There was a long silence. Hawthorne was looking more subdued than I had ever seen him, but then he had a thirteen-year-old son himself and the story must have resonated. ‘Do you ever see them?’ he asked.
Longhurst shook his head. ‘Not as often as I would like. I took my family there a few Christmases ago, but it was quite difficult explaining to my daughters that this was their uncle who had killed someone. My mother has rebuilt her life and she made the decision that she had to do it without my father or me. That makes me sad, but I understand it, I suppose.’
‘Do you know why Harriet Throsby decided to write the book?’
‘Yes, I do, as a matter of fact. She was a crime reporter at the time, working for a newspaper in Bristol, but she knew someone who lived in the village.’
‘Would that be Frank Heywood?’
‘That’s absolutely right. Yes. He was the drama critic on the same newspaper as her. She took over from him when he died a few years later. He was able to give her a great many insights into the people of Moxham, many of whom he knew socially. This is something for which I will never forgive him.’ His eyes darkened. ‘Bad Boys was nothing less than a complete travesty of the truth. It turned my parents into the villains of the piece. The court made it absolutely clear that Stephen had been completely under the thumb of the older boy. Their respective sentences demonstrated exactly that. But the way Harriet shaped her narrative, it could have been my parents who were responsible for Alden’s death. They were too busy with their own jet-set lifestyle. Stephen was neglected but he was also spoilt. He was the child they didn’t want, which was why they were so willing to turn a blind eye to his delinquent behaviour.
‘She didn’t stop there. It was all set out, chapter by chapter. They’d antagonised the villagers. They were arrogant and selfish. They had no respect for their neighbours. The footpath, the fête … she paraded all these trivial arguments as if they actually amounted to anything and she made it seem that the death of Major Alden was nothing less than a logical conclusion. It was a hatchet job, nothing more, nothing less – written cleverly enough to keep her on the right side of libel. My parents were still together when the book came out and maybe there was a chance they would have muddled through. Harriet Throsby destroyed them. I blame her at least in part for the breakdown of their relationship. You could say that I lost a mother and a brother thanks to her.’
He spread his hands, signalling that he had little more to add.
‘I hated that woman. I won’t deny it. Hatred isn’t an emotion that I would normally entertain, but I believe that Harriet Throsby relished what she was doing. To use what was, at the end of the day, a tragic accident, a childish prank that went wrong, as an excuse to make money? To subvert or – at the very best – simplify the truth to sell books? I don’t know how she lived with herself and I’d almost go as far as saying that whoever killed her did the world a favour.’
He smiled for the first time. But there was no warmth in it.
‘I’m aware that I may have incriminated myself in your eyes,’ he said. ‘Do you want to know where I was at the time of her death? I believe the police are saying that it was around ten o’clock in the morning.’
‘It would help,’ Hawthorne said.
‘I went to the Vaudeville at half past nine. I had to go through some papers which Ahmet had left there. He was given one of the dressing rooms as a temporary office. Then I came here, arriving just before half past ten.’
‘You spent a long time at the theatre.’
‘Not really. No more than forty minutes. I’m sure the stage-door manager will have seen me leave.’
‘You signed in and out?’
Longhurst thought back. ‘No. I don’t think I did. The pen was out of ink. But you can ask … I made no attempt not to be seen.’
‘Thank you, Mr Longhurst. You’ve been very open with us. I’m sorry we had to make you go through it all again.’
It was rare to hear Hawthorne apologise for anything and the moment we were back in the street, I had to ask: ‘Did you believe him?’
We were walking along Queen Square, a private garden laid out on one side. The sun was still shining and the trees were in blossom, not that the sight of them did much for me. Hawthorne was already deep in thought. ‘Believe what, exactly?’ he said.
Why did he have to be so difficult?
‘All along, we’ve assumed the dagger was taken after the party, at night,’ I explained. ‘But Martin Longhurst could have taken it early the following morning.’