by MARY HOCKING
‘It must have done, surely. Else why kill him?’ MacLeish was beginning to feel very tired and empty; if there was nothing important to do, he wanted to get away and snatch some breakfast. ‘A man doesn’t kill on the off-chance. Too risky.’
Harper was still looking down at the photograph, but absently, as though his thoughts were elsewhere.
‘But if you’ve been taking risks for a long time, maybe they don’t appear like risks any more? Maybe the gap between you and the rest of the human race gets wider than you realize?’
MacLeish shifted from one tired foot to another.
‘There has to be a reason,’ he muttered.
‘Maybe something is beginning to crack?’
‘Scared, you mean?’
No, Harper thought, nothing scared Vickers. But suppose the man was beginning to indulge his own particular craving?
‘I was thinking of getting something to eat,’ MacLeish said desperately.
Harper pulled himself up. Facts were his business; leave the fancy theorizing to the psychiatrists.
‘You get along,’ he said. ‘I’ll probably join you.’
After MacLeish had gone, he sat fingering through the papers on his desk for a few minutes. The telephone rang.
‘Nothing on the Holt woman, Robert,’ a voice said. ‘Sorry.’
‘It doesn’t matter. I didn’t expect anything.’
But he looked rather disgruntled as he replaced the receiver. The appearance of this woman in the case surprised him: and he had thought that he had learnt not to be surprised. On his way out, he poked his head into the room where Sergeant Norris worked.
‘That woman Jessica Holt writes books. Get me a couple, will you?’ He did not usually explain himself, but for some reason he found it necessary to add: ‘Never know what you might learn that way.’
‘What kind of book does she write, sir?’
Harper met the sergeant’s gaze stonily.
‘Children’s books.’
He shut the door and paused to light a cigarette; while he was fumbling for matches, he heard the sergeant say:
‘Children’s books! Next thing, he’ll be wanting an Enid Blyton for Christmas.’
III
Happiness was something to which Edward had said goodbye so long ago that he no longer noticed its absence. There were, however, more negative states which he could still enjoy and relief from anxiety was one of them. As the distance between himself and London increased, so fear diminished; for a day, perhaps two days, the interview with the powerful policeman could be staved off. Edward knew that there was no such thing as escape, but he had learnt to be grateful for small respites.
The day was fine and still, the countryside looked pleasant in a neat, unspectacular English way. Something in him had always responded to country scenes, although the response had become guarded since Sonya had pointed out to him that this love of the country was really a quest for an illusory security. She had said: ‘You like the country because it seems to you to be unchanging; you like old houses, old customs, anything to do with the past because the past cannot be changed. . . . It is a kind of death wish, Edward; an evasion of the challenges of life.’ Edward had long ago forgotten these words, but they had had their effect, so that now he glanced out of the window rather warily as though indulging a forbidden pleasure.
In Cambridge, he had lunch with the man whom Vickers was supposed to have met, examined the glasses, which were Jacobean and good of their kind, and then wandered down to the river. The man took him out in a punt, and as they glided beneath St. John’s Bridge the man betrayed his country’s secrets neatly enclosed in a slim silver pencil which Edward pocketed. None of this meant very much to Edward and he had no idea whether the information was of particular value or not. He supposed it might be: the man was a research chemist.
This, Edward had imagined, would be an end of it and they could enjoy the peaceful calm of the river, which was unusually quiet now that most of the undergraduates were down. The man, however, wanted to talk. This was something new in Edward’s recent experience and very unwelcome. He tried, however, to be accommodating because it was his habit always to be accommodating. He had cultivated a charming but rather vague air of sympathy which he assumed whenever he felt it was desired of him. Now he listened, his pale hazel eyes gazing reflectively up at his companion, a little quirk lifting the corners of his mouth. He looked very civilized and wise, perhaps a trifle unworldly, as though seeing something that lay beyond his companion’s range of vision. This expression had led many people to hope for far more from Edward than he was prepared, or able, to give. The punt was lying shaded by willows, but beyond there was a field, incredibly green and fresh, as yet untroubled by the heat of summer; the breeze was gentle and Edward felt an unusual peace.
His companion, however, was not at peace. He was a tall, earnest-looking man with a triangular face that tapered to a small, unhappy mouth and a sensitive chin. He wore thick-lensed glasses which gave him a forbidding appearance, but when he took them off, as he did rather frequently, his weak eyes looked very vulnerable. As the man talked, Edward began to realize that he had a genuine belief in the validity of his actions. Yet it was not what he said that convinced Edward of this, for Edward was usually confused by argument. The reaction was physical: a recoil from pain. Somewhere at the back of the man’s eyes, pain splintered each thought and probing fingers twisted and writhed, tearing at each fragment, pulling it this way and that.
‘Man is an experiment which has failed,’ the man was saying. ‘But he is determined to take everything with him when his appointed end comes; he is inventing weapons which will destroy not only himself . . .’
But the face told only of a deep, inner war which was destroying one human spirit. Edward turned away and trailed his hand in the cool, reedy water. It was better to listen to the voice. The voice did not speak of a mind that had adventured too far, slipping its moorings and leaving itself stranded in a desolate region where there would never again be peace or security, rest or the merciful oblivion of sleep.
‘Perhaps it is a mistake to think too much?’ Edward suggested soothingly.
But the man was rambling a little now; his remarks had become less abstract and particular hates were creeping in. He had had disagreements with colleagues, his abilities had not been recognized, his values had been questioned, there was no place for a man like him, he had been denied his right to make a useful contribution. This kind of talk, with its evidence of cankerous frustration, was less disturbing to Edward, and something in his expression must have betrayed his relief. The man put his glasses on again, as though replacing a shield. Edward was conscious of despair. He shifted uneasily, knowing that he was trapped in this small boat, under the sheltering willows, with something that could be dangerous to him.
They sat in silence for a while, but that still summer tranquillity now seemed to elude Edward; the sun shone on the bright green field and glinted on the river as it flowed past King’s College; but here it was shaded and the water dragged slightly beneath the boat, making small, furtive noises. The man squatted in the prow, his shoulders hunched, staring down into the dark water.
‘You are very different,’ he said, ‘from the man I usually see.’
The remark, Edward realized, was meant as a compliment; but he did not want this kind of compliment with its threatened preface to intimacy. In the years that he had been in England he had grown a shell around himself; it was not very strong – as nothing in Edward was strong – but there had been no very energetic assault upon it and so he had managed to preserve it. He was not quite sure himself what lay behind that shell.
Some children had appeared in the distance and were walking along the bank, trying to push one another in the river; their voices, shrill and excited, sounded a long way away.
‘There is something that troubles me about Vickers,’ the man said.
His attempt to unburden himself became clumsy; whereas before he had spoken q
uietly, vigorously, as though arguing the case for the defence, now he could only get the words out with extreme difficulty, dredging them up from some part of himself which had not been exposed for a very long time. Edward watched the struggle, fascinated and a little frightened; this, he dimly realized, was how he himself would be if ever he tried to bring into being the rusted mechanism of confession. But then Edward was not one to struggle; he closed his eyes for a moment and felt the gentle, soothing movement of the boat beneath him. He had learnt to let the current carry him where it would.
‘I think you can leave things safely in Vickers’s hands,’ he said. ‘They are very capable hands.’
The other gave a harsh, completely humourless laugh and his small, rather unforgiving mouth twisted downwards.
‘Of course, I know that it is intolerably stupid to confuse a doctrine with those who practise it. But then stupidity is a part of human nature. And when you so seldom meet people whose minds you can respect, you become dangerously isolated. Man is a creature of the herd; he loses his sense of direction on his own, his values become meaningless, the whole moral fibre decays . . .’
One of the older children had crept up and all of a sudden Edward saw a face thrust through the branches of the willow, a grinning, freckled mask, horribly toothless. It gave him an unpleasant shock. The apparition laughed and scampered off; Edward heard it say to another child:
‘Do you think they are queers?’
‘Really!’ Edward jerked up angrily. ‘Children today . . .’
‘Yes!’ the other cried, moving equally violently. ‘I sometimes wonder whether perhaps I am . . . queer.’ He thrust his body forward and the boat which was already rocking, lurched dangerously. ‘Don’t you ever feel like that, when you have been swimming so long against the tide?’
‘No,’ Edward answered, clutching the side of the boat. ‘For one thing, I can’t swim.’ He looked anxiously down and was relieved to see how shallow the water was; a good deal slimier than he had realized, though.
‘I have a contempt,’ the man muttered, ‘a profound contempt for my colleagues, but lately I have felt less sure of my own position.’ He shifted his position, still further agitating the boat. ‘This is the age when weakness and vacillation are disguised by a lot of nonsense about tolerance and forbearance; I know that, I know that.’ He glared at Edward as though he had challenged him. ‘To see the other point of view is, of course, a great weakness, it saps the strength to make decisions, paralyses the will to act . . . but sometimes I wonder whether the alternative is that one’s own balance . . .’
‘Do you think,’ said Edward, who was much concerned with balance at that moment, ‘that we might move away from here? I am beginning to feel a little chilly.’ Also, the thought of wading out covered with slime and weeds in front of those dreadful children was more than he could stand.
The man apologized and immediately got up and grasped the punt pole. He was obviously hurt. Edward, who disliked hurting people, said:
‘You are doing all the work; but I’m afraid that I am not good for anything in a boat except sitting back and enjoying myself,’ and he added, with his faint foreign stiffness which always made his compliments sound rather insincere: ‘which I am certainly doing now. How very beautiful all this is. I seem to remember one of your poets . . .’
A flicker of genuine amusement crossed his host’s face and he intoned:
‘God! I will pack, and take a train,
And get me to England once again!
For England’s the one land, I know,
Where men with splendid hearts may go.’
He thrust the punt pole angrily downwards. ‘What was the world like, I wonder, when a man who was not without intelligence could write that?’
‘I don’t think that was the poem I had in mind,’ Edward murmured. ‘It was something to do with the river . . .’
‘It’s all part of the same outpouring.’
It was late afternoon when they drew into the landing stage and already long shadows were invading the fields. The man said softly; ‘When I am very tired and feel inclined to be self-indulgent, I sometimes try to imagine what it would have been like to have lived in that world before the darkness came; not for its intolerable sentimentality, but for its serenity, its absolute assurance . . .’ He drew in the punt pole and looked down at Edward; his mouth was trembling and there was a faint flush in his cheeks. ‘Meeting you has been a great pleasure. I don’t know why you are doing this, but it isn’t for money, or power, or whatever it is that drives a man like Vickers . . .’
Edward sensed, as he looked into the solemn face, that some kind of an appeal was being made to him. The man saw the sudden wariness in Edward’s eyes, but he was too desperate to withdraw now.
‘You feel, as I do, that this is necessary, that it is not simply a squalid intrigue. But I . . . I need an injection of courage. You are so certain, so tranquil. Won’t you tell me how you came to make your decision, what it was that first made you feel you had to do this, whatever the risk, the appalling loneliness . . .’
‘I suppose,’ Edward answered, ‘that mine is a simple case of blackmail.’
It is the eyes that betray, and the thick-lensed glasses blurred whatever emotion was there at that moment. The man bent down to tie up the boat and Edward saw the reflection in the water, the face crumpled, seeming to fall apart.
That night, as he lay in the strange room in the hotel, he found himself thinking of the man; and then the man became confused with other people, people from the past. As Edward went to sleep, he was telling himself: ‘I must be careful, I must be careful.’ The words echoed in his mind all night so that sleep never fully claimed him; but he knew that he would not always be so fortunate and that sooner or later the dreams would come.
Chapter Three
I
Jessica’s brother, Jeremy, arrived at 10 Cedar Crescent at half-past five on the evening when Edward’s guests were expected. He stood beside his new M.G. staring up at the house, an immaculately dressed young man with a thin, uncertain face which belied the assurance of his clothes. No one watching him at that moment, as he gazed resentfully around him, would have thought that he had returned voluntarily to his childhood home.
Why he still came back was something of a mystery even to him; it had all changed so much, faded, crumbled . . . But there was some part of himself buried here; a part of himself which, like the old house, had hoped for better things. It was for this reason that he had to see Jessica occasionally, because she was the one link with the old, lost magic on which, in spite of his feverish quest for success, he did not dare completely to turn his back. He knew, however, from bitter experience that these visits usually resulted in a bout of self-disapproval; and so, as he went up the steps, he was already on his guard. Even so, he received a shock as he opened the door. There were dust sheets on the stairs and a most unprofessional-looking scaffolding across the landing; a trestle table was wedged across the far end of the corridor, cluttered with tins and brushes; and the whole place reeked of paint. Jeremy was amazed to see that instead of replacing the old paintwork with something equally sombre, Jessica had chosen a glaring off-white. He felt annoyed. At least she might have consulted him before obliterating what little remained of his past. He picked his way carefully up the stairs and hoped that she would not suggest that he should lend a hand.
He found her in the kitchen cutting sandwiches, aided by the girl who had the attic rooms. He stood in the doorway, looking self-conscious and haughty. Jessica led him hurriedly into her study. It struck Jeremy that even here there was an unusual air of confusion. Jessica herself seemed to have been affected; he was used to her rather untidy hair, but not to the agitated expression.
‘You are redecorating,’ he said accusingly.
‘Yes. It suddenly struck me that it was all rather funereal. But now I’m not so sure.’ She appealed to him with unusual humility. ‘Do say you like it: I’m beginning to lose my nerve.’
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‘It doesn’t seem the same house that we grew up in,’ he grumbled.
‘But I live here,’ she answered, rather as though she were arguing with herself. ‘It’s my house now. I can’t keep on maintaining it just the way it was when we were children.’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘As long as you like it.’ He looked pointedly at the butter dish that she was holding in one hand. ‘You’re not giving a party with all this mess about, surely?’
‘It’s Edward’s party,’ she explained. ‘He arranged it without telling me, and now he has had to go away.’
‘What on earth is that girl doing?’
‘Paddy? She is coming to the party and so she offered to help me.’
‘I would have thought it was bad enough having her round the house, reeking of sex and cheap perfume, without mixing with her socially.’
‘Apparently it is George Vickers who mixes with her socially. I had no idea it was going on until today.’
‘I expect he can look after himself.’
‘I’m sure he can. I just hope he can look after her as well.’ She put the butter dish down on top of a pile of papers on her desk and turned to Jeremy, seeming to take in his presence for the first time. ‘Would you like to stay? Or is Phyllis expecting you back early?’
‘I doubt whether I should be a great success with Edward’s friends.’
‘I don’t suppose they would notice you,’ she answered in her usual tactless way. ‘They all sit around and gabble Polish.’
Jeremy, who was embarrassed by Jessica’s affair with Edward, sought another subject. He had come with a definite piece of news, but he wanted to get Jessica in a receptive mood first of all, so he said:
