‘He was a coward and a liar.’
‘He was your commanding officer in the Western Desert in 1941. You were both involved in the battle of Sidi Rezegh and it was there that you lost your leg.’
‘I lost more than that, Mr Pünd. I was in hospital, in constant pain, for six months. I lost a great many of my friends – all of them better men than Major bloody Moriston could ever hope to be. I’ve already told you all this. He gave the wrong orders. He sent us into that hellhole and then he abandoned us. We were being ripped apart and he was nowhere near.’
‘There was a court martial.’
‘There was an enquiry, after the war.’ Graveney sneered as he spoke the word. ‘Major Moriston insisted that we had acted on our own initiative and that he had done everything he could to bring us back to safety. It was my word against his. Useful, that, wasn’t it! All the other witnesses being blown apart.’
‘It must have been a great shock for you to find him teaching here.’
‘It made me sick. And everyone was the same as you. They thought the world of him. He was the war hero, the father figure, everyone’s best friend. I was the only one who saw through him – and I would have killed him. I’ll give you that much. Don’t think I wasn’t tempted.’
‘Why did you remain here?’
Graveney shrugged. To Fraser, he looked worn out by his experiences, his shoulders slumped, his thick moustache drooping. ‘I had nowhere else to go. Tweed only gave me the job because I’d married Gemma. How else do you think a cripple with no qualifications manages to earn a living? I stayed because I had to and I avoided Moriston as best as I could.’
‘And when he was awarded his medal, when he was given the CBE?’
‘It meant nothing to me. You can stick a piece of metal on a coward and a liar but it won’t change what he is.’
Pünd nodded as if this was the answer he had expected to hear. ‘And so we arrive at the contradiction that is at the heart of the matter,’ he said. ‘The only man at Fawley Park with a motive to kill John Moriston was also the one man who could not possibly have committed the deed.’ He paused. ‘Unless, that is, there was a second person who had also a motive – even the same motive – and who had come to the school with the express purpose of exacting his revenge.’
Sebastian Fleet realised that the detective was staring directly at him. He straightened up, the colour rushing into his cheeks. ‘What are you saying, Mr Pünd? I wasn’t at Sidi Rezegh or anywhere near it. I was ten years old. Rather too young to fight in the war!’
‘That is indeed the case, Mr Fleet. Even so, I remarked when we met that you seemed to be unusually qualified to be working as an English teacher in a preparatory school in the middle of the countryside. You received a first from Oxford University. You have youth and talent. Why have you chosen to bury yourself away here?’
‘I told you that, when we first met. I’m working on a novel!’
‘The novel is important to you. But you interrupted it to write a play.’
‘I was asked to do it. Every year, a member of the staff writes a play, which the staff also performs. It’s a tradition here.’
‘And who was it who asked you?’
Fleet hesitated as if unwilling to provide the answer. ‘It was Mr Graveney,’ he said.
Pünd nodded and Fraser knew that he’d had no need to ask the question. He’d known all along. ‘You dedicated Night Comes Calling to the memory of your father,’ he continued. ‘You told me that he had died quite recently.’
‘A year ago.’
‘And yet it seemed strange to me, when I visited your room, that there was no photograph of him taken in the recent past. Your mother accompanied you on the day that you entered Oxford. Your father was not there. Nor was he present at your graduation.’
‘He was ill.’
‘He was no longer alive, Mr Fleet. Do you think it was not an easy matter for me to discover that a Sergeant Michael Fleet, serving with the 60th Field Regiment of the Royal Artillery, died on 21 November 1941? Will you pretend that he was not related to you and that it was merely a coincidence that brought you to this school? You and Mr Graveney had met at the offices of the Honourable Artillery Company in London. He invited you to Fawley Park. You both had good reason to hate Edward Moriston. It was the same reason.’
Neither Fleet nor Graveney spoke and it was left to the matron to break the silence. ‘Are you saying they did it together?’ she demanded.
‘I am saying that they wrote, created and conceived Night Comes Calling with the express purpose of committing murder. They had decided to take their revenge for what had occurred at Sidi Rezegh. It was Mr Graveney who, I believe, came up with the idea and Mr Fleet who put it into action.’
‘You’re talking nonsense,’ Fleet hissed. ‘I was actually on stage when that person ran through the audience. I was in clear sight of everyone.’
‘No. Everything was constructed to make it seem that you were there, but that is not how it works.’ Pünd got to his feet, using his cane to lever himself up. ‘The ghost makes its appearance at the back of the stage. It is dark. There is smoke. He is wearing the uniform of a First World War soldier. He has a moustache identical to that of Mr Graveney. His face is streaked with blood. He has a bandage around his head. He has very few lines to speak – that is how it has been arranged. It is the power of the writer to make everything work to his own purpose. He calls out one word only: “Agnes!” The voice, distorted by the attack of the mustard gas, is not difficult to fake. But it is not Mr Fleet who is on the stage.