"I did not mean that," said Tina. "I meant your real mother."
"Why should I think about her? I never saw her after I was six years old."
"But, Micky, you did think about her. All the time." 138
"Did I ever tell you so?"
"Sometimes one knows about these things," said Tina.
Micky turned and looked at her.
"You're such a quiet, soft little creature, Tina. Like a little black cat. I want to stroke your fur the right way. Nice pussy! Pretty little pussy!" His hand stroked the sleeve of her coat.
Tina, sitting very still, smiled at him as he did so.
Micky said: "You didn't hate her, did you, Tina? All the rest of us did."
"That was very unkind," said Tina. She shook her head at him and went on with some energy: "Look what she gave you, all of you. A home, warmth, kindness, good food, toys to play with, people to look after you and keep you safe -"
"Yes, yes," said Micky, impatiently. "Saucers of cream and lots of fur-stroking. That was all you wanted, was it, little pussy cat?"
"I was grateful for it," said Tina. "None of you were grateful."
"Don't you understand, Tina, that one can't be grateful when one ought to be? In some ways it makes it worse, feeling the obligation of gratitude. I didn't want to be brought here. I didn't want to be given luxurious surroundings. I didn't want to be taken away from my own home."
"You might have been bombed," Tina pointed out. "You might have been killed."
"What would it matter? I wouldn't mind being killed. I'd have been killed in my own place, with my own people about me. Where I belonged. There you are, you see. We're back to it again. There's nothing so bad as not belonging. But you, little pussy cat, you only care for material things."
"Perhaps that is true in a way," said Tina. "Perhaps that is why I do not feel like the rest of you. I do not feel that odd resentment that you all seem to feel - you most of all, Micky. It is easy for me to be grateful because, you see, I did not want to be myself. I did not want to be where I was. I wanted to escape from myself. I wanted to be someone else. And she made me into someone else. She made me into Christina Argyle with a home and with affection. Secure. Safe. I loved Mother because she gave me all those things."
"What about your own mother? Don't you ever think of her?"
"Why should I? I hardly remember her. I was only three years old, remember, when I came here. I was always frightened - terrified - with her. All those noisy quarrels with seamen, and she herself-1 suppose, now that I am old enough to remember properly, that she must have been drunk most of the time." Tina spoke in a detached, wondering voice. "No, I do not think about her, or remember her. Mrs. Argyle was my mother. This is my home."
"It's so easy for you, Tina," said Micky.
"And why is it hard for you? Because you make it so! It was not Mrs. Argyle you hated, Micky, it was your own mother. Yes, I know that what I am saying is true. And if you killed Mrs. Argyle, as you may have done, then it was your own mother you wanted to kill."
"Tina! What the hell are you talking about?"
"And now," went on Tina, talking calmly, "you have nobody to hate any longer. And that makes you quite lonely, doesn't it? But you've got to learn to live without hate, Micky. It may be difficult, but it can be done."
"I don't know what you're talking about. What did you mean by saying that I may have killed her? You know perfectly well I was nowhere near here that day. I was testing out a customer's car up on the Moor Road, by Minchin Hill."
"Were you?" said Tina.
She got up and stepped forward till she stood at the Look-out Point from where you could look down to the river below.
"What are you getting at, Tina?" Micky came up behind her.
Tina pointed down to the beach.
"Who are those two people down there?"
Micky gave a quick cursory glance.
"Hester and her doctor pal, I think," he said. "But Tina, what did you mean? For God's sake don't stand there right at the edge."
"Why - do you want to push me over? You could. I'm very small, you know."
Micky said hoarsely: "Why do you say I may have been here that evening?"
Tina did not answer. She turned and began walking back up the path to the house.
"Tina!"
Tina said in her, quiet, soft voice: "I'm worried, Micky. I'm very worried about Hester and Don Craig."
"Never mind about Hester and her boy friend."
"But I do mind about them. I am afraid that Hester is very unhappy."
"We're not talking about them."
"I am talking about them. They matter, you see."
"Have you believed all along, Tina, that I was here the night Mother was killed?"
Tina did not reply.
"You didn't say anything at the time."
"Why should I? There was no need. I mean, it was so obvious that Jacko had killed her."
"And now it's equally obvious that Jacko didn't kill her."
Again Tina nodded.
"And so?" Micky asked. "And so?"
She did not answer him, but continued to walk up the Path to the house.
Ill
On the little beach by the point, Hester scuffled the sand with the point of her shoe.
"I don't see what there is to talk about," she said.
"You've got to talk about it," said Don Craig.
"I don't see why. Talking about a thing never does any good - it never makes it any better."
"You might at least tell me what happened this morning."
"Nothing," said Hester.
"What do you mean - nothing? The police came along, didn't they?"
"Oh yes, they came along."
"Well, then, did they question you all?"
"Yes," said Hester, "they questioned us."
"What sort of questions?"
"All the usual ones," said Hester. "Really just the same as before. Where we were and what we did, and when we last saw Mother alive. Really, Don, I don't want to talk about it any more. It's over now."
"But it isn't over, dearest. That's just the point."
"I don't see why you need to fuss," said Hester. "You're not mixed up in this."
"Darling, I want to help you. Don't you understand?"
"Well, talking about it doesn't help me. I just want to forget. If you'd help me to forget, that would be different."
"Hester, dearest, it's no good running away from things. You must face them."
"I've been facing them, as you call it, all the morning."
"Hester, I love you. You know that, don't you?"
"I suppose so," said Hester.
"What do you mean, you suppose so?"
"Going on and on about it all."
"But I have to do that."
"I don't see why. You're not a policeman."
"Who was the last person to see your mother alive?"
"I was," said Hester.
"I know. That was just before seven, wasn't it, just before you came out to meet me."
"Just before I came out to go to Drymouth - to the Playhouse," said Hester.
"Well, I was at the Playhouse, wasn't I?"
"Yes, of course you were."
"You did know then, didn't you, Hester, that I loved you?"
"I wasn't sure," said Hester. "I wasn't even sure then that I was beginning to love you."
"You'd no reason, had you, no earthly reason for doing away with your mother?" "No, not really," said Hester. "What do you mean by not really?"
"I often thought about killing her," said Hester in a matter-of-fact voice. "I used to say 'I wish she was dead, I wish she was dead.' Sometimes," she added, "I used to dream that I killed her."
"In what way did you kill her in your dream?"
For a moment Don Craig was no longer the lover but the interested young doctor.
"Sometimes I shot her," said Hester cheerfully, "and sometimes I banged her on the head."
Dr. Craig groaned.
/>
"That was just dreaming," said Hester. "I'm often very violent in dreams."
"Listen, Hester." The young man took her hand in his. "You've got to tell me the truth. You've got to trust me."
"I don't understand what you mean," said Hester.
"The truth, Hester. I want the truth. I love you - and I'll stand by you. If - if you killed her I -1 think I can find out the reasons why. I don't think it will have been exactly your fault. Do you understand? Certainly I'd never go to the police about it. It will be between you and me only. Nobody else will suffer. The whole thing will die down for want of evidence. But I've got to know." He stressed the last word strongly.
Hester was looking at him. Her eyes were wide, almost unfocused.
"What do you want me to say to you?" she said.
"I want you to tell me the truth."
"You think you know the truth already, don't you? You think -1 killed her."
"Hester, darling, don't look at me like that." He took her by the shoulders and shook her gently. "I'm a doctor. I know the reasons behind these things. I know that people can't always be held responsible for their actions. I know you for what you are - sweet and lovely and essentially all right. I'll help you. I'll look after you. We'll get married, then we'll be happy. You need never feel lost, unwanted, tyrannised over. The things we do often spring from reasons most people don't understand."
"That's very much what we all said about Jacko, isn't it?" said Hester.
"Never mind Jacko. It's you I'm thinking about. I love you so very much, Hester, but I've got to know the truth."
"The truth?" said Hester.
A very slow, mocking smile curved the corners of her mouth upwards.
"Please, darling."
Hester turned her head and looked up.
"There's Gwenda calling me. It must be lunch time."
"Hester!"
"Would you believe me if I told you I didn't kill her?"
"Of course I'd - I'd believe you."
"I don't think you would," said Hester.
She turned sharply away from him and began running up the path. He made a movement to follow her, then abandoned it.
"Oh, hell," said Donald Craig. "Oh, hell!"
Chapter 15
"But I don't want to go home just yet," said Philip Durrant. He spoke with plaintive irritability.
"But, Philip, really, there's nothing to stay here for, any longer. I mean, we had to come to see Mr. Marshall to discuss the thing, and then wait for the police interviews. But now there's nothing to stop us going home right away."
"I think your father's quite happy for us to stop on for a bit," said Philip, "he likes having someone to play chess with in the evenings. My word, he's a wizard at chess. I thought I wasn't bad, but I never get the better of him."
"Father can find someone else to play chess with," said Mary shortly. "What - whistle someone up from the Women's Institute?"
"And anyway, we ought to go home," said Mary. "Tomorrow is Mrs. Carden's day for doing the brasses."
"Polly, the perfect housewife!" said Philip laughing. "Anyway, Mrs. Whatshername can do the brasses without you, can't she? Or if she can't, send her a telegram and tell her to let them moulder for another week."
"You don't understand, Philip, about household things, and how difficult they are."
"I don't see that any of them are difficult unless you make them difficult. Anyway, I want to stop on."
"Oh, Philip," Mary spoke with exasperation, "I do so hate it here." "But why?"
"It's so gloomy, so miserable and - and all that's happened here. The murder and everything."
"Now, come, Polly, don't tell me you're amass of nerves over things of that kind. I'm sure you could take murder without turning a hair. No, you want to go home because you want to see to the brasses and dust the place and make sure no moths have got into your fur coat."
"Moths don't go into fur coats in winter," said Mary.
147
"Well, you know what I mean, Polly. The general idea. But you see, from my point of view, it's so much more interesting here."
"More interesting than being in our own home?" Mary sounded both shocked and hurt. Philip looked at her quickly.
"I'm sorry, darling, I didn't put it very well. Nothing could be nicer than our own home, and you've made it really lovely. Comfortable, neat, attractive. You see, it'd be quite different if - if I were like I used to be. I mean, I'd have lots of things to do all day. I'd be up to my ears in schemes. And it would be perfect coming back to you and having our own home, talking about everything that had happened during the day. But you see, it's different now."
"Oh, I know it's different in that way," said Mary. "Don't think I ever forget that, Phil. I do mind. I mind most terribly."
"Yes," said Philip, and he spoke almost between his teeth. "Yes, you mind too much, Mary. You mind so much that sometimes it makes me mind more. All I want is distraction and - no -" he held up his hand -" don't tell me that I can get distraction from jigsaw puzzles and all the gadgets of occupational therapy and having people to come and give me treatment, and reading endless books. I want so badly sometimes to get my teeth into something! And here, in this house, there is something to get one's teeth into."
"Philip," Mary caught her breath, "you're not still harping on - on that idea of yours?"
"Playing at Murder Hunt?" said Philip. "Murder, murder, who did the murder? Yes, Polly, you're not far off. I want desperately to know who did it."
"But why? And how can you know? If somebody broke in or found the door open -"
"Still harping on the outsider theory?" asked Philip. "It won't wash, you know. Old Marshall put a good face upon it. But actually he was just helping us to keep face. Nobody believes in that beautiful theory. It just isn't true."
"Then you must see, if it isn't true," Mary interrupted him, "if it isn't true - if it was, as you put it, one of us, then I don't want to know. Why should we know? Aren't we - aren't we a hundred times better not knowing?"
Philip Durrant looked up at her questioningly.
"Putting your head in the sand, eh, Polly? Haven't you any natural curiosity?"
"I tell you I don't want to know! I think it's all horrible. I want to forget it and not think about it."
"Didn't you care enough for your mother to want to know who killed her?"
"What good would it do, knowing who killed her? For two years we've been quite satisfied that Jacko killed her."
"Yes," said Philip, "lovely the way we've all been satisfied."
His wife looked at him doubtfully.
"I don't, I really don't know what you mean, Philip."
"Can't you see, Polly, that in a way this is a challenge to me? A challenge to my intelligence? I don't mean that I've felt your mother's death particularly keenly or that I was particularly fond of her. I wasn't. She'd done her very best to stop you marrying me, but I bore her no grudge for that because I succeeded in carrying you off all right. Didn't I, my girl? No, it's not a wish for revenge, it's not even a passion for justice. I think it's - yes, mainly curiosity, though perhaps there's a better side to it than that."
"It's the sort of thing you oughtn't to meddle about with," said Mary. "No good can come of your meddling about with it. Oh, Philip, please, please don't. Let's go home and forget all about it."
"Well," said Philip, "you can pretty well cart me anywhere you like, can't you? But I want to stay here. Don't you sometimes want me to do what I want to do?"
"I want you to have everything in the world you want," said Mary.
"You don't really, darling. You just want to look after me like a baby in arms and know what's best for me every day and in every possible way." He laughed.
Mary said, looking at him doubtfully: "I never know when you're serious or not."
"Apart from curiosity," said Philip Durrant, "somebody ought to find out the truth, you know."
"Why? What good can it do? Having someone else sent to prison. I thin
k it's a horrible idea."
"You don't quite understand," said Philip. "I didn't say that I'd turn in whoever it was (if I discovered who it was) to the police. I don't think that I would. It depends, of course, on the circumstances. Probably it wouldn't be any use my turning them over to the police because I still think that there couldn't be any real evidence."