Scold's Bridle

*19*

Sarah topped up their wine glasses and viewed the empty bottle with a wry look. "Thank God my poison is legal," she murmured. "I know damn well I need an external stimulant to make the miseries bearable. Did you take her heroin off her, Cooper? She'll be in a desperate state if you did."

"No," he admitted, "but you can keep that information to yourselves."

"You're a very kind man," she told him.

"I'm a realist," he corrected her. "If Joanna had murdered her mother then I was in a stronger position keeping what I knew up my sleeve than showing my hand before I had to. She would have been very vulnerable to police questioning if we could have charged her with possession and murder both at the same time."

"You're such a bad liar," said Sarah fondly. "You're not going to charge her at all. Will you even tell her you know?"

But Cooper sidestepped that question. "We were talking about how Duncan murdered Mathilda," he said. "So where were we?"

"With Mathilda being immensely suspicious when he came through the back door uninvited and offered to top up her whisky," said Sarah dryly.

"Oh, yes, well he wouldn't have gone that way. He'd have rung the front door bell. It was quite safe. Violet wasn't going to hear anything, not if she was snoring her head off in front of the television, and I'm sure he had a very convincing reason for knocking on Mathilda's door at seven o'clock on a Saturday evening. He did know a great deal about her life, after all, any bit of which he could tap into as an excuse. She would have to have been deeply paranoid to lock her door against a neighbour she saw almost every day." Absentmindedly, he tapped more ash into his palm then turned it upside down to scatter it on the floor. "Once he'd given her the whisky, and watched her drink it, he made his excuses and left. He's a cautious man and he didn't know how effective the sedative would be, plus he needed to be sure Violet really was dead to the world and hadn't heard the bell ringing. Presumably if he'd found her semi-conscious, he'd have abandoned the project as being too dangerous and, by the same token, he wanted Mathilda well and truly under before he put the scold's bridle over her head.

"From then on, it would all have been very straightforward. He checked on Violet, donned a pair of gloves, collected the appropriate weeds from the garden-he wouldn't have done that during daylight hours in case someone saw him and put two and two together when they heard about Mathilda's flower arrangement. Then he let himself in again, this time through Mathilda's back door, took the Stanley knife from the kitchen drawer, checked Mathilda was asleep, took the weeds, the knife and the scold's bridle upstairs where he left them on the dressing-table, filled the bath, then went back down to collect Mathilda. All he had to do was scoop her up in his arms, put her on the lift, take her upstairs and undress her.

"The time would have been approximately nine thirty, we think, which has made the pathologist very happy. He always favoured earlier rather than later, particularly as Mathilda wouldn't have died immediately." He cast about in his mind again for the thread of where he had been. "Right, so once he'd undressed her, he placed her in the warm bath, put the scold's bridle on her head, slit her wrists and then arranged the nettles and daisies in the head-band, probably using the sponge to wedge the gap. Then all he had to do was leave the whisky glass beside the empty sleeping-pill bottle, remove the diaries, wipe the key clean for safety's sake and replace it, before going home to Violet and the television. He undoubtedly took the poor woman to task the next morning over her drinking being so bad that she'd passed out the night before, or she might have told us earlier that she'd been asleep instead of going along with Duncan's story that there had been no sound from next door." He massaged his chin. "She's a very pliable woman and, in fairness to her, it obviously never occurred to her that he could have murdered Mathilda. I think she prompted him to write us the anonymous letter because she felt so guilty about letting Mathilda down." He flicked a glance at Jack. "She overheard her crying that time you went round to show her the painting, and she's convinced herself that if she'd only spoken to her then she might have prevented the murder." He saw the look of puzzled enquiry on Sarah's face, and ploughed on relentlessly. "As far as Ruth and Jane are concerned, Duncan didn't want to tell us about them being in Cedar House that day because he couldn't afford to draw attention to how much could be heard through the walls. But Violet gave him the perfect opportunity to involve Ruth when she overheard a row between Joanna and Ruth in their hall. She consulted Duncan about the wisdom of reporting it and, while he flatly refused to let her come in person, to avoid any unpleasantness, as he put it, he didn't object to an anonymous letter, although he insisted on wearing gloves to avoid us tracing it through the fingerprints. Violet thought that was very exciting," he concluded with heavy irony.

"It's odd that Mathilda never mentioned hearing them," said Jack. "It's the sort of thing that would have driven her mad."

"Mrs. Orloff says she spoke very clearly and decisively, so perhaps she was a little deaf, and if she never heard them, it wouldn't occur to her that they could hear her. In any case, as soon as they realized just how much could be overheard, I suspect they tempered their own volume. It's interesting to watch them. He speaks just above a whisper and whenever she gets excited, he frowns at her and she drops her voice."

"I suppose that's how he found out about the key," said Sarah slowly. "When Mathilda told me where it was that day. He must have heard her."

Cooper nodded.

"How did he know about the diaries?"

"According to Violet, she often used to talk to herself when no one was there, so I'm guessing she read them aloud. Otherwise, he stumbled on them by accident when he was looking for something else." He frowned. "He's not going to tell us, that's for sure. He's just sitting there at the moment denying everything and challenging us to give one good reason why he would suddenly want to murder a woman he had known for fifty years, when scarcely one cross word had been exchanged between them in all that time. And Violet supports him on that. She says Duncan is far too lazy either to take offence or give it, so Mathilda very quickly got bored with trying to provoke any sort of reaction out of him."

"He's got you by the short and curlies," remarked Jack with reluctant admiration. "You won't get very far with 'trying to delay the passage of the will' as a convincing motive for murder.. Even if the Prosecution's prepared to run with it, I can't see a jury accepting it. Have you really no idea at all why he wanted her dead? Surely Violet must know something."

"She's very distressed at the moment. The DCI hopes a little tender care from a sympathetic policewoman will help jog her memory, but, if you want my opinion, she's being genuinely honest when she says she doesn't know. She's a funny little person, seems to live in a world of her own most of the time, talks nineteen-to-the-dozen but doesn't listen. I suspect most of what went on inside Cedar House was just background noise to her." He glanced from one to the other of them. "All of which is why I'm here. I need to talk to Ruth. She mentioned that her grandmother wrote her a letter shortly before she died, and it occurred to me that there might have been something in there which might help us."

"If it's the same one she told me about, then she tore it up," said Sarah.

"Still, she'll remember what was in it. I really do need to talk to her."

Sarah shook her head firmly. "Not now, Cooper. She's paranoid about the police at the moment, what with last night, and Jack being carted off in handcuffs at lunchtime. Okay, I know none of it's your fault, but you've got to show her a little compassion."

"Don't make me insist," he begged. "I really don't have a choice on this one. We can't hold Duncan indefinitely without some very concrete evidence and, once he walks, he'll be free to tidy up anything we've missed."

She sighed and took one of his large hands in hers. "Look, I'm going to tell you something that, strictly speaking, I shouldn't because it's Ruth's secret and not mine, but I'd trust you with my life, Cooper, so I think I can trust you with Ruth's." She gave the hand, a quick squeeze before releasing it to reach across for Jack's, her eyes creasing with affection. "Why do you think this silly sod has been charging about like a bull in a china shop? He says what he's done is rational and sensible. You and I know it isn't. Rather belatedly, he's discovered that he has some very powerful paternal feelings which, because he's the generous soul he is, he does not intend to limit to his own offspring. He is acting in lieu of Ruth's dead father because he wants her to know that there is someone in this shitty world who loves her."

Jack raised her fingers to his lips. "Two people," he corrected her.

She held his gaze for a moment. "Two people," she agreed. She took her hand away and transferred her attention back to Cooper. "Ruth is so vulnerable at the moment that if she's put under any more pressure, then I can guarantee she'll withdraw from reality in the way that Joanna clearly has done and Mathilda probably did as well. It's almost as if there's a self-destructive gene in the family that triggers the withdrawal." She shook her head. "Whatever it is, Ruth is not going the same way, not if Jack and I can prevent it. She's pregnant, Cooper. I know she doesn't look it, but she's almost at the legal cut-off point, and if she doesn't make up her mind very quickly about having the pregnancy terminated, then she'll have to go through with it. Jack was trying to buy her the peace and quiet she needs to reach a decision, because as yet she hasn't had the chance to do it."

Cooper absorbed all this in grave silence. "Are you helping her reach her decision?" he asked at last.

"I've given her all the information I can, but I don't like to say, do this or do that. It's her mother's role to give advice but Joanna doesn't even know about the rape, let alone about the pregnancy."

"Hmm," grunted Cooper, pursing his lips in deep thought. "Well, I certainly don't intend to add to the poor girl's problems," he said at last. "I'm sure her grandmother wouldn't demand justice for herself before consideration for her granddaughter. If she was that way inclined she'd have reported Ruth for thieving when she was still alive." He stood up and buttoned his coat about him, preparatory to leaving. "But, if you'll forgive the impertinence, Dr. Blakeney, you must take your responsibilities as her adopted mother, temporary or otherwise, a great deal more seriously. It's no good giving her information and leaving it up to her to decide, without making it very clear that you believe it's in her best interests to have an abortion. The chances are she'll scream and yell, say you don't love her and don't care tuppence for her feelings, but parenting is not about patting oneself on the back for being understanding and liberal, it's about guidance, education and training to help the child you love become a man or woman you can respect." He nodded a friendly goodbye and made for the door, only to pause as he saw Ruth in the shadows of the hall.

"I've been listening," she said, her wretched eyes full of tears. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

"There, there," said Cooper, gruff with embarrassment, pulling a large white handkerchief from his pocket and offering it to her. "I'm the one who should apologize. I'd no business to interfere."

Her eyes brimmed again. "I don't mind about what you said. I was thinking-if only-you said you wished your children had had my opportunities-do you remember?"

He nodded. He had indeed said that, he thought with chagrin.

"Well, I was just thinking-I wish"-she gave him a watery smile-"I wish I'd had theirs. I hope they appreciate you, Sergeant Cooper." She took a letter from hei pocket and gave it to him. "It's Granny's," she said. "1 didn't throw it away, but I couldn't show it to you because she talks about my stealing." A tear splashed on to her hand. "I really did love her, you know, but she died thinking I didn't, and that's almost worse than everything else."

"Yes," he said gently, "I'm sure it is, because there's nothing you can do to mend it."

"Not ever."

"Well, as to ever-that I couldn't say. In this life, the best any of us can do is learn from our mistakes and try not to make them again. We're none of us infallible, Ruth, but we owe it to ourselves and to those around us to act with whatever wisdom we possess. Otherwise, how will mankind ever improve?"

She pressed her lips together to hold back the tears. "And you think it would be wise for me to have an abortion?"

"Yes," he said with absolute honesty, "I do." He placed his broad palm against her stomach. "At the moment you're not quite old enough or tough enough to be a mother and father to another human being, and you're too riddled by guilt over your grandmother, and what you see as your betrayal of her, to give this baby away to someone else." He smiled rather shyly. "That's not to say I expect you to agree with me or that I'll turn my back on you if you decide to have your baby. Dr. Blakeney's quite right when she says it's your choice. But I'd rather see you pregnant when you've lived a little and found a man you can love who loves you, too. Then your babies will be wanted and you'll be free to be the kind of mother you want to be."

She tried to thank him, but the words wouldn't come, so Cooper took her in his arms instead and held her tight. Behind them, Sarah turned a tear-streaked face to Jack. "Remind me of this," she whispered, "whenever I get complacent. I've just learnt how little I really know."

My dear Ruth [Mathilda had written], Your mother and I have fallen out over a letter written by my uncle Gerald Cavendish shortly before he died, making Joanna his heir. She is threatening to take me to court over it because she believes she can use it to overturn my father's will. She won't succeed, but I have been unable to convince her of that. She feels understandably aggrieved and wants to punish me. I realize now there has been too much secrecy within this family and so I am writing to you now to acquaint you with the knowledge she already has, because I do not want you to learn about it from her. She will not, I think, tell you kindly. James Gillespie was not your mother's father. Gerald Cavendish was. I realize how shocked you will be by this information but I urge you to do what I have done all these years and see it as something that happened which should not be regretted. You may find this hard to believe but, despite everything, I have always been fond of your mother, as indeed I have been fond of you.

I am faced now with a difficult choice. I am aware, my dear, that you have been stealing from me for some months. I am aware, too, that your mother has given up on life and prefers the twilight world of drug dependency and the casual relationships that give her the illusion of being loved without the ties of responsibility. You are both allowing yourselves to be abused by men and, in view of my own history, I find that deeply disheartening. I realize I have failed you, and have decided, therefore, to set you both free to make your own decisions about your futures.

My intention is to make over a lump sum to you and your mother on your eighteenth birthday, the amount to be apportioned in the ratio 2:1, with your mother receiving double your share. Perhaps it is something I should have done a long time ago, but I was reluctant to give up what I have worked so hard for in the Cavendish name. As things are now, I see that a name is nothing unless the individuals who bear it stand above their peers, for it is not the accident of our births that makes us great but our individual characters. By setting you and your mother free to lead your lives as you choose, I hope to give you the chance to prove yourselves, just as others-those less fortunate-have already done.

In conclusion, should anything happen to me and you find yourself in need of a friend, then I urge you to talk to Dr. Sarah Blakeney, my GP, who will give you nothing but good advice whatever the situation you find yourself in. With love, Granny.

Cooper placed the letter in front of Detective Chief Inspector Jones. "I've been asking myself where she was going to get the money from to give lump sums to Mrs. and Miss Lascelles if she'd already made a will giving everything to Dr. Blakeney."

Charlie scanned the page rapidly. "Did you come up with an answer?"

"I reckon it's on the video, if we'd only known what to look for. Do you remember when she was talking to Ruth towards the end and she mentioned her promise to leave the girl Cedar House before Ruth's behaviour of the last six months had persuaded her to change her mind? Okay, well immediately after that she went on to say something like: 'You'd have had the choice either to sell up or stay but you'd have sold because the house would have lost its charms for you once the estate was approved.' Or words to that effect."

Charlie nodded.

"I assumed the phrase 'once the estate was approved' referred to the goods and chattels being handed over to Joanna as part of her share."

"Go on."

"I think now she was talking about an estate of houses. She was planning to sell off the garden for development. How else could she raise a lump sum for the Lascelles women and still be able to leave Cedar House and its contents to Dr. Blakeney? Just imagine the impact that would have had on Duncan Orloff. A man who can't bear the thought of noisy children next door sure as hell isn't going to sit tamely by and watch his garden turned into a building site."

"Prove it," said Duncan placidly. "Name the developer. Explain why there's no correspondence with this mythical company. Good grief, man, she wouldn't even have got planning permission for such an enterprise. The days of unravelling the green belt are long gone. They're knitting it back together now just as fast as they can. There's electoral mileage in the environmental vote and none at all in speculative vandalism."

All of which, thought Charlie gloomily, was true. It was left to Cooper to bring a dose of common sense to the situation.

The following morning, after lengthy consultations with the local borough planning officer, he presented himself at Howard & Sons, building contractors of Learmouth since 1972. A middle-aged secretary, agog with curiosity at this unexpected appearance of a plainclothes policeman in their midst, ushered him with some ceremony into the office of Mr. Howard Snr.

Mr. Howard, a thickset elderly man with a scattering of grizzled grey hairs, looked up from a set of plans with a frown. "Well, Sergeant? What can I do for you?"

"I understand your company was responsible for the Cedar Estate development in Fontwell. It was built ten years ago. Do you recall it?"

"I do," barked the other. "What of it? Who's complaining?"

"No one, as far as I know," said Cooper placidly.

He waved to a chair. "Sit down, man. You can't be too sure about anything these days. It's a dog-eat-dog world where litigation's the name of the game and the only people who get fat are the solicitors. I had a letter this morning from a tight-fisted bastard who's refusing to pay what he owes because he says we're in breach of contract by putting in one less electric socket than the plans called for. It makes you sick." He beetled ferocious eyebrows. "So what's your interest in Cedar Estate?"

"You bought the land for it from a Mrs. Mathilda Gillespie of Cedar House, Fontwell."

"I did. Blood-sucking old bitch she is, too. Paid far more for it than I should have done."

"Was," Cooper corrected him. "She's dead."

Howard eyed him with sudden interest. "Is that so? Ah, well," he murmured without regret, "it comes to us all in the end."

"In her case rather prematurely. She was murdered."

There was a short silence. "And what does that have to do with the Cedar Estate?"

"We're having difficulty establishing a motive. One idea that suggests itself," he declared ponderously, "is that she was planning to continue her successful venture with you by selling off the rest of her garden for development. From consultations I've had with the planning department, I understand some sort of second phase has always been on the cards, but this would have made her very unpopular in certain quarters and might have inspired the murder." He hadn't missed the gleam of interest in the sharp old eyes opposite. "Have you had any recent correspondence with her on the subject, Mr. Howard?"

"Only negative."

Cooper frowned. "Could you explain that?"

"She approached us with a view to going forward. We made an offer. She rejected it." He grunted with annoyance. "Like I told you, she was a blood-sucking old bitch. Wanted far more for the land than it's worth. The building trade's been through the worst recession in its history and prices have plummeted. I wouldn't mind so much if it wasn't down to us in the first place that she was even in a position to develop the damn thing." He glared at Cooper as if Cooper were responsible for Mathilda's rejection. "It was us who established the sodding outline permission on her garden ten years ago which is why we left access space on the southeast boundary. First refusal on the second phase if she decided to go ahead was part of the original contract and she had the gall to turn us down."

"When was this? Can you remember?"

"The day she turned us down? Bonfire night, November the fifth." He chuckled suddenly. "I told her to stick a rocket up her arse and she hung up on me. Mind, I'd said many worse things first time round-I don't mind my Ps and Qs for anyone-and she always came back."

"You saw her in person?"

"Telephone. She meant it, though, wrote a couple of days later confirming. Claimed she was in no hurry and was prepared to wait for the prices to go back up again. It's in the file, along with a copy of our offer." The gleam of interest was back in his eyes. "Still, if she's dead, her heirs might be interested, eh? It's a fair offer. They won't get better from anyone else."

"Her will's being contested," said Cooper apologetically. "I imagine it will be some time before ownership of the property is proved. May I see her letter?"

"Don't see why not." He pressed the intercom and demanded the Gillespie file. "So who killed her then?"

"No one's been charged as yet."

"Well, they do say planning disputes bring out the worst in people. Bit extreme to murder someone over it though. Eh?"

"Any murder's extreme," said Cooper.

"A few houses more or less. It's hardly a motive."

"People fear the unexpected," said Cooper phlegmatically. "I sometimes think that's the root cause of all murders." He looked towards the door as the secretary popped in with an orange folder. "The boat rocks and the only solution is to kill the person who's rocking it."

Howard opened the file and selected a sheet from the top. "There you are." He handed it across.

Cooper examined it carefully. It was dated Saturday. November 6th, and typed. As Howard had said, it confirmed her refusal to proceed until prices improved "When did you say you got this?"

"Couple of days after the phone call."

"That would have been a Sunday."

"The Monday then, or maybe the Tuesday. We don't work weekends, not in the office at least."

"Did she always type her letters?"

"Don't remember her ever doing it before." He looked back through the file. "Copper-plate script every time."

Cooper thought of her letter to Ruth. That had been written in a beautiful hand. "Have you any other letters from her? I'd like to compare the signatures."

Howard licked a finger and flicked over the pages, removing several more sheets. "You think someone else wrote it?"

"It's a possibility. There's no typewriter in her house and she was dead by the Saturday night. When could she have had it done?" He placed the pages side by side on the desk and squinted at the subscriptions. "Well, well," he said with satisfaction, "the best laid schemes-you've been very helpful, Mr. Howard. May I take these with me?"

"I'll want photocopies for my records." He was consumed with curiosity. "Never occurred to me it wasn't kosher. What's wrong with it then?"

Cooper placed a finger on the typed letter's signature. "For a start, he's dotted his Ts"-he pointed to the others-"and she hasn't. His 'M' is too upright and the 'G' runs on to the following 'i.'" He chuckled. "The experts are going to have a field day on this. All in all it's a very cack-handed effort."

"Bit of a fool, is he?"

"Arrogant, I'd say. Forgery is an art like any other. It takes years of practice to be any good."

"I've a forensic team sifting through a dustbin full of Violet's old cinders," Charlie told Cooper when he returned to the nick, "and they tell me they've found the diaries. Or what's left of them at least. There's the odd scrap of paper but several quite substantial pieces of what they say is the calf-skin binding. They're still looking. They're confident of finding at least one scrap with her writing on it." He rubbed his hands together.

"They might look for scraps of typed paper while they're about it, preferably with a Howard & Sons imprint," said Cooper, producing his sheaf of letters. "They made her a formal offer for her land on the first of November, and we certainly didn't find it when we went through her papers. The chances are Orloff swiped an entire file. Howard Snr has a stack of correspondence relating to Cedar Estate, and there wasn't a damn thing on the subject anywhere in the house. If there had been we might have twigged a bit sooner."

"No one's fault but her own. I suppose she learnt never to trust anyone which is why she played everything so close to her chest. She said it all in her letter to Ruth, 'there's been too much secrecy within this family.' If she'd mentioned her plans to the solicitor even, she'd probably be alive now."

"Still, we didn't ask the right questions, Charlie."

The Inspector gave a dry laugh. "If the answer's forty-two, then what's the Ultimate Question? Read The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy, old son. It's harder to ask the right question than it is to come up with the answer, so don't lose any sleep over it."

Cooper, who somewhat belatedly was trying to improve his reading, took out his notebook and jotted down the title. At the very least, it had to be more palatable than Othello which he was struggling through at the moment. He tucked his pencil back into his pocket and took Charlie through his conversation with the developer. "It was six weeks of hard negotiating the first time before he and she could agree on a price. She used to horse-trade over the phone, apparently, rejecting every offer until he came up with one she could accept. Poor old soul," he said with genuine feeling. "Orloff must have thought his ship had come in when he heard her doing it the second time round. She made it so easy for him." He tapped the typed letter. "All he had to do was get rid of her and post that off the next day. Howard claims he and his sons lost interest immediately because he'd made it clear to her on more than one occasion that the bottom had dropped out of the market and he wasn't in a position to offer her any more."

Charlie picked up the letter and examined it. "There was a portable typewriter on the desk in his sitting-room," he recalled. "Let's get the lads out there to make a quick comparison for us. He's put all his effort into forging her signature and forgotten that typewriters have signatures, too."

"He'd never make it that easy for us."

But he had.

"Duncan Jeremiah Orloff ... formally charged with the murder of Mathilda Beryl Gillespie ... Saturday, November sixth..." The voice of the Duty Officer droned on relentlessly, making little impact on Cooper who knew the formula off by heart. Instead, his mind drifted towards an elderly woman, drained of her life-blood, and the rusted iron framework that had encased her head. He felt an intense regret that he had never known her. Whatever sins she had committed, it would, he felt, have been a privilege.

"...request that you be refused bail because of the serious nature of the charges against you. The magistrates will order an immediate remand into custody..."

He looked at Duncan Orloff only when the man beat his fat little hands against his breast and burst into tears. It wasn't his fault, he pleaded, it was Mathilda's fault. Mathilda was to blame for everything. He was a sick man. What would Violet do without him?

"Collapse of stout party," muttered the Duty Officer under his breath to Cooper, listening to the rasping, anguished breaths.

A deep frown creased Cooper's pleasant face. "By heaven, she deserved better than you, she really did," he said to Orloff. "It should have been a brave man who killed her, not a coward. What gave you the right to play God with her life?"

"A brave man wouldn't have had to, Sergeant Cooper." He turned haunted eyes towards the policeman. "It wasn't courage that was needed to kill Mathilda, it was fear."

"Fear of a few houses in your garden, Mr. Orloff?"

Duncan shook his head. "I am what I am"-he held trembling hands to his face-"and it was she who made me. I have spent my adult life shunning the woman I married in favour of fantasies about the one I didn't, and you cannot live in hell for forty years without being damaged by it."

"Is that why you came back to Fontwell, to relive your fantasies?"

"You can't control them, Sergeant. They control you." He fell silent.

"But you returned five years ago, Mr. Orloff."

"I asked nothing from her, you know. A few shared memories perhaps. Peace even. After forty years I expected very little."

Cooper eyed him curiously. "You said you killed her out of fear. Was that what you fantasized about? Being so afraid of her that you could bring yourself to kill her?"

"I fantasized about making love," he whispered.

"To Mathilda?"

"Of course." He gathered his tears in the palms of his hands. "I've never made love to Violet. I couldn't."

Good God, thought Cooper with disgust, did the man have no pity at all for his poor little wife? "Couldn't ot wouldn't, Mr. Orloff? There is a difference."

"Couldn't." The word was barely audible. "Mathilda did certain things"-he shivered like a man possessed-"which Violet was offended by"-his voice broke-"it was less unpleasant for both of us if I paid for what I wanted."

Cooper caught the Duty Officer's gaze above Duncan's head, and gave a cynical laugh. "So this is going to be your defence, is it? That you murdered Mathilda Gillespie because she gave you a taste for something only prostitutes could supply?"

A thready sigh puttered from the moist lips. "You never had cause to be afraid of her, Sergeant. She didn't own you because she didn't know your secrets." The sad eyes turned towards him. "Surely it's occurred to you that when we bought Wing Cottage our solicitor discovered the outline planning permission on the remaining Cedar House land? We went ahead with the purchase because Mathilda agreed to a clause in the contract, giving us a power of veto over any future decision." He gave a hollow laugh. "I blame myself because I knew her so much better than Violet ever did. The clause was worth less than the paper it was written on." Briefly, he pressed his lips together in an effort to control himself. "She was obliged to tell me about her approach to Howard because she was going to need my signature on the final document, but when I told her that Violet and I would object to the proposed plan, which put the nearest house ten yards from our back wall, she laughed. 'Don't be absurd, Duncan. Have you forgotten how much I know about you?' "

When he didn't go on, Cooper prompted him. "She was going to blackmail you into signing?"

"Of course." He placed his damp palms to his breasts. "We were in the drawing-room. She left me for a couple of minutes to fetch a book from the library, and when she came back she read extracts to me." Distress wheezed from him in quickened breaths. "It was one of her diaries-full of such terrible lies and obscenity-and not just about me-Violet, too-intimate details that Violet had told her when she was tipsy. 'Do you want me to photocopy this, Duncan, and spread it round the village?' she asked. 'Do you want the whole of Fontwell to know that Violet is still a virgin because the demands you made of her on your wedding night were so disgusting that she had to lock herself in the bathroom?' "-his voice faltered-"she was very entertained by it all-couldn't put the book down once she'd started-read me pieces about the Marriotts, the vicar, the poor Spedes-everyone." He fell silent again.

"So you went back later to read the others?" suggested Cooper.

Duncan shrugged helplessly. "I was desperate. I hoped I'd find something I could use against her, I doubted there'd be anything of value in the early ones, simply because I'd have to find independent proof to challenge her, and, bar references to Joanna's drug addiction, Ruth's stealing and her belief that Sarah Blakeney was the daughter she'd had by Paul Marriott, the later ones were simply a catalogue of her dislikes. They were the product of a diseased mind, and she used them, I think, as a channel for expunging her poison. If she hadn't been able to express herself on paper"-he shook his head-"she was quite mad, you know."

"Still," said Cooper ponderously, "murder was an extreme solution, Mr. Orloff. You could have used her daughter's and her granddaughter's problems against her. She was a proud woman. She wouldn't have wanted those made public, surely?"

The sad eyes fixed on him again. "I never planned to murder her, or not till that Saturday morning when Jane Marriott went to see her. I intended to threaten her with divulging what I knew to Dr. Blakeney. But as I told you, it was fear that killed her. A brave man would have said: 'publish and be damned.' "

He had lost Cooper. "I don't understand."

"She told Jane Marriott that things would get worse before they got better because she knew James had been reading her private papers-it never occurred to her it was me-then she went on to say that she had no intention of keeping quiet any longer." He wrung his hands. "So, of course, I went round the minute Jane left and asked her what she meant by 'she had no intention of keeping quiet any longer'?" His face was grey with fatigue. "She picked up the scold's bridle and taunted me with it. 'Mathilda Cavendish and Mathilda Gillespie did not write their diaries for fun, Duncan. They wrote them so that one day they could have their revenge. They will not be gagged. I shall see to that.'" He paused. "She really was mad," he insisted, "and she knew it. I said I'd call a doctor for her so she laughed and quoted Macbeth at me. 'More needs she the divine than the physician.' " He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "And I thought how all of us, who would be destroyed by her diaries, needed the divine more than the physician, and I made up my mind during that terrible afternoon to play ... God."

Cooper was deeply sceptical. "But you must have planned it all in advance because you stole the sleeping pills beforehand."

He sighed. "They were for me-or Violet-or both of us."

"So what made you change your mind?"

"Sergeant, I am, as you rightly say, a coward and I realized that I could not destroy the diaries without destroying her as well. She was the poison, the diaries were only the outward manifestation. At least I have allowed all the others to keep their dignity."

Cooper thought of the ones he cared about, Jack and Sarah, Jane and Paul Marriott; Ruth above all.

"Only if you plead guilty, Mr. Orloff, otherwise this will all come out in court."

"Yes. I owe Violet that much," he said.