Had she really meant to kill herself? Perhaps we would never know, but the rages that she was prone to, and vented on others, a trait that had only manifested itself in the past five years or so, were not in doubt – something that would emerge during her and Kettering-Huxley’s trial. But no one would ever know what had possessed her that night to drive to the park, ostensibly to look for her husband, having fully prepared herself not with the tools of her trade but with that same kitchen knife, plus another smaller one, and butcher him. On her return to The Chantry the knives had been rinsed and placed in the dishwasher, the plastic anti-contamination suit, together with plastic bags she had worn over her shoes, screwed up tightly and burnt in a Swedish woodstove in the hall.
The two had already planned to do away with Giddings, with the help of a contract killer who would make it look like an accident. What had made Honor decide to kill him herself? It would transpire on the evidence of the housekeeper, Hilary, that her employer had been in a black mood all day. Also, Honor had discovered only twenty-four hours previously, from Jason himself, that he intended to leave her. But nothing could be proved as to whether he had indeed meant to leave her for a man and this was strongly denied by his parliamentary colleagues, a couple of whom did, however, know that he intended to seek divorce from Honor. Had he found out about the affair with her brother-in-law? I could imagine a situation where a man, at the end of his tether because of spiteful rages and adultery, would retaliate by shouting all kinds of outlandish things.
Discovery of all this was in the future, though, and after following the area car conveying Honor Giddings to Woodhill police station, where we completed the formalities of handing her over, we left. By this time it was three in the morning.
‘Just the hour to tell Brinkley, that renowned head of a branch of a branch, His Twigship, that we’ve solved his case for him,’ Patrick said, having consulted his watch.
‘You might be storing up trouble for yourself again,’ I warned.
‘The wise oracle speaketh,’ he murmured, punching in numbers on his phone and obviously on a high. ‘And the crazed fool heedeth her not and sinneth mightily. And lo, the heavens opened and bolts of fire were hurled upon him until just his boots, which smoketh and – Hello, John you old rogue. That was quick. Expecting a call were you? … Oh, just got to bed after a hellish night. Well, we both know how it is – never off the job …’
I strolled towards the car. As had previously occurred to me, this was going to run and run.
A few weeks later there was an article in the Sunday Telegraph’s supplement about a new project in Woodhill, at the Benfleet Centre. The gardens, which were far more historically important than I had realized, were now in the latter stages of being restored and, following publicity and work done by the Trust’s education officer, new applications for the allotments were being received, including for the first time some from ethnic minorities. People had apparently also been inspired to grow their own food by watching television gardening programmes and there were so many keen would-be vegetable growers that it had been decided to use part of an old meadow, at present still down to grass, in a new scheme.
‘That’s Esme!’ I exclaimed, seeing a photograph of some new allotment holders – ladies – posing with their forks and spades.
Patrick had just come into the living room and looked over my shoulder. ‘So it is.’
‘You had nothing to do with this – or did you?’
‘No, nothing.’
‘I don’t suppose Evian will want to dig and rake.’
‘He might be too tired. Sorry, it had slipped my mind. The first day I trawled around Woodhill with the mugshot of Brocklebank I got talking to the local vicar – there was always the chance that he’d seen him around the town. I asked him what was available for young people to do in the area and he told me that the diocese, together with various other organizations, was setting up a sports club, which was opening very shortly. I phoned Esme and asked if she wanted me to put Evian’s name down and he was mad keen and shot off to see all his friends where they lived before to get them involved as well.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ I said.
He followed my gaze. ‘What are you looking at?’
‘I’ve been wondering if we could move that chest of drawers somewhere more private.’