An Afternoon to Kill

by Shelley Smith

  ‘And all at once we were back in the nightmare of a few weeks back, with Dr Scott and the policemen. By a little miracle no bones were broken except for her collar-bone. She was chiefly suffering from a very severe concussion. She was put to bed and a nurse installed. Papa sat by her bedside looking grey. I wanted to comfort his sad heart but did not know what to say. Something was irrecoverably broken between us. I could no longer be natural with him, I had become afraid.

  ‘Papa saw the police first. He was closeted with them for a considerable while. They sent for Harry next. He came out white to the lips. He had only time to say to me hopelessly as I passed: “They’ve got my poems! They think I killed her!”

  ‘I entered the morning-room where the police were waiting, with my mind in a turmoil. I knew he had written poetry to Sophia, but I had no notion of its content or how far it committed him. And what worried me was what he meant by his last sentence: “They think I killed her!” Who was the her? Did they suspect him of killing Sophia or Lucy? It made a difference, because Sophia was dead, and that meant murder. Whereas Lucy, I suppose, could only have been “attempted homicide”. I wished dearly I had had time to ask him a few questions, to prepare myself for the policemen’s queries.

  ‘Mr Pierce pulled out a chair for me almost jovially, as though we were old friends.

  ‘“I understand,” he said, “that you were an eye-witness to what occurred and we should like to have your account of it. It must have been a very unpleasant shock for you, Mrs Bridgewater; take your time.”

  ‘“I’m all right, thank you,” I said. “But I’m afraid I don’t really know what did happen. I was taking a little constitutional as I always do if it’s fine about that time of day. And I heard a scream. I looked up and saw my sister at the window. She appeared to be backing away from my brother, as it might be in play. I think she did not realise how close she was to the open window. I wanted to call out and warn her, but before I could do so, she fell.” I put my hands over my eyes.

  ‘“In your opinion she fell rather than was pushed?”

  ‘“I did not see my brother push her.”

  ‘“Did he touch her at all?”

  ‘“I think he had a hand on her shoulder and she was wriggling to get free,” I said consideringly.

  ‘“Your brother says that he had her by both shoulders and was shaking her.”

  ‘“Oh! Did he?” I said indifferently.

  ‘“That was not how it seemed to you?”

  ‘“If he says it was like that it must have been.”

  ‘“Could you see your sister’s expression?”

  ‘“No. She had her back to the window.”

  ‘“Your brother then, was facing you? Am I right?”

  ‘“Yes.”

  ‘“Did he look as if he was only playing?” Mr Pierce said deliberately.

  ‘He certainly did not look as if he was going to push her out of the window,” I countered tartly.

  ‘“Do you know what they were quarrelling about?”

  ‘“I’ve no idea. I did not even know they were quarrelling.”

  ‘“Thank you, ma’am; we won’t keep you any longer.”

  ‘There was a policeman stationed outside Lucy’s door, waiting to be called the instant she came to herself. And presently his colleagues went away and left him there on duty.

  ‘I went all over the garden looking for Harry in the dark and calling him softly. I found him in the stable loft, sitting moodily on a bin of oats, drinking Dutch gin out of a bottle the stable-boy had procured for him. There was a lantern in the straw beside him.

  ‘“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” I said. “Make room for me, Harry.”

  ‘“Leave me alone, Blanche! I don’t want company.”

  ‘I knelt down clumsily in the straw at his feet.

  ‘“Harry,’ I said, touching him gently. “What happened?”

  ‘“Ask the police,” he answered surlily. “They know all about it.”

  ‘I said timidly, “Do they think you — you were trying to — kill her?”

  ‘The quiet gloom was suddenly torn across by Harry’s strident unkind laughter.

  ‘“Why not? Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb! I would have killed the little beast for two pins, I swear.” He tipped up the bottle again from bravado and to avoid meeting my eye.

  ‘“Why were you so angry with her, Harry? What had she done?”

  ‘“Know what she’d done, little beast? Shown my poems, stolenem out of private place and shownem to Pa ... Old man sent for me, asked me straight out, ’thout a word of warning, what the hell — pardon! — was all about. Kewsed me delibritly of being in love with her ... Hated her, I said, cruellest woman alive! Good thing she’s dead! No more damage to other people. Thass what I said ... Meaning of these outrageous pomes, sir? he said. Hel’ my tongue. Wise old bird, the owl ... He said, that any son of mine ... !” Harry struck an attitude and nearly fell off the bin. “Hey!” he cried. “Give me back my boddle!”

  ‘“I want a drink, Harry, don’t be stingy,” I said, holding it in my lap so that the liquid trickled out of the neck into the pool of shadow at my skirts.

  ‘“Go on,” I whispered. “What about Lucy?”

  ‘“All her fault, the beastly little sneak. Frightened the life out of her. Meant to half murder her but the silly little ass fell.”

  ‘“It was an accident. You didn’t push her, Harry, did you?”

  ‘“Stupid donkey pulled away. Only giving her a good shaking. Gimme back my boddle, Blanche!”

  ‘“Don’t drink any more, dear.”

  ‘“Better a merry ole drunkard be

  Than swing alive from the murderer’s tree!”

  he chortled. “Made that up ’bout the Sheridans. All rotten. Disown Robert, disown Harry. Blackguards,” he muttered more and more incoherently, his huge shadow lurching across the cobwebbed whitewashed roof. I closed the door of the lantern and made my way down the ladder.

  ‘I don’t know what time Harry went to bed. I never heard him come in. But he was himself the next day, though unnaturally pale and subdued.

  ‘Lucy did not regain consciousness till noon that day. It happened we were all there in her room, except Oliver, when she opened her eyes. The nurse bent over and spoke to her softly. She did not answer, her eyes looked vague and unfocused. Papa picked up her limp childish hand and patted it gently. His face loomed before her and suddenly she seemed to recognise it and smiled. The nurse persuaded her to take some broth. She watched us with a puzzled look as she absently imbibed it, wondering what we were all doing there. The policeman came to her side with his notebook. A look of fear flicked into the child’s eyes.

  ‘“Now, miss, can you tell us what happened?”

  ‘“Happened?” she said in a wisp of a voice.

  ‘“What is the last thing you remember?” he suggested.

  ‘She thought painfully for a moment. And then, “Harry ... ” she whispered.

  ‘“What about Harry?”

  ‘“Very angry with me. Up in the nursery. I was frightened.” She moved her head from side to side. “He hurt me,” she whimpered.

  ‘“What did you do?”

  ‘“I said, Don't, Harry! Don't!" she said in a small terror-stricken voice.

  ‘“Why were you so afraid? Can you remember?”

  ‘“I was afraid ... afraid ... He was hurting ... And then I saw the ground coming after me,” she said, shrinking into the pillows with a look of terror. “I fell out of the window, didn’t I?”

  ‘The nurse said, “Now that is enough, if you please. We shall be getting hysterical in a minute.”

  ‘“One question more,” said the constable. “How did you come to fall, miss, do you know?”

  ‘“I don’t understand,” she said childishly.

  ‘“I mean, missie, did you slip and lose your bal
ance in some way? Or did it feel as if you were ... pushed?”

  ‘She looked across the room at us.

  ‘“I was pushed,” she said clearly. “Harry pushed me.”

  ‘Harry thrust forward and as he passed her bedside spat out scornfully: “Liar! Little liar!” and pushed from the room as the nurse said in brisk offended tones:

  ‘“Now, now, that’s quite enough of that! I can’t have my patient upset.” And she shooed the lot of us from the room.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  MEMORY OF THE FIRST MRS SHERIDAN

  ‘I suppose it was the silly child’s idea of revenge; she could not have known what she was implying; she could not have intended to harm her brother,’ the old lady said meditatively. ‘We cannot now know whether they had enough evidence to have arrested poor Harry anyway. I mean, for the murder of his stepmother. For that must have been in the back of their minds all the time, of course, once they had seen the verses he had composed about her — or rather, what he felt about her. You know what policemen are like; the mere writing of poetry is suspect to them, regardless of content.

  ‘Perhaps they imagined that if he was arrested he might break down and confess. They did have something to go on after all, one must admit in all fairness to them. He had plainly been in love with her, and the love was of an unhappy illicit nature (vide the poems); moreover he was the person who owned the cyanide, had even purchased some only a short while before the catastrophe, and knew of necessity its deadly qualities. Whatever his motive may have been, he was clearly the person who had most knowledge and opportunity to obtain the poison.

  ‘Yes, I can see their point now, though I admit I could not then. Poor Harry, I was there when they arrested him, “for causing Lucy Sheridan bodily harm of malicious intent”. He said nothing, but he went a deathly white and looked across at me.

  ‘I said, “Harry dear, it’s a mistake. Of course it’s a mistake. We all know you didn’t do it. Don’t be afraid!”

  ‘“I shall never come back,” he answered.

  ‘I was shocked.

  ‘“Harry! Dear Harry! Of course you will,” I said, clinging to him.

  ‘“I shall not come back here again,” he insisted. “Too much has happened. Tell Father — ” he began and then he shrugged his shoulders. “No. What does it matter what he thinks?” he said wearily and let them lead him away.

  ‘I went straight to Lucy at once.

  ‘“They’re taking Harry away,” I said gravely.

  ‘She held a lock of hair across her face and squinted at me through it.

  ‘“Oh?” she said, measuring the tress down her nose.

  ‘“You’ve succeeded nicely.”

  ‘“In what?” she asked with careful indifference.

  ‘“In ruining your own life, as well as your brother’s.”

  ‘“I don’t know what you mean,” she said sulkily.

  ‘She was a little girl, you see, coming to the age where one’s head is full of romance. I said, “Do you imagine any man is going to marry a girl whose brother has been in prison?”

  ‘At that she pushed the hair off her face and sat up, round-eyed.

  ‘“Prison!” She stared at me wildly. “Blanche!” she quavered.

  ‘“Of course,” I said. “Of course he must go to prison. You told the police that he pushed you out of the window when you were quarrelling.”

  ‘She burst into a torrent of grief.’

  ‘“He didn’t!” she cried. “He didn’t! He didn’t. Make them bring him back, Blanche! Tell them I didn’t mean it. I made a mistake ... I made a mistake!”

  ‘The police were annoyed with Lucy, naturally enough, but there was nothing they could do. They had to let him go. They could not hold him on that charge, and they had not accumulated enough evidence, I suppose, to hold him on any other.

  ‘So Harry came home — despite what he said. He could not do otherwise, poor angry boy, for until the crime was solved no one in the household was allowed to leave the neighbourhood. I don’t believe he cared a bit about the police suspecting him, I think it gave him a certain sardonic amusement. And after all it was their job. What he did mind terribly, with all the proud innocence of youth, was that Father could bring himself to imagine for an instant that his own son would have betrayed him. Under their proper love for each other the long-smouldering antagonism caused by Sophia flamed up suddenly into hatred. He now hated his father as much as Papa hated him. All he wanted now was to leave home and Papa and all of us behind him for ever, he burned to get away.

  ‘He stuck it sullenly, doggedly, for three days, and then in the dark interlude between moons, some time in the middle of the night, he disappeared. He left the house silently, without a sign. He left no word behind him, even for me. Apparently he took nothing with him except, I suppose, a few private papers. His clothes were all left hanging in the closet, like the abandoned shells of an old life, something he would no longer have any use for.

  ‘Harry’s disappearance threw us into the wildest confusion. We feared he had made away with himself. If he had even left the briefest note ... And the police refused to believe that we were none of us privy to his departure. They were furious, with the ludicrous fury of a cat who has let a mouse slip through her paws and escape.

  ‘For a week at least we lived in dread of hearing that his body had been washed up somewhere along the coast. Then there was a rumour that a carter had given him a lift five miles from Harwich. But nothing more came of that. (It was years before I heard what had happened: it seems he had walked to Harwich, arriving in the early hours just when the port was beginning to stir and had immediately signed on with a merchantman bound for Penang.)

  ‘Meanwhile we could not know whether he had run away or was dead. And although I was stunned by the shock of it, I was also aware of a creeping shameful surge of relief. For I imagined that now the investigation would be closed.

  Wouldn’t the police regard Harry’s flight or suicide as a declaration of guilt? Wouldn’t they assume that from lack of evidence the case could not be pursued any further? Alas, the police are a breed of bulldogs; they never let go. I did not dream that they were still making their enquiries. I had even begun to hope the affair was quietly and unobtrusively blowing over, exhausting itself.

  ‘But there were two things I had not realised.

  ‘One was that nothing was ever going to be the same again. That life would never again be normal for any of us. That people never forget.

  ‘I had taken the landau to the village, because I was beginning to look ungainly, and stopped at Cornstalks’, the haberdashers, for some small necessities. It was buzzing with voices when I entered and made my way to the counter; I saw Mrs Gifford, Mrs Avery, Miss Nuthall turning their heads away as I came towards them; only the assistant was left at the counter I visited, all the ladies had melted away; I became suddenly conscious that the shop was heavily silent, as though it was full of wax dummies watching me from the backs of their heads. I found it required an enormous effort to complete my business, and when I got back to the carriage my legs were trembling.

  ‘That unfortunate little expedition made me wonder for the first time what was going to happen to us all. I knew my husband was inwardly chafing to get away, though he scarcely spoke to me except to answer when I spoke. All day he would lie in sullen apathy on the striped sofa in the drawing-room, drinking brandy and seltzer and pretending to study one of his law-books, but his eyes would gaze vacantly at a page for an hour before he would remember to turn it.

  ‘So I went to Papa and said I must speak to him. I forced him to listen. I told him that we should have to leave this house, this village, and start life again in some place where we were quite unknown just as soon as the investigation was concluded.

  ‘He looked at me as if I were some impertinent stranger.

  ‘“What for?”

  ‘“Papa, you have not be
en out for a long while, not since ... you do not know how people ... this scandal has made them talk ... ”

  ‘“They say? What say they? Let them say,” quoth Papa indifferently.

  ‘“It is hateful,” I muttered. I bowed my head. “I did not want to tell you this, but three people cut me to-day: Mrs Gifford, Mrs Avery and Miss Nuthall.”

  ‘“Do you imagine that a pack of chattering females can frighten me out of my home, my dear girl?” he said in his heavy tired voice.

  ‘I said unhappily:

  ‘“Oliver wants to leave just as soon as we are allowed to. I expect he will want to live in London. I shall have to go with him.”

  ‘“Of course, of course.”

  ‘“I can’t leave you here alone,” I said desperately.

  ‘“Why not, pray?” he asked with a shadow on his face like a smile.

  ‘“I can’t leave you shut up here alone to become a sort of hermit.”

  ‘“My dear child, what can it matter what becomes of me now? I am an old man with nothing left to look forward to but death. My life is over.”

  ‘I flew to him.

  ‘“Papa, don’t say that! You mustn’t! You mustn’t be so unhappy. We’ll help each other to forget all the terrible things that have happened. Please say we will, Papa! I couldn’t bear to live without you, indeed I couldn’t!”

  ‘He lifted my arms away.

  ‘“Nonsense, my dear!” he said coldly. “You are young. All your life is still before you. You have your husband, and the future of your child to live for. It is your duty to put the past behind you and consider them.”

  ‘My heart’s beating was an agonising pain in my breast. I stood before him stupidly like a stone and said faintly:

  ‘“Papa, what have I done? Don’t you love me any more?”

  ‘He rested his eyes consideringly for a moment or two on my white face, as though the question had not occurred to him before. Then he said:

  ‘“I am not able to love you. I am no longer able to care for anyone — or anything. When once one’s heart is dead one has nothing left to love with.”