FOURTEEN
TO MY SURPRISE, THE Inspector suggested that the interview be conducted in my chemical laboratory.
“Where we shall be undisturbed,” he had said.
It wasn’t his first visit to my sanctum sanctorum: He had been here at the time of the Horace Bonepenny affair, and had called the laboratory “extraordinary.”
This time, with no more than a rapid glance at Yorick, the fully articulated skeleton that had been given to Uncle Tar by the naturalist Frank Buckland, the Inspector had sat himself down on a tall stool, put one foot on a rung, and pulled out his notebook.
“What time did you discover Miss Wyvern’s body?” he asked, getting down to brass tacks without any pleasant preliminaries.
“I can’t be sure,” I said. “Midnight, perhaps, or a quarter past.”
He sat with his Biro poised above the page.
“This is important,” he said. “Crucial, in fact.”
“How long does the balcony scene in Romeo and Juliet run?” I asked.
He seemed a little taken aback.
“Capulet’s orchard? I don’t really know. Not more than ten minutes, I should say.”
“It took longer than that,” I told him. “They were late getting started, and then—”
“Yes?”
“Well, there was that business with Gil Crawford.”
I supposed that someone would have informed him about it by now, but I could tell by the way he gripped his Biro that they had not.
“Tell it to me in your own words,” he said, and I did: the failure of the spotlight to pick out Phyllis Wyvern at her first appearance … her coming down from the makeshift balcony … her walk up the aisle to the scaffolding … her climb up into the darkness … the stinging swat across Gil Crawford’s face.
It all came pouring out, and I was surprised by the outrage I had been bottling up. By the time I finished I was on the verge of tears.
“Most upsetting,” the Inspector said. “What was your reaction—at the time?”
My answer shocked me.
“I wanted to kill her,” I said.
We sat there in silence for what seemed like an eternity, but was, in fact, probably no longer than ten seconds.
“Are you going to put that in your notebook?” I asked at last.
“No,” he said, in another, softer voice. “It was more of a personal question.”
This was too good an opportunity to miss. Here, at last, was a chance to ease the ache that had been in my conscience since that dreadful day in October.
“I’m sorry!” I blurted. “I didn’t mean to … Antigone … your wife.”
He closed his notebook.
“Flavia …” he said.
“It was horrid of me,” I told him. “I didn’t think before I spoke. Antigone—Mrs. Hewitt, I mean, must have been so disappointed with me.”
I could hear my own voice ringing in my ears.
“Why don’t you and Inspector Hewitt have any children? Surely you can afford it on an Inspector’s salary?”
It had been meant lightly—almost a joke.
My spirits had been elevated by her presence, her beauty, and perhaps by the chemistry of too much sugar from too many pieces of cake. I had been a glutton.
I’d sat there glaring at her gleefully like some London toff who has just made a capital joke and is waiting for everyone else in the room to get it.
“Surely you can afford it on an Inspector’s salary?”
I’d almost said it again.
“We’ve lost three,” Antigone Hewitt had said with infinite heartbreak in her voice, taking her husband’s hand.
“I should like to go home now,” I’d announced abruptly, as if the power to utter every other word in the English language had been denied me.
The Inspector had driven me back to Buckshaw in a silence of my own choosing, and I had leapt out of his car without so much as a word of thanks.
“Not so much disappointed as sad,” he said, bringing me back to the present. “We haven’t been as successful as some in getting to grips with it.”
“She must hate me.”
“No. Hate is for haters.”
I saw what he meant, although I couldn’t have explained it.
“Like whoever it was that killed Phyllis Wyvern,” I suggested.
“Exactly,” he said, and after a pause, “Now, where were we?”
“Gil Crawford,” I reminded him. “And then she went on with the play as if nothing had happened.”
“That would have been about seven twenty-five?”
“Yes.”