Murder in the Museum (Fethering Mysteries) by Simon Brett Page A

there and read the stuff. I liked that, learnt a lot.’
    ‘But the actual work you were doing . . .?’
    ‘Liked that too. Gardening. I like the gardens up at Bracketts. I used to be . . .’ His mood changed. ‘Wouldn’t imagine they’d want me back there now.’
    ‘After your confession?’
    ‘So you know about that. Bet the whole bloody world knows about that now.’
    ‘But of course you had nothing to do with the crime?’
    ‘No. As the police made clear to me . . . when they tore me off a strip for wasting their time . . .’ Strong emotion gripped him. ‘I’m sorry, it’s just when I saw the body . . . I feel all this guilt, and I thought maybe there was something else I could be guilty for, and . . .’ He ran out of words.
    ‘Why did the police let you go so quickly?’
    ‘Because what I said didn’t stand up. Even the most basic forensic examination had shown that the body was dead long before I was born. They said it was probably buried ninety years ago. Besides . . .’ His voice went very soft, hard to hear in the prevailing clangour ‘ . . . I couldn’t have been the murderer, because it was a man’s body.’
    ‘And you reckon you’re only a threat to women?’
    He nodded, too overcome to speak.
    ‘That’s why you’re afraid to be alone with a woman?’
    Another nod. Then he said bitterly, ‘Perfectly reasonable fear . . . considering what happened last time I was alone with a woman . . .’
    ‘You don’t seem to be frightened of me, Mervyn.’
    ‘No,’ he conceded. ‘But you haven’t bossed me around. You haven’t told me what to do . . . yet.’
    ‘Perhaps I never would.’
    ‘Oh, no.’ His voice was heavy with irony.
    ‘Not all women are the same,’ said Jude gently.
    ‘No, they don’t seem to be the same. They may start out all nice and relaxed. But there comes a point, with all of them, when they start demanding things of you. Expecting things of you. Wanting you to do things.’ He closed his eyes, as if in reactive pain to the strong tremor of emotion that ran through his body.
    ‘Have you seen a psychologist since you’ve been here at Austen?’ asked Jude.
    ‘Any number of them.’
    ‘And do they think you’re a danger to women?’
    ‘No. But what do they know? Every week you read another case. Some guy’s let out of the nick, every psychologist in the world says he’s no longer a public danger . . . first weekend out, he tops someone.’
    ‘And you’re afraid you might do the same?’
    Another silent, frightened nod, then, after a time, he went on, ‘That’s why I was quite glad when they put me inside. Won’t be a danger any more, I thought. That’s one thing at least I won’t have to worry about. So I haven’t minded being inside. The violence, the bullying, I don’t like that, but at least I’m safe in here . . . and women are safe . . .’
    It seemed incongruous to imagine this thin neurotic as a danger to an entire gender, but Jude said nothing and let him ramble on.
    ‘Most men in here – and in the other nicks before – they can’t wait to get out. All they think about, all they dream about. Me . . . that’s when the pressure’ll really start. When I get out. I won’t trust myself then. It’s less than a year now.’ He emitted a pained little laugh. ‘And I’ve behaved myself. If I’d been a bad prisoner, I’d have to serve my full sentence – might even get it extended. But I’ve been so good, I’ll be out after the minimum tariff. Twelve years, that’s all.’
    ‘Unless you start misbehaving now,’ Jude suggested light-heartedly, trying to ease the atmosphere.
    ‘Don’t think I haven’t thought of it! Thought of getting reconvicted for something else.’ He shot her a sharp look, then relaxed a little. ‘I’m here at Austen to “get used to the real world”. I don’t think I’m ever going to fit in the “real world”. It’s too dangerous.’
    ‘The real world’s too dangerous?’
    ‘The real world with me