Rough Cider (25 page)

“We saw the kitchen door open,” put in Digby, “so I advised a discreet withdrawal to the farm-machinery shed.”

“Then we saw you come out of the back door with Bernard holding his gun to your back.”

“And what did you make of that?” I asked Alice with faint amusement. “Me—your number-one suspect.”

I believe Alice reddened under the smears of soot. “I already told you, I changed my mind about that. Anyway, Bernard took you into the barn. After a while he came out and put down the shotgun and collected the gasoline, so I went closer and took a peek inside. When I saw him pouring gas over the floor, I thought, Somebody’s got to stop this.”

She sighed and gave a weary smile. “I could use a few lessons in how to disable a man.”

I reached out my hand and clasped it over hers. “You did all right. I’d never have got out alive without you.”

At this she laughed suddenly and openly. “I figure you’d never have been
in
there if you hadn’t met me.”

I think it was the first time I’d seen her laugh without a trace of unease or suspicion in her features. Her glasses were twisted askew and her elegant nose was heavily smudged, but I warmed to her. I laughed too. Then I said impulsively, “Now that we’ve straightened out a few things, let’s meet again.”

Digby felt into his pocket and said, ‘I’ll quote that, if you don’t mind.”

I said, “Shut up.”

But as you, my loyal reader, will appreciate, life isn’t what you want, it’s what you get. Alice had her return flight booked for the following day. We didn’t even manage a night out together, or a night in, because that puddinghead Voss kept me waiting for the rest of the afternoon and evening sorting out what had happened in the barn. I admitted to shooting Bernard in self-defense, which seem straightforward enough, but Voss tied himself in knots trying to decide whether it was manslaughter or justifiable homicide. As they didn’t propose to charge me, anyway, I lost all patience with them. By the time I was free to leave, Digby had long since driven Alice back to Reading.

Digby’s photograph didn’t turn out, by the way, but he still had his exclusive story, and I’m sure he was well paid for it.

If you’re looking for an upbeat ending, there’s not much I can offer. George Lockwood admitted to his part in disposing of Morton’s body in 1943. He took the police to a lake near Frome where he’d weighted and sunk the headless corpse. They sent some frogmen down, but after so long, it wasn’t surprising that nothing was found.

Mrs. Molly Lockwood was convicted of the murder of Sally Ashenfelter and was given a life sentence. She also confessed to shooting Clifford Morton in 1943 and to perjury at the trial of Duke Donovan. In view of her advanced age, the Director of Public Prosecutions deferred bringing her to court on these charges.

The Home Secretary recommended a posthumous Royal Pardon for Duke, which I know pleased Alice. It pleased me.

People have been telling me for years not to blame myself for my part in Duke’s conviction. They say I couldn’t have done any different, that I spoke what I understood to be the truth. Right. But I can’t forget. I never will.

I promised you an extraordinary story, and I’ve done my best to deliver it. One more development may be of interest. In 1965, I applied for a visiting lectureship to Yale University, and to my delight and good fortune I was taken on. Yale is only twenty-five miles south of Waterbury, Connecticut.

At the time I told myself I must be out of my mind. On occasions I still say that I was, and then Alice laughs and pours me another drink.

Of lager, from a can.