don’t suppose she’s a likely murderer. Anyway, I imagine she still lives in Norfolk, and it would be a bit far-fetched to imagine her taking a cheap day return to Wales to bump him off. Who else?’ he urged. ‘Who else is there who had a grudge against him?’
Laura looked doubtful. She got up, moved about, and began to unbutton her jacket. ‘Well,’ she began cautiously, ‘there was a gardener, about a year ago. Richard sacked him and wouldn’t give him a reference. The man was very abusive about it and made a lot of threats.’
‘Who was he?’ Starkwedder asked. ‘A local chap?’
‘Yes,’ Laura replied. ‘He came from Llanfechan, about four miles away.’ She took off her jacket and laid it across an arm of the sofa.
Starkwedder frowned. ‘I don’t think much of your gardener,’ he told her. ‘You can bet he’s got a nice, stay-at-home alibi. And if he hasn’t got an alibi, or it’s an alibi that only his wife can confirm or support, we might end up getting the poor chap convicted for something he hasn’t done. No, that’s no good. What we want is some enemy out of the past, who wouldn’t be so easy to track down.’
Laura moved slowly around the room, trying to think, as Starkwedder continued, ‘How about someone from Richard’s tiger-and lion-shooting days? Someone in Kenya, or South Africa, or India? Some place where the police can’t check up on him very easily.’
‘If I could only think,’ said Laura, despairingly. ‘If I could only remember. If I could remember some of the stories about those days that Richard told us at one time or another.’
‘It isn’t even as though we’d got any nice props handy,’ Starkwedder muttered. ‘You know, a Sikh turban carelessly draped over the decanter, or a Mau Mau knife, or a poisoned arrow.’ He pressed his hands to his forehead in concentration. ‘Damn it all,’ he went on, ‘what we want is someone with a grudge, someone who’d been kicked around by Richard.’ Approaching Laura, he urged her, ‘Think, woman. Think. Think!’
‘I—I can’t think,’ replied Laura, her voice almost breaking with frustration.
‘You’ve told me the kind of man your husband was. There must have been incidents, people. Heavens above, there must have been something,’ he exclaimed.
Laura paced about the room, trying desperately to remember.
‘Someone who made threats. Justifiable threats, perhaps,’ Starkwedder encouraged her.
Laura stopped her pacing, and turned to face him. ‘There was—I’ve just remembered,’ she said. She spoke slowly. ‘There was a man whose child Richard ran over.’
Starkwedder stared at Laura. ‘Richard ran over a child?’ he asked excitedly. ‘When was this?’
‘It was about two years ago,’ Laura told him. ‘When we were living in Norfolk. The child’s father certainly made threats at the time.’
Starkwedder sat down on the footstool. ‘Now, that sounds like a possibility,’ he said. ‘Anyway, tell me all you can remember about him.’
Laura thought for a moment, and then began to speak. ‘Richard was driving back from Cromer,’ she said. ‘He’d had far too much to drink, which was by no means unusual. He drove through a little village at about sixty miles an hour, apparently zig-zagging quite a bit. The child—a little boy—ran out into the road from the inn there—Richard knocked him down and he was killed instantly.’
‘Do you mean,’ Starkwedder asked her, ‘that your husband could drive a car, despite his disability?’
‘Yes, he could. Oh, it had to be specially built, with special controls that he could manage, but, yes, he was able to drive that vehicle.’
‘I see,’ said Starkwedder. ‘What happened about the child? Surely the police could have got Richard for manslaughter?’
‘There was an inquest, of course,’ Laura explained. A bitter note crept into her voice as she added, ‘Richard was exonerated completely.’
‘Were there any witnesses?’ Starkwedder asked her.
‘Well,’ Laura replied, ‘there was the child’s father. He saw it happen. But there was also a hospital nurse—Nurse Warburton—who was in the car with Richard. She gave evidence, of course. And according to her, the car was going under thirty miles an hour and Richard had had only one glass of sherry. She said that the accident was quite unavoidable—the little boy just suddenly rushed out, straight in front of the car. They believed her, and not the child’s father who said that the car was being driven erratically and at a very high speed. I understand the poor man was—rather over-violent in expressing his feelings.’ Laura moved to the armchair, adding, ‘You see, anyone would believe Nurse Warburton. She seemed the very essence of honesty and reliability and accuracy and careful understatement and all that.’
‘You weren’t in the car yourself?’ Starkwedder asked.
‘No, I wasn’t,’ Laura replied. ‘I was at home.’
‘Then how do you know that what Nurse what’s her-name said mightn’t have been the truth?’
‘Oh, the whole thing was very freely discussed by Richard,’ she said bitterly. ‘After they came back from the inquest, I remember very clearly. He said, “Bravo, Warby, jolly good show. You’ve probably got me off quite a stiff jail sentence.” And she said, “You don’t deserve to have got off, Mr Warwick. You know you were driving much too fast. It’s a shame about that poor child.” And then Richard said, “Oh, forget it! I’ve made it worth your while. Anyway, what’s one brat more or less in this overcrowded world? He’s just as well out of it all. It’s not going to spoil my sleep, I assure you.”’
Starkwedder rose from the stool and, glancing over his shoulder at Richard Warwick’s body, said grimly, ‘The more I hear about your husband, the more I’m willing to believe that what happened tonight was justifiable homicide rather than murder.’ Approaching Laura, he continued, ‘Now then. This man whose child was run over. The boy’s father. What’s his name?’
‘A Scottish name, I think,’ Laura replied. ‘Mac—Mac something—MacLeod? MacCrae?—I can’t remember.’
‘But you’ve got to try to remember,’ Starkwedder insisted. ‘Come on, you must. Is he still living in Norfolk?’
‘No, no,’ said Laura. ‘He was only over here for a visit. To his wife’s relations, I think. I seem to remember he came from Canada.’
‘Canada—that’s a nice long way away,’ Starkwedder observed. ‘It would take time to chase up. Yes,’ he continued, moving to behind the sofa, ‘yes, I think there are possibilities there. But for God’s sake try to remember the man’s name.’ He went across to his overcoat on the armchair in the recess, took his gloves from a pocket, and put them on. Then, looking searchingly around the room, he asked, ‘Got any newspapers about?’
‘Newspapers?’ Laura asked, surprised.
‘Not today’s,’ he explained.
