pictures too, some of a woman. This woman.
‘My husband,’ Mrs Chapman said flatly. ‘He kiled himself.’
‘I’m very sorry,’ said Briony. She felt wholy inadequate in the face of the grief and rage she seemed to feel emanating from this woman.
She was like one of the Furies from an ancient Greek tragedy, a figure of vengeance, only the Furies had also been known as the Kindly Ones, and there was nothing kind about Marina Chapman as she stood there, her eyes fixed relentlessly on Briony’s face.
‘He shot himself.’ Mrs Chapman went on after a pause. ‘And your husband drove him to it.’
‘Oh, no!’ Briony said quickly. ‘You’re wrong. You must be wrong. 1—’
‘He drove him to it.’ Mrs Chapman repeated relentlessly.
‘With his prying, and his endless, endless bloody questions. Harry got desperate. He had the answers, al the answers, but your husband never gave him time to think, time to answer. He was always phoning, or on the doorstep. And every day these stories in the paper― just the one he worked for at first, and then al the others. Then they al came gathering like vultures, asking questions, printing their vile lies―
lies your husband told them about Harry. Then the police. Harry was a good man― a good man!’ Her voice became high-pitched with her
insistence. ‘He didn’t do these things. He hadn’t defrauded anyone. He could have explained everything. But your husband never gave him a chance. He dragged his name in the mud, and stil he wasn’t content. Always questions. No bloody peace—ever!’
Briony put her hands over her ears. ‘I don’t want to hear any more!’
‘My Harry didn’t want to hear any more,’ Mrs Chapman said. ‘But your husband made him. And he was only the first― the chief jackal,
the leader of the pack. Filthy scavengers the lot of them, nosing through dirt!’
Her tone was hysterical, and Briony was afraid suddenly.
The woman sounded almost unhinged, and they were alone in the house.
She said, ‘Mrs Chapman, won’t you sit down, and let me get you something― a cup of coffee. Then we’l talk about this. You say your
husband was a good man― wel, I feel the same about my husband and . . .’
‘But you don’t know him, do you?’ said Mrs Chapman. ‘You’ve only known him a few weeks. It was in al the papers― a whirlwind
romance, they caled it. And you’ve only been married a matter of hours. What do you know about him? Only what you want to know.
That he is an attractive man― oh, I’l grant you that― that he makes you feel good in bed?’ She saw the sudden flare of colour in Briony’s pale cheeks and laughed harshly. ‘God, don’t you even know that yet? What an innocent! No wonder .. .’ She stopped.
‘No wonder what?’ Briony asked numbly.
‘It doesn’t matter.’ The older woman’s voice was dismissive. ‘Al that matters is that you should know the type of man you’ve married.
Someone who’s hunted down an innocent man― made his life a hel on earth. Someone who’d sel his own mother― or you― for a good
story with his name on it. Do you know that
everything he wrote about poor Harry—every lie,every vile insinuation had his name blazoned on It― as If he was proud of it.’
Briony heard herself say, ‘You must be wrong. There must be some mistake.’
‘There’s no mistake. Your husband murdered mine as surely as if he’d taken the gun in his own hand and puled the trigger. And how many other lives has he destroyed ― this “ace investigative reporter” ?’ She spat the words as if they were slime. ‘Who else has he trampled over to make his headlines― to get himself noticed― make his way to the top? Who else has been hounded and persecuted until he
couldn’t take any more?’ She broke off, her voice suddenly choked with sobs.
Briony turned .away. There was something vaguely indecent in this grief folowing on the heels of near violence and she felt
‘My husband,’ Mrs Chapman said flatly. ‘He kiled himself.’
‘I’m very sorry,’ said Briony. She felt wholy inadequate in the face of the grief and rage she seemed to feel emanating from this woman.
She was like one of the Furies from an ancient Greek tragedy, a figure of vengeance, only the Furies had also been known as the Kindly Ones, and there was nothing kind about Marina Chapman as she stood there, her eyes fixed relentlessly on Briony’s face.
‘He shot himself.’ Mrs Chapman went on after a pause. ‘And your husband drove him to it.’
‘Oh, no!’ Briony said quickly. ‘You’re wrong. You must be wrong. 1—’
‘He drove him to it.’ Mrs Chapman repeated relentlessly.
‘With his prying, and his endless, endless bloody questions. Harry got desperate. He had the answers, al the answers, but your husband never gave him time to think, time to answer. He was always phoning, or on the doorstep. And every day these stories in the paper― just the one he worked for at first, and then al the others. Then they al came gathering like vultures, asking questions, printing their vile lies―
lies your husband told them about Harry. Then the police. Harry was a good man― a good man!’ Her voice became high-pitched with her
insistence. ‘He didn’t do these things. He hadn’t defrauded anyone. He could have explained everything. But your husband never gave him a chance. He dragged his name in the mud, and stil he wasn’t content. Always questions. No bloody peace—ever!’
Briony put her hands over her ears. ‘I don’t want to hear any more!’
‘My Harry didn’t want to hear any more,’ Mrs Chapman said. ‘But your husband made him. And he was only the first― the chief jackal,
the leader of the pack. Filthy scavengers the lot of them, nosing through dirt!’
Her tone was hysterical, and Briony was afraid suddenly.
The woman sounded almost unhinged, and they were alone in the house.
She said, ‘Mrs Chapman, won’t you sit down, and let me get you something― a cup of coffee. Then we’l talk about this. You say your
husband was a good man― wel, I feel the same about my husband and . . .’
‘But you don’t know him, do you?’ said Mrs Chapman. ‘You’ve only known him a few weeks. It was in al the papers― a whirlwind
romance, they caled it. And you’ve only been married a matter of hours. What do you know about him? Only what you want to know.
That he is an attractive man― oh, I’l grant you that― that he makes you feel good in bed?’ She saw the sudden flare of colour in Briony’s pale cheeks and laughed harshly. ‘God, don’t you even know that yet? What an innocent! No wonder .. .’ She stopped.
‘No wonder what?’ Briony asked numbly.
‘It doesn’t matter.’ The older woman’s voice was dismissive. ‘Al that matters is that you should know the type of man you’ve married.
Someone who’s hunted down an innocent man― made his life a hel on earth. Someone who’d sel his own mother― or you― for a good
story with his name on it. Do you know that
everything he wrote about poor Harry—every lie,every vile insinuation had his name blazoned on It― as If he was proud of it.’
Briony heard herself say, ‘You must be wrong. There must be some mistake.’
‘There’s no mistake. Your husband murdered mine as surely as if he’d taken the gun in his own hand and puled the trigger. And how many other lives has he destroyed ― this “ace investigative reporter” ?’ She spat the words as if they were slime. ‘Who else has he trampled over to make his headlines― to get himself noticed― make his way to the top? Who else has been hounded and persecuted until he
couldn’t take any more?’ She broke off, her voice suddenly choked with sobs.
Briony turned .away. There was something vaguely indecent in this grief folowing on the heels of near violence and she felt
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