‘Not as unreasonable as this.’
‘But we all have strange impulses. Have you never been to a cliff top and wished to jump over?’
‘Wished to jump over—but not jumped. It is the tiny gap between the unreasonable impulse and the act—a gap really of infinite size—that you have bridged.’
… I had cleared almost everything out of the wardrobe now except her shoes. I began to gather these up. As she was tall, most of her shoes were low heeled; they looked big and not particularly attractive when off, but she had worn them well.
And the trousers pinched together in their hangers, heels up in rows, like guardsmen reflected in a frozen lake. These and tailored shirts had been her uniform, the badge of office as wife and counsellor. I had liked her less in these clothes than in any other: they typified the dominating female, the oppressive not-to-be-got-rid-of influence, the person looking over your shoulder.
At the back of a shelf in the wardrobe was a mixture of oddments and souvenirs: a cube of bath salts, a double comb, a piece of lace, a lighter without a flint, a photograph of a very much younger Tim Dickinson in tennis things, a neat pile of theatre programmes, a champagne cork, a newspaper clipping about our wedding, a silver pencil, an old tooled leather belt. She had worn that belt on our honeymoon in Guernsey, it had hung swinging on the door of the cabin as we crossed.
There was much else still to move, but all these small accessories and accretions would have to wait until tomorrow. I opened the box of her sleeping pills and swallowed three. That would take care of the night. But as I began to undress, the judge I had self-invoked returned to the attack.
‘You know of course, Morris Scott, that you will never be the same again. The act of killing someone changes you for ever.’
‘That’s the plainest melodrama, the tritest cliché of all. How many millions have killed their fellows in a war?’
‘You’ll find it isn’t the same thing. To take the life of a human being, personally, deliberately, a woman you once cared for—it distorts you, changes you for ever.’
I got into bed and lay there, waiting to feel drowsy. I wondered if he was right. Was a cliché merely the truth said too often? What a lot of clothes she had had. And shoes. Shoes are strangely personal, like a fingerprint. I pulled the sheet up to my chin and looked across at the other, the empty bed. Before he went to sleep the accused man had the last malignant word.
‘I’m free,’ I said. ‘ I’m free.’
Chapter Three
The dismal funeral was gone through in Ealing where Harriet had been born. A surprising number of my friends turned up, and this made the thing curiously more bearable. A writer is a protean creature, and after a week of attempting to give the impression of being a hard-hit and innocent man bereaved by a tragic accident, I was beginning to believe it myself. (Not in private, perhaps, for there lay true insanity, but sufficiently often in public to support the role with temporary inner conviction.)
I did not see Tim Dickinson in the little church, but I saw him afterwards limping in the procession to the grave side. He looked very white, and I knew that he had taken this hard. After it was over, there was a hold-up at the lych gate and I met him there.
‘Well, Morris,’ he said, ‘I never thought this would be the end.’
‘Nor I, Tim. I feel pretty broken up.’
‘Broken up …’ He said the words without expression and allowed them to hang in the air.
‘I blame myself,’ I said, ‘in a sense. You know how excited she could get. I shouldn’t have let her go out there … though I never dreamed …’
‘Perhaps we’re all to blame in different ways.’
‘Why? I don’t see how anyone else can enter into it.’
‘Well, no, not in the fullest sense. But I think Harriet wasn’t sufficiently appreciated by her friends. She was a very rare person. We’ve all lost—in different ways we’ve all lost something that can’t be replaced.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes.’
He looked down at the gravel and stirred it speculatively with his foot. ‘Have you time for a drink?’
‘Yes, surely. Let me organise a car for Miss Quigley and I’ll join you.’
So presently I joined him. In a way it was a relief to talk to someone who knew Harriet almost equally well and could discuss her on virtually the same basis. The advantage I had in intimacy Tim had in length of friendship, and the way he spoke of her made it clear I’d been wrong in even speculating as to the depths of his affection.
I told him about Paris, except for the last moments on the balcony. Tim had taken to wearing glasses, and this masked his expression as he listened.
When I’d finished he took a long drink of his whisky and water and said: ‘You know, Morris, we met through Harriet, and always she’s been our link. She helped us to a friendship that wasn’t exactly spontaneous or instinctive, if you know what I mean. But it would be a pity now to let it altogether lapse. If Harriet isn’t here to help us keep it up, her memory is.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Indeed yes.’
‘You’ll be lonely. I know I was after I lost Valerie—though that was legally and by design—I missed her, bitch that she was. You’ll miss Harriet because she was such a companion—always thinking about you, always working for you. Maybe we should see more of each other. Anyway, I’m on tap if need be.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Give me a ring. The worst thing of all with anything traumatic that happens to one, is not having anyone to talk to about it.… Being a success won’t help. A man who is suddenly successful like you usually loses friends by it and gains acquaintances.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I know.’
I felt as if I were still waiting for something to happen.
The imaginary judge I had conjured up the other night had suggested that I would never be a free man, and I had retorted that he had borrowed the idea from melodrama. Well, failing some extraordinary coincidence now—some late revelation from the Hotel Ballet in Paris—I was already a free man; physically free. So why should I not eventually become mentally free? One remembered those old-fashioned tales one had read as a boy: a man committed a murder and was ever afterwards haunted by the deformed hand of the man he had killed; a man strangled his wife and then began to talk in his sleep about the rope he had used; a man shot another for gold and then could never keep away from the scene of his crime. But how far were these ‘conscience’ stories actually true? If I could have set back time and had Harriet alive again, no doubt I would have done so. But the thing had been done. Now, having brazened out the first week …
Live from hour to hour, deal with each new test and problem as it comes up. Each day is a day further from the twenty-fourth of September, a day for taking one more step out of the abyss, not for sliding farther down.
And the acid test that remained? I could lie to other people, but … Do you take one woman to your heart and to your bed, hiding from her that you have deliberately destroyed the woman who was there before? Fine if you are George Joseph Smith. Not so fine if you are Morris Scott, a killer with some principles. To marry Alexandra with that between you is surely to destroy any hope of true trust and love. But to tell her is unthinkable.
A killer with principles. Where did he come from? If Alexandra bore children of his seed, what genes might be passed on? The chemical smear of evil. Just one of the twenty-three autosomes tainted with insanity …
Alexandra was in every way my weakness. If she didn’t exist I could live a life letting the skin of lies grow slowly over the raw place until it altogether healed, until the crime was so covered with years of ordinary living that it was as if it had never been. This was not possible. Somehow I had to face her. And on a more material level also she was the danger, for when a wife dies in strange circumstances it is better that the man should not have a girl friend. If he has a girl friend it is better that he should not marry her too soon. People talk. And although the case was closed by the police, the
re was nothing to say it could not be reopened.
On the Friday after the funeral I had to go to Knight, Dickinson & Clarendon to discuss with them the probate of Harriet’s will. Tim was not there—I think he was too upset—and I saw a man called Golding. Harriet had made a few bequests, including some law books which had belonged to her father and her camera and tape recorder to Tim. ‘The residue of my property,’ Golding read, ‘and all my other effects real and personal I leave to my husband, Morris, and urge him to live on this money and to continue writing until his work is universally recognised.’ The will had been made two years ago.
I found myself some thirteen thousand pounds better off, money from Harriet, money I no longer needed, money that I would have wished to be without. I went to the Club, which I had avoided since this had happened. It was lunch time and, as always then, it was pretty full, with a good number of strangers. I lunched at a table where I knew nobody and afterwards got talking and drinking with two BBC writers who seemed to be glad to be seen in my company. I bought a bottle of Madeira and a bottle of brandy, and we finished these between us. They beat an unsteady affectionate retreat about four, and I went home.
I have never been able to get drunk with any comfort. When I got to the door I had difficulty with the key, but overcame this and went in. I had a sudden overpowering desire to ring Alexandra at once. I wanted her. I wanted her cool young body. I wanted her steady, clear-sighted, unsentimental mind. With her and in her I might recapture the brief amoralistlc freedoms of the night of the accident—not because she was amoral but because she offered delight.
I picked up the telephone. At this time of day there was a good chance of her being at home with the Fayardes. The number was Neuilly … A bell rang. But it was not the telephone.
Front door. Some friend I did not want to meet. Someone collecting … Better open.
At the door was a policeman.
‘Mr. Morris Scott?’
‘Yes?’
‘We’ve been trying to get in touch with you, Mr. Scott—for two or three days. There wasn’t any answer to the telephone, so we thought someone had better come round and see you.’
‘Oh … Will you come in?’
He thanked me and followed me into the living room, with its smart décor and Harriet’s Victoriana. My body was as if it had lost its backbone. I had stood up to all the police questions in Paris, but here I was suddenly completely unmanned. Face had flushed and then gone pale. Hands were trembling, put them behind my back. He was a man of thirty-odd, with a weather-exposed face and stone-grey eyes. He filled a large suit, and he had the manner of being something better than a constable and not so good as a sergeant.
‘Sit down.’
‘Thank you, no. I won’t keep you long, sir. I suppose you’ve not been at home for some days.’ He had taken out his notebook and was folding back the pages.
‘I’ve been at home since I got back, but I’ve been out a lot. You’ll appreciate there’s been a lot to see to.’
‘Oh? Yes, I suppose so. It was really just one or two questions we wanted to ask you, sir.’
‘I thought the French police had been pretty thorough.’
‘The …’ He looked up. ‘The French police? That must be something different. We are acting for the Berkshire police.’
I looked back at him. ‘Oh … Oh, I see.’ So this was the first major blunder.
‘What they wanted to know, Mr. Scott, was whether your Alfa Romeo was left or right-hand drive. It was a question which did not occur to them at the time, and when they went to the garage at Reading, they were told that the car had just been made serviceable and then driven to London for full repairs.’
‘Yes, it’s at Angove’s, the main distributors, in Heathfield Road, W.6.’
‘And is it right or left-hand drive?’
‘Right. Why do you ask?’
‘We wanted to check because of the testimony. Mr. Forbes in the Mini has said that he thought it was a woman driving.’
I put my hands in my pockets to still them.
‘He must have made a mistake. It was nearly dark. My wife was a tall woman and we were much of a size.’ Did he notice the past tense? Did he know anything of her death? Surely. But the police are very departmentalised.
‘Well, I’ll just pass this on, Mr. Scott.’ I wondered if he would also ‘pass on’ that I had been drinking.
‘Have you any idea when this case will come up?’
‘None at all, I’m afraid. You know, the courts are very crowded …’
‘I see.’
He turned over a leaf of his notebook, studied it, and then closed it and put it away. ‘ They would be less crowded, of course, if people like you, sir, pleaded guilty and saved a lot of unnecessary procedure.’
‘Yes, I expect they would.’
Silence fell. He had moved so that his back was to the light, yet he seemed to be looking round, not concentrating on me.
‘Nice flat you have here, sir.’
‘Yes.’
‘Nice and convenient for the Wallace Collection. I’m very fond of antiques myself. I suppose you’ve got these well insured.’
‘I suppose so. I suppose we have.’
‘There was a breaking and entering in George Street last month. Your window catches could do with strengthening. It doesn’t do to let these fellows think it’s too easy.’
‘No …’
‘When it’s a foregone conclusion,’ he said, ‘the courts usually look more favourably on a motorist who admits his error of judgement and apologises. You know. Instead of contesting the impossible. It’s human nature in a way—saves everyone trouble in the end. Not that it’s my business to advise you, of course, sir.’
‘No,’ I said, touched by his kindness. Weakly I felt I wanted to co-operate with him in everything.
He was waiting for me to speak, politely, attentively. I wanted to have a chat with him, just a little talk, and knew I must not. If I once began now, with all the defences shaken, God knew what I would say, where the revelations would end.
I saw him to the door. He said: ‘Anyway, it was just a thought. You know. Think it over. There’s time yet.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. I …’
He stopped on the threshold, considerately, politely attentive.
‘You’ll find the car,’ I said slowly, ‘at Angove’s, Heathfield Road, W.6. It should be pretty nearly repaired by now. The damage wasn’t very great, you know. It affected the steering and …’ I stopped, I was talking.
It was not until he was finally gone that I realised I might have been well advised to let Harriet take the blame now. She was beyond censure. I was not. Why I had made that quixotic gesture in the matter of the accident I couldn’t now imagine.
It was some question of responsibility. Harriet had been a constant responsibility, more and more oppressive. It was worth a lot to be rid of that. If one could just forget how it happened. That would take time.
In the middle of the night I thought: But did I really push her? I went out on the balcony and she was quarrelsome and dogmatic. I could do nothing with her, arguing, persuading. At length I put my hand on her arm, trying to pull her gently in. She shook it off angrily and this sharp movement set her off balance. She cried out and tried to recover and I clutched her frock, trying to hold her. The satin slipped under my fingers. I grabbed at her shoulder but already the weight was too much. In a moment she was whirling down to her death. It was all my fault. If I had not tried to pull her to come in she would never have jerked away from me and over-balanced. It was all my fault that she was accidentally dead.
I went down to Winchester. I didn’t arrive until the evening. My father and Helen Collins were pleased to see me, and Helen steered an elephantine course around the subject of Harriet’s death, breaking off when her conversation neared the forbidden zone and thus emphasising its existence.
They both looked well enough, and I wondered why I had come. The idea in mind seemed ridiculous, a
nd sounded even more so when I broached it to my father after the girl had gone up to bed.
He said: ‘Does this mean—have you some idea of returning to medicine as a career?’
‘No, no. But I certainly can’t write at present. And it seemed to me if I could walk the wards a bit, or come visiting with you—if you still do visit—it might be a help. I’ve got to reorientate myself. Just at the moment there’s no sense of direction.’
He turned away to stir the fire, partly I think to hide a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. ‘Well, of course, Morris, to practise in any way you’d have to apply to be put back on the Executive Council list—and then wait for a vacancy. It might be a good thing in the meantime to take a refresher course.’
‘If I were starting again I should never think of it without first taking one or more courses. But I don’t want to restart, at this stage. I want to—observe, maybe do a chore now and then, nothing more. I’ve got to be taken out of myself. And I want to find out if this is the way.’
‘Well, I can take you where I go. But of course I only do domiciliary visits now. There’d be a few things no doubt you could help with.’
‘I’d like to for a week anyway. I’ll stay at a hotel.’
‘That’s ridiculous. We’ll put you in your old room.’
So I started going with him. It was odd how it all came back; that plus the old room and the old surroundings. The only difference was the woman in my mother’s chair. She was so gauche, so well meaning but so unnecessary. Maybe if I got her on a balcony I would do the same as I had done to Harriet. There was a risk, of course, that the police would really object if I made a practice of the thing.
I had another letter from Alexandra, forwarded, asking me why I had not replied to her last, and suggesting that if I could not manage Paris she would willingly come to London. That night I wrote her a long letter, devious to my eyes when I read it through, in spite of all efforts to be honest. It’s the old story. To be honest around a central lie is like building a house with the foundations unlevel. At the end I added a postscript, explaining that this work of locum for my father would definitely end in two weeks and I would come to Paris on the second week-end from this.
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