The Inheritance (18 page)

“What did you do?”

“I got out of bed and ran downstairs.”

“What about your wife?”

Ritter didn’t answer at once. He closed his eyes, and the look of strained concentration on his face showed how hard he was trying to remember.

“I think she was already out of bed and over by the window when I got up. She probably left the room about the same time that I did. There was no time for me to say anything to her. I don’t remember her being in the corridor outside the colonel’s study. In fact, I don’t think I saw her until quite a bit later,” Ritter added.

“Tell us about what happened in the corridor.”

“The shouting had stopped by the time I got downstairs, but I could hear someone moving about inside the room. I tried the door but it was locked. I know it was, because I kept trying to turn the handle. And that really alarmed me, because the colonel never locked the internal door, the one leading out into the corridor. So I started banging on the door, shouting that I wanted to be let in. I was hammering on it for at least thirty seconds, before I heard a key turn in the lock and Stephen opened the door.”

“You heard the key turn. Are you sure about that? This is very important, Mr. Ritter.”

“I’m one hundred percent sure. And when I got into the study, the key was in the lock on the other side of the door.”

“What else did you find when you got inside?”

“The colonel was dead. I could see that right away. He was looking straight at me. Sitting in his armchair with a game of chess on the table in front of him. And I could see what had killed him too. There was a bullet hole in his forehead, right between his eyes, and the gun was on a table by the door. I didn’t pick it up because I knew it would be evidence. And I didn’t let Stevie get near it either. He’d done enough for one night.”

“What was the defendant doing?”

“Walking round the room. Running his hands through his hair. Muttering things. I think it was Silas who got him out into the corridor. Or it might have been Sasha. I stayed in the room and called the police. I didn’t bother with an ambulance. There was no point.”

“Did the defendant say anything?”

“When?”

“When you got into the study. After he opened the door.”

“He said that his father was dead.”

“What was his tone of voice?”

“Quite matter of fact. Just like, he’s dead, call the funeral director. I slapped him across the face with the back of my hand. I don’t know what he was saying after that. He was muttering, like I said before.”

“Why did you hit the defendant?”

“Because of what he’d done. It was obvious. You didn’t need to be a mathematical genius to see what had happened in there.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ritter. I’ve no more questions,” said Thompson. He allowed himself one glance across at the jury as he sat down, and then had to hold himself back from rubbing his hands with glee. Almost all of the jurors were sitting forward in their chairs, looking alert. Ritter’s evidence had obviously had a powerful effect on them. If he didn’t have any doubt about what had happened in the study, then why should they?

“You assaulted my client, Stephen Cade, because you believed he’d killed his father. That’s your evidence. Yes?” Swift asked his first question as if it was a challenge, and Ritter responded in kind.

“I didn’t just believe it. I knew it,” he said.

“No, you didn’t. You weren’t there when it happened. You came in afterward and jumped to a conclusion.”

“The right conclusion.”

“Well, let’s examine that, shall we? You said that there was a bullet hole in the colonel’s forehead, right between his eyes.”

“Yes.”

“And that didn’t give you pause for thought?”

“Why should it?”

“Because you knew that Stephen was a terrible shot, that’s why. You set up a target in the garden, and he missed every time. And yet he’s capable, according to you, of dispatching his father like some gangland executioner.”

“It was four years ago that I took him and Silas out in the garden. Anything could have happened since then. He could have learned to shoot like a marksman.”

“I see. Well, let me ask you this, then. Did Stephen Cade try to escape?”

“No. He probably didn’t think there was much point. He wouldn’t have got far. I’d have seen to that.”

“What he
did
do was cry out for help, and then open the door and let you in.”

“I don’t know whether it was his shouting that woke me up. It could just as well have been the colonel. And he didn’t let me in straightaway. He waited and then he unlocked the door. I’d been hammering on the outside for at least thirty seconds.”

“Why didn’t you go round into the courtyard when you found the door was locked? You could have cut off his escape route that way.”

“I didn’t think of it. I wanted to get in the study. I was worried about the colonel.”

“But when you got inside, the french windows were open, weren’t they?”

“I believe so.”

“Stephen Cade could have escaped?”

“I suppose so. He was probably just too shocked by what he’d done. He was behaving pretty strangely after he let me in. Like I said before.”

Swift changed tack, realising that he’d gone as far as he could with the night of the murder. Ritter was proving to be a stronger witness than he had anticipated.

“I want to take you back in time, Mr. Ritter,” he said. “Back to the summer of 1944. To a day when you and Colonel Cade went to a small country house outside the town of Marjean in northern France.”

“We went there with Corporal Carson. There were three of us,” interrupted Ritter. He spoke quickly and confidently. He’d been expecting this line of attack.

“Why did you go there?” he asked.

“The Germans were falling back all across the front. There were reports that they’d been using the house as their local headquarters. The colonel wanted to stop them from getting away and to ensure the safety of the French
family living there. But we were too late. The Germans set the house on fire before we got there, and there were no survivors.”

“What about the Germans?” asked Swift. “What happened to them?”

“We ambushed two trucks on the drive. I don’t know if any others had already left.”

“Why wait to ambush them? Why not go straight to the house, if it was on fire?”

“It wouldn’t have been safe. There were only three of us.”

“And why was that? Surely it would’ve been most unusual for a colonel to go on a dangerous mission like that, taking just two soldiers with him?”

“I don’t know about that. I was just a sergeant. I was following orders.”

“Your orders were, in fact, to kill the French family, not to save them, and to take something that was theirs. A valuable book. Isn’t that right, Mr. Ritter?”

“No, it’s a lie.”

“You set the house on fire after you murdered them. To hide what you had done.”

“No.” Ritter half spat out the word. It was almost as if he was back on the parade ground issuing commands. “There was an investigation by the army,” he went on after a moment, having regained his composure. “We were fully exonerated. They found German bullets in the bodies.”

“But why would there have been an investigation? It was war time, and you say you’d done nothing wrong.”

“I don’t know. The colonel wanted one.”

“You’re lying, Mr. Ritter,” said Swift. “Both the colonel’s sons heard you and him in his study, talking about what you’d done.”

“No.”

“Silas Cade has told this court what you said. And his brother will do the same.”

“They’re lying.”

“Why should they be? Stephen had nothing to gain by quarreling with his father.”

“I don’t know about that. He had plenty to gain by killing him.”

“And why should someone send the colonel a blackmail letter about what happened at Marjean if nothing did? Answer me that, Mr. Ritter.”

“It must’ve been Carson who sent the letter. He was a born liar, and he always wanted money. He kept asking the colonel after the war, and the colonel was foolish enough to give him some. He gambled that away in no time, and then he wanted more. When the colonel said no, he developed a grudge against him. It became like an obsession.”

“Why would the colonel have given him money?”

“Because he was generous that way. He shouldn’t have done it. I told him not to.”

“He gave him the money because he wanted to keep Carson quiet. About what he’d seen at Marjean. That’s the truth, isn’t it?”

“No.”

Swift pulled his gown up around his shoulders, locking eyes with Ritter, before he asked his next question.

“Somebody had tried to kill Colonel Cade before, hadn’t they, Mr. Ritter? Back in 1956?”

“Yes.”

“Was that at Marjean?”

“Yes. We went there together. The colonel wanted to go back and see some of the places where we’d been in the war.”

“And he came back in a wheelchair and became a recluse. Wasn’t that when you helped him install the best security system his money could buy?” asked Swift.

“That’s right. No burglar was going to get through that.”

“And then came the blackmail letter asking the colonel to go to London. Someone couldn’t get in and so they were trying to lure him out. Yes?”

“If you say so.”

“What’s your point, Mr. Swift?” asked the judge, who had been stirring impatiently in his seat for some time. “This history lesson is all very interesting, but perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling us what it’s got to do with the charge against your client.”

“Certainly, my lord. I am trying to show that someone else, who was not my client, had been trying to kill Professor Cade for a long time before he was finally murdered.”

“And my understanding is that Mr. Ritter is saying that it was this man, Carson.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Well, you may well be right, Mr. Swift. But I don’t see how it helps you. Mr. Carson was already dead when Professor Cade was murdered. He’d fallen from a moving train near Leicester after drinking too much alcohol. Inspector Trave found a newspaper article about what happened on the floor beside the professor’s body. It’s in his witness statement. Do you want me to read it to you?”

“No, my lord. I’m aware of the article. But, with respect, that’s not the end of the matter. The defence suggests that the person who wanted to kill Professor Cade because of what happened in France was still alive on the night of his murder.”

“What’s the basis for that?”

“The Mercedes car outside the gate, my lord. And the foreigner who was stopped for speeding in it shortly afterward.”

“The one who can’t be traced?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Well, if that’s your client’s defence, I’m not going to stop you advancing it. The jury will be free to form its own conclusion. Do you have any other questions for this witness, Mr. Swift?”

“No. Nothing else,” said the defence barrister, realising that there was nothing to be gained by carrying on with Ritter. He sat down heavily, trying to keep the sense of defeat that he felt inside from showing too clearly on his face. Judge Murdoch had done no more than demonstrate the weakness in the defence that he had been telling Stephen about for months. There wasn’t enough evidence that the massacre at Marjean ever happened. And even if it did, there seemed to have been no survivors. And no witnesses except Carson, who was dead too. The man in the Mercedes was interesting, but he wasn’t enough. There was no evidence that he’d got inside the grounds, let alone the house. There had to be someone else. An insider. But who? All the evidence pointed to Stephen. Perhaps he did kill his father, just like the Crown said. And this trial was just a waste of time.

Swift glanced back at the dock. Stephen was leaning forward in his chair, cradling his head in his hands. The barrister felt the case weighing him down like a stone around his neck. He wanted it to be over.

Ritter couldn’t find his wife anywhere. He didn’t search too hard, since he had better things to do. She was probably crying somewhere. At the back of the women’s toilets with a wad of tissues in her hand, maybe. Ritter didn’t suspect her of any wrongdoing with Silas. That would have been an enormity beyond his wildest imaginings. But he had understood enough of the policeman’s conversation with the man in the dirty suit to realise that Silence had been taking long-distance photographs of Sasha. Perhaps he’d taken some of Jeanne too, when Sasha’s curtains were drawn. Nasty little sneak. Ritter made a mental note that he needed to see the photographs, and then he’d have a few words to say to Silence. Ritter smiled. He thought about taking hold of Silas’s delicate white hands again—women’s hands, they were—and squeezing them, gently at first, and then harder and harder, watching the surprise and then the pain registering on Silas’s thin sallow face.

That’s what had happened with Carson. Sitting in an empty second-class compartment of the intercity express with dirty Midland towns rushing past the grimy window. Cigarette butts overflowing out of the metal ashtrays and a few tears in the cushion covers of the seats. They’d sat side by side just like old pals, and Ritter had poured Bell’s whisky into the yellow plastic toothbrush mug that he’d brought along for the purpose. Glug, glug, glug. The whisky had loosened Carson’s tongue, got him talking about the old times.
Arab women in North Africa, French women in Rouen. Carson and his whores and all the money he’d frittered away in second-rate casinos. It made Ritter want to puke. But he’d kept his hands off the little shit long enough to move the conversation round to the blackmail letter and the shooting at Marjean. Carson had pretended not to know anything about them, and the funny thing was he’d carried on saying that right up to the end. Ritter had put a gag in Carson’s mouth while he’d broken his fingers one by one, but that was a punishment. Ritter had given up on trying to get any worthwhile information out of the chubby corporal by then. And when he’d taken the gag out and held him at the open door near Leicester, ready to throw him out, Carson had been saying the same thing: “I didn’t do it, Reg. I had no reason to. I swear I didn’t, Reg.”