“What I find interesting is how everything that happened seems perfectly coordinated, from the release of the terrorist son’s photo followed by the infamous email to the whispers about your guilt over George McCallum’s supposed suicide, as if someone was leaking them information in a well-planned smear campaign. After your near brush with death on the A2 to Canterbury, it’s even more surprising the papers insinuated you’d lied, that there’d been no attempt on your life, that you were simply trying to deflect attention away from your responsibility over George McCallum’s suicide. I don’t think it was piling on, I think that, too, was planted.
“Whoever this person is, Mrs. Black, they want to not only destroy you and ruin your reputation, it seems they want you dead. Do you agree?”
Natalie lightly tapped her knife on the white tablecloth. She nodded. “Cut it to the bare bones, yes, I agree. The problem is I have no idea who it could be.”
Savich said, “Let’s start with basics. The death of your fiancé, George McCallum.”
“George knew the email was fake so there was no reason for him to commit suicide, not that he would have killed himself even if I had kissed him off. George wasn’t like that. He gobbled up life, thought every moment of life precious, even if they held pain for him.
“You see, George was a colon cancer survivor, six years and counting. Even though the doctors believed he was clear, he told me his disease still hung over him like the sword of Damocles, always in the back of his mind, influencing every word he spoke, every action he took, even six years after the dreadful course of chemo. He said the experience had changed him, made him grateful for every single day. He was a thankful man, he considered himself a blessed man. And he felt close to his very large family, all except his son. Can you imagine a man like this killing himself? No matter what happened?”
Perry said, “I didn’t know about the cancer.”
“It was private. Only his family knew.”
Savich said, “I read the police report, Mrs. Black. The physical evidence was ambiguous. The Dover Cliffs are at least thirty feet from the road in that particular spot. The ground is flat and smooth, with plenty of time to stop if traveling within the speed limit, or to jump from the vehicle, if need be. But the tire tracks showed no evidence he’d tried to stop. The car drove straight at the cliff and went over. Now, I’m sure you discussed the possibility that he fell asleep or that he passed out from any number of medical reasons.”
“I accepted that, Agent Savich, until someone tried to kill me. Then it seems to make sense that someone might have knocked George unconscious, put his Jaguar in gear, aimed it at the cliffs and let it go over. The autopsy would have been of no help because of his massive injuries. A bump on the head would have gone unnoticed.”
Sherlock said, “Let me stop you for a moment, Mrs. Black. The faked email to George breaking off your engagement to him. It was sent from your personal email account. That requires a user name and a password. You didn’t send that email. So who did? Who has your private information?”
“No one—at least, that’s what I thought. I changed it immediately, of course.”
“What exactly did the email say?” Davis asked.
“I went into my sent mail and there it was.” She pulled a folded piece of paper out of her sweater pocket and read:
Dear George: You must know after all this unpleasantness you and I cannot possibly marry. Consider who I am and where my loyalties must lie. If it’s any consolation, I never loved you, so perhaps it’s for the best. Good-bye, Natalie.
Savich said, “I suppose this person realized George might call you immediately, but by leaking the email, he was assured the damage to your own reputation would be done. Either George’s death was unexpected or this person hates you enough to have set everything in motion by killing an innocent man.”
Perry, her face white, said, “All to get you blamed for it, disgraced, and try to kill you?”
“Yes, so it would seem,” Natalie said, and wished she could hug her daughter, reassure her, but she couldn’t even reassure herself.
“Had George been in contact with his son William?” Sherlock asked.
“As I said, George was uncomfortable talking to me about Billy, so I really don’t know if there was any communication or not.”
Savich said, “And the rest of George’s family? Is it possible any of them could have found out your private email password? Any wild hairs in the group?”
“No, I doubt it. Wild hairs? No more than any other family. Besides, why would any of them write something so cruel, even if they could? Why would any of them want to kill him?