Pieces of Justice
Page 24
She could not leave Roderick, for she had no money of her own, and there were the two boys to support; in those days, separated mothers were not assured of maintenance or state aid.
The birth of Angela put an end to dreams of a different life, and Mrs Robinson developed a protective shell against the hurts administered verbally by her husband, though she could not always avoid his physical assaults. She had not anticipated having more children, had taken steps to prevent it happening, but had been defeated by Roderick’s impatience after a spell overseas. At first the notion of a daughter had intrigued him, but Angela had always been a rebel and she was often in disgrace; small wonder that she, like Thomas, left home as soon as she was old enough.
Thomas had gone to Australia. In those days you could emigrate for very little outlay, and he soon earned enough. In Sydney, he had his own plumbing business which was prospering. He had married, and his daughter Sally, a nurse, had been to England on holiday – a period of delirious joy for the English grandmother whom she had never met before. Her visit coincided with a spell abroad for Roderick; it was easy to pretend that all was well.
Roderick’s retirement had meant constant fear, sometimes real terror when he struck her. How many other wives lived in similar dread, she wondered? She had noticed that some widows, after a few months’ bereavement, shed years and thrived on their new freedom.
She would not wait till she was widowed. She might have to wait too long; indeed, the time might never come.
The Robinsons now lived in Devon, by the coast, near where they had taken the children for seaside holidays. Mrs Robinson had expected grandchildren to visit them there, but Julian and his smart, sophisticated wife, who was a banker, had no children. Roderick had taken up golf, which kept him out all day; he lunched at the club with his cronies after their morning round, and allegedly played another in the afternoons. On fine days, he did; if it was wet the men sat round drinking, or played snooker. While this went on, Mrs Robinson built up a small network of local activities so that she could escape for at least some evenings in the week. She studied history, she learned to weave, she took up painting. Roderick always made her late for her classes, insisting on her serving dinner first, and he never let her take the car, so she cycled, until people realised what she was doing and began giving her lifts.
Did they suspect anything? Did Elsie Burton, whose husband was one of Roderick’s golf partners, notice Lois’s bruised cheek, the burn on her hand? No one ever said a word.
Mrs Robinson had known her break must be made while they were away from home, otherwise Roderick would find her before she had properly escaped. Besides, at home she would lack the courage to choose a date and stick to it; on holiday, she briefly bloomed, for Roderick, wanting to impress their fellow travellers with his generosity, would tell her to go off and buy herself a pair of shoes or some trifle, and sit back as if to say she must be indulged. When she returned with her purchase, he would belittle her choice to the company.
Because he already had a passport when they took up travelling, she had obtained her own, though he had intended putting her on his. Foreseeing this, she had already applied. She had decided to visit Tom and her grandchildren in Australia. Roderick had never allowed her to do this; they were not his grandchildren, he had pointed out, so he had no interest in them, and it was her duty to stay at home and look after him.
Mrs Robinson had not planned what would happen when her money ran out. Tom might understand, might suggest she should stay in Sydney, might find her accommodation – she would not live with him and his family, even if they suggested it. She supposed she was too old to find work, though she could cook and clean, and did so every day at home. Perhaps someone would employ her as a housekeeper; latterly, such dreams had given her hope.
She did not know that you had to have a visa for Australia.
On the river cruise, their cabin was small, the space between their beds less than three feet. At home they no longer shared a bedroom; she had moved her things into the small back bedroom when she had a cold, with the excuse of not wanting to infect him, and had never returned. There was a bolt on the door, but so far her privacy had not been challenged. On the boat she lay wakeful, waiting until Roderick’s snores began before relaxing. After a few hours he would heave himself out of bed and visit the small closet which held the shower and toilet. He was often noisy in there, but the trip was only for four days; she could endure that. She turned her face to the wall and pulled the duvet round her ears. He left her alone.
Leaving Strasbourg cathedral after admiring the amazing clock, she had begun to walk away from the group when Mrs Clifford called her.
‘Lois, we’re going to have a cup of tea. Come along,’ she cried, in her high, light voice.
She’d left it too late, and next day the voyage, but not the holiday, would end.
After disembarking, they were to travel by coach to a Swiss lakeside hotel for the final two days and nights. Here, the Robinsons had a large room, almost a suite, with a spacious lobby separating the bathroom from the bedroom. There was a balcony overlooking the lake and the mountains, which unfortunately, when they arrived, were shrouded in mist. It would clear by morning, Kay, the courier, said encouragingly, telling them what time dinner would be served in the hotel restaurant.
Mrs Robinson decided to leave the next day. An excursion by steamer on the lake was planned; she would say she was tired of the water and wanted to see the churches in the town, choosing her moment, speaking in front of witnesses so that although Roderick would chide her, he would do it in the winsome manner he adopted in front of other people, as much as to say, look what I have to put up with, with this silly woman, but he would enjoy escorting Mrs Clifford. Mrs Robinson would go to the station, which was near the hotel, and catch a train to Geneva airport, then buy a ticket to Australia. That night she hardly slept for excitement, and in the morning she woke early, needing the bathroom.
She padded quietly out of the bedroom, a thin figure in her long cotton nightgown, and crossed the carpeted lobby to the bathroom. She did not see the soap on the shiny tiled floor, where Roderick had dropped it the night before, and she slipped, striking her head on the side of the bath. She gave no cry as she fell.
An hour later Roderick found her. Her face was pale and her limbs cold, but she was breathing. He stepped across her to reach the lavatory, relieved himself, washed his hands carefully, rinsed out his mouth and spat, then stepped over her again to return to the bedroom where he crossed to the window and gave himself up to ten minutes’ hard thought. After this he picked her up – she was surprisingly heavy – and put her back in her bed, covering her up. She made no sound at all. He was thinking that she must have had a stroke or a heart attack: then, returning to the bathroom, he saw the soap and decided that she was probably concussed. He uncovered her again and opened the window while he bathed and shaved, then dressed, spraying himself with eau-de-Cologne which he had bought at the start of the holiday. Crisp and brisk, he went down to breakfast, nodding across the dining-room at the rest of the group. Mrs Clifford was sitting with Kay, the courier, and he asked if he might join them.
‘My wife has a headache,’ he told Kay. ‘She doesn’t want any breakfast, and she won’t come on the excursion today. She’s best left. I’ll take her up some tea and toast.’
Giving a good performance as a devoted spouse, he poured out the tea, spread butter and marmalade on a slice of toast, and bore it upstairs. He would eat the toast himself and drink the tea instead of having a second cup downstairs. This would indicate that Lois had consumed the light meal before her death.
For the chances were that she would die, if left long enough without treatment. If she were to recover consciousness, she would be confused and would accept as the truth his version of events. He left her exposed to the chill air coming through the balcony window until the last moment before setting off, in his raincoat, and with a scarf wound round his neck, into the sharp October day.
Before departing, he pulled the covers up over Mrs Robinson as far as her waist, leaving one arm out as if she had fallen asleep in that posture, and in the bathroom he rescued the errant soap, put it in the rack at the side of the bath, and wiped the slippery place on the floor. He hung on the bedroom door the red notice indicating that the occupants did not wish to be disturbed, walked down the passage and rang for the lift.
Mrs Robinson was dead when, in the late afternoon, the housekeeper entered after tapping and tapping on the door with no response, and after reception had telephoned the room several times to ask when it could be cleaned.
Roderick, returning with his travelling companions after an enjoyable outing, was greeted by the anxious face of the hotel manager and by two policemen. When the news was broken, he went into his rehearsed speech about how his wife had felt unwell. He was told there was a bruise on her head and that she could either have fallen or been struck down. He said that must have happened after he left; no doubt she went into the bathroom; perhaps she fell there; the floor was dangerously slippery, he added, frowning, the word damages hovering in the air, unspoken. She’d had tea and a piece of toast before he left, he said.
It was Mrs Clifford who said she thought it was odd that he had spread marmalade on his wife’s toast, for she knew that Lois Robinson preferred honey or jam and, indeed, on the boat had said that she never ate marmalade; nor did she take sugar in her tea, yet her husband had put two spoonfuls in her cup. He, however, did take sugar, she had noticed; he liked marmalade, too, and had several times asked for it on the river boat when it was absent from the breakfast table.
‘The autopsy will show if she ate the toast and drank the tea,’ said the police officer.
He already knew that Mrs Robinson’s holdall contained over £3,000 in travellers’ cheques, an address in Sydney written on luggage labels, and a timetable of flights from various cities to Australia, as well as her passport. If she had drunk the tea, her lips would have marked the cup and her fingerprints would be on the handle. Tests would prove if this was so. Meanwhile, it was a suspicious death, as she had been dead for hours.
Roderick, demanding to see the British Consul, was taken off to the police station.
Mrs Clifford was glad she had been so observant. This characteristic had prevented her from making serious mistakes in the past.
Greek Tragedy
Patrick Grant sat beneath the vine on the terrace of Ariadne’s taverna and, for the first time in nearly a week, felt at home. Below the white-washed building above the small town lay the Ionian Sea, where the cruise ship Andromeda rode at anchor. Earlier, he had disembarked by launch, crossing the choppy water to the quay, a long stone jetty where the island ferries moored and the caiques tied up.
He had been to this island before, years ago, when he and Liz had at last risked a holiday together. They had rented a villa beyond the town, a small stone haven with three rooms and a bathroom whose plumbing was unreliable. Most evenings, they had wandered into the town to eat at one or another of the tavernas scattered along the waterfront or in the squares and alleys radiating from it, and Ariadne’s had become their favourite. Here, it was always cool, and the fish dishes were rightly celebrated. Liz, drinking Demestica – neither of them liked retsina – would bloom and become animated, practising the little Greek she had learned.
During the day, she swam a lot, walking to a small cove near the villa while Patrick worked on his book. He would join her before lunch, usually cheese and salad at home, and in the afternoon he would work again while she, finding it too hot outside, would stitch at a tapestry she had bought to occupy herself while he was absorbed. Sometimes she did a little desultory sketching, but was dissatisfied with the results; she read a good deal, too. Patrick’s book discussed the tragedy inherent in Shakespeare’s comedies; it was aimed at a popular market and had been a minor success.
What if, he had later thought: what if he had abandoned the book for the two weeks of their holiday and given Liz, not Shakespeare, his attention? As it was, six months after they returned to England, she had married a widowed doctor and had acquired three stepchildren, to be followed by two sons of her own.
Soon after this, Patrick had been offered a chair in Shakespearean studies at a Canadian university, and spent twelve years in British Columbia.
Now, time fell away and he almost expected to see Liz come towards him, smiling a little anxiously, as he belatedly realised she had done. She hadn’t been wholly happy with him, though they had shared moments he would not forget. He, a distinguished scholar and skilled at observing other people, had never been able to manage his own personal life.
These were uncomfortable thoughts.
The terrace had been deserted when he arrived, pleased at having found the taverna still here, and so little altered. He was dawdling over his Greek salad, savouring the juicy olives and the feta cheese, when a noisy group of young people came trooping across the tiled floor to sit at tables on either side of him. Why couldn’t they seat themselves further away, he thought grumpily, as their conversation loudly continued. One young man described to another the delights of a meal eaten in Acapulco, then a further gourmet experience in Rio. He recognised one of the men as the ship’s photographer, the second as a dancer from the team of entertainers. The others, at the second table, were also members of the group of dancers, two men and two girls. They all began to talk across him. Why had they not sat together? Why this parade of their worldly gourmandising? Their generation spent months, even years, touring the world, touching down briefly here and there. Some did get to know other cultures, but this group, like the cruise passengers who spent only a day ashore here, a few hours there, imagined they had seen the world.
Patrick’s mullet arrived and as he ate it, with the remainder of his salad and some coarse Greek bread, he noticed that the conjuror, accompanied by a thin girl whom Patrick recognised as the one sawn in half on the first night at sea, had taken a table across the terrace under a trellis where bougainvillea trailed over a pillar. They seemed happy together, talking. The bright blue of a morning glory wound itself up a wall behind them, reflecting the blue of the girl’s skimpy dress. Patrick’s bad humour dissolved; let the young people enjoy their boasting: the day was too perfect to be one in which to harbour resentment and old sorrows.
I am content, he thought; at this moment, I am perfectly content. Why have I spent so little of my life like this, in mindless idleness? Of what use were all the hours he had dedicated to papers on jealousy as a recurring Shakespearean theme, ranging from The Winter’s Tale to Othello?
Jealousy, he thought, looking across at the conjuror and the girl: had they a relationship outside their professional one? Probably. Did jealousy affect it? Perhaps they were married; people did still marry, though regularising unions seemed to be unfashionable today.
He inhaled deeply. The air was warm, and here they were sheltered from the brisk sea breeze which had made the launch crossing exciting, with spray breaking over the open stern seating, causing the passengers to shriek. Maybe it had not been such a bad idea, after all, to come on this cruise. In recent years he had several times joined cultural tours in the company of other scholars; now he was a lecturer himself, deputising for the friend of a friend, who had telephoned him ten days before the ship sailed with a desperate plea. The regular lecturer, who gave short talks about the ports visited, had been in a road accident while ashore in Rome. He had been flown home with a broken leg, crushed ribs, and a broken arm. Andromeda was without a lecturer and needed a stop-gap for the next cruise to allow the shipping line time to find someone who would be able to see them through till he had recovered. Patrick, who had been appointed Master of St Mark’s College, Oxford, would not take up his new position
until the following year; he had time to fill, and had been persuaded to accept the three weeks’ assignment.
It was not Patrick’s sort of cruise. He was sure that among the passengers there were many estimable and interesting persons, but so far he felt he had met none. He had been directed to a table in the restaurant where his companions were two widows, one blonde-rinsed, one grey-haired; a couple in their late sixties, Mr and Mrs Jones; and another younger couple, Mr and Mrs Boyd. The blonde widow came from Chichester, the other from Norfolk; they were school friends who, since the deaths of their husbands, had taken annual holidays together and this was their third cruise. The Joneses were of retirement age; Patrick did not know from what they would have retired. Mr Boyd was a dentist and his wife was an estate agent. The last member of the group was a woman of about thirty-six, Millicent Fortescue, travelling alone. She was dark and thin, quite tall, and had little to say unless drawn out by someone else at the table; Mr Boyd was good at this, no doubt due to a lifetime spent putting people at their ease in his surgery, thought Patrick, who felt nervous of Millicent lest she interpret mere civility as personal interest.
Millicent Fortescue was a teacher.
‘Not at school?’ Patrick had asked her. It was, after all, term-time.