“Dr Marks is on her way back from London,” Kennett said, opening the door to the house and the conversation at the same time. “How’s Miss Lucy?”
He didn’t bother with a greeting this time—clearly Simon was persona non grata today. A shame. He liked Kennett. He didn’t often feel that spark of interest in another man flare bright these days and still less feel it returned. And Kennett had returned it, before he’d hidden it and Simon had thrown a Mills bomb into his life by arresting his friend.
“She’s as well as can be expected. Very clear in her story. Her father’s solicitor arrived just as I left the station. I understand he began to motor down at first light.” He looked at Kennett sympathetically. “Can you tell me any more about that night? Miss Hall-Bridges is sticking to her story.”
“Well of course she’s bloody sticking to her story, because that’s what happened!” Kennett said, running an irritated hand through his hair and ruffling it from its usual immaculate, slicked-down style.
Simon stepped inside the black-and-white tiled hall out of the already-warm sunshine as Kennett moved backwards and held the door open for him. He hadn’t brought a driver this morning. His leg could bloody well start behaving itself. His leg hadn’t got the message and was aching like nobody’s business. He lurched and stumbled as he started moving and Kennett caught him under the elbow, supporting him with a hand there and one on his opposite shoulder.
“Steady,” the other man said.
Simon had to let him take his weight for a moment. The pain in his thigh was so overwhelming he was gasping with it. Kennett’s hands were warm and firm and somehow, very kind. What a ridiculous thing to think. How could someone’s hand be kind? He scrambled backwards, trying to regain his balance, physical and emotional.
“Thank you,” he said. “Sorry about that. I probably should have brought a driver after all.”
“Do you need to sit?” Kennett asked neutrally, not making anything of it one way or another.
“No, no, I’m fine.” He made good the lie by forcing himself to step forward smoothly, gritting his teeth and moving through it until the sharp bite subsided.
Kennett watched him with a professional eye. “Thigh?” he asked, brusquely.
“Yes,” Simon answered equally shortly. “It’s fine. It’s getting better all the time. First time I’ve driven myself, though.”
“More fool you, then,” Kennett said. “You’ll aggravate it. You need to give it time to heal properly. What was it?”
“Shell,” Simon said breathlessly. He had to put a hand out to the telephone table in the hallway to steady himself.
“Sit, you fool,” Kennett said, guiding him downward to the bench beside it. Of course, this was where the patients waited to be called in to the doctor’s office. There was no-one here now.
“No surgery this morning?” Simon asked.
“No. She’s away, remember?”
Oh, yes. He knew that.
Kennett disappeared for a moment and when he returned he pressed a heavy crystal tumbler into Simon’s hands. The sharp smell of brandy assailed his nostrils. He shut his eyes against it. He’d not resorted to brandy for a few days—he’d realised he was relying on it too much. It would just do the trick, though. Take the edge off. He raised it to his mouth and knocked it back in one gulp.
He licked the remains off his lips and said, “Thank you,” looking up at Kennett as he handed the tumbler back.
Kennett’s eyes were on his mouth and as Simon watched, he blinked and shook himself out of it, whatever it was.
“Better?” he asked Simon, taking the glass.
“Yes, thank you.” And it was, a bit. “Sorry about that.”
He pressed the heel of his hand down onto the place the pain was radiating from. That usually helped. He sometimes wondered if there was anything still left in there. He should probably get it looked at. X-rayed, they called it, didn’t they? The hospital in Taunton had a machine, he knew.
He sighed. “Look, I didn’t just come up to show off my weaknesses to you.”
Kennett made a harrumphing sound that could have been a laugh.
“I came to ask about two things. Her alibi. And the way she describes what happened at the séance.”
“Look!” Kennett drew a breath and said in a firm voice, “She didn’t do it.”
Simon glared up at him, not quite ready to get up off the bench and fall over into the other man’s arms again. “That’s all very well. But you can’t just say that and then tell me you can’t say why you know!”
Kennett screwed up his face. “I just can’t, Mr Frost. And that’s all there is to it.”
Simon managed to stand. For all Kennett was small, he was intimidating. He scowled furiously up at Simon, face creased with anger. There was no trace of the sardonic wit about him now.
“Was she with you that night?” Simon asked quietly. It seemed unlikely, a girl like Miss Hall-Bridges and Kennett, who was a good twenty years older than her if he was a day and a lowly ex-soldier to boot. But he’d seen stranger relationships.
Kennett choked. “Bloody hell, no!” he said, almost with a shudder. “Absolutely definitely the wrong tree, Detective Frost!”
There! thought Simon. He did return Simon’s interest, else Simon was a Dutchman. He hadn’t been mistaken.
Simon took another wobbling step forward and Kennett stepped back. Simon finally felt as if he was getting somewhere. There was something there. Why were they all protecting the woman? It was clear she was the best suspect—on paper, she had reason. But it was also clear that despite the evidence, nobody thought she’d done it. Including Simon.
Not that a lot of other people didn’t have reason to dislike the victim as well by the sound of it. His take-away from speaking to people who knew her painted a picture of the deceased as an entitled, arrogant woman who expected people to jump to her tune. He stopped that train of thought. There was never a reason to kill anyone. Never. Just because most of the people he knew had spent the last few years seeing that as the solution to all their problems didn’t mean it was right.
He drew a breath. “Then point me toward the right tree, for goodness sake! If you have evidence that it wasn’t her, you’re morally obliged to let me have it!” he said finally, after a moment of silence.
Kennett shook his head again. “No, Detective Frost. I can’t. It’s not my place.”
Simon eyed him narrowly. He was backed up against the wall of the hallway, calm and not at all intimidated by Simon’s greater height.
“Do you know who killed her?” Simon asked him.
Kennett’s eyes flicked away and back again. He shook his head. “No. I don’t.” He knew something though. He finally sighed and stepped forward, putting him chest to chest with Simon and Simon had no alternative but to step to one side and let him past unless he wanted to make something of it. And he didn’t. He really didn’t. He moved aside and Kennett brushed past.
Simon was left looking after him as he went down the hall to the kitchen, the door propped open against the building heat of the day. He followed him into the room, watching him fill the kettle and put it on, helplessly standing there with his hands fisted in frustration at his sides, hot with irritation in the warmth of the morning and the lit range.
“We’re done here,” Kennett said, sliding the kettle onto the hotplate and turning to face him. “You should leave, before Dr Marks gets home.”
“What, so you can sort out an alibi for Miss Hall-Bridges between you?” Simon said snarkily.
There was quite a long pause and then, from behind him, Dr Marks’ voice, deep and calm and very, very flat said, “No need, Detective Frost. Lucy and I share a bed. She didn’t go anywhere, all night.”
The silence was as absolute as if a shell had gone off and deafened him.
He turned slowly. She stood at the other end of the hallway, by the door, composed from her coiled hair to her neat, mid-calf grey skirt, and her low-heeled, polished shoes. She had already taken off her hat and was hanging it on the hat stand.
“I beg your pardon?” he said. “I don’t quite understand.”
She walked toward him, down the hall. “Miss Hall-Bridges and I are lovers. We share a room. We share a bed. She and I were together all midsummer night after the party.”
His mouth was hanging open.
He shut it, quickly.
“Sylvia…” Kennett said.
She shot him a glance and shook her head. “No alternative, Walt,” she said. “She’s the only suspect they’ve got.” She looked across at Simon. “Isn’t she?” she asked.
Simon nodded. “Yes. I have a good case against her. Which is why she was arrested.”
“And I’ve just come home via seeing her and her solicitor at the police station and we decided that we had no alternative but to tell you. I’m sure you can see why we didn’t come forward immediately.”
Simon made a few fish-like gulping noises, opening and shutting his mouth soundlessly.
“How do I know this isn’t a fabrication?” he said, finally.
Dr Marks pulled out a chair and sat wearily at the table, resting her face in her hands. Simon watched her.
“You’ll have to go and have a look upstairs, won’t you? Look at the rooms, our clothes.” She pushed herself back from the table, sitting up and regaining her composure. “I’m sure you’ll love that.” There was an uncharacteristically hard, rusty edge to her voice.
“Madam…” he trailed off helplessly.
“That’s doctor to you, Detective,” Kennett corrected, sharply.
Simon spared him a glance. Kennett was staring at him from the other side of the room, radiating fury like a blazing star. As Simon watched he turned away sharply and with quick, controlled movements he poured a cup of tea for Dr Marks. “How was she?” he asked, gently, setting it down in front of her on the table.
“As you’d expect,” Dr Marks said. “Upset. Worried. Scared.”
Kennett put his hand on her shoulder and she reached up and patted it. “I’m all right, Walt. We discussed what to do and this seemed best. We’re both decided. We’ll take what comes.”
Kennett didn’t say anything, but he made a little muttering noise as he moved away.
Simon watched them both, processing their interactions in the face of this new information. They were clearly good friends. Was there something more there? Perhaps, on Kennett’s part, anyway.
Kennett noticed him watching and scowled at him.
“Do you want me to show him round upstairs, Dr Marks?” he asked, quietly.
Dr Marks looked between them. “Would you, Walter?” she said. “I’m really very tired. I left as soon as I could this morning; it was a long drive and I came straight through to Taunton. I just need…a moment. And Lucy…I don’t…” She trailed off.
“It’s fine, Dr Marks,” Simon said, in his most professional, reassuring voice. “Mr Kennett can show me. You don’t need to be there. I’ll need to talk to you in a moment, though.”
“I’m sure you will, Detective Frost. I’m sure you will.”
Her composure was returning as she drank the tea.
“Come on then,” Kennett said from the doorway. “Let’s get this over with.”