I sat where Alexandra had sat and watched the last shafts of the sun glinting on the distant hill. The sky had a crystal sharpness, an emptiness, a remoteness that spoke of the onset of winter, of the absence of warmth, of the end of mellowness, of the seed of young life, of the end of charity, of the end of love. The sun set. Dusk crept in like the beginning of death.
I went upstairs and looked at my mother’s photograph on the landing. I have never been lonelier in my life, more desolate. It was a new nadir. In the bedroom I lay for a few minutes on the bed, trying to get back some balance, some spring of hope. The room began to spin round every time I shut my eyes. The physical vortex was like a descent into hell.
The front-door bell. George with the whisky: he’d said he would bring it later.
Didn’t know whether I could get down again; that last tumbler of sherry and gin had had a long-term effect. I sat up, stood up, reeled across the bed.
The bell again. I staggered to the bedroom door and went down the steep stairs with exaggerated care. I sat on the last step, so out of breath. Nausea kept coming over me in waves like an undulant fever. Concerns the struggle of a … Concerns the struggle of a successful playwright to open his own front door.
I got up and opened the door. Two men. One was Tim Dickinson. The other a stranger.
‘Hullo, Morris, may we come in? Hope we’re not disturbing you.’
‘Oh?’
‘I say, we’re not disturbing you, are we?’
I hesitated.
‘Are you all right? May we come in?’
I turned and led the way unsteadily into the living room, switched on the light, kicked three or four times at the electric fire switch before getting it down. The other was a middle-aged man, tight-lipped, in a blue suit, bootlace tie, white collar, striped shirt, highly polished boots.
‘I did ring you yesterday,’ Tim said, ‘ but you were busy and I waited for you to ring back. Sorry to butt in. Oh … this is Detective Sergeant Baker. He asked if he might come along and see you.’
We nodded to each other.
‘I was—busy yesterday,’ I said and sat down.
‘You don’t look well, Morris,’ Tim said.
‘I’m all right.’
‘It doesn’t do to be alone too much. You’d be better in London than living here.’
‘I’m all right.’ I looked at Baker, who was standing by the standard lamp where his face was in the shadow. ‘Left it a bit late, haven’t you?’
‘Late, sir?’
‘Yes, with the—the hearing or whatever you call the thing coming off tomorrow—tomorrow morning.’
Baker glanced at Tim inquiringly. ‘Oh, you mean the motoring offence? Mr Dickinson told me about that. I’m afraid that isn’t my province, Mr. Scott. I’ve come to ask you about your wife.’
I watched Tim sitting down. When getting into a low seat he always lowered himself slowly with his good leg until he was nearly there, then let himself go with a little bump, the other leg sticking out in front of him; after a minute or so he would bend the stiff leg gingerly from the artificial joint. Baker was still behind the lamp.
Brain only worked at half-speed, like wading through mud. This was the second mistake of a like nature, each the obverse side of the other. First you think a policeman had come about Harriet when in fact he has come about the accident. Now … Tim was watching me.
‘My wife? Harriet, you mean? She’s been dead eight weeks.’
‘Yes, sir, we know.’
‘Then how can I help you?’
‘It’s been reported to us, Mr. Scott, that you have told someone that your wife’s death was not due to natural causes—in fact that she died because you pushed her over the balcony in Paris. This is a statement that has been made to me. I have come to ask you if it is true.’
The seal of the confessional. Anguish continued to float in the background of my thoughts like some scum that would not wash away.
‘There is a little gin, Tim,’ I said, ‘if you’d like it. But not vermouth. Sherry, there’s some left.’
‘No, thanks, I’m all right, my dear fellow.’
‘Why are you here? How did you come into this?’
‘I’m your lawyer, Morris. When I heard that Detective Sergeant Baker was coming to call on you, I thought it advisable to be present. It’s a common precaution.’
I looked at Baker. ‘Who told you this—this story?’
‘Just at the moment we prefer not to say. You haven’t answered my question.’
I took a breath, fighting inertia, drunkenness, heartbreak, the impulse to suicide. ‘My answer.’ I slowly let the breath out as if the demons of defeat were in it. They should have been visible, clouding the room. ‘My answer.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘It—simply isn’t true.’
‘Which isn’t true, Mr. Scott? That you pushed your wife or that you told someone about it?’
‘Both. I’m not a murderer, and if I were I shouldn’t—shouldn’t be fool enough to talk.’
‘Many people do. It’s a common impulse—to confide in someone you think you can trust.’
Whom can you trust? From whom I trust may God guard me; from whom I do not trust I will guard myself.
‘Can you suggest, Mr. Scott, why a sane and responsible person should take the trouble to come to us with such a statement if it were completely untrue?’
I concentrated again on what he was asking. ‘Until you tell me who said it I’ve no idea.’
‘Have you confided in more than one person?’
‘There’s—there’s nothing to confide.’
Baker moved into the light and sat down. He had a small circular scar on his cheek as if the skin had just been pressed in hard with a shilling.
‘Did you get on well with your wife, Mr. Scott?’
‘What?’
‘Did you get on well with your wife? Did you have any quarrels?’
‘Oh, just the occasional one.’
‘The lift boy on the night your wife died testifies to the fact that you were quarrelling then.’
‘Quarrelling?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh … we may have been a little tired and snappy.’
‘He says he heard you shouting at each other.’
I got up unsteadily and went to the side table and poured myself another shot of gin and sherry. But when I picked it up my hand was trembling so much that I set it down untasted. ‘All this was gone into by the French police. I explained to them—explained to them that I was not shouting in anger but because she was out on the balcony and I was in the room. Have you had the report from Paris?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then what is this all about? They’re not fools! They made all possible investigations.’ I looked at Tim, frowning my concentration. ‘What legal right has this man to reopen the case?’
Tim smiled sympathetically. ‘A perfectly legal right, I’m afraid. The English police are bound to investigate any statement made to them about the commission of a crime. They have no choice. But also of course they could do so at any time if they thought some evidence had come to light which altered the original verdict.’
I rubbed my hand over my eyes and brought it down along the bristles of my chin. ‘Well, what’s your—your evidence?’
‘A statement,’ said Baker, ‘as I’ve just told you. A definite statement that you had confessed to the crime of murder.… When the person who made this statement had signed it and it had been witnessed, I took the next step of contacting the French police. They naturally co-operated with us in sending us all the details of their own investigation.’
He went on talking, but what he said was temporarily lost. Was she back in Paris now? How would she explain to Jackie, to her father? Pride, humiliation, anger, heartbreak: these would war with a natural stoicism, for she could tell no one else—would tell no one—what I had told her, and it was not in her nature to build up the face-saving excuse. Would she one day soon walk do
wn the Rue de Castiglione with some other man, while the afternoon sun lit up her face and the summer breeze ruffled her hair?
… Sergeant Baker had stopped talking and he appeared to be waiting as if some question had been asked.
‘And now?’ I said.
‘Well, sir, it’s really up to you, isn’t it? If you’d care to make a statement.’
‘What would you suggest—suggest I said in the statement?’
‘Well, supposing we started with this liaison you had in Paris?’
‘And then?’
‘And then went on to your wife’s illness, your wish not to seem disloyal to her, your impatience with her because she was difficult—so leading up to the motor accident.’
‘What has that to do with it?’
‘Well, sir, don’t you think it has?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Baker straightened the creases in his trousers as if they had developed an antisocial kink. ‘A man with ten years’ clean driving licence; a reputation among his friends for being a careful driver, he suddenly has a bad accident and drives his car through a gate into a river.’
‘Almost into the river,’ said Tim.
‘Yes, exactly. But it’s a fact, isn’t it, Mr. Scott, that if the excessive rain that week hadn’t created a lot of mud your car would have ploughed right in and you might both have been drowned.’
I shrugged.
‘Or one of you might have been drowned. You are a good swimmer. Mrs. Scott couldn’t swim.’
My hand went out again for the drink, but again it drew back. Perhaps in the rebound from me even Trevor Dain would not be unwelcome to Alexandra. This was the worst danger for her, the worst cruelty, that the sudden reaction might rush her into some …
I said: ‘If you think the accident was engineered deliberately, it’s a crazy suggestion.’ I laughed, and then tried not to laugh, for hysteria was not far away.
‘Not my suggestion.’
‘Anyway, there’s a simple answer. I wasn’t driving. I took the blame at the time so that she shouldn’t lose her licence. Mr. Dickinson knows this. I told him a couple of weeks ago.’
Baker glanced at Tim, who was lighting a cigarette.
‘You did indeed, Morris,’ Tim said, ‘ but I honestly didn’t know you expected me to take it seriously—’
‘Is it the sort of thing I shouldn’t have expected you to take seriously?’
With a long forefinger he clicked his lighter shut. ‘ Well, that’s hardly a fair question, is it? We were discussing possible lines of defence against the charge of dangerous driving. I thought you were trying it out on me, so to speak, to see if it worked. I didn’t think it did. I thought it would be more likely to annoy the magistrates as an obvious lie that couldn’t be contradicted, and the de mortuis nil nisi bonum angle would alienate their sympathies.’ He blew out smoke which obscured his expression.
There was silence.
Baker said: ‘Of course if you wish to put this in your statement, Mr. Scott, you’re quite at liberty to do so. But I do think much the best procedure at this stage would be to begin the statement and face the little problems as they come along. Don’t you think so?’ He had taken out a notebook and some sheets of paper. ‘Could I have your full name, sir?’
I got up and walked a little more steadily to the window. The night was clear and starlit. Tomorrow all the ground and the low shrubs would be harsh with frost. I began to pull the curtains across. Tim Dickinson had taken off his glasses to polish them. Behind me, out of my immediate vision, the middle-aged detective with the tight face was clicking his Biro.
It was so easy. I, Morris Scott, of Spanish Place, London, W.1., wish to say that on the night of September twenty-fourth last I killed my wife. The action was not premeditated but it was led up to by a liaison I had entered into with a girl ten years my junior called Alexandra Wilshere. I had better begin by saying that my liaison with her dates from …
It was so easy that in a few words I was lapsing into police-court jargon. After all, I had nothing left to live for. Ignorance is the ultimate cause of existence. The aim of all men is to be freed from birth, from death, from suffering, from sorrow. A mind which by self-mastery has forsaken evil …
‘What’s the law on this?’ I said to Tim. ‘Am I compelled to make a statement?’
Tim shifted in his seat and hesitated.
Sergeant Baker said: ‘You’re not compelled to do anything, Mr. Scott. All statements must be free and voluntary. But I put it to you that a statement now would relieve your own mind. There’s after all very little we don’t know. In fact a statement now would help your own personal position very much indeed. No one is hard on a man who makes one mistake, and admits his error. Believe me, the courts are very sympathetic to the first offender. We all make mistakes; the error is in trying to hide them. Have them out, get rid of them, finished with. It’s all the same in the end, but believe me, it helps so much to be on the right side from the start. I’m not trying to trap you into an admission; I’m giving you the best advice.’
I said to Tim: ‘ You’re my legal representative. What is your advice?’
He looked for some seconds at his cigarette, coolly considering. ‘If you wish to make a statement, Morris, I would think that this is the moment to make it. In view of all that we’ve discussed … You could safeguard yourself against a good deal of unpleasantness by speaking now.’
I came back and sat down. Talking, unburdening one’s thoughts, is the beginning of a healing process; it lubricates the spirit. Repentance is a lifelong process. This should be the beginning of the journey.
I looked at the glass of gin and sherry. It was still untouched. My hands were trembling again, as one’s hands will sometimes when they have been gripping a great weight.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m not prepared to make any statement. Sorry.’
The clicking in and out of the Biro stopped. Sergeant Baker put the blunt end of it in his mouth, then took it out and looked at it as if the taste were unpleasant. He frowned, little clefts gathering in his face.
‘That’s very unwise, Mr. Scott. We have this sworn statement which can be produced asserting that you told this person of your crime.’
‘It proves nothing,’ I said. ‘It’s simply my word—my word against his.’
‘Or hers,’ said Tim.
I considered this poisonous barb for a moment. ‘Or hers. His or hers, it proves nothing. Any—any lunatic may go into any police station and make an accusation against someone he knows. It may have to be inquired into, but there’s nothing one can do beyond that.’
‘I think you’re a little out there,’ said Baker grimly. ‘ We have a first accident, in which your wife’s life is put in danger. Then we have a second accident in which your wife dies. We have motive in the existence of your love affair in Paris. Various aspects in your wife’s death did not altogether satisfy the French police—in spite of what you say. Inquiries are on foot now, and it will be the worse for you when the case is completed. Your only chance of being treated with clemency is to make a statement now.’
‘Well, I’m not—not prepared to make one.’
There was a frustrated pause. Baker tapped his notebook. ‘ Would you consent, sir, to answer me a few more questions?’
‘What are they?’
‘Well … about the night when your wife died. You had had a quarrel, you say?’
‘A few words. I was impatient with her.’
‘And then—your wife turned round and accused you of being unfaithful to her?’
‘No.’
‘You mean she didn’t tax you with it?’
‘No.’
‘She didn’t mind?’
‘She knew—knew nothing of it.’
‘Why were you impatient with her?’
‘Because she wouldn’t come to bed.’
‘But you had had words before that.’
‘She was a trifle drunk. It irritated me, you know.
’
‘Why wouldn’t she come to bed?’
‘Because she said the night was too beautiful.’
‘Were you a trifle drunk also?’
‘I? No, I wasn’t drunk.’
‘So you went to the balcony to persuade her to come in? What happened then? Did you take her by the shoulders and try to pull her in, perhaps not fully realising …’
I got up again. Knees only just holding. ‘My wife fell from the balcony when I was in bed. What you suspect or are hoping to prove is your business. But you’re wasting your efforts here.’
‘Look, Morris,’ said Tim. ‘ If we can—’
‘You’re wasting your time! I shouted angrily. ‘I had a bad night last night and I’ve a heavy day tomorrow! … I was going to bed when you came. Do you—do you mind leaving!’
There was another hesitation. Baker looked at Tim, who gave a fractional shrug.
Baker got up. ‘I’m very sorry about this, Mr. Scott. You’re making a grave mistake.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Just one last question, sir. Has Miss—er—miss …’ He consulted his notes. ‘Miss Wilshere. Has Miss Wilshire been to see you recently?’
I put a hand on the table behind. ‘Is that any concern of yours?’
Baker shrugged. ‘Well, as the young lady in the case …’
‘She is not the young lady in any case. She has nothing to do with this.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, I don’t wish to offend you. But you must appreciate that her extra-marital connection with you involves her whether one likes it or not.’
‘Involves her in what? What is there to involve her in?’
Baker glanced again briefly at Tim, but this time Tim was picking at a tiny spot on his sleeve.
The detective said: ‘Was she here yesterday, sir?’
‘If you know, why do you bother to ask?’
After the Act Page 21
