Robert Goddard — Borrowed Time Read online

  A few minutes passed in silence, during which he may have reflected on the many rejections and condemnations he’d soon be laying himself open to. Then he said simply: “Thank you.”

  “Why did you do it?” I asked, the wish that he would suddenly say no, it was all a joke really, buried beneath the question. “I mean, in God’s name, why?”

  “I don’t know, Robin. I remember the actions, not the reasons. She cast a spell on me that was only broken by her death. And now it seems as inexplicable to me as it does to you.”

  “All those lies you told. How could you sustain them?”

  “Necessity. Fear. Practice. And a morsel of pride, I suppose, at not being found out. They were enough. Until Rowena took their place. But now she’s gone, there’s nothing. No reason. No purpose. No point to the deception. I’ve been going to church these past few weeks, you know. Praying for guidance. Preparing to confess, I suppose you could say. In one of the readings, there was a verse from St. John’s Gospel that stuck in my mind. Six words that gave me more courage than all the rest put together. And just enough for me to be able to do this. ‘The truth will make you free.’ I’ve thought of it a lot. The hope, I mean. It’s easy to say. Not so easy to believe. But I’ve started to believe it. I really have. Just in the time I’ve been talking to you. I haven’t felt free since the night I killed her. But now there’s a chance. That the truth will make me free. At last. All over again. Truly free.”

  If anyone had told me I’d one day entertain Louise Paxton’s murderer as an overnight guest in my home, I’d have thought them mad. But Paul Bryant did spend that night at Greenhayes. When it came to the point, there was really nowhere else for him to go. He admitted he’d be grateful for company on the road to Worcester next morning and I suppose part of me wanted to be certain he meant to go through with his confession before I started throwing pebbles into the same pond.

  We set out at dawn, Paul looking as if he’d slept considerably better than me. Perhaps the longed for freedom was already making itself felt. He said little as we drove north, leaning back in the seat with his eyes closed, an expression close to contentment on his face. He smiled occasionally and muttered to himself. But whenever I asked him what he’d said, he only replied, “It’s not important.” Nothing was, I suppose, compared with the story he had to tell. Nothing counted at all—except his fierce determination to set the record straight.

  We reached Worcester in good time for his ten o’clock appointment. Cordwainer, Murray & Co. occupied modest first-floor premises near Foregate Street railway station. I dropped him at the door and watched him go in before driving away. He didn’t look back as he entered. He didn’t even hesitate. It seemed as much as he could do not to break into a run as he took the irrevocable step.

  I was in a hurry too, knowing delay would only breed prevarication. There was no easy way to tell Sarah all her worst fears about her mother were justified. But there was no way to avoid it either. I drove straight down the motorway to Bristol and made for Caledonia Place.

  But she wasn’t in. Well, why should she have been? It was an ordinary Saturday morning as far as she was concerned. I should have phoned ahead. I should have planned my tactics. But Paul’s confession had made tactics seem futile and ridiculous. What was there to cling to in its wake but instinct?

  I waited for twenty minutes that seemed like an hour. Then she pulled up in her car, unloaded some shopping and carried it to her door. I went to meet her, felt the normal greetings die on my lips and finished up making her start with surprise when she fished her keys from her handbag and looked up to find me waiting.

  “Robin! What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve some news for you, Sarah. Let’s go inside.”

  Her reaction was similar to mine. I could read in the alterations of her expression the same stages I’d gone through myself. Confusion. Disbelief. Slowly growing conviction. Then horror. At what Paul had done. And at what it meant. About Naylor. About Louise. About all of us. Finally came anger. Directed firstly at Paul. Then at the swathe his confession was bound to cut through all our comfortable assumptions and convenient interpretations. Nothing was going to be comfortable or convenient again. And Sarah knew that now. As well as I did.

  “I never thought,” she said, “never imagined . . . When he turned up that day at Sapperton . . . When I found he was still hanging around Cambridge during my graduation . . . I never had any idea what was really going on.”

  “How could you?”

  “Mummy should have told me. Then I could have put a stop to it before she left for Biarritz.”

  “You can’t be sure. He was completely obsessed with her. I don’t think anything would have stopped him.”

  “Don’t you? Well, maybe you’re right.” She crossed to the window and stared out at the damp grey roofs of Clifton, turning her back as if she was afraid to look at me while she said what I’d already thought. “But it wouldn’t have ended in murder, would it? Not if Mummy had been the faithful wife she wanted us to think she was. Not if she hadn’t picked up Naylor, just like he always said she did, on a whim, on an off-chance, for no reason except . . .” She bowed her head and I thought she was about to cry. But there were no tears in her eyes when she turned round. “It’s stupid, isn’t it? But somehow what this tells us about Mummy seems even worse than what it tells us about Paul.”

  “You mustn’t say that. He murdered her. And Bantock. There can be no excuses. Whatever problems there may have been in your parents’ marriage—”

  “They didn’t have a marriage, did they?” Her anger was finding a new target now. Her mother was dead. And the man responsible was willing at last to face the consequences. Only her father’s lies remained to be nailed. “It was all a sham, wasn’t it? A put-up job. She was leaving him. Just as I always thought. But not for Howard Marsden or some other well-groomed middle-aged lover. She was leaving him for anyone she could get. And Daddy must have known that all along. He must have known she was capable of what Naylor claimed she did.”

  “You can’t blame your father. He probably wanted to shield you and Rowena from—”

  “Where’s shielding got us? Your sister-in-law foisted on us as a stepmother. Rowena forced into saying things in court she didn’t really believe. Then married to her own mother’s murderer.” She stared at me, horrified into silence by the extra dimension of reality her words had somehow conferred on the facts. Then she added in an undertone: “And finally driven to suicide.”

  “Sarah, I—”

  “Aren’t you pleased, Robin? You always said we shouldn’t keep so many secrets in our family. Well, this certainly proves you right, doesn’t it?”

  “You can’t think I take any—”

  “No!” She held up her hands as she spoke in a gesture of conciliation, then frowned, as if puzzled by the violence of her reaction. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . . Besides, it does prove you right. I should have listened to you sooner.”

  “It wouldn’t have made any difference.”

  “Maybe not.” She lowered herself slowly onto the sofa and shook her head in weary dismay. “It’s all a bloody shambles, isn’t it?” I sat down next to her. She let me hold her hand for a moment, no more, then gently shook me off. The way she braced her shoulders and took a deep determined breath declared her intention clearly. Consolation would only hinder her. She’d find the strength to face this alone. Self-reliance would be her guarantee against the betrayals that had dragged her sister down. “Where’s Paul now?”

  “In Worcester. With Naylor’s solicitor.”

  “So it’s begun already. He’ll prepare a formal affidavit and submit it to the Crown Prosecution Service as grounds for an appeal. They’ll ask the police to verify Paul’s statement. And assuming they do . . .”

  “Paul seemed to think they might try to ignore him.”

  “I doubt they’ll be able to. I can confirm part of his story myself. So can Peter Rossington, I imagine. Then there’ll be a lot
of details that didn’t come out at the trial. Stuff only the real murderer could know. They always keep a few things back as a safeguard against nutcase confessions. If some of them tie up with Paul’s statement, the statement of a man who’s never even supposed to have visited Whistler’s Cot . . .”

  “I think we both know they will tie up.”

  “Yes. In which case . . .”

  “How long before it becomes public?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. Strictly speaking, there’s no necessity for it to become public until Naylor’s been granted leave to appeal. And that won’t be until the police have finished their investigation. Even then, the grounds for the appeal needn’t be disclosed—or Paul named—until the appeal’s actually heard. But most police forces leak like a sieve. This is sensational stuff. Sooner or later, the press will get wind of it. And my bet would be sooner.”

  “But we have a few weeks at least?”

  “Oh yes. A few weeks. The police will probably drag their feet. They’re going to look pretty stupid when this comes out. But then who won’t? Nobody can crow about it, can they? Not even Nick Seymour. He turned out to be right for the wrong reason. The only one who’ll end up smelling of roses is . . .”

  “Naylor.”

  “Yes. Some randy little housebreaker who happened to . . .” Another deep breath. Another summoning of inner reserves. “But he is innocent, isn’t he? He’s spent three years in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. We owe him an apology, don’t we? We who went to such lengths to ensure he’d be convicted.”

  “We thought he was guilty.”

  “Yes. We thought. But now we have to think again.”

  “Witnesses said they heard him confess.”

  “Police stooges. I knew that’s what they were even if you didn’t.”

  “What?”

  She smiled at me, as if pitying my naïvety. “A part-time barman at a Bermondsey pub who probably had a record as long as your arm and a remand prisoner hoping for a light sentence. They weren’t exactly disinterested. I’m afraid the police have a tendency to improve on reality in cases like this. It catches up with them, of course, when it turns out they fitted up the wrong man. But I doubt either witness will ever be charged with perjury. That could get very messy.”

  “You’re saying some of the evidence against Naylor was fabricated?”

  “It must have been. For the best possible reason, of course. To ensure he didn’t get away with murder. The only snag is . . . he wasn’t the murderer.”

  “Good God. And I . . .” My mind was a jumble of all the things I could have said in court that might have altered the outcome of the trial. The guilt spread thin and far. And now it lapped at my feet.

  “Don’t reproach yourself, Robin. Maybe you could have been more forthcoming. But I didn’t want you to be, did I? I as good as asked you not to be.” We looked at each other and seemed to acknowledge, without the need of words, the waste and folly we’d both been lured into. Paul had lived a lie for three years. And to greater or lesser extents, we’d lived it with him. “It would have been justified—it would have been right—if Naylor had been guilty. But he wasn’t.”

  “What can we do?”

  “Nothing. We must let the law run its course. It could be six months or more before an appeal’s heard. Until then, Paul can’t be charged with anything. He can’t even be held in custody.”

  “You’re not suggesting he might make a run for it?”

  “No. I can’t believe he would have confessed in the first place if he didn’t intend to go through with it. But he’s got a long gruelling wait ahead of him. And then there’s Naylor to consider.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, if the police can’t pick any holes in Paul’s confession, the prosecution will have to accept that Naylor’s innocent. Which means they’ll offer no evidence at the appeal. If they declare that as their intention, Naylor may be released on parole before the appeal’s heard. If I were his solicitor, it’s what I’d be pressing for.”

  “So?”

  “Think about it. Naylor set free. And Paul not yet arrested. It sounds like a dangerous situation to me.”

  “Surely Naylor wouldn’t be so stupid as to take revenge on him.”

  “I hope not. Though why I should . . .” Whatever she’d been about to say, she evidently thought better of it. She looked away and shook her head. “We don’t know Shaun Naylor at all, do we? We don’t know a single thing about him. He’s a total stranger to us. Yet there’s no part of our lives he hasn’t touched. Or ruined.”

  “But he didn’t murder your mother. Paul Bryant did that.”

  “Yes. And when I think of how charming he always seemed . . . How smart and respectable . . . Worming his way into our lives. Flattering us into such a high opinion of him. I was glad—I was grateful—when Rowena said she wanted to marry him. Can you imagine? I was actually pleased for her. And all the time . . .”

  “I think he really did love her.”

  “Good. Then I hope he misses her as much as I do. I hope the damage he’s done hurts him as deeply as it hurt her. And I hope it goes on hurting him. For the rest of his life.”

  She pressed her fingers to her forehead and sighed. I wanted to put my arm around her then and offer her what comfort I could. But I sensed she wouldn’t welcome it. Nor did I expect her to take up the suggestion I was about to make. But still it needed to be made. “Sarah, if you’d like me to . . . break the news . . . to your father . . .”

  “No. You’ve done enough already.” She meant it appreciatively, I think. Yet still, despite everything, there was a hint of accusation in the remark. And an echo of the temptation I’d briefly felt myself. “Couldn’t you have persuaded him to keep his mouth shut?” she seemed to want to say. “For all our sakes.” But it was a pointless game to play. Like an exile’s nostalgia for his homeland, its lure was also its torment. There could be no going back. “I’ll phone Daddy myself,” she said in dismal finality. “As soon as you’ve gone.”

  It was strange, I reflected as I drove back to Petersfield, how time alters the way we feel. If Paul Bryant had turned himself in to the police before Naylor’s arrest in July 1990, his prompt surrender wouldn’t have deflected our wrath. We’d have wanted him punished to the limit of the law. Waiting three years while an innocent man languished in prison should have magnified his offence. Yet instead it had somehow mitigated it. There was a tendency, which Sarah and I had both displayed, to blame Paul’s victims for the delusion he’d let us labour under. It was absurd and contemptible, of course. As if Louise had invited her murder. Or Naylor his wrongful conviction. And yet it squirmed there, at the back of the mind, seducing us in moments of weakness with the promise that our responsibility for a monstrous miscarriage of justice could be passed off onto others.

  But it wasn’t the worst evasion we could be reduced to. There was something more desperate still. The thought that could never be spoken but was bound to be shared. It would have been better if Paul had owned up straightaway. Obviously. Self-evidently. But since he hadn’t, since every solution to the problem he’d handed us was now second best, mightn’t it have been preferable—or at least less awful—if he’d never confessed at all?

  It reminded me of an apocryphal tale I’d once heard, based on the famous massacre of the three hundred Spartans at Thermopylae. The people of Sparta took such pride in their soldiers’ self-sacrifice—“Go tell the Lacedaemonians that we die here, obedient to their wishes”—that when one of them who’d survived the massacre by an honourable fluke returned to his wife and children, he was turned away and cast out as a stranger. His failure to have died was an embarrassment to them. Just as Louise Paxton’s and Shaun Naylor’s failure to have played the parts allotted to them was an embarrassment to us. But, unlike the Spartans, we couldn’t pretend it didn’t exist. Paul Bryant wasn’t going to let us.

  Three days passed without news of any kind. My determination to let the Paxtons con
front their difficulties without interference from me was sorely tested, but it held. Even though the silence from Bella in particular assumed an ominous significance in my mind. Then, on Wednesday afternoon, Sarah phoned me at the office.

  “I’m at The Hurdles, Robin. With Daddy and Bella. Can you join us?”

  “Er . . . yes. I suppose so. I take it . . . they both . . .”

  “They know everything. Daddy spoke to Paul this morning. He wants . . . Well, I’d be grateful, too . . . if you could talk to Daddy. It might help him understand.”

  “All right. I’ll be there in an hour.”

  It was Sarah who opened the door to me, which I thought odd until I followed her into the lounge and found Sir Keith pacing up and down by the fireplace while Bella sat stiffly in an armchair, smoking a cigarette. She didn’t even get up to greet me and I recognized her mood at once. This was one bolt from the blue too many for her tolerance. She was opting out of the whole ghastly affair. Leaving her husband to repair the damage she no doubt held him responsible for. I couldn’t blame her, really. Scandal had nowhere featured in her understanding of their marriage settlement. But now here it was. A codicil that didn’t need her consent. And therefore wouldn’t be honoured with her attention.

  I hadn’t seen Sir Keith since Rowena’s death. It was immediately obvious that the tragedy had aged him. His hair hadn’t been as white before, or his shoulders as rounded. His complexion was as ruddy as ever, but there was an unmistakable haggardness to his features. He looked like a man driving himself—or being driven—too hard. But not by the cares of a career. I’d dreaded meeting him because I’d thought he was bound to blame me for his daughter’s suicide. Yet suddenly that was no longer an issue between us. It had been overtaken by events. As we all had.

  “I’m sorry to have dragged you up here, Robin,” he said, shaking my hand distractedly. “This is a god-awful business.”