Death Speaks Softly (18 page)

As if to test him, someone else raised a point, and again Bernard struggled to express himself. After his previous fluency, his difficulty was embarrassing. Beryl breathed a sigh of relief as someone walked on the platform to propose a vote of thanks—
why
couldn't he have got up sooner?— and Bernard, still looking bemused, was shepherded away.

'What's with this guy?' demanded an American voice in the row in front. 'All day he's clued up, now suddenly he dries. What gives?'

Claire, with a glance at Beryl's stricken face, rose to her feet and, taking her friend's arm, led her out of the room. She wished passionately that they'd come in her car; the thought of entrusting themselves to Bernard's driving filled her with alarm, and she wondered if there were some way of avoiding it. In the event, Beryl forestalled her.

Bernard was standing in the hall waiting for them, and they saw the puzzlement of the man beside him. He turned with relief as they came up.

'Ah, there you are, ladies. A fascinating day, as I was telling the Professor. I'm sure he inspired many of his listeners to read Brouge. We're most grateful to him for coming along.'

Beryl took Bernard's arm. 'You look tired, dear,' she said firmly. 'I'll drive home.'

To Claire's surprise, he made no demur, and they walked out into the warm afternoon. Moving like a sleepwalker, he allowed Beryl to guide him to the car and help him inside.

'I only heard snatches,' Claire said, gamely backing Beryl's semblance of normality, 'but it was fascinating, Bernard. I found myself wondering, since so little was known of Brouge, how you first came across him?'

He'd been fastening his seat-belt, but his head reared up. Another question, she thought in alarm; she shouldn't have asked. But apparently this answer lay near the surface.

'When I was studying in Paris,' he said, a quiver in his voice, 'someone saw a book of his on a stall and handed it to me.'

'And that was it?' Claire was genuinely interested. 'It all stemmed from that?'

There was a pause while Beryl started the car. Then Bernard repeated dreamily, 'It all stemmed from that.'

Claire dared ask no more.

*

It had been an uncomfortable day, and Beryl was glad it was over. Bernard, exhausted, had retired to bed immediately after supper. When she herself went up, he was deeply asleep, but there was a copy of
Le Serpent
on the bedside table. She'd have thought he'd had enough of Brouge today.

She had a bath, hoping that the warm water would soothe away the edginess which made her skin prickle and her nerves twitch. She'd told Claire Bernard seemed to be waiting for something; now, he'd infected her with a sense of fearful anticipation, though of what she had no idea.

It had been so sudden, this decline of his. She thought back, trying to remember when first she'd noticed it. Of course—it was the day they went next door for dinner. When was that? A week last Saturday? Until then, there'd been no sign of anything wrong. She recalled Claire suggesting that the French girl's disappearance might have worried him, but he'd shown no distress when he first told her of it.

She went softly into the bedroom, brushed her hair and climbed in her own bed. Though she switched off the lamp, there was a full moon and its silvery light seeped through the curtains like ghostly daylight. Beryl lay down, her mind revolving round the day's happenings like a hamster on a wheel.

She'd shocked Claire with her comment about Daphne. She hadn't meant it, either, but there was something about the woman that, especially today, had irritated her. Several times she'd looked up to find those round brown eyes staring at her with an expression Beryl couldn't define but which nevertheless made her uneasy.

And then those awful, tense minutes when Bernard had floundered, seemingly unable to comprehend a simple question. The possibility of mental illness must be faced, but what could she do about it? And
could
it come on as suddenly and devastatingly as this? It wasn't as though he'd had a shock of any kind.

In the next bed Bernard stirred suddenly. 'The reason I killed my wife,' he said, loudly and distinctly, 'was because she loved me.'

CHAPTER 11

'Dick here, Guv. Sorry to be so long coming back on Morgan's car, but I reckon it was worth it. I think we've got him.'

Webb leant over Chris Ledbetter's desk. 'What did you find?'

'Irrefutable evidence of the girl's presence.' 'But he admitted that. He—'

'Hold on a minute. There were fibres from the linen skirt, and she wore that for the first time the day she vanished.'

Webb let out his breath on a long sigh. 'Cheers, Dick. I'll be in touch.'

He put the phone down, meeting Ledbetter's eye. 'Something positive at last. Hang on a sec, Chris, while I double-check. Got the landlady's phone number?'

Minutes later Webb had confirmed that Arlette did not put on her new clothes as soon as she bought them; they were worn for the first time when she went out to her death.

'As I thought. Mr Morgan has some explaining to do, and this time he can do it here. Could Happy go and pick him up? Only for questioning, mind.'

'Great. It's about time I got in on the act!'

When Webb and Ledbetter reached the interview room, Morgan was sitting at the table staring at its pitted surface. A uniformed constable stood impassively inside the door. As it opened, Morgan stumbled to his feet and started to bluster, but his heart evidently wasn't in it. His pasty skin gleamed with sweat.

Webb cut across his protests. 'Sit down, Mr Morgan. This is Inspector Ledbetter. He has some questions for you.'

Morgan subsided, scowling. He watched in silence as Ledbetter propped his crutches against the wall and swung to one of the chairs. Fellow looked like a film star, he thought disgustedly, but he wasn't underestimating Webb.

'Now Mr Morgan,' the glamour boy began, 'we have reason to believe you've not been completely honest with us.'

'We've been all over that. I admitted I took her to—'

Ledbetter raised his voice. 'When was the last time you saw Miss Picard?'

Morgan moistened his lips. 'The night before she went missing. We had a Chinese meal, then I took her home.'

'What was she wearing, Mr Morgan?'

^‘
Wearing?
How the hell should I know? I never notice what women wear—ask my wife!'

'What she was
not
wearing was the linen skirt and blue top she'd just bought. Mrs King was very clear on that.'

'So?'

'She wore those for the first time the next day.'

'All right, I'm not arguing with you.'

Chris Ledbetter leant forward, his hands clasped on the table. 'But you see, Mr Morgan, fibres from the skirt were found in your car. You understand what that means, don't you?' Morgan stared at him, his small eyes as expressionless as pebbles. 'It means,' Ledbetter continued softly, 'that she must have been in your car on the
Tuesday,
the day she disappeared.'

Morgan said tonelessly, 'Oh God,' and ran a finger round the inside of his collar.

'So perhaps you'll tell us the truth this time. Third time lucky, shall we say?' The sarcasm in the detective's voice brought no reaction. Morgan scarcely seemed to hear him.

'Oh God!' he said again, on a rising note, and then, 'I didn't kill her, I swear it!'

'The truth,' Ledbetter repeated implacably.

Morgan took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. At the small table in the corner, Happy Hopkins, too, paused, his pen in his hand. Now, thought Webb, perhaps we'll get the answer.

'All right, I did meet her. We fixed it the night before.'

'Go on.'

Morgan said desperately, 'Can I smoke?'

Ledbetter raised his eyebrows at Webb, a noted non-smoker. He nodded. 'If it'll help.'

Morgan reached in his pocket, producing a silver cigarette case and lighter. Not the usual class of villain, Happy thought, watching from his corner. Crumpled packets and a box of matches were the norm. Morgan lit up, inhaled deeply, and seemed to take confidence from it. He offered the case to the officers, but they declined.

'I wanted her,' he said then. 'I always had. You probably guessed that. And she must have
known.
Girls do, don't they? I thought she was teasing, playing the innocent, but looking back, I'm not so sure.' He tapped his cigarette on the metal ashtray. 'When we started going for a meal, I assumed one thing would lead to another, but I was wrong. She seemed almost shocked when I kissed her. It took me aback, I can tell you—damn it, I thought she'd be expecting it. Perhaps she thought I was wining and dining her out of the goodness of my heart. Anyway, all I got a brief peck and no more. She was far more interested in teaching me French grammar.' He grimaced ruefully. 'And she insisted on calling me "monsieur". As time went on she relaxed a bit, though I still had to toe the line. And of course, the more she played hard to get, the more I wanted her.'

'Go on,' Ledbetter prompted into the growing silence.

Morgan stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. 'The main trouble was never having long together. I daren't be too late arriving at bowls, and in any case the car was limiting. I thought if I could have her to myself for a while, where we wouldn't be hurried or disturbed, things would work out. After all, most girls would be flattered to be with a man in my position.'

The policemen avoided each other's eyes as Morgan, unaware that he'd said anything questionable, drew deeply on his cigarette.

'I waited till I'd a legitimate reason to be out of the office. Then, that Monday night, I suggested a run into the country the next day. She agreed, provided she was back by lunch-time. We arranged to meet in the Lamb and Flag car park at ten-thirty.'

He stared at his cigarette, remembering. 'I was there first. I can see her now, coming towards me with her hair bouncing on her shoulders and that spring in her step girls have when they know they're being watched. As she slipped in beside me, she leaned across and gave me a quick kiss— the first time she'd taken the initiative. Then she smiled and said, "You like my new clothes?"' He ran a hand across his eyes. The policemen waited in silence.

'She sat in the car while I did the inspections. I went through them in record time, I can tell you. I was at the stage when I could hardly keep my hands off her. There was a kind of bloom about her, somehow. And the kiss, coupled with the fact that she'd agreed to come—well, I was sure she knew what I had in mind.'

'And you were wrong again?'

'Couldn't have been more so. I drove along the Gloucester road and turned off over the heath. After a while we got out and I spread a rug on the grass. And that was where things started going wrong. She flatly refused to play, insisting she'd thought we were going for a drive. The hell of it is, she might genuinely have misunderstood. It's hard to tell, with foreigners. There are innuendoes, colloquialisms which would be explicit to an English girl but could have been lost on Arlette. At the time, though, I didn't think of that. I thought she'd deliberately led me on, and I was mad as hell.'

But he hadn't raped her, Webb thought. According to the PM she was
virgo intacta,
which had come as a surprise. 'So what happened?' he asked quietly.

'I did my damnedest to persuade her. Hell, I was pretty worked up by then, and there she was, righting me off and insisting she'd a train to catch. Not at all what I'd planned. I lost my temper, started shouting at her, and she burst into tears. In the end I scooped up the rug, threw it in the back of the car, and drove off without her. I remembered shouting something about finding her own way back and serve her right.'

'Or did she run away, and you went after her?'

'No, as God's my witness it was the way I told you. Indirectly, I did cause her death. I accept that. I shouldn't have left her there, it was a lousy thing to do, but it never entered my head to
harm
her. Ever since I heard what happened, I've been going through hell.'

'And what do you think
did
happen, Mr Morgan?'

'She was making her way down to the road, wasn't she, to hitch a lift back to town. But the slope's pretty steep there, and those high heels would have been lethal.' He paused and added, 'Literally lethal. One must have broken under her and pitched her forward.'

It was a pretty astute deduction. Too astute. The broken heel had not been mentioned in press reports. Webb said softly, 'You found her, didn't you?'