THE SON OF BOMALLY

 

                                                     Chapter Twelve

                                                     Enter Margollan

 

A month had gone by since Becky's ordeal, and her subsequent discharge from hospital. Her condition was, according to the doctors, satisfactory.  David wanted to go home straight away, but there were some difficulties.  The local police for one thing.  It took them some time to get enough information about the whole affair, and then to arrange for David and Becky to be handed over into the care of Inspector Bryndle.  There was after all an unexplained death, but considering the identity and background of the victim, Becky was given the benefit of the doubt.  For the time being at least.

          Another reason was Becky's refusal ever to set foot into the family house at Crompton again.  So as a compromise, until after Gerald's funeral which was  inevitably subject to a long delay, they were back at the cottage. It was however a compromise which Becky viewed with some misgivings, for everything about the place was an anathema to her.  It had come to represent all the horrors of her recent life; the deceit and the distress, the pain and anguish.  And if that were not enough, she felt sure that it was possessed by something evil.

          A quiet funeral seemed to be appropriate, considering the events of recent past.  The revelations and the scandal, had replaced Gerald's previous good name, for one of derision and scorn; so David was pleased to have gained permission for the funeral to take place in Dalimar, where his rise to glory had started, and away from the public glare.  After all, in any other circumstances that is where he would have been laid to rest; at the chapel where he and Megan were married.  This had been his back yard; where he grew up; where he made his start in business, and where he met his darling wife.  It was also where Megan had asked to be buried, and had quietly waited for him.

          "Oh mother," David prayed, the same prayer that he had made so many times  "if only you had not died so young, we might still be a family."

          But it was a cry into the wilderness, for what is done is done. Now he stood at his fathers grave side, on this inhospitable day, to witness a sad farewell to a man of honour, a man whose standards and morals, until recent times, would have compared favourably to anyone in the land, but a man who had been betrayed by dark forces he did not know existed and did not understand.

          Somewhat reluctantly Becky had agreed to join him, and was at his side. Mrs Simpson, who had made the effort to be there, was on the other. They watched and listened to the preacher saying his few words of comfort to the small group of people he hardly knew, about a man who's public face was well known, but about whom privately he knew little. It was cold and drizzly and the mist prevented any sight of the hills to the rear of the chapel, or the sea half a mile beyond. 

          David could not help asking the question again.  How could a man like Gerald Bomally, captain of industry, respected world wide - not only by his many thousands of employees - and honoured by the Queen, come to be buried with so little ceremony, almost unseen, in the small chapel graveyard of this small Welsh village which few people will have heard of.  His death had been the subject of huge media interest, and yet there were but five people at the grave side.  Three mourners, the vicar, and one other; a man waiting patiently, slightly to one side, leaning on his spade until his expertise was required.

          But unknown to these people there was another, a shadowy figure, who stood well back, unseen by the little party, and who, after the coffin was lowered, was the first to leave.

          David had received permission to take Becky back to Oxfordshire and two days after Gerald's funeral they were ready to go. It was time, he thought. They had been long enough in exile.  He knew he had to face the music some time, so why not now, and if Becky would not return to the house he must go alone.

          The decision made, neither of them wanted to delay their departure, and neither of them looked back as they pulled away, both convinced that they would never see the place again.  Mrs Simpson, had caught their sombre mood and she too had little to say.

          The car engine made a constant but gentle hum, which, combined with the sound of tyres on the wet road, created an almost hypnotic sleep inducing atmosphere inside the warm and comfortable Saab.  As the minutes and the miles took them further away David felt a sense of relief, and though it was a powerful car he felt no urge to hurry. 

          Possibly he needed that moment of quiet contemplation. Memories of the service were still fresh in his mind, as were thoughts of futility and loss.  There was no anger now.  He had felt anger before, and he was sure it would come again, but at the moment it was sorrow.  For his father left behind, his life ended long before its time, with many of his dreams and ambitions still unfulfilled.  Sorrow as well for the two ladies with him, sharing this gloomy journey through the night.  But mostly, sorrow for himself.

          At least it was warm in the car, but for its three silent occupants, the miles passed slowly.

          David had been in love with Becky for a long time, long before he discovered that he had a rival in his father, but now that he was gone he had hoped that she would let all her love come his way.  She was after all expecting a child which might be his.  But not only had she not come to him, she had moved as far from him emotionally as she could.

          She had finally agreed to return with David to the old house, but just for one night, after which she would find a hotel.  She needed to sort out her life and make some plans for the future, but to do that she had to get away from the old house; and she had to get away from David.. 

          "For my future and for my baby." she told him.

          "My baby too." he reminded her.

          "Maybe, and maybe not."  she answered, but there was no sign of warmth in her voice, nothing to give David any hope.

          The evening sky was getting darker when they reached their destination, and without a second thought Mrs Simpson, who had hardly spoken a word throughout the whole journey; left them at the car,  making it known that soon there would be a meal waiting for them in the dining room. 

          David carried the luggage first into the hall, and then upstairs to the bedrooms, and to Mrs Simpson’s flat.

          It was a quiet homecoming, with none of the welcoming feelings they had enjoyed at other times, but David carried on getting the house ready for habitation once more, while Mrs Simpson was doing what she always did, which was doing whatever needed doing.

            Only Becky found herself idle.  She was lost in her own thoughts, somehow unable to come to terms with all that had happened.  Unable, even now, to believe that what she had thought of as reality, had been nothing more than a fantasy, and that it was over.  It was hard for her to grasp that she had now was the reality, and that the life she had before was nothing but an empty dream.

          They had endured rather than enjoyed the meal, and then Mrs Simpson returned to the kitchen - that was her reality - and David was chatting to Becky in the lounge.  He was deliberately not talking about 'them' or what had happened, or indeed what might happen.  He was just making small talk, trying to get her to relax, to be comfortable. It was quiet; no television, just talk, and  Becky's hostility was evaporating a little. But the relatively calm mood was about to change.

          "What was that?" Becky said suddenly, startled when they heard the sound of breaking glass.

          "It seemed to come from the kitchen area."  David said.  "Hope Mrs Simpson is alright, she's not quite as nifty as she used to be."  he got up to investigate and was moving toward the door.  As he walked down the corridor toward the rear of the house, he felt a cold draft.  His immediate suspicions were confirmed when he came to the back door and found it was wide open; one of the glass panels smashed.  A quick look in the kitchen told him that Mrs Simpson was not there.

          'Thank goodness for that' he thought, as he hurried back to join Becky.       

          "We might have a visitor." he said when he rejoined her,  walking across the room to pick up the phone.  "Better call the police just in case." he said.

          "Don't bother!"

          David stopped dead as he heard the voice coming  from behind the curtain at the side of the door he had just used.

          "Richard?" he called out, recognising the voice at once.  Becky gasped, hardly believing, and frightened.

          "Where in God's name have you been?"  David hadn't waited for confirmation that it was his brother; he knew it from the first moment.

          "I've been about, here and there, waiting for you.  Thought you'd be home sooner than this though."

          David was startled at first, but now he was getting cross. "Aren't you going to come out; at least have the decency to show your face."

          "It's a bit too late for decency, don't you think."

          "And who's fault is that?; and why did you not go to your father's funeral?"

          "I don't think I was invited, and I'm sure I wasn't wanted."

          Becky at last found her voice  "You tried to have me killed."

          "You see, what did I tell you, I knew I wouldn't be wanted, so I didn't announce myself, but I was there.  Thought I'd see the old man off."

          "My god," said David,  "you just can't stop can you, don't you know the harm you have done, and the people you have hurt." Angry now, he picked up the heavy poker from the fireplace.  "If you don't come out and show yourself I'll be in there with this."

          There was a movement in the dark corner, and slowly Richard emerged.         "I think you had better put that down, it you don’t want me to use this."  He waved his hand a little and the gun he was holding was clear for them to see.

          "And you killed your father," Becky butted in  "have you no pity?"

          "Pity?, for him? I had much worse plans for him than just killing him. Anyway that was an accident."

          "No it wasn't, because I saw the knife lying on the floor. You deliberately killed him." Becky interrupted again, also angry.

          Before he could respond to that David was shouting again. "And who was the man on the cliff; you were going to have her pushed over weren't you?"

          "The bloody fool; I heard what happened.  He was just a local villain, a man I knew who was sometimes useful to me,” he almost spat his anger “serves him right anyway for not carrying out instructions."

          "I don't believe what I'm hearing, you drivelling coward, standing over there and hiding behind your gun." David shouted at his brother.

          Goaded by these scathing remarks Richard moved nearer.  Now in the full glare of the room light, it was clear that he had been living rough.

          "Man, look at yourself, why didn't you come to the house sooner?"

          "Oh yes you would have like that wouldn't you, you and your friend the inspector."

          Richard had moved a little closer.  Just a little too close, for without warning David, judging that he was just close enough, hit out with the poker, knocking the gun from Richard's hand.

          Without losing a second he leapt to follow up his attack, and aimed a blow. It missed and Richard grabbed hold of the poker, the brother's now engaged.  It became a massive struggle as each, both as desperate as the other, fought for dominance. 

          During the mayhem Becky managed to get to the phone, but before she could dial Richard threw David hard against the fireplace where he fell.  He rushed to retrieve the gun and then grabbed Becky, his arm around her neck and was throttling her.  Waving the gun at David he shouted.

          "Enough, or Miss Carr will die."  He sneeringly said her name with a malice that underlined his evil intent.

          "I think from the beginning you intended to kill us; all of us; and you started off with father.  Have you sold your soul to the devil?"  David was quiet now, almost resigned to his fate. "But do you have to kill Becky as well?; she never did you any harm."

          "Ah, but she's contaminated now; contaminated by you and by father."  suddenly he was laughing  "Father dear father, so self-righteous, so god fearing, and so full of crap.  First time I waved a bit of fanny at him he couldn't come quick enough, the sanctimonious bible pushing do-gooder."

          David was incensed. “He was none of the those things; you twisted demon.  He was a good man until you ruined him ... you'll rot in hell you devil. You're not a patch on your father."

          Unexpectedly David thought about the curse; Morrigan’s evil legacy to the family. "Can’t you see, you both suffered from the same curse,  - you're the other side of the same coin - Father was the sound half to his brother Fred, as I am the sound half to you.  When you were conceived all the bad that was in father went into you.  You poor sod, how I pity you.”

          Richard stopped in his tracks for a moment, surprised that David appeared to know about Morrigan; then he roared, a terrible roar.  Such a roar it might even have been the Devil himself.  “You bloody fool.” he shouted  “you don’t think that snivelling excuse for a man was my father do you?”

          David thought he had not heard properly. “What do you mean by that?”  This time shouting a little less loudly  “Who then?”

          “Can’t you guess?”

          “Oh stop talking rot; it’s utter rubbish.” not wanting to believe what he thought Richard was suggesting. 

          But Richard was not finished. “My father was uncle Fred, Gerald’s ‘baby’ brother, who hated him as much as I did."

          It was like a bolt from the blue.  The Idea that his mother might have been unfaithful to his father was unthinkable; impossible.  But almost at once he knew it was true.  How it could ever have happened he would never know, but he was certain that whatever else, she would not have been willing.  But in a flash it explained everything.

          “May God forgive you both.” David said, not shouting any more.  It was too late now for shouting. During this exchange he had inched forward bit by bit, until he was close enough to hurl himself once more at his brother.  He didn't care any more for himself, but he had to try and save Becky if he could.  His lunge caught Richard by surprise and when he fired the gun he was unable to aim properly.  But it was Becky who fell to the ground, blood pouring from a wound in her side.

          Once again they were locked in combat, like two gladiators in the coliseum, fighting to the death. It was a fight with no holds barred, and had lasted about ten minutes, neither of the brothers managing to gain an advantage, when suddenly the door burst open again and in came Chief Inspector Bryndle, and three uniformed policemen.

          "My God, what's going on hear?" Bryndle shouted

          Both fighters stopped, surprised at the unexpected intervention, but it was Richard who took advantage of the new situation.  Before anyone could stop him, he rushed and grabbed Becky again, who had managed to sit up.  He still had the gun which he threatened to use on her if the police didn't back off. 

          He shouted at Bryndle. "Thought I'd never get to meet you inspector; congratulations on your perfect timing; how on earth did you manage that?"

          Bryndle shrugged his shoulders  "Someone rang 999."   It seemed to be rather a lame response.

          But Richard, realising he might be trapped, and with nothing to lose seemed to be going completely out of control and was shouting.

          ."I didn't kill my father. Oh yes I wanted to but some bugger beat me to it.  He thought he had everything, but he didn't have a fraction of the power I have"  he shouted again at everyone in the room,  "and I didn't want to kill Becky at first, unless I had to."  He put the gun against Becky's head and shouted  "But now I know I have to, she was my creation ... no one else can have her now."

          At that moment the sound of a gunshot thundered through the room, and Becky screamed.

          For a long moment no-one moved, but it was Richard who fell to his knees, his blood splattering Becky's face and dress as he slithered down.

          Standing in the corner of the room, where she had entered unobserved was Mrs Simpson, gun in hand, staring ahead like a zombie.  Still nobody had moved except Richard, as he continued to slide like a character in a slow motion picture.

          Inspector Bryndle was the first to break the spell, as he walked slowly but calmly to where Mrs Simpson remained standing, motionless.  He gently took the gun from her hand, and then led her to a chair and sat her down.

          David then rushed to Becky side and was relieved to find that it was Richard’s blood not hers which now disfigured her, and that her earlier wound was not deep.  They too collapsed on to a chair, while the four policemen stood, waiting for something to develop.

          Again Bryndle was the first to move, first looking at Richard and announcing that he was still alive, then picking up the phone to send for an ambulance.

          Mrs Simpson did not seem to have changed her expression; she was dazed, almost unconscious.  She didn’t seem to be aware that she had shot someone, let alone nearly killed him, and for a long time she just sat there murmuring unspoken words, staring ahead, expressionless.

          But no-one was  prepared for what came next. "I loved him." she said very quietly, so quietly that she could hardly be heard.

          "What was that again?" Bryndle asked, taking her hand

          "I loved him." this time a little louder, and everyone in the room heard it quite clearly

          "You loved Richard?"  It seemed incomprehensible.  She had just shot a man, and now she was claiming that she loved him.

          But she simply repeated what she had been saying  "I loved him."

          Then Becky walked over and nodded to the inspector, who moved away to let her sit down next to the confused and apparently irrational lady. She didn't really know how she was going to help, but she squeezed Mrs Simpson's hand and kissed her cheek gently.

          "You saved my life;” she said quietly “it was very brave of you."

          "I loved him." was the only response.  But then there was a little movement as she turned her head toward Becky.

          "You loved Richard?" Becky asked again, hoping that her words were being heard.

          Mrs Simpson turned her head a little further until she was looking at Becky, eye to eye. Her expression had changed a little.  Perhaps she was beginning to understand; to remember what had happened.  Suddenly, almost angrily she pulled her hand from Becky's and returned her head to its previous forwards stare.

          But it was different, she had lost that vacant gaze.  In its place was something like anger.

          David spoke up. "You say you love Richard Mrs Simpson, is that what you are saying?"

          "Don't be ridiculous, of course I don't love Richard, whatever gave you such an idea?"

          It was an astonishing turnaround.  With what seemed like the flick of a switch she was Mrs Simpson again; the same Mrs Simpson they had known for years.

          "But you said ..." It was Becky again, gentle and coaxing,  "you said you loved him."

          "Love Richard, that evil nasty pretence of a son, how could anyone love him?"

          "But who then Mrs Simpson, who were you speaking of?"

          "Why, Gerald of course, I've always loved him, and he killed him." She pointed at the still body of Richard, now being attended to by one of the constables.

          "Did Gerald know that you loved him?" Becky asked quietly

          "Yes he knew ... and I think he loved me back ... and when Mrs Bomally ..." she stopped as though to gain strength  "when Megan died ..." there was another long pause,   "I thought he might turn to me."

          Suddenly she was overcome.  The full horror of the last half an hour had returned and now she was weeping, silently, but the tears confirmed her distress.  But she managed to recover and then pointed again at the body on the floor, almost forgotten now, except for the lone constable.

          Still looking at Richard, there was nothing but loathing on her face. "And then he came in with his tarts.  Those long legged floozies with their big bosoms and tight bums, and no clothes to speak of.  He took my Gerald  away from me so that he could go with them hussies."

          Inspector Bryndle had been very quiet during Mrs Simpson revelations, but was clearly worried, and when he could he took David to one side.

          "There's something bothering me about this." he said.  "Richard just claimed that someone beat him to it, and when Miss Carr came into the room that day, she said that she saw the knife on the floor, but when she came back just a few minutes later it was not on the floor but sticking in Gerald's chest." He looked at David, "Are you still with me?"  The inspector continued.  "Becky said at the time that she thought Richard had done it, but was very surprised at him being so angry ... why would he be so angry?"

          David was listening intently, but hadn't quite got the message.

          "What are you getting at then?" he asked

          "What I am getting at is that I don't think that it was Richard who killed your father.  I think he may have wanted to, but he was angry because someone else got there first."

          "But who, who else would want to kill him?"

          He didn't answer for a moment.  He seemed to be steeling himself to say what he did not want to say, to think the unthinkable.

          "Who loved him enough not to want to see him dragged through the mire, degraded and humiliated?"

          He took hold of Mrs Simpson's hand again, and then he  sat down beside her. Speaking quietly he asked, "Mrs Simpson, did you kill Mr Bomally?"

          She was staring straight ahead once more, that vacant expression again on her face.

          "I loved him." she answered.

          "Mrs Simpson," he asked again "did you kill Gerald?"

          A knew look came over her, it was almost a look of peace. "No, I didn't kill him, not his soul anyway, but ...  maybe his body."

          "What do you mean Mrs Simpson? Can you tell me?"

          Mrs Simpson seemed to be losing her sense of place again, as though she didn't know what was happening. "I heard a lot of shouting."  It was a tiny voice but in the silence of the room none of them failed to hear,  "I went to see what it was all about.  Of course I saw Gerald on the floor and he was moaning."

          "Go on," the Inspector said trying to keep her concentration, "then what did you do?"

          "Well I went to him of course," she answered in a firmer voice and gave Bryndle a sideways look,  "see if he was alright, you know; and all he could say was Becky ... Becky; he's taking her away."

          She seemed to be more aware again.  A different look on her face. "Of course I knew what was going on with him and  ... that woman,”  seemingly  unaware that ‘that woman’ was sitting in the chair opposite her.   “... and all the others before her." she added, as though she had just remembered.

          Six pairs of eyes watched; six pairs of ears listed, waiting for her to continue.

          "You don't need her; let her go, I said to him.”  Mrs Simpson seemed now to be in a trance, reliving the scene.  "I'm here to look after you Gerald, to see to all your needs; to love you."

          She lowered her head just a little, hurting inside as she recalled his words. 

          “Love me?"  he shouted, "what do you mean, love me?; how can you love me?"

          Mrs Simpson stopped, her anguish showing as she recounted the event. "But I do love you; I've always loved you Gerald, and when Megan died I thought ... "

          She sobbed a little, oblivious now of all the people around her, as though she was some other world, but she was starting to feel the emotion, remembering his cruelty.

          "But he cut me dead."

          A little flash of anger now, as she remembered his words. "You speak of my Megan, and then yourself.  You think you could replace her ... good God woman, look at yourself ... go back to your kitchen and leave me alone.  No!, help me up to my feet first."

          Mrs Simpson smiled, eyes closed, still in a faraway world, but she smiled just the same. "All those years telling me I was one of the family, someone special, with a place in his heart.  But then I knew. I never admitted it before, but then I knew.  To him I was just; had always been, a servant."

          She open her eyes, suddenly, and seemed to be back in the real world, back to a crowded room. "He was not the man I had known, not my Gerald.  My Gerald was dead; Richard had killed him and some other being was in his body."

          Again she pointed at Richard, and sighed. "But I was the servant after all, and the years of loving him had not changed that, so I leaned across to help him up, and my hand occidentally touched the knife." She turned her head now to look at the inspector full in the face. "Up to that moment I had no thoughts of harming Gerald, but when I felt the knife in my hand ... ”

          Mrs Simpson stopped talking, as though thinking. She seemed oddly calm, and made no attempt to move. She was the servant after all, and she would do as she was told. “Then I heard some voices, and I had to run.” she continued.

          "But you said you loved him," Bryndle was very patient, and waited a while before he asked again. "why would you want to kill him?"        

          "Because the man I loved was already dead;  I had to save his spirit and his soul from any more shame. He had suffered too much already."  There she stopped; nothing more to say.         

          David was still holding on to Becky, listening to Mrs Simpson, but not believing. "Was that it then?" he asked her quietly.  "A crime of passion by a sad dejected old lady?"

          He had meant those words for Becky’s ears, but in the silence of the room everyone else heard him.

          "No, that's not it."  Inspector Bryndle was on his feet.  Looking now at David he considered his words. "How well do you think you know Mrs Simpson?"

          David's response was slow, cautious, but in the end positive. "I guess as well as I knew her as well as I knew my mother."

          "Did you love her like your mother?"

          David was starting to feel a little uncomfortable now, not yet able to follow Bryndle's lead. "Yes, I guess I loved her, she has been part of my life as long as I can remember, but not like my mother.  Not like my mother." he repeated, but unable to continue, his eyes becoming moist with his thoughts of her, and of the sad silent Mrs Simpson.

          "Do you believe that she could kill your father, the man she claims to have loved?"

          "No."

          "Do you think she loved him?"

          "Yes."

          Bryndle walked back to Mrs Simpson, and sat down next to her again. "Do you remember the day when you gave me a fresh bread cake Mrs Simpson, hot, just out of the oven?"

          Her face altered just perceptibly; not a smile, but a recognition. "Yes I remember."

          "We talked a lot that day, and you told me about your life with the Bomally's.  How happy you were, and how you loved them both, and how sad you were when Mrs Bomally died."

          "Yes ... we had a long talk."

          "Mrs Simpson."  he waited a moment  "I don't believe you could ever have killed Mr Bomally, whatever the reason.  Now are you going to tell me what happened.  Are you shielding someone?"

          As he spoke his eyes turned to David..  Becky saw it too and stiffened, moved slightly away before standing up, waiting for the inspector to make the next move.

          David felt threatened and isolated, then he also stood up. "Wait a minute," he said, "I don't know how you got round to this, but I didn't kill my father."

          Without a pause the inspector turned and directed his apparently angry voice at Mrs Simpson.

          "If you are not shielding David,"  he shouted  "who then?"

          "She is shielding me, I killed Mr Bomally."

          They all turned to where the new voice came from, and all eyes strained to focus on the newcomer. There, standing in the doorway; the same doorway where a little earlier Mrs Simpson had made such a dramatic entrance, was Jennifer Tyler. Her face was contorted with grief, and her clenched fists were going up and down in a gesture of despair.

          "She is trying to protect me." she choked, hardly able to speak.

          "Perhaps you would like to come in and explain." invited Bryndle.

          Mrs Tyler walked forward through the assembled company until she reached Mrs Simpson. She stood behind her and then started to gently to massage her shoulders, in a move she hoped would calm them both. "All my life I have been trying to trace my mother, and no sooner do I find her but all this happens.” she looked pleadingly at the inspector. “Am I  going to lose her again?”

          "Are you going to tell us what happened?" Bryndle asked, answering her question with one of his own.

          "Since I found her we have been spending as much time as we could together, trying to make up for all those lost years; just getting to know each other; and by chance I was here that day."

          “And how do you come to be here now?” Bryndle enquired.

          “I got a note saying she would be back today, asking me to come.”

          She bent down and quietly spoke a few words to Mrs Simpson, so only she could hear. "Well anyway, we heard all the shouting and mother..."  she stopped mid stream as though just saying the word was gave her a thrill   "...said she thought she had better go and see what all the fuss was about.  But I stopped her; and said I would go and take a look.  I found Mr Bomally on the floor and tried to help him up, but he would not let me.  He kicked and shouted, and then he picked up that knife and started waving it about."

          Mrs Tyler stopped for a moment to catch her breath. "I managed somehow to grab hold of his wrist, but he was very strong and the knife was still swishing through the space between us as we both tried to gain control.  Then I managed to get a better grip, and he tried to pull away.  Somehow he gave an enormous yank and pulled the knife toward himself and out of my grasp.  Just then he seemed to give up the struggle.  He slumped to the floor again, as though he’d had enough; too tired to carry on.  At first I didn’t realize but he seemed to have just given up; as though he had lost his will to fight any more, defeated."           

          Mrs Tyler looked about her, at the expectant looks on so many faces. "Just about then my mother came in, anxious to see for herself what was going on and saw Mr Bomally on the floor, and she was worried that he might be ill. I was feeling very fraught by now and I told her to go and that I would get him to his feet again.  Mother was reluctant and didn’t want to leave me but I insisted.  As I was getting Mr Bomally to a sitting position we heard voices, which must have been Richard and Becky in the next room.

          “Go, Go, I hissed at her, I’ll be with you as soon as I can, and mother left.”

          She stopped, exhausted.

          "Go on."  encouraged Bryndle, feeling that at last the truth, or at least a version of it, was emerging.

          “At that moment Mr Bomally grabbed me, and I pushed him roughly away, but only then did I realize that the knife was sticking in his chest.” There was a long silence as she collected her thoughts. “Then I ran.”

          "They saw you there then, with Mr Bomally?"

          "No; I scrambled out as quick as I could, and went up to mothers rooms and we locked the door.  Ten minutes later we heard Richard's car as they drove away, and then as soon as we could we left too."

          "You just left him lying there?"

          "We didn't go back into the lounge.  We didn't know how bad he was hurt, and anyway we thought Richard and Becky would have taken him with them.  We did not know why they were falling out, but we were frightened and just wanted to get away."

          Mrs Tyler stopped talking now.  She seemed to have nothing left to say; resigned now to her fate.

          Chief Inspector Bryndle looked at Mrs Simpson with a questioning expression.

          "Anything to add?"

          She smiled sadly.   "It’s just like before; after all these years, I've lost her again and ..."

          Just then, before she could say any more, everyone was startled by a huge groan emanating from Richard.  The policeman who had been at his side jumped, alarmed at the noise.  But that was just the start for he groaned again, this time a little quieter but more sustained.  He started to move and then to everyone’s surprise he slowly stood up and stretched his arms out wide.  Then he roared, a roar the like of which no one in that room had ever heard before.  His eyes were bright and staring, getting brighter all the time until they glowed.  It was then that they noticed that his face had started to change.  Before their eyes Richard, who had not been treated kindly by nature when it came to looks, was slowly taking on the appearance of a handsome man, though the noise he was still making was far from handsome.

          “What in Gods name?”  muttered Bryndle.

          “I fear that this is not in Gods name.” replied David.