Chapter Four
One, Two, Three
They took the rowboat out to think. This was Verity's prescription for difficult cases: water, distance, and a husband to row while she thought.
"I am developing blisters," said Alexander, rowing, "in the service of justice."
"Heroes get blisters," said Verity, trailing her hand in the water and watching a swan supervise its cygnets with the air of a duchess. "Row, hero. And listen."
"I am rowing," said Alexander. "I am listening. I am even, against my better judgment, thinking."
"One," said Verity, holding up a finger. "The catch was snapped, not slipped. The brooch was wrenched from the shawl, in a hurry, by hands."
"Two," said Alexander, catching the rhythm. "Only one pair of hands held the shawl unwatched — the pair that caught it at the reeds and shook it out. Twice. Thrice."
"Thrice," said Verity. "Once to catch it. Twice more to unpin seven amethysts while everyone was still running up."
"Three." Alexander shipped the oars and let the boat drift. "The left coat pocket. He has patted it eleven times since luncheon. I counted."
"You counted!"
"I count everything when I am married to you. It is my least husbandly quality."
"Four," said Verity. "The pink paper. A tailor's bill. And an appointment, in the village, with the tailor, directly after tea — in new Italian boots that have never seen water."
"A man does not wear new Italian boots to pay a bill," said Alexander slowly. "A man wears new Italian boots to impress a creditor. Or to outrun one."
"Five." Verity crunched a peppermint. "Seven amethysts, Alexander. A poet might live a year on seven amethysts. He said so himself, in front of witnesses."
Alexander was quiet a moment, watching the swan. "It is circumstantial," he said at last. "A snapped catch, a patted pocket, a pink bill. No witness saw him take it."
"So is a waltz," said Verity, "until the music starts." She crunched a peppermint thoughtfully. "If I accuse him outright, he panics — and seven amethysts go into the Medway, where even the frog will not find them. But a game, Alexander — a game he cannot refuse without confessing."
"Explain," said Alexander, shipping the oars, "slowly, and with sympathy for the rower."
"Turn Out Your Pockets. A forfeit game, after tea, in front of everyone.
A guilty man cannot resist checking that the thing is still there —" she tapped her own pocket — "and an innocent man cannot resist showing that it is not.
Either way, we shall see his hand go into that left pocket, and we shall see what comes out of it. "
"And if he refuses to play?"
"Then he confesses by refusing," said Verity sweetly, "and we have saved the price of a forfeit."
Alexander looked at his wife with the particular admiration of a man who had married far above his detective abilities. "You are terrifying."
"I am married," said Verity. "It is better."
* * *
After tea, Verity clapped her hands for attention, in the manner of a lady about to ruin several afternoons at once.
"A forfeit game!" she announced. "To celebrate the river. It is called Turn Out Your Pockets. Each of us produces the oddest thing in our pockets, and the oddest wins —" she held up her peppermint tin — "the last peppermint."
The meadow approved. Plimpton produced three sermon notes and a dead wasp. "Evidence," he said darkly.
Miss Vane produced six peppermints. There was a pause.
"Miss Vane," said Verity, counting her tin, "those are mine."
"Borrowed," said Miss Vane with dignity. "I was keeping them safe."
Sir Peregrine produced a handkerchief and a stone. "For luck," he said.
Alexander produced a handkerchief, a stone — "also for luck; it is catching" — and Verity's spare peppermint tin. Empty.
"Thief!" cried Verity.
"Marriage!" cried Alexander.
And then it was Cyril Pettifer's turn.
Cyril Pettifer looked at his left coat pocket the way a man looks at a loaded pistol. "Oh," he said faintly. "Capital."