The Inheritance. Simon Tolkien

of you, if you need to refer to it, Inspector. It’s an agreed version. The defendant told you, did he not, that he’d been arguing with his father shortly before he found Professor Cade murdered?’

      ‘Yes. He said that he went to the study at ten o’clock and that he and his father played chess and argued.’

      ‘Argued about his father’s will? About his father’s intention to change that will and disinherit the defendant?’

      ‘Yes. The defendant told me they talked about the will but that their main argument was over the defendant’s need for money.’

      ‘Which his father was reluctant to give him.’

      ‘Yes …’

      Trave seemed to want to answer more fully, but Thompson gave him no opportunity. ‘The defendant told you in interview that he became very angry with his father. Isn’t that right, Inspector?’ asked the prosecutor.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘The defendant admitted to shouting at Professor Cade that he deserved to die.’ The pace of Thompson’s questioning continued to pick up speed.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘And then he told you that he left the study and went for a walk. That’s what he said, wasn’t it, Inspector?’

      Thompson asked the question in a rhetorical tone that made it quite clear what he, at least, thought of Stephen Cade’s alibi.

      ‘He said he walked up to the main gate and came back to the study about five minutes later, when he found his father murdered.’

      ‘Yes. Now, Inspector, did you find any footprints to support Stephen Cade’s account?’

      ‘No. But I wouldn’t have expected to. The courtyard is stone and the drive is Tarmac.’

      ‘All right. Let me ask you this, then. Did you find any witnesses to back up his story?’

      ‘No. No, I didn’t.’

      ‘Thank you. Now one last question,’ said Thompson, smiling as if he felt he’d saved his best for last. ‘Did you find any of the defendant’s belongings in the study?’

      ‘We found his hat and coat.’

      ‘Ah, yes. Where were they?’

      ‘On a chair beside Professor Cade’s desk.’

      ‘And the professor himself. Where was his body in relation to this chair and in relation to the entrance doors to the room? Can you help us with that, Inspector?’

      ‘Why don’t you give the jury a chance to look at all this on the floor plan, Mr Thompson?’ said the judge, interrupting. ‘It might make it clearer.’

      ‘Yes, my lord, I should have thought of that. Members of the jury, if you look at the plan, you can see the courtyard is enclosed on three sides by the main part of the house and its two wings. Professor Cade’s study is the last room on the ground floor of the east wing. It faces into the courtyard, and you can see the French windows marked. The internal door in the corner of the room opens out into a corridor which runs the length of the east wing. You can take it up from there, Inspector,’ said Thompson, turning back to his witness.

      ‘Yes. The deceased was seated in one of the two armchairs positioned in the centre of the study, about midway between the two entrances,’ said Trave, holding up the plan. ‘The desk and the chair with the defendant’s hat and coat were further into the room.’

      ‘So the professor was between the doors and the defendant’s hat and coat?’

      ‘Yes. That’s right.’

      ‘Thank you, Inspector. That’s what I wanted to know. No more questions.’

      Thompson sat down with a self-satisfied expression on his face and stole a glance at the jury. He knew what the jurors must be asking themselves: Why would Stephen Cade have gone for a walk at half past ten at night? And if he did, why didn’t he take his hat and coat? It was obvious he hadn’t been wearing them, because not even he could pretend that he put them back on the other side of his dead father’s body on his return.

      No, the truth was inescapable. Stephen Cade never went for any walk at all. He was in the study the whole time, arguing with his father about his will, threatening him, and finally killing him with a pistol that he had brought along for that precise purpose.

      Then, the next day, he’d told the police a ridiculous story in order to try to save himself. But it wouldn’t wash. With a little help from the prosecution, the jury would see right through it. It’d find him guilty, and then Judge Murdoch would make him pay for what he’d done. With his neck.

      CHAPTER 2

      That same evening, after court, Stephen Cade’s girlfriend, Mary Martin, came to visit him in Wandsworth Prison.

      Sitting in the car in the early October twilight, she blocked out her companion and his anger and focused instead on the prison walls, which reared up high, black, and imposing at the end of the side street of terraced Victorian houses on which they’d parked a few minutes before.

      Beside her, Paul kept his eyes half-closed and his breath came slowly, as if he was visibly trying to calm himself after his outburst moments earlier. But the grip of his hands on the steering wheel hadn’t relaxed and the whites of his knuckles showed through. Yet Mary remained impervious, her mind concentrated on preparing for the ordeal ahead. The first day of the trial was always going to be stressful, and the prison intimidated her for some reason – more each time she came. But that only increased her resolve to go through with the visit. She’d promised, and she wasn’t one to break her word, however much Paul pressed her to stay away.

      Pulling down the mirror in the sun visor above the dashboard, she inspected herself closely. She was wearing no jewellery or cosmetics, but she didn’t need to. She had good, regular features, yet there was more to her face than just that. The fullness of her lips and the curves of her figure spoke of a sensuality that was half-belied by something watchful, almost withdrawn in her eyes. It made her mysterious and somehow challenging, and at times it almost made her beautiful.

      Mary knew this, but the knowledge gave her no particular pleasure. She was a person entirely without vanity. Her pretty face was an asset to be exploited in her career. Nothing more. It got her better parts than plainer girls could hope for. And for that she was grateful. She certainly had no wish to be a poor actress. The life was difficult enough without being unsuccessful.

      Satisfied with her appearance, Mary ran her hand through her thick chestnut-brown hair one last time, took a deep breath, and opened the door of the car. It was cold outside and she walked away quickly without a word to Paul or even a backward glance.

      Inside the prison Mary waited with the other visitors in a whitewashed room dimly lit by a dusty tube of fluorescent lighting that flickered overhead as if it was just about to give up the ghost. All the walls were decorated with poorly typed notices about what could not be brought into the prison and what could not be taken out, and the biggest sign over on the far wall listed the penalties for assisting a prisoner to escape. Underneath it a young mother with an old face was trying to calm a screaming undernourished baby, while a warder sat behind a metal desk near the door reading a tabloid newspaper with his blue cap tipped down over his wide forehead.

      Time passed slowly, and Mary counted out the minutes on the old black institutional clock hanging above the warder’s head. One, two, three, four, five, until exactly half past six when an invisible bell rang and everyone got to their feet, shuffling out into the main courtyard of the prison. It was almost dark now and Mary stayed at the back, following behind two local South London women who seemed to know each other well.

      ‘That’s where it happens. That’s where they do it. Florrie told me when I was last here,’ said one, adopting a theatrical stage whisper as she pointed excitedly over towards a two-storey red-brick building close to the