“Except it didn’t quite go as planned, did it?” Alex asked. The restrained anger in his eyes reflected my own. “He went to the woods to do the job, but something killed him instead. The dog didn’t get put down.”
“It’s unnatural, that’s what it is,” said Alice. Her cheeks were flushed despite the cold wind. “That girl was not only mad, but she was some kind of witch. She summoned a beast to kill my husband. When I read about what had been done to the man they found—what kind of wounds he had—” She stopped, swallowed. “He was in pieces. Something ripped him open from head to toe. They never identified him, but I knew it was him. He got a telephone call early that morning, and then he left without a word, and he didn’t come home. At first I didn’t realize what had happened, but when I saw the article in the newspaper, I knew. The Forsyths killed my husband.” She looked at my shocked, outraged expression, her eyes tired and hostile as the wind tried to tear the scarf from her hair. “That girl jumped. Maybe she felt guilty about George. I don’t know, and I don’t care. All I know is that George is gone, and the money never came. I can tell by the look of you that you don’t have a child. If you did, you’d think differently of me.”
“Enough,” Alex said calmly. “We don’t have more time to waste. Mrs. Sanders, we need to know exactly who hired your husband. Who contacted him and promised him the money? Who made the telephone call that morning?”
But she shook her head. “I don’t know.”
It was the truth. If Alice Sanders had known who to blackmail, she wouldn’t have contacted Martin. She’d likely tried him because of George’s letter, and she thought he’d be the easiest touch now that he was home.
Alex must have known the hopelessness of it, but still he pressed her. “George gave you no clue?” he asked. “There’s nothing you can remember?”
“There’s nothing,” she replied coldly. “It was you yourself, for all I know. Everyone in that family is the same to me. I have to go back inside now. What are you going to do about my money?”
“I will speak to the Forsyths about it,” Alex told her. “I’m their representative in this matter. You’ll be hearing from me very soon.”
We made the miserable walk back to the inn in silence, clamping our hats down in the wind, hunching beneath our coats. Rain had begun, but our lack of an umbrella made no difference—any umbrella would have been turned into useless metal and cloth within minutes. There was no way we could talk easily in such weather, and in any case, neither of us wanted to discuss what we’d just heard. What Alice Sanders had told us was too upsetting to speak of.
We arrived cold and wet back at the inn, and found that we were the only patrons. The innkeeper had built up a hearth fire in the main room, and we took off our coats and hats and pulled up two chairs, soaking up the dry warmth. My hands were chilled through despite my gloves, as were my knees and my feet. We refused food, but the innkeeper brought us each a brandy, which he set on the small table between us before leaving us alone.
We sat contemplating the flames for a while as the wind howled in the windowpanes. I patted my hair, which was coming disastrously loose from its pins, then gave up hope and put my hands back in my lap.
“He could have done it,” I said at last. “George Sanders could have come into the house and killed her, then been killed while he was escaping. Dottie heard a sound at the back of the house. It could have been him, entering or leaving.”
“It’s possible,” Alex said. “His body wasn’t found until hours later. There’s no way to pinpoint exactly when he died.”
“It could have been after Frances died, then,” I said.
“Or we’re both wrong, and she jumped,” he replied.
“No,” I said. I thought of the things rearranged in my room, the photographs, Fran walking to the door to the roof, the sketchbook in my bed. It had been terrifying at the time, but now I saw that it was desperate and sad. “She didn’t jump.”
Alex turned to me. “We have to face it, Jo. If she didn’t jump, someone close pushed her from the roof. Her mother, her father, David Wilde. Someone she knew well enough, trusted well enough, to follow all the way to the roof without screaming for help.”
“She may not have followed willingly,” I said. “She could have been threatened, drugged, or knocked unconscious.”
“It was all so bloody fast,” Alex said. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and put his head in his hands, scrubbing his hands through his hair. “What a mess,” he said. He rubbed his hands over his eyes, and I saw that he was more tired than even I’d realized. “I’ll find a way to solve this.”