The four of us slept most of the day before adjourning again to the great room, settling with food and wine before a crackling fire. We’d exhausted the supply of fresh food, and Finbarr hadn’t ventured out, so it was back to tins of tongue and kippers, laid out on a large linen tablecloth going yellow at the edges.
Once wine had been poured, Finbarr said to me: ‘It’s time to come out with it, Nan. They think you’ve done murder.’
People can seem especially beautiful by firelight. Agatha sat cross-legged, looking like a lady explorer in her man’s clothes, hair vivid and tumbled, cheeks rosy. Chilton looked younger than I supposed he had in years, lying on his side, downright insouciant. Finbarr reached out and clasped my hand. I kissed his cheek.
‘Do they?’ is all I said.
Agatha held out a plate to me but I waved it away, not a bit hungry. ‘Would you like to hear a story,’ I said, ‘about a time I could have done murder?’
It was a good night for ghost stories. Some wind outside. Nothing but the firelight. The four of us, close and safe and strangely delighted. I told them about my escape from the convent, and my hands around Sister Mary Clare’s throat.
‘And that was Mrs Marston,’ Chilton said.
I didn’t agree, but told them another ghost story, about a priest and a pregnant girl. Iron bars, plus laws of God and man, imprisoned us all inside a rambling stone convent. The priest had licence to do what he would. Inside the convent there was forgiveness for his sins, but not those of the girls he abused.
I didn’t provide every piece of the story. Not Kitty and Carmichael （Chilton, as it turned out, was no Hercule Poirot – he had forgotten all about hearing their Irish accents）， or Bess’s real name, or where she lived.
‘I’ve never done murder,’ I said. ‘I’ve only made my own justice.’
From upstairs a door creaked on its hinges, the wind rattling it open. Agatha’s eyes moved to the ceiling, alert to anything that could indicate her discovery. I didn’t want her thinking about that. I wanted her to realize and admit. When she had taken that baby into her home she’d accepted something stolen.
‘Tell the truth,’ I said to her.
‘Yes,’ Finbarr urged. ‘Tell her. Put an end to it once and for all.’
The joy had snapped out of the room. Agatha said, ‘I thought you knew without a doubt. Both of you.’
‘I do know,’ I said. ‘But I want to hear you say it. I’ve confessed. Now it’s your turn.’
‘Very well, then. It’s all true.’
Finbarr got to his feet. He rolled up his sleeves, almost as if he would hit her. Chilton tensed and sat up, ready to stand between them.
‘Which,’ Finbarr said. ‘Which part is true?’
‘Nan’s part.’
‘That’s not right,’ Finbarr said. ‘You know it’s not.’
‘I’m sorry, Finbarr. But that’s what I’ve got to say. Nan’s right. I couldn’t have a baby of my own so Archie got one for me. And I didn’t know, I didn’t think. The cruelty of it was lost on me. I’m sorry.’
‘Nan,’ Finbarr said to me. ‘Don’t listen to that. She’s said just the opposite to me all along. I don’t know why she’s changing her story now.’ He fell to his knees and gathered up Agatha’s hands. Looked at her with his melting, convincing eyes. Convincing for just the right reason. Not because he was scheming, or had any ulterior motive. But because he was true to his core in every word he ever spoke.
‘I’m sorry, Finbarr,’ Agatha said. ‘I truly am.’
He let go of her hands and stood. ‘I don’t know why you’re doing this. I’ll never know.’