Page 138 of Marble Hall Murders

‘What’s that?’

‘You’ve just been to my flat. The decorators told you I was here. But how did you know where I lived in the first place?’

She looked stunned – as if it was the most absurd, irrelevant question I could have asked. ‘Eliot told me,’ she said at last.

‘Why?’

‘I don’t remember. I wanted to know where you lived and he told me.’

‘But why would you want to know that?’

She smiled, confused. ‘I don’t know what you’re getting at, my dear.’

‘Detective Inspector Blakeney said something very interesting to me just a few days ago. We were talking about the break-in at my flat. It wasn’t a burglary, Elaine. Someone trashed the place and tried to kill my cat. It must have taken them a while, so he asked me who knew I wouldn’t be at home that day. And there was something else. I didn’t drive to the party, but someone still reported seeing my car in Trafalgar Square – and was even able to read part of the licence plate. It must have been someone who knew what car I drive.’

‘And who would that be?’

‘Actually, it might be you. Nobody else knew about my MG. Not Eliot, not Roland Crace, not Jonathan, no-one. When I visited Marble Hall, I parked in the car park. When I saw Dr Lambert, I had to leave the car round the corner from his house. But you’ve seen it lots of times. When I went to Gillian’s, you saw me arrive.’

Elaine looked at me and spoke with total sincerity. ‘I promise you, Susan, I never told anyone what car you drove.’

‘That’s not quite what I mean,’ I assured her. ‘You were also the only person who knew I was going to be in Belmarsh Prison – because you helped arrange it. I didn’t tell anyone else. And that was when my flat was ransacked.’

‘Susan, are you suggesting—’

I held up a hand, stopping her. ‘You telephoned me when I was at the station,’ I said. ‘Where were you?’

‘I was at home.’

‘In Parsons Green.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, that’s definitely a lie, Elaine. Don’t you remember? Somebody rang the doorbell in the middle of our conversation. Your doorbell plays a few bars of a piece of music by Bach. It’s Charles at the piano. But the doorbell I heard was a very ordinary one. In fact, I think it was identical to mine.’ I hurried on before she could interrupt. ‘And there was another funny thing. When the doorbell rang, you lowered your voice. Why would you do that if you were in your own home – or anywhere else for that matter? But while you were there, smashing and tearing up everything you could get your hands on, you were disturbed by an Amazon delivery. There was a package on the floor, waiting for me when I got back. That was why you spoke more quietly. You didn’t want the driver to know you were there.’

‘Susan – this is madness. You don’t know what you’re saying.’

‘You wrote “KILLER” on the wall. That was clever. It made everyone think I was being blamed for Eliot’s death and it also made it more likely that I was the one who was responsible. I was to blame. But you were there to plant the watch, just as you had planted the piece of cloth and kicked in the grille of my MG earlier. You must have left the party shortly after Eliot and found him lying in the road. I have to say, it must have taken quite a mind, an incredible reservoir of hate, to turn what had happened into an opportunity. Butthat was when you got the idea. You decided to use his death to frame me. Punish me, the same way Charles has been punished … at least, that’s how you saw it. And Charles is in on it too, isn’t he? The two of you, working together. Why else would he have agreed to see me? He made it clear how much he hates me, but when I was with him, he couldn’t stop himself. He told me that I was going to get a taste of my own medicine. That’s what the two of you planned. The only trouble is, you’ve overreached yourself, Elaine. Coming here and telling me to slit my wrists in the shower or jump under a train. Did you really think that was going to work? Did you really think I was going to sit here and let you watch me die?’

She said nothing, but as I watched her, an impossible transformation came over her face. It was like a special effect on the cinema screen as layer after layer of her personality was wiped away, revealing the Fury beneath. It was the eyes that gave her away. The hatred that she felt for me – deep, vengeful, all-consuming – had finally been released, welling up from the very depths of her being. It was extraordinary, really. Nothing had changed. Her expression was frozen in place. Yet everything had changed.

‘You were lying from the very start, weren’t you,’ I said. ‘When we met at Causton Books, you pretended to be my friend because you were working out how to trap me. Did Eliot know too? Was he part of it?’

‘Eliot knew nothing.’

And there it was. The admission. Game over.

‘It doesn’t matter anyway,’ she went on. ‘Nobody is going to believe you. As far as the world is concerned, we didn’t have this conversation. I wanted you to feel what I felt, Susan,when you took Charles away, ruined our retirement, stole our last years together. I wanted you to understand what your high-mindedness, your cruelty, your intransigence did to us.’

‘Charles killed Alan Conway. He tried to kill me.’

‘I wish he’d succeeded. You bitch! He had done so much for you. If it hadn’t been for him, you’d never have had a career in publishing. He took you in and gave you everything you wanted and you never showed him a shred of gratitude. Did you ever think about me and my daughters? My grandchildren? Did you ever think about what you did to us?’

‘I did nothing to you, Elaine. It was Charles.’

‘Charles made a mistake, that’s all. Two mistakes. He pushed that stupid author off the tower – well, he deserved it – and he trusted you.’

‘Do you know who killed Eliot?’

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