The Protagonists

by James Barlow

‘I haven’t seen her since she was married. She married against our wishes more than eleven years ago.’

  ‘When did you last hear from her?’

  ‘Three weeks ago.’

  ‘Was she well?’

  ‘Well? Yes, as far as I know.’

  ‘Where did the letter come from?’

  ‘It came from a block of flats in Birlchester.’

  ‘She lives there with her husband?’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t read anything to the contrary. You see, this is the first letter we’ve ever had. It was as we thought – the marriage became a failure, a misery. I’ll show you the letter. Will you wait? Another hour, but it will be worth it.’

  ‘I’ll wait. Was she married in your church?’

  ‘Oh, dear me, no. He hates us, that young man does. No feelings at all. Just the body. There was a girl in the village – What has he done?’

  ‘He has killed a girl.’

  The priest gasped. ‘You have proof?’

  ‘Not really,’ said MacIndoe. ‘We have circumstantial evidence, a few witnesses who saw him with the victim half an hour before … And we have the girl’s diary which exposes the whole trick. It’s just possible – but myself I know he’s guilty. He told the girl that he had a wife called Evelyn in a lunatic asylum. That’s why I asked you –’

  ‘That’s his technique,’ said the priest. ‘That’s typical of his cynicism. He has a sort of cunning charm – he deceived us for months during that year. Was this girl – a wicked one?’

  ‘No,’ said MacIndoe. ‘A trifle foolish, perhaps, but she was in love with him. She was a religious girl. It took weeks of persuading and lying to –’

  ‘You must not inform me,’ said the priest quickly. ‘So many unbearable things happen to the religious in our time that I am forced to wonder if the other side could win. We have taken it so much for granted that God’s side is the stronger, must inevitably win. … And then, you see, if you tell me of the cruelty he inflicted on a foolish girl I shall, with my prejudiced, parental imagination, be able to picture with terrible clarity what Evelyn had to endure.’

  MacIndoe said, ‘But love, surely, can endure anything and survive?’

  ‘It wasn’t that kind of love,’ explained the priest. ‘Love?’ He mused on the word. ‘I am very tired of the misunderstanding of love, the deliberate misinterpretation by the world. I am sick of that kind of love. It confronts me on the hoardings and the newspapers; it jokes about its sanctity on the radio; it is in desperate pursuit of more energy, stronger soap, sweeter breath, more money, deeper sleep, and new, attractive means to stupefy and seduce; it is implied in implications within implications, so that one can scarcely hear a word or examine a paragraph without being led to sense abandonment and the grinding of bodies in a bed. The one thing it does not desire is sacrifice – the word is never mentioned. I sometimes wonder why they still come to us priests. Why do they continue to desire a holy bondage in this building they’ll never visit again? Do you think we have stressed God’s mercy so much that they have come to rely on it entirely? I talk to the young ones when they’ve seen the verger and fixed the details. Love is the world, I tell them, believing it still, and meaning His sort of love. But many of them snigger and their eyes are hot and they venture outside and say, “What an old fool,” and then fondle each other in the bushes, and presume we do not know … And when illness or death or unhappiness comes through their own mistakes and sins they complain and say God shouldn’t allow it … And I don’t see them again … Love, did you say? It is too large a thing for this most physical of generations. But never mind me – by their standards I am a sick old man.’

  ‘Surely,’ protested MacIndoe, ‘you cannot be so bitter because of one man and one girl, even though the girl was your own daughter? I am a police officer and know of much suffering. Yet my impression is still that the vast majority of ordinary – let alone extraordinary – people are capable of great love and sacrifice for each other and others beyond themselves … This is a generation that badly wants the truth. It has good qualities – a hatred of cruelty, for instance. Its own cynical humour frees it from the pomp of its predecessors …’

  The priest stared at MacIndoe again, a wan smile in the green, myopic eyes. ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘You are a man who presumably has seen much evil without it hurting you. Tell me, do you think a man like that can be made in the image of God?’

  MacIndoe started in something like fear. ‘You ask me that?’

  ‘Yes, yes. This is not a moment for polite conversation. I am an old man and I am hurt. I have worked hard all my life and I do not think my sincerity has penetrated a single soul. We seem all on our own in the end.’

  ‘I suppose,’ said MacIndoe, seeing in his mind the emotionless, proud, callous face of Mrs Fortescue, ‘that there were many moments before the world reached him. When he was a baby, a small child –’

  ‘Will you see Evelyn?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Go to see her. She’s a good girl. This man had to marry her – the baby died. Oh, what piteous, weak things humans are. How they crave someone to admire them … They will sacrifice the universe. And knowing all the time that the man is evil … It seemed such an unbearable affront to the compassion of God.’

  ‘Shall I tell her to come home?’

  ‘You will see her, won’t you? We’d lost touch for years, and then this letter came. I thank God for it. Yes, tell her, persuade her to come home. My wife –’

  ‘I will tell her.’

  ‘And listen. You’re a good man. (I saw you praying.) Try to convince him that it was wrong – not just legally mistaken, but wrong. I couldn’t begin to penetrate him – he was in love with himself and evil.’

  ‘It’s very difficult. There are rules.’

  ‘Yes, but try.’

  ‘Do you mink it would make a difference?’

  ‘He’s going to die, isn’t he? Any small penitence might make a difference.’

  MacIndoe read Evelyn Fortescue’s letter an hour later. It was written from a block of flats in north-east Birlchester:

  MY DEAREST PARENTS,

  It is a long time since you have heard from me. I make no apology – we all know why it has been so. I have had a great deal of unhappiness during the years since I left you – you said I would – and would not have had the courage to write to you if that unhappiness had not become meaningless. And I have been thinking for weeks that there are still two persons in the world who love me and would wish to know that I have not forgotten them.

  I was happy in my marriage for several years. I am sure you do not begrudge me that: it is every girl’s wish. Then I found out that Roy had been unfaithful to me with a woman at our tennis club – a Mrs Saunders; she was married too. We quarrelled, but I forgave Roy. Then I learned that unfaithfulness was a habit of his; his idea of sin was being found out. When I learned that only two years after our marriage he had been seducing airwomen – then my unhappiness began, for it meant that I had never meant anything to him. His letters to me at the time had been passionate and descriptive: I had thought they’d described me.

  You can imagine the rest of it. I never knew before that one person – without violence or anger or indeed anything at all – could hurt another quite so much. I became ill and remained so for a long rime. It took long years to find happiness in another way. I live now in a world he cannot damage: among books, music, a few friends and the Church. He is so absorbed in his own world – it includes other women, I know – that he can just about observe the day-to-day hypocrisy.

  I want you to tell me that you forgive me. Dear father, was it a sin to love someone who is evil? I do not love him now, of course, but intend to stand by him. Some day he must become sick of himself and turn to me. Then I could try to undo all the evil …


  Please write. I am longing so much to hear that you are both well, and that you forgive.

  Your loving daughter,

  EVELYN

  MacIndoe, handing back the letter to the vicar, said, ‘You must have been very glad to have received that letter.’

  ‘We were.’

  ‘It will still hurt her, of course. Some of her love probably remains.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I see that. She has courage too. She would have stood by him and tried –’

  ‘I shall tell her to come home,’ said MacIndoe. ‘It’s too late to save him. This is where she belongs. Do you know where this man works?’

  ‘He used to work for a shipping company.’

  ‘Do you know which one?’

  ‘I have all the details somewhere. You’ll stay to lunch, of course. ‘I’ll tell you all I can.’

  MacIndoe drove at great speed back to Middleshire. At the offices of the shipping company he learned that Roy Fortescue was no longer an employee. He also learned a number of other things about Fortescue.

  At Almond Vale police station Baker and Maddocks were waiting in some excitement. ‘We think we’ve got him,’ Baker said. ‘A chemist along Almond Vale Road says that a man – name unknown – from the Perfecta Soap Company calls in a red sports. Their place is closed on Saturday afternoons, but we’ve obtained the names of the directors and the district manager. We’ve been waiting an hour for you.’

  MacIndoe smiled. ‘Thank you. I’ve found out his name and address.’

  ‘Was it the pilot?’

  ‘Yes; it was.’

  ‘He wasn’t dead?’

  MacIndoe detailed his journey and explained about the live, sane Evelyn. ‘I’m not wasting any time about this. Other people may be in danger. Let’s go and get him.’

  ‘Are you going to arrest?’

  ‘No; not straight away. It depends on him, really. We’ll question him first … Inspector, will you bring the impression Dr Baxter made? If we should see the wife first, we’ll obtain the name of his dentist, and perhaps you’d go straight there.’

  They were driven the twenty miles to north east Birlchester in an official police car. MacIndoe jumped to the pavement with surprising agility – as though seconds counted. A few passers-by stopped and stared in curiosity. In the main entrance hall was a list of the tenants. Fortescue’s flat was on the second floor. MacIndoe operated the lift. They were silent, despite the absence of other passengers. Each felt the tension and was impatient with the slow movement of the lift.

  The number of the flat was eleven and the name was in a small brass bracket: R. M. Fortescue. MacIndoe tapped lightly on the door.

  A woman of about thirty, perhaps more, answered the knock quickly, as if she had been waiting for someone. The woman, who must be Evelyn Fortescue, did not answer to the mental picture MacIndoe had formed of her. She was good-looking in a taut, intense way, with an attractive, even arrogant face; she looked quite capable of looking after herself. She wore excellent clothes and shoes, adding to the impression of smartness. If he had not read her letter, MacIndoe would never have divined that she was an unhappy person or an unselfish one: she looked too worldly to be either. It was even possible that he might have disliked her.

  She stared at the three detectives in frank curiosity, and MacIndoe’s analytical pause was so prolonged that she said, ‘Well?’

  ‘Mrs Fortescue?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘We’re police officers. Is your husband in?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I think he’s playing tennis. Is there anything I can do for you?’

  ‘You could give us some information.’

  ‘Will you come in?’

  Mrs Fortescue led the three officers through a hall into a lounge. Everything was in what is known as good taste; but it’s not a home to relax in, MacIndoe thought; it’s an illustration from a glossy magazine. Mrs Fortescue had evidently been writing a letter; she moved now to a small table and closed a writing pad. ‘Do sit down,’ she said, relaxing herself. The men remained standing. ‘Is this something serious?’ she asked when she noticed it.

  ‘Mrs Fortescue, do you know where your husband was on the afternoon of July 26th – that is, last Tuesday?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t.’

  ‘Not at all?’

  ‘You mean somewhere specific, don’t you? He’s a traveller, you see, and might be anywhere in Middleshire.’

  ‘Did he come home for lunch that day?’

  ‘He never comes home for lunch. Don’t you think it would be a better idea to tell me what this is about and let me help you? I shan’t try to trick you; and you can always tell when I lie, because I blush.’

  ‘What time did he come home on that day?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask him?’

  ‘He’s not here.’

  ‘It was about five. He was rather early for a Tuesday.’

  ‘He’s usually late on Tuesdays?’

  ‘Are you asking me or telling me?’

  ‘I was asking you, Mrs Fortescue.’

  ‘I’m sorry if I seem rude, but if you will treat me like a child –’

  ‘Was he agitated at all when he came home?’

  ‘No. Quite the contrary. He was exceptionally –’

  ‘Exceptionally what?’

  ‘This is a ridiculous conversation, or whatever you call these things. I was going to say he was exceptionally tender. Is that against the Traffic Regulations?’

  ‘His behaviour was normal?’

  ‘It was quite civilized. He asked me –’ She stopped and then said, ‘Oh, no. That was another day.’

  ‘What did he ask you?’

  ‘Well, if you must know such silly details, he wanted a bath.’

  Maddocks said, ‘Have you an immersion heater or central heating?’

  ‘No. We’re very primitive.’

  ‘Then he asked you to light a fire?’

  ‘You’re too subtle for me. Anyway, the weather was too hot, so we didn’t have a fire. As a matter of fact,’ said Mrs Fortescue brightly, ‘he was a Boy Scout and can make his own fires.’

  ‘Mrs Fortescue,’ said MacIndoe, ‘we appreciate your loyalty, but we can’t tell you what this is about. Quite frankly, it’s so important that as police officers we simply have to retain the advantage of what information we have.’

  The woman blanched. ‘Then I’m not answering any more questions until my disadvantage is removed. It isn’t really fair, is it? You’re treating me like a guilty person.’

  MacIndoe said as gently as possible, ‘We know only too well, Mrs Fortescue, that you are an innocent person – a victim even.’

  She stood up, angry in apprehension. ‘You’ll probably find my husband at the Wellington Tennis Club. It’s not far away. I’ll leave you to find it yourself, as you obviously enjoy playing detectives.’

  ‘I’m not enjoying this, Mrs Fortescue,’ MacIndoe said truthfully. ‘Has your husband ever mentioned the name Olwen Hughes?’

  The young woman gripped the edge of the small table. One of her legs began to quiver. It trembled at a tremendous rate, while its partner remained quite still. Mrs Fortescue said hoarsely, ‘That’s the girl –’

  ‘Exactly.’

  She said earnestly, as if pointing out a flaw in an argument, ‘But you asked what Roy was doing on Tuesday … Surely you don’t think –’ She gave a brief, hysterical laugh. ‘Well, do you?’

  MacIndoe said, ‘I’m terribly sorry, Mrs Fortescue, but we do.’

  Evelyn had become very pale. Her one calf still fluttered at intervals, occasionally stopping altogether as if she had regained control of the muscle, although she wa
s probably completely unaware of the fluctuation. Her mouth was too rigid for her to speak naturally; it was as if she had become acutely aware of it so that each word was formed with difficulty. ‘He’s never mentioned her name,’ she said.

  ‘Has he ever mentioned any of their names?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘I mean, has your husband ever mentioned the names of the women he’s been with?’

  ‘Do you want to gossip about my husband? Is that it? And do you expect me to join in?’

  ‘Mrs Fortescue, a girl has been murdered. She mentioned your husband’s name in her diary in a way that gives foundation for something more than gossip. She said –’

  ‘I don’t want to bear what some shop-girl said.’

  ‘It wasn’t the real name, of course, but the false one. She wrote down in pitiful sincerity that this Roy Harrison, commercial traveller with a red sports car, ex-bomber pilot at Little Over Aerodrome, wanted to marry her; and that he would when his wife Evelyn died in the asylum in which she had resided for the last year or two. What are we to think of that? Should we dismiss it as gossip? What do you think, Mrs Fortescue? How far do you think you should carry your loyalty?’

  Evelyn sat down again and stared abstractedly at the grate. ‘Tell me, Inspector – or whatever you are: I expect you’re quite high up in the hierarchy – tell me, would you betray your wife if someone came round to question you?’

  MacIndoe said, ‘If she were ill, I would get a doctor.’

  ‘That wasn’t what I asked.’

  ‘Well, no, Mrs Fortescue, I suppose I wouldn’t; I’d try to persuade her to walk to the nearest police station of her own accord. I’d suffer badly until she did.’

  ‘And if she didn’t?’

  ‘I’d wait until they came to fetch her.’

  ‘Suppose they didn’t?’

  ‘That doesn’t arise in your own case, does it? We have only to wait here and Mr Fortescue will come home. Or we can go now to the tennis club you mentioned – the Wellington, was it?’