by Julian Gloag
And he had won his scholarship—exhibition, rather.
Annie, whose mother was Sibley’s postmistress, had brought the telegram with her up to work at the rectory one morning just after Christmas.
And Annie had been the first to know—the only person it mattered should know.
“Jordan, I’m so pleased.” She had touched his arm.
He had not been able to stop smiling, from Annie to the telegram and back to Annie.
“Wouldn’t Colonel John have been proud!” she had said.
“I’d never have got it if it hadn’t been for Uncle John.” And he had told her in a sudden expansive flurry about the interview. And then he knew that for some reason she wanted to cry.
She had said quickly, “I must get on with my work. And you’ll want to be telling Miss Freeman and the Rector.”
“No. No—I don’t want to tell them yet.” He could already imagine Trevor’s damply fervid congratulations and Mary’s praise, barbed with some moralistic axiom. “No, they can wait.” It was not their satisfaction, but his own. “I’d like to—I’ll tell you what. Let’s ride over to Istoke Park this afternoon. We could go to the flicks later on and have dinner at the Grange.”
“I couldn’t, Jordan. Really. You know I’ve got to study in the afternoons.”
“Oh, come on, Annie. Forget the books. Let’s have a bit of fun…”
“Come on, Maddox. Solicitors’ room for you,” said Prison Officer Denver from the doorway.
The door of his room was left unlocked nearly all the time now. Presumably they had decided he was harmless, although he was quite often observed from the barred trap, which was shut at night to leave only a small peephole.
“Okay,” he said, “I’m ready.”
“Quite a popular demand for you, Maddox,” said Denver, handing him over to another prison officer, who escorted him on his journey to the solicitors’ room.
Tom was waiting. “Thank you, thank you,” he said to the officer, who might have been a porter delivering a piece of baggage. “How are you, old man?”
“Alright.” Jordan sat down. He looked up at the square of grey morning light high in the wall. The room was lit by a single bulb, its flex hanging lankly from the ceiling.
“Getting enough exercise and all that?”
Jordan was used by now to Tom’s probing of his sexual deprivation. Others in the prison did it too—particularly the psychiatrist—but not with Tom’s salacity. “Like to tell me a bit about your sex life?” the psychiatrist had said at their first meeting. When Jordan had refused, the psychiatrist had smiled, his thin, rather sharp face twisting with sincerity. “I’m not a policeman, you know. All this is absolutely confidential. Prostitutes?”
“No,” Jordan had said flatly, for he realised the man was more interested in the way he spoke than in what he actually said.
“Marital sexual adjustment quite satisfactory then?”
When Jordan answered that it was normal, the psychiatrist’s steady stare had flickered momentarily, as though he had found the key to a dark mystery.
“What?”
“I say, you’re quite comfortable then?” repeated Tom.
“No complaints, sir.”
“Ha-ha!” The mildest crack got a good deal of laughter from Tom now: Jordan wondered vaguely whether he had been a good choice of solicitor. Beneath his abrupt jollity, Tom not very effectively concealed a hard, unillusioned mind which sometimes moved close to contempt for people who did not press logic to its bitter, or profitable, end. But now Tom, with all the earnestness of a newly commissioned subaltern with his first platoon, was forcing a companionate humanity that Jordan found tiring.
“Bartlett’s coming to see you this afternoon.”
“Oh—why?”
“You should at least be acquainted with your defence counsel. He’s a very good man, Jordan, very good. I don’t think we could have done better. We’ve had several briefing conferences—he’s got a really first-rate mind.” He hesitated and then went on. “He’s a mite worried about one or two things.”
“Such as what?”
“Well, that second statement—the one you made on March the sixteenth. It’s not that it doesn’t chime with the first one, but … well, there’s so much more to it. So much more detail. If only you’d told them the whole thing before that damned skin test. Of course the beak admitted it at the preliminary examination, but Bartlett thinks there might be a good chance of excluding it.”
“But why, Tom? Surely we don’t have to go over this again. The statement was true. And even if it is excluded, the same ground will have to be covered.”
“Ah yes, but it will be different when you’re in the witness box. I mean there will be no question of duress then, or—”
“Oh Tom!” Jordan closed his eyes.
“Alright, old man. I won’t press. By the way, Bartlett thinks it’s a very important point in our favour that there were no fingerprints on that key.”
Jordan opened his eyes. “Why?” He felt he should pacify Tom, whose irritation could almost be heard bubbling beneath the surface of his words.
“If there are no fingerprints, they must have been wiped off. Correct? But that doesn’t fit the picture the police want to build up of you as a murderer. After all, for a murderer, you were pretty careless—left clues littered all over the place. The scarf she was done in with, the broken clock, the flowers, fingerprints on the coffee cup. You were very careless, of course, in the heat of passion. Just turned and ran. That will be the prosecution’s line, naturally.” Tom laughed. “But then the question is, why did you go to all the trouble to wipe the key clean? It doesn’t fit the pattern of sudden violence and then panic.”
“But I didn’t touch the key—never saw it.”
“No no, old boy, of course not.” Tom was pleased to have to explain patiently. The more silly questions I ask, Jordan thought, the happier it makes him. “But the prosecution will certainly suggest that you had the key—that you let yourself in with it.”
“But, Tom, if I never handled the key, how on earth could there have been fingerprints on it?”
“That’s not quite the point. You’re confusing what actually happened with the case that is going to be made against you. You have to find the weak points in the prosecution’s case and slam into them hard. The weak point here is that the only way the prosecution can explain the absence of the fingerprints is by suggesting that you wiped the key clean, and that doesn’t—”
“Wait a minute,” said Jordan slowly, knowing as he spoke that it would be better left unsaid. “That’s not the only explanation.”
“Precisely—but the alternative explanation, that you never had or touched the key, opens a serious breach in—”
“No, there’s a third possibility. I might have been wearing gloves.”
“Gloves? In the house?” Tom was suddenly alert, a fat lizard.
“Yes. Until I was in the room. I always wear gloves—keep myself well wrapped up, you know.”
“I see.” Tom took out a tin of Benson and Hedges. He tapped the tin against the edge of the table. “I see.”
“And if I’m asked in the witness box,” Jordan said remorselessly, “I shall have to tell them, won’t I?”
Tom opened the lid and regarded the neat white sleeves of the cigarettes. “I don’t think you need me to advise you on that.” He picked out a cigarette.
“Why not?”
Tom gave a lizard-quick smile. “We lawyers are a pretty stuffy bunch when it comes to ethics. Have one?”
“No, thanks.”
“Drink?”
“What?”
“Would you like a drink?” Tom pulled out a hip flask and grinned, back in command.
Jordan glanced hurriedly over his shoulder at the door. “You can’t—my God, you’ll be in trouble if—”
“Don’t worry, old man, no one’s watching. You and I are guaranteed privacy.” He reached for the glass that stood beside a carafe of st
ale water in the centre of the table.
“But …” He longed for that drink, but “There’ll be hell to pay if you’re caught.”
Tom chuckled. “Not a chance—I never take chances.” He unscrewed the cap and poured a stiff measure into the glass. “Norah gave me this thing when we were married. Never knew what to do with it. Always thought a hip flask was for racing touts. Now I wouldn’t be without it. All these damn businessmen’s meetings I have to go to—some of them never think to offer you a drink. But no one minds if one pops out now and again to the directors’ lavatory. I’ve got quite a reputation for a weak bladder.” He handed the glass to Jordan. “Brandy.”
Jordan swallowed half of it and immediately it soothed the weariness of his bones. “You’re a genius, Tom.”
“Just don’t breathe it all over the screws, that’s all.”
He smiled and drank the rest. “How is Norah?” he asked, pushing the glass over to Tom.
“Better than she’s been in years. Think I’ll have a nip myself. It’s having Willy and Georgia in the house, you know.” He poured a small tot. “It gives her something to do—particularly with Willy away these last couple of days.” He drank and rinsed out the glass with water. “I suppose I sound a bit callous.”
Jordan shook his head. He knew exactly the mechanical confession that was coming, but it didn’t bother him now.
“It would have been different if we’d had children. Norah needed children. Not me—I can look after myself.” He paused. “You’re a lucky man, Jordan. I mean …”
Jordan smiled. “I know what you mean.”
“Willy—a marvellous woman. Bearing up wonderfully. Norah says she wouldn’t believe it. I came up in the train with her the other day. Willy, that is. I must say she’s got guts. You know she tries to cheer me up.” He laughed. “Would you believe it?”
“You two sound as though you’re getting as thick as thieves.”
Tom said, “I’ve always been fond of Willy.”
They were silent for a time. “Well,” said Tom eventually, “is there anything I can get for you? No? I’ll leave you to your—your puzzles. Still doing those puzzles Willy tells me about?”
Jordan nodded.
“You know,” said Tom, standing up, “I’ve been considering a rather curious possibility. June Singer—I wonder, I just wonder if she wasn’t in love with you without your knowing it. Have you thought of that?”
“No.” Jordan shut his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, the well-being instilled by the brandy had vanished. “Would it make any difference if she had been?”
Tom rubbed his chin. “I’m not sure. I don’t imagine it would, perhaps. On the other hand … But it’s an interesting supposition, isn’t it?”
Jordan was terribly tired. He got up. “Yes, very,” he said.
“I thought you might think so. Never can tell where the light may dawn.”
“I heard it always dawned in the east.”
Tom laughed jovially. “It’s a damned good thing you haven’t lost your sense of humour, Jordan, old man.” He suddenly became serious. “Bartlett’s a bit short on humour by the way, but don’t let that worry you. His mind’s as keen as a razor. With his intellect and old Gladding’s tenacity, we won’t go far wrong.”
“Gladding—oh, that’s your clerk. Hasn’t he given up yet?”
“Given up? By God, no! I never see him any more—he’s always out interviewing somebody. We’re trying to see everyone who had anything to do with June Singer, you know. School, secretarial place she was at. The lot. It’s a big job. By the way, if Gladding needs assistance—and he may—would you object to my getting a couple of detectives onto it too?”
“If you like. I don’t mind.”
“I only mention it because it might be rather expensive.”
“I don’t care.”
“Good. Thought you’d see it my way. Don’t you worry, we’ll get a line on the bastard, bound to.”
Jordan smiled stiffly. Encouraging the encourager was the hardest part of it all.
“Well then,” said Tom, “I’ll see you on Wednesday. Willy will be in tomorrow—I talked to her on the phone last night. She sends you her love.”
“Thank you,” said Jordan.
11
The first winter of their marriage at Woodley was dissolving into a bright calm spring. As Jordan stood on the porch, wrapped for the office and watching Willy cutting flowers in the garden, he felt uncomfortable. Galoshes and scarf and coat and gloves and hat (he’d never worn hats) were alright for the winter—but now the mildness had come, they changed him from a cautious man of sense back into a patient. He smiled slightly—a conspicuous consumptive.
“Wives are the best nurses in the world,” Dr. Wilcox was fond of saying. “You get far better care at home than any sanatorium could give you. Far better.” But all the same, the doctor’d had several fatherly chats with Willy about Jordan.
“A normal life,” was another of Wilcox’s favourite phrases. “Just because you’re missing half a lung doesn’t mean you can’t lead a normal life, a perfectly normal life. Got to take care, of course. Wrap up well. Don’t overdo it, that’s all. Don’t overdo it—you know what I mean?”
The first time, Jordan had said, “No. What do you mean?”
“Well, I mean, newlyweds and—er—everything.”
Newlyweds—well, they were. Yet, muffled and coated, he did not feel particularly like a newlywed. He might have been married to Willy for ten years instead of just under one. Their marriage had been established as a comfortable converse almost from the first day, and there had been no interruption.
He breathed in deeply and looked up and down. The trees were still leafless and skeletal, but their bark had the dark, wet look of spring rain. He would plant a few trees one of these days—at the back, to screen the raw new house that was already going up. But not poplars or anything brash. Chestnut. Oak. An oak could last for a thousand years. At Istoke Park there still stood an oak mentioned as a boundary marker in Domesday Book.
Willy was coming towards him briskly. She wore heavy gardening gloves, monstrous clumsy hands at the end of her spindly arms.
“For the office, darling.” She smiled.
“Lovely.” He held out his hand.
“I’ll just put some paper round them.”
“You’ll catch cold in only a cardigan.”
“I’m alright. I get my one cold a year in Feb. and that’s all over now. Shan’t be a sec.”
He looked at his watch. “I’d better be off,” he called back into the house.
“Here we are. Have you got a vase?”
“Er, no.”
“Well, I’m sure Miss Lawley can find one for you.”
She probably would if he asked her. But already he had made a policy of asking no favours from Miss Lawley.
Willy put up her cheek for a kiss. “It’s really about time Uncle Colin let you have a secretary of your own,” she said.
“I haven’t been there a year yet, you know.”
“But you’re a partner. Knowing Uncle Colin, he’ll probably get some pretty little poppet and give Miss Lawley to you.”
“I’d prefer the poppet.”
“Darling, you wouldn’t know what to do with a poppet.” She smiled.
“Well, I have my poppet.”
A faint, pleased flush touched Willy’s angular cheekbones for a second. “You’re a lamb.”
“Bye-bye,” he said. He had fallen quite easily into the nursery language of marriage.
Willy stood on the porch, clutching each elbow tightly. It was not that she was cold, he knew, but because the position slightly raised her breasts, of which she was obscurely ashamed. Once, in her teens, they had been startlingly plump, as he had seen in an old photo, but now they drooped. “You don’t mind,” she had whispered to him on their honeymoon, “about my breasts?”
He put the flowers on the seat and started the car.
As soon as he was
out of the gate and on the Woodley Road, he took off his hat. He smiled to himself at Willy’s idea of Colin as a skirt chaser. It had been Jordan’s error—also on their honeymoon—to tell Willy of the week he’d spent at Colin’s house when he was sixteen or so. The first evening Colin had come round heavily to the subject of women of the street. “I’ve nothing against them. Nothing. They’re there for a purpose.” Then, staring fixedly at the ashy tip of his cigar, Colin had said, “As soon as you decently can after the act—I can’t impress this upon you too strongly—go to the bathroom and, er, wash the instrument with carbolic soap.”
Although Willy had not disapproved of the advice, she had most certainly disapproved of its source. She knew men were like that, but did not appreciate elderly bachelors of the family bringing it so close to home. She had thereafter treated Colin warily, expecting perhaps at any moment a dirty old man to spring out.
Jordan drove slowly, amused at the byways of intolerance. They were infinitely less dangerous than main roads and were, moreover, so unalterably English.
12
He felt drugged and uneasy. It had been raining hard, so that he’d missed his exercise period. The quick march with Denver along the corridors and down the steps to the solicitors’ room was no substitute. He resented being torn away from his slow, dreaming afternoon.
“Mr. Bartlett you’re going to see, is it? He’s a good bloke. Remember the Greenwood case? Wouldn’t have given much for his chances when he was in ‘ere. Greenie we called him—he was an odd one. Wouldn’t never talk to you; all he liked to do was build towers out of dominoes. He’d sit there watching his towers and then, when no one was looking, smash-bang, he’d knock ‘em down. You never could catch him at it. He liked to make people jump, I reckon. Mr. Bartlett got him off. Mind you, I always had my doubts if Greenie had done it. But Mr. Bartlett did a beautiful job—just beautiful. He’s not flashy or anything like that. Quiet he is—like all the best ones are these days.”
