at his relentlessly moving hands. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything, but I suppose, ‘There is no good in arguing with the inevitable. The only argument available with an east wind is to put on your overcoat.’ ” The tempo of his restless movements lessened slightly. “We were reading Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales and talking about the cuckolded husband. An over-grown lout said right out loud he guessed the best example stood right in front of them.” Staynor froze in mid-wash. His eyes rolled back in his head.
The sudden change startled Rhona. She wondered if whatever had happened to his eyes preceded a seizure. She ran the text of the first aid manual through her mind and prepared to intervene.
Before she could act, he shook himself, and his eyes returned to normal. “I picked him up, slammed him against the wall and walked out. Apparently, he had a concussion. I never set foot in the school again. I offered no defence when I was charged.” His tone was flat, the words spoken in a monotone, and for the first time he remained motionless. “In retrospect, it wasn’t worth it. I wish I hadn’t done it. The kid was right. The court gave me a suspended sentence dependent on my doing community service and getting psychiatric help. George Bernard Shaw said, ‘A life spent making mistakes is not only more honourable but more useful than a life spent doing nothing.’ If that’s the measure—I’ve had an honourable life.” With elbows glued to his sides, he raised his hands to cover his lowered face. His fingertips pressed into his forehead with enough force to turn them white. Staynor, hunched and bowed, remained locked in position.
“You’re a different man today. What’s happened?”
Staynor’s head came up and he dropped his hands. “Different? Humiliated, finished, done, kaput.” His eyebrows lifted, and he snorted. “You have to ask? My wife howls in church, falls on Paul’s body and acts like Dreyfus, ‘j’accuse’, when she confronts Hollis Grant.”
“You said you were aware of your wife’s infidelities?”
“That’s right, I did.” Staynor glared at Rhona. “And it’s true, my wife has run around for years, but she’s never done anything really blatant.” His lips twisted into a bitter imitation of a smile. “It won’t surprise you to learn I have a toast to sum up my philosophy. ‘If Life’s a lie, and Love’s a cheat, As I have heard men say, Then here’s a health to fond deceit.’ ” He shook his head like a bull irritated by clouds of black flies. “Sure I knew; but I felt guilty.”
“Guilty?”
“Yes, guilty, capital G.” Staynor became aware of his hands independently resuming their washing. He crossed his arms and pulled his hands tightly against his body, as if trying to hold himself together. “Did your hotshot detectives unearth the fact I stayed in the long-term hospital for the mentally ill, the loony bin, for quite a few months after the court case?”
With a flash of his old belligerence, he lifted his head and frowned at Rhona. “The great gurus decided I was nuts, crackers, weird: call it what you will. They claimed my mood swings made me dangerous and prescribed a little pink pill. The shrinks have a handle on their pharmacology—I’ll give them that. It worked—a little too well. As Francis Bacon said, ‘There are some remedies worse than the disease.’ It’s a conundrum. If I don’t take the pill, I’m dangerous. If I take it, I’m impotent. What can I expect a beautiful woman like my wife to do? Her affairs have been relatively discreet. Years ago, I offered her a divorce, but she didn’t want one because it would be bad for our son. He needed both of us at home.”
“Did you kill Reverend Robertson?”
“No. You may not believe me, but it never crossed my mind. I hated him, but not enough to kill him.” He sagged on the chair and lowered his head.
Rhona leaned forward, “I have an appointment with your wife for later this afternoon.”
“What for? You’ll rile her up. She’ll do something else stupid and embarrassing.”
“I’m warning her to be careful.”
“Careful? Sally? You must be kidding. Sally thinks ‘Prudence is a rich, old maid courted by incapacity.’ That’s Blake and Sally too.” His forehead furrowed as he appreciated the impact of Rhona’s warning. “Careful about what?”
Rhona debated. If Staynor was the perp, what effect would her explanation have? It wouldn’t do any harm to give a heads up, to say they were closing in.
“At the funeral yesterday, Mrs. Staynor accused Hollis Grant of killing Paul Robertson and claimed she knew Paul’s secrets. We believe the killer murdered Reverend Robertson because of those secrets. Knowing, or claiming to know, what they are could be dangerous. I told Mrs. Staynor to be careful. If you are on speaking terms with your wife, will you impress upon her to take my warning very seriously.”
“Son-of-a-gun!”
Staynor said nothing, and Rhona identified fear in his eyes. She wished intuition would tell her if Staynor feared for Sally or for himself. A man with an assault conviction, a spell of madness, and an obsession with his wife had reason to fear.
At three, she rang the bell at the Staynor’s house. No one responded. She pushed the brass button again and listened to the three-tone chime. After waiting several minutes, she decided she’d wasted her time: Sally had either gone out or passed out. She’d taken three steps toward her car when she heard the door open. A voice mocked her.
“Well, if it isn’t Canada’s answer to Robo-cop.”
Rhona pivoted to face the door. “Hello, Mrs. Staynor—Sally.”
“Hello yourself. Why the hell are you here?” With her arms akimbo and her left shoulder and jaw thrust forward, she resembled a small dog trying to decide which stance would scare away a much larger dog.
Rhona considered Sally. Without make-up, she appeared older but more vulnerable. Her black stretch pants, baggy at the knees, worn with a faded black Grateful Dead T-shirt and black cloth slippers, did nothing to improve her image.
“May I come in?”
“Why should you? I have nothing to say to you.”
“Mrs. Staynor,” Rhona spoke quietly, “I’m here to warn you—you may be in danger.”
“Danger. From who—Hollis Grant? Did she send you?”
“Mrs. Staynor, this is serious.”
“She did it. Goddam it, she sent you. You go right the hell back and tell her I’m not afraid of her or anyone else.”
Rhona, who had pushed her hands deep in the pockets of her brown tweed pants, rocked on the heels of her cowboy boots and regarded Sally without moving or saying anything. Under Rhona’s unblinking gaze, Sally’s belligerence drained away.
“You’re serious?”
“Yes.”
“Why am I in danger?”
“Because at the memorial service, you claimed you were privy to Paul Robertson’s secrets. We think he was killed to prevent him from telling or using secret information.”
“But, I was bluffing—I don’t really know anything.” Sally’s arms dropped to her sides, and her body sagged against
