A Traitor to Memory

“She made no mention of her family, then, of her life in Henley-on-Thames, of friends she may have made there? Of lovers?”


“Nothing at all like that, Inspector. Eugenie and I didn't part under the best circumstances. She walked out one day and that was the end of it. No explanation, no argument, no excuse. One day she was there; the next day she was gone, and four years later I heard from her solicitors. So the blood between us wasn't exactly flowing with the milk of human kindness. I'll admit that I wasn't particularly pleased to hear from her when I finally did.”

“Could she have been involved with another man at the time she left you? This would be someone who may have recently re-entered her life.”

“Pitches?”

“Pitchley,” Lynley said. “Yes. Could she have been involved with Pitchley when he was James Pitchford?”

Davies considered this. “He was a good deal younger than Eugenie—fifteen years, perhaps? Ten? But Eugenie was an attractive woman, so I suppose it's possible there was something between them. Let me top up your tea, Inspector.”

Lynley acquiesced to this idea. Davies eased himself from beneath Jill Foster's legs and took himself into the kitchen, where running water indicated a minute or two in which he'd be waiting for the kettle to boil. Lynley wondered about the time that this gained the man: why he wanted it, why he needed it. Surprise was piling upon shock, it was true, and Davies was of the generation for whom a display of emotion was tantamount to baring one's backside in Piccadilly Circus. And his fiancée was taking much careful notice of his every reaction, so he had good reason to want some moments to pull himself together. But still …

Richard Davies returned to them then, this time carrying a glass of orange juice as well, which he pressed upon his fiancée, saying, “You need the vitamins, Jill.”

Lynley took his tea cup with thanks and said, “Your wife was involved with a man in Henley-on-Thames, a man called Wiley. Did she mention him to you in any of your conversations?”

“No,” Davies said. “Really, Inspector, we confined ourselves to Gideon.”

“Major Wiley tells us they were estranged, Gideon and his mother.”

“Does he?” Richard asked. “I wouldn't choose that word myself. Eugenie left one day and never returned. If you want to call it estrangement, I suppose you can. I prefer abandonment.”

“Her sin?” Lynley asked.

“What?”

“She told Major Wiley she had something she wished to confess to him. Perhaps abandoning her child and her husband was it. She never was able to confess, by the way. Or so Major Wiley tells us.”

“You think that Wiley …?”

“We're just gathering information at this point, Mr. Davies. Is there anything you can add to what you've already told me? Is there anything your former wife might have said in passing that you didn't think of at the time as having significance, but that now—”

“Cresswell-White.” Davies said it almost like a meditation, but when he repeated the name, he did so with more conviction. “Yes. There's Cresswell-White. I had a letter from him, so Eugenie must have done as well.”

“And Cresswell-White is …?”

“She would have had a letter from him, certainly, because when killers are released, the families are informed as a matter of course. At least, that's what my letter said.”

“Killers?” Lynley said. “Have you had word about your daughter's killer?”

In answer, Richard Davies left the room and walked down a short corridor, where he entered another room. The sound of drawers and cupboards opening and shutting ensued. When he returned, he bore a legal-size envelope, which he handed over to Lynley. It contained a letter from one Bertram Cresswell-White, Esq., Queen's Counsel and all the window dressing, and it had been sent from Number Five Paper Buildings, Temple, London. It informed Mr. Richard Davies that HM Prison Holloway would be releasing Miss Katja Wolff on parole on the date given below. Should Miss Katja Wolff harass, threaten, or even contact Mr. Davies in any way, Mr. Davies was to inform Mr. Cresswell-White, Q.C., immediately.

Lynley read the message and examined the date: twelve weeks to the day that Eugenie Davies had died. He said to Richard Davies, “Has she made contact with you?”

“No,” Davies answered. “Had she done so, believe me, I swear to God I would have …” His bravado receded, the stuff of the younger man he no longer was. He said, “Might she have located Eugenie?”

“Mrs. Davies didn't mention her?”

“No.”

“Would she have mentioned her had she seen her?”

Davies shook his head, not so much in denial as in confusion. “I don't know. At one time, yes. Of course she would have said something to me. But after all this time … I just don't know, Inspector.”

“May I keep this letter?”