When Paget returned to the hospital late Saturday afternoon, the doctor was at Grace’s bedside. “If all goes well overnight, I don’t see why you can’t go home tomorrow,” he told her. “How are you feeling now?”
“Fine, apart from feeling weak.”
“You lost a lot of blood,” he said, “but you’re responding well. Is there someone at home who can keep an eye on you for the next few days?”
“I …”
“Yes, there is,” said Paget firmly.
“Good. In that case, Miss Lovett, I’ll look in on you first thing tomorrow morning.”
Now, as Paget drove into town to take Grace home, he thought about what Michael Carr had told them.
They had all been wrong, tragically wrong, and Mary Carr had
spent ten years of her life in prison, convicted of a crime she didn’t commit. Enough in itself to send anyone round the bend, but to have her daughter commit suicide on top of that had been more than she could bear.
There was no way anyone could condone what she’d done since her release, but he was acutely aware that he, along with everyone connected with the case, must bear some of the blame for what had happened.
Gillanne was only thirteen at the time, but it had been she, Michael said, who had recovered first and told him what they had to do. “Gilly was always a lot cleverer than me,” he said wistfully. It was Gillanne who told him to wipe the knife clean and bury it in the garden. It was also Gillanne who made up the story about hearing someone come to the house that evening, and having an argument with Donald Carr, and it was she who had insisted he take two of his antihistamine tablets so that he wouldn’t be questioned by the police when they arrived. “She was afraid I might get it wrong, you see,” he explained.
But when the police turned their attention to her mother as the prime suspect, Gillanne hadn’t known what to do. If she remained silent, her mother could go to jail, but if she spoke out now about what Carr had been doing to her, and the police thought that her mother had found out about it, the case against her would be even stronger. If she told the truth, Gillanne was afraid her mother would hate her, and her brother would go to jail.
On the day of their grandfather’s funeral, Michael said Gillanne had made him promise once again to keep silent about what had really happened, because she knew what she had to do to get her mother off. “I didn’t understand what she meant at the time,” he said, “but she told me she’d read somewhere that if a person said something when they knew they were going to die, everyone had to believe it.”
“A dying declaration,” Alcott said softly.
“When the police came to get us,” Michael continued, “Gilly gave me a big hug and said I mustn’t worry, because everything was going to be all right, then ran out the back. That was the last time I saw her. I didn’t even know she was dead till about a month later. They moved me to another foster home and no one told me, so I never even got to go to her funeral.”
The girl had sacrificed herself to save both her mother and her brother, and it had all been for nothing. She had done what she’d thought best—with disastrous results.
Paget parked the car and sat there for a moment before getting out. There would be an enquiry, of course, and he, like everyone else, would be called upon to defend his actions. He was on record as having voiced concerns about the evidence at the time, but that was of little consolation now. Nor did the fact that he had been deliberately misled by the children bring any comfort.
Not only had Mary Carr and her family suffered because of a gross miscarriage of justice, but many innocent people had died as a result, and he must share the blame. If he had done a more thorough job; if he’d spent more time with the children …
He got out of the car. No matter what the outcome, he would always know that he had failed. He could dwell on it, take on the guilt, allow it to overshadow every decision he would make from this point on, but that would change nothing that had happened in the past. He, and the others, had done their jobs to the best of their abilities, but they were human, and humans make mistakes. He would always feel the guilt, but dwelling on it would accomplish nothing. Better to learn from it, and let it serve as a reminder of what could happen if he failed to do a better job.
It would not be easy to put all this behind him. Every time he looked in a mirror, every time he looked into Grace’s eyes, he would remember. But when all was said and done, he had a job to do, and there was nothing to be gained by dwelling on the past. He’d been down that road before.
“I wasn’t sure what clothes to bring, so I brought as much as I could carry for you to choose,” he told Grace. “I’ll wait in the corridor while you get dressed. Do you need a nurse to help you?”
Grace shook her head, but he saw her hand was shaking as she pulled back the bedclothes and swung her legs over the side. “I think you do,” he said. “I’ll ask someone to help you.”
“No. No, Neil, it’s not that. I know it’s silly, but the thought of going back into the flat, especially the bathroom, sends shivers up my spine.”
“You’re not going back to the flat,” he said as he took her by the hand. “For a start, the place is a hell of a mess, and some of your people are still working there, so, if you’ve no objection, you’re coming home with me. I’m still on sick leave, remember, and my doctor thinks I’ve been overdoing it a bit, so we can recuperate together.”
Grace let out a sigh of relief. “I’d like that,” she said simply. She slid off the bed, and would have fallen if he hadn’t been there to catch her. She stood there blinking and shaking her head while he held her. “This is ridiculous,” she said, annoyed at her own weakness. “It’s not as if I’ve been ill.”
“You have to learn not to move too fast while your blood levels are so low,” he warned. “Now, why don’t you sit in this chair while I try to find a nurse to help you dress?”
But Grace held on to him. “They’re awfully busy, Neil,” she whispered. “It seems a shame to trouble them. If you’d like to draw the curtain, I can manage—with a little help from you.”
Rick Proudfoot and Kate Regan turned away from the open grave. Kate, still on crutches, picked her way carefully down the slope to where Marshall’s old boss, Frank Talbot, waited by Rick’s car.
He extended his hand. “I try to remember Paul the way he was when he was on the road,” he told her. “I hope you can do the same.”
Kate gripped his hand. Her eyes were moist as she looked back toward the grave. “The Paul we knew died long ago,” she said. “I don’t know the man we buried here today.”
Talbot nodded and turned away.
“Do you need a lift?” Rick called after him, but Talbot shook his head. “It’s not far and I like to walk,” he said, and plodded on. A breeze stirred in the leafless trees, and it looked as if it might snow again.
Kate took one last look around, then took Rick’s arm. “It’s over,” she said softly. “It’s time to go. Please take me home.”