Alfred returned to work the following Monday. 'The devil makes work for idle hands,' he remarked with a cheerless smile. To begin with no one suspected anything. After all, Sarah had sunk into a coma before. Only this tirne she had not come out of it. What could be more normal? But then there was the coroner's report. He had ordered an autopsy. Only I knew why. That was the end of Alfred.
It was Friday when the police arrived to take him away. 'It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good,' he said, as they pushed him into the police-car. What happened at the trial is still a blur for me, but the words 'while the balance of his mind was disturbed' still ring in my ears.
As we walked down into the garden, I asked, 'Why did you do it?' We were now among the chrysanthemums. Some of them were beginning to open. Alfred took a pair of sharp gardener's secateurs from his apron pocket. I heard the stalks crunch as he severed six blooms. He handed them to me and said, 'The survival of the fittest. Now let me ask you a question. Who tipped off the coroner?'
Then he smiled his enigmatic smile.