Closed Circle by Robert Goddard Page A

future."
    "But '
    "Good day, Mr. Horton."
    The harshness in Vita's voice fed on my self-pity till, by the time I set off for Dorking, my concern for Max had turned to resentment. Why on earth had he done such a thing? Murder was so pointless, so profitless. And it implicated me in a scandal of which I wanted no part.
    My reception at the police station did nothing to alter my mood. In Hornby's absence, a sweaty young detective sergeant took my statement. The nib of his pen caused him frequent difficulty and this, combined with the painful slowness of his writing, ensured I was there for nearly two hours before the little I had to say was recorded to his satisfaction. I was actually on my way out of the building when something happened to imply a purpose behind his dilatoriness: Hornby burst through the door in mud-caked boots and thorn-hatched tweeds, grinning broadly. Sighting me, his grin did not so much vanish as coagulate.
    "Still here, Mr. Horton? I thought you'd have been gone by now."
    "So did I."
    "Ah well, the mills of God, you know."
    "What have they to do with it?"
    "Thou shall not kill. It's one of the Ten Commandments. I'm surprised a well-educated fellow like you doesn't know that." He grew suddenly sombre. "We found a heavy wedge-shaped flint earlier this afternoon in the trees near where Mr. Charnwood was killed, with enough blood and fragments of bone and tissue on it to identify it as the murder weapon. There was an argument, I suppose. Mr. Charnwood began to walk away. Mr. Wingate picked up the flint, ran after him and, as he turned, struck him about the head, then several more times as he lay on the ground. Afterwards, he threw the rock away, ran to the road where the car was waiting, and drove off. You agree?"
    "I don't know."
    Hornby stepped closer. "Come now, Mr. Horton. You must agree."
    "I'll believe it when I hear it from Max's own lips. Not before."
    He nodded. "Fair enough. I'd put money on your condition being met in the very near future. Then you'll have to believe it. Won't you?"
    I felt badly in need of a drink when I left the police station, but the bar of the Star and Garter Hotel turned out to be a poor choice. Charnwood's murder was the sole topic of conversation among the customers, wild theories circulating as the beer flowed. Nobody could claim to have known the victim he kept himself too much to himself for that to be possible but nobody, on the other hand, was lacking for an opinion about what had happened. A report of the incident on the front page of the local evening newspaper was read aloud and exhaustively debated. The significance of Charnwood's body being found by his sister and daughter, along with a man whose name meant nothing to anybody, was widely speculated upon. As to the fellow being sought by the police, Max Wingate, some said he had been a recent house-guest at Amber Court; so at least the cook was supposed to have told the butcher when he delivered the week-end joint there earlier in the day.
    I fled, unable to listen to any more. But, on the train back to London, I slowly realized that I would have no choice in the matter. At least until Max was found, I would be forced to listen. Worse still, my name along with his would probably be in every national newspaper by morning. My father and sister could hardly avoid coming across the story. Even supposing they did miss it, one of their neighbours could be relied upon to draw it to their attention. My anonymity was suddenly forfeit.
    By the time the train drew into Victoria station, I had decided not to go back to the flat that night. The decision meant Max could not telephone me even if he wanted to. This was a considerable sacrifice, since I badly wanted to speak to him and gauge his state of mind. But, for the present, my obligations to my father and sister had to take priority. They deserved to hear the truth or part of it from me before they read a garbled version of it in the Sunday papers. The prodigal son the