Part 15 (1/2)

”After he was dead. I didn't look too closely, I can tell you. He wasn't a pretty sight.”

”Mrs. McNeil, what exactly do you mean by that? Do you mean he was dirty or injured in some other way?”

”I don't know. He wasn't old, I can tell you that. Not much older than Greg, probably, only Greg's always so spotlessly clean and neat.”

”If I told you this man's age was forty, would that be about right?”

Before she could reply, Greg came back with Wexford's tea. The biscuits provided were of a slightly lower standard than those on Mrs. McNeil's plate. Greg flashed his employer so dazzling a smile that Wexford found himself wondering in exactly what way he was on the make.

”About forty, Mrs. McNeil?”

”No, no, Greg is just forty-oh, you meant that creature who was trespa.s.sing in Mr. Grimble's house? I don't know. Possibly. I suppose he was about that.”

Next he asked her about the knife her husband had said was about to be used to attack him. This prompted Irene McNeil into an angry diatribe against Helen Parker, the young solicitor. He steered her back to the knife.

”There was no knife in the house, Mrs. McNeil, that's the difficulty.”

”John Grimble took things away, you know. You shouldn't believe him when he says he didn't take a thing, just left everything there.”

Wexford gently reminded her that whatever John Grimble had removed from his father's house, he had taken eleven years before, not eight. ”Could your husband have brought the knife back home with him?”

A flash of alarm showed in her eyes. ”Why would he do that?”

It was hardly for Wexford to find explanations for the behavior of a man like Ronald McNeil. ”Your husband might have told you if he disposed of the knife.”

”Or I might have.” She spoke carefully. ”I might have given it away. He might have brought it back home. I mean, when we lived at the Hall.”

”Is that what happened, Mrs. McNeil?”

”Will I get into trouble?” She spoke like a little girl who has been disobedient. ”It wouldn't be very wrong, would it, to get rid of a knife? It wasn't mine, you see. Would it be stealing? It wasn't mine, it was that man's.”

Wexford was almost at a loss. He seemed to have strayed into the country of the mad. He was seeing what happens to people-women, mostly-who have been sheltered and protected all their lives and suddenly find themselves alone.

”Did you get rid of it, Mrs. McNeil?”

”It was stolen,” she said. ”The cleaner I had stole it.” She stared at him. ”I'm telling you the absolute truth.”

It was very nearly too much for him. He changed the subject.

”Had you ever seen this man before, Mrs. McNeil? Think carefully before you answer.”

”I know I'd never seen him before.”

”His name may have been Miller. He was called Dusty.”

This time she did ponder on the name. ”The Tredowns once had a-well, a handyman they called Dusty. He used to drive their car sometimes too. I never saw him. That Ricardo woman told me.”

”When was this?”

”Oh, my goodness, how you expect me to remember things like this I really don't know.”

”You're doing very well,” he said eagerly.

This seemed to please her. She was susceptible to flattery and she smiled, though this may have been due to the reappearance of Greg with a tray on which was a rolled-up hot towel of the kind they give you in Chinese restaurants, a bottle of violet-scented toilet water, and a tube of hand cream.

”He's so thoughtful,” she said when she had anointed her hands. ”I can't imagine now how I got on without him. When was it this Dusty was with them? Oh, at least ten years ago, maybe more like twelve.” She became almost chatty. ”Mr. Tredown can drive, but he doesn't. Apparently he once caused an awful accident-someone was killed-and he's never driven since. The Ricardo woman can't and Mrs. Tredown can now, but she hadn't pa.s.sed her test then. She pa.s.sed it a year or two before we moved. Ronald said she'd no business being on the road when he heard she'd pa.s.sed.”

All this was interesting enough, but it seemed of little use to him. The vital contribution Mrs. McNeil had made, perhaps the only contribution of any worth, was that a man called Dusty had worked for the Tredowns. Only they could tell him more now.

”I shall ask you about the knife again,” he said.

She shrugged, made an unusual movement with her hand, an impatient flutter. He was on his way out and Donaldson was waiting when his phone rang. It was Selina Hexham.

Chapter Twenty.

He took the call in the car. The answer he expected was a negative one, because now he had less faith in the idea that had come to him in the small hours. Things you think of when you wake in the night often look bizarre or stupid in the morning.

Instead she said, ”That would mean the piece of paper with his writing on it makes sense. But I don't know. One small thing, though. It's so small I didn't think it worth putting in my book. I remember a magazine-well, a journal, I suppose you'd call it-lying on a table in our house. It was called The Author. The Author. Where it came from I don't know but there were some ads in it from people offering to do research for authors. I don't remember any more except Mum saying that would be a nice job for someone.” Where it came from I don't know but there were some ads in it from people offering to do research for authors. I don't remember any more except Mum saying that would be a nice job for someone.”

He thanked her and unexpectedly she began to talk about how she'd changed her mind about finding her father's killer. Now she agreed with him. This man should be found, but still she was glad capital punishment had gone forever. Later he wondered how much credence he should put on her remembering The Author The Author and her mother's comment. Would anyone's memory be that good? It was more likely, he thought, that Selina had, perhaps unconsciously, invented it in an effort to help him find the perpetrator of a crime. and her mother's comment. Would anyone's memory be that good? It was more likely, he thought, that Selina had, perhaps unconsciously, invented it in an effort to help him find the perpetrator of a crime.

They followed her car along the short drive and under the dripping trees. Maeve Tredown wasn't a good driver, uncertain and apparently nervous at the wheel. She came close to sc.r.a.ping the side of the old Volvo against the trunk of a towering conifer and pulled up too sharply outside the front door, setting the car juddering. The curious colors of the house, the jarring yellows and reds, looked brighter when washed by teeming rain. She opened the driver's door and leaned out to see who had come to visit.

”Good morning, Mrs. Tredown,” Wexford said. ”Perhaps it would be best if we went straight inside.” He expected some irrational argument, but she got quickly out of the car, slamming the door violently, and let them into the house. ”How is your husband?” he asked when they were inside.

”They are taking him into a hospice tomorrow,” she said. ”There isn't any hope.” She said it in the kind of cheerful tone she might have used to say there wasn't anything to fear. ”I thought a hospice was a place monks lived in with Saint Bernard dogs. But apparently not anymore.”

Wexford could smell the vanilla scent she wore as she led them along the dark pa.s.sage past the haphazardly hung coats and flung footwear, throwing her raincoat onto a peg as she pa.s.sed. This time they weren't to be received in the gloomy living room. Instead they went into a kind of farmhouse kitchen where, in front of an open fire, Tredown lay in an armchair with his legs up on the seat of another, pipe in mouth. Blankets covered him, though it was insufferably hot. At the other end of the room, the part where cooking was done, Claudia Ricardo stood in front of an Aga, apparently making lemon curd. The whole place smelled of a mixture of lemons and burning sage.

”I believe it's very hot in here,” Tredown said, removing the pipe without lifting his head. ”I'm afraid I always feel cold these days. Perhaps you should take these gentlemen into the drawing room, Em.”

”Please don't worry about the heat, Mr. Tredown,” Wexford said. ”We'd like to talk to you as well.”

”You'd better sit down, then.” Maeve Tredown was as offhand as her husband was courteous.

”Would you make us some coffee or tea, Cee?” Tredown apparently thought it safer to make this request of his ex-wife than his present one, or perhaps he only did so because Claudia was already engaged in cooking. She waved a wooden spoon in a gesture of acquiescence. ”What did you want to ask me, Mr. Wexford?”

”I believe you once employed a man who went by the name of Dusty.”

Tredown put the pipe down on a saucer and turned his cadaverous yellow face toward Wexford while holding out his hands to the flames. ”I forget so many things,” he said. ”Let me think. Did we, Em?”

Stony-faced, Maeve Tredown said, ”He asked you. Why don't you answer? You know very well we did.”