Simon Tolkien - The Inheritance

“They’re lying.”

“Why should they be? Stephen had nothing to gain by quarreling with his father.”

“I don’t know about that. He had plenty to gain by killing him.”

“And why should someone send the colonel a blackmail letter about what happened at Marjean if nothing did? Answer me that, Mr. Ritter.”

“It must’ve been Carson who sent the letter. He was a born liar, and he always wanted money. He kept asking the colonel after the war, and the colonel was foolish enough to give him some. He gambled that away in no time, and then he wanted more. When the colonel said no, he developed a grudge against him. It became like an obsession.”

“Why would the colonel have given him money?”

“Because he was generous that way. He shouldn’t have done it. I told him not to.”

“He gave him the money because he wanted to keep Carson quiet. About what he’d seen at Marjean. That’s the truth, isn’t it?”

“No.”

Swift pulled his gown up around his shoulders, locking eyes with Ritter, before he asked his next question.

“Somebody had tried to kill Colonel Cade before, hadn’t they, Mr. Ritter? Back in 1956?”

“Yes.”

“Was that at Marjean?”

“Yes. We went there together. The colonel wanted to go back and see some of the places where we’d been in the war.”

“And he came back in a wheelchair and became a recluse. Wasn’t that when you helped him install the best security system his money could buy?” asked Swift.

“That’s right. No burglar was going to get through that.”

“And then came the blackmail letter asking the colonel to go to London. Someone couldn’t get in and so they were trying to lure him out. Yes?”

“If you say so.”

“What’s your point, Mr. Swift?” asked the judge, who had been stirring impatiently in his seat for some time. “This history lesson is all very interesting, but perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling us what it’s got to do with the charge against your client.”

“Certainly, my lord. I am trying to show that someone else, who was not my client, had been trying to kill Professor Cade for a long time before he was finally murdered.”

“And my understanding is that Mr. Ritter is saying that it was this man, Carson.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Well, you may well be right, Mr. Swift. But I don’t see how it helps you. Mr. Carson was already dead when Professor Cade was murdered. He’d fallen from a moving train near Leicester after drinking too much alcohol. Inspector Trave found a newspaper article about what happened on the floor beside the professor’s body. It’s in his witness statement. Do you want me to read it to you?”

“No, my lord. I’m aware of the article. But, with respect, that’s not the end of the matter. The defence suggests that the person who wanted to kill Professor Cade because of what happened in France was still alive on the night of his murder.”

“What’s the basis for that?”

“The Mercedes car outside the gate, my lord. And the foreigner who was stopped for speeding in it shortly afterward.”

“The one who can’t be traced?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Well, if that’s your client’s defence, I’m not going to stop you advancing it. The jury will be free to form its own conclusion. Do you have any other questions for this witness, Mr. Swift?”

“No. Nothing else,” said the defence barrister, realising that there was nothing to be gained by carrying on with Ritter. He sat down heavily, trying to keep the sense of defeat that he felt inside from showing too clearly on his face. Judge Murdoch had done no more than demonstrate the weakness in the defence that he had been telling Stephen about for months. There wasn’t enough evidence that the massacre at Marjean ever happened. And even if it did, there seemed to have been no survivors. And no witnesses except Carson, who was dead too. The man in the Mercedes was interesting, but he wasn’t enough. There was no evidence that he’d got inside the grounds, let alone the house. There had to be someone else. An insider. But who? All the evidence pointed to Stephen. Perhaps he did kill his father, just like the Crown said. And this trial was just a waste of time.

Swift glanced back at the dock. Stephen was leaning forward in his chair, cradling his head in his hands. The barrister felt the case weighing him down like a stone around his neck. He wanted it to be over.

Ritter couldn’t find his wife anywhere. He didn’t search too hard, since he had better things to do. She was probably crying somewhere. At the back of the women’s toilets with a wad of tissues in her hand, maybe. Ritter didn’t suspect her of any wrongdoing with Silas. That would have been an enormity beyond his wildest imaginings. But he had understood enough of the policeman’s conversation with the man in the dirty suit to realise that Silence had been taking long-distance photographs of Sasha. Perhaps he’d taken some of Jeanne too, when Sasha’s curtains were drawn. Nasty little sneak. Ritter made a mental note that he needed to see the photographs, and then he’d have a few words to say to Silence. Ritter smiled. He thought about taking hold of Silas’s delicate white hands again-women’s hands, they were-and squeezing them, gently at first, and then harder and harder, watching the surprise and then the pain registering on Silas’s thin sallow face.

That’s what had happened with Carson. Sitting in an empty second-class compartment of the intercity express with dirty Midland towns rushing past the grimy window. Cigarette butts overflowing out of the metal ashtrays and a few tears in the cushion covers of the seats. They’d sat side by side just like old pals, and Ritter had poured Bell’s whisky into the yellow plastic toothbrush mug that he’d brought along for the purpose. Glug, glug, glug. The whisky had loosened Carson’s tongue, got him talking about the old times. Arab women in North Africa, French women in Rouen. Carson and his whores and all the money he’d frittered away in second-rate casinos. It made Ritter want to puke. But he’d kept his hands off the little shit long enough to move the conversation round to the blackmail letter and the shooting at Marjean. Carson had pretended not to know anything about them, and the funny thing was he’d carried on saying that right up to the end. Ritter had put a gag in Carson’s mouth while he’d broken his fingers one by one, but that was a punishment. Ritter had given up on trying to get any worthwhile information out of the chubby corporal by then. And when he’d taken the gag out and held him at the open door near Leicester, ready to throw him out, Carson had been saying the same thing: “I didn’t do it, Reg. I had no reason to. I swear I didn’t, Reg.”

That was the last thing that Jimmy Carson said before Ritter pushed him down to his death: “I didn’t do it, Reg.” But he did. It had to be him. And the colonel didn’t have any doubts either. Those last few months, the old man had slept better than he had in years. He was frail obviously, and he was always going to be an invalid-Carson’s rifle bullet had seen to that. But he was more like his old self again. He’d go out on the lawn, sit on the bench under the honeysuckle, talk about the future, and not worry so much about the past. Ritter had wished at the time that he’d found Carson sooner. It had taken him nearly two years. The bastard had changed his name and disappeared, gone west maybe. He only reemerged when his mother died. Like some pathetic old East End gangster, Carson had always loved his mother. Ritter knew that, and he’d had her watched. Funny, though, that Carson had waited to visit her until after she was dead, when there was no point anymore. He’d got word that Ritter was after him, and so he’d gone to ground. And that was a sure sign of his guilt. You didn’t need a confession for a conviction. Look at Stevie. Still protesting his innocence back in Court number 1, trying to cheat the hangman.