“Ooh, yes, please!” said Margaret.
“Shepherd’s pie.”
Margaret’s belly rumbled.
—
The group decidedto walk home, across the Heath. Rather a long way, but no one wanted to be the person to say no. They were all shell-shocked by what they’d seen but also, if they were honest with themselves, a little energized.
For London, Hampstead Heath was wild, myriad paths heading in all directions. A lack of order. The taller patches of grass were as high as Margaret.
“Mark my words,” said Geoffrey, focused on nothing but where they’d just been. “This is the work of an experienced killer.”
“If it was Carol, and I’m not saying it wasn’t, but if it was, why Desmond?” said Margaret.
“You don’t need a motive,” said Geoffrey. “Not in a court of law. You just need to be able to prove they did it.”
“Which we can’t,” said Catherine. “I’m with Margaret. Whether it’s needed or not, I’d like to know her motive.”
“What we’re dealing with is a psychotic mind,” said Geoffrey. “She did it for the thrill of it.”
Margaret tried to imagine it, the lady she knew murdering—murdering—Desmond. “Well, I thought she was lovely. Perhaps I’m just a terrible judge of character. I suppose the pair of you have psychotic minds, too, do you?”
“Is it all right if we take a seat for a moment?” said Catherine.
All three of them fell back onto the same bench, each pensioner making their own unique sound. In the quiet, they heard crickets. A dragonfly fluttered chaotically between blades of grass, entirely unaware that it lived in a city.
“Well, this is nice,” said Margaret.
“Of course, it is one of the most notable gay cruising areas in Europe.”
“Thank you, Geoffrey.”
“Just a little factoid I thought you might find interesting.”
“Yes, thank you, Geoffrey.”
“Personally, I’m all for it. Let people do what they want. Whatever floats your boat. They’ve got special names for all the things they do, you know.”
“Geoffrey!”
“The spoon! He licked the spoon!” said Catherine.
“Yep, that’s one of them—”
“No, at the last baking club. The day before he died. He left early, you remember?”
“Yes, I remember,” said Margaret.
“He asked if he could lick the bowl. He always did that, didn’t he? Big kid, really. And Carol—”
Margaret interrupted Catherine with one of her yelps before shouting, “Carol handed him a spoon!”
Sixteen
It was oneof those days when clouds passed over quickly. Sun, clouds, sun, clouds. Carol gave Jim a nod and sat beside him on the bench. She could feel the fear her arrival had brought about in the other players. Better to keep a distance. She was looking forward to a time when she didn’t terrify nearly everyone she crossed paths with but, for now, she could live without playing croquet. It looked like a stupid game.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” said Carol.
