Chapter 15 Chapter fifteen

"But I don't want to go home," Philip Durant said.He spoke sadly and impatiently. "But, Philip, really, there's nothing to stay here any longer. I mean, we've come to see Mr. Marshall to discuss the matter, and we've waited for the police to come and talk. But there's nothing to stop us going home right now. It's gone." "I think your father will be very pleased if we stay a few more days," said Philip. "He likes to have someone play chess with him at night. Oh, he's such a good chess player. I thought I wasn't bad at chess, but I've never been able to beat him."

"Father can find someone else to play chess with him," said Mary briefly. "What—call someone from the Women's Society?" "Anyway, we should just go home," said Mary. "Tomorrow is Mrs. Cardon's brass polishing day." "Polly, the perfect housewife!" laughed Philip. "Anyway, that lady-what-name can polish bronzes without you, can't she? Or if she can't, send her a telegram and tell her to let them grow copper moss for another week." "You don't understand housework, Philip, and you don't understand how difficult it is."

"I don't see what's hard unless you make it hard yourself. Anyway, I'm going to stay." "Oh, Philip," said Mary passionately, "I hate this place." "why?" "So dark, so unfortunate—and everything that's going on here. Murders and everything." "Okay," Polly, don't tell me you'd be nervous about that kind of thing. I'm sure you won't change your face when you hear about the murder.No, you want to go home because you want to clean the brass, and sweep the dust, and make sure no silverfish get in your fur coat—"

"Silverfish don't go into fur coats in winter," said Mary. "Oh, you know what I mean, Polly. Pretty much right. But you know, from my point of view, it's a lot more interesting here." "More fun than in our own home?" Mary said, looking both shocked and hurt. Philip looked at her quickly. "I'm sorry, dear, I didn't speak very well. There's nothing better than our own home, which you've made lovely and cozy and tidy and charming. You know, if--if I was like I was, then It's totally different. I mean, I'm going to have a lot of things to do throughout the day. I'm going to be busy with a whole lot of planning. And then go back to our own home and be with you and talk about the day, that's really That's great. But you know, it's different now."

"Oh, I know it's different in that way," Mary said. "Don't think I've forgotten, Fee. I do. I do care a lot." "Yes," said Philip, almost through his teeth. "Yes, you care too much, Mary. You care so much that sometimes it makes me care more. All I want is a little fun and—no" he holds up a hand—"don't tell me I can do puzzles and play Occupational therapy stuff and getting someone to rehab me and reading endless books. Sometimes I really want to do things myself! And here, in this room, I'm Something to really experience for yourself.”

"Philip," gasped Mary, "you're not still playing with—your idea?" "Playing murderer?" said Philip. "Murder, murder, who did the murder? Yes, Polly, you're pretty close. I'd love to know who did it." "But why? And how would you know? If someone broke in or found the door open—" "Still think it's a foreigner?" Philip asked. "Wonderful, you know. Old Marshall said it nicely. But really he's just trying to save face. Nobody believes that pretty story. It's not true at all." "Then you must understand that if it's not true," interrupted Mary, "if it's not true—if, as you say, it's one of us—then I don't want to know. Why should we know ? We—we don't know, isn't it a hundred times better?"

Philip Durant looked up at her questioningly. "Bury your head in the sand, eh, Polly? Don't you have any natural curiosity?" "I tell you I don't want to know! I think it's all horrible. I want to forget about it and not think about it." "Don't you care enough about your mother to want to know who killed her?" "What good is that, knowing who killed her? For two years we've been perfectly satisfied that Jack killed her." "Yes," said Philip, "it's lovely that we've been all satisfied." His wife looked at him suspiciously.

"I don't—I don't really understand you, Philip." "Don't you understand, Polly, that this is a challenge to me in one way? A challenge to my intellect? I'm not saying I feel particularly deeply about your mother's death or that I like her particularly. It's not. She did everything she could to keep you from marrying me, but I don't hate her for that, because I managed to marry you off anyway. Didn't I, dear? No, it wasn't revenge, and it wasn't even justice. Love. I think it's — yeah, mostly curiosity, though maybe there's a little bit of a side to that."

"It's not something you should get involved in," said Mary. "You can't get any good out of it. Oh, Philip, please, please don't, let's go home and forget all about it." "Oh," said Philip, "you can push me wherever you like, can't you? But I want to stay here. Don't you want me to do what I want sometimes?" "I want you to have everything you want in the world," said Mary. "You don't really want to, honey. You just want to take care of me like a baby, know what's best for me, and do everything you can every day." He laughed.

Mary looked at him suspiciously and said: "I never know when you're serious and when you're joking." "Beyond curiosity," Philip Durant said, "someone should find out, you know." "Why? What good would it do? Going to jail again. I think it's a terrible idea." "You don't know very well," said Philip. "I'm not saying I'm going to take the man - if I find out who it is - to the police. I don't think I will. It depends, of course. Maybe I'm going to take him to the police, because I still don't think there can be any real evidence."

"Then without any real evidence," said Mary, "how are you going to find out anything?" "Because," said Philip, "there are many ways to find out, to know with absolute certainty. And I think, you know, that it will become quite necessary. Things are not very good in this house, and it will soon change. worse." "What do you mean?" "Don't you notice anything, Polly? How are your father and Gwenda Fern?" "How are they? Why does my father marry again at his age—" "I can understand that," said Philip. "After all, his marriage was rather unfair. He has a chance of real happiness now, dying happiness, you can say, but he has that chance. Or, let's say, he used to have it. Now between them The situation is not good." "I think it's all—" said Mary vaguely. "Exactly," said Philip. "All this. Makes them more alienated every day. And there are two possible reasons for that. Suspicion or guilt." "Who do you suspect?" "Well, let's say mutual suspicion. Or one party's suspicion and the other's guilt, or vice versa, as you please." "Don't be like this, Philip, you're confusing me." Suddenly Mary's attitude became a little lively. "So you thought it was Gwenda?" she said. "Perhaps you are. Oh, it would be wonderful if it was Gwenda." "Poor Gwenda. You mean, because she's not part of the family?" "Yes," said Mary. "I mean it wouldn't be one of us then." "That's all you feel, isn't it?" said Philip. "The impact of this incident on 'us.'" "Of course," said Mary. "Of course, of course," said Philip impatiently. "The trouble with you, Polly, is that you don't have any imagination. You can't put yourself in anyone else's shoes." "Why?" Mary asked. "Yes, why?" said Philip. "I think if I'm honest I'd probably say to pass the time. But I can put myself in your father's shoes, or for Sister Kwan, if they were innocent, Then how painful and embarrassing their situation is. Guanda suddenly makes people afraid to get close. She respects ghosts and gods and stays away. She knows in her heart that she will still not be able to marry the person she loves. Let’s put myself in your father’s shoes Think about it. He knows, he can't help knowing, that the woman he's in love with has the opportunity and the motive to do it. He hopes it wasn't her, he doesn't think she did it, but he doesn't know for sure. And what's worse, He'll never be sure." "At his age—" began Mary. "Oh, at his age, at his age," said Philip impatiently, "don't you understand that it's worse for a man of that age? It was the last love of his life. He couldn't And again. This love is deep. And look at it from another angle," he went on, "assuming that Leo has emerged from the shadow of the silent and lonely world in which he has managed to live so long. Suppose it is he who strikes down His wife? Almost makes one feel sorry for the poor creature, doesn't it? Not that," he went on thoughtfully, "I really think he's up to it. But I have no doubts Think the police might think so. Now, Polly, we'll get your opinion. Who do you think did it?" "How could I know?" said Mary. "Well, perhaps you can't know," said Philip, "but you may have very good ideas—if you want to live." "I tell you I refuse to think about it at all." "What do I suspect... just out of sheer disgust? Or maybe—maybe—because you do know? Maybe in your cool head you're pretty sure...so sure you don't want to think about it, don't want to tell me? You think Is it Hester?" "What reason did Hester have for wanting to kill his mother?" "No real reason, is there?" said Philip thoughtfully. "But you know, you do see this kind of thing. A son or daughter who is pretty well cared for, pampered, and then one day some stupid little thing happens. Doting father or mother who refuses to pay for a movie Tickets, or a new pair of shoes, or if you go out with your boyfriend and you have to be back before ten o'clock. It may not be a big deal, but it can be the trigger, and suddenly the adolescent girl's spirit is caught up in chaos. A hammer or an axe, or maybe a pair of pokers, and that's it. It's always hard to explain, but it happens. It's the culmination of a long chain of repressed rebellion. It's a pattern that fits Hester. You know, Hester's trouble is that one doesn't know what's going on in that rather lovely head of hers. She's weak, of course, and she resents her own weakness, and your mother was the kind who would She felt her own weakness. Yes," Philip leaned forward a little animatedly, "I think Hester is a good example." "Oh, don't talk any more," cried Mary. "Oh, I won't say any more," said Philip. "Just talking about it isn't going to get me anywhere. Or will it? After all, it's a matter of mentally deciding what pattern of murder this might be, and then applying that pattern to the different people involved. Then when you figure out When it must be something, start setting little traps and see if they fall in." "There were only four people in the house at the time," Mary said. "You make it sound like there were half a dozen or more. I agree with you that it couldn't have been the father, and it's absurd to think that Hester could have had any real reason for doing it. It's Kirsty and Gwenda." "Which one of them do you think it's more?" Philip asked slightly mockingly. "I can't really think Kirsty would do something like that," Mary said. "She's always been so patient and good-natured. She really loves her mother so much. I think she might suddenly get weird. You've heard of it, yes, but she never seems to be weird at all." "Yes," said Philip thoughtfully, "Kirsty is a very normal woman, the kind of woman who likes to live a normal woman's life. In a way, she is the same type of woman as Gwenda, It's just that Gwenda is good-looking and attractive, and poor Kirsty is as mediocre as raisin bread. I don't think any man would give her a second look. But she likes a man to give her a second look. She likes to be in a relationship and then Married. It must be pretty pathetic to be born a woman and be mediocre and unattractive, especially if there isn't any special talent or intellect to make up for it. The truth is she's been here too long. She should have left after the war and moved on Be her professional masseuse. She might hook up some rich old patient." "You're like all men," Mary said. "You think women don't want anything but marriage." Philip grinned. "I still think it's the first choice for all women," he said. "By the way, doesn't Tina have any boyfriends?" "I don't know," said Mary. "But she doesn't talk much about herself." "Yes, she's a quiet little mouse, isn't she? Not exactly pretty, but very graceful. I doubt she knows anything about it." "I don't think she knows anything," said Mary. "You don't think so?" said Philip. "I do." "Oh, you're just imagining," said Mary. "I'm not imagining this. You know what that girl said? She said she wished she didn't know anything. It's kind of weird to say that. I think she must know something." "what do you know?" "Perhaps there is a connection. But she doesn't quite know it herself. I'd like to know from her." "Philip!" "It's no use, Polly. I've got a calling in life. I've convinced myself that it's in everyone's interest that I should start doing it. Now where do I start? I think I should start with Kirsty to begin with. She's a simple person in many ways." "I wish—oh, how I wish," said Mary, "that you'd give up all this madness and go home. We're so happy. Everything's going so well—" She broke off and turned away. "Polly!" Philip worried. "Do you really mind that? I didn't know you were so disturbed." Mary turned sharply, her eyes full of hope. "So you're willing to go home and forget about it?" "I can't get it out of my head," said Philip. "I'm just going to worry and bewilder and think. Anyway, let's just wait until this week is over, Mary, and then, uh, we'll talk."