by Muriel Spark
‘Be careful,’ she said, ‘those grapefruits look a little bruised.’
He looked at her, then he looked at the grapefruit and then he looked at her again. ‘So they are, thanks,’ he said. He was enchanted by the red-haired beauty with her sexy prominent teeth, who stood beside him, so ready to edge away. She thought him all right to look at provided he didn’t put on more weight.
They were married within four months.
Margaret went to visit Magnus shortly after her return from her honeymoon.
‘Did you see in the paper about little Werther Stanhope, that he shot himself?’ said Magnus.
‘You predicted Warren McDiarmid,’ she said, kicking off her bright blue shoes, part of her bridal trousseau; they weren’t very comfortable. She wore a bright pink dress which Magnus had told her was just right for her colouring. ‘Warren McDiarmid’, he now said, ‘or Werther Stanhope, what difference does it make? All right, I slightly erred. So far. Perhaps McDiarmid’s day of reckoning will come, it is bound to come. You know, if you had married Stanhope instead of Damien you would at this moment be a wealthy widow instead of a wife of a poor man with a rich mother. However, you’ve done not badly, so far. How do you propose to rid yourself of Hilda Damien?’
‘I will bide my time,’ said Margaret.
‘Perhaps your evil eye will be enough,’ said Magnus. ‘Only think about it, concentrate enough, and something will happen to her.’
‘I don’t think you understand how I feel,’ she said. ‘I want to actively liquidate the woman. Compared with the evil eye, what I have in mind is just healthy criminality. Fortunately I don’t like her.’
‘Providers are often disliked, often despised.’
‘She isn’t even a provider. Very limited and such a know-all. Comparatively stingy, too.’
‘Here in Scotland,’ said Magnus, ‘people are more capable of perpetrating good or evil than anywhere else. I don’t know why it is, but so it is. That gives you an advantage. For myself let me remind you of Judith and what she did to Holofernes. Pass me the Bible.’
Margaret got ready to go. ‘It needs more planning than you think,’ she said.
Magnus was reading: ‘And approached to his bed, and took hold of the hair of his head —’
‘Plans. We should make plans,’ said Margaret.
‘And she smote twice upon his neck with all her might, and she took away his head from him.’
‘Hilda’s coming next week. We have a dinner party on Thursday, then Friday night or Saturday morning I want to drive her up to St Andrews with William. Maybe you could come to Blackie House for the Sunday? We could take her for a walk in the woods, Uncle Magnus.’
‘Where is she staying in London?’
‘The Ritz.’
‘To be perfectly honest,’ said Magnus, laying aside his holy book, ‘I don’t want personal trouble. We’ve had enough bloodshed, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Between the two of us’, Margaret said, ‘we could arrange an accident.’
‘Impossible,’ said Magnus. ‘No guarantee, ever, of success. Too risky.’
‘All those suspicions have fallen on me,’ said Margaret. ‘Why shouldn’t I really do it? I’m tired of being made to feel guilty for no reason. I would like to feel guilty for a real case of guilt.’
‘Generally speaking,’ said Magnus, ‘guilty people do not feel guilty. They feel exalted, triumphant, amused at themselves.’
‘That’s fine. I’d like that.’
‘Like it or not,’ Magnus said, ‘destiny might do it for you.’
She said, ‘You’d better think of something before Sunday the 21st or I’ll never come here and visit you again. That’s final. Do you think I enjoy coming here?’ She slipped on her blue shoes, grabbed her coat and went out. She put her head round the door a moment later. ‘The ground is slippery with all this rain. Push her in the pond. You know how it’s done,’ she said, and left.
Magnus took a swig of his drink and looked out of the window where there was a marvellous purple and orange sunset. A male nurse came into the room to settle Magnus into his bed. ‘All that’, said Magnus, indicating the view, ‘can be read about in detail in various novels by Sir Walter Scott. Nobody can do sunsets like Scott.’
‘That’s a fact,’ said the nurse.
ANNABEL said to Roland, ‘I’m so glad that man has left.’ She was referring to Roland’s flatmate, the journalist, who had departed to live with his girl-friend.
‘It makes a difference economically,’ Roland said. ‘Otherwise I like being alone. One can think.’
‘There is something for you to think about,’ Annabel said. He was just recovered from his ‘flu and had invited Annabel to supper at his flat. He had decided to prepare the supper himself, Annabel was not to do anything. The shopping had already been done by his household helper who came three times a week, and now Roland paddled, drink in hand, in and out of the sitting-room where Annabel was relaxing with her vodka martini. She told Roland how she had remembered the television show where she had seen the image of Margaret which corresponded to the press photograph. ‘She was in a convent, and there were some shots of her going along Victoria Street on a motorbike, and some others in a hospital where she was sick-visiting. I arranged a re-run.’
‘Are you sure it’s the same one? What name?’
‘They didn’t give her name. Let me see that photograph and I’ll tell you if it’s the same girl.’
Roland produced the photograph and left Annabel while he went to see to his stove. A thought dawned on him. He turned down the gas and came back. ‘Annabel,’ he said. ‘That nun programme — I remember it. I saw a bit of it and it was hilarious. But do you know there was a sequel. One of the nuns was murdered, there in the convent or in the convent-yard, whatever they call it; nobody was arrested. They couldn’t find the murderer. An elderly nun, very dotty, confessed but nobody believed her. I remember well. They thought it was a man, a strangler. I remember they said if he was left-handed he approached from behind, right-handed he came from the front. They knew by the marks on her neck.’
‘But that’s another murder that the Murchie girl’s been mixed up in. If it is the Murchie girl.’
‘I can find out if it’s her,’ said Roland.
‘So can I. But from the photograph I’m almost sure it’s the same one. What was she doing in the convent?’
‘Repenting,’ said Roland.
‘She’s a nut case, obviously,’ said Annabel.
‘What makes you think so?’
‘Just something about the circumstances and something about her.’
‘Well, we’ll see for ourselves on Thursday at Hurley’s dinner.’
They sat down to eat. Lamb chops, peas, and salad. Claret. ‘We should tell Hurley,’ said Roland.
‘You’ve been dying to tell Hurley since you found out about the first homicide. Don’t you think he probably knows already?’
‘No, I don’t.’
She let a pause go by. ‘Neither do I,’ said Annabel. ‘But what difference does it make? Presumably her husband, young Damien, knows all about her.’
‘I wonder,’ said Roland very blandly, at the same time pouring wine into their glasses. ‘Perhaps he knows hardly anything about her.’
‘In that case,’ Annabel said, ‘you absolutely must keep your big mouth shut, Roland. It would be positively bitchy of you to spread stories about the girl’s past. And we are presuming that the nun and Margaret Murchie are the same girl.’
‘I can check,’ Roland said.
‘So can I. But not a word to Hurley, remember, ‘Annabel said. ‘It would look bad. You shouldn’t give a gossipy impression, really, Roland; try not to.‘
The next morning Annabel checked the BBC files. Yes, the Margaret Murchie of the murdered grandmother was the same as one of the girls in the fatal nunnery.
Roland rang her to tell her the same fact and to add more fruits of his simple investigation: an interview with Eunice i
n a women’s glossy paper referred to Margaret’s misfortune at being subject to questioning in two previous cases while she was still at school, one, where a girl was drowned in a pond under her very eyes and the other, where a schoolmistress she was having tea with went to the ladies’ room and disappeared for ever. ‘There’s something about Margaret,’ Eunice was reported as saying. ‘I’m really sorry for her, as you can’t help feeling it, but you don’t want your children to get caught up in it.’ She refused to be more precise. (‘Are your children afraid of Margaret?’ — ‘No, darling Mark is only a baby.’)
Flora and Bert were interviewed together. Bert cautioned the interviewer about the laws of libel and the limits of the law which he himself spoke within. The facts, he said, were isolated from each other. Margaret was not the only witness to the unfortunate occurrences. Flora said, ‘My sister is naturally very down to earth. As you know the earth is magnetic. So Margaret attracts people like the press and the television. Her hair is naturally red. There is nothing at all to prove anything against her. I hate it when the police come here to interrogate us. We have nothing to hide.’
Roland read these paragraphs out to Annabel. It occurred to Annabel he was over-excited. She could understand his being amused or appalled in some ways, but she didn’t like that tone of garden-fence gossip, that catty spite that would take hold of him occasionally. ‘Roland, do keep it to yourself,’ she said. ‘You do know what I mean. It could only do you harm for you to go round repeating all this.’
‘But isn’t it awful?’ he said.
‘It’s a mystery, nothing really to do with us.’ She made the excuse that someone else was waiting to talk to her on the line; then thought about Roland with a sort of despair.
After that, she began to think over the story of Margaret Murchie. On an impulse she rang the studio, which was in the same building as her office, where the film was being made about an artist with Hurley Reed as adviser. He was expected later in the morning. Annabel left a message to call her back. Annabel had always been rather tactful and ready to render good services to all around her. But of late, with the boredom of daily life, the absence of a steady man-friend, and above all her helpless devotion to Roland, she had become easily exasperated. She longed deeply to tell Hurley Reed all she had found out about Margaret Murchie. hoping mainly that he didn’t know already but in any case that they could discuss it. Anything was better than nothing. And the rain was pouring down mercilessly outside the window.
Annabel and Hurley met for a lunch-time sandwich and a drink in the hotel bar across the way. To Annabel’s satisfaction Hurley was amazed at the story. ‘I myself’, he said, ‘felt there was something odd about the girl. Chris doesn’t believe for a minute she met William Damien by accident. Of course, one doesn’t want to interfere, it’s nothing to do with us, basically. It’s only that I hope Hilda Damien’s all right.’ He said this with a little laugh.
‘Oh, after all, the girl herself was never accused of anything,’ Annabel said. ‘Of course, when there’s madness in the family …’ Her act of gossip had actually made her feel better. She went on to talk to Hurley about her proposed television documentary of his life and work. ‘I hope’, she said, ‘we could include Charterhouse.’
‘As you know, I think a butler’s out of place when you’re dealing with art,’ Hurley said.
‘Maybe so,’ said Annabel. ‘From the psychological point of view, though, there is always the appeal of devotion. If you are shown with a devoted servant or a devoted friend, that somehow appeals; it shows that you inspire devotion.’
‘Oh, Charterhouse hasn’t been with us for long. I don’t know about devotion. Chris is devoted to me, she must be or she wouldn’t put up with me as she does. And I’m devoted to her.’ But his thoughts were not on any television programme.
He said he had to go, and kissed Annabel; ‘See you Thursday night.’
Hilda was on her way to London from Australia. She intended to settle the flat in Hampstead, her wedding present to William and Margaret, and install their surprise bonus of the newly acquired painting by Claude Monet of which all Hilda knew as yet was that it was a joyful view of the Thames painted in 1870.
She enjoyed these long flights to England. One could forget business, read, sleep, relax and dream. With only six first-class passengers on this flight one could have plenty of attention. Almost too much.
Across the aisle was a white-haired healthy-looking man, not essentially unlike herself, but in a decidedly masculine cast, so that the likeness would not have been apparent to a casual observer, although their suitability as companions on the voyage was somehow evident. He came from the same type of highly financed and good-natured people as Hilda.
They gave each other a polite small smile when the steward came round offering drinks.
‘Do you like flying?’ said the man. His voice was American or Canadian.
‘I do, in fact. It’s a relaxation,’ said Hilda. ‘I used to be afraid of flying but I got over it.’
‘One does. Best not to think about it. Destiny is destiny, after all. Just relax, as you say. At least, there’s nothing we can do, so we might as well enjoy it.’
‘I believe in destiny,’ said Hilda.
On the phone to Chris when she was settled into her rooms at the Ritz, she said:
‘I met a charming man on the plane, a widower. Guess who he is, he’s Andrew J. Barnet of the construction and engineering people. Really so nice. It made my journey. He’s in London a few days and we’re having dinner on Friday.’
‘But we’ll see you Thursday, Hilda. You’ll look in after dinner, won’t you?’
‘After dinner. With Margaret and William out of the way at your house I want to take advantage of their absence to take in the Monet. What a surprise! I hope they appreciate it.’
‘What’s it like?’
‘I haven’t seen it myself, yet.’
‘Are you busy tonight?’ said Chris.
‘No, are you? Come here and dine with me.’
‘Have a rest,’ said Chris.
‘I’m not tired.’
‘I’ll look in after dinner. Perhaps Hurley will come. We want to talk to you.’
‘Me, too.’
When Chris and Hurley arrived at the Ritz to see Hilda they found her admiring an enormous bunch of flowers of every conceivable kind, in season and out of season.
‘How lovely,’ said Chris. ‘Compliments of the management?’
‘No, my travelling companion.’ Hilda seemed very amused, almost laughing at herself.
‘Do William and Margaret know you’re in London?’ Chris said.
‘Not yet.’
‘What do you feel about Margaret?’
‘You know how I feel. I don’t trust her. There’s something odd. I’ll never believe she met William in Marks & Spencer’s fruit section by chance.’
‘People meet people by chance. You met your admirer who sent these flowers by chance,’ Hurley said.
‘Let’s hope it was lucky chance,’ said Chris.
‘I don’t believe Margaret’s particular story, that they met by chance,’ said Hilda. A little later when they had settled with their coffee and drinks this clever woman said, ‘What have you got to tell me?’
‘Nothing,’ said Hurley, the whole scene appearing too absurd to be real. Here he was with Chris, come to pass on hearsay about Hilda’s new daughter-in-law. It was altogether too low. Chris kept quiet, too. She followed his feeling. It was the following morning on the phone that Hilda got the new information. Chris told her as neatly and briskly as possible.
‘But’, Chris added, ‘just because she’s been mixed up in all those disasters doesn’t mean —‘It’s been going on inside me that she’s not right,’ said Hilda. ‘I’ve been wondering if all mothers-in-law are like that.’
‘I think, up to a point, most of them are,’ Chris offered, It was apparent she was very embarrassed when it came to openly deprecating a newly married girl to her mot
her-in-law.
However, before the conversation ended she said, ‘Be careful, Hilda.’
‘I promised to go to St Andrews on Saturday morning to stay with the Murchies. Do you think I shouldn’t go? Should I make an excuse?’ said Hilda.
‘I don’t know. Just be careful, Hilda.’
‘Luke,’ said Ella, ‘you’re not looking so well, these days. Are you studying too hard? — All those evening jobs etcetera etcetera etcetera.’
‘I jog every morning,’ Luke said.
‘My God, you don’t! How much energy do you have to spend?’
‘Energy to burn,’ said Luke.
‘But you don’t look so well,’ said Ella.
Luke was on his way out with a tote-bag. He had come to collect some things he had left behind the last time he stayed at the flat. It looked very much as if Luke was leaving for good.
‘Who gave you that marvellous watch?’ said Ella.
‘A gentleman gave it to me.’
‘You can’t be studying seriously,’ Ella said. ‘It’s not possible. You have a career ahead of you, a brain. You should give up your gentlemen. You must have dropped out from your studies.’
‘Must I?’
‘Almost certainly,’ she said.
‘Have you decided on a flat?’ said Luke, as if to remind her that he had not neglected her recently.
‘Yes, Luke, I think I’m settled on the second one. Bloomsbury is rather attractive. I’ll let you know as soon as it’s settled. It was good of you to find it.’
He lifted his tote-bag and went to the door.
‘See you on Thursday,’ he said.
‘Thursday?’
‘The dinner at Mrs Chris Donovan’s,’ he said.
‘Oh yes, of course. You’re helping out.’
He left in the haste that denoted other, more important, business.
Luke was gone. He was away, out of her range of influence, out of Ernst’s orbit. They had as good as lost Luke, both of them. ‘A gentleman’ had given him the watch. Why, she wondered, did he waste his time doing odd jobs like serving at table for dinner parties?
