paused for a moment, and then continued. ‘The main trouble in Norfolk was really because a woman came to call at the house one day, collecting subscriptions for the village fête. Richard sent shots to the right and left of her as she was going away, walking down the drive. She bolted like a hare, he said. He roared with laughter when he told us about it. I remember him saying her fat backside was quivering like a jelly. But she went to the police about it, and there was a terrible row.’
‘I can well imagine that,’ was Starkwedder’s dry comment.
‘But Richard got away with it all right,’ Laura told him. ‘He had a permit for all his firearms, of course, and he assured the police that he only used them to shoot rabbits. He explained away poor Miss Butterfield by claiming that she was just a nervous old maid who imagined he was shooting at her, which he swore he would never have done. Richard was always plausible. He had no trouble making the police believe him.’
Starkwedder got up from his footstool and went across to Richard Warwick’s body. ‘Your husband seems to have had a rather perverted sense of humour,’ he observed tartly. He looked down at the table beside the wheelchair. ‘I see what you mean,’ he continued. ‘So a gun by his side was a nightly routine. But surely he couldn’t have expected to shoot anything tonight. Not in this fog.’
‘Oh, he always had a gun put there,’ replied Laura. ‘Every night. It was like a child’s toy. Sometimes he used to shoot into the wall, making patterns. Over there, if you look.’ She indicated the french windows. ‘Down there to the left, behind the curtain.’
Starkwedder went across and lifted the curtain on the left-hand side, revealing a pattern of bullet holes in the panelling. ‘Good heavens, he’s picked out his own initials in the wall. “RW”, done in bullet holes. Remarkable.’ He replaced the curtain, and turned back to Laura. ‘I must admit that’s damned good shooting. Hm, yes. He must have been pretty frightening to live with.’
‘He was,’ Laura replied emphatically. With almost hysterical vehemence, she rose from the sofa and approached her uninvited guest. ‘Must we go on talking and talking about all this?’ she asked in exasperation. ‘It’s only putting off what’s got to happen in the end. Can’t you realize that you’ve got to ring up the police? You’ve no option. Don’t you see it would be far kinder to just do it now? Or is it that you want me to do it? Is that it? All right, I will.’
She moved quickly to the phone, but Starkwedder came up to her as she was lifting the receiver, and put his hand over hers. ‘We’ve got to talk first,’ he told her.
‘We’ve been talking,’ said Laura. ‘And anyway, there’s nothing to talk about.’
‘Yes, there is,’ he insisted. ‘I’m a fool, I dare say. But we’ve got to find some way out.’
‘Some way out? For me?’ asked Laura. She sounded incredulous.
‘Yes. For you.’ He took a few steps away from her, and then turned back to face her. ‘How much courage have you got?’ he asked. ‘Can you lie if necessary–and lie convincingly?’
Laura stared at him. ‘You’re crazy,’ was all she said.
‘Probably,’ Starkwedder agreed.
She shook her head in perplexity. ‘You don’t know what you’re doing,’ she told him.
‘I know very well what I’m doing,’ he answered. ‘I’m making myself an accessory after the fact.’
‘But why?’ asked Laura. ‘Why?’
Starkwedder looked at her for a moment before replying. Then, ‘Yes, why?’ he repeated. Speaking slowly and deliberately, he said, ‘For the simple reason, I suppose, that you’re a very attractive woman, and I don’t like to think of you being shut up in prison for all the best years of your life. Just as horrible as being hanged by the neck until you are dead, in my view. And the situation looks far from promising for you. Your husband was an invalid and a cripple. Any evidence there might be of provocation would rest entirely on your word, a word which you seem extremely unwilling to give. Therefore it seems highly unlikely that a jury would acquit you.’
Laura looked steadily at him. ‘You don’t know me,’ she said. ‘Everything I’ve told you may have been lies.’
‘It may,’ Starkwedder agreed cheerfully. ‘And perhaps I’m a sucker. But I’m believing you.’
Laura looked away, then sank down on the footstool with her back to him. For a few moments nothing was said. Then, turning to face him, her eyes suddenly a light with hope, she looked at him questioningly, and then nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘Yes,’ she told him, ‘I can lie if I have to.’
‘Good,’ Starkwedder exclaimed with determination. ‘Now, talk and talk fast.’ He walked over to the table by the wheelchair, flicking ash in the ashtray. ‘In the first place, who exactly is there in this house? Who lives here?’
After a moment’s hesitation, Laura began to speak, almost mechanically. ‘There’s Richard’s mother,’ she told him. ‘And there’s Benny–Miss Bennett, but we call her Benny–she’s a sort of combined housekeeper and secretary. An ex-hospital nurse. She’s been here for ages, and she’s devoted to Richard. And then there’s Angell. I mentioned him, I think. He’s a male nurse-attendant, and–well, valet, I suppose. He looks after Richard generally.’
‘Are there servants who live in the house as well?’
‘No, there are no live-in servants, only dailies who come in.’ She paused. ‘Oh–and I almost forgot,’ she continued. ‘There’s Jan, of course.’
‘Jan?’ Starkwedder asked, sharply. ‘Who’s Jan?’
Laura gave him an embarrassed look before replying. Then, with an air of reluctance, she said, ‘He’s Richard’s young half-brother. He–he lives with us.’
Starkwedder moved over to the stool where she still sat. ‘Come clean, now,’ he insisted. ‘What is there about Jan that you don’t want to tell me?’
After a moment’s hesitation, Laura spoke, though she still sounded guarded. ‘Jan is a dear,’ she said. ‘Very affectionate and sweet. But–but he isn’t quite like other people. I mean he’s–he’s what they call retarded.’
‘I see,’ Starkwedder murmured sympathetically. ‘But you’re fond of him, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ Laura admitted. ‘Yes–I’m very fond of him. That’s–that’s really why I couldn’t just go away and leave Richard. Because of Jan. You see, if Richard had had his own way, he would have sent Jan to an institution. A place for the mentally retarded.’
Starkwedder slowly circled the wheelchair, looking down at Richard Warwick’s body, and pondering. Then, ‘I see,’ he murmured. ‘Is that the threat he held over you? That, if you left him, he’d send the boy to an institution?’
‘Yes,’ replied Laura. ‘If I–if I believed that I could have earned enough to keep Jan and myself–but I don’t know that I could. And anyway, Richard was the boy’s legal guardian of course.’
‘Was Richard kind to him?’ Starkwedder asked.
‘Sometimes,’ she replied.
‘And at other times?’
‘He’d–he’d quite frequently talk about sending Jan away,’ Laura told him. ‘He’d say to Jan, “They’ll be quite kind to you, boy. You’ll be well looked after. And Laura, I’m sure, would come and see you once or twice a year.” He’d get Jan all worked up, terrified, begging, pleading, stammering. And then Richard would lean back in his chair and roar with laughter. Throw back his head and laugh, laugh, laugh.’
‘I see,’ said Starkwedder, watching her carefully. After a pause, he repeated thoughtfully, ‘I see.’
Laura