Chapter 22 A Legitimate Provocation
Hilary had come to his decision reluctantly.
Yet in the end, he saw no other path forward.
He only wished he could make the arrest quietly and unaccompanied.
There was no question, after all, of Mr. Reznikov causing any trouble.
But it was out of his hands; he was obliged to attend Tregunter Road with Chief Inspector Lish of the Chelsea Constabulary and Lish’s junior colleague, Detective Inspector Hodge.
Lish hammered forcefully on the front door, no doubt meaning to frighten the residents out of their wits.
They heard hurried footsteps approaching.
When Mrs. Wilson opened the door, her expression of outrage turned to masked terror at the sight of them, three rigidly poised men in raincoats.
Hilary knew then, knew without question, that she was hiding something serious.
Her skin was a bloodless gray; the black stuff on her eyelashes had smudged like soot.
She suddenly looked every second of her real age—which, he now knew, was forty-four.
“Detective Inspector, you’ve brought some friends,” she parried. “But how nice. Please, come in.”
“Good evening, Mrs. Wilson,” said Hilary pleasantly.
“I apologize for the intrusion. It’s Mr. Reznikov we’re here for.
Can you please fetch him?” But Lish had already peeled off from the group and found the back stairs.
“Down here, is he?” he called, leaving the rest of them no choice but to follow him.
“Please,” she said, pursuing Lish down the stairs. “You must knock. You can’t just go barging—”
Lish shouldered the basement door open and went in.
Mr. Reznikov, obviously hearing the commotion, was on his feet and doing up the top button of his shirt.
Before the ambushed man could speak, Lish said, “We are policemen from the Chelsea Constabulary and New Scotland Yard. We have come to arrest you on charges relating to the disappearance of Jack Shaughnessy, also known as James Sullivan. I must inform you that we’re going to search these premises. ”
You might make your enjoyment a bit less plain, thought Hilary.
Lish was a large, lubricious Scot with thick sideburns and huge fingers—the type of man blessedly unacquainted with self-doubt.
His colleague, Hodge, though not exactly shy and retiring, was made of finer, more austere stuff.
He had dark eyes—Italians or Spaniards lurked in his family tree, suspected Hilary—and a watchful air.
Hilary saw him extend a consoling hand to Mrs. Wilson, who was quietly weeping and shooting reproachful glances at all of them.
Mr. Reznikov, who had said nothing, began shaking with a dreadful violence. Hilary could hardly bear it and announced his intention to begin searching at the top of the house. “Who’s upstairs?” he asked. But Mrs. Wilson seemed not to hear him.
As he stepped onto the landing, Robbie Trafford emerged from one of the attic bedrooms. He blinked at Hilary, like an animal who’d been woken, and said, “Are we all to be arrested?”
“Why should you think that?” replied Hilary. “It’s Mr. Reznikov who has been arrested. But I’m afraid I must search your room.”
Mr. Trafford stood aside without objection, then sat on the edge of his neatly made bed. Methodically, conscious of the man’s eyes upon him, Hilary went through the desk drawers. He fanned a pile of typescripts, scanned some letters, and glanced through notebooks.
“You’ve written a lot, haven’t you?” he said. “Are those novels?”
“Partial novels, yes. A load of old rubbish most likely.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.” He realized he was rushing his task, eager to finish searching the room before Lish and Hodge appeared, as though he knew what he was about to find. Mr. Trafford, he felt, knew too. There emanated from him an air of surrender to his fate.
Hilary could easily have missed the notes and very nearly did; they comprised four scrappy pieces of paper, folded in two and tucked into the elastic of an out-of-date desk diary.
He looked at them, then at Mr. Trafford, who’d turned his head toward the window, jaw set and fists clenched.
The contents of the notes—brief, ersatz-poetic, vulgar yet not without a certain inventive eroticism—surprised Hilary less than the handwriting.
It was delicate and ornate, tiny and precise, lending the crudest words a sort of spiritual intensity.
Who among us, he thought, could fail to be seduced by the composer of such a hand?
“Why didn’t you burn these? Why not get rid of them after I first came here, if not before?”
Mr. Trafford turned to meet his gaze. With an almost imperceptible shake of the head, he conveyed that he knew he ought to have done, he knew it very well, yet had found himself unable.
“So it was you and the girl Georgina.” Hilary spoke quickly and very quietly. “He was playing you off against each other, was that it?”
Shrugging helplessly, Mr. Trafford said, “But why are you blaming Saul?” He spoke in almost a whisper, matching Hilary’s vocal pitch. “He wouldn’t harm a fly. Nor would I, but—”
“His motive is plain. Yours is… well, yours is murky. Mr. Sullivan couldn’t have blackmailed you without implicating himself.”
“I thought sexual jealousy was an accepted motive.”
“Mr. Trafford.” Hilary pulled out the desk chair, hitched up his trousers, and sat down. “Do you want to make a confession?” He was half joking. This man plainly wasn’t capable of murder. Still, he was curious to see what he’d say.
“No, no, don’t be absurd. If Mr. Sullivan has died, I’m very sorry about that.”
Hilary still held the love notes in his hand. “Not heartbroken, though?”
Mr. Trafford said nothing.
“Anyway,” said Hilary, “in films, it’s often the case.”
“That the motive is jealousy, you mean?”
“In real life, it’s usually money. Money, or revenge.”
From beneath them came a sound like glass smashing.
“That’s George’s room. In her case, going through the billets-doux of her lovers may take some time.
” Mr. Trafford smiled, and in his smile was bitterness and contrition and actual grief.
It was shocking. Looking back much later, Hilary wondered if that was the moment he made his decision—or if, in fact, he’d made it the moment he laid eyes on the notes.
Either way, he slid the incendiary evidence into his pocket and stood up.
“I’m not going to show these to anyone,” he said. “Not unless I have to, at any rate.”
“But—”
“I’m not being kind, if that’s what you think. If the counsel for Mr. Reznikov—or for whoever ends up in the dock for this—if they got hold of them, just imagine the tale they could spin. The jury would have reasonable doubt coming out of their ears.”
Mr. Trafford took a sharp intake of breath and said, “What makes you think he’s actually dead, and hasn’t just run away from his troubles? I wouldn’t blame him.”
Hilary gave him a look of playful warning that said, I won’t be drawn any further.
For a shade longer than necessary, Mr. Trafford held eye contact, his pupils expanding a tiny, unmistakable fraction.
How the body gives us away! Hilary felt the hint of a smile play across his lips.
Then he lowered his chin, brought his fist to his mouth, and cleared his throat.
“Stand up, please. I shall have to check under your mattress. Will I find anything else?”
“Let’s start at the beginning, Mr. Reznikov. Why don’t you tell me when you first heard the name Jack Shaughnessy.”
Saul lit the first of many cigarettes and looked directly at Comyns, who was sitting across from him.
He sensed no malevolence, only the focused intention of a man keen to do his job effectively.
“It was in 1939, before the war,” he said.
“Naturally you’re familiar with Mr. Shaughnessy’s criminal record.
So yes, it was after my cousin and her husband were attacked in their home. ”
“Hmm,” said Comyns. “Horrible business. Please forgive my confusion, but how was it that you then became the lodger of Mr. Shaughnessy’s sister? You do know Mrs. Wilson is his sister?”
“How did you…” Saul blurted. So Honor’s cover was blown at last. His head ached as he tried to think through the ramifications.
“It’s true, then? Honor Wilson is Elsie Armstrong?”
He swept a hand across his hair. “It’s quite simple.
Not long after I moved to London, in 1947, I met Mrs. Wilson at a party.
A literary sort of affair. Her husband was in publishing, you know.
Then I met her again, or rather I met Elsie.
It was at my cousin’s house. At Naomi’s.
Mrs. Wilson used to visit her. They were old friends, and Naomi didn’t blame Elsie for what her husband and brother had done.
Why would she, it wasn’t her fault. And Elsie was very good to Naomi, financially and otherwise. ”
“Does that mean you were one of the few people who knew who Mrs. Wilson really was?”
“I was the only person. I mean, aside from Jimmy. Mr. Shaughnessy.”
“Right. So then, in the present day, Mrs. Wilson lets her wayward sibling come and live with her. Why?”
Why indeed, thought Saul. “I suppose he threatened her with exposure. With telling the world she was a fraud. She had put superhuman effort into changing her… changing her identity. Making a good life for herself. I cannot blame her for not wanting to… to throw it all away.”
“I must say,” said Comyns slowly, “I find that generous of you.” He reached for his cigarette case and lit one. “It was thanks to Shaughnessy, was it not, that you didn’t manage to bring your family to Britain before it was too late?”
“I didn’t say I was happy about it. About his living there in the house with us.”
“That’s putting it mildly, surely? If I were you, I’d have wanted to kill him. I cannot imagine a more legitimate provocation. I’m sure a jury would agree. It’s a classic crime of passion.”
Saul laughed, a short and bitter guffaw.
“Detective Inspector. My wife and daughter died ten years ago. I haven’t been walking around ever since in a perpetual state of violent anger.
As for committing murder, I’ve never even been in a physical altercation.
If Mr. Shaughnessy has turned up dead somewhere, that’s very unfortunate.
But it’s nothing to do with me. And I know for a fact that you have no evidence otherwise—except for, perhaps, what’s the phrase?
” He’d heard it from Mina. “Circumstance evidence.”
Comyns smoked and narrowed his eyes at Saul.
“The thing is, Mr. Reznikov. You’re the only person at Tregunter Road with a clear motive.
I must tell you, that means I can charge you with the capital crime of murder.
But perhaps I’m barking up the wrong tree.
I’m not infallible—I’d be the first person to tell you that.
Perhaps new evidence will emerge that exonerates you.
But if not…” He stubbed out his cigarette, lifted his right shoulder, exposed his right palm.
An effeminate gesture, thought Saul. “You don’t seem like an evil man, Mr. Reznikov.
You understand, however, that a life has been taken. Someone, therefore, must pay.”
“Shouldn’t my solicitor have arrived by now?”
“I’ll go and check in a moment. Of course, even without his presence, you don’t have to tell me anything. I can’t force you to speak. There are some things you ought to know, though. When I said you were the only person with a clear motive, I wasn’t being entirely truthful.”
“Forgive me, Detective Inspector, but you’re making very little sense.
First you accuse me of murder, then you say there’s another suspect.
Whoever this man is, he is presumably roaming the streets, at liberty to kill again.
Meanwhile, you’re wasting time cross-questioning me about trivialities, such as my personal relationship with Mrs. Wilson. ”
Comyns half smiled. “You said Mrs. Wilson let her brother live at her house because she feared her real identity being exposed. I wonder if you realize his blackmail material was far more serious?”
Saul felt a coldness in his bowels.
“That money, stolen from your cousin’s house and never recovered.” Comyns paused for effect. “She took it.”
“What a ridiculous thing to say. I—”
“Think about it. How else was she able to achieve such an astonishing self-reinvention? As you said, a whole new life.”
“Her husband was older, successful. He had—”
“Ah yes. Mr. Wilson. Unfortunately, a bigamous union. The former Elsie Armstrong is still married to Thomas Armstrong, residing at Her Majesty’s pleasure. I visited him the other day. He had some choice words for her, I can tell you. Mr. Reznikov, are you feeling all right?”
Saul opened his mouth to reply. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that perhaps it wasn’t you who killed Mr. Shaughnessy. I can’t make up my mind, is the thing. Mrs. Wilson’s motive, while a different kettle of fish to yours, is fairly persuasive. She wasn’t only to be exposed as a female Walter Mitty, you see, but as a ruthless criminal.”
Could it all be lies, wondered Saul, an interrogatory technique designed to elicit useful information?
“Before Elsie Armstrong became Honor Wilson, before she began working at the firm where she and her husband met—well, her would-be husband—she was already dressing in expensive clothes, furs, jewelry. And according to Thomas Armstrong, nearly a thousand pounds in stolen cash—yours—was hidden in a garage. It disappeared along with his wife when he was still on remand.”
Saul blinked. Then he covered his face with his hands.
Comyns reached over the scarred and pitted wooden table and touched Saul’s wrist. His fingertips were cool and soft.
“Mr. Reznikov. Why don’t we prepare a witness statement, you and I?
You can explain how Mrs. Wilson killed her brother.
Then you can go home. Or I can arrange for a hotel if you don’t wish to go back to Tregunter Road.
She destroyed your life once, didn’t she?
Don’t let her destroy it all over again. ”