“Of course. I’ll come out with you.”

She crossed to where I was standing, grinned awkwardly and clutched my hand, willing me, it seemed, to accept what she was about to say. “Actually, why don’t you wait till I’ve gone, then let yourself out? Rodney doesn’t know anything about this. And I don’t want to have to… Well, you understand, I’m sure.”

“Yes.” I looked at her and nodded in explicit agreement. “I understand.”

Then she frowned, as if some point had just occurred to her. “If you feel you have to go on with this…”

“I don’t have much choice, do I?”

“Then there is one angle you could try approaching it from the police may ignore. They’ll try to find witnesses who saw Paul somewhere else when he claims to have been in Kington. You could look for a witness to Mummy’s whereabouts-or Naylor’s-at the time Paul says he was spying on them at Whistler’s Cot.”

“But there aren’t any witnesses. If there were, they’d have come forward at the trial.”

The car horn sounded again, an impatient triple beep. “What about Howard Marsden? If he knew Mummy as well as we think…”

I frowned, then broke into a smile. “That’s inspired.”

“No,” she said, kissing me briskly and hurrying towards the door. “That’s legal training.” She pulled the door open, then paused on the threshold and looked back at me. “I don’t suppose you’ll get anything of value out of him. But if you do… learn something about Mummy I mean… you will tell me, won’t you?”

“Of course. It’s a promise.”

But it was a promise too quickly given. Only after I’d heard Rodney’s car accelerate away along Caledonia Place did I realize how easily it could conflict with my obligations to Bella. In the circumstances, it was to be hoped Sarah’s supposition about Howard Marsden proved to be correct. Otherwise, I might find myself trying to keep two promises-and breaking both.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Sophie Marsden had told me her husband was in the agricultural machinery business and I knew from their telephone number that they lived in or near Ludlow. That led me, without the need of much deduction, to Salop Agritechnics Ltd. of Weeping Cross Lane, Ludlow. And a telephone conversation on Friday morning with its managing director, Howard Marsden.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Timariot? We spoke at the time of that blasted Benefit of the Doubt programme, I remember, but-”

“I’m hoping you’ll agree to meet me, Mr. Marsden. To discuss a matter of considerable urgency. It concerns your relationship with Louise Paxton.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m sorry to be so blunt, but I really have no alternative. And I’m sure you’d agree it’s a subject best discussed face to face.”

“I don’t know what you mean. Louise Paxton was a friend of my wife. That’s the only basis on which I knew her.” But there was an undertone of defeatism in his voice. He must already have despaired of seeing me off with a blustering denial.

“In that case, your display of grief last time we met was rather excessive, wasn’t it?” I waited for him to reply. But he said nothing. Several silent moments passed. Then I pressed on. “Butterbur Lane, Kington, Mr. Marsden. Twenty-seventh of July, nineteen ninety. You nearly drove into me.”

There was a heavily pregnant pause. Eventually, he said: “What’s this about, Mr. Timariot?”

“It’s about Louise.”

“I can’t help you. You’d do better speaking to my wife. She-”

“I’ve already spoken to your wife. Now I need to speak to you.”

Another pause, perhaps the longest. Then he gritted out the words I wanted to hear. “Very well.”

“I can come to Ludlow, if that suits you. I imagine you’re a busy man. I also imagine you’d prefer to leave it until after the weekend.” He didn’t query the remark. We both knew what I meant. A discreet slot in his working day didn’t require explaining to Sophie, whereas… “What about Monday?”

“Impossible.”

“Surely not. Name a time.”

“Well… it would have to be very early.”

“No problem. I’ll drive up the night before.”

“You’ll stay at the Feathers?”

“If you recommend it.”

“It’s the best you’ll find. All right, Mr. Timariot. I’ll call at the Feathers at eight o’clock on Monday morning. Not too early for you, I hope?”

“Not at all,” I replied, determined to give no ground. “See you then.”

Manoeuvring Howard Marsden into meeting me was one thing. Gaining something of value from such a meeting was, of course, a different matter. I spent most of the long drive up to Ludlow on Sunday turning over in my mind how best to approach the subject of his affair with Louise. That they’d had an affair I didn’t seriously doubt. The tears I’d seen streaming down his face in Butterbur Lane hadn’t been the tears of a platonic friend. And Sophie’s story about Louise’s “perfect stranger” made no sense in any other context. The real question was: had the affair still been going on in July 1990? If not, Howard wasn’t going to be much help to Bella. Fortunately, though, she hadn’t been in touch with me since my return from Bristol. So, if it turned out I was wasting my time, at least she needn’t know.

Not that it was destined to be a complete waste, whatever happened. These days away from the office, arranged at short notice and without explanation, were beginning to prey on Adrian’s mind. He clearly suspected I was playing a deep and devious game. And with his trip to Sydney looming on the horizon, it was no bad thing to let him go on doing so. I felt he richly deserved just as much anxiety as I could contrive to generate for him.

The deep silence of a windless Sunday night was settling on Ludlow when I arrived. I instantly warmed to its steepling streets and cobbled alleys, its timber-framed jumble of old houses and ancient inns. The Feathers was an ideally if not idyllically comfortable hotel of the kind I’d thought English market towns long since bereft. If I’d been looking for a rest cure in a soothing backwater, I’d have chanced on the perfect location. Unfortunately, that wasn’t why I was there.

To prove it, I was still munching a slice of toast and sipping coffee next morning after an early enough breakfast to have caught the kitchen on the hop when word came that a visitor was waiting for me in reception. Howard Marsden evidently hadn’t got wherever he was in the world of agricultural machinery by being late for an appointment.

He didn’t look anything like as forlorn as I remembered. He’d put on a bit of weight and gone magisterially white at the temples. He was on his home ground too, which always bolsters self-confidence. Altogether, in his pin-stripe suit, cashmere overcoat and battered racing felt, he looked about as easy to move to tears as one of the wooden faces carved beneath the gables at the front of the hotel. But what I’d seen I’d seen.

“Shall we take a stroll?” I asked, donning my coat. He nodded in agreement. Neither of us seriously thought we’d do any talking where we could be overheard.

We went out into the empty street and headed towards the centre of town. It was a chilly bright autumn morning, a sharp breeze blowing trails of leaves across the pavements in front of us, sunlight glinting and glaring at us between the rooftops. A butcher arranging sausages in his window looked up and touched his boater at the sight of my companion. “Good morning, Mr. Marsden,” he called, getting little more than a grunt in response.

“You’re well known hereabouts?”

“It’s a small town. And we’re a big employer.”

“Have you always lived here?”

“No. I was in the Navy for twenty years before-” He broke off and looked round at me. “You’re not interested in my autobiography, Mr. Timariot. Why don’t you come to the point?”