Maisie noticed that Miller had slipped into the present tense again when speaking of his sister and Mrs. Bolton. She waited. In a moment, he sighed and began again.
“Rosie brought me a cup of tea a bit later, sat with me while I drank it. Then I must have fallen asleep again. At some point I woke up—I think it was dark, because the window was open and the air had that evening feel about it, sort of warm and damp, yet with a chill on the breeze. I hadn’t heard a motor car, though I was aware someone was in the house—I’ve come to realize that you have a different sense of things when you have no sight, and especially if your motions are limited. But Emma hadn’t barked, hadn’t made a fuss, so I thought it might be someone Rosie knew. Or at least, if Emma had not seen the man before, then she was at ease because Rosie had no reason to be afraid. Em is a funny dog—she’s a sweetheart, a real rug dog, and very rarely will she be upset—unless she has due cause. That due cause is invariably associated with those upon whom she has bestowed her affections. I understand she’s now the protector in chief of an evacuee child.”
“Yes, a little girl. They make an interesting pair. I’m hoping Emma can get the child to speak—she’s said only a couple of words, and only to herself, and that took a lot of effort.”
“Oh, I see. Yes, shock can do that to you—I saw it in the war. One of my men, the battalion chatterbox—he was struck dumb when his best mate was blown up next to him, and he was left holding his arm where he had reached to pull him to safety. They put him in an asylum where the doctors tried electric shock to his tongue, but the last I heard, he was still unable to utter a word. Perhaps he needed an Emma.”
The room began to feel musty, as if there were not enough air. Maisie continued speaking to Miller as she opened the French doors to the lawns. “Getting back to the events of Rosemary’s death, when did you know something was wrong?”
“I was still in that sort of half sleep, but I heard raised voices, then two gunshots. What I can’t understand is why Emma ended up locked in the kitchen. Was the killer afraid of dogs, so Rosie put Em away? That’s a possibility. And I know that since war was declared, she said she might have to be careful with Em, being a German breed—you never know which way people will turn. Thank heavens for those Rin Tin Tin pictures Rosie told me about—might make people think more kindly towards dogs like Emma. Anyway, I think that’s what might have happened—and the other possibility is that Emma took a dislike to the caller, and not knowing quite what to do, Rosie shut her away. One thing’s for certain—Rosie or Mrs. Bolton were the only ones who could have put the dog anywhere, no one else. Frankly, I would always trust a dog.”
“Mr. Miller—Robert—could you describe the shots to me?”
Miller furrowed his brow. “It was quick. Smartly done. One shot, then another. A revolver. I’m not an expert, but it sounded like a Browning, something like that—the army teaches you a few things, you know. There was no screaming, no pleading on the part of Rosie or Mrs. Bolton. Not enough time, I would imagine. Just two shots. Then I heard the footsteps back and forth through the rooms. Drawers being opened. Emma was barking, and something was said to her—again, I’m surprised, really. Why didn’t he just shoot her? It was as if he wanted to kill just one person with little other damage—Mrs. Bolton was that other damage. Or perhaps he liked dogs. He certainly didn’t want to kill me—if I was dispensable in his mind, I would be dead, wouldn’t I? In fact, I’d bet it was his intention to shoot me at first, then he saw my sockets—a man can’t identify you if he has no eyes with which to see, can he? And of course there was the wheelchair close by, so it was evident I could hardly get after him, or wrestle him to the ground. But I could yell, and he soon put a stop to that.” Robert Miller allowed his head to drop forward, his chin lowered, almost touching his chest. “You know, I think Rosie put something in my tea after all—I think she wanted me asleep when the visitor came. You see, after she returned to the house—following that walk to the telephone kiosk I have assumed she made—she brought me the cup of tea, insisting I drink every drop. And my sense of taste hasn’t been the same since the war, so I wouldn’t have known if there was a sleeping powder in there. Upon reflection, while I have every reason to believe she could not have predicted her death, she did not want to risk my hearing the visitor. It was all I could do to hear the things I’ve recounted to you—and by the time he entered my room, I didn’t have the fight in me to resist being tied, being silenced.”