“Is Muriel home?” she asks.
“Muriel?” The old man scrunches up his face as if trying to recall something.
“Your wife,” I snap.
“Muriel,” he says again. “Muriel died, Briony. Several months ago.”
“Died?” Briony almost chokes on the word. “She’s dead?”
“Yes. Yes.” The old man shuffles on his feet and roots around in his pants pocket as if looking for something. He pulls out a battered flask, flips up the lid, takes a swig, and then shoves it back into his pocket. “Fell down the stairs. Broke her neck. You didn’t know?”
“How would I know?” Briony says with irritation. “You never wrote to me. You never told me.”
“Oh. Guess I didn’t.” He rubs at his chin. “I didn’t think you’d particularly want to come to the funeral. There was never much love lost between the two of you.”
“No,” she says sternly. “There wasn’t.”
“So you coming in?” the old man says, pointing toward the doorway.
Briony’s gaze floats that way. She stares into the gloomy interior of that hovel for several long moments. And then she shakes her head.
“No. We’ve got to go.”
“Can’t spare a few minutes for your old father?” the man says bitterly.
“No, she can’t,” I say, wrapping my arm around her shoulders and pulling her away.
She lets me guide her, ignoring the old man’s grumblings, full of self-pity and false outrage.
We take a few steps down the lane and then Briony halts, slips out from under my arm, and strides back to the gate.
“We’re taking Barney with us.”
“The dog?” the old man says, as if he’s forgotten who that is too.
“Yes. He’s far too skinny. You haven’t been feeding him properly. Come on, Barney.” She beckons the dog toward her, and he comes trotting along eagerly.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stop and talk to him for a while?” Clare asks once Briony’s caught back up to us. “Heisyour father.”
“Not really,” Briony says. “My father died a long time ago. He’s just an old drunk now. Someone who never really cared about me.”
Clare nods in understanding and we continue up the old trackway.
We’re a few more paces down the dirt track, Briony’s old home and her father well out of sight now, when Briony halts a second time, spinning round on her toes, backtracking a few paces and swinging her gaze like an interrogation lamp over our faces.
“Which one of you was it?” she says.
“Which one of us was what?” Fly asks.
“Not you or Clare. You’re in the clear,” she says, beckoning them forward.
They glance at each other and come to flank their friend, leaving Briony glaring at me and the Princes.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Beaufort says.
“Which one of you was it who killed Muriel?”
“No one killed Muriel,” Beaufort says. “Your father told us she fell down the stairs. An accident.”
