Last Act of All Read online

  She attempted, as she set out, to plan tactics, but half-way there, in a flash of clarity, realized her self-delusion. She was no knight-errant, setting out to slay a dragon; she was a woman spoiling for a fight, and when he proved obdurate (as of course he would) she would relish venting her fury directly upon its object.

  Approaching the house, she hesitated. Lilian, by Stephanie’s account, spent her country afternoons closeted with beauty aids and exercise machines, so it should prove simple enough to find Neville on his own, if he was in the house at all. But she certainly did not want to ring the bell again, to have to face Sharon after the last embarrassing encounter.

  To her satisfaction, as she reached the side lawn through the wicket gate, she noticed the French window into Neville’s study was ajar. Perhaps he had gone out that way; if so, she would be waiting for him when he returned.

  Daffodils were blooming damply along the border beneath the windows, and a cherry tree had begun to shake its snow in a browning carpet on the pathway as she crossed it. A thrush, undaunted by the rain, was singing somewhere deep in the shrubbery, and glistening gossamer had been stretched across a budding fuchsia. She hardly noticed; yet every detail etched itself on her mind so sharply that sometimes, later, she thought she could count every strand in the spider’s web.

  She pushed open the door. ‘Neville?’ she said questioningly, ‘Neville? Are you there?’

  Helena had chosen the furnishings for his study herself, in rich, rather sombre shades, to complement the colours in the stained glass panels of the French windows, and the dull reds, blues and burnt oranges made the room dark. For a second she blinked, adjusting to the dimmer light.

  Neville was there, certainly. At least, what had been Neville Fielding remained, slumped across a low, figured walnut desk, hands splayed across it as if trying to support the weight of his body as he had fallen forward in the swivel chair. His right cheek rested on papers spread out on the gilded leather of the desk top, his visible eye wide open, glazed in surprise, though his mouth seemed to have been denied the opportunity to take on any expression at all. The back of his head showed the gleam of bone in the pulpy, gaping wound responsible for the trickle of blood that marked the checked collar of his Tattersall shirt. There was not much blood: it had been a heavy blow, instantly fatal, and the weapon lay, as if thrown down in temper, on the rug at his feet – the long, heavy-knobbed brass poker from the set of fire-dogs.

  At first sight she could not comprehend what she was seeing. She had seen it all too many times: the elaborate stage-set, the carefully-structured wounds, the professional immobility of the actor. At any moment a voice off would say, ‘OK, Neville, that’s great,’ and he would get up, rubbing his back and complaining of stiffness.

  But he didn’t. She found she was holding her breath, and the room swung crazily round her. She steadied herself on the back of a chair, shutting her eyes briefly as if she could blot it all out, start again.

  And still he lay there. She felt, ludicrously, at a loss. Perhaps one should scream – But she had not screamed, and now, though she opened her mouth, no sound came. She could rouse the others in this silent house, fetch help...But it was all too hideously clear that Neville was far beyond human assistance.

  The police. Here, at last, was firm ground. Middle-class conditioning: dial 999 and ask for service required. There was a phone on the fireside table, and she turned to cross the room.

  She did not register it at first, stepping over it carefully with some dim recollection that nothing must be touched at the scene of the crime. Indeed, her hand was already on the telephone when the significance struck her, with a force which dropped her into a chair as neatly as if she had been hit across the back of the knees.

  Stephanie’s riding-crop. She recognized it, because she had bought it herself as a Christmas present; besides, there were the initials, SF, burnt for identification along the wood.

  In her horrified mind, the scene took shape in graphic detail: Stephanie goaded beyond endurance by her father; he, turning his back on her in arrogant dismissal; she, throwing down her riding-crop to seize the poker—

  She buried her face in her hands. Oh Stephie, Stephie! Why had she not come to her mother, instead of locking herself in her room with, this nightmare? Perhaps, between them, they could have concocted an alibi...

  Perhaps they still could. On the thought, she leaped to her feet. No one knew she was here. She could be down the hill in five minutes, and tell the police, when they inevitably came, that she and Stephanie had been in the house together all afternoon. She grabbed the tell-tale crop, then forced herself to pause and think.

  Stephanie might have been wearing her riding-gloves. But if not... Feverishly, she rummaged in her pockets for a handkerchief, suddenly afraid that the door might at any moment open to admit Sharon or Lilian.

  There was no place for squeamishness. She grasped the poker in the handkerchief, rubbing fiercely up and down the length of its shaft, trying not to see the ugly detritus on the knob.

  Her instinct was the oldest of all; to protect her child. She felt nothing for Neville. If he had driven their loving, normal Stephanie to the point where she could do this, he was not fit to live, still less to exact vengeance. She had no time to contemplate the wider problems.

  Yet, despite her haste, she paused in the window aperture, under some elegiac compulsion to look once more.

  It still bore the appearance of theatrical unreality, with a whiff of Bradman in the air. It was as if he had staged it all, as if death were merely the inevitable denouement. In another moment, if she lingered, she would hear Harry’s ghostly laughter in the wings.

  Clasping her hands to her ears, she fled, plunging down the pathway as if shadowy terrors snapped at her heels.

  *

  It was almost four o’clock when, breathless, she slipped in through the back door. Stephanie – she must tell her that she knew, coach her in her answers…

  The sound of Edward’s voice, calling hopefully, ‘Helena? Are you there?’ presented a more immediate problem. She could not tell him; the only people in the secret must be Stephanie and herself. She could not ask Edward to perjure himself for her child, could not, in truth, be sure he would not insist on honesty as the only way, and she was not sure she could withstand him.

  Dabbing frantically at the dampness clinging to her hair, and schooling her voice, she called, ‘In the kitchen,’ and turned to resume her interrupted baking, thankful that shock left fewer identifiable marks upon the face than grief.

  She even managed a sort of smile as Edward came in. ‘How was the vicar?’

  Edward, preoccupied and distressed, barely noticed her. ‘In a bad way,’ he said heavily. ‘To tell you the truth, I don’t know how he’s going to take a service tomorrow. Marcia’s walked out — left him with the children, and I don’t think he has an idea what to do. He was late for our meeting, then came along wringing his hands and saying he couldn’t cope without her. I really wonder if, as church-warden, I should ring the Bishop.’

  She heard her own voice saying, quite calmly, ‘I would leave things over the weekend, if I were you. She may come back of her own accord.’ And anyway, she thought with detachment, no one will be noticing the quality of the sermon.

  ‘Shall I make some tea?’

  ‘Yes please.’ She abandoned all pretence of baking, and went to fetch cups and saucers. She discovered her hands were shaking in delayed shock, shaking so that she had to lift each one separately to stop them clattering like castanets.

  ‘What about Stephanie?’ Edward asked, as he carried through the tray ‘Shall I call her?’

  ‘She’s up in her room. Just leave her.’ Keeping her voice level took all the control she had.

  But the tea, and the quiet sitting-room, steadied her. There was no reason why the police should even question Stephanie, now that the crucial evidence was safely in the cupboard under the kitchen sink. After the events of last night, surely they would assu
me that this was connected, and Edward had been confident that they would get no information from the village.

  She was just considering making an excuse to go up and see Stephanie, when Edward lowered his newspaper to say in tones of mild surprise, ‘Good gracious, isn’t that a police car? Oh, last night, of course. I suppose they’ll be talking to everyone.’

  It was a man and a woman who came in, both in plain clothes. The man, Inspector Coppins, big and bulky in a dark raincoat, did most of the talking while the girl, Frances Howarth, his sergeant, made discreet jottings in a black notebook.

  As an actress, Helena was almost sure her reaction was convincing. She sketched in disbelief, shock and distress — though not too much distress, since her relationship with her former husband was well documented.

  Once the news had been broken, the questioning, studiedly unemphatic, began.

  ‘Your movements, sir? Oh, just a matter of routine, of course. And yours, Mrs Radley?’

  Edward, at least, could refer him to Willie Comberton and his grandfather clock — Willie was always very definite on questions of time — which left only about five minutes unaccounted for while he waited for the vicar. Helena said she had been at home.

  ‘My daughter was here, so we can vouch for each other.’ There, she had said it, and a thunderbolt hadn’t struck her dead.

  ‘She wasn’t out at all then, either?’

  ‘Yes—’

  ‘No—’

  She and Edward spoke simultaneously, and glanced towards each other, Edward with a look of surprise on his face. She corrected herself.

  ‘Oh, sorry — yes, she was out, of course, but only for a very short time. She came back minutes after you left, Edward.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Perhaps he saw too much; certainly he said nothing more.

  ‘Perhaps we could have a word with your daughter,’ the policewoman suggested delicately. It was the first time she had spoken, and even in her anxiety Helena noticed that she had a particularly pleasant voice.

  ‘I think that must be later. She’s very devoted to her father — it will come as a terrible shock.’

  Sure of her ground, Helena’s tone made it clear that this was final.

  ‘Naturally,’ the other woman was saying, when without warning the door opened and Stephanie came in. Her hair was dishevelled and she had clearly been crying.

  ‘I — I saw the car. What’s — what’s happening?’ she stammered.

  ‘I think we should go upstairs—’ Helena got to her feet, but with fatal stubbornness Stephanie held her ground.

  ‘No. Whatever it is, tell me now. Is it — is it Daddy?’ Inwardly, Helena groaned. Why did she have to draw suspicion on herself in that way? She put an arm round her. ‘I’m afraid it’s very dreadful, darling. Daddy’s been killed — you know there was that trouble last night—’

  It sounded bald, but somehow she must prevent the child from giving herself away.

  ‘Daddy—’ She went white to the lips, and the chief inspector rose.

  ‘I think we should leave you for the moment. We can get detailed statements at a more suitable time,’ he said, and Helena could have embraced him.

  But the quiet sergeant with the watchful eyes paused over her notebook, as if checking what she had written.

  ‘Now, have I got that right? You and your daughter — you were in together virtually all afternoon?’

  Stephanie, though she still looked dazed, turned at that. ‘I wasn’t in,’ she said flatly. ‘Not for the first half of the afternoon.’

  The policeman, on his way to the door, checked. The policewoman had not removed her eyes from the girl’s face. ‘Not in, Stephanie?’

  ‘Well, of course you were out, just for a little while. I mentioned that. But you were in all the rest of the afternoon, remember? We were in together.’

  Helena was talking too fast, unconvincingly; she knew that, but she had to signal to Stephanie somehow, tell her she had her mother protecting her, no matter what she had done.

  But Stephanie’s brow was creasing in bewilderment. ‘I went up to Radnesfield House,’ she said slowly. ‘I saw Dad, and I had a blazing row with him.’ She bit her lip, holding back tears, then steadfastly went on, ‘In fact, I threw my whip at him, I was so angry. Then I rushed out through the French windows across to the Home Farm and rode Jim’s horse for a bit, but that didn’t make me feel any better, so I came back here.’

  To Helena, the silence seemed interminable. Then, ‘So you went out, leaving the window open? That would be — what time, Stephanie?’ The policewoman’s low voice again.

  She frowned, steadied by the effort of having to consider details. ‘About two o’clock, probably, when I left. It must have been about quarter to two when I went from here.’

  Two or three pages were neatly flipped back in the notebook. ‘Ah, yes, that would be when Sharon Thomas heard Mr Fielding shouting. She went in after that to collect the coffee cups.’

  Helena was finding it hard to assimilate. ‘And — and he was alive at that time?’

  ‘Oh, yes, last seen at about 2.10. So death took place between then and four o’clock when the girl — what’s-her-name — took in the tea-tray, just before Mrs Fielding came downstairs.’ That was the inspector.

  The relief was dizzying. She managed to say nothing, but her heart was singing hallelujahs.

  It was Stephanie, now beginning to shiver with shock, who said slowly, ‘So we weren’t really together all afternoon, Mummy...’

  The realization hit Helena like a douche of icy water, and she noticed, for the first time, the eyes of the younger detective. They were a light hazel in colour, and they were fixed upon her with a sharpness of gaze that would have transfixed a butterfly to a board.

  *

  It was an open-and-shut case, apparently. Sharon had described, with dramatic relish, Helena’s parting with Neville in the morning. She had been spotted by Sandra Daley as she went up to the house at 3.45; Tamara Farrell, engaged in robbing nests in the little wood, had seen her run back, in obvious distress, ten minutes later. Her fingerprints were on the French window, a nearby chairback, and the telephone, while a search-warrant allowed the police to find the riding-crop and the incriminating handkerchief. Most damning of all, on her own admission she had told a string of lies and attempted to use her daughter to provide a false alibi.

  Edward believed her, of course. At least, he said he did, though she was sure that, whatever his private thoughts might be, that was what he would say.

  She had tried to explain to Stephanie, wary and hurt at being used in a lie, that she had been trying to protect her. The child’s response, an incredulous, shrinking, ‘You thought I could do that? To Daddy?’ left her with the feeling that she had only made bad worse. Oh, how could she tell? Perhaps Stephanie believed her – but by now, things like that were ceasing to have any importance.

  Henry Stanton certainly didn’t believe her. ‘Of course I believe you, dear lady,’ he purred, with that, unctuousness which she loathed. ‘But alas, it is not I whom you must convince, and I’m afraid we must accept that a jury, not knowing you as well as I am privileged to do, may be a trifle swayed by the evidence.’

  The police, it appeared, were satisfied; they had checked other people’s movements, but in a perfunctory way, and Helena was charged.

  With some skill, Stanton managed to achieve bail for her, and she was allowed home, into a limbo where she became daily more detached from everyday life.

  So it was, when Stanton, seconded by an anxious Edward, pointed out yet again that in the circumstances, with no fresh evidence, pleading guilty to manslaughter would be, if the prosecution accepted it, the tactic most likely to result in a suspended sentence, she agreed, feeling drearily that her life was meaningless, anyway.

  Elated, Stanton expanded his point. ‘Provocation, my dear lady, extreme provocation, and motherly instincts for the protection of the interests of your only child. That, coupled with the evidence we have traced
of physical brutality and mental cruelty over a period of years, should make even the most case-hardened judge favour a suspended sentence. And we will of course put you up to give evidence in mitigation—’

  ‘No.’ So there was, after all, something she still cared about. ‘You can make whatever submissions you like on my behalf, but I will not give evidence, except to assert my innocence.’

  He was appalled. ‘Mrs Radley, that will ruin everything! The assumption will be that you have something to hide. Say you have forgotten – blotted it out, a sort of brainstorm—’

  Edward too tried persuasion, even anger, but she was, for once, adamant. ‘You may do what you like,’ she said. ‘I accept all you say, but I will not commit perjury.’

  Stanton sighed heavily. She was proving ludicrously stubborn; perhaps she had really managed to convince herself that she was innocent, even if she couldn’t convince anyone else. ‘We will do our best. The Counsel we have retained is an excellent pleader, but you are tying his hands.’

  Ignoring Edward’s agonized face, Helena said flatly, ‘So be it.’

  She only knew that Stephanie had believed her the night they took her in to await sentencing. Summoned downstairs to say goodbye, Stephanie came slowly, her face ravaged and her eyes puffy with tears.

  Helena held her for a moment in a short, fierce hug. ‘Oh, Stephanie!’

  The girl stepped out of her embrace. ‘Mum,’ she said with difficulty, ‘they say in the paper you’re pleading guilty. They’ve got it wrong as usual, haven’t they?’ Her voice was beseeching.

  Helena swallowed hard. They had tried to shield Stephanie from discussion and distress; now she knew with terrible, icy clarity, how wrong this decision had been.

  ‘I have to plead guilty, my darling, but—’

  She had no chance to finish. Stephanie drew back, her eyes widening in horror. ‘You didn’t—’ she got out, and then she began to scream, scream upon scream, till Edward slapped her. But as Helena was driven away, the voice echoed in her ears, ‘I never want to see you again!’