'You must be brave, dearest. It was for the best. His pain is behind him now.'
She gazed at him, and her huge eyes seemed to grow even larger. 'You're telling me my husband is dead?'
'Darling—'
'Is that what you're telling me?' 'Yes,' he said gently. 'At peace.'
Her breast was heaving, each breath a rasping gasp like a person drowning. She said with difficulty, 'I—do not— believe—'
'But you must, sweetheart. Try to accept—'
'—that he would—kill himself,' she went on, as though
he hadn't spoken. 'If he is dead, then—it was you who killed
him.'
He hesitated, searching the stretched white mask for the features he'd loved so long.
'It was a mercy killing, Cecile. Ending his misery.'
'You killed him. You killed my husband. My love.'
'Your husband, but not your love. We know better, don't we? Dearest, the shock will pass, then we'll be happy the rest of our lives. The serpents won't trouble us again.'
She hadn't heard him. 'You killed my love.'
He frowned, interpreting it this time not as referring to Gaston, but her love for him. She couldn't mean that after all this time, just when they were free—
He moved impulsively towards her, but she recoiled. 'Do not touch me!'
'Beloved—' he reached out to her, but she moved more swiftly. Her hand snaked towards the breadknife lying on the table. Instinctively he crossed his arms over his chest, and gazed in frozen horror as the blade, blinding in a shaft of evening sunlight, swerved instead to his unprotected throat.
Claire had seen the taxi drawing away as she returned from Melbray. Had Beryl come back, or was someone else visiting
Bernard? Surely not the Frenchwoman? Though ifit were she, then perhaps poor, doubted Bernard had been speaking the truth after all. One way or another, she had to know who the visitor was.
Repeating Simon's ploy of the morning, she caught up a bag of apples—an unlikely gift, but all that was to hand, and hurried to the house next door. The front door was ajar. She tapped with the knocker, and pushed it open. 'Bernard? Are you there?'
There was no reply. A profound silence flowed along the hall towards her, a silence which raised the hairs on the back of her neck. She opened her mouth to call again, but instead, obeying she knew not what primeval instinct, went, soft-footed, towards the kitchen. And stood frozen in the doorway.
Bernard lay slumped across the table, his blood gushing in hot, urgent spurts from a gash in his throat. And while she watched, aghast, his eyes glazed over as his life, too, flowed away. Above him, immobile, a knife held in both hands, stood a wild-eyed figure who could only be Cecile Picard. The knife with which Beryl had symbolically stabbed the loaf had found its true target.
Becoming aware of her presence, the woman raised haunted eyes to Claire's. Then she dropped the knife with a clatter and hurled herself into Claire's arms, knocking the bag out of her hand and sending the rosy, shining apples skittering across the floor into the steadily growing pool of blood.
'They'll bring in a verdict of manslaughter,' Webb said, his hand stroking Hannah's bare shoulder. 'Diminished responsibility. She'll get probation or a conditional discharge.'
'So she can go back to France?'
'God, yes. The eldest son's flying over to meet them.' 'And Monsieur? He's making good progress?' 'Yep. Just as well we found him when we did. In his weakened state, he mightn't have lasted the night.'
Hannah said slowly, 'It's ironic, isn't it, that a strong and healthy girl broke her neck when she fell accidentally, while her father, older and considerably more feeble, survived a deliberate push.'
'But what Warwick hadn't realized was that Arlette's death was due to two factors. First, she had exceptionally brittle bones, which she obviously didn't inherit from her father. And second, it was the angle at which she fell which proved fatal. There was no guarantee that someone else, falling from virtually the same place, would also be killed. In fact, if Picard had been a stronger man, he could well have picked himself up and climbed back up the hillside. As it was, he twisted his ankle and, of course, was in a weak condition to start with.'
'And the other irony is that, since her husband wasn't dead after all, Madame needn't have killed the Professor.'
'Ah, but that was fate, wasn't it? The tragic outcome demanded by melodrama. The classics are full of these heroic figures who consider the world well lost for love. You seldom come across them in real life, but Bernard Warwick was a prime example. La Picard was like a drug to him, and he'd suffered withdrawal symptoms for thirty years. No wonder his mind snapped when he found her again. People thought him cold and self-contained, yet he was capable ofsuch a deep and lasting passion that it warped his whole personality. Not many of us could cope with a love like that.'
He turned his head towards her, and his tone lightened. 'Mind you, I'm willing to have a go, if you are. How about it? Care to try your hand at some deep and lasting passion?'
Hannah propped herself on one elbow, looking down into his smiling face. Gently, she traced the outline of his mouth with one finger.
'You might just have talked me into it,' she said.
THE END