo of his old self, the self which had disappointed her by its lack of appreciation, but whose return, now, would have filled her with joy. And because of that normal phrase in the face of such gross abnormality, she said impulsively, 'Tell me what's wrong, Bernard. Please.'
He raised his head and his eyes found her face. As she watched, their blankness shifted into focus and he said tiredly, 'I'm sorry, Beryl. Very, very sorry.'
'But what
is
it?' She sat down beside him, putting a hand on his. Though she felt it tremble, he didn't move away. She went on gently, 'I only want what's best for you, but lately my just being here seems to upset you.'
'Because you love me,' he said. She gasped, recoiling as though he had struck her from the phrase that haunted her, and he left it unexplained, seeming to think it explained itself. Yet frightened as she was, she must pursue it; this might be her last chance.
'I'm your wife. Is it wrong to love you?'
He sighed, pushing his plate away untouched. 'You're right,' he said, 'I owe you, at very least, an explanation. I've tried to be good to you, Beryl, and I hope you've been happy. It's no fault of yours that I couldn't love you; I'd no love to give. It's belonged to someone else for thirty years.'
'I didn't know that,' she whispered.
'There was no point in telling you. I never dreamed I'd see her again.'
Comprehension came slowly. 'And now you have?' 'Yes. Don't judge me too harshly. It's beyond my control.' 'Who—' Beryl's voice croaked. She cleared her throat and said more strongly, 'Who is she?' 'Cecile Picard.'
'Picard?
The girl who—?' 'Her mother.'
'Oh God!' Beryl whispered. Then, 'But she's married, too. What about—?'
'No one can come between us. Not now. She's my salvation, my talisman against the snake.'
'Snake?'
Beryl's eyes widened. He
was
mad!
'The reptile brain,' he said, 'digesting the cerebrum from within. It happened to Brouge.'
Was this the theme of the book upstairs? And was he now relating it to himself? But he allowed her no time to follow his meaning. 'And I'm just as necessary for her. Our coming together is the one thing which can make Arlette's death bearable for her. Surely you see that? Good coming out of grief?'
'I—don't know,' she murmured, since he seemed to expect a reply.
'It's obvious enough.' There was impatience in his voice, and from long habit, Beryl tried obligingly to understand. 'How does her husband feel about it?' 'That's immaterial. He must accept it, like the rest of us.' 'Including me?' 'Yes. I'm sorry.'
But incredibly, she was already accepting it—the explanation, if not, as yet, its outcome. For the change in him dated almost exactly from Arlette's disappearance—she'd already established that. Now, she could pinpoint it more finely.
Since the arrival of her parents.
But this long-lost-love story—was it true? Or had he, in his strange way, been overwhelmed by the Frenchwoman, and spun a fantasy round her? Surely Bernard, calm, self-possessed, almost, she thought blushingly, passionless, was incapable of such deep and lasting love? But perhaps, as he'd said himself, that was 'immaterial'. True or not, it was clear she herself was no longer wanted.
He was sitting in silence, with bowed head. She said almost sulkily, 'So what happens now?'
'Cecile will accompany her daughter's body back to France. She'll attend the funeral, tidy up her affairs, then return here.'
Beryl swallowed. 'To this house, you mean?'
He looked at her in surprise. 'It's my home.'
'And mine!' she cried, tears starting to her eyes. 'Have I no rights at all?'
'But you see,' he said reasoningly, 'I have to stay here because of my work, whereas you're free to start a new life wherever you choose. I'll make generous provision for you.'
'I don't want "generous provision", I want my husband and my home!' She could feel the tears coursing down her cheeks, knew despairingly that now, when she most desperately needed to win him over, she must look her worst. He didn't speak, and after a moment, struggling for control, she said baldly, 'You want me to get out. Is that it?'
Still no reply.
'And if I don't?'
The reason I killed
my
wife
—She shuddered involuntarily.
'The fault is mine, Beryl,' he repeated patiently. 'I accept that. You've been hurt, and I'm sorry. But Cecile and I suffered for
thirty
years
1
.
Surely we've earned some happiness?'
She said chokingly, 'It's too bad you've had to put up with me so long. Don't worry, there'll be no more scenes. I'll pack a suitcase, and send a van for the rest of my things. Goodbye, Bernard.'
She left the room with as much dignity as she could summon, and went upstairs. In a fog of misery she reached down a suitcase and almost randomly began to drop things into it. Could a marriage—a world—fall apart in two short weeks? When Arlette Picard disappeared, she'd thought she was happily married. If the girl hadn't died, her mother wouldn't have come, and nothing would have changed.
She heard the front door bang and moved to the window. As so many times in the past, she watched Bernard walk down the path, get into his car and drive away. She couldn't believe it was the last time she'd do so.
She turned back to the case, closed it, and cast an unseeing glance round the room. Then she went downstairs. The two plates of fish were still on the table, the sauce congealing over them. Bile rose in her throat. Leaving them where they were, she went out to her own car, put the case on the back seat, then, as an afterthought, walked along the gravel behind the banks of conifers to the Marshbanks' house.
Claire came to the door, her face immediately concerned. 'Beryl! Whatever is it?'
'I've come to say goodbye,' Beryl said clearly. 'I'm leaving Bernard. If that's the right way round.'
Claire took her arm and led her inside. Beryl went unresistingly, allowed herself to be settled on the sofa, and accepted a small glass of brandy.
'Now, tell me what happened.'
Calmly, she did so, omitting only Bernard's talking in his sleep. 'I don't know whether to believe it or not,' she finished. 'It seems so improbable that I wondered if he'd just— deluded himself into thinking it was true. I mean, that poor husband! Surely she wouldn't leave him now, straight after their daughter's death?'
Claire said gently, 'I think it is true, love. Daphne saw them together.' And she repeated what Daphne'd told her.
'So that's it,' Beryl said dully. 'Well, it doesn't make much difference.' She looked up, meeting Claire's eyes with a wan smile. 'In fact, in a way it helps. When I learned that he'd never loved me, I thought it was my fault, that I'd failed him in some way. But I hadn't—he said so himself. He could have married the most beautiful, intelligent woman in the world, and it would have been the same. He was so obsessed with this Cecile, he'd nothing left to give.'
'What will you do?' Claire asked quietly.
'Go to my sister in Shillingham. She was widowed last year.'
'But what about Melbray? You enjoy going there so much.'
'Yes.' Beryl paused. 'I can't really think now. I'll stay with Marjorie for a while, till I decide what to do.'
'Give me her phone number, then.' Claire handed her a pad. 'God, Beryl, I just can't take this in.'
'How do you think I feel?' Beryl wrote down the number. 'Keep an eye on Bernard for me, will you? He'll be alone for a week or two, till she gets back. Although a lot of things are explained, I still think he's ill.' His comment about snakes returned to her, and, pushing it hastily from her mind, she rose to her feet. 'I'd better go.'
'Would you like me to come with you?'
'That's sweet of you, but I'll be all right. Sorry to let you down about Melbray. Sally Polsom would stand in, if you asked her. Oh, and I've
just remembered: I promised Sarah I'd babysit tomorrow. Will you explain?'