Eighteen

THE LETTERS

I
“Sorry to worry you again, Mrs. Haymes.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Phillipa coldly.

“Shall we go into this room here?”

“The study? Yes, if you like, Inspector. It’s very cold. There’s no fire.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s not for long. And we’re not so likely to be over-heard here.”

“Does that matter?”

“Not to me, Mrs. Haymes. It might to you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think you told me, Mrs. Haymes, that your husband was killed fight-ing in Italy?”

“Well?”

“Wouldn’t it have been simpler to have told me the truth—that he was adeserter from his regiment.”

He saw her face grow white, and her hands close and unclose them-selves.

She said bitterly:

“Do you have to rake up everything?”

Craddock said dryly:

“We expect people to tell us the truth about themselves.”

She was silent. Then she said:

“Well?”

“What do you mean by ‘Well?,’ Mrs. Haymes?”

“I mean, what are you going to do about it? Tell everybody? Is that ne-cessary—or fair—or kind?”

“Does nobody know?”

“Nobody here. Harry”—her voice changed—“my son, he doesn’t know. Idon’t want him to know. I don’t want him to know—ever.”

“Then let me tell you that you’re taking a very big risk, Mrs. Haymes.

When the boy is old enough to understand, tell him the truth. If he findsout by himself some day—it won’t be good for him. If you go on stuffinghim up with tales of his father dying like a hero—”

“I don’t do that. I’m not completely dishonest. I just don’t talk about it.

His father was—killed in the war. After all, that’s what it amounts to—forus.”

“But your husband is still alive?”

“Perhaps. How should I know?”

“When did you see him last, Mrs. Haymes?”

Phillipa said quickly:

“I haven’t seen him for years.”

“Are you quite sure that’s true? You didn’t, for instance, see him about afortnight ago?”

“What are you suggesting?”

“It never seemed to me very likely that you met Rudi Scherz in the sum-merhouse here. But Mitzi’s story was very emphatic. I suggest, Mrs. Hay-mes, that the man you came back from work to meet that morning wasyour husband.”

“I didn’t meet anybody in the summerhouse.”

“He was hard up for money, perhaps, and you supplied him withsome?”

“I’ve not seen him, I tell you. I didn’t meet anybody in the summer-house.”

“Deserters are often rather desperate men. They often take part in rob-beries, you know. Hold-ups. Things of that kind. And they have foreign re-volvers very often that they’ve brought back from abroad.”

“I don’t know where my husband is. I haven’t seen him for years.”

“Is that your last word, Mrs. Haymes?”

“I’ve nothing else to say.”