“There was no need. Her How is child’s play. She had the key of the house, and no alibi after 7.30. Killing hens is no alibi for killing a man.’

‘But to smash in a man’s head with a blow like that-she’s tiny, and he was a big man. I couldn’t break your head open like that, though I’m nearly as tall as you are.’

‘You’re about the one person who could. You’re my wife. You could take me unawares-as a loving niece might her uncle. I can’t see Noakes sitting down and letting Crutchley or Sellon go pussy-footing about behind him. But a woman one knows and trusts-that’s different.’

He sat down at the table, with his back towards her, and picked up a fork.

‘Look! Here I am, writing a letter or doing my accounts.

… You’re fidgeting round somewhere in the background… I take no notice; I’m used to it… You take up the poker quietly… don’t be afraid, you know I’m slightly deaf… Come up on the left, remember; my head leans over a little to the side of the pen… Now… two quick steps and a brisk rap on the skull-you needn’t hit too hard-and you’re an exceedingly wealthy widow.’

Harriet put the poker down rather hastily.

‘Niece-widow’s a hateful word; so weedy-let’s stick to niece.’

‘I slump down, and the chair slips away, so that I bruise my right side against the table in falling. You remove any finger-prints from the weapon-’

‘Yes-and then just let myself out with my own key and lock the door behind me. Quite simple. And you, I suppose, when you come to, obligingly tidy away whatever you were writing-’

‘And tidy myself into the cellar. That’s the idea.’

‘I suppose you’ve seen this all along?’

‘I have. But I was irrational enough to tell myself that the motive was insufficient. I couldn’t see the Twitterton doing murder for money to extend her hen-runs. Serve me right for being weak-minded. The moral is. Stick, to How, and somebody will hand you the Why on a silver salver.’

He read remonstrance in her eyes, and added earnestly:

‘It’s a whacking great motive, Harriet. A middle-aged woman’s last bid for love-and the money to make the bid.’

‘It was Crutchley’s motive, too. Couldn’t she have let him in? Or lent him the key, not knowing what he wanted it for?’

‘Crutchley’s times are all wrong. Though he may have been an accomplice. If so, he’s got damned good reason for giving her the chuck now. In fact, it’s the best move he can possibly make, even if he only suspects she did it.’ His voice was like flint. It jarred on Harriet.

‘It’s all very well, Peter, but where’s your proof?’

‘Nowhere.’

‘What did you say yourself? It’s no good showing how it might have been done. Anybody might have done it-Sellon, Crutchley, Miss Twitterton, you, I, the vicar or Superintendent Kirk. But you haven’t proved how it was done.’

‘Good God, don’t I know that? We want proofs. We want facts. How? How? How?’ He sprang up and struck at the air passionately with his hands. ‘This house would tell us, if roof and walls could but speak. All men are liars! Send me a dumb witness that cannot lie!’

‘The house?… We’ve silenced the house ourselves, Peter. Gagged and bound it. If we’d asked it on Tuesday night but it’s hopeless now.’

‘That’s what’s biting me. I hate fooling about with maybe and might-have-been. And Kirk isn’t likely to examine the thing too closely. He’ll be so damned thankful to get a likelier suspect than Sellon that he’ll hare off after the Crutchley-Twitterton motive.’

‘But, Peter-’

‘And then, as like as not,’ he went on, absorbed in the technical aspect of the thing, ‘he’ll fall down on it in court for lack of direct proof. If only-’

‘But, Peter-you’re not going to tell Kirk about Crutchley and Miss Twitterton!’

‘He’ll have to know, of course. It’s a fact, as far as it goes. The point is, will he see-’

‘Peter-no! You can’t do that! That poor little woman and her pathetic love-affair. You can’t be so cruel as to tell the police-the police, good heavens!’

For the first time he seemed to realise what she was saying. ‘Oh!’ he said, softly, and turned away towards the fire. ‘I was afraid it might come to this.’ Then, over his shoulder: ‘One can’t suppress evidence, Harriet. You said to me, “Carry on.”’

‘We didn’t know these people then. She told me in confidence. She-she was grateful to me. She trusted me. You can’t take people’s trust and make it into a rope for their necks. Peter-’ He stood staring down into the flames. ‘It’s abominable!’ cried Harriet, in a sort of consternation. Her excitement broke against his rigidity like water against a stone. ‘It’s-it’s brutal-’

‘Murder is brutal.’

‘I know-but-’

‘You have seen what murdered men look like. Well, I saw this old man’s body.’ He swung round and faced her. ‘It’s a pity the dead are so quiet; it makes us ready to forget them.’

‘The dead-are dead. We’ve got to be decent to the living.’

‘I’m thinking of the living. Till we get at the truth, every soul in this village is suspect. Do you want Sellon broken and hanged, because we wouldn’t speak? Must Crutchley be left under suspicion because the crime was never brought home to anybody else? Are they all to go about in fear, knowing there’s an undiscovered murderer among them?’

‘But there’s no proof-no proof!’

‘It’s evidence. We can’t pick and choose. Whoever suffers, we must have the truth. Nothing else matters a damn.’ She could not deny it. In desperation, she broke through to the real issue: ‘But must it be your hands-?’

‘Ah!’ he said, in a changed voice. ‘Yes. I have given you the right to ask me that. You married into trouble when you married my work and me.’

He spread out his hands as though challenging her to look at them. It seemed strange that they should be the same hands that only last night… Their smooth strength fascinated her. License my roving hands and let them go before, behind, between-His hands, so curiously gentle and experienced… With what sort of experience?

‘These hangman’s hands,’ he said, watching her. ‘You knew that, though, didn’t you?’

Of course she had known it, but-She burst out with the truth: ‘I wasn’t married to you then!’

‘No… That makes the difference, doesn’t it?… Well, Harriet, we are married now. We are bound. I’m afraid the moment has come when something will have to give way you, or I-or the bond.’

(So soon? Yours, utterly and for ever-he was hers, or else all faith was mockery.)

‘No-no!… Oh, my dear, what is happening to us? What has become of our peace?’

‘Broken,’ he said. ‘That’s what violence does. Once it starts, there’s no stopping it. It catches us all, sooner or later.’

‘But… it mustn’t. Can’t we escape?’

‘Only by running away.’ He dropped his hands in a hopeless gesture. ‘Perhaps it would be better for us to run. I have no right to drag any woman into this mess-least of all, my wife. Forgive me. I have been my own master so long-I think I have forgotten the meaning of an obligation.’ The stricken whiteness of her face startled him. ‘Oh, my dear-don’t upset yourself like this. Say the word, and we’ll go right away. We’ll leave this miserable business and never meddle again.’

‘Do you really mean that?’ she said, incredulously.

‘Of course I mean it. I have said it.’ His voice was the voice of a beaten man.

She was appalled, seeing what she had done. ‘Peter, you’re mad. Never dare to suggest such a thing. Whatever marriage is, it isn’t that.’

‘Isn’t what, Harriet?’

‘Letting your affection corrupt your judgement. What kind of life could we have if I knew that you had become less than yourself by marrying me?’

He turned away again, and when he spoke, it was in a queerly shaken tone: ‘My dear girl, most women would consider it a triumph.’

‘I know, I’ve heard them.’ Her own scorn lashed herself the self she had only just seen. “They boast of it-“My husband would do anything for me…” It’s degrading. No human being ought to have such power over another.’