When the doorbell rang Andrew Basnett thought that probably he ought to answer it. He was alone in the house, his hosts, Colin and Dorothea Cahill, having set out that morning to the nearby town of Rockford to do some last-minute Christmas shopping. But whoever was ringing no doubt thought that they were at home. He could explain that they would be home soon. He went to the door.
He was a tall man in his mid-seventies. If he had held himself erect as he had when he was younger he would have looked still taller than he did now. He had short but thick grey hair and grey, kindly eyes. He was wearing grey trousers, a brightly patterned cardigan over a green shirt, and grey socks. As often happened, he had forgotten to put on his slippers. He had just finished washing up the breakfast things for the Cahills when the doorbell rang.
The Cahills were old friends. In the days when Andrew had been professor of botany at one of London University’s many colleges, Colin had been a very junior member of the staff. He had reached the status of senior lecturer before leaving his post, and taken to relying on the scientific journalism, the occasional TV appearance, and now and then a paperback on the present-day threats to the environment. All this had earned him a modest fame and enough for himself and his wife to live on fairly comfortably, in a very pleasant house near the village of Upper Cullonden, in Berkshire. As if Colin felt that he owed Andrew something for having set his feet on the path to prosperity, he had always kept in touch with him.
At first Andrew had regretted Colin’s having abandoned pure science for its merely popular form, but at the same time he had admitted to himself that the young man had really very little originality, while possessing a certain literary gift. Andrew had been touched too by the friendship which had continued even after he had retired and could no longer be of any use to anybody. Yet friends—as he had learnt years ago when his wife Nell had died of cancer and he had been left to learn to endure loneliness—were apt to forget you for most of the year but felt an extraordinary distress at the thought that you might be left to survive Christmas alone. The Cahills were of that order. He generally visited them only once a year, and this was always at Christmas.
He was still drying his hands in the kitchen to go and answer the doorbell when it rang again. He went to the front door and opened it. A man even taller than himself stood there, a very thin man with a long face, a long, thin nose, an almost lipless mouth and small, hard, dark eyes that were not quite level with one another. They gave him an odd look, Andrew thought, of not being quite trustworthy, though why a minor physical defect should have given this impression he would have been at a loss to say. The man was wearing a black beret over grey hair that hung greasily over his ears, a loose, very worn brown raincoat, dark trousers and unpolished black shoes. His hands were in his pockets.
If it had not been only two days before Christmas, and the spirit of charity not been in the air, Andrew would probably have been prepared to say that he did not want to buy anything, or to have his car cleaned, or to discuss the Bible. He did not actually possess a car. To someone who lived in London, he believed, it was merely an encumbrance. He had arrived at Rockford the day before by train, and had been met at the station by Colin Cahill. And although he enjoyed reading the Bible, he preferred to discuss it only with intimates.
As it was, before he had said anything, the man had stated in a positive tone, “You’re not Sir Lucas Dearden.”
“That’s correct,” Andrew said. “I am not.”
“I was told he lives here,” the man said.
“He lives next door,” Andrew replied.
Through the beech trees at the edge of the Cahills’ garden, the old red brick of the Deardens’ house was visible.
“They told me he lived down Stillmore Lane,” the man said. “That’s Stillmore Lane out there, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I think that’s what it’s called,” Andrew said.
The lane that passed the Deardens’ and Cahills’ houses, emerging on the village green of Upper Cullonden, was a very narrow one, so narrow that passing-bays had had to be carved out of the hedgerows to make it possible for any car to pass another. In the days of the horse, when there had been only the Deardens’ house, and later the Cahills’ small Victorian one (originally a vicarage), such things of course had not been necessary.
“I’ve rung and knocked next door,” the man said, “and there’s no answer.”
“As a matter of fact, I believe Sir Lucas is in London,” Andrew said, “but if the rest of the family aren’t in I expect it’s only because they’ve gone out shopping or something of the sort. Can I give them a message?”
The man looked down at his dusty shoes and with one foot began to trace a semicircle on the doorstep.
“He’s in London, you say,” he said. “Know when he’ll be back?”
If it had not been for those unevenly spaced eyes, Andrew might not have begun to feel that it had been indiscreet of him to say even as much as he had. Sir Lucas Dearden was a retired Q.C., who had been notable in his day and who now lived with his son and a daughter-in-law in the house next door, but who happened, so Andrew believed, to be going to spend Christmas in London with a daughter and her husband.
“I’m afraid I’ve no idea,” he said, though he was fairly sure that it was at the New Year that Sir Lucas intended to return. “But his son will be able to tell you.”
“And you think he’ll be in soon.”
“I believe so.”
“D’you think it’d be worth my while to wait for him?”
“I’m afraid I can’t really say.”
Andrew knew that he and the Cahills, and that included their son Jonathan who lived with them and would be home from his work in Rockford later in the day, were to have Christmas dinner with Nicholas and Gwen Dearden. But that was the day after tomorrow. What they might be doing now he truly did not know.
“Well, thanks,” the man said, turning abruptly on his heel and walking away.
Andrew stood in the doorway, watching him. He appeared not to have come by car, for after pausing for a moment at the gate, looking towards the Deardens’ house as if he were considering returning to it, he set off walking with long, weary-looking strides in the opposite direction along the lane towards the village. Not sure why he felt it, yet a little relieved to see him go, Andrew closed the door and returned to the washing-up.
Colin and Dorothea returned from their shopping a little before twelve o’clock.
Colin was about fifty, of medium height and of medium plumpness, not what could be called fat, but his bones were well covered. He had an oval face with a high forehead and a softly rounded chin, pink, rounded cheeks, and a full-lipped mouth which suggested that he would probably enjoy good food and drink. He was going slightly bald, though what was left of his hair was still a reddish brown. His eyes were large and bright blue. Dorothea had once assured Andrew that when Colin was young he had been very handsome. He did not find this impossible to believe, but thought that what Colin had probably had, rather than actual good looks, was a kind of cherubic charm. Only the intelligence in those big eyes suggested that within the cherub there must lurk someone thoughtful, observant and probably critical.
Dorothea was almost the same age as Colin, and at a first glance could be taken for a gentle little mouse of a woman. She was small, slender, fine-boned and very quiet in her movements. She had a small, pointed face, tanned to a soft, warm brown by all the time that she spent working in her garden, and shy, dark eyes and thick dark hair, usually rolled up in a rather dishevelled bun. But the mouselike impression that she gave could be dispelled in a moment if she suddenly exploded into speech. She was a natural chatterer about whatever happened to come into her head.
She and Colin were dressed almost alike in quilted anoraks, grey trousers and pullovers knitted by herself, hers a bright pink and his a dark blue.
“We’ve been buying up the town,” she told Andrew. “Chocolates and crystallized fruits and Cointreau and smoked salmon and some cheeses, and a cold chicken for tonight and of course things for salads. What a mercy it is that I haven’t got to bother about a Christmas dinner, because of course we should have had to have one if we weren’t going to the Deardens’. Isn’t it funny, we never buy chocolates or crystallized fruits or Cointreau for ourselves all the year round till we get to Christmas, yet we love them and could have them as often as we liked? Are you like that, Andrew? Are there treats you only allow yourself on very special occasions?”
She and Colin had put down their plastic shopping bags in the kitchen and had gone into the sitting room, where Colin started pouring out sherry. The room was of a fair size, with a high ceiling edged with an elaborate plaster cornice, a white marble fireplace—the grate of which had been filled in with an electric fire, now glowing redly, though central heating kept the room comfortably warm—tall windows and a door leading out onto a paved terrace. The easy chairs and the long sofa all looked somewhat the worse for wear, and were covered in faded flowered cretonne, but they were comfortable. The walls were lined with bookshelves filled with a disorderly collection of fine editions and paperbacks.
As they sat drinking their sherry Andrew presently remarked, “By the way, we had a visitor this morning. I don’t know who he was, but he took a look at me and then assured me that I wasn’t Sir Lucas Dearden. I agreed with him.”
“Didn’t he say who he was?” Colin asked.
“No, and didn’t leave a message either,” Andrew said. “He seemed to think perhaps the Deardens lived here. He said he’d been next door and couldn’t get any answer. I told him I thought Sir Lucas was in London, then felt I ought not to have said it because he struck me as being perhaps a rather dubious character. But I said the family were sure to be home soon, in case he’d had any thought of breaking and entering.”
“Really?” Dorothea said. She had sat down on the sofa and drawn her knees up to her chin, a habit she had which made her look very small and shrunken. “You really thought of that? What interesting things come into your mind, Andrew. I know you’ve had some contact with crime, but surely not at Christmas time and at Upper Cullonden. Which reminds me, I haven’t put our decorations up yet. We’ve a holly in the garden which is simply loaded with berries. After lunch I’ll go out and get some, just to tuck in over the pictures. I like Christmas to feel like Christmas, though as a matter of fact I never really do unless there are crackers and paper hats. That’s left over from childhood. We used to have wonderful Christmases when I was a child. Do you think there’ll be crackers and paper hats at the Deardens’? I don’t suppose there will. They’ve never had any children themselves and they’d think it was childish. But there’ll be turkey and plum pudding, neither of which I actually like very much. I used to love turkey once upon a time. In those days it had some flavour. Now it mostly tastes like flannel. And I always liked ice cream better than plum pudding. But I like mince pies. I’ve made a good many for ourselves and we can have some tonight, unless you feel they ought to be kept until Christmas Eve.”
“This man who came here,” Colin said. “What was he like, Andrew?”
“Very tall and thin and rather shabby,” Andrew answered. “A sort of air of being down on his luck.”
“And he thought the Deardens lived here,” Colin said.
“He didn’t really seem to be sure where they lived.”
“So he isn’t anyone we know.”
“So it appeared.”
“Perhaps he was someone looking for a job or help of some kind.”
“He could have been.”
“Or someone out of Lucas’s past,” Dorothea suggested. “A criminal lawyer like Lucas might have had all sorts of strange connections.”
“I don’t know that the man was exactly strange,” Andrew said. “Rather ordinary, actually.”
“Haven’t you seen pictures of the most outrageous criminals who look utterly ordinary?” she said. “And as it happens, Lucas is busy writing his memoirs. I suppose, being a lawyer, he’ll know how to steer clear of libel, but all kinds of people may be in it. Someone like our visitor, for instance.”
“Only he really didn’t seem certain for a moment when he saw me that I wasn’t Dearden,” Andrew said. “He took a good look at me before he stated definitely that I wasn’t. So he can’t have known him well.”
“You and Lucas aren’t in the least alike,” Dorothea said.
“Except in our ages.”
“And you’re about the same height.”
“But certainly not as good-looking as he is.”
“Oh, I can’t help admitting that,” she said and laughed. “You know, when he was young he must have been terrific. That fine aquiline nose, those chiselled lips, those beautiful eyebrows. In his wig he must have looked like something very special, straight out of the eighteenth century.”
“In my opinion,” Colin said, “he’s probably more impressive now in old age than he was when he was younger. Some people are like that.”
“You say he’s writing his memoirs,” Andrew said.
“Yes, I believe that’s one of the things that’s taken him to London,” Dorothea said. “He’s gone to talk things over with his agent. Then he’s going on to stay over Christmas with Erica and Henry. Why don’t you write your memoirs, Andrew? I’m sure you’ve had an interesting life.”
“Everyone has had an interesting life,” Andrew answered. “But making it interesting on paper is another matter. I’ve resolved never to try to do it. This increasing tendency in our population to live into the seventies and eighties must mean the market’s flooded with memoirs from worthy old gentlemen. It must be almost as badly flooded as it is with children’s stories, or anyway used to be. I don’t know if it’s still the case, but I believe there was a time when every woman who’d had a child and used to get it off to sleep with a bedtime story thought she could write the thing down for publication and make some money. But I’ve news for you. I’ve got a contract.”
“You!” Dorothea exclaimed. “You don’t mean you’ve finished your book on Robert Hooke?”
“Well…” Andrew hesitated. “Almost. Anyway, I’ve got a contract.”
“I’ve never believed you’d finish that thing,” Colin said.
That did not surprise Andrew. Ever since his retirement he had been working on a biography of Robert Hooke, the noted seventeenth-century microscopist, botanist and architect; a work which he had assumed when he started would take him perhaps a year or so to complete had somehow lasted until the present time. Even yet it was not quite finished. Apart from the fact that more research had been necessary than he had originally envisaged, he had developed a habit of tearing up on one day what he had written the day before. He was aware that to people who knew him intimately the project had become something of a joke, so there was something peculiarly satisfying about being able to tell these friends that he had induced a publisher to give him a contract for the almost, though not quite, completed work.
It was true that the publisher was the friend of a friend and had only recently set up in business, but having a contract signed and put away safely—in the same drawer of his desk at home where he kept his birth certificate, the certificate of his marriage, a copy of his will, the title deeds of his flat in St. John’s Wood and some share certificates—gave Andrew a feeling of satisfaction and security. It almost convinced him that one day he would really finish the book.
“But what on earth will you do with yourself when the thing’s published?” Dorothea asked.
“Oh, I’ve a number of ideas,” Andrew said. “A biography of Malpighi, for instance, another noted botanist. I’ll definitely promise you, however, that I won’t write my memoirs.”
“Perhaps you’re wise,” she said. “But I know Lucas is very proud of his. He’s convinced himself it’ll be a best seller. I think Nicholas has done his best to discourage him so that he won’t be too disappointed if it flops. But Lucas has always ridden roughshod over Nicholas. I’ve often wondered how he and Gwen can really bear living with the old man. Nicholas is such a gentle creature, in spite of the violent stuff he writes. And of course the house belongs to Lucas, and he’s got loads of money, and Nicholas may think it would be a good thing to inherit it, even if he’s making a reasonable sort of income now. It would be a sort of protection for Gwen, wouldn’t it, if Nicholas happened to drop dead or if his public got tired of him, or anything like that happened? Anyway, money’s always nice.”
Nicholas Dearden was Sir Lucas’s son and Gwen was his daughter-in-law. Nicholas had begun life by going into the law, but perhaps partly because he had felt that he would always be overshadowed by his brilliant father, he had not persevered in it, but had taken to writing spy stories, which had become moderately successful. He could have no pressing need for support from his father, and if he continued to live with the strong-willed, arrogant old man, it was more likely to be out of a sense of responsibility for the welfare of his aged parent than out of motives of greed.
“This man who came here this morning,” Colin said, his mind apparently still held by the subject, “did he say if he was staying here?”
“He didn’t say anything about himself,” Andrew replied. “I’m sorry, perhaps I ought to have tried to find out a little more about him, but it simply didn’t occur to me. My first thought was that he might be a Jehovah’s Witness, or something like that.”
“I don’t suppose it matters,” Colin said, “but I think I’ll mention it to Nicholas.”
“Why are you worried about him?” Andrew asked.
“Oh, I’m not worried.” But there was a slight crease in Colin’s high forehead, the faint indication of a frown, and a brooding look had come into his eyes, as if his mind were pursuing some thought that was at least mildly disturbing. “I think I heard of something… But it’s nothing.”
The frown faded and Colin devoted himself to refilling their glasses.
They had a lunch of bread and cheese, apples from the garden and coffee. Afterwards Andrew felt inclined to sleep, but he had been fighting off the tendency to let himself sleep in the afternoons, just as for some time he had been fighting against an inclination to get into pyjamas and a dressing gown early in the evening. He knew that old age had him in its grasp, but he did not mean to yield to it too completely yet. He allowed himself to doze briefly in an armchair in the sitting room, but then decided to set out for a walk.
He knew that Dorothea was in the garden, gathering the holly that she wanted for decorating the sitting room, and he could hear the clicking of Colin’s typewriter coming from upstairs. He was working on a paperback about the effect of radioactive compounds on vegetation. Andrew changed out of slippers into walking shoes and set off down the garden path to the gate.
The day was mild and damp, with a gusty wind blowing and grey clouds moving erratically across the sky with only an occasional gleam of blue between them. There was a scent of moist earth in the air, and there were rotting beech leaves underfoot, blown down from the trees that separated the Cahills’ garden from the Deardens’. There was certainly no possibility of a white Christmas this year unless the weather changed drastically in the next twenty-four hours. That was something for which Andrew was thankful. In his youth he had two or three times gone skiing in Switzerland, but snow in England he had always thought of as a very poor imitation of the real thing, bringing cold, damp and discomfort but lacking in entertainment value.
It could have its own beauty, of course, changing the whole visible world with its shining covering before traffic had churned it up and its whiteness had begun to disintegrate into slush, but at best it was a half-hearted affair. Andrew, soon after his retirement, had spent a Christmas in Australia, where the temperature had been a hundred degrees; and in spite of having just consumed with friends a large traditional meal of turkey and plum pudding, his afternoon had been spent swimming in a deliciously warm sea. He thought of it now with nostalgia. That was really the kind of Christmas that he enjoyed. He was glad that today was mild, and that there were actually a few roses still in bloom in the garden.
In the lane he turned towards the village. He knew that if he went as far as the village green, skirted it, then took a turning to the left, he would find himself on the main road to Rockford. Although this was called a main road, it was really just a country road and never very busy, and if he proceeded along this for a mile or so he would find himself at the point where Stillmore Lane branched off it. So he could then return along it to the Cahills’ house, making a circle of a length that just suited him.
On the side of the lane facing the two houses were allotments in which not much was growing at the moment but brussels sprouts, and there were a few sheds dotted about where allotment holders kept their tools. But these were almost hidden from the lane by a high hedgerow, even though at present the hawthorns, the hazels, the briars and the occasional bush of elderberry growing along it were leafless. There were large puddles in the lane from rain that had fallen in the night. Andrew walked briskly, picking his way among them, glad that he had triumphed over the temptation to sleep.
As he went he found himself muttering a few lines of verse to himself. This was a bad habit he had, of which he could not break himself, although it irritated him intensely. As a child he had read poetry avidly, and he had had only to read some poem once or twice for it to become imprinted on his memory for life. At the moment it was a few lines of Scott that jingled in his mind.
Heap on more wood!—the wind is chill;
But let it whistle as it will,
We’ll keep our Christmas merry still…
“Marmion,” wasn’t it? Scott now was not one of his favourite poets. His taste had changed since his childhood. He would have been far happier murmuring some Shakespeare or Donne or Marvell. But just then, and he knew that it was likely to last for some days, he was Scott’s victim.
Heap on more wood…
So it went on. He reached Upper Cullonden in about ten minutes. It was built around a triangular green with a pond in the middle, on which some domesticated-looking ducks cruised placidly. At the corner where the road to Rockford branched off there was a garage which was also a shop, selling newspapers and a modest supply of groceries. On the far side of the green there was a church with a square-built Norman tower and next to it an inn called The Running Man. Part of the inn was of lath and plaster, with a thatched roof, and no doubt dated at least from the fifteenth century, but an extension had been built onto it in recent times of the sort of harsh red brick that never weathers, and roofed with tiles. The inn advertised takeaway fish and chips, sandwiches and hot pies. The rest of the village consisted of ancient cottages and recently built bungalows. A village hall, a post office, a school and another shop were dotted around the green. As Andrew approached he noticed a man emerge from the shop and walk towards The Running Man. He was tall, very thin, wearing a loose raincoat and a black beret.
Andrew stood still, looking after him. For an instant he felt an impulse to follow him, but as he disappeared into the pub this seemed to be a pointless thing to do. Even if he was the man who had called at the Cahills’ house that morning, and Andrew was not even sure that he was, he had nothing to say to him about Sir Lucas Dearden, or any questions to ask him that might not be impertinent. He walked on along the road skirting the green and turned into the Rockford road.
It was about half past three when he got back to the Cahills’ house. Already there was a faint premonition of dusk in the air, and it felt a little colder than when he had set out. But as he pushed open the front door, which was usually locked only at night or when the house was left empty, he heard Colin’s typewriter still clicking upstairs. In the sitting room sprigs of holly, bright with berries, had been tucked along the tops of the picture frames, and in one corner of the room the bare branch of some fruit tree had been erected in a large bowl of earth and been hung all over with Christmas cards. It made a not unattractive substitute for a Christmas tree. Andrew could hear the radio in the kitchen, which told him that Dorothea was busy there. Even if Christmas dinner was to be eaten at the Deardens’, it looked as if she intended to have some festivities here. If her son Jonathan had been ten years younger, no doubt she would have worked at it even harder.
Andrew had met Jonathan the evening before, though this morning he had left the house to go to his work in Rockford before Andrew had come down to breakfast. He was twenty-five and for the last three months had worked for a big construction firm, with a good salary, but he still lived at home. Andrew had known him since his childhood, or at least had met him often enough, when he visited the boy’s parents, to feel that he knew him, though he had really very little knowledge of Jonathan’s interests or abilities. He had taken a Top Second in economics, and then a Ph.D. at London University, but then instead of trying to enter on an academic career, as Andrew believed his parents had rather hoped, he had accepted the job that had been offered to him by the Rockford firm through the influence of a friend, and he seemed happy in it.
He was a cheerful, good-looking young man of medium height, well built, with his father’s oval face—though with a pointed chin rather than plump jowls—and with his father’s reddish hair; of this, however, he still had plenty, tumbling in curls over a high, well-shaped forehead. His work seemed to be on the administrative rather than the practical side of the firm, and Andrew felt that at a fairly early age he might become a tolerably successful man. Andrew had always liked him, and he seemed to have a considerable affection for Andrew. He would probably get home from his work, as he had the day before, at about half past five.
After going upstairs to change his muddy shoes for slippers, Andrew returned to the sitting room and sat down near to the glowing electric fire. He knew that in a little while Dorothea would bring in tea, a pleasure to which he never troubled to treat himself when he was alone at home, and he had no intention of falling asleep before she did so; but the warmth of the room after his walk almost at once brought on an attack of drowsiness, and it was with a start that he woke to become aware that she had just wheeled a tea trolley in and had gone out into the hall to shout up to Colin that tea was ready.
The tapping of the typewriter ceased and Colin came downstairs.
Dorothea had been baking that afternoon, and there were hot scones dripping with butter and raspberry jam, and a sponge cake and some cucumber sandwiches of fabulous thinness.
“You know, I believe this is the only house where I’m still given cucumber sandwiches for tea,” Andrew said. “When I was a child I used to be taken on a state visit sometime during every school holiday to an old aunt who was said to have lots of money, some of which my parents hoped she would leave to me, and it didn’t matter what time of year it was, or what day in the week, but there were always cucumber sandwiches.”
“And did she leave you any of her money?” Dorothea asked.
“A bit,” Andrew said. “It helped to give me a fairly comfortable life while I was a student, but there wasn’t as much as people thought and I had lots of cousins who all got their share too. And of course I got through it all long ago, and even if I hadn’t it wouldn’t be worth much now, what with inflation and all. But she was a nice old lady and I enjoyed the sandwiches and the cakes she used to have. By the way, Colin, when I was out for my walk I think I caught sight of our morning visitor, though I only had a glimpse of him, so I’m not really sure if it was the same man. He was going into that pub, The Running Man.”
“Do you think he’s staying there?” Colin asked. “They’ve two or three rooms that they let.”
“I don’t know,” Andrew said. “Remembering how you seemed worried when I told you about him, I almost went after him to see if he’d tell me a bit more about why he came. But after all I didn’t think it would be a particularly good idea.”
“I’m not worried,” Colin said, but again his forehead had a little crease on it. “It’s just that Lucas once said something when some judge he knew died—that if he died too, a man whom he’d prosecuted, I believe for murder, and who got a life sentence, wouldn’t have much left to live for when they eventually let him out. Apparently the man threatened both Lucas and the judge from the dock. And I understand he’s free at last. It’s funny, but I wasn’t sure when Lucas talked about it that he wasn’t a bit frightened, though he tried to turn it into a joke. However, I don’t suppose he was really scared. And there’s no reason to connect the man who came here with that murderer. All the same…”
“Yes?” Andrew said, as Colin paused.
Colin shook his head. “No, I just thought for a moment I’d stroll up to The Running Man after tea and see if he’s there, and if so, what sort of character he seems to be. But there’d be no sense in it really. I could hardly go up to him and ask him straight out if he’d once done a murder.”
“Whom did this man you’re talking about murder?”
“His wife, I believe. That’s the commonest sort of murder, isn’t it? The domesticated kind. She’d been having an affair, or rather I think it was several, and the man got jealous and killed her. I believe it was thought he’d had plenty of provocation, so his sentence wasn’t actually as long as it might have been, although it was called life. But the case seemed to have made a rather deep impression on Lucas. Perhaps he’d a certain sympathy for the man, even though he had to prosecute him.”
“Do you think he’s put an account of it in his memoirs?” Dorothea asked.
“Mightn’t that be a rather dangerous thing to do from the point of view of libel?” Andrew said. “I mean if the man’s out and about now.”
“Yes, I shouldn’t think Lucas would risk it,” Colin replied. “But d’you know, I think I’ll just wander up to The Running Man after all and see if he’s there. I can say I’ve come to buy some whisky while I’m at it.”
“Take the torch then,” Dorothea said. “It’s dark enough already and by the time you get back it’ll be quite dark. I hope the battery doesn’t pack up while you’re out. It’s some time since I got a new one.”
“I won’t need the torch,” Colin said. “I know the way.”
However, when he set out after the tea was finished, he did take the torch, the beam of which, as he shone it down the garden path towards the gate, cut a bright cone of light out of the early shadows of the evening. Because the clouds were low the darkness was deep, and because a gusty wind was still blowing, as it had been all day, the beech trees made their presence felt by moaning and sighing, although they were invisible. Beyond them Andrew, who had followed Colin to the front door, saw lights in the windows of the Deardens’ house. So Nicholas and Gwen, wherever they had been that morning, had returned. He closed the door on Colin and went to the kitchen to help Dorothea wash up the tea things.
Colin was gone for about half an hour.
When he came into the sitting room, where Andrew by then had settled down to read a copy of The Economist he had found there, while Dorothea had begun cooking for the evening, Colin said, “No good, he wasn’t there.”
“You mean he isn’t staying there?” Andrew asked.
“Yes, he is, he’s taken a room for the night, but he happened to be out. And I found out his name. The landlord, Joe Hobson, is always ready to gossip. It’s Thomas Waterman.”
“And does that ring a bell?”
“I’ve a sort of feeling it does.”
“You mean he really could be this murderer you were talking about?”
“Oh, I can’t say that for sure. I’d have to look it up. But I can tell Lucas, when he comes home, that a man called Thomas Waterman has been inquiring for him, and it may mean something to him. Now I’m ready for a drink. What about you?”
Andrew said that as usual he was ready for one, and Colin again poured out three glasses of sherry. Dorothea came from the kitchen to join them.
She settled herself on the sofa in her favourite position, in a small ball with her knees up to her chin.
“Jonathan will soon be home,” she said. “He’s got to go to work tomorrow, but of course he’s got Christmas Day and Boxing Day off, and the day after too, and that gets us to Saturday and then of course there’s Sunday, so really he’ll be free for a number of days. That’s nice, isn’t it? Not that much will be going on at his office until after the New Year. What do you think, Andrew, do you think it’s a good thing for him to go on living with us here instead of his finding somewhere for himself in Rockford and being independent?”
“I shouldn’t think you interfere much with his independence,” Andrew said.
“Oh, we don’t, and of course it’s much more economical for him to live with us than to pay rent for a flat of his own,” she said. “But what did you do when you were his age? Did you live with your parents?”
“No, though that wasn’t because I’d have minded doing so,” Andrew replied. “But it happened that they lived in Devon and I was a student in London. Then I got a job in the Midlands and I got married, so as a matter of course I moved out from my old home.”
“Well, Jonathan was away from home while he was in London at University,” Dorothea said, “and he seemed quite happy about that. But we’re more than delighted to have him here now. Actually it’s marvellous for us. And I think he’s contented. It’s just that I feel perhaps he ought to want to get free of us. Isn’t that an important part of growing up? I sometimes think there must be something immature about him if he wants to stay here.”
“That isn’t how he struck me yesterday evening,” Andrew said. He always became uneasy when people, who after all could only be amateurs, tried to explore the complexities of psychology.
“If you ask me, I think he’s mature enough to recognize that rent-free accommodation has its advantages,” Colin said, with a slightly wry smile.
“That’s horrid of you!” Dorothea exclaimed. “He pays his share, doesn’t he? He’s insisted on doing that ever since he got his job. It’s only that I can’t help wondering…”
But what she could not help wondering was never stated, for at that moment an enormous noise shattered the quiet of the winter evening. The banging and shrieking of metal against metal, as well as several fearful thuds, made up the roaring sound of a terrible explosion.
“God!” Colin cried out, starting up from his chair. “That isn’t thunder, is it? It sounded just like a bomb.”
Andrew had been in a fire brigade in the war during the blitz on London.
“It was a bomb,” he said.