Nigel felt abominably restless. He prowled round the exquisite rooms, peered at their treasures which, glittering or glowing, ravishing the eye still with their precious gifts of colour and symmetry, nevertheless appeared to him as ticketed already for the auctioneer’s hammer. It was the last, and perhaps the truest, of all the illusions Plash Meadow had beguiled him with—this impression it now gave of a house whose soul was fled, leaving behind a simulacrum of itself soon to be broken up into a thousand sparkling fragments. Unable to endure the atmosphere indoors, Nigel went out into the garden. But there too the shadow lay, mysterious, unmistakable as the ‘change’ on the face of a man dying. The trees, the great chestnut, stood up like a mirage: the hours of the roses were numbered.
Blount’s burly figure advancing down the drive seemed that of a revenant, one condemned to an eternal repetition of arriving too late for the event which would have explained everything, for the moment of truth.
‘That young shaver has a nerve,’ were his first words. ‘He’s actually sent a telegram to say he is returning about eleven.’
‘Yes. His father showed it to me.’
‘He did, did he?’ Blount mopped his forehead. ‘I simply can’t understand these people, Strangeways. I don’t mind telling you this place has got on my nerves.’
The Superintendent glared resentfully at Plash Meadow, as though it were some man-eating orchis which had already taken a snap at him.
‘We’ll let him walk in,’ he said, ‘if that’s his idea. But he won’t get out again . . .’
Lionel Seaton was as punctual as his word. Eleven was striking that night when Nigel heard the sound of a car turning into the drive. There was a policeman concealed by the gate, he knew; another beneath the chestnut tree; a third in the shadow of the Old Barn. Inspector Gates had stationed himself in the lobby near the courtyard door. Blount was at the top of the stairs, between the landing and Robert Seaton’s study, beneath whose door there showed a chink of light. Three of the police were armed, since Lionel, for all they knew, still had his Mauser.
The next minute was almost delirious anti-climax. Whistling cheerfully, Lionel came up the stairs.
‘Father!’ he called out, ‘where are you? Oh, hallo, Superintendent, it’s you!’
‘Lionel Seaton, I must take you into custody on the charge for being in unlawful possession of a fire-arm, and—’
‘Oh, fiddle-de-dee! Here it is, anyway.’
From the door of his room, Nigel saw the young man politely hand the Mauser pistol to Blount. Lionel had the beginnings of a fine leonine beard: his clothes were dusty and rumpled: he looked in the most excellent health, an advertisement for the open-air life.
‘So you’ve found the murderer, have you?’ he said. ‘Or was that stuff about an early arrest just your Scotland Yard eyewash?’
‘You must realise that you are under arrest,’ said Blount sternly. ‘If you wish to make a statement—’
‘Oh, yes, I’ll confess my crimes. You shall hear the whole issue. But I want a word with my father first. You can’t object to that, surely?’
After a moment’s hesitation, Blount replied, ‘Vairy well: but in my presence.’
‘Now listen, my dear Superintendent,’ said Lionel with engaging charm. ‘Mayn’t I talk with him privately? You can stand outside the door. You’ve got the house surrounded with coppers—or you should have, anyway. What chance could I possibly have of escaping? You can search me, if you like: I’ve no revolvers, poisons, sharp knives or what-not concealed upon my person.’
‘You may speak to your father in my presence,’ Blount stolidly repeated.
‘Look here, are you charging me with the murder of my revolting uncle, or aren’t you?’
‘Not just at present.’
‘Well, then,’ Lionel proceeded with disarming patience, ‘if I’m not a dangerous murderer, why all this fuss about a few private words with my old dad?’
‘I cannot discuss the matter any further.’
‘Oh dear, well I suppose that’s that.’ Lionel’s rueful tone was drolly reminiscent of his father’s. Arms hanging beside him in a dejected attitude, he shifted his feet, scuffing the mat. ‘I’m sorry about that,’ he said slowly; then, very swiftly, ‘and for this,’ and lashed out a fist swift as a stockwhip, which caught Blount on the side of the jaw and knocked him flying.
Before Nigel could move, the young man had darted down the passage into Robert’s study. Nigel shouted for Gates, who came pounding up the stairs. They tried the study door: it was locked. The Inspector was about to blow his whistle for reinforcements, but Nigel stopped him.
‘No. Get ’em to watch the study window. He may try a jump again. And keep an eye on that car of his.’
The Inspector ran into a bedroom overlooking the courtyard. Nigel could hear his whistle blowing, and orders given. He turned to Blount, who was now on hands and knees, shaking his head to clear it. As he was helping Blount to his feet, Nigel saw the study door opening: he braced himself to tackle Lionel Seaton, but it was Robert who emerged. Nigel ran past him into the room: it was empty; the window stood open.
‘The silly fellow jumped out,’ said Robert from behind him, with the ghost of a chuckle.
The beams of two electric torches converged upon Lionel, who was standing quite still, as if dazed, on the grass below. The next instant he was off like an arrow. There were shouts: an oath from a policeman who had failed to intercept him; then the young man was past the chestnut tree and had run out of Nigel’s sight.
By the time Nigel emerged into the courtyard, the pursuit was in full cry, torch-beams waving wildly like the antennæ of some agitated insect, past the outbuildings towards the orchard. Lionel had evidently not attempted to get back to his car. Going indoors, Nigel saw Blount fuming at the telephone: the local exchange was notoriously slow in answering calls.
‘I think he’s making for Foxhole wood,’ said Nigel. ‘The whole damned country constabulary are after him through the orchard.’
‘I’ll take my car on to the road on the far side of the wood and cut him off, as soon as I’ve put through this call. Bower’s waiting for me in it. Keep an eye on things here, will you? Exchange? Get me Redcote police and look lively, my girl!’
Nigel walked throughtfully upstairs, back to Robert’s study. There he found Janet, fully clothed, at her husband’s desk.
‘This is for you. But I opened it,’ she said flatly, reaching out her hand to him with several sheets of paper in it. This is what Nigel read:
‘DEAR NIGEL STRANGEWAYS,
‘Please pass this on to the police. I don’t know if there’s an etiquette or legal form for confessions, but no doubt they must be amply documented, so I will try to leave nothing out.
‘I killed Oswald Seaton—’
Nigel heard a car moving away into the night. Blount had got off quickly. He read on:
‘—and nobody else was involved in the murder, either beforehand or afterwards. My motive was a simple one. In my young manhood, I experienced years of grinding poverty and humiliation, which killed my wife and grievously hampered my poetry. When I received Oswald’s letter, and realised to my consternation that he, the rightful owner of my property, was not, as I had always believed, dead, I was in despair. I knew that I could not, at my age, face the ordeal of poverty again: I could not bear the thought of Janet, Lionel and Vanessa having to face it, above all, I’m afraid (for poets are bitterly self-centred creatures) I contemplated with utter abhorrence the prospect of returning to conditions so adverse to the writing of poetry—the prospect of becoming once again a harassed, over-worked literary hack. The idea was intolerable. So, if I am to be put in the dock, perhaps there should be, after all, an accomplice standing beside me—my dear, possessive Muse.’
Nigel was so absorbed now that he only subconsciously noted the sound of another car engine purring and fading below.
‘You remember our talk last June about the “flash-point”? Mine, I found, was a delayed one. When I replied to O
swald’s letter, the idea of murder had just flicked across my mind like the trailing edge of a phantasy, and no more. My plan was to get him here, and talk things over privately—come to some compromise with him by which, in return for giving him back the estate without demur and keeping silent about the Mara affair, I should receive a decent income from him. I urged secrecy (a) because I believed it was necessary to present Janet with a fait accompli, so to say, and (b) because, at the back of my mind, there was the notion that, if Oswald would not bargain, he must be dealt with in some other way.
‘On the night I expected him, I could not get Janet to go early to bed. So I decided to walk some way along the road to meet him. As I told you, the idea of his taking the short-cut never occurred to me. I even waited for him outside the village (when I told you I was sheltering from the storm), some time after he should have passed by, thinking his train might have been unpunctual.
‘When I did get back to the house, about twelve forty-five, Janet was awaiting me downstairs in a very agitated condition. She told me that Oswald had appeared a quarter of an hour earlier, that she had refused to let him stay in the house, but agreed to hide him in the dairy till I arrived. She took him out to the dairy—it was he, not myself, whom Mara saw crossing the courtyard with her. She had lit the storm-lantern and given it to him to carry, because electric lights switched on the dairy might bring the Torrances out to investigate. When they got to the dairy, she pushed him in and locked the door, being terrified he might otherwise return to the house.’
At this point Nigel looked up, and saw that Janet Seaton was no longer in the room with him. He bent over the confession again.
‘Janet will confirm all this. It became clear to me, at the time, that she was bitterly resentful—and quite naturally so—that I should have invited Oswald to come: he had told her, by the way, that he was here at my suggestion. Janet and I talked for ten minutes or so. Then she suddenly realised that she had forgotten all about Finny. She discovered he was not in his room: so we went out to look for him. Failing to find him, I sent her back to the house, taking the key of the dairy from her and saying I must now have a talk with Oswald.
‘As I entered the dairy, the feeling uppermost in my mind was curiosity. What had happened to Oswald? How had he survived when I had been certain he was dead? What would he be like after those ten years? I did not enter the dairy with murder in my heart. Well, of course, the poor chap was not in a very amenable frame of mind, after being locked up there for half an hour. I tried to reason with him, tried to suggest a bargain; I even threatened him with the Mara business. But it was no good. He just squatted over in the corner, by the storm-lantern, and jeered at me. He knew he had the whiphand, and he was not going to “turn into a charitable organisation” after what he’d been through abroad.
‘I began to feel desperate. Then he said something, which I won’t set down, about my wife. That was the flash-point. For the first time in my life I felt the spurting flame of pure hatred. I went for him and hit him hard in the face. As he fell, something slipped out of his mackintosh pocket and rattled on to the floor. He reached for it, but I got it first—the razor—and before he could grapple with me, I slashed him across the throat. At that instant I experienced a delicious exaltation, a thrill of blind, single-minded, excruciating pleasure. Then it left me, and my brother was dying at my feet.
‘Thereafter, things seemed to happen to me with the compulsive movements of a dream. I acted as if every detail had been planned out by me beforehand. Extraordinary. A clever, cold being took control (my anti-self?); whispered in my ear that, if O’s features could be obliterated, there would be nothing to connect the dead man with myself and Plash Meadow. I drew the line at battering them in, though. He was quite dead by now, so I severed his head completely, removed all his clothes, put his mackintosh on the body again, buttoning it over the neck. Then I fetched the key of the Lacey vault, and a string bag to put the head in—one’s compunctions at such times really seem very curious—I revolted from the thought of carrying it about by the hair.
‘Then (assisted by my anti-self, who gave me preternatural strength) I hoisted up the body, carried it along to the river, swam some way downstream with it and let it go. It was a parcel of spoilt meat; not my brother. I dropped the razor into the river at the same point. I should add that I’d stripped naked to do all this, lest I should get blood on my clothes: fortunately the blood-spurt from his neck, when I struck him, had missed me. I had piled his clothes on top of mine in the dairy, which accounts for Finny seeing only one heap of clothes. Well, when I got back to the dairy, the head was gone: I’d not been able to lock the door behind me, since I was afraid of dropping the body if I did so. I had intended to bury the head, either with Oswald’s clothes in the Lacey vault, or somewhere in the orchard, for I reasoned, as to the latter, that the signs of so small a hole having been dug would not attract attention. It gave me a dreadful qualm to find the head missing. But I thought Finny Black might have taken it—I could not imagine any one else doing this—so I went through with the rest of my plan: sluiced down the dairy, put on my clothes, took Oswald’s to the vault.
‘All this, from the moment when I first entered the dairy to talk with O., occupied a little over an hour. On returning to the house, I found Janet in bed but still awake. I told her I had been discussing matters with Oswald all this time, and had finally sent him away, on the understanding that I should pay him an annual sum in return for his not troubling us any further. Janet seemed much relieved by this. We then went along to see if Finny had come back yet, and he did turn up a minute later—just after two o’clock.
‘I want to make it quite clear that no one else was implicated in what I did that night. I have reason to think that Lionel was awakened at some point and came out: he may have seen me returning from the churchyard. What Janet may have suspected, after the body was found, I do not know: I had no wish to make her a party to my secret, though I did use her later as an unwilling tool in my scheme to discover if it was Finny who had taken the head—and for this I ask her forgiveness. But neither she nor Lionel can be held as accomplices after the fact.’
Nigel heard a step in the passage. Janet came into the study, her face grey and anxious.
‘Has Robert been in here? I can’t find him anywhere,’ she said.
‘Let me just finish this,’ said Nigel, and read on:
‘I write this confession of my own free will and in my right mind. I should have done so before, seeing what trouble I’ve made for every one. But I wanted to finish my sequence first. The most ironic thing of all is that the emotional upheaval caused by Oswald’s death should have thrown up this rich vein of poetry. I think I have made good use of it, but I shall not be there to hear time’s verdict. Please, my dear Nigel, try to convince the authorities that Lionel’s behaviour, though foolish, has been innocent. When his mother was dying, she asked him to look after me. He knew I was writing poetry, and he wanted to gain time for me, the dear fellow: he set about this in an ill-advised way, I know, but there was no collusion—I could not take him into my confidence. But every one, as a certain distinguished lady once said, has been too kind, yourself included.
‘I have no wish to stand my trial. So, if Lionel does turn up tonight, and an opportunity arises, I shall slip away. I have a fancy to die where my heart is buried. Little Vanessa is very fond of you: perhaps you could help her through it—I don’t scruple to make this last request.
‘And now—you remember Dorothy’s words?—“The hour is come . . . I must prepare to go. The swallows, I must leave them, the well, the garden, the roses, all. Dear creatures! Well, I must go. Farewell.
ROBERT SEATON.’
It had not taken Nigel many minutes to read this. Crumpling it into his pocket, he stood up. The momentary indecision cleared from his face.
‘What did you say? He’s not in the house?’
Janet shook her head.
‘We’ve got to find him. Don’t you realis
e what—?’
‘No,’ cried Janet Seaton passionately. ‘Can’t you let him be?’ She held to Nigel’s arm with a grip of extraordinary strength, but he managed to shake her off, and hurried downstairs. The car in which Lionel had come was still standing at the courtyard door. Nigel hesitated, then ran across the court to the garage. Its doors were open. The Seatons’ own car was gone.
Janet was outside when he returned, a dead, sleepwalker’s expression on her face.
‘You shan’t stop him!’ she said dully. ‘You shan’t stop him!’
Nigel put his hands on her shoulders and shook her hard.
‘Tell me, where was his first wife buried? You must tell me!’
‘The sleeping tablets are gone from the medicine cupboard. The whole bottle. What did you say?’
‘I said, “Where was his first wife buried?”’
A dreadful pang twisted her face: then it was stubborn as stone again. ‘I shan’t tell you.’
‘I’ll have to ask Vanessa, then,’ said Nigel, getting into Lionel’s car.
‘No! No, I’ll come with you. Just let me get my coat.’
It seemed an age to Nigel before she returned, carrying her black chatelaine bag.
‘It’s a village about five miles beyond Redcote,’ she said. ‘In the churchyard there. It’s where she was born. Great Hammersley.’
They tore through the night to Hinton Lacey, across the river bridge two miles beyond it, back along the main road to Redcote. On the far side of Redcote, in a maze of lanes, they lost their way.
‘I can’t remember,’ faltered Janet. ‘It’s so long since—’
Nigel stopped at the next village, knocked up the occupants of the first cottage. He was given sleepy, surly directions.
A mile outside this village, the engine spat, hesitated, tried again, then died. Nigel found an electric torch and a map in a side pocket. The petrol tank was empty.
‘Thank God!’ muttered Janet Seaton.
‘I’ll just have to walk. Will you stay in the car till I get help?’
Head of a Traveller Page 22
