by Alastair Sim
“Do you think I murdered my brother, Inspector?”
Keep him calm, thought Allerdyce.
“We just want to reconstruct the pattern of events that afternoon, sir. Then everyone can get back to their business.”
“Very well. I will be completely candid with you. I visited my brother because my sister-in-law, the dowager Duchess Josephine, had complained to me that George had been pressing unwelcome attentions on her.”
“Rape, sir?”
“Thank the Lord, nothing quite as grave. But serious enough.”
“And why would the Duchess choose to confide in you, sir?”
“I suppose, barring George, I’m her closest living family on this side of the Atlantic. And she’s come to rely on me somewhat, in her widowhood, for spiritual consolation.”
Spiritual consolation’s a nice word for whatever you’re up to with her, thought Allerdyce.
“So you wanted to confront your brother?”
“I wanted to reason with him. I wanted to help him to realise, for himself, that he’d treated Josephine wrongly and to repent.”
“And were you successful?”
“No. He refused to acknowledge that his attentions were unwelcome.”
“That must have been very vexing for you, sir.”
“Yes, Inspector, it was.”
“So what did you do?”
Arthur hesitated again before asking a question of his own.
“If there had been an accident, where maybe somebody had slipped and banged their head because the way someone else had touched them had made them lose their balance, that couldn’t be construed as murder, could it?”
It might, thought Allerdyce, depending on the force used and the degree of intention. But the suspect doesn’t need to know that right now.
“No, sir. I find it extremely unlikely that such an action would be considered as murder – and entirely impossible if it was a purely accidental action.”
“Well, that’s what happened and I’m bitterly sorry for it. George, God bless him, tried to reconcile us. He reached out to me and I pushed him away. He lost his balance and fell against the side of the big table. I hadn’t meant that to happen – it was completely an accident – but maybe God was punishing me for rejecting his embrace of reconciliation.”
Not as much as he was punishing George, thought Allerdyce.
“And then what happened?”
“He appeared to be unconscious. I satisfied myself that he was still breathing, and that he was lying in a comfortable position, and then left.”
“How did you leave?”
“By the French windows.”
“You didn’t seek assistance? Or at least let the servants know what had happened?”
“It didn’t seem necessary, Inspector. And, I confess, I was momentarily struck by confusion. I may not have acted entirely rationally.”
Allerdyce let Arthur sit in silence for a moment, re-living his confusion, before continuing.
“Did you carry a firearm with you to Rock House, sir?”
Arthur looked up, quizzically.
“Yes. In accordance with your own advice, Inspector, that I should take precautions for my safety. I had a small pistol – a Derringer I think is the correct term – in my pocket.”
Interesting, thought Allerdyce. Either he genuinely doesn’t know that his brother was shot, or he’s lying and making out that he only gave him a little shove.
“Did you enter the photographic darkroom at any stage in the course of your visit, sir?”
“No. The entire conversation happened in the studio.”
Allerdyce pulled out a piece of photographic paper from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to Arthur.
“Do you recognise the handwriting on this piece of paper, sir?”
Arthur squinted at it, his brows furrowed.
“That’s very peculiar, Inspector.”
“What is?”
“It looks like a facsimile of my own handwriting.”
“You mean it is your handwriting, sir?”
“It looks very like it. But it can’t be. I never wrote these words, Inspector.”
“I see.”
“Please, Inspector, I’ve told you all I can. Do you think I might be allowed to go home soon?”
“Not just yet, sir. I think you should make yourself as comfortable as you can here.”
“So,” asked Burgess after Allerdyce had reported the interview, “what do you think of the good Reverend?”
“It doesn’t look too good for him, sir. Admitting that he went there with a gun. Admitting that he got into a fight with the victim. The message in the darkroom apparently in his handwriting.”
“But you don’t sound entirely convinced?”
“He says he left the studio immediately after the altercation which bruised the deceased’s head. That’s possible, sir.”
“It’s possible, Allerdyce. But he’s an intelligent man. If I’d just shot someone I’d come up with a story like that, if I couldn’t deny having been at the murder scene. Anything else?”
Allerdyce thought about Antonia. It would be easy just to keep silent. It would be easy but it wouldn’t be right.
“I found the Duke’s daughter, sir.”
“And?”
Allerdyce told the Superintendent Antonia’s story, without disclosing his prior acquaintance with her.
“So what’s your estimation, Allerdyce? Think she did it?”
He paused, trying to find words which would accommodate the truth without unnecessarily condemning her.
“She had some cause, sir, particularly in relation to the first death. But I spoke to her shortly before the latest murder and it would have been remarkably incautious of her to have done anything when she knew she was already under some suspicion.”
“Well,” said Burgess, “that’s it, then.”
“Sir?”
“The messages at the crime scenes suggest a common killer. The Reverend was defintely at the last crime scene, armed. Frankly, Allerdyce, it would be criminally negligent not to charge him at least with the murder of George Bothwell-Scott and put him on trial.”
“You’re sure, sir?”
“I don’t need to be sure that he did it. That’s for a jury to decide. But I’m sure I want a jury to have that opportunity.”
“And what about McGillivray, sir? Can we let him go now?”
“Best keep him where he is for the moment – just a precaution until we try the Reverend. But if we’re right about the Reverend then Sergeant McGillivray will be free soon enough. Oh, and have the beat constable keep an eye on your prostitute friend in case we need to speak to her in future – can’t have her absconding.”
“Yes, sir.”
Burgess stood.
“Christ, Allerdyce, I don’t relish having to tell the Chief that we’re charging a Duke with murder. But we’re creatures of disinterested duty, aren’t we Allerdyce?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.”
Chapter 30
Arthur couldn’t complain about being uncomfortable. He’d been allowed – as befitting his newly-exalted station in life – the use of a bedroom and parlour in the Governor’s house of the Calton jail. As far as comfort was concerned, he was being treated practically as a guest. He had newspapers delivered every morning, the Governor’s manservant was at his disposal, the estate factor and the mining manager had been allowed to come in and discuss business matters with him, and he’d been invited to dine with the Governor and his wife. He’d experienced nothing but courtesy during his three nights of imprisonment.
He’d been woken uncomfortably early this morning, though. A bell had started to toll before it was fully light. He’d tried to ignore it, but finally got up and looked out the window. He’d seen the dawn rising above the horizon and, as the bell’s last ring faded, a black flag run up the flagpole on the east tower. When the servant had arrived with his breakfast and newspapers he’d asked what
it meant.
“A hanging, sir,” answered the servant. “They run the flag up when the job’s done.”
Arthur hadn’t touched his breakfast. For minutes on end he hadn’t been able to tear his eyes away from the slow flapping of the black flag in the breeze. However comfortable he was now, his next destination could be the gallows. His clerical collar felt like a poor protection against the rope.
He’d tried to distract himself by reading the newspapers. It was a relief not to see himself mentioned. When he’d been charged with his brother’s murder the papers had made it a sensation for a day – a Duke and clergyman arraigned for murdering his own brother. ‘The Scotsman’ had made what he thought was a facile comparison between him and the Satanically-possessed minister in Hogg’s Confessions of a Justified Sinner. All the newspapers implied – as clearly as they could without actual libel – that he’d murdered his way through his entire family, rather than just giving his brother an innocent push with tragic consequences.
Today, though, in the fallow period between charge and trial, there was no mention of him. Instead, the papers were full of the news of General Lee’s surrender and the end of all Confederate hopes. Arthur wondered whether he should draw a lesson from the news. On the one hand, it felt like an old order – an aristocratic order like his own where men understood their place of honour or humility in God’s hierarchy – was being swept away by the brutal force of raw democratic materialism. On the other hand, maybe it was a sign that, after all the current horror of murder and accusation was over, it was a time to move on to a new beginning.
America. Why not just leave this tired country, where he’d laboured fruitlessly for the Lord for all his adult life and where he’d been brought down to the condition of an accused felon, and start a new life in the New World? He was heir now to the American estates which Josephine had brought back to the family, and what nobler task could there be than rebuilding them after the ravages of war? He could picture himself sitting in the gentle sunshine on the veranda of a great plantation house listening to the cheerful songs of the negroes in the fields – free, but bound by ties of loyalty – while Josephine rocked the cradle in the blissful shade of the house.
Josephine? Wasn’t that a fantasy too far? She’d spoken of her love for him, but always in terms which were appropriate to her status as a sister in Christ, reliant on his moral support and guidance. It would be foolish to expect her, still in the depths of mourning, to do otherwise, but was there even the slightest prospect that she might love him as a man and a husband? And could there have been any truth in George’s assertion, so shortly before his death, that he had an understanding with Josephine?
Reason said, Give up your fantasies. Josephine will never share your marriage bed, if you live that long. You don’t even know the truth of what happened between her and George. You’ve built a castle of wishes on a cloud of deception. But when he remembered her beautiful, distressed face when she’d told him of George’s atrocity towards her, and the soft touch of her troubled hand, he knew that she was a wounded creature of goodness and love, and longed to hold her in the tender healing embrace of husband and wife.
His thoughts were interrupted by a rap on the door.
“Come in.”
The Governor’s manservant opened the door.
“Visitor for you, Your Grace.”
“Who is it? My solicitor?”
“No, sir. A lady. Says she’s the Dowager Duchess of Dornoch.”
“Thank you. Show her in.”
Josephine swept in with a rustle of black taffeta, the waft of air from the door carrying the sweet floral fragrance of her perfume. She walked over and embraced his hands in hers.
“Oh Arthur, I came as soon as I could.”
“Josephine! It’s a great joy to see you.”
“I’d have come before, had it not been for George’s funeral.” She smiled wanly. “It’s peculiar, isn’t it? I was the only family member left to arrange his burial, after your arrest.”
“I suppose so.” Arthur had read his brother’s funeral record in yesterday’s newspaper – the usual troop of dignitaries had turned up, and the minister of the High Church of St Giles had given a eulogy. “My involvement would hardly have been appropriate in the circumstances, even had I been free to attend.”
“It was loathsome, Arthur. Having to listen to a stranger stand in your pulpit and say warm things about the man who’d tried to force my virtue. And then having to entertain all these ghastly people at the funeral breakfast in Dalcorn House and hearing them speak ill of you. How dare they?”
“I’m sorry, Josephine. It must have been terrible for you.”
“It was.” She glanced around the simple, comfortable parlour. “But not as terrible as seeing you incarcerated here for an action of which you’re innocent.”
“Please, Josephine, sit down. I would very much like to talk about that with you.”
He poured her a cup of coffee before continuing. She took it, stirring in cream and sugar as he spoke.
“I may not be entirely innocent, Josephine. At least, not in my conscience.”
“Why, Arthur? I know you are the best of men.”
“I wish that were so, Josephine, but I must honestly confess to you that I have let a taint of sin into my heart, which is what has led here.”
She stopped stirring and looked straight at him.
“Arthur, I believe you to be simply incapable of evil.”
He continued.
“The last time I saw you was when you told me of the horrible assault which George had perpetrated on you. Had I been a true Christian I would have known that reason and forgiveness were the only arms which I could bear against my brother’s sins, but I found that my heart was hardened. I confronted him in anger.”
“It was good and bold of you, Arthur, to take my part.”
“I went to Rock House to challenge him to repent. Instead of recognising his sin he denied all wrongdoing. He even claimed that he had been accepted as your suitor.”
He paused, to watch Josephine’s reaction. Surely, by look and word, she would prove George’s assertion false?
She put down her coffee cup on the little table between them. She clasped her hands together, and looked at him with a thin-lipped anger which frightened him.
“That, Arthur, is the wickedest lie I have ever heard.” He sat upright, feeling his hands shake in fear. Is she calling me a liar? She went on. “If George said that I had given him any encouragement at all to believe I would welcome his attentions then his wickedness is nearly as great as his punishment.”
Arthur’s body flooded with relief.
“So my brother was telling a flagrant untruth?”
“He was.”
He glanced down at the floor.
“It still doesn’t justify what I did.”
“You said you confronted him. What possible sin is there in that, Arthur?”
“Our conversation became rather tense and confused. I pushed him at one point and he fell against the table, hitting his head.”
“Is that what killed him?”
“No. I’ve been told by the police that he was shot. But it could have killed him. I cannot honestly say before God and man that I am innocent of George’s death.”
Josephine smiled.
“Arthur, no court in heaven or earth could convict you of an accidental crime which you didn’t actually commit.”
Arthur wished he felt like smiling.
“That’s what my solicitor says too. I know I should believe it. But it’s excruciating to sit here wrestling with an uneasy conscience and know that I could be dead within weeks if everything goes wrong.”
“Arthur, it can’t go wrong. It’s absurd that you’ve even been charged. I’ll do everything I can to make sure this whole stupid business gets dropped. There’s some man out there who’s guilty of your brothers’ deaths and I’ll hound the Chief Constable until the police find him.”
A bell
rang from the main prison. Arthur stood and went back to the window. Prisoners were slouching into the exercise yard, in dark shadow from the East tower. The black flag had, thank heavens, been taken down.
Josephine stood up. She came over to him and held his hand.
“Arthur, don’t worry. No-one can touch an innocent man. I won’t rest until you’re free.”
He squeezed her hand gently.
“Thank you. You’re a better friend than I deserve.”
“And Arthur, try to think of the future. I won’t be in mourning for ever, you know.”
His heart jumped. He looked at her, smiling up at him, and felt the gentle pressure and warmth of her palm on his. The April sunlight was streaming in the window and, looking out again, he was able to see beyond the dark towers and battlements of the jail to the coast and the sea beyond.
Maybe the Easter story was going to be the pattern of his life. Maybe this was the time of trial from which he’d rise again to a new, better life.
God willing. If there is a God.
Chapter 31
Allerdyce was astonished when the Superintendent walked into his room and closed the door behind him. Burgess looked surprisingly cheerful.
“Sir?”
“I’ve just come from the Chief Constable’s office, Allerdyce. I’ve got news.”
“What’s happened?”
“Jarvis has been suspended.”
Allerdyce restrained himself from cheering out loud.
“Why, sir?”
“Beating up a potential witness.”
“In the cells?”
“No. In her home.”
Allerdyce felt his elation tempered by anticipation of what he would hear next.
“Where was that sir?”
“Danube Street. Where you’d told me the possible suspect lived.”
“Why was Jarvis there?”
“The Chief wasn’t happy about charging Arthur Bothwell-Scott. Quite apart from his natural reluctance to alienate his aristocratic patrons, he’d been lobbied rather hard by the Duchess of Dornoch. She’d tried to persuade him that the Reverend was innocent, though she did admit he was rather impassioned against his brother when she last saw him.”
