by Charlot King
“I loved you the most you know. Why did you go and do this to me? Leave me like this. Who am I going to talk to? I was always here for you. Remember that. Remember that I sacrificed everything for you, for your career, for your life, to be by your side. I wanted to do that. I love you. I love you Edward. What have you done?” Rebecca starts to wail more angrily. “You’ve abandoned me just when I need you most. You’ve left me alone in this nightmare world. I’m not ready. I didn’t want you to go. What were you thinking? I mean I know we rowed, I know we fought. You must have really wanted to win bad.” Rebecca loses any puff left and feebly lets herself drift down the window. “Oh Edward, I’m sorry. You have to believe me. I didn’t want this to happen.”
Two assistants in forensics wheel Edward out of the room, and the police liaison officer inside says they have to continue now with the post-mortem, as they have already started and can’t delay. Rebecca hasn’t eaten this morning and neither has she had anything to drink. The stillness in the air and the reality of the situation cause her knees to buckle and she starts to fall. The police liaison officer catches Rebecca, Jonathan still completely engrossed with his phone.
“I will see you tomorrow, I can’t wait to be honest. This is madness.” He pauses as Katie speaks on the other end of the line, then replies, “I’m not sure I can go through with it now anyway. Yes if Edward’s dead, doesn’t that put a whole new light on South Africa? We knew it would be difficult. I think the opportunity has gone. Katie you’re my angel in the darkness, let’s have a bottle tomorrow. Yes, bring them to sample at the flat.”
“Water. I need water.” Rebecca cries.
“Let’s sit you down Miss, and I’ll get some from the corridor. Just wait here.” Rebecca is helped by the police liaison officer into a hard plastic seat at the back of the room and she immediately drops her head between her legs.
“I need to lie down, now. I think I’m going to faint.” Rebecca drops to the floor and all but passes out. The police liaison officer rushes back in and gives Rebecca some water, holding Rebecca’s back for support, kneeling beside Rebecca who sips the water then lies down. The police liaison officer shouts over to Jonathan in disbelief.
“Sir, I think your sister needs you?”
Jonathan hangs up.
“What happened?”
“She feels a little unwell. I will see if I can get the doctor, if you can stay with her please, and give her your full attention.”
Jonathan nods and bends down beside his sister. He takes a cigarette out of his pocket and goes to light it. The police liaison officer points to the ‘no smoking’ sign. Jonathan rolls his eyes and puts the cigarette back in the case and tersely replies.
“Really, even now?” he snarls.
The police liaison officer speaks to Rebecca before she leaves for the doctor.
“Miss, you know that the police would like a statement, once you are feeling up to it.”
“But I wasn’t with him. He came home and went back out again. I didn’t see him after that.”
The police liaison officer replies.
“That’s fine, then just tell them that. Are you family, sir?”
“Yes, but I hadn’t seen him in ages.” says Jonathan.
“They will want a statement from you as well.” The police liaison officer raises her eyebrows at him and then leaves for the doctor.
9. The Lover
Susan Bunt is on her mobile, pacing her living room in a manky dressing gown and scuffed green slippers. Built in the 1970s, the house directly overlooks the river at Chesterton, a once pretty village on the edge of Cambridge, now a sprawling conurbation. Inside, badly hung curtains cling to rusty poles, blocking out the impressive view. Papers piled high on every table, marking out two decades of inhabitance like rings of a tree. A desk lamp burns dust in a dark corner over an idle computer, a lit cigarette leaning into a reclaimed pub ashtray and coffee cup emitting vapours.
“Yes, flight EA627B to Cape Town. That’s right. You’re sure there are no delays? Perfect. Upgrade everything please. Yes, first class. At the check in? Thank you.”
Susan hangs up, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror which is hung next to a photograph on the wall of a neighing horse looking straight into the camera lens, showing a gap in his front teeth. In the gloom she leans in to examine the bright red, small dots, neatly peppering her blotchy skin where her necklace was last night. She’s sure it will be long gone from the alley now, someone will have picked it up. She’s sad as she liked it, as she liked all of Edward’s thoughtful gifts. She was just unlucky to have been in the wrong place, she thinks. At least they didn’t steal her wallet or mobile. Thank goodness for her cloak with so many hidden pockets. What did her attacker want, she wonders for the umpteenth time? She picks up her cigarette and coffee, peels back a front curtain and peers through the nets out across to Stourbridge Common. Cattle graze in the distance on the rough grass, and pick at the trees as rowers steam past at full speed. Susan finishes her coffee and searches in the pockets of the cloak hanging on the door. Finding what she is looking for she visibly relaxes, taking out her passport, and Edward’s beneath it. Excitedly she stuffs both into a travel bag on the table and continues to collect things to shove inside, some clean laundry from a clothes horse, a pair of trainers by the sofa. She shuts down her computer and walks out of the room to get more things to pack.
10. King’s College
Head porter Sidney Carter, dressed in a smart suit, stands in the porter’s lodge at King’s this morning. King’s don’t require porters to wear bowler hats or tails these days like other more traditional colleges. His silver handlebar moustache, however, is still the highlight of many a tourist photograph. Sometimes when he wears it straight his colleagues make their disappointment known. Little do they know the time it takes to wax and tease into the stiff curls on display. Right now, Carter is the only person in the lodge, a radio blares out cricket from the Oval. Neat rows of pigeon holes line half the room, while paintings of the Chapel shown at differing angles, and a year planner with many pins stuck to the dates in red and green, dress the other. Carter has been at King’s for thirty four years and sixteen days. Every year, since hitting thirty years service, he has been given one more week of leave, which he finds most dull and comes in any way. Ordinarily at this time he would be on patrol, checking up on undergraduates who often like to pull the odd prank in Easter term to relieve the stress of examinations. But at the moment his head is down as he sifts through envelopes which arrived in the morning post, methodically assigning each piece into the rightful pigeon hole. A collection of parcels sit on the counter, waiting for him to sort. Sir Percival Flint, the Dean of the college, enters. Dressed in a dark navy suit, light blue shirt, bow tie and slicked back hair, the fifty six year old Don has the look of someone carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, and is definitely ready for early retirement. Spending most of his life in college, Percival grows increasingly lonely without his wife and teenage children who reside in Dorset; though he hides it well, until he’s imbibed in a bit too much port after dinner, then will tell you everything about his dog, Rufus, and show you pictures of the walks he has along Brownsea Island when he manages to get down for the weekend. Carter has heard this story many times.
“Morning Mr Carter.” The Dean picks up some keys hanging on a hook behind the counter.
“Morning Dean.”
“Just popping to the Archives if anyone needs me. Got to check something in the estate papers for the Bursar. Why the man can’t do his own job I’ll never know.”
“Right ho. I’ll ring down if anything’s urgent. The police were here earlier, sir. Looking for Mrs Wiley. Thought you should know.”
“Yes, thank you Carter. They telephoned they were coming earlier. Dreadful business. We’ve lost a good man. I’ll be saying a few words at dinner. Will you inform those Fellows dining to get there ten m
inutes early?”
“Poor Mrs Wiley. Not much of her already. She’ll take it bad, no doubt.”
“Quite, I’ll go and see her shortly. We must do everything we can to protect her in this most difficult time. Perhaps you can arrange for her meals to be taken to her rooms?”
“Of course, Dean. And I will tell the Fellows about your words before dinner, to be prompt.”
“Wonderful.”
“Talking of protecting Mrs Wiley from outside forces, Professor Green just swept in like a bat, and has already gone up to see her.”
“Really? What for?” The Dean asks.
“I tried to enquire as to the purpose of her visit, but she just told me not to fuss and to stick to my job. I told her that was part of my job, then she poked her tongue out at me, Dean, and smiled.” Carter says.
“That blessed woman. God, make speed to save us all.” The Dean strides out and is off on the course of his day.
Carter talks to himself. “Often brings me a bottle of brandy at Christmas, she does.” Carter smirks, then turns to the parcels on the counter. He sees one addressed to Rebecca Wiley. He’s about to call after the Dean, but spots he is already halfway across the court. Carter puts it into Mr Edward Wiley’s pigeon hole. He’ll take that to the lady later, as he’s sure she won’t want to be disturbed anymore this morning. An old Bakelite art deco telephone trills. There is no answer-phone or telephonist here. Just the random efforts of porters, who take turns in deciding if they’d like to help the prospective caller. Carter hears the noise in his sleep and he has grown used to ignoring its first rings, allowing the faint-hearted enquirer to give up their efforts and leave things be. Finally he walks across and picks up the receiver.
“Porter’s lodge.”
“Mr Idiot here.”
“Mr Idiot? Who’s this?”
“Iman.”
“Iman Idiot? Peterson, I know that’s you.”
Carter hangs up the receiver and chuckles to himself. The students have grown so tame. Although he was too young to deal with the prank when students put an Austin Healy on the Senate roof back in 1958, he did have to organise the far less glamorous removal of a toilet seat from a Chapel spire later in 2002, at great expense to the college. Yes, that was stuff and nonsense. Scaffolders erected almost all the scaffolding to retrieve the seat, only to find that overnight the prankster had moved the toilet seat to different spire. So they had to move the scaffolding to the new spire and start all over again. He couldn’t wait for a bit of peace and quiet when the students would go down this summer, though secretly he did look forward to their return in September. The Fellows were getting old, like him, and were a much less exciting bunch.
11. The Wife
Elizabeth catches her breath after climbing the rickety stairs to the third floor of Edward and Rebecca Wiley’s King’s College rooms. She feels rather light headed, not having slept last night or touched much food to speak of. Rebecca Wiley has only just returned from identifying Edward’s body and tells Elizabeth to make herself comfortable while she temporarily retires to her dressing room to splash water on her face. Elizabeth perches uncomfortably on an oversized worn bottle green Chesterfield, which stands like an island in the grand drawing room. She looks around the centuries old uneven-walled, wonky wooden-doored room, caught in the darkness. Only little windows look out to the sky, which for an early summer day is looking a little too overcast for Elizabeth’s liking. An open fire crackles and spits - having been lit by the bedder to take the chill out of the morning. Two browning spider plants trail down the mantelpiece. It strikes Elizabeth how remarkably empty the room is of personal belongings, thinking how many things of Gerald’s she retains, just to keep him close. Where is the evidence of Edward? An old book chest standing under a window, a woman’s floppy hat resting on top of it. A corner table carries a small radio. No television, no ornaments. She notices a pair of wellington boots by the door, caked in mud. Above them hangs a photograph of a neighing horse looking straight into the camera lens, showing a gap in his front teeth.
Elizabeth had liked Edward for his generosity, his positive spirit and sense of humour. But she was also particularly fond of his loyalty to her. Just weeks into his post he had come to her defence in a rather bitter row in the staff room between herself and the then Head of department who thankfully has now retired, but at the time was criticising Elizabeth’s views on plants and animals, saying they compromised the department. Elizabeth had told the then Head that he might fairly be accused of being very dull indeed as well as ignorant. Just as the Head was about to explode Edward had jumped in and said what Elizabeth meant to say was that diversity makes the world go around and he for one applauded Elizabeth’s determination and convictions, and even if he didn’t always agree with them that the department would be a poorer place without Professor Green.
An ethereal Rebecca returns, followed by Jonathan who takes Rebecca’s jacket and hangs it up by the door. Elizabeth politely stands.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mrs Wiley.”
“Rebecca, please.” Rebecca smiles, but Jonathan is unhappy with the intrusion. “I really don’t think this is an appropriate time, do you? I’ve already had to turn away the local papers. I thought the porters are supposed to stop unwelcome visitors?”
Rebecca gestures for Elizabeth to sit back down. Elizabeth smiles at Rebecca.
“Thank you.” She perches again uncomfortably, now quite thirsty.
“Ignore him, Professor Green. He’s just overly protective.”
Jonathan huffs and walks to the window, replying to his sister. “You should be resting. Not answering yet more questions. The police kept you far too long. I shall have to talk to the Chief Inspector. Does he know who I am?”
Rebecca ignores her brother, and turns to Elizabeth.
“He looked so cold and still. Not like my Ed. Hair stuck to his head. He always has such bouncy hair.” Rebecca pauses, then looks into Elizabeth’s eye. “He’s gone, hasn’t he?” Not so much asking the question anymore, just saying it out loud in case someone can tell her she’s wrong.
“I’m sorry.” Elizabeth looks to the floor out of respect and then back up at Rebecca.
“Your message said they found him in your garden?” Rebecca says.
Elizabeth wipes her brow with a handkerchief. Sleep deprivation catching up with her.
“Yes. I tried to help him but there was nothing I could do.”
“Wait, he was still alive? What?” Rebecca is visibly shocked.
Elizabeth replies hurriedly.
“Yes, but only for a moment. Really just seconds.”
“The police didn’t say that. Why didn’t they tell me? That changes everything.”
Elizabeth realises she still hasn’t told the police that minor but important detail, and backtracks as much as she can. She’s not thinking straight. No sleep. She must find out what Rebecca knows before she leaves.
“He passed away very quickly by the time I got to him. As I say, it really was seconds.”
Jonathan walks over and leans on Elizabeth.
“What did he say?”
Elizabeth doesn’t like Jonathan Smythe-Jones’ tone and ignores his question, thinking him self-righteous, which grates on her nerves tremendously, and she always trusts her first impressions, unlikely to change her opinion of this rebarbative man.
Rebecca presses Elizabeth into the Chesterfield and sits beside her.
“Was he scared? Did he say anything about me?”
“He couldn’t speak very easily, Rebecca. He was in pain, I’m very sorry.”
“He spoke! What did he say?” Rebecca looks very anxious.
“He just mumbled. He lost his breath and passed away. You have to understand, it’s been a long night. I watched him die, okay. He drifted away looking at me. That’s all. Then he was... just like the police told you.”
Elizabeth shuts her eyes and Rebecca leans into her face a little.
“Most people, before they die, call out for their loved ones, don’t they? I thought he might have said ‘tell Rebecca I love her’. That’s the kind of man that he -” Rebecca struggles to say the word ‘was’. “He isn’t like most men.”
Elizabeth can agree on that.
“He was a good man.”
“He loves me, really loves me like no other. He has a big heart.”
Jonathan Smythe-Jones presses Elizabeth for information.
“What did he say, exactly?”
Elizabeth opens her eyes and sees this unpleasant man snarling at her.
“He just mumbled. I couldn’t make it out, seriously. Serve us something. It made no sense. Serve us tibs. He passed away straight after. Please.”
Elizabeth feels she’s being interrogated rather than the interrogator. What is she doing here? Why is she putting herself through this, when she could be at home in her garden. But she can’t, she can’t sit with the sun on her face, watching the river, as a man died last night. This woman’s husband, this man’s brother-in-law. It’s all tangled and she can’t see the clues.
Jonathan walks back over to the window and spots something outside.
“My cue for a cigarette I think. Shan’t be long.”
Jonathan strides across the room, opens the door and walks through. He pokes his head back in.
“Shout if you need me, Bex, I’m just below the window.”
“You’re not supposed to smoke in the court. They’ll tell me off.” Rebecca glances at her brother.
“Not today they won’t.” Jonathan glares at Elizabeth and then disappears. Elizabeth waits until she can’t hear anymore footsteps on the stairs and then leans in to Rebecca.
“When did you see Edward last? I wondered if you’d eaten with him last night? Perhaps shared a meal?”
Rebecca turns back to Elizabeth.
