“You saw from outside that the window was dark. You were startled but not alarmed. You concluded, I imagine, either that the tablets had made her too drowsy to light the gas or that the first sleep hadn’t yet broken. You went upstairs, knocked and called. There was no answer. You tried the door. It opened. You went in, struck a match, lit the gas, looked round—that must have cost you an effort! But there she was, lying peacefully in the bed. You crept across, stared for a minute, and realised that she was dead.

“The shock of that corpse was like the blast of a bomb, it blew you out of the house and down the street in a whirling panic. You didn’t know where you were going or what you were doing, only that she was dead and you were done for. You must have raced down Upper Street or the High until—what? Asthma—your breath gave out. When you had to stop your brain calmed a little, fell into its strongest habit. You wanted to feel better, you wanted solace, oblivion. You went into the Derby Arms.

“Yet, you know, if you’d kept your head, or at least regained it, and had gone to them with the news, I think they’d have thought it a worthwhile risk to notify your doctor. She was very old, quite likely to die in her sleep. With luck you would have pulled through without an autopsy. After all, there would have been no immediate trace of motive, crude motive—”

Majendie stirred, as if about to say something; but he evidently thought better of it.

“Conscience—better say, awareness of guilt,—was your stumbling block, Ivan,” Brett continued. “You knew you’d caused her death. You were sure that discovery and punishment would follow, that any evasion would be only temporary. Money, the treasures, they, the police—all irrelevant. For you, life was finished. You were as good as dead. But from force of habit you drank on. You had moments of lucidity, and in one of them you suffered a pang of regret for what you’d lost, lost even in life, let alone death. I said you loved it unawares. How could you help yourself? It was beautiful. Oh, a toy, a glittering extravagance—some people would say its beauty was meretricious, which is all very well for those who’ve been able to pick their way through the purest art in the world. But to you, in Bright’s Row, it was pure. Ice and frost and stars! That’s what you said to the man in the pub. And he called you a bleeding poet.”

The car bumped, tipping Brett sideways. Recovering himself, he leaned his head against the back of the seat. He felt very tired. His arms were aching, and powerless as ever, bound at elbow and wrist.