Last Act of All (15 page)

It
was a man and a woman who came in, both in plain clothes. The man, Inspector Coppins, big and bulky in a dark raincoat, did most of the talking while the girl, Frances Howarth, his sergeant, made discreet jottings in a black notebook.

As
an actress, Helena was almost sure her reaction was convincing. She sketched in disbelief, shock and distress — though not too much distress, since her relationship with her former husband was well documented.

Once
the news had been broken, the questioning, studiedly unemphatic, began.

‘
Your movements, sir? Oh, just a matter of routine, of course. And yours, Mrs Radley?’

Edward,
at least, could refer him to Willie Comberton and his grandfather clock — Willie was always very definite on questions of time — which left only about five minutes unaccounted for while he waited for the vicar. Helena said she had been at home.

‘
My daughter was here, so we can vouch for each other.’ There, she had said it, and a thunderbolt hadn’t struck her dead.

‘
She wasn’t out at all then, either?’

‘
Yes—’

‘
No—’

She
and Edward spoke simultaneously, and glanced towards each other, Edward with a look of surprise on his face. She corrected herself.

‘
Oh, sorry — yes, she was out, of course, but only for a very short time. She came back minutes after you left, Edward.’

‘
Oh, I see.’ Perhaps he saw too much; certainly he said nothing more.

‘
Perhaps we could have a word with your daughter,’ the policewoman suggested delicately. It was the first time she had spoken, and even in her anxiety Helena noticed that she had a particularly pleasant voice.

‘
I think that must be later. She’s very devoted to her father — it will come as a terrible shock.’

Sure
of her ground, Helena’s tone made it clear that this was final.

‘
Naturally,’ the other woman was saying, when without warning the door opened and Stephanie came in. Her hair was dishevelled and she had clearly been crying.

‘
I — I saw the car. What’s — what’s happening?’ she stammered.

‘
I think we should go upstairs—’ Helena got to her feet, but with fatal stubbornness Stephanie held her ground.

‘
No. Whatever it is, tell me now. Is it — is it Daddy?’ Inwardly, Helena groaned. Why did she have to draw suspicion on herself in that way? She put an arm round her. ‘I’m afraid it’s very dreadful, darling. Daddy’s been killed — you know there was that trouble last night—’

It
sounded bald, but somehow she must prevent the child from giving herself away.

‘
Daddy—’ She went white to the lips, and the chief inspector rose.

‘
I think we should leave you for the moment. We can get detailed statements at a more suitable time,’ he said, and Helena could have embraced him.

But
the quiet sergeant with the watchful eyes paused over her notebook, as if checking what she had written.

‘
Now, have I got that right? You and your daughter — you were in together virtually all afternoon?’

Stephanie,
though she still looked dazed, turned at that. ‘I wasn’t in,’ she said flatly. ‘Not for the first half of the afternoon.’

The
policeman, on his way to the door, checked. The policewoman had not removed her eyes from the girl’s face. ‘Not in, Stephanie?’

‘
Well, of course you were out, just for a little while. I mentioned that. But you were in all the rest of the afternoon, remember? We were in together.’

Helena
was talking too fast, unconvincingly; she knew that, but she had to signal to Stephanie somehow, tell her she had her mother protecting her, no matter what she had done.

But
Stephanie’s brow was creasing in bewilderment. ‘I went up to Radnesfield House,’ she said slowly. ‘I saw Dad, and I had a blazing row with him.’ She bit her lip, holding back tears, then steadfastly went on, ‘In fact, I threw my whip at him, I was so angry. Then I rushed out through the French windows across to the Home Farm and rode Jim’s horse for a bit, but that didn’t make me feel any better, so I came back here.’

To
Helena, the silence seemed interminable. Then, ‘So you went out, leaving the window open? That would be — what time, Stephanie?’ The policewoman’s low voice again.

She
frowned, steadied by the effort of having to consider details. ‘About two o’clock, probably, when I left. It must have been about quarter to two when I went from here.’

Two
or three pages were neatly flipped back in the notebook. ‘Ah, yes, that would be when Sharon Thomas heard Mr Fielding shouting. She went in after that to collect the coffee cups.’

Helena
was finding it hard to assimilate. ‘And — and he was alive at that time?’

‘
Oh, yes, last seen at about 2.10. So death took place between then and four o’clock when the girl — what’s-her-name — took in the tea-tray, just before Mrs Fielding came downstairs.’ That was the inspector.

The
relief was dizzying. She managed to say nothing, but her heart was singing hallelujahs.

It
was Stephanie, now beginning to shiver with shock, who said slowly, ‘So we weren’t really together all afternoon, Mummy...’

The
realization hit Helena like a douche of icy water, and she noticed, for the first time, the eyes of the younger detective. They were a light hazel in colour, and they were fixed upon her with a sharpness of gaze that would have transfixed a butterfly to a board.

*

It was an open-and-shut case, apparently. Sharon had described, with dramatic relish, Helena’s parting with Neville in the morning. She had been spotted by Sandra Daley as she went up to the house at 3.45; Tamara Farrell, engaged in robbing nests in the little wood, had seen her run back, in obvious distress, ten minutes later. Her fingerprints were on the French window, a nearby chairback, and the telephone, while a search-warrant allowed the police to find the riding-crop and the incriminating handkerchief. Most damning of all, on her own admission she had told a string of lies and attempted to use her daughter to provide a false alibi.

Edward
believed her, of course. At least, he said he did, though she was sure that, whatever his private thoughts might be, that was what he would say.

She
had tried to explain to Stephanie, wary and hurt at being used in a lie, that she had been trying to protect her. The child’s response, an incredulous, shrinking, ‘You thought I could do that? To
Daddy
?’ left her with the feeling that she had only made bad worse. Oh, how could she tell? Perhaps Stephanie believed her – but by now, things like that were ceasing to have any importance.

Henry
Stanton certainly didn’t believe her. ‘Of course I believe you, dear lady,’ he purred, with that, unctuousness which she loathed. ‘But alas, it is not I whom you must convince, and I’m afraid we must accept that a jury, not knowing you as well as I am privileged to do, may be a trifle swayed by the evidence.’

The
police, it appeared, were satisfied; they had checked other people’s movements, but in a perfunctory way, and Helena was charged.

With
some skill, Stanton managed to achieve bail for her, and she was allowed home, into a limbo where she became daily more detached from everyday life.

So
it was, when Stanton, seconded by an anxious Edward, pointed out yet again that in the circumstances, with no fresh evidence, pleading guilty to manslaughter would be, if the prosecution accepted it, the tactic most likely to result in a suspended sentence, she agreed, feeling drearily that her life was meaningless, anyway.

Elated,
Stanton expanded his point. ‘Provocation, my dear lady, extreme provocation, and motherly instincts for the protection of the interests of your only child. That, coupled with the evidence we have traced of physical brutality and mental cruelty over a period of years, should make even the most case-hardened judge favour a suspended sentence. And we will of course put you up to give evidence in mitigation—’

‘
No.’ So there was, after all, something she still cared about. ‘You can make whatever submissions you like on my behalf, but I will not give evidence, except to assert my innocence.’

He
was appalled. ‘Mrs Radley, that will ruin everything! The assumption will be that you have something to hide. Say you have forgotten – blotted it out, a sort of brainstorm—’

Edward
too tried persuasion, even anger, but she was, for once, adamant. ‘You may do what you like,’ she said. ‘I accept all you say, but I will not commit perjury.’

Stanton
sighed heavily. She was proving ludicrously stubborn; perhaps she had really managed to convince herself that she was innocent, even if she couldn’t convince anyone else. ‘We will do our best. The Counsel we have retained is an excellent pleader, but you are tying his hands.’

Ignoring
Edward’s agonized face, Helena said flatly, ‘So be it.’

She
only knew that Stephanie had believed her the night they took her in to await sentencing. Summoned downstairs to say goodbye, Stephanie came slowly, her face ravaged and her eyes puffy with tears.

Helena
held her for a moment in a short, fierce hug. ‘Oh, Stephanie!’

The
girl stepped out of her embrace. ‘Mum,’ she said with difficulty, ‘they say in the paper you’re pleading guilty. They’ve got it wrong as usual, haven’t they?’ Her voice was beseeching.

Helena
swallowed hard. They had tried to shield Stephanie from discussion and distress; now she knew with terrible, icy clarity, how wrong this decision had been.

‘
I have to plead guilty, my darling, but—’

She
had no chance to finish. Stephanie drew back, her eyes widening in horror. ‘You didn’t—’ she got out, and then she began to scream, scream upon scream, till Edward slapped her. But as Helena was driven away, the voice echoed in her ears, ‘I never want to see you again!’

*

Henry Stanton was right. The judge, sympathetic initially, was clearly suspicious of her failure to give her version of events.

She
had been well warned; she had gone through all the motions of intellectual acceptance, but it was only now she understood her true mental attitude over these months.

At
heart, she had classified this as something too bad to happen, and was still, psychologically, no better prepared than she had been on the day of Neville’s death. She had not looked ahead, and now she dare not. The present moment was as much as she could bear, and she went below, under escort, with a white, blind look on her face.

She
did not see the policewoman with hazel eyes watching her leave the dock with bewilderment and not a little concern.

PART THREE

Chapter Nine

Frances Howarth had always hated to apologize. A certain stubborn arrogance made it difficult to surmount the molehill of saying, ‘I was wrong’; now, when the result of error was the imprisonment of a vicar’s daughter, almost certainly innocent of the crime which Frances, virtually single-handed, had pinned on her, that difficulty assumed mountainous proportions.

Why,
then, against the dictates of common sense as well as self-preservation, had she got herself into this hideous situation? Duty, she supposed grimly. It wasn’t a jazzy virtue, and ever since Wordsworth it had received a bad press, but on the quiet days when the tempests of events didn’t roar too loudly, she could still hear that stern voice, even if the early idealism that had taken her into the police force in the first place had become tempered by pragmatism.

Helena
’s telephone response to her letter had at least been prompt. Now, that same afternoon, Frances found herself sitting opposite a woman outwardly calm but bearing all the stigmata of the ordeal to which she had been, as Frances now believed, so unjustly subjected.

There
is only the finest dividing line between explanation and excuse, as Frances was uneasily aware. She was seeking expiation, yes, though her motivation was not merely to set her own moral record straight.

But
talking was not the least of her skills. As she explained her reasoning, she saw the woman’s wariness give way to reluctant attention and felt almost ashamed, as if some sort of chicanery were involved. Yet now she was coming to the hardest part of all. She could still see the woman in the dock, her head bowed. It was an image she had lived with ever since.

‘
When you refused to give evidence, that — that threw me. I had seen you lying, remember, and you did it consummately. I could not understand why you should object to turning in a performance in the dock which might have let you walk out, a free woman.

‘
So you must have balked at taking the oath. And it seemed quaint, to say the least, that a woman who had involved her teenage daughter in a false alibi should turn scrupulous over a little thing like perjury.

‘
I even discussed it with my boss, but he laughed at me.’ (‘Evidence?’ Coppins had demanded, then, when she tried to explain, ‘Woman’s intuition,’ he had mocked. ‘Don’t come to me with woman’s bloody intuition.’) ‘He said you were probably afraid they’d dig up a lover or a scandalous past. But we hadn’t found anything like that, and believe me, we had your life under a microscope.

‘
Then I turned it on its head. If I accepted that you lied initially to protect your child, and otherwise told the truth, a different picture began to emerge.

‘
There was plenty of time, between Sharon taking away the coffee tray, and your arrival, for someone else to have been in. The list of people with a motive was extensive, but after your arrest enquiries stopped. A few sketchy statements had been taken, two or three alibis checked out, that was all: a nice, straightforward case, with no further need to squander manpower.

‘I’ve tried to get the case re-opened, but they think I’m mad, and my boss would be furious if he knew I was here. So…’

She
came to a halt, her throat dry from so much talking. There was a long, long silence. Then Helena gave a deep, shivering sigh and spoke.

‘
Oh, I didn’t kill him. But I’ve known that all along, so it doesn’t make any difference, does it?’ A little shakily, she got to her feet and spoke with awful politeness. ‘I hope you feel better for having told me. And now, perhaps, you might be kind enough to leave.’

Frances
stared at her blankly. ‘But I want to fight for you — clear your name—’

Helena
’s smile was bitter. ‘Clear my name? Rake everything up again, for the press to have another Roman holiday, do you mean?’ Her tone was one of detached contempt. ‘Don’t be a fool. I’ve served my time, I’ve survived, more or less. Debt to society paid, case closed. Let’s leave it that way.’

‘
Mrs Radley, if you didn’t do it, someone else did.’

The
huge, haunted blue-grey eyes turned on her, almost showing the animation of impatience. ‘Well, of course they did. I’m not stupid. But then, Neville deserved it. I didn’t kill him, but I can’t condemn whoever did. He probably tortured them into it.

‘
You seem to think you’re offering me something worth having. Can you remove my grey hairs, and the lines on my face? Can you give me back my daughter’s love?’ Her voice cracked, but she carried on fiercely, ‘I mustn’t think about it. I’ve closed that door, and Edward says I need never talk about it again.’

She
was a remarkably disciplined woman, Frances thought, a remarkably tough woman. But she still hadn’t understood.

‘
You know you didn’t do it. Everyone else thinks you did, with one exception. There is one person who knows you didn’t, and who knows that you know.’

‘
Well, obviously.’ Her reply was almost snappish.

‘
It doesn’t occur to you that it’s a very dangerous thing to be the only person who knows for certain that there is an unconvicted murderer at large?’

It
was clear that it had not. The realization shattered her artificial composure like a brick thrown through a plate-glass window, and she put both hands up to her cheeks. ‘Oh my god!’ she whispered, and began to cry.

*

After that, Helena talked and talked. She fetched some brandy, which she drank and Frances sipped at; she spoke of Neville, and of Harry’s influence, and of Neville’s sense of destiny at the Radnesfield crossroads. She looked, eventually, as if her soul had once more made connection with her body, and though the pain might be sharp, it seemed to have lanced that festering repression.

About
Radnesfield, she was virulent, and Frances said at last, ‘Are you really saying that someone in the village was responsible for Neville’s death?’

Helena
paused, frowning. ‘I can’t say that. But I believe that if Radnesfield had been different, none of this would have happened.’

‘
Hmm.’ Frances digested this. Was it merely dislike of being an outcast — natural enough, but unhelpful — or was there somewhere hard, if unrecognized evidence?

‘
Could you give me a concrete example of what you mean?’

Helena
retreated. ‘Oh, I’m probably being silly. Neville and Edward both thought I was unbalanced on the subject. But I’ll tell you who you should talk to — Mr Tiggywinkle.’

‘
Mr Tiggywinkle?’

‘
Neville’s name for him.’ Helena bit her lip. ‘He was good fun, Neville, good company, and very acute. If you remember Mr Tilson you’ll understand. He’s old and harmless-looking, but he has penetrating eyes that see through you and out the other side. He’s not local, but he’s made a hobby of this village, studying it, almost. You know, the way some small boys keep a colony of slugs in a jam jar.’

Frances
laughed. ‘You’re feeling better.’

Her
companion stared at her. ‘You know, I am,’ she said, wonderingly. ‘Nothing’s changed — in fact you’ve given me something new to worry about — but you’ve believed I’m innocent. And I knew that, yet suddenly I don’t feel guilty any more. Perhaps it’s the brandy.’

She
was laughing, almost naturally, when she heard the front door opening. ‘Half-past four — it’s probably Edward. Hello!’ she called. ‘In here!’

Stephanie,
in the hall, heard the voices with relief. At least she wouldn’t be alone with her mother. She opened the door and hesitated on the threshold.

Her
mother must have had her hair done. It wasn’t the way it used to be, but it was elegant, not weird like it was yesterday. And she was smiling, and when she spoke it wasn’t in that funny artificial voice. It was a bit high-pitched, perhaps, but it sounded warm and natural again.

‘
Oh, it’s you, Stephanie. Darling, do you remember Detective-Sergeant Howarth? She’s realized I was innocent all along, and she’s going to do what she can to convince everyone else.’

For
a moment Stephanie could not take it in; the miracle she hadn’t even dared to pray for.

‘
Oh Mum,’ she said, and as her mother held out her arms, she hurled herself into that safe haven, sobbing her relief.

Feeling
an intruder, Frances rose quietly. Over her daughter’s head, Helena met her eyes. ‘Thank you.’

Frances
paused. ‘It won’t all be this easy,’ she cautioned, but Helena smiled, though the corners of her mouth were quivering.

‘
Worth it for this alone,’ she said, and Frances’s last glimpse, as she left a card with her phone number on a table, was of the two heads, the blonde and the dark, pressed together in the big armchair.

*

She was closing the gate as Edward Radley’s car drew up. Seeing her, he leaped out, advancing on her with bristling courtesy.

‘C
an I help you?’

‘
Mr Radley — you may remember me. I’m Frances Howarth.’

She
saw an expression she recognized appear on his face. It was a look compounded of uneasiness, suspicion and distaste, and she knew it from a thousand other encounters with those who had reason to be wary of the law.

‘
What do you want?’ he demanded roughly.

‘
I’ve just been to see your wife—’

A
less controlled man, she thought, would have struck her. ‘Dear god!’ he said. ‘Haven’t you done enough to her already? You’ve seen her — isn’t she broken enough for you?’

‘
I appreciate your feelings. But I felt I must come to tell your wife that I now believe her to be innocent and want to do what I can to put the record straight.’

He
did not unbend. ‘It would certainly have been welcome if you had experienced this Pauline conversion at the time. Now, when my wife is trying to put it all behind her, I cannot see that disinterring the past will serve any useful purpose.’

She
looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Mr Radley, do you believe your wife is innocent?’

He
squared his shoulders. ‘My wife told me that at the time when you, Sergeant Howarth, so unfortunately refused to accept her word.’

She
was not in the habit of quoting Shakespeare on investigations, but now she heard herself saying, ‘“When my love swears that she is made of truth, I do believe her, though I know she lies.”’

His
face flamed. ‘How dare you!’ he snarled, and turned on his heel.

Not
clever. She turned, and wearily crossed the square to Tyler’s Barn and Mr Tilson.

She
had time to regret her decision as she waited on the doorstep. She could claim no official standing; she was arriving, unannounced, with little purpose other than to persuade him to gossip about his neighbours. She could have been on her way home to Limber by now; she wished she had spent more time on reflection before she had rung the bell.

But
to her surprise, Maxwell Tilson recognized her, and was refreshingly pleased to see her. ‘Miss Howarth — or should I call you Sergeant? What an agreeable surprise!’ He twinkled sharp brown eyes at her, and reminded of his nickname, Frances almost expected to see his nose twitch interrogatively as he ushered her in.

‘
How clever of you to remember me. Frances will do — this is a very unofficial visit.’

‘
How exciting.’ The room into which he led her was lit by lamps and untidy with papers and books. The chairs were huge, shabby and comfortable, and on the table beside his leather wing-chair sat what appeared to be a fairly ambitious Scotch.

Mindful
of her drive home, Frances requested a tonic, and, reassured as to his willingness to help, went on to explain her mission.

He
heard her out in attentive silence, and did not speak for a few moments after she had finished.

‘
Yes,’ he said at last. ‘The more I think about it, the more I think your reasoning is probably correct. Though it didn’t surprise me much at the time, I have to admit.’

Frances
was taken aback. ‘Didn’t surprise you? Helena Radley’s arrest? Oh, you mean Fielding’s murder.’

‘
No, I don’t in fact. That did surprise me, because in my experience of life it is, don’t you find, never the things one would say were totally predictable that actually happen?’

She
was surprised into laughter, and, satisfied, he went on.

‘
There was enormous tension building up, with Fielding at its centre. He was provoking it, of course, but others were colluding, or it could never have happened. He was staging real-life melodrama, using this place as a setting for the grand illusion which became tragic reality.’

‘
Helena felt that. She talked of his becoming Harry – his television character – when they moved down here.’