Thus Was Adonis Murdered ht-1

by Sarah Caudwell

  “Oh really,” said Ragwort. “One knows, of course, that Julia is a complete half-wit, but even so—”

  “I don’t think you should talk that way about Julia, Mr. Ragwort,” said Marylou, her customary diffidence qualified by indignation. “Julia is a very intelligent and highly educated person.”

  “Quite so,” I said. “With a dim and illiterate halfwit the odds against are about 250 to 1. With a highly intelligent and educated half-wit such as Julia they are astronomical. I thought from the start that there was something unnatural about Julia’s success in Verona. And on Monday I realized that it must have been the wrong guide book. Julia, you will recall, was using in Verona a guide book written in Italian. But on Monday, when Marylou brought back the guide to Verona which Julia had lent her, you picked it up, Selena, and read from it, quite easily and without hesitation, an account of communications between that city and Venice. Remembering that your many talents do not include any fluency in Italian, I knew without even looking at it that it was not the one Julia had been using in Verona.”

  “Oh,” said Selena. There was a further silence. “I’m sorry, I guess I’m a little confused,” said Marylou. “Is it your hypothesis, Professor Tamar, that Major Linnaker stole a painting because Julia had used the wrong guide book?”

  “It is our view,” said Ragwort — the principle of giving credit where it is due has few adherents in Lincoln’s Inn—“that Major Linnaker was responsible for the theft of a painting reported stolen last week from the Church of Saint Nicholas in Verona. We also believe that he brought the picture back to England in a holdall labelled with the name of the murdered man.”

  “Does that mean,” asked Marylou, “that the Major did the murder?”

  “Well—” said Ragwort, and looked at me. I said nothing.

  “ ’Course it does,” said Cantrip. “The chap from the Revenue found out what he was up to and the Major bumped him off. I always said it was the Major that did it.”

  “It must mean, at any rate,” said Selena, “that the Vice-Quaestor can no longer treat the Major as a person above suspicion. And the Italians, I believe, take a rather dim view of people stealing their works of art. When Timothy tells the Vice-Quaestor that the Major goes in for that kind of thing and can be shown to have done so during his recent holiday — I really do think, you know, that on the strength of that we might have some more of Timothy’s sherry.”

  Confident of the satisfaction that our news would give him, we drank his sherry with a clear conscience. We explained to Marylou that we were expecting him to telephone very shortly, to tell us the result of the forensic report; and assured her that she was welcome to stay until he did so. Nearly an hour had passed, however, and we had consumed a very fair part of a bottle, by the time Henry, still lugubrious, announced that Mr. Shepherd was calling from Venice and wished to speak to Miss Jardine. Gathering round the telephone, we were able, without excessive difficulty, to make out what Timothy was saying.

  “Timothy,” said Selena, “we have some news for you.”

  “I rather think you’d better hear mine first,” said Timothy. Despite the intervening distance, his anxiety was perceptible. “The Vice-Quaestor has just told me the result of the forensic report. It’s rather disturbing.”

  “Yes,” said Selena, “yes, all right.”

  “The doctor who examined the body says that Ned Watson was killed some time in the early afternoon. Not later than three o’clock. He’d be inclined to think it was earlier; but three o’clock is the outside limit.”

  An expensive ten seconds of silence on the international telephone line was followed by Selena saying, “Dear me. Does that mean that neither Eleanor nor the Major could have done it after all?”

  “Yes,” said Timothy. “Yes, it seems to. And it also means, you see, if Julia’s evidence is accepted, that she must have spent most of Friday afternoon sleeping beside a corpse. It’s all rather unsatisfactory. ”

  CHAPTER 17

  It was, as Selena said, a pity, because the medical evidence had been in other respects most helpful. It had shown that the blow which killed Ned Watson had been one of great power and accuracy, which had driven some long and pointed blade at a single thrust into his heart. Save that the young man had evidently cut himself while shaving, there was no other wound of any kind.

  The Vice-Quaestor had admitted that it was not a blow which would easily be inflicted by a woman; but women, he said, were strange creatures — in moments of passion they found amazing strength. Not, however, Timothy had suggested, even at their most passionate, an instant knowledge of anatomy — a subject of which Julia was entirely ignorant.

  The Vice-Quaestor had said again that women were strange creatures. It was, he agreed, remarkable that she should have achieved such a blow. Less remarkable, however, than the suggestion that some entirely unknown person, with some altogether mysterious grudge against the Signor Watson, had entered the annexe on Friday morning, had lain in wait there on the uncertain chance of his victim returning unaccompanied, had stayed patiently in hiding while Julia and the Signor Watson enjoyed their pleasures and Julia fell asleep, had struck the fatal blow without disturbing her and had then remained hidden for a further five hours until darkness permitted him to escape by way of the canal. The Vice-Quaestor felt that this would be a very remarkable course of conduct. Quite apart from the unusual circumstance — as it seemed to the Vice-Quaestor, though if Timothy were to say that such a thing would in England be quite commonplace the Vice-Quaestor would naturally be obliged to believe him — the, as it seemed to him, unusual circumstance of a lady having risen from the side of her lover without observing that he was now a corpse.

  “One would think,” said Ragwort, “that even Julia—”

  “Yes,” said Cantrip. “Yes, one would.”

  We went uncheerfully for lunch, Marylou remaining with us. We again made our way to the Corkscrew, where at lunchtime they offer quite an agreeable salad. Selena bought a bottle of Nierstein; but the meal lacked festivity. It was impossible to talk of anything but Julia’s difficulties; equally impossible to do so with any optimism.

  “Well,” said Cantrip, “we’re left with the Bruce chap. I always said it was the Bruce chap.”

  “No,” said Ragwort, “you said it was the Major.”

  “What I always said was,” said Cantrip, “that if it wasn’t the Major, then it was the Bruce chap. And it wasn’t the Major, so it is the Bruce chap. This chap Bruce,” he added, for the enlightenment of Marylou, “was trying to nick something from Kenneth Dunfermline — we don’t know what it was, but something jolly valuable. So the way I see it is this. Bruce knows Friday’s his last chance, because everyone’s going back to London next day, and he weasels into the annexe at lunchtime, when he thinks the coast’s clear. But Dunfermline’s hidden this thing pretty carefully, and Bruce is still looking for it when Ned and Julia come back unexpectedly. So he hides in the wardrobe. When he thinks they’re both asleep, he comes out of the wardrobe with a view to making a swift getaway. But he stubs his toe against the bed or something and Ned wakes up again. So Bruce stabs him.”

  “Why?” asked Ragwort. “Surely it would be more sensible simply to run away?”

  “Right, the natural thing would just be to scarper. So what I reckon is that Bruce is someone Ned knew, and he’s got to stab him because he’s been recognized. He doesn’t need to stab Julia, because she’s asleep. Anyway, then he nips downstairs and sees all these chambermaids sitting round in the doorway and decides he can’t risk going past them. So he holes up somewhere in the annexe till it gets dark and then he swims for it.”

  “Properly regarded,” said Selena, turning her wine glass between her fingers, “it is a by no means unconvincing theory. The difficulty is that we can’t find out who Bruce is. Well — I suppose the accuracy of the blow must suggest someone with a medical qualification: if we could persuade the Italian police to make a list of medical men registered as guests in hotels in V
enice last week—” but the unlikelihood, on the present state of the evidence, of securing the Vice-Quaestor’s cooperation in such an enterprise discouraged even Selena.

  Wearying of the sense of being at a funeral breakfast, I began to reread Timothy’s letter, at which earlier I had had time to glance only briefly. There continued round me a subdued discussion of ways of discovering the identity of Bruce; but I paid little heed to it. I imagined instead the terrace of the Cytherea, where Timothy, and earlier Julia, had sat and written their letters to Selena. I tried to imagine the passage and re-passage on Friday morning of various people across the bridge to the annexe. There was something about it, I knew, which my unconscious mind had already recognized as rather curious. I gave all the attention of my conscious mind to identifying what it was.

  By the time I had drunk my second glass of Nierstein, it was clear to me what must be done.

  “Marylou,” I said, “can you go back to Venice?”

  Asked, perhaps, a trifle suddenly, the question briefly bewildered her. It took a little time to explain at greater length that I wished her to take the next available flight back to Venice. I realized, I said, that I was asking her to incur considerable trouble and expense without offering an explanation of its purpose; but the time for an explanation was unfortunately not yet ripe.

  “Well,” said Marylou, “if you think it’s necessary, Professor Tamar—”

  “I think that it is,” I said, “extremely desirable.”

  “Then of course I’ll go,” said the admirable American girl. “I’ll go call the airline and find out when the next flight is.” She rose from her chair and moved towards the telephone. The little crowd of journalists who surrounded it parted in admiration of her elegance.

  “Hilary,” said Selena, “have you the slightest idea what you’re doing? You’re asking that girl to spend a very large sum of money—”

  “My dear Selena,” I said, “if Ragwort’s judgment is to be relied on, the fare to Venice is rather less than she would pay for a dress; and she has worn a different dress on every occasion that we have seen her.” I dissuaded Selena with some difficulty from any quixotic suggestion that we should contribute to the cost.

  Marylou returned from the telephone to say that a seat was available on the plane leaving for Milan at six o’clock. From there she could go to Venice by train, either that night or on the following morning. She asked me anxiously if that would be all right.

  “Excellent,” I said. “Spend the night in Milan. You should arrive in plenty of time to find accommodation. I should like you to be in Venice by eleven o’clock next morning; but the Italians have an excellent train service — there should be no difficulty. When your train gets to Venice, don’t take the vaporetto—just walk across the bridge outside the railway station, the Scalzi Bridge, and then go left till you get to the Accademia. There’s a café there — do you happen to know it?”

  “Yes,” said Marylou, “Julia and I had a Campari soda there.”

  “Sit down there and wait for Timothy. I shall send him a telegram, explaining where you will be. You have not, I know, met Timothy; but he will recognize you from my description. After that, simply do whatever Timothy tells you. The main thing is, until he arrives, to stay in the café by the Accademia Bridge. If he’s not there by two o’clock, there has been a breakdown of communications and you should go to the British Consulate — you’ll find it easily, it’s only about twenty yards away. But don’t on any account go back across the Grand Canal — stay in the Dorsodouro until Timothy is with you.”

  The American girl, when I said this, looked at me with a certain apprehension; but said nothing.

  It was agreed that she should return home, pack a small suitcase with such items as seemed necessary and return to 62 New Square, whence Selena would drive her to the airport. It was, Selena had said, with a rather severe glance at myself, the least she could do.

  “What,” asked Ragwort, “will you tell your husband?”

  “Well,” said Marylou, “there’s not too much empathy between Stanford and Julia. If I told Stanford

  I was going to Venice to help Julia, I guess his reaction might be somewhat negative. So I figured I’d just leave a note saying my mother’s cousin Alice was very sick and I had to go to her. My mother’s cousin Alice is very into ecology and she lives in a farmhouse in Brittany, France, and doesn’t have a telephone.” She looked round anxiously, as if this proposed deception might incur censure. It did not.

  “I say, Hilary,” said Cantrip, when she’d gone, “you aren’t having another of your loopy spells, are you? You’re sure it’ll do some good sending the poor grummit back to Venice?”

  “No,” I answered, too preoccupied to take offence at the form of the question. “No, Cantrip, not entirely sure. I am assuming, you see, a fact for which there is no direct evidence.”

  “Hilary,” said Ragwort, “do you mean to say that you have persuaded this girl, whom we hardly know, to deceive her husband and travel halfway across Europe merely on the basis—”

  “My dear Ragwort,” I said, “I do wish you wouldn’t fuss. I am quite reasonably sure. To be entirely sure, however, I should need a further piece of information, and the only person from whom I might obtain it is Kenneth Dunfermline. I’d really prefer to avoid seeing him — it seems likely, in the circumstances, to be a depressing interview. Still, as you say, Ragwort, it would be irresponsible — would you be kind enough to come with me?”

  Murmuring of wild geese and mare’s nests, Ragwort nonetheless consented.

  “I am, of course, delighted,” said Selena, standing beside us on the pavement outside the Corkscrew as we waited for a taxi, “to know that you have a theory, Hilary. Does there happen, by any chance, to be the smallest scrap of evidence for it?”

  “Oh yes,” I said. “Yes, the evidence is almost conclusive. There is one point, you see, on which I agree with Julia — I attach great importance to the signs of nervousness displayed by Ned Watson on the morning of the murder.”

  Kentish Town, though not far from my temporary home in Islington, is an area of London with which I am unfamiliar. The driver of our taxi, however, found the street without difficulty. It was a terrace of small Georgian houses — a little shabby, but nice enough. Or not, perhaps, quite nice enough for a young man of such delicate tastes as Ned.

  “Sure you’ve got the right number?” said the taxi driver, turning to address us through the glass partition. “This one looks as if they’re all away.” The house did have, certainly, an unoccupied appearance: on a golden afternoon, the windows were blank with shutters. “Or as if someone had died.”

  “Yes,” I said, “I think it’s the right place.”

  My first ring at the doorbell brought no answer. After a minute or so, I rang again.

  “He’s not there,” said Ragwort.

  But the door did open. Framed between the doorposts, Kenneth Dunfermline looked large enough to carry them, lintel and all, like a yoke across his shoulders. He had evidently been working, for he was naked to the waist: I perceived that his bulk was not due to any surplus of flesh but to the massive development of his chest and the powerful muscles of his shoulders and upper arms. Not Julia’s sort of thing, certainly; but to any taste less morbidly aesthetic he might have seemed a rather magnificent figure, had it not been for the drab pallor of his skin — whatever occasions there had been that summer for sunbathing, Kenneth Dunfermline had not taken them. And his face — I would have thought, looking at his face, though I understand such a thing to be physiologically impossible, that in the five days since we had seen him he had not slept at all.

  He stood looking from one to the other of us under the continuous line of his thick black eyebrows, as though dazed, like a bull sent suddenly from darkness into the harsh sunlight of the arena.

  “Mr. Dunfermline?” I said.

  “Yes,” he answered, as if doubtful about it.

  “I really must apologize,” I said, “for in
truding on you without warning like this. I have only a short time in London and I was most anxious to meet you. I saw some of your work at Frostfield’s Gallery and Mrs. Frostfield was good enough to give me your address. I simply came round on impulse — it’s quite unforgivable, I’m really very sorry.”

  “Not at all,” said the sculptor, vaguely, as if it were a phrase learned by rote as the appropriate response to an apology, but repeated without confidence that it was right. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “My name, by the way, is Hilary Tamar. Professor Hilary Tamar, of St. George’s College, Oxford. This is my friend Desmond Ragwort, of Lincoln’s Inn.”

  “You’d better come in,” said Kenneth. It sounded less grudging than the words might suggest: he knew, it seemed, that there was something he was supposed to do about people standing on the doorstep, but could not with certainty remember what it was.

  We followed him through a little entrance hall and into his studio. Running the width of the house, it had windows at the back as well as the front; but those at the back were also shuttered. It was lit by fluorescent tubes, which hung by chains from the ceiling. The walls, never papered and for some years not whitewashed, had darkened to the colour of putty, the ceiling and woodwork to a similar but deeper shade. The floorboards were unpolished and uncarpeted.

  The film of whitish dust which lay over everything and the diversity of the objects which the room contained — stacks of clay, coils of copper wire, bottles of turpentine — obscured, at first impression, its extraordinary tidiness; but after a moment or two one perceived that the tools and materials of the sculptor’s craft had been arranged in meticulous order on the rows of metal shelving which covered most of the wall space — he would not be delayed in his work by any difficulty in finding the right chisel.

  There was no decoration. Even the photographs which covered one section of wall — some close-up studies of the hand, a series of still shots of a young man diving — seemed intended rather as aides-memoires to the structure of the human body. There was a set of landscape photographs — views from various angles of a place surrounded by olive trees — which served, at first sight, no utilitarian purpose. Looking, however, at the trestle table in the middle of the room, I saw laid out on it a model of the same scene, but with the addition of a fountain, its waters represented by blue polystyrene. I concluded that the landscapes also were intended to assist work in progress.