Peter Lovesey - Rough Cider

Alone at the table, I made my own review of the day’s discoveries. No doubt Alice would snap out of her introspection soon and start an earnest discussion. I wanted my thoughts in trim.

Two observations on Alice.

First, she was dangerous to be with. She might easily have got us shot by blurting out her identity to Bernard Lockwood. She’d treated Harry, another violent character, with reckless disrespect.

Second, on the credit side, she’d got results. Thanks to her open approach, we’d traced Harry and identified him as her stepfather. We’d learned of his marriage to Sally Shoe-smith. And we’d been given a different slant on the relationship between Duke and Barbara: According to Harry, they weren’t lovers, after all. The fact that I knew this to be untrue didn’t detract from its significance. Harry was either deluded or a villain.

But we’re dealing with Alice. I wasn’t blind to her motives. Any female who could slip so rapidly out of a little-girl-lost role and into bed wasn’t dewy-eyed. She’d used me, manipulated me, played on my reactions. As it happened, I didn’t particularly mind, because through the bewildering shifts of character I’d perceived a personality I liked. She was intelligent, resilient, sometimes wrong-headed, but brave, unusually brave. Different.

I’ve told you about the moment when I was toweling Alice’s hair in front of the fire in the pub and I knew that I wanted her. To be brutally honest-and haven’t I kept faith with you up to now? — the wanting was all on my side. I’d picked up no signals from Alice.

Well, almost none. If there had been a moment of mutual closeness, it was earlier. Smile if you wish, but I don’t mean when we were in bed together. That was an experience, a turn-on, as exciting as anything my body had been privileged to share in but exclusively sensual.

I’m talking about another moment. Remember when we stepped over the puddles at Gifford Farm and she took my hand? And slipped her arm about my waist in the hayloft? Then, I believe, other possibilities beckoned us, like understanding, respect, and maybe even affection.

Yet what happened on the drive to Bath when I tried to kiss her? What brought on the frost?

I traced it back to our conversation in the hayloft. I’d balked at some of the intimate questions she’d fired at me concerning Cliff Morton’s attack on Barbara. I mean, I didn’t duck out. I’d simply felt uncomfortable and shown it. I’d appeared evasive.

So if I wanted Alice, there were bridges to be mended. I needed to be constructive about what we’d seen and heard.

For a start, our trip to Gifford Farm. Bernard couldn’t have made it more plain that he was troubled to find us at the farm. What’s past is over was his attitude, and I had some sympathy for it. I’d felt the same until Alice had forced my hand. But I hadn’t seen her off with a shotgun.

I could understand Bernard and his parents wanting to forget. They’d been through hell since Barbara’s rape and suicide. The inquest. The discovery of the skull in the cask and the ruin of their cider business. The police swarming over their farm digging for human remains. The suspicions that George Lockwood had shot Morton. Nor had it ended with Duke’s arrest. They’d all been called to testify at the trial.

A niggling thought intruded here. In their understandable wish to get a positive verdict, and the whole thing forgotten as soon as possible, might the Lockwoods have overstated the evidence against Duke? The prosecution had been mounted largely on forensic testimony, backed by circumstantial evidence from the Lockwoods and myself. We, between us, had provided the picture of Duke as the vengeful lover. I’m not saying that the Lockwoods were guilty of perjury, and I certainly didn’t go along with everything Harry had told us, but could they have misinterpreted some of Barbara’s actions?

Which brought me to Harry.

His version of events was sensational. Maybe fantastic is a better word. By his account Duke had no regard for Barbara whatsoever. He’d had to be persuaded, if not press-ganged, into partnering her. According to Harry, those romantic evening walks in the Somerset lanes simply hadn’t included Duke. On the afternoon of the rape and murder, Duke had appeared disenchanted, but hardly like a man who had just blown out another’s brains.

Why, I wondered, had Harry suggested such things if they weren’t true?

There was a clue. It was his revelation that he and Duke had been boyhood friends, rivals for Alice’s mother, Elly. Harry had treated it lightly. Easy now to dismiss it as casual dates with ice-cream sodas. How had he felt at the time, when Duke had cut him out and married Elly? No bitterness? No festering resentment?

If there was none, and it was nothing to him, why had he married Elly himself when the opportunity came?

Suppose Harry, Duke’s so-called buddy, cynically and deliberately took advantage of their time away from home to promote and encourage an affair between Duke and the first available girl. Suppose it was always Harry’s plan to disclose to Elly that her young husband was unfaithful. Simple, really, to work on a man’s loneliness: “Just make up a foursome, Duke, so I can get some time with Sally.” And to Sally: “You know, my buddy is incredibly shy, but he really fancies your friend Barbara.” A few encouraging signals from Barbara and the fuse was lit.

Then suppose the whole scheme misfired because of Cliff Morton’s attack on Barbara. Duke killed Morton out of some rash notion of honor, and Barbara committed suicide in shame and despair. Harry was shocked, no doubt. But being an opportunist, he waited for the dust to settle. Then he saw his chance. When the law had taken its course, he went to visit poor, widowed Elly as her caring friend.

As an explanation, it fitted the personalities as well as the known facts. It accounted for Harry’s coolness to Alice and me when we arrived on his doorstep wanting to discuss the murder. His first instinct had been to send us away, his second to deny that there was ever anything serious between Duke and Barbara.

It was thanks to Sally that we’d got inside.

So what about Sally?

If there was any truth in my theory, she must have been involved. Yet she’d come to our aid, invited us in when Harry would have shut the door. Clearly there was tension between Harry and her, most apparent when he’d gone out of the room to collect the drinks and she’d been on the point of telling us something about Duke’s relationship with Barbara. What had Sally said when we talked about the fortune-telling game with the apple, when Barbara cut through the last pip-the “soldier pip”? “She was terribly upset, being pregnant and everything… We had no secrets from each other. They were gong to be married.” And when I’d gently pointed out to Sally that Duke already had a wife and child in America, she’d appeared not to know about it, and said, “You’ve got it all wrong.” Poor Sally, Hadn’t Harry ever told her the truth?

I’d have liked another word with Sally.

I didn’t get any further before Alice reappeared. Rather to my disappointment, she’d refastened her plait. She looked more solemn than ever. And, uniquely in my experience of women, she hadn’t taken the opportunity in the ladies’ to touch up her lipstick. Not much encouragement there. I prepared for the worst, and it wasn’t long in coming.

She studied me for a while, as if she’d made up her mind that something had to be resolved between us, and finally said, “I’m staying here tonight. I’ve booked a single room upstairs.”

I said inanely, “What?”

She waited for it to sink it.

Meanwhile I was eyeing the stack of ketchup bottles on the shelf, each with its red deposit caked around the cap. Anyone who contemplated a night in this place had to be desperate.