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were leaving?”
    “I saw them off, instructed the staff
regarding the clean-up of the uneaten food, and left Malcolm to be
alone,” Madge said, lifting her chin slightly and putting on what
Kate could only describe as a brave, insincere smile. All in a
day’s work, the smile seemed to say. Every wife is forced to
overlook some sort of bad behavior, once in awhile.
    “When Malcolm felt under the weather,” Madge
continued, “he liked to take a cup of tea up to the library and
drink it by the fire.”
    “Or whiskey,” Hetheridge said,
expressionless.
    “Or whiskey,” Madge agreed, still smiling.
“My husband wasn’t an alcoholic. If he wanted a drink, I never
objected.” She waited, but Hetheridge seemed content to let the
silence stretch out. Jules shifted again, looking more
uncomfortable, and finally Madge drew in a deep breath.
    “Very well,” she said, compelled to fill the
silence. “I was angry. I don’t deny it. I was disappointed in
Malcolm’s behavior. I didn’t care if he had tea or whiskey, I just
left him alone and went up to bed. I fell asleep for awhile, until
about ten-thirty, I think. Malcolm still hadn’t come to bed, and
that wasn’t like him. I decided we’d been angry long enough, so I
went to the library to make peace, and found him there. The French
doors were wide open, and I knew someone had broken in and killed
him. I was sick, I couldn’t help it – it was such a shock, I still
see him there, whenever I close my eyes. Then I ran away, found a
phone, and rang 999.”
    Hetheridge didn’t reply. The silence
stretched out again, still more uncomfortable and heavy with
something unspoken, until even Kate found herself shifting from
foot to foot.
    “What?” Madge burst out at last. “What else
is there to say?”
    “This is a large house,” Hetheridge said.
“But the library and the master bedroom are on the same floor. Not
many wives in your situation could sleep soundly from around six in
the evening to ten-thirty, and hear no intruder, no struggle, and
no assault.”
    Madge stiffened. The black-rimmed eyes
narrowed; the fuchsia lips pursed. “If you can be bothered to
remember, Tony, you will recall I have suffered from insomnia all
my life. Valium is the only thing that allows me to sleep. I took
some before I retired, after a long day of planning a party that no
one, including myself, was permitted to enjoy. You will find the
prescription bottle in my medicine cabinet upstairs.”
    Hetheridge nodded, unperturbed by Madge
Comfrey’s offense, or her reference to a past when they had been on
a Christian-name basis. Kate studied Hetheridge’s profile, trying
to imagine when he might have been friends with Madge Comfrey, and
precisely how intimate the connection had been. Unlike many of her
fellow detectives, Kate did not find it hard to believe that
Hetheridge hid a personal history beyond his biography in Who’s Who . She could even imagine a sensual
side to him, cached somewhere within that wintry exterior. But the
idea of him wasting his passion, his lust, on someone like Madge
Comfrey, with her stiff halo of waves and her Laura Ashley dress,
irritated Kate in a way she couldn’t precisely defend.
    Hetheridge turned to Jules Comfrey. “What did
you do when the guests left?”
    “I went after Kevin. He has his pride,” she
said, shifting in her seat. “There’s only so much abuse a man can
take.”
    “How long were you away from the house?”
    “Until Mum called me. That was …” Jules
located her mobile in a pocket and flipped it open, scrolling
through the call record. “10:49. I came back fast as I could.”
    “Did you go upstairs?” Hetheridge asked.
    Jules nodded. “I don’t know why. She told me
– told me what he looked like. Told me not to look, that if I saw
it, I’d never forget it. But I had to see him. I thought maybe Mum
was exaggerating.” An awkward smile tugged at her lips. “I thought
he wasn’t really dead.” Crossing her arms