Elizabeth Speller - The Return of Captain John Emmett

He recaled the various descriptions of John as much improved in the last weeks before his death. He was talking more, he seemed to have had a burden lifted from him. Might it have been because he'd finaly dispensed his own sort of justice? If John had kiled Tucker, then his own suicide became more comprehensible.

By the time they puled into London, Laurence was hungry and thirsty, and Charles was snoring. The air felt wintry. They shared a cab, which dropped Charles off first before going on up to Bloomsbury.

'Thank you,' Laurence said. 'It was much better having you there. If ever I can reciprocate...'

'You can,' said Charles, patting his pocket. 'Two tickets for the Varsity Match. First time at Twickenham. New beginnings. Come with me and cheer for the dark blues.'

Laurence smiled. 'Of course.' Then before Charles went in, he remembered one thing that had been on his mind since the morning. 'Is there a river in Birmingham?'

'The Rea, not one of the great waterways of the world or, indeed, England. Not, I'm afraid, one of which poets sing. Or can pronounce, realy.'

Chapter Twenty-nine

Delicate ice crystals radiated across the inside of Laurence's bedroom window when he woke late the next day. As he waited for some water to heat for shaving—it must be the coldest day of the year so far, he thought—he picked up a monograph on the church of St Alfrege but soon found his thoughts drifting back to Birmingham.

The violence of Tucker's end added to a list of possible murders, yet removed the most likely perpetrator. It was just feasible that John could have kiled Tucker, although the deaths of Byers' cousin and Mulins had taken place wel after John's own. Laurence found himself more rather than less determined to get to the bottom of things.

When he reread the list he'd made on the train, his instinct was that Eleanor Bolitho was the key to it al. The more he thought about it, the more he saw a discrepancy between Eleanor's insistence that Wiliam must be protected from reminders of the war, and the feeling he got from the man himself who appeared to welcome company. Was Eleanor worried that Laurence might let slip something that she would rather her husband didn't know, or that Wiliam might tel him something she wanted to keep hidden? Eleanor had lied about how wel she'd known John. What else had she lied about?

He decided that the only way to make sense of this was to try to see her again and tel her he knew she had been to Holmwood. If he could put pressure on Eleanor to help him, things might start to fal into place. Nevertheless, when he left his flat, he almost changed his mind. The sky was heavy; freezing rain was turning fast to snow and by the look of it there was much more to come. By the time he was on the bus, the snow was coming down heavily and they made slow progress.

He had come to assume that Wiliam, at least, would always be at home. But nearly an hour after he set out, he stood on the doorstep outside their flat, having rung the bel three times, feeling that certainty, among others, seep away from him. He had been fired up with a determination to confront Eleanor. She had, of course, a right to privacy, but he needed to be certain what her part was in John's death. What did she know? What had she guessed? He was convinced that she was withholding knowledge about John from him and, more importantly, from John's family. From Mary.

The weather continued to deteriorate. He stepped back to look up at the three-storey building; the Bolithos' windows were dark. He had been prepared for Eleanor to be angry or even to refuse to let him in, but not for her absence. He felt in his pockets for a piece of paper, but as the only pencil he had on him was broken, there was no way he could leave a message. Anyway, he had wanted to catch her without her being forewarned. The snow flurries were now obscuring the view to the end of the street: he couldn't just stand between the pilars of the stone porch and wait in the cold. The black-and-white lozenge-shaped tiles beneath his feet were already partly obscured by white and the street itself was completely covered.

He puled the brass bel knob one more time. He thought he could hear it jangling somewhere in the building, but he moved away immediately, knowing it was no good. He slipped on the lower step and swore loudly.

Eventualy he puled up his colar and set off back towards Kensington High Street. An absolute peace descended as he walked by. He gazed into a bay-fronted room where a woman was already drawing the curtains. Smoke and snow bilowed over a chimney. He turned the corner, into a street that bore slightly downhil, becoming aware that he had to be careful not to fal. He looked down at his feet. He could already feel the wet seeping in and cursed the fact he had not worn sturdier boots. As he trudged on, he wondered again why he was pursuing al this. There was nothing to pursue realy. A man had died, one of milions in the last seven years or so. He had no moral imperative to find out exactly why or how; despite what everyone assumed, he had not been a close friend of John Emmett. There had already been a perfectly thorough judicial examination by the police and coroner. He felt cross with himself, with the situation and with the weather so early in the winter.

As he looked up, a cumbersome shape caught his eye between the swirls of snow. Whatever it was, it was moving slowly and unevenly towards him, though many yards away on the other side of the street. Thinking it was a woman caught out with a perambulator, he moved to help her, but even as he speeded up, the shape twisted, then seemed to sprawl sideways and stop. He tried to run towards what was evidently some kind of accident. As he got closer it dawned upon him that it was a wheelchair and before he could identify the faces he realised it must be Eleanor and Wiliam. Eleanor didn't see him, even when he was only a few yards away from where the chair had tipped over. Wiliam was stil half in it and seemed to be trying to pul himself clear. Eleanor had her arms under Wiliam's and her elbows were tucked into her sides as she tried to move him. Her boots were slipping and she heard Laurence only when he spoke their names. He looked first at Eleanor. Her face was grim and determined, but was lightened by relief as she recognised him.

'Could you steady the chair?' he said as he leaned forward and checked that Wiliam was simply stuck, not injured.

He placed his arms round the man's waist, but when the weight of him started to shift, he staggered slightly before regaining his balance. The unfamiliar distribution of Wiliam's legless body caught him by surprise and he felt a twinge of pain in his back. Suddenly he was standing, bracing himself, legs apart, with Wiliam pressed against him and his arms round his waist almost as if they were dancing. He could feel the slight roughness of the man's cheek, the dampness of his scarf.

Eleanor had got the chair upright; the edge of the tartan blanket seemed to have caught in the wheels and she tugged it angrily. Laurence lowered Wiliam onto the seat while she held the handles. He had always thought how wel Wiliam looked but now he saw the invalid in him: his eyes were closed, his face grey and his lips blanched, only the tip of his nose a bluish red. Eleanor glanced at Laurence and for a moment there seemed to be unfeigned gratitude in her face. Though her eyes were fierce, there was something else there; she was biting her lip and looked close to tears.

Wiliam's eyes jerked open. 'Helo.' The bleakness of his appearance disappeared as he tried to smile. 'A knight in damp but shining armour,' Wiliam said. 'We hadn't quite foreseen the weather changing so swiftly. Stupid of us. Felt a bit like Captain and Mrs Oates. Noble but foolish.'

The snow was settling on him and the tracks behind them showing where they had come to grief were already vanishing. Laurence took the handles from Eleanor. She nodded.