see you recognize me as I do you. Chief Inspector Wexford of Kingsmarkham CID. This is Inspector Burden.'
'Mr Wexford, yes. I do remember you, though I had no idea . . . What are you doing in my house? Has there been some sort of robbery or what. . .?'
'That we don't yet know. However, something very serious has taken place. You must be prepared for . . .'
'Where's my wife?'
Wexford told him. All the colour went out of Knighton's face. He walked into the living room and sat down in an armchair.
'Shot?' he said. 'Adela- shot?'
'I'm afraid it's true, sir.'
'Shot by some intruder? She's dead?'
'Yes, it appears she was shot by someone who forced an entry to this house during the night.'
Knighton passed a hand across his face. 'And youyou're a policeman in Kingsmarkham? You came in here and found my wife dead?'
'I among others. Your cleaner notified us.'
'Good God. Good God in heaven!'
Burden had sat down and now Wexford sat down too. Knighton's face was still paper-white, his eyes glassy with
89
shock. Wexford could have sworn it had been a shock. He noticed something that hadn't really struck him while they were in China- his wretched preoccupation with the old woman with bound feet, no doubt, had distracted him -he noticed how extraordinarily good-looking Knighton was. He was still good-looking now, though he looked ill with shock. What must he have been like when young? He still had a boy's figure, a young man's lithe carriage, and his features were of the classical sort, grown somewhat marble-like with age. His golden locks time had to silver turned. Adela Knighton, on the other hand, had been very plain, ugly even. And hers was the kind of ugliness not created by time but bred in the bone.
All that, of course, might be quite irrelevant. Wexford asked the classic requisite question that always made him feel like a character in a detective story.
'Where were you last night, sir?'
'Where was I? Staying with a friend in London. Why do you ask?'
'Routine.'
'Good God.' A sort of horrified understanding twisted Knighton's mouth. 'I thought you said a burglar . . .'
'lf you could just tell us where you were last night, sir, the name of your friend and so on, we should be able to get through this painful business a good deal faster.'
'Oh, very well.' Knighton hesitated a fraction. 'An old friend of mine, Henry Lacey,' he said, 'was giving a dinner party at a club to which both he and I belong. The Palimpsest in St James's. It was to celebrate his fifty years at the bar, what it would be the fashion to call a Golden Jubilee, I suppose. I was invited. On such occasions I stay in London as I have never cared to fetch my wife out with the car at one o'clock in the morning. And the station taxi service is not available at that hour, as you doubtless know.'
'You stayed at the club?'
'No, with a friend who has a flat in Hyde Park Gardens.'
The phone rang. Knighton gave another violent start.
90 - Wexford was rather surprised that he glanced at him for the go-ahead before answering it. He nodded.
Knighton gave the number in a steady low voice. Whoever was at the other end, unless exceptionally insensitive, would have recognized it as the voice of one recently bereaved. A cruel estimate, Wexford thought, but just. Knighton was shocked but he was not unhappy - perhaps unhappiness would come hereafter.
'Oh, Jennifer . . .' It was the daughter. 'The police have told you? Have you talked to Rod? Yes, please do come.. .' He put the phone down, again touched his forehead with his hand. 'My son is coming and my daughter and son-in-law.'
'I understand you have four children?'
'A daughter and three sons. One is in America and one in Turkey.'
'While we're waiting for your son and Mr and Mrs . . .?'
'Norris. My son-in-law is a solicitor with Symonds, O'Brien and Ames in Kingsmarkham.'
'While we're waiting for them, perhaps you'll give me the name of your friend in Hyde Park Gardens and the address of Mr Henry
'Mr Wexford, yes. I do remember you, though I had no idea . . . What are you doing in my house? Has there been some sort of robbery or what. . .?'
'That we don't yet know. However, something very serious has taken place. You must be prepared for . . .'
'Where's my wife?'
Wexford told him. All the colour went out of Knighton's face. He walked into the living room and sat down in an armchair.
'Shot?' he said. 'Adela- shot?'
'I'm afraid it's true, sir.'
'Shot by some intruder? She's dead?'
'Yes, it appears she was shot by someone who forced an entry to this house during the night.'
Knighton passed a hand across his face. 'And youyou're a policeman in Kingsmarkham? You came in here and found my wife dead?'
'I among others. Your cleaner notified us.'
'Good God. Good God in heaven!'
Burden had sat down and now Wexford sat down too. Knighton's face was still paper-white, his eyes glassy with
89
shock. Wexford could have sworn it had been a shock. He noticed something that hadn't really struck him while they were in China- his wretched preoccupation with the old woman with bound feet, no doubt, had distracted him -he noticed how extraordinarily good-looking Knighton was. He was still good-looking now, though he looked ill with shock. What must he have been like when young? He still had a boy's figure, a young man's lithe carriage, and his features were of the classical sort, grown somewhat marble-like with age. His golden locks time had to silver turned. Adela Knighton, on the other hand, had been very plain, ugly even. And hers was the kind of ugliness not created by time but bred in the bone.
All that, of course, might be quite irrelevant. Wexford asked the classic requisite question that always made him feel like a character in a detective story.
'Where were you last night, sir?'
'Where was I? Staying with a friend in London. Why do you ask?'
'Routine.'
'Good God.' A sort of horrified understanding twisted Knighton's mouth. 'I thought you said a burglar . . .'
'lf you could just tell us where you were last night, sir, the name of your friend and so on, we should be able to get through this painful business a good deal faster.'
'Oh, very well.' Knighton hesitated a fraction. 'An old friend of mine, Henry Lacey,' he said, 'was giving a dinner party at a club to which both he and I belong. The Palimpsest in St James's. It was to celebrate his fifty years at the bar, what it would be the fashion to call a Golden Jubilee, I suppose. I was invited. On such occasions I stay in London as I have never cared to fetch my wife out with the car at one o'clock in the morning. And the station taxi service is not available at that hour, as you doubtless know.'
'You stayed at the club?'
'No, with a friend who has a flat in Hyde Park Gardens.'
The phone rang. Knighton gave another violent start.
90 - Wexford was rather surprised that he glanced at him for the go-ahead before answering it. He nodded.
Knighton gave the number in a steady low voice. Whoever was at the other end, unless exceptionally insensitive, would have recognized it as the voice of one recently bereaved. A cruel estimate, Wexford thought, but just. Knighton was shocked but he was not unhappy - perhaps unhappiness would come hereafter.
'Oh, Jennifer . . .' It was the daughter. 'The police have told you? Have you talked to Rod? Yes, please do come.. .' He put the phone down, again touched his forehead with his hand. 'My son is coming and my daughter and son-in-law.'
'I understand you have four children?'
'A daughter and three sons. One is in America and one in Turkey.'
'While we're waiting for your son and Mr and Mrs . . .?'
'Norris. My son-in-law is a solicitor with Symonds, O'Brien and Ames in Kingsmarkham.'
'While we're waiting for them, perhaps you'll give me the name of your friend in Hyde Park Gardens and the address of Mr Henry
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