The pool of St Branok

"I had to talk to you," he went on. "I had to make you understand."

"It has been such a shock."

His next words sent a shiver through me. "I killed her, Angel."

"Ben!"

"As sure as if I put that stuff in her glass, I killed her. She did it because life wasn't worth living for her. That was my fault. She was so helpless ... so vulnerable. She always hankered for Golden Creek. That was where she was happy. I married her for what she could bring me. Yes, I admit it. You were married and there seemed no hope. And there was the gold ... waiting to be brought forth. I married her and then I neglected her. I made life so wretched for her that she decided to go."

"You mustn't blame yourself too much. It won't do any good."

"If I had been different ..."

"If we had all been different our lives would not have been as they are."

"If only I had tried to understand her. I was so immersed in my own life. She hated it all ... the fuss ... everything. And I had thrust her into that life."

"She wanted to do all she could for you."

"Yes, and it was too much for her."

"But you have to grow away from it. You will in time."

"No. It will always be there with me. She's dead ... and I could have stopped it."

I felt a sudden gladness in my heart. It was not he who had given her that extra dose. At least I was sure of that, and that made all the difference to me.

"It's too late for reproaches, Ben," I said. "That won't bring her back."

"I know. You comfort me, Angel."

Ben, in need of comfort! Ben, vulnerable and weak! I had never seen him like that before and I loved him the more for his weakness.

"I'm going away for a while, Ben," I told him. "I'm going to my family in Cornwall."

"Not for long?"

"I don't know. I want to do a lot of thinking."

"Yes," he said, "I understand."

"Don't fret, Ben. It's done with. It's no use going over it. That can do no good."

"You're right," he said.

"You'll start again. You'll be your old self. You know you never liked anything to defeat you."

"That's true," he admitted. "But I see I have taken matters too much in my own hands. I have tried to manipulate life."

"Strong men do that ... do they not? It is just that sometimes Fate is stronger than they are."

"What shall you do in Cornwall?"

"Walk ... ride ... play with Rebecca ... be with my family. I feel that I shall be able to see which way I have to go."

He nodded. "Think of me," he said. "And come back soon. I shall be waiting for you."

Rebecca was delighted to go to Cornwall and see the grandparents; and with equal delight my family greeted me.

Jack was waiting for us at the station. "They are killing the fatted calf," he said.

And there was my old room, full of childhood memories ... happy memories apart from that dark one which would not go away and seemed to be at the center of everything that had happened to me since.

I had been home only two days when my mother announced at breakfast that she had had a letter from Grace.

"She wants to come down and stay for a week or so. She says we have often told her that she will be welcome. I am writing at once to say we shall be delighted to have her. I expect it is very sad for her. She was such a friend of Lizzie's."

I felt a shiver run through me.

Grace coming to Cornwall? Why?

I kept thinking of Justin and how earnestly he had warned me. It had all seemed so melodramatic ... Grace wanting to murder me ... in the hope that one day Ben would marry her!

It was too far-fetched.

I thought I had dismissed the matter from my mind, but here it was back again.

If Ben had been guilty he could not have come to me and talked so earnestly. He was ruthless, I knew; but he was not a murderer. He had been sincere when he had talked to me; his strength had been broken down by a sense of terrible guilt ... but it was not the guilt of a murderer.

But what of Grace ... who was really Wilhelmina? She had once loved a murderer. I think she had helped him to escape. I tried to remember reports which had come out during the hunt for Mervyn Duncarry. He had made his escape by stabbing a warder with a knife. It was not understood how a prisoner could have a knife. Someone must have smuggled it in to him. That had been suggested at the time.

Who could have done that? Grace?

Was Justin's theory so wild? And now she was following me to Cornwall.

Grace arrived in due course. She looked changed in some subtle way. There was an air of purpose about her.

My mother welcomed her warmly. She had always been fond of Grace and regarded her as a member of the family.

At dinner, Grace talked about the Mission. She had been there once or twice and was greatly impressed by the work which was being done.

"Well, you know what I'm talking about, Angelet," she said. "There is that wonderful story of Fanny. I asked Timothy Ransome if I could go down and see her."

"And did you?" I asked.