Mr. Brown lifted his cane with one arm and used it to point malevolently across the bay. Like a lightning rod, it seemed to introduce the suggestion of a storm into the picture. “That house there? Why, it wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“That house there is Whitestone House, where he’s lived his whole life. Not that anyone around here really knows him. He keeps himself to himself, mostly.”
“How extraordinary.” Mr. Brown tapped his round glasses up to the top of his nose. “And you think he’s guilty?”
She looked around to make sure they weren’t being overheard. “Everybody does. The victim was well known in this town, Mrs. Vanessa Allen. She knew those cliffs like the back of her hand. It’s inconceivable that she could have fallen, unless she was pushed.”
“They knew each other, then? The victim and the suspect?”
“They were neighbors, of sorts. She lived in the next house along the cliff, which you can’t see from here. There’s a footpath that passes by his house and runs along the top of the cliffs until it reaches a bright-yellow cottage, a five-minute walk away. That’s where she lived, with her daughter, Jennifer.”
“And what was his motive?”
“That’s simple,” said the woman, who had forgotten her initial reticence and was now speaking freely. “He wants to marry Jennifer. But Mrs. Allen never liked him and she was set against it. So he wanted her out of the way, that’s all. Four days ago they were both walking along that path. Mrs. Allen was coming to town and he was heading in the other direction. As they passed each other he saw his opportunity and pushed her to her death, then claimed she slipped. It’s the perfect crime, when you think about it. There was no one watching except for the sea.”
Mr. Brown smiled at her confidence and leaned back, seemingly satisfied with the sordid nature of her tale, then tapped his cane twice against the ground as punctuation. “In even the most innocent scenes, there is darkness to be found at the corners,” he said, “from the way the light falls on the frame.”
She nodded. “And there is his house, at the corner of the town.”
“Where he waited like a spider, pinned to his white web. But spiders are often harmless creatures, no matter how sinister they might appear. Maybe the young man is simply misunderstood?”
“Nonsense,” she muttered, suddenly quite indignant.
“Then you’re certain it couldn’t have been an accident?”
The woman shrugged. “There aren’t a lot of accidents in this town.”
Mr. Brown stood up and tipped his hat to her, after putting it back on his head. She gasped; he’d seemed so small, sitting down, but in fact he was over six feet tall.
“My dear, that was a most interesting discussion. Let’s hope the matter is laid to rest soon. Have a wonderful day.”
And he walked off toward the white house on the hill.
* * *
In fact Mr. Brown had found Gordon Foyle quite pleasant and sympathetic when they’d sat down together the day before, at a small table in a cell of the local police station.
The young man had looked at him with pleading blue eyes. “They’re going to hang me.”
Between them was a piece of paper and a pencil. Gordon Foyle’s movements were slow and ponderous, partly due to his nature and partly because his hands were chained to the table. He straightened the paper and started to draw. “I’m frightened.”
“Why do you think they’ll hang you?”
Gordon continued to sketch as he talked. “Oh, because I keep to myself. Though that makes it sound like a selfish thing to do. It’s not really, I’ve just never been very good at making friends.”
“Nevertheless, they’ll need some evidence.”
“Will they?”
An uncomfortable silence filled the room. Mr. Brown chose his words carefully. “If you’re innocent, there is reason to be hopeful.”
Gordon waved his right hand dismissively. There was a cascade of metal as the chain fell from the table. “There was actually a witness, you know.” The young man was looking directly at Mr. Brown now. He turned the piece of paper around; he’d drawn a yacht, floating on the straight line of the sea. “A boat, about two hundred yards out in the bay. It was painted red. That’s what it looked like. It was too far away for me to get the name, but if you can find whoever was on that boat, they would have been able to see everything.”
Mr. Brown closed his eyes, as if he were breaking bad news. “But only if they were looking.”
“Please, Mr. Brown, you have to try.”
* * *
“There’s only one unusual thing about this crime, and that’s the unflinching ruthlessness with which it was carried out. A quiet young man kills the mother of the woman he loves, and all it takes is a gentle push.”
After his visit to the police station, Mr. Brown had been met by his old friend, Inspector Wild. They were discussing the case over sherry at the bar of Mr. Brown’s hotel.
“We have no real evidence,” the inspector continued. “But what evidence could we possibly have? It’s the perfect crime, in that sense. With no witnesses except for the birds.”
“If it leaves him as the only suspect, I would say it’s rather imperfect. Wouldn’t you? How can the poor man ever prove his innocence? People have been hanged on less evidence than this, and you can’t tell me that’s not a possibility here.”
Inspector Wild brought finger and thumb together along the length of his pointed beard and cocked his head back. He let out a long sigh. “I damn well hope it is. I think he’s as guilty as a louse.”
Mr. Brown lifted his glass. “Well, then. Here’s to the inquisitive, open minds of our police detectives.”
Inspector Wild narrowed his bright-green eyes. “I would be glad to be proved wrong.” And he finished off his drink.
They ordered food and the hotelier brought them some disappointing sandwiches, tinted pink by the red lamp behind Inspector Wild’s head.
“Then he lives alone,” asked Mr. Brown, “our friend Gordon Foyle?”
“It’s rather a tragic case, really. You can see how he’d get out of line. Both his parents died seven years ago, when he was eighteen, in some kind of motoring accident. But they left him the house and enough to get by, so he’s come out of it all right. I don’t believe he’s done a day’s work in his life.”
“But he must have help?”
“Yes, a lady comes up from the town every day. He says he likes it that way, rather than having someone living in. But the whole thing happened before she was due, so instead we know about his movements from a local woman named Epstein.”
“I see,” said Mr. Brown. “And where can I find her?”
* * *
Whitestone House sat in its surroundings—a neat green lawn and beyond that a brownish expanse of heather and gorse—like an egg snug in a nest. At present there were no signs of life, and each of the dim windows showed only a dusty white leg of curtain, running seductively down the side of the frame.
All of the rooms inside were dark.
Mr. Brown knocked his hat back with the head of his cane and took in the whole scene at a glance. “An empty page,” he muttered to himself.