Seven Steps to Murder

by Benjamin Ford

  “What happened?” I ask tentatively. I’m not sure whether Herbert will reveal anything about that time, but Major Simmons’ behaviour has opened up some interesting possibilities that are facing through my mind.

  I witness Herbert’s reaction to my question with interest. He suddenly seems quite unable to breathe. I’ve seen such a reaction once before, at boarding school. One of the other boys there, after being sent to the headmaster, suffered what I at first assumed to be a panic attack. I only found out afterwards that he was asthmatic, and the headmaster withheld his medication from him as an additional punishment to the caning he subsequently received. The boy disappeared from the school a couple of days later, and the official line was that he’d been removed from the school by his parents due to his illness, although a few teachers were heard to say that he’d been removed due to the treatment he’d received from the headmaster. If it was true that he’d withheld the boy’s medication, there didn’t seem to be any repercussions on him, and he continued on as headmaster of the school for a long while after the boy’s disappearance.

  There were other rumours floating between some of the other pupils that he’d actually died because of the withheld asthma medication, but that was never substantiated.

  We never found out what really happened to the boy, but I remember the look of panic on his face when he’d been unable to breathe, and that’s exactly the look on Herbert’s face right now.

  “Are you all right, Herbert?” I gasp, arms flailing uselessly as I really don’t know what to do. I stare wildly at his brother. “Is he having an asthma attack? Do something to help him!”

  Herbert waves his arms in a negative fashion, and slowly brings his breathing under control. “No, I’m all right,” he says, sitting in the chair I’ve vacated.

  I can see tears in his eyes, but I don’t know if this is from the apparent panic attack or from sadness thinking of his brother. “I’ll fetch you some water,” I say, hastening over to the table in the middle of the room where there’s a large pitcher of water and glasses. I pour a glass and rush back, in time to hear Rashid chastising Herbert and telling him to pull himself together.

  Herbert takes the water from me, sipping it until the glass is empty. He smiles his thanks.

  “So, what was that all about?” I ask.

  Herbert breathes deeply. “It was while we were helping defend that village in France that Albie was killed. I guess talking about it just brought it all back to me.”

  “Talking about it might help,” I suggest.

  Waterfield agrees. “Yes. You’ve never really spoken about the night Albie died. I left the subject alone because I knew how upset you were about it, but our young friend here is right: talking about it might help. It’s clearly still painful for you, even after all these years.”

  “And yet you seem unaffected by Annie’s death!” Herbert snaps. “It’s like you didn’t really love her.”

  “Now you know that’s not true,” says Waterfield in obvious annoyance. “I loved Annie more than you’ll ever know. I’m not ashamed to say that I cried myself to sleep for months after her death.”

  “Is that why you shut yourself away from the outside world?” asks Rashid. “So that others do not witness your sadness?”

  Waterfield doesn’t reply. He’s angry; I can tell. His anger is directed at his brother, and I can well understand why. It must feel quite galling to face the accusation that you didn’t love your wife, particularly after her death. I’d be fuming if I were in Waterfield’s shoes. With so much animosity between the brothers, I’m surprised they haven’t come to blows by now. I thought they’d set themselves on the path to reconciliation earlier, but now I can see just how wrong I was in that supposition.

  I believe that Rashid is correct in his supposition about Waterfield’s reasons for closing off the outside world following Annie’s death. I’m curious though: “How did Annie die?”

  I know as soon as I open my mouth that it’s a question best left unspoken, but it’s too late.

  “She was murdered, as I told you earlier,” Waterfield says, his voice harsh and accusatory. “My poor beloved Annie was taken cruelly from me. She was poisoned, and I have used my time wisely since her death, tracking down her killer.”

  Rashid’s eyes widen. “You did invite us! You believe someone here in this room killed your wife!”

  Waterfield seems somewhat deflated, shaking his head. “No. I really did not invite you all here. I have made little progress tracking down her killer. I’m no closer to finding out why she was murdered than I was when it happened, but I have come to believe that perhaps one of the people here in this house knows something.”

  I feel a little sorry for our host. He lost a brother in the war, and a wife just a few years ago, and now he’s got a house filled with people he either despises or doesn’t know, and there’s another dead woman down on the beach.

  I’d say things really aren’t going well for him, and on the face of it he appears so likeable that it’s hard not to feel sorry for him.

  But I firmly believe that everything happens for a reason, and if all these terrible things have happened to him, then the Good Lord must believe him to have done something bad in his life, and he’s now being punished. Retribution can sometimes seem a little arbitrary, but it’s never without motive.

  And retribution is seldom anything less than harsh.

  I just pray I don’t get hurt in the crossfire.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Rashid, I can tell, is growing increasingly uncomfortable in the present environment. I don’t fully comprehend why he’s so nervous in the company of certain parties, although it would seem Major Simmons is the central cause on his discomfiture. The two men can barely look one another in the eye, and every so often I get the impression that the Major is about to say something – but then he remains silent.

  I have watched the room with utmost interest for over an hour since I finished playing backgammon with Waterfield. He’s now deep in a further game of cards with his brother and the two old men, whilst Mrs Draper has disappeared from the room. She excused herself a while ago, and hasn’t yet returned. No-one seems in the slightest concerned about her disappearance.

  Rashid sits alone by the fireplace, smoking a cigarette – which I’ve seen from our host’s horrified glances isn’t acceptable in the house. And yet Waterfield hasn’t told the Arab to put out the cigarette or to smoke outside. Is it that Waterfield doesn’t wish to offend or upset any of us? Can we each really do as we please whilst we’re stuck here at West Cliff House? Should I put it to the test?

  For the moment, I decide not to, having no wish to suddenly make myself conspicuous. I can’t help feeling, though, that Rashid could do with a sympathetic ear, and in spite of my usual reluctance to engage in friendships, I take a deep breath and saunter over to him as casually as I can manage.

  He looks up anxiously as I settle opposite, as if he expected to see someone else in my place. The Major, perhaps? I muster a smile that I hope is one of open kindness. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say something was troubling you, M. Rashid. Would you like to talk about it?”

  Sending a wary look of apprehension in the direction of the others, Rashid shakes his head.

  I lean forward, placing a hand on his knee – an act that makes him jump. I recoil slightly, shocked at the reaction. “Good heavens, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you.” I’m frowning, but I cannot help it. My simple action has caused a reaction so unexpected that for a moment I’m not even sure how to proceed. Why did my hand on his knee disturb him so?

  “It is nothing. I am fine,” he says, when clearly the complete opposite is actually the case.

  I look across to the others, so engrossed in their game of cards that none has seen Rashid’s startled reaction. Through the window I notice that there’s a break in the clouds and that it’s finally ceased raining. I turn back to Rashid and smile. “I’m going outside for a breath of fresh air. Why d
on’t you join me?”

  Rashid shakes his head slowly. “I am fine here, thank you.”

  “Well, it’s stopped raining by the looks of things, and I for one am fed up being stuck inside, so I’m going for a walk anyway.”

  I stand and walk to the door. No-one pays any attention to my departure. I can hear laughter from behind me as I enter the hallway. Obviously the others are enjoying themselves enormously, sharing jokes as they play their stupid game of cards. I don’t even know what they’re playing this time: poker, whist, bridge – they’re all the same to me.

  I turn as I hear footsteps behind me. They’re delicate and almost feminine, and for a moment I expect Mrs Draper’s voice to call out, demanding in her bossy tone to know where I’m going. But it’s not Mrs Draper. It’s Rashid. I hadn’t realised until now just how delicate he is in stature. From a distance, and in different clothing, he could pass as a woman. He has the gait as well as the build. Certainly not what I would expect from someone who’d signed up to the French Foreign Legion.

  I begin to wonder about his honesty. He’s already admitted to being a convicted thief who’s spent time in prison. Is he also a liar? Might he be capable of murder?

  “Have you decided to join me?” I ask, waiting for him to catch up as I open the front door.

  He nods. “I think some fresh air would be beneficial.”

  I smile. “Good. I do so hate to walk alone.”

  I close the front door behind us and we walk down the steps to the path that leads around the gardens. There’s quite a chill wind blowing, and it hasn’t quite ceased raining, but it’s nonetheless pleasant to be outside of the confines of the house.

  Not that the house isn’t pleasingly comfortable and airy in and of itself. It’s just that with the weather having been to awful, most of the windows have been closed and the air inside has become stale, perhaps a little rank and too filled with tobacco smoke.

  “Thank you for trying to be friends with me,” Rashid says as we round the corner of the house and head in the direction of the English Channel. Beyond the escalonia hedges we can see nothing but sky and sea – neither of which looks particularly enticing.

  I shrug my shoulders dismissively. “Think nothing of it. I’d like to think I’m a nice person and easy enough to get along with. You seemed like you could do with a friend. There’s obviously something on your mind, M. Rashid. I was just wondering whether it’s something you wish to share.”

  “You are most perceptive, Wilbur,” Rashid says, shoving his hands in the pockets of his borrowed jacket. “There are two people here with whom I really have no wish to share the same roof.”

  I don’t have to think too hard to wonder which of the remaining guests he speaks of. “You mean Major Simmons and Herbert?”

  “Am I that transparent?”

  I shake my head. “It’s obvious who you’re uncomfortable to be around, since they’re the two you’ve made it clear you have a past with. For all I know you may well be acquainted with the others as well, but you’ve not mentioned knowing anyone else here.”

  Rashid gives a little chuckle. “You are most perceptive, Wilbur.”

  “I’ve seen the way you react around the Major. There’s clearly no love lost between you two.”

  “Major Simmons and I have a complicated past,” says Rashid in a level tone devoid of emotion.

  “You despise one another? Did you do something to annoy him in the war? Was he a tyrant when he was in charge of your platoon? Do you hate him because of those things he was saying earlier – about how he was the hero rather than Albert Waterfield?”

  Rashid seems on the cusp of divulging the facts surrounding his animosity towards Major Simmons, but then he equally quickly closes his mouth and maintains a solemn silence. I begin to wonder whether I’ll ever get to the bottom of the mystery.

  “Did you hear what Herbert called Major Simmons yesterday? Rashid says.

  I think back, and nod. “He called him Julie Boy, I believe. Bit of an odd nickname, if you ask me, and the Major didn’t seem best pleased to be called it either.”

  “Indeed not. When we were all together in the war, fighting behind enemy lines, a lot of secrets were revealed amongst the platoon. We were so close on a daily basis that it would have been impossible to keep anything quiet for long. We had to watch each other’s backs, and so some secrets were ignored when, in other circumstances, they would have caused scorn and ridicule, perhaps even a severe beating.”

  I am suddenly enlightened. “A beating from your commanding officer?”

  Rashid shakes his head. “No. It would have been the Captain who received the beating.”

  I smile. A group of hardened soldiers, suddenly finding within their ranks a pansy, would no doubt have lynched him. I can only imagine how they must have felt to find out that their platoon captain was one. I can appreciate now why Rashid loathes the man. “It can’t have been easy, being in such close quarters with him, knowing of his persuasion. I can understand why Herbert called him Julie Boy! Was that what they called him back then?”

  Rashid nods.

  “Did they do anything to him?”

  “No. There was little respect for him after they found out, but he was still their commanding officer, and they followed orders to the letter – even then. When you are fighting the Germans for King and Country, you put aside petty differences such as that. Personal feelings should not come into play when you are on the battlefront, trying to free a captured village from enemy control. The worst thing they did to the Captain was call him Julie Boy.”

  “You keep saying they. Were you not a part of that?”

  “Oh yes, I was very much a part of it. I was a part of it in the same way Julian was part of it.”

  For a moment I find it odd that Rashid should refer to the Major by his first name, but then I suddenly understand. Rashid continues, albeit a little reluctantly, before I can continue.

  “I know not which of us seduced whom, but Julian and I realised quickly that we were of the same nature. For a long time all we did was talk about our feelings – not for each other at that point, just our feelings in general. We spoke about who we thought handsome, and who we disliked physically. And then one night, after a particularly fierce skirmish, we somehow ended up snuggled up together for warmth, and it happened.”

  “You kissed?”

  Rashid nods.

  I try not to be judgmental, but after my experiences at the hands of some of the priests in boarding school I find it difficult, and in spite of myself I step away from Rashid slightly, still hoping that he doesn’t notice my imperceptible movement.

  “Do not worry yourself, Wilbur,” he says with a deep sigh. “I have no interest in you,”

  Clearly I wasn’t as surreptitious as I thought, and I’m a little ashamed that I’ve upset him. I move back to my original position. “Sorry,” I say, feeling particularly shallow. “That was rude of me.”

  Rashid shrugs. “It is all right. I have had much worse done to me.”

  “So, if the others in your platoon called Major Simmons Julie Boy, what did they call you?”

  Rashid looks to the ground as though ashamed. “It was not so much what they called me, as much as what they did to me.”

  I’m not sure I want to know the facts, but I ask anyway. “What did they do?”

  Tears suddenly fall from Rashid’s eyes. Clearly our brief conversation has brought back dreadful memories.

  “I’m sorry,” I say gently. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t feel up to it.” I touch his arm in a friendly gesture, and he shrinks away, almost in fear. Suddenly his silence speaks volumes, and I know instinctively what the other men in the platoon did to the poor young man. “My God, the animals!”

  Rashid wipes his eyes. “You have clear insight, mon ami. Only two people, other than Julian, did not – take part in the torture.”

  He visibly shudders at the painful recollection, and I understand perfectly why he so stro
ngly dislikes physical contact. “What did Major Simmons say when he found out?”

  More tears appear in Rashid’s eyes, and I know instinctively that the Major turned his back on Rashid. No wonder the Arab hates the man.

  “He said I brought it upon myself; that I should take it like a man. He told me quite coldly that he had been buggered by the Sergeant Major repeatedly when he was training and it had not harmed him, so he said I should man-up and never speak of it again.”

  I’m appalled by what I’ve heard, especially about Major Simmons. He’s a cold bastard who deserves to be punished for such a callous attitude. “I’m sure he’ll get his comeuppance at some point,” I say gently.

  “That is what the Waterfield boys told me at the time.”

  “So they were the two who didn’t join in?”

  Rashid nods, drying his eyes once more and blowing his nose. “They were my protectors after that, until Albert was killed. They stood up to Julian, forced him to reprimand the others for their actions, but when Albert was killed everything changed. Herbert became cold and distant, and each night I lay awake in fear. I had never felt such loneliness.”

  “What happened to Albert?” I ask.

  “He was shot in the head.”

  “Was it during a German attack? Was anyone else hurt?”

  “No, it was not the Germans. The war was all but over, and we were on our way back home. One night there was a single shot, and Albert was found dead, with his own gun at his side.”

  I’m shocked. “He committed suicide?”

  “That was the official line at the time, but I was not so sure.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Rashid sighs, and I feel he’s not going to reveal anything more. “If you are that interested, you should speak to Julian.”