Dry Bones

by Sally Spencer

  Jenkins sighed. He’d never be able to explain it to Lennie, and for a moment he was tempted to drop the plan completely.

  And then the images started flooding his brain again – Lucy on her back, her legs locked tight over Makepeace’s arse; Lucy on her knees, reaching forward and unbuttoning Makepeace’s trousers.

  ‘The thing is – and I’m only telling you this because I know I can trust you – Mr Churchill thinks that Makepeace is a German spy,’ he said, in a quieter, more confidential tone.

  ‘A spy!’ Lennie exclaimed.

  ‘Hush now!’ Jenkins said, ‘you don’t want everyone to hear, do you?’

  ‘But a spy …’ Lennie said.

  ‘So you’ll watch him, will you – you’ll fulfil your patriotic duty?’

  ‘I’ll try my hardest.’

  A more subtle mind than Lennie’s might have wondered why, if Makepeace was a spy, it was only necessary to watch him when he was with Lucy Jenkins. But Lennie wasn’t blessed with such a mind, and it was enough for him to know that he was helping Mr Churchill.

  23 October 1943

  James Makepeace was fourteen when his uncle had caught him in the stables with the new assistant groom, and had immediately hauled him up before his father – Colonel Sir Rupert Makepeace – for a swift and unequivocal judgement.

  Sir Rupert had chosen to hand down this judgement from behind the mahogany desk in his study, a large room containing few books but many stuffed heads of animals he had slaughtered.

  Standing in front of that desk, his hands linked behind his back in the approved manner, James had known that the wisest thing to do in that situation was to blame it all on the groom, who was a couple of years older than he was. And indeed, that had been precisely James’ plan, because grooms were easily replaceable, especially in the middle of a depression, when nearly half the population hadn’t been getting enough to eat.

  Yes, that had been his intention, but as his father had droned on and on about how weak and easily led he had been, he felt something snap – and an anger like he had never known before had begun to burn inside him.

  ‘It wasn’t easy at all, you know,’ he’d told his father – aware that daring to interrupt the old man was, in and of itself, almost a capital offence.

  He’d been amazed that though he was so very angry, his voice sounded light and amused.

  ‘No, it wasn’t easy,’ he’d repeated. ‘In fact, it took rather a lot of skill, because, you see, that groom isn’t naturally a homo at all.’

  The colonel had suddenly turned a red which was almost scarlet, and a prominent vein had begun throbbing on his forehead.

  ‘Am I to take … to take it … am I to take that to mean that rather than him seducing you, you seduced him?’ he had demanded.

  It was such a great relief to have finally come out in the open that James felt almost light-headed.

  ‘Yes, I seduced him,’ he had agreed, ‘and he’s only one of dozens of young men who’ve passed through my legs.’

  ‘There must be institutions – medical centres – where you can be cured,’ the colonel had said shakily.

  ‘I’m sure there are,’ James had agreed, ‘but I certainly won’t be going to any of them.’

  ‘If you won’t obey me, I’ll cut you off without a penny,’ the colonel had threatened.

  ‘Then cut me off,’ James had replied, with a recklessness born of newly discovered, wonderfully all-encompassing anger.

  The colonel had not done quite that, because his wife – who had set great store by education – had made him promise to support his son until he graduated from university, but after that, the colonel said, whatever else happened, the disgusting little creature was on his own.

  As much as he enjoyed the power that his anger released in him, Makepeace had been forced to acknowledge that it had, more often than not, got him into a situation that no sane man would ever wish to find himself in. But he had never imagined it would place him in such a perilous situation as he found himself in after his meeting with Comstock, that sunny October afternoon.

  He had agreed to meet Sergeant Comstock by the river, on the day which – though neither of them knew it when the arrangement was being made – would be Comstock’s last day on earth. As far as Makepeace was concerned, he had been caught out trying to pull a fast one, and since the game was now up, he had fully intended to comply with all the sergeant’s demands. He’d taken with him the money he owed Comstock (though ‘the money he had failed to cheat Comstock out of’ would probably have been a better description) and had been ready to hand it over. If they had not parted as friends at the end of the transaction, then they could have at least have parted on a handshake.

  But Comstock hadn’t wanted it that way. What he’d wanted was to belittle the other man – to tell his version of events, in which James Makepeace was a man of little spirit, and was only handing over the money because he was too terrified to do anything else.

  It was like being lectured to by his father all over again, Makepeace had thought, and when Comstock had turned his back on him – presumably to show that he was not a coward, and that he had nothing but contempt for his opponent – it had only been a moment’s work to pick up a large stone off the ground and smash the back of his head in with it.

  Makepeace was no fool, and he recognised that his actions would have consequences.

  Comstock’s gang would want him dead, the police would want him in custody (and, at some point in the future, executed).

  Yes, there would be consequences, so the trick was not to be around when those consequences fell due.

  He would have to run away, and when he finally stopped running and settled somewhere, it would be as someone else, because James Makepeace would have to disappear forever.

  What he needed now was money – as much as possible. He had tried to blackmail Charlie Swift, but Swift had shown a strength of character he had previously kept well hidden, and had refused to help, whatever the consequences for himself.

  So, if he could not get a lot of money from one person, he would have to get a little money from a lot of people, and the first of these people he had on his list was Lucy Jenkins.

  The Master of St Luke’s often took his dinner in his rooms, and that night, Lucy Jenkins had been assigned the task of taking it to him.

  The journey from the kitchen to the Master’s Quad could sometimes be difficult because of the blackout, but there was a full moon that night, and it was easy for Lucy to pick her way.

  The return journey looked like being quite another matter. Thick black clouds had appeared from nowhere and covered the moon, thus plunging the college into darkness.

  Standing in the archway at the foot of the Master’s Staircase, Lucy wondered what she should do. There seemed to be only two alternatives. The first was to grope her way back to the kitchen. The second was to wait and see if the clouds drifted away again.

  She had just decided on the latter course when a hand reached out to grab her arm, and a voice said, ‘Don’t scream, it’s only me.’

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked.

  ‘Money,’ James Makepeace told her.

  ‘But I’ve given you money. I’ve paid you everything I got for selling the stockings, once I’d taken my commission out of it,’ Lucy protested.

  ‘That’s true enough, Lucy,’ Makepeace agreed, ‘but now I want your commission as well.’

  ‘That isn’t fair, I …’

  ‘I haven’t finished yet,’ Makepeace said, squeezing her arm even tighter as he spoke. ‘I want any other money you have, and anything of value that I might be able to sell. And if you don’t give me all of that, I’ll report you to the police, and then you’ll go to prison for trading on the black market.’

  The clouds drifted away from the moon, and they could see each other’s pale, ghostly faces.

  ‘Let go of my arm,’ she said.

  ‘What, and have you run away from me?’ he asked, and he realised how much he
was enjoying this small act of intimidation. ‘No, I won’t let go of you, my girl. I’m going to keep a firm grip on you until you’ve given me what I want.’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare behave like this if my husband, Harold, was here,’ she told him.

  ‘But he isn’t here, is he?’ Makepeace asked. ‘He’s off on the south coast somewhere, training to become cannon fodder.’

  ‘I used to think you were a real gentleman,’ she said. ‘But you’re not. You’re nothing better than a guttersnipe.’

  ‘And you, my dear, are just a brassy little whore who was lucky enough to find an idiot like Jenkins who would marry her,’ he replied.

  ‘Don’t you dare call my husband an idiot, you swine,’ Lucy hissed, like an angry cat.

  ‘What should I call him, then?’ Makepeace wondered ‘A dupe? Or perhaps a cuckold?’

  She didn’t know what either of those words meant, but she was sure they were not very nice – and that was when she spat in his face.

  ‘You little bitch!’ he said.

  And then, while keeping a firm hold on her arm with his left hand, he raised his right arm and slapped her as hard as he could across the face.

  It was then that he heard the sound of heavy, awkward footsteps behind him, and became aware of a voice which seemed to be shouting, ‘Gemis-pie, Gemis-pie, Gemis-pie,’ as if it were some manic chant.

  He turned around to see that the big man was almost on him, and automatically pushed Lucy Jenkins roughly to one side, in order to make room to defend himself. But he had left it far too late – the angry giant slammed him against the wall by the Master’s Staircase, and then grabbed his head and began to batter the masonry with it, all the time relentlessly sticking to his war cry … ‘Gemis-pie, Gemis-pie, Gemis-pie …’

  The first blow sent thousands of tiny pains shooting through Makepeace’s head. The second was numbing, and almost pleasant. He could not have commented on the third blow, because by then he was already dead.

  Lennie Moon released his grip and watched the other man’s body slowly slide down the wall.

  ‘German spy,’ he said, in a much softer way now, ‘German spy, German spy, German spy.’

  It took Mr Gough the whole night to chip out the stones from the closed-off air vent, slide James Makepeace’s body through the gap, and seal up the hole again.

  He was not alone. In one corner of the cellar sat Lucy Jenkins, taking regular sips from a hip flask that Gough had provided her with. At some point during the night, she appeared to have soiled herself, but she did not seem to have noticed it, Gough was too busy to deal with it, and Lennie Moon (who had had similar accidents himself) was far too much of a gentleman to mention it.

  Lennie tried, at several points, to assist Mr Gough, but there was not really enough time to allow him to help, and Gough worked on alone.

  At about half past three, Lennie – who had obviously been giving the matter some thought – said, ‘Shouldn’t we tell Mr Churchill about this?’

  ‘He’s already been told,’ Mr Gough said, ‘but you do understand that nobody else can be told, don’t you?’

  ‘Why can’t anybody else be told?’ Lennie asked, in a voice that was a mixture of sulky and rebellious.

  ‘Because Mr Churchill doesn’t want anybody else to be told,’ Gough said urgently. ‘Because Mr Churchill – who is your Prime Minister and the most important man in England – wants it kept a secret. Do you understand that?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Lennie agreed reluctantly.

  Another half hour passed.

  ‘Will I get a medal?’ Lennie asked.

  ‘A medal?’ Gough repeated. ‘Why should you get a medal?’

  ‘I should get one for killing the German spy,’ Lennie said, as if it was obvious.

  ‘But why would you even want a medal?’ Mr Gough asked, as he slid another brick in place. ‘I know you killed the spy, Mrs Lucy knows you killed the spy, and Mr Churchill knows you killed the spy. And we’re all grateful to you. Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘I’ve never won anything before,’ Lennie said, sadly. ‘All the time I was in school, I never got a prize. The other boys used to laugh at me. They called me Lennie No Win. So if Mr Churchill would just give me a medal …’

  ‘I expect he will give you a medal,’ Gough said, because he could see no way out of it. ‘But it will have to be kept secret, just like killing the German spy will have to be kept secret. You do understand that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lennie said, unenthusiastically.

  ‘And you won’t get it right away, because Mr Churchill is a busy man, so you’re going to have to learn how to be patient.’

  ‘I know,’ Lennie said.

  17 October 1974

  ‘Mr Gough told me that, every morning for two years, Lennie went to his mailbox to see if the letter from Buckingham Palace had arrived,’ Mr Jenkins tells me. ‘But he’d promised to be patient, and he was, and when the medal did finally get here, he was as pleased as punch.’ He pauses, and then clearly deciding that what needs to be said needs to be said now, he adds, ‘I was never going to let Lord Swift go to jail, you know, however much he tried to persuade me that was just what I should do. All I wanted was a little more time with Lucy, before I gave myself up.’

  ‘It was all my fault,’ Lucy Jenkins says. ‘Everything was my fault. If I hadn’t got friendly with James Makepeace—’

  ‘We all make mistakes,’ her husband interrupts her. ‘And we can’t rewrite the past, so there’s no point in trying.’

  But she hasn’t finished.

  ‘If only I’d told you why I was seeing him,’ she continues, ‘but I knew you’d disapprove, because you’re such an honest, decent man.’

  ‘I should have trusted you,’ he says. ‘I should have known you’d never betray me with that man.’

  There is passion and hurt behind their words, but for all that, it is plain they are simply rehashing the same dialogue which has dominated their lives for over a quarter of a century.

  ‘Let’s talk about Lennie,’ I suggest.

  ‘Once the bodies had been found in the shaft, I realised that there was no way I could keep Lennie out of prison,’ Mr Jenkins says. ‘But I couldn’t let him go to prison, either, because that would have been a living hell for him.’

  ‘So you decided to kill him?’

  ‘I did.’

  And this was exactly what Mr Gough had immediately understood in that run-down bar in Majorca. This was why Mr Gough had said he was glad that Lennie was dead.

  ‘The doctor said it was a clean break,’ I tell Mr Jenkins.

  ‘Yes, it was,’ he said, as if he needs no confirmation from me. ‘We can never know what anyone suffers in that split second before death, but that’s all it was – a split second. And he never suspected a thing, because …’ he pauses and gulps, ‘… because I was his friend, Mr Harold.’

  ‘You’d done it before, hadn’t you?’ I ask.

  ‘More than a dozen times,’ he confirms. ‘When you’re on the kind of mission I was on, you need to be able to kill quickly and silently.’

  ‘You told Mr Gough about that part of your work, didn’t you?’ I ask.

  He nods. ‘We weren’t supposed to, but you have to tell someone – you just have to, or it will fester inside you.’

  ‘How was he killed?’ Mr Gough had asked, ‘Was his neck broken?’

  And, once I’d confirmed that it was, he’d known pretty much the whole story.

  ‘The reason I lied to you about what I did in the war, Miss Redhead, was because that’s what they ordered me to do,’ Mr Jenkins says. ‘I should still be lying, but I’ve told so many lies since I killed Lennie that I’m heartily sick of it.’

  ‘Were you really awarded the Distinguished Service Medal?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh yes, but it was awarded for something that I didn’t actually do, because they couldn’t give it to me for what I had done.’

  ‘You went through all that, and yet you still cam
e back here,’ I say, before I can stop myself.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asks.

  ‘You must have seen things I’ve never seen, and done things I’ve never done,’ I tell him. ‘You’re much more of a grown-up than I’ll ever be and yet, after all you’d seen and done, you still came back to your job in the porters’ lodge.’

  ‘What happened in the war has got nothing to do with real life,’ he says. ‘All I’ve ever wanted to be was the head porter at St Luke’s College, and, you see, that’s what I am.’

  I find myself almost hating him for the decisions he has taken. Here is a man who is not only undoubtedly brave, but is also an artist, and yet he has chosen to fritter it away in order to follow a family tradition. It seems such a waste.

  And though I love my college for the enlightenment and opportunities it has brought me, there are moments like this when I see it as an archaic impediment to progress, which should have been swept away years ago.

  Am I confused?

  You bet I am.

  ‘Besides,’ Mr Jenkins says, ‘there was always Lennie to consider.’

  Ah yes, there was always Lennie to consider.

  I think of all the components that helped to make up this little tragedy, and realise that without them being interlocked in such a complex manner, it would never have happened.

  If Lennie hadn’t fallen off the ladder because the bursar wouldn’t buy a new one …

  If he’d taken the compensation he’d been offered, instead of accepting a job for life …

  If Makepeace had gone to some other Oxford college, or chosen one in Cambridge instead …

  If he hadn’t met Comstock, and agreed to sell his black market nylon stockings for him …

  If Lucy Jenkins hadn’t been employed by the college as a result of a shortage of male servants …

  If Lucy had been honest with her husband about what she was doing – or had not done it at all …

  If Mr Jenkins had trusted his wife more …

  If, instead of setting Lennie to watch her, Mr Jenkins had confided in Mr Gough …

  If Makepeace hadn’t killed Comstock …

  Enough! More than enough! If I think about it any longer, I’ll probably go completely out of my mind.