Free Asylum by Patrick McGrath Page A

this to him. If she was under any suspicion it would look like a diversionary tactic. If on the other hand she was not suspected it would be a perfectly logical question. She watched him closely. He did not lift his head. She knew she was safe. For now.
    “It’s not out of the question but it’s not an idea Jack’s eager to pursue just at the moment. It’s all so bloody political.”
    “Are you looking for a scapegoat?” She was deliberately pressing her advantage. “That’s not very fair.”
    “Of course we don’t want a scapegoat. Nor do we want to accuse anyone until we’re certain.”
    “It hasn’t come from this house.”
    “It might have come from the cricket pavilion, I suppose.”
    “It might,” said Stella. There was a pause.
    “Walk over there with me,” he said. “I’ll get my keys.”
    His keys. Upstairs, on his dressing table. Or perhaps in the pocket of his linen jacket. In the cupboard. She sat there in the study and waited for him to come down. His desk was neat, only the morning’s mail and a couple of files on top, all his pens and pencils and papers sorted and consigned to their various drawers. The study window looked out onto a patch of lawn bordered by flower beds, and beyond it the pine trees that hid the house from the road. On the bookshelves, stacks of psychiatric journals and textbooks.
    “Stella.”
    She came out into the hall. He was on the upstairs landing, leaning over the top banister.
    “Did it go to the cleaners?”
    “What?”
    “My linen jacket.”
    Think fast, Stella. Get it right. Save the situation. “No. Can’t you find it?”
    He went back into the bedroom. She climbed the stairs. He had his back to her as she came in. He was going through his suits and jackets on their hangers. He didn’t turn around.
    “This is very odd. I’m missing a shirt and a pair of trousers too.”
    “Nothing’s gone to the cleaners this week.”
    “I had my estate keys in the pocket. Where’s Charlie?”
    “I don’t think he would take your clothes.”
    “Nor do I.”
    He sat on the side of the bed frowning at his fingernails. Stella leaned against the door frame. The sunlight streamed in across her dressing table. She knew she was about to lose everything, and in a way she didn’t care. She was curious to see how it worked itself out. His accusation was imminent and she had no idea what she was going to say.
    “He must have got in here.”
    “Who?”
    “Edgar Stark.”
    “That’s impossible. How could he, with me and Brenda here? Let me see if Charlie’s in the garden.”
    He was sitting with his hands in his lap, frowning. A man as organized as he was, a man so much in control of his world: such a man did not lose a shirt and a pair of trousers and a linen jacket with the estate keys in the pocket.
    Stella darted downstairs and out through the front door. They weren’t back from lunch yet. She ran through the vegetable garden and into the conservatory, where Edgar’s white jacket hung from a nail by the door. She tore open an empty seed packet and with a stub of pencil scrawled him a note. She stuffed the note into the pocket of the jacket and left it sticking out so he wouldn’t miss it.
    As she crossed back to the house she saw the working party appear at the end of the drive. There was no more she could do except pray that Edgar would see her note and find an opportunity to get rid of the clothes. She met Max in the hall. She told him that Charlie wasn’t in the garden and probably wouldn’t be back for hours now.
    “I don’t think Charlie would touch my clothes,” he said again, and went back into the study.
    She stood there in the doorway. “What are you going to do?”
    He was beside his desk, the phone in his hand, facing her. “Put me through to Block Three.” This he said into the receiver as they stood there gazing at each other.
    The news came that evening. Brenda came down at five and Stella told her about the missing keys and clothes, and