He looked at me, his gaze narrowing ever so slightly as he began to realize what I was about.
“You’ve been talking to Lady Alma,” he said at last.
So she had told him, had she? “She mentioned something to me about having seen Mrs. Hodges walking across the field. Surely that’s just as compelling as Imogen Prescott having seen Darien doing the same thing.”
“I don’t think Mrs. Hodges had much of a motive.”
“What about Imogen Prescott?” I asked casually. “Did you ask her what she was doing in the field when she witnessed Darien walking across it?”
He sighed, leaning forward to set his empty cup and saucer on the table. “Mrs. Ames, I’m not really at liberty to discuss the case with you. I’ve already said more than I ought.”
I realized I had pressed him too far, but an idea occurred to me, and I thought I might well seize upon it while I had the chance.
“Inspector Wilson,” I said. “I should like very much to visit Darien in prison.”
17
“MRS. AMES, I don’t think this is the sort of place you should be visiting,” Inspector Wilson said for what seemed like the hundredth time in the last quarter of an hour. “Especially as you … well, as you are…”
He broke off, finding himself unable to reference my condition. “It just isn’t the place for you, madam.”
He had been saying as much since I had convinced him to let me accompany him back to the police station. We had just walked through the front doors, and his unease seemed to be increasing by the moment. I only hoped he wouldn’t change his mind after we’d come this far.
“I’m certain I have been in worse places, Inspector,” I said soothingly.
He looked doubtful.
“I’d just like to speak to him for a few minutes.”
Torn between his desire to be accommodating and what he felt was his duty to shield me from the rougher elements, he eventually relented, realizing, I supposed, that I would not be easily thwarted.
“If you’ll come this way, I’ll show you to our interview rooms. We’ll have him brought to you there.”
I thanked him and followed him down the corridor and into a dim, sparsely furnished room. There was a table that looked as though it had seen much better days, and two rickety wooden chairs. I sat carefully in one, testing it to be sure it wouldn’t collapse beneath me before settling my full weight in it.
With one last doubtful look in my direction, Inspector Wilson left me alone.
I felt a little hint of triumph that I had succeeded thus far. I felt certain that if I could speak to Darien, I might be able to clear up a few points that were troubling me.
A few moments later, Darien was led into the room by a burly officer. Inspector Wilson came in behind them.
Darien still wore the expression of indifference, but he seemed a bit paler than when I had seen him last, and his clothes were rumpled. They had taken his necktie.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said when he saw me. I wondered who he had been expecting. I suspected he had hoped it would be Milo.
“Hello, Darien,” I said. “How are you?”
“I’m all right.”
The officer led him to his seat and pushed him down into it. He set his arms on the table between us, and I saw that they were shackled together. I felt sorry for him, though everything in his expression said he didn’t want it.
“May I speak to him alone?” I asked Inspector Wilson. “Just for a few moments?”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t think…”
“I’m sure with an officer right outside the door, no harm will come to me,” I said in my most imperious of tones. He hesitated. I sensed he wasn’t the sort of man to back down easily, but he was weighing whether or not it was worth it to argue with me. One had to pick one’s battles.
At last he gave a shrug. “Five minutes, no more.”
I nodded. I would take what I could get.
Inspector Wilson and the officer went out, and we were alone.
I turned back to Darien and smiled. “There. That’s better, don’t you think?”
“Do you have a cigarette?”
I didn’t smoke, but I had known this would likely be his first question. I reached into my handbag and brought out one of the cigarettes I had taken from the box Milo kept in the sitting room.
He took it and put it between his lips, and I flicked on the lighter and leaned forward to light it.
He inhaled deeply and let out a relieved breath of smoke. “I’ve been waiting for a cigarette. It tastes almost as good as freedom.”
“I’m afraid this is no laughing matter, Darien.”
He looked up at me, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Do you think I don’t realize that? I may enjoy a risk now and then, but I certainly don’t fancy being hanged.”
“You’re not going to be hanged,” I said. I hoped I was right. This was all much more serious than he seemed to realize.
“I didn’t kill that fellow,” he said.
I wanted to believe he was telling the truth, but, as with Milo, it was very difficult to tell. Looking into those blue eyes was like standing on a ship and looking for answers in the depths of the ocean.
Remembering what Milo had learned about Darien from Mr. Ludlow, I decided to change tactics. “What happened with the other woman, the one whose husband supposedly died in a fall from a horse?”
He looked surprised. “How did you hear about that?”
“You have to admit, it looks bad,” I said, ignoring the question.
“That man’s death was an accident. Pure chance, nothing more. There was a lot of nasty gossip about it because of my involvement with the wife.”
“And then she killed herself.” I was watching him closely as I said it, and I was certain a flicker of something like sadness crossed his features before he concealed it.
“In the end, it got to be too much for her, I suppose,” he said, looking down at his cigarette.
“This information certainly doesn’t help your case.”
“I’ve done a lot of bad things,” he said, his eyes coming up to meet mine. “But I haven’t killed anyone.”
I wanted very much to believe him.
“Who do you suppose did kill Bertie Phipps?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I haven’t the foggiest idea. I hadn’t seen him since our row at the inn. I certainly didn’t go about looking for him to bash his head in.”
I frowned. Whether or not he had killed him, he was very casual about all of it.
“What were you doing in that field?”
The hesitation was so slight it was almost unnoticeable. “Just walking. Having a look at Thornecrest. I’m curious about my origins.”
I had the distinct impression he was lying, but I moved past it for the moment, going to my next question.
“How do you explain the blood on your boots and Bertie’s money and chain in your room?”
“Those aren’t my boots,” he said. “I only have the pair I was wearing.”
“Can you prove it?”
“Can you prove how many pairs of shoes you have?”
“What about the chain and the money?” I asked, determined not to let his impudence dull my determination to help him.