Death of a Butterfly

by Simon Brown

  Edward looked into my eyes. He seemed to be searching for something.

  “You never know what is around the corner. Life might seem bleak now. For all you know a wonderful new life might be slowly edging towards you.”

  Edward looked away and took off his glasses. He cleaned them with a white handkerchief. Then he turned back to me. I looked up from his blue denim shirt to his eyes.

  “Can I talk to you confidentially?”

  “Sure.”

  Edward looked down and dropped his glasses. He fumbled around his feet before retrieving them.

  “Things are not going well with Edwina. I feel I have fallen out of love. I could probably invent lots of reasons, but the essential truth is that the feeling’s gone.”

  I placed my hand over Edward’s.

  “Edward, I don’t know what to say. Have you told her?”

  “No. I don’t know how. I can fire people at work, close down businesses, but I cannot tell my wife it’s over.”

  Edward patted my thigh, put his glasses back on and left. His broad shoulders seemed to droop slightly as I watched his back exit through the bedroom door. Then I said “Oh fiddlesticks” aloud. I instinctively looked around just in case someone might have heard. This was another of those ridiculous expressions I had inherited, this time, from my father.

  There was something strange about Edward’s declaration. Why would he tell me? Was there more to his declaration? Poor Edwina.

  CHAPTER 3

  A week after my husband’s murder I woke in my own bed. Even though I had moved home, I started to view the house as being something temporary. How long would it be mine?

  In an effort to cleanse myself of the toxic emotions that contaminated me since learning of Mathew’s loans and withdrawals, I packed up all his clothes and took them to a charity shop. Next I got to work packing up his books and sold them to the second-hand bookshop in Hitchin. I created a pile of things to sell on eBay, including his guitar and amplifier. I rearranged the shelves and mantelpiece. I scrubbed away Mathew’s ghost with hot soapy water. By the evening I felt I was taking control of my life again. The house was starting to look more like my home than his. I took a hot bath and fell asleep quickly for the first time since the murder.

  Tuesday morning, I found my old student paintings in the garage and put them up. Even if the house was soon to be taken from me, I felt a deep satisfaction at being able to do all the things I had given up on whilst Mathew was alive.

  I received a call from Inspector Pride. She arranged to come round during the afternoon, with more information.

  After lunch, James Harris phoned and asked if he could visit. He was ten minutes away.

  “I’ll be passing The Coffee Shop. Can I get you something?”

  He came round holding a cardboard tray with two takeaway cappuccinos and almond croissants. James’ long bushy hair looked slightly greyer than the last time we met. The waistband of his beige trousers looked a little strained. I took the tray from him.

  “I am so sorry, Amanda. What a shock. I thought I should give you some time.”

  I had to stand on my toes to reach up and give him a kiss. He put his arms around me and gave me a strong bear hug. I could feel his paunch pressed against me. I was conscious of the coffees in my hand. He released me and stood looking at me with his hands on my shoulders. James’ breath smelt rancid. I tried to hold my breath. Then as I turned and ushered him to the kitchen, I let the air rush from my mouth. We sat on Mathew’s beloved shaker style chairs, sipping our coffees. James leant back, putting his hands behind his head.

  I described finding Mathew. He slowly shook his head bunching up his eyebrows into a concerned frown. When I told him about the cash withdrawals, James lost some of his colour. He ran his hand through his hair several times.

  “So what do the police think? I mean, what are they working on?”

  “The inspector thinks someone must have been blackmailing Mathew and when he ran out of money, killed him.”

  “My God. I suppose this will mean a big investigation.”

  “Yes, it will.”

  “Who is leading the investigation?”

  “Inspector Pride.”

  “Joan Pride?”

  “Yes. You know her?”

  James ran his hand through his hair again.

  “From a long time ago.”

  “She’ll be here soon.”

  James gulped down his coffee. I noticed him fidget with his belt. Perhaps the buckle was biting into the flesh of his abdomen.

  “Oh dear. It sounds complicated. I suppose they will want to interview me as well.”

  “James, is something wrong?”

  “No, no, nothing. Look, Amanda, I think I should go. I have a few errands to run. I just wanted to see how you are. I’ll see you at the funeral and then later we can talk more. Now you are a shareholder, we need to decide what to do with the business.”

  James fumbled through the pockets of his leather jacket until he found his keys. He stopped and looked at me.

  “Are you sure you will be alright?”

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “Hey ho, life’s a box—”

  I managed to stop myself from completing my mother’s signature line. James looked confused for a moment. Then he leant forwards and gave me a kiss. I caught his breath and thankfully it smelt of coffee now. After a sideways glance and half wave, he left.

  I prepared coffee and biscuits for Pride. It was raining and Pride’s brown hair was wet from the short walk from her car. It made her head look too small for her large body. The green puffy jacket added to the effect. A man she introduced as Sergeant Alfred Smiley accompanied her. He wasn’t very smiley when I shook his hand. As I drew close, I smelt stale cigarettes and mint.

  After we sat down, Pride reached into her bag and placed a folder on the table. Her demeanour was formal and cold. I felt myself withdrawing.

  “Just to be clear, you are saying you had no knowledge of the loans taken out against this house or the cash withdrawals.”

  “No, of course not.” I felt annoyed that I immediately started to feel guilty.

  “Then how do you explain your signature on these forms?”

  Pride place three documents on the table in front of me. She turned the pages to reveal my signature on each document. She rhythmically tapped one of the signatures.

  “Is this your signature?”

  “Yes, but I can assure you I did not sign these papers. There must be a mistake.”

  “Well, on the first loan your signature was witnessed by a Dr William Barnet. Do you know this man?”

  “Yes, he is our doctor, but I can assure you he never witnessed me signing this.” I swallowed several times. I noticed my eyes blinking.

  “I see. A Mr Graham Parker witnessed your second signature. Do you know this man?”

  “Yes, he is the solicitor who drew up our will.” I swallowed again and felt drops of perspiration forming on my forehead.

  “And the third witness, Mr James Harris, is the man your husband ran the shop with?”

  “Yes, it is. He just left.”

  “Let me ask you again. Do you maintain you did not sign any of these documents despite these witnesses?”

  Sergeant Smiley leant forwards a little as though to study my face more closely. I felt flushed. I knew I had not signed these papers and yet here I was, feeling as though I had. The terrible possibility crystallised inside me that I had just signed them quickly for Mathew, without paying any attention to what it was. Would I have noticed if he just said they were documents for the shop? Pride pushed the papers closer to me impatiently.

  “Yes, I am sure I did not sign them,” I pronounced unconvincingly.

  Pride looked at me intently for an uncomfortably long time. I wanted to look away but felt I had to face her out. My left eye started to twitch and I had to put my hand over it. I fought back an impulse to cry.

  “Mrs Blake, can you please tell us where you we
re at 1 p.m. on the day of Mr Blake’s murder.”

  I felt nauseous. My voice cracked slightly.

  “I finished teaching at 12:30 and then, as the weather was dry, I drove to the park to eat my lunch.”

  “Were you alone?”

  “Yes, I like to sit on a bench by the ponds and read my book.”

  “What time did you return?”

  “About 1:30 p.m.”

  Smiley asked the next question.

  “Can anyone confirm that you were at the park?”

  “No. I mean there were people there. I don’t know if they would remember me.”

  “So, you would have had time to drive home, shoot your husband and get back to school.”

  I had to press my fingers against my eye again. I could feel the lower lid contract spasmodically.

  “I suppose so. What are you saying? You think I shot Mathew?”

  Pride coldly thanked me for my help and got up to leave.

  I sat in shock. I felt myself draw my body in, as though I was sucking my skin and flesh inwards. I held my hands protectively across my chest and pressed my legs together. Reality and delusion swirled around. In my memory I was sure I had not signed those documents, and yet there was my signature on the papers and witnessed by people I knew. I was sure I went to the park for lunch.

  Was there any chance, however remote, that I had come home, murdered Mathew, erased the incident from my memory and returned to school as though nothing had happened? I thought back to the day of the murder, were any clues to me being home with Mathew when I found him dead on the floor? Could I have made him lunch? I would typically make him a salmon, ham or salami sandwich with a salad. Isn’t that what the inspector said he had eaten? I would be more likely to leave crumbs on the table than Mathew. My eye started to twitch slightly. I wanted to curl up on the sofa and let it all fester inside me but forced myself to stand up.

  On impulse I decided to talk to Edward about the signatures and loan agreements. I needed another perspective. I walked across to his home to see if he was in. As I walked up the path, there was a tap at the window and I turned to see Edward’s face. He indicated to go to the front door.

  “It’s just me, I’m afraid. Edwina has gone shopping.”

  “It’s you I want to talk to.”

  I explained the signatures, whilst Edward listened intently. I felt relieved he accepted I had not signed them without any questioning. I still doubted the security and predictability of my world. A tiny seed of a thought was hiding in the darker recesses of my mind. It whispered, You found out what Mathew was doing, shot him in a violent rage, calmly went back to school and blanked it all out.

  “Well that explains why Mathew got the loans. I think you need to face the reality that he was defrauding you. He effectively stole the value of your house from you.”

  “But why? Why on earth would he do such a thing? How did he get the signatures witnessed?”

  “I don’t know. Why would someone blackmail him?”

  Edward stood up, stretched and effected a martial arts stance as though it helped him think.

  “Did he want to leave you?”

  I looked down at my hands. Did he? Was I so blind not to know?

  “Um, does Edwina know you want to leave her?”

  “No.”

  “So if you left now it would be a complete shock to her.”

  “Yes, I think it would.”

  “I never imagined Mathew wanted to leave me.”

  “Perhaps he didn’t. Maybe it was blackmail after all.”

  “But how could he ruin me like this.”

  Edward shrugged his broad shoulders.

  “I am even wondering if I could have somehow done it and blanked it all out.”

  “What?” Edward exclaimed with a curious expression.

  I told him of Pride’s assertion that I had not been to the park for lunch.

  Edward sat next to me and put his arm round me.

  “Amanda, that simply is not you. Be logical, you would have had to find a gun that could not be traced to you, arrange for Mathew to be home, get from school to your home without anyone seeing you, and then back to school. Could you do all that after finding out Mathew’s treachery and not remember a single thing? Anyway, surely you would want Mathew alive to get the money back.”

  We were interrupted by the sound of the key in the front door lock. Edward jumped up and returned to his pose. Edwina came in laden with bags of shopping.

  My desire to arrange Mathew’s funeral had waned. My plans to entertain everyone at home after the cremation, to celebrate his life, had withered with each piece of evidence that Mathew had been cheating on me financially. With the realisation that he must have forged my signature on those documents, I began to question my relationship with the witnesses. No wonder James was so nervous. Could I even trust Graham Parker?

  This was a terrible way to contemplate saying goodbye to Mathew. So many happy memories had become polluted by events. Did Mathew and I ever have the marriage I felt we had? My mind explored the times he seemed less interested in me, the times he would become irritated with my comments or the way he would get annoyed if I had to ask him to explain the plot of a film. I remembered the look of embarrassment on his face when I drank too much and let myself go at Pam’s party last month.

  As I got to know Mathew, I had been surprised at how hungry he was to be everything English. I once had to stop him buying a flat cap and tweed jacket. He read Shakespeare, Charles Dickens and Jane Austen as though he was at school. He had become an avid English history student and many Sundays were spent at historic buildings or sites. It was his unexpected academic side that most attracted me to him, when we first talked after our tango class.

  Did the charms he found in me wear off? He used to call me his “English Rose.” He liked to lie on the sofa with his head on my lap as I read to him with a pronounced BBC English accent. He would sometimes practice the words. Many of our early conversations centred on what it was like to grow up in England. Had he eventually become more English than me? Did he overcome his obsession with everything anglophile?

  What did we have in common? We used to laugh a lot together. During the first few years we made a point of giving each other a candle lit massage with scented oils. I felt we had an intimate relationship. Mathew was not the most passionate or adventurous lover but I felt fulfilled. Then two or three years ago the massages faded away and we had a less physical relationship. At the time I felt it was a natural transition into a more mature relationship.

  Thinking back, I changed too. At the beginning I was quite submissive and used to agree with whatever Mathew wanted. He chose the restaurants, set the itinerary for our holidays, decided what went into our home. I slowly emerged from my passive shell and started to have my own opinions. It culminated last year in an impasse over whether my painting could be put up in our home.

  I remembered one incident that pained me. We went out for dinner at a new Vietnamese restaurant in London and sat at a table that was close to a couple from Spain who owned an art gallery in Madrid. Mathew spent most of the evening talking to them in Spanish. He kept translating bits to me, but it felt like just enough not to be rude whilst not enough to include me in any of the conversation. Had he tired of me? Perhaps he found my inability to follow an academic conversation embarrassing? Did he find a couple of Spanish strangers more interesting than me?

  I set the funeral for Friday and chose the simplest, basic option. Edwina came round and helped me with the announcements in the local papers. I took the opportunity to voice some of my fears.

  “I am beginning to wonder what kind of relationship I really had with Mathew. The first few years were so wonderful, but looking back I wonder if it was just a temporary phase for him.”

  Edwina looked at me curiously.

  “How did you feel at the time?”

  “Generally life was pretty good. We did not argue or anything like that.”

  “Well, why
are you having doubts now?”

  “I suppose finding out about the loans has unsettled me. He wasn’t so passionate about me after the honeymoon period. I can’t help feeling I was a disappointment to him.”

  Edwina smiled and put her hand on my arm.

  “Lots of relationships go through ups and downs. Eddy and I have had our fair share of challenges. I can’t tell you how much I want to strangle him when he jumps around with those ridiculous karate poses, but we’ve always come back stronger. Deep down, I know Eddy and I will always face our problems together and that our marriage will endure.”

  For a moment I thought Edwina was directing her last comment directly at me. She looked at me sweetly and continued.

  “Even if Mathew was feeling a bit flat, how do you know he would not have grown more fond of you in a much deeper way later?”

  I nodded. Part of me wanted to say, “Oh Edwina, you poor deluded fool. Edward wants to leave you.” But then they were still together and perhaps, regardless of Edward’s loss of love, would be for a long time.

  Wednesday saw the return of Inspector Pride. She came alone this time. Her dry hair was back to its waves and curls. I did not make the effort to offer tea or coffee.

  “I have interviewed all three of the witnesses and none have any knowledge of seeing these forms before. I therefore assume that all the signatures, yours and the witnesses, are forgeries.”

  I waited for an apology for her accusatory tone yesterday, but nothing was offered. Instead she produced a lemon and vanilla sponge cake. I relented and made some tea and sliced the cake.

  “Were you aware of any skills your husband had for forging signatures?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “I presume he would have had prescriptions from his doctor and could copy the signature from that.”

  “Yes, he did suffer from gout occasionally and had to take prescription medication. Also, we had various letters from our solicitor, so he could have practiced with those. And he must have lots of papers signed by James that he could use.”

  “So it seems he defrauded you by either forging your signature himself or getting someone else to. His engagement in criminal activity lends weight to the idea that he might have been blackmailed. If he was prepared to act against you in this way, I wonder what else he has been up to.”