“And away from the bloody police too.” Robert Miller wheeled himself into the room, the nurse following behind.
Maisie smiled at the nurse. “That’s all right—I can assist Mr. Miller while I’m here. And thank you, Simmonds.”
Simmonds allowed the nurse to leave the room first, and gave a short bow as he closed the door.
“I suppose I should start by thanking you—but I don’t feel very polite today.” Miller’s voice revealed a bitterness, each word spoken as if it was stuttered from a machine gun.
“That’s perfectly understandable, Mr. Miller. You have suffered a terrible bereavement, and you were unable to prevent the death of your sister. Then you were left to suffer.”
“I don’t understand why he didn’t just kill me. Why not shoot me? God knows, he would have done me a great favor. You don’t know the number of times I would have liked to shoot myself since the war.” He turned his head away from Maisie. “I used to do it all, you know. I rode to hounds, played tennis, could give up a good game of rugby. I sailed—Cowes, every year. Then this. Bloody legs won’t do a thing, and I can’t bloody see.”
Maisie was silent for a moment. She did not counter with suggestions of other activities—not yet. And she did not offer condolences or express her sorrow at Miller’s condition. When she spoke, it was with a compassionate, yet matter-of-fact tone.
“Mr. Miller—Robert—I know you’ve answered many questions for the police, but I would like to ask a few this morning. I realize you will have heard most before, but I would like you to bear with me.”
“I suppose it’s the least I can do, considering what you’ve done for me.”
“Yes, we’ll talk about your arrangements later, another day. Just get settled in first. In the meantime, I want you to try to clear your mind.”
“Dear Lord above, I hope you’re not thinking of hypnotizing me.”
“No, of course I’m not,” said Maisie. “But in the process of trying to clear your mind, you avoid any distractions in this room, or for example thinking about Mr. Avis, the gardener, who has just walked past the window stamping his feet, which you can no doubt hear. So, please, do your best to clear away any sounds from around you—except for my voice.”
Miller frowned and raised his chin, as if he were able to look at the ceiling.
“Robert, I want you to cast your mind back to the day of the tragedy. What happened?”
Miller lifted a hand and rubbed his forehead. For a second he covered his sockets, and it occurred to Maisie that he must have been an attractive young man before he fell in battle. “I know there was a visitor, a woman, earlier—that was probably you. I heard Mrs. Bolton answer the door. I heard the back-and-forth of voices, and I heard Mrs. Bolton show you—the visitor—into the drawing room, and then leave after Rosemary had come in from the garden to see you. Emma was probably with her—follows her everywhere.” He paused and lifted his hand to his eyes. “I’m sorry—I mean, followed her everywhere.” He let his hand fall and turned to Maisie. “By the way, I understand you’ve even rescued Em. You’re the perfect little angel of mercy, aren’t you?”
Maisie felt her face become flushed.
“I must apologize yet again. It seems every time I open my mouth, nasty words come out. I truly didn’t mean that, Miss Dobbs.”
“You’re in pain, Mr. Miller—it has to come out somewhere. I’ve found that people in distress, either emotional or physical, often cannot help themselves—as if that which hurts has to be exorcised, and inflicting some sort of harm on another provides an immediate if temporary relief.”
“Well, I’m sorry.” Another pause, another deep breath, and he continued. “Then you left—I heard the door open and close, voices, footsteps crunching down the driveway, and then a motor car start, and you drove off.”
“Then what?”
“Rosie talking to Mrs. Bolton. Then a little while later, I heard her leave the house and run down the drive—I could tell she was running. Crunch-crunch-crunch on that driveway. Then Mrs. Bolton came up with a tray—a sandwich and some lemonade. I asked where Rosie had gone, and Mrs. Bolton said she had walked down the road to the kiosk to make a telephone call—apparently to a shop in Tunbridge Wells. Mrs. Bolton said she was supposed to pick up something and wouldn’t be going in after all. So she was going to ask them to deliver.”
“I see. Then what?”
“I lost a sense of time, then I fell asleep. That happens a lot—as if my mind finds it hard trying to be useful, so it just gives up. And it takes me a while to come to—I’m in a netherworld. I sometimes wonder if they put something in my tea, or my food, to make me go to sleep. It’s such a burden for them, caring for me.”