“Will you sit, Ms. Lanchester—I’ve not slept, and I wouldn’t mind sitting myself.” I took the corner of a backless bench and Addleton sank into a kitchen chair, resting his arm on the table. He inhaled deeply and exhaled another sigh.
“Freddy discovered your affair when he came across that packet at Mrs. Penny’s. He knew when it happened. He made a wild guess that Cecil was your son, not Linus’s. He tried to blackmail you,” I said, trying to work it out as I talked it through.
Addleton drummed his fingers lightly on the table. “I remember Mrs. Penny, the housekeeper. But I was telling you the truth when I said I’d never met Freddy Peacock before I started here on the estate. I don’t remember him at Netherford—he was a boy in the house, and I was out on the grounds. And what good would it do him to blackmail me? How would I pay him—cash in my pension?”
“He was at the Royal Oak the night he died, and so were you.”
“I’ve told the police I was there—had my pint and left. I never saw Peacock.”
Yes, but now I knew that Isabel had seen him. “All these years, you had no idea you had a son?”
Addleton shook his head. “The first I knew of it was when I saw Isabel in Dorset—and then she let it slip quite by accident.”
Tongues do loosen when you’re lying wrapped in each other’s arms.
“The envelope that Freddy found when he visited Mrs. Penny?”
“Things I’d given Isabel—letters, photos. She sent them back to me, but I’d already left Netherford. We were never in touch after that last day.”
I brought the photo of the bird print up on the screen of my phone and held it for him to see, and he reached out as if to touch the picture, but hesitated, then dropped his hand. “To my own sparrow hawk,” I read the inscription.
“Swift, silent, sure,” he said, and added under his breath, “She is all that.”
“If Freddy didn’t bring this evidence to you, that means he took it to Isabel,” I said. “And she would not go along with blackmail, would she? She murdered Freddy to cover her secret. When did you first realize she was here—Cider Day? When I found the dead sparrow hawks? Did you know it was her?”
He didn’t answer, which was answer enough for me.
“And you knew that Freddy knew something, didn’t you?”
“At dinner one evening, Peacock made a snide comment about fathers and sons. I saw his look—I knew he meant it for me.”
“What did you do about it? Try to get in touch with Isabel?”
He shook his head. “Cecil was troubled, and it had something to do with Peacock. But I couldn’t interfere without showing my hand—and then Peacock was dead.”
“And you knew it was Isabel.”
For a moment, Addleton didn’t speak, only looked at the floor. At last he said, “I hadn’t spoken to her alone since she arrived—until last night. She came out, because she thought she needed to persuade me to keep quiet.”
“She shut Freddy up, didn’t she?” At that moment, the glass of whisky he had been staring at spoke to me. I went for it, pointing. “Did she try to poison you, too?”
“Don’t touch it,” Addleton said, coming after me and grabbing my arm and pushing me away.
“She made certain Freddy would never tell Linus that he wasn’t Cecil’s father, and after drinking this, you wouldn’t tell, either.”
Addleton took the glass, poured it down the sink, and ran the water hot, washing his hands. “ ‘An option,’ she said. A way I could leave Cecil to the only life he’s ever known.” He shook his head impatiently. “She didn’t understand—I didn’t come here to lay claim to him. I only wanted to see him. To find out the sort of man he’d become. She knew I’d never drink this—Isabel has always had a flair for the dramatic.”
Father and son. I looked again at the inscription and the poor writing. I dropped my phone back in my bag. “You have dyslexia, don’t you?”
He crossed his arms and leaned against the counter, nodding. “I have difficulty with reading and writing.”
“That day at the TIC when you were drawing on the map, you made Cecil feel at ease. You helped him.”
Addleton shrugged. “It’s one way I’ve learned to cope.”
“You made yourself look guilty, Mr. Addleton, by not speaking up.”
“But upon closer examination, Ms. Lanchester, you see that I am not.” He looked away, out the window toward the Hall. “It doesn’t matter now—she’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“When she came out here last evening to beg me to let Cecil be, it was also to say goodbye. She was leaving, going off with her Russian friend. By now, she’ll be far away, where the police can’t reach her.”
I studied his face, torn with discovery and loss. I had seen Isabel only that morning, and she had looked terrible. She may intend to go to Russia, but she hadn’t left yet. And why not? Did she have unfinished business—more havoc to wreak? Who would be her next target—Linus? Sheila? Had she laced their midmorning cup of coffee? Or did she feel trapped and thought the only way out was to down a liter of the poison herself?
“She’s still here, Mr. Addleton, and she may not be finished destroying everyone else’s lives,” I said, going for the door. “Ring the police. Tell them the Hall.” I scrambled in my bag as I left. “You have the number—Sergeant Glossop? Inspector Callow?”
He rushed to the door, my urgency conveyed. “Let me drive you.”
“You’d have to go round,” I called over my shoulder. “I can make it back quicker on foot. Ring Linus.”