turned to Argyle.
‘Please forgive me if this is painful, but I must just check over with you certain times and dates. On November 9th, the year before last, at about six o’clock in the evening, your son, Jack Argyle (Jacko to you), called here and had an interview with his mother, Mrs Argyle.’
‘My wife, yes.’
‘He told her that he was in trouble and demanded money. This had happened before–’
‘Many times,’ said Leo with a sigh.
‘Mrs Argyle refused. He became abusive, threatening. Finally he flung away and left, shouting out that he was coming back and that she had “jolly well got to stump up”. He said, “You don’t want me to go to prison, do you?” and she replied, “I am beginning to believe that it may be the best thing for you.”’
Leo Argyle moved uneasily.
‘My wife and I had talked it over together. We were–very unhappy about the boy. Again and again we had come to his rescue, tried to give him a fresh start. It had seemed to us that perhaps the shock of a prison sentence–the training–’ His voice died away. ‘But please go on.’
Calgary went on:
‘Later that evening, your wife was killed. Attacked with a poker and struck down. Your son’s fingerprints were on the poker, and a large sum of money was gone from the bureau drawer where your wife had placed it earlier. The police picked up your son in Drymouth. The money was found on him, most of it was in five-pound notes, one of which had a name and address written on it which enabled it to be identified by the bank as one that had been paid out to Mrs Argyle that morning. He was charged and stood his trial.’ Calgary paused. ‘The verdict was wilful murder.’
It was out–the fateful word. Murder…Not an echoing word; a stifled word, a word that got absorbed into the hangings, the books, the pile carpet…The word could be stifled–but not the act…
‘I have been given to understand by Mr Marshall, the solicitor for the defence, that your son protested his innocence when arrested, in a cheery, not to say cocksure manner. He insisted that he had a perfect alibi for the time of the murder which was placed by the police at between seven and seven-thirty. At that time, Jack Argyle said, he was hitch-hiking into Drymouth, having been picked up by a car on the main road from Redmyn to Drymouth about a mile from here just before seven. He didn’t know the make of the car (it was dark by then) but it was a black or dark blue saloon driven by a middle-aged man. Every effort was made to trace this car and the man who drove it, but no confirmation of his statement could be obtained, and the lawyers themselves were quite convinced that it was a story hastily fabricated by the boy and not very cleverly fabricated at that…
‘At the trial the main line of defence was the evidence of psychologists who sought to prove that Jack Argyle had always been mentally unstable. The judge was somewhat scathing in his comments on this evidence and summed up dead against the prisoner. Jack Argyle was sentenced to imprisonment for life. He died of pneumonia in prison six months after he began to serve his sentence.’
Calgary stopped. Three pairs of eyes were fastened on him. Interest and close attention in Gwenda Vaughan’s,, suspicion still in Hester’s. Leo Argyle’s seemed blank. Calgary said, ‘You will confirm that I have stated the facts correctly?’
‘You are perfectly correct,’ said Leo, ‘though I do not yet see why it has been necessary to go over painful facts which we are all trying to forget.’
‘Forgive me. I had to do so. You do not, I gather, dissent from the verdict?’
‘I admit that the facts were as stated–that is, if you do not go behind the facts, it was, crudely, murder. But if you do go behind the facts, there is much to be said in mitigation. The boy was mentally unstable, though unfortunately not in the legal sense of the term. The McNaughten rules are narrow and unsatisfactory. I assure you, Dr Calgary, that Rachel herself–my late wife, I mean–would have been the first to forgive and excuse that unfortunate boy for his rash act. She was a most advanced and humane thinker and had a profound knowledge of pyschological factors. She would not have condemned.’
‘She knew just how awful Jacko could be,’ said Hester. ‘He always was–he just didn’t seem able to help it.’
‘So you all,’ said Calgary slowly, ‘had no doubts? No doubts of his guilt, I mean.’
Hester stared.
‘How could we? Of course he was guilty.’
‘Not really guilty,’ Leo dissented. ‘I don’t like that word.’
‘It isn’t a true word, either.’ Calgary took a deep breath. ‘Jack Argyle was–innocent!’
Chapter 2
It should have been a sensational announcement. Instead, it fell flat. Calgary had expected bewilderment, incredulous gladness struggling with incomprehension, eager questions…There was none of that. There seemed only wariness and suspicion. Gwenda Vaughan was frowning. Hester stared at him with dilated eyes. Well, perhaps it was natural–such an announcement was hard to take in all at once.
Leo Argyle said hesitantly:
‘You mean, Dr Calgary, that you agree with my attitude? You don’t feel he was responsible for his actions?’
‘I mean he didn’t do it! Can’t you take it in, man? He didn’t do it. He couldn’t have done it. But for the most extraordinary and unfortunate combination of circumstances he could have proved that he was innocent. I could have proved that he was innocent.’
‘You?’
‘I was the man in the car.’
He said it so simply that for the moment they did not take it in. Before they could recover themselves, there was an interruption. The door opened and the woman with the homely face marched in. She spoke directly and to the point. ‘I hear as I am passing the door outside. This man is saying that Jacko did not kill Mrs Argyle. Why does he say this? How does he know?’
Her face, which had been militant and fierce, suddenly seemed to pucker.
‘I must hear too,’ she said piteously. ‘I cannot stay outside and not know.’
‘Of course not, Kirsty. You’re one of the family.’ Leo Argyle introduced her. ‘Miss Lindstrom, Dr Calgary. Dr Calgary is saying the most incredible things.’
Calgary was puzzled by the Scottish name of Kirsty. Her English was excellent but a faint foreign intonation remained.
She spoke accusingly to him.
‘You should not come here and say things like that–upsetting people. They have accepted tribulation. Now you upset them by what you tell. What happened was the will of God.’
He was repelled by the glib complacence of her statement. Possibly, he thought, she was one of those ghoulish people who positively welcome disaster. Well, she was going to be deprived of all that.
He spoke in a quick, dry voice.
‘At five minutes to seven on that evening, I picked up a young man on the main Redmyn to Drymouth road who was thumbing for a
