Dunster

by John Mortimer

‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Well. I didn’t want to leave a message. It’s something I felt I had to break to you. Before you hear it on the news or read about it in the papers.’

  ‘What is it, for God’s sake?’

  And then he told me.

  When I put the phone back on the kitchen wall, I was shivering. The room seemed to have become darker and the music loud, strident and unendurable. I had no idea exactly what Justin’s news meant, and I was afraid to guess.

  ‘It was an accident.’

  Yes, my dear, darling Angie, yes. I’m sure it was. Of course it was. What else could it have been? – Even to say that, to agree as fervently as that, might have seemed to cast doubt on her statement of a simple certainty.

  ‘A horrible, stupid, unnecessary accident.’

  We were sitting side by side on the sofa in the library at Windhammer, under the pre-Raphaelite stained-glass window, by the silent piano and elaborate sound system. I held her hand, as it seemed a natural thing to do. Angie looked like a young woman who had stumbled at long last into old age.

  The doctor said it was an accident. And they said it was an accident on the television news, and in The Times. Did you see The Times?’

  ‘Yes. I saw all the papers.’

  ‘He should never have taken up that wretched shooting business again.’

  ‘He told me he was thinking of it.’

  ‘He told you that?’ Was she grateful for a small piece of evidence to back up everyone’s interpretation of that terrible event?

  ‘He told me that before the trial,’ I assured her.

  ‘Dr Megarry said that when people kill themselves with a shotgun they put the muzzle in their mouths, then they reach down to pull the trigger. They’re usually standing up or sitting when they do it. With Cris it wasn’t like that at all.’

  ‘In the papers it just said it was an accident. That’s all it said.’

  ‘He’d gone down on his hands and knees. He’d got under a hedge and pulled the gun after him. Some sorts of guns can go off, apparently, if you do that. Dr Megarry shoots a lot round here. He knows all about it.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m sure he does.’

  ‘A bloody stupid accident.’

  ‘No one’s suggested anything else.’ No one had, but I could think of someone who very well might, someone who could say that this event justified him and proved that all he’d said in the case he had lost had been the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

  ‘Of course it was an accident,’ Angie repeated. She looked at me, wide-eyed and innocent. ‘What else could it be?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Nothing at all.’

  ‘Such a terrible waste,’ she said. ‘Such a waste of Cris.’

  ‘Cris wasn’t wasted.’ It’s so much easier to console than be consoled. ‘He had a long, marvellous life. We all had so much from him, you more than any of us. This can’t take that away. Not all the years you’ve had together. Not all the years I’ve known him either.’

  ‘He wanted me to stay young, you see. He’d fallen for me when I was young and that’s how he wanted me to be always. Young and rather helplessly heroic. But, as a matter of fact, I’m old and frightened of insects. They even get indoors.’ Her hand flapped at the air round the sofa which, so it seemed to me, was completely insect-free. ‘We’re battling against nature in here.’

  I had arrived by the earliest train and I said yes, of course, I’d stay for lunch and for the night if that was what she wanted. I poured her a large gin and tonic and she became braver, less prone to slap at imaginary insects. When we went into the dining-room I took her arm; she needed help and she walked stiffly, much more slowly than usual.

  ‘You remember that evening when you and your girl Lucy were here and we all sang silly old wartime numbers?’

  ‘Of course I remember.’

  ‘Cris was so happy that night. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him happier than that.’

  Before I left Windhammer I said Lucy and I would come down and stay with Angie again, as often as we could. I’m sure I meant it, but I knew that our visits would diminish and she would be left, like so many people who are old and unhappy, for most of the time alone.

  I went back to London and took a taxi to Megapolis from Liverpool Street Station. There was a gloomy excitement about the place, which seems to be the usual reaction to news of death. I tried to avoid most of my colleagues and the pitying looks they gave me. I sat at my desk, doing nothing, lost and lonely, staring straight in front of me. Then I got three phone calls: good, bad and extraordinary.

  The first was from Mr Zellenek, who said he was sorry he’d had to rush away ‘to call LA’, but he’d had a fantastic evening, my performance had triumphed over all technical difficulties and would I lightly pencil in a Tuesday in three weeks’ time for a lunch at the Malibu Club? My mind was on other things but I saw no particular reason not to accept.

  The second was from Sydney Pollitter. ‘I want to say this in all sincerity, without any desire to flatter you, Progmire, or bullshit in any way, that you were the closest to him. You sat on the steps of the throne, as it were, and I was far away in the ante-chamber. What a terrible loss to Megapolis plc and to England! Words cannot express the sense of utter deprivation one feels, at such a moment.’

  Then shut up and leave me alone was what I wanted to say. But Sid Vicious gave me some Shakespeare.

  ‘... and the elements

  So mix’d in him that Nature might stand up

  And say to all the world, “This was a man for all seasons!’

  ‘“This was a man!’”

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mark Antony about Brutus. He simply says, “This was a man!” Nothing at all about “for all seasons”.’

  ‘Of course. How well you put it. “This was a man!” By the way, Progmire ...’>

  ‘Yes, Mr Pollitter?’

  ‘Have you heard any whispers, any sort of buzz going around, about a possible new chairman of the Board?’

  ‘Nothing at all. It’s very quiet around here.’

  ‘Of course, Cris Bellhanger would be a pretty hard act to follow.’

  ‘Impossible. Must rush now. Goodbye.’ I put down the phone, feeling it would take a long, hot bath before I was thoroughly clean again.

  Then Justin Glover rang and said something extraordinary. ‘I’ve got a letter here for you from Cris Bellhanger.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ For a wild moment I thought Cris might be alive, but Justin explained.

  ‘I’d sent him a packet of things to sign. Documents about his property. He must have posted them back on the day of the accident. The post’s ghastly and they’ve only just arrived. One of them’s an envelope for you. It’s marked PRIVATE, TO BE OPENED BY NO ONE EXCEPT PHILIP PROGMIRE. I’m to hand it to you personally.’

  ‘What on earth can it be?’

  ‘I can’t imagine. Why don’t you call in on your way home and find out?’

  So I left Megapolis and drove to Justin’s office in Lincoln’s Inn. He told me that Cris had given him final, written instructions not to enforce the damages. Then he gave me my envelope. I saw Cris’s handwriting and I signed for it. I took it back to Muswell Hill with a message, so it seemed to me then, from beyond the grave.

  Lucy had gone out to a legal dinner with one of the partners in her firm and I was glad to be alone. I sat in the kitchen with Cris’s envelope on the table and looked at it. Then I made myself a cup of tea. Quite a while after that, I poured myself a drink. I felt as I had when exam results arrived, or the letter telling me whether or not I’d got into Oxford; I wanted to postpone the possibility of bad news as long as possible. At last, despising myself for such a prolonged hesitation, I picked up the envelope and tore it open. I pulled out a wad of Windhammer notepaper covered with Cris’s handwriting, clear and bold like everything about him.

  When I first read the letter I think I was just listening to Cris’s voice. I could hea
r him as clearly as though he were with me, having come into the room in a mysterious and miraculous fashion. Then I read it again, and again. At last I knew everything, the simple explanation of all that had happened. I didn’t yet know what I thought about it. The front-door bell rang. I pushed the letter into the table drawer, among knives and corkscrews, and went to answer it.

  It was an autumn evening, and already dark. He stood in a long black coat, his collar turned up, his hands deep in his pockets. He looked, to my surprise, far from triumphant.

  ‘All right.’ I said to Dunster. ‘He’s dead. What the hell do you want now?’

  ‘I’d like to talk to you, old man. I did try and phone you but you were out somewhere. Spare me a bit of your time. The fact is, I’m worried.’

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  I could have slammed the door in his face. I could have assaulted him, taken him by the throat, perhaps more effectively than I had in the garden of Alexandra Palace when he told me about Beth. There was a moment when I felt I could have killed him. But to attack Dunster then would have been to support a conclusion about Cris’s death which I was sure he’d come to already. I needed to know what he thought and what further plans he had for destruction. So I stood aside and I let him into my house.

  ‘So long since I’ve been here.’

  ‘Yes.’

  The light was on in the kitchen and the door open. He walked in and sat at the table. I was standing.

  ’You’re comfortable here, are you, Progmire? Natasha says you’ve found a girlfriend.’

  ‘For God’s sake. Is that what you came here to talk about?’

  ‘No. I heard what happened to Bellhanger.’

  ‘I expect everyone did.’

  ‘They said it was an accident. Is that what it was?’

  ‘Yes. It was an accident. No question about it. Is that what’s worrying you?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ I should have known that. I should have known that any idea of his having driven a man to such desperate lengths would only have satisfied his appalling sense of justice, but he asked no more questions. Instead he surprised me by saying, ‘It’s that bugger Midgeley.’

  ‘Midgeley?’

  ‘Yes. He’s changed his mind. Changed it completely. I’m not sure what I ought to do about it. I say, old man. I couldn’t have a drink or something?’

  It was the first time, I swear it was the very first time, in my life that I had heard Dunster say he wasn’t sure about anything. I was so surprised that I poured him a drink from the bottle on the table.

  ‘He’s going to write an article about it in that bloody Peace magazine of his. He’s written to the judge. He’s written to the Home Secretary. God knows what they’re meant to do about it. Aren’t you having one yourself?’

  ‘Not now.’ I didn’t want to drink with him and I had to give my full attention to the conversion of Midgeley.

  ‘When that ghastly little barrister of yours suggested that what he heard was Bellhanger saying, “The Germans must have done it,” he began to have his doubts.’

  ‘He seemed absolutely sure in court.’

  ‘In court he was. Now he says he didn’t have time to think, or pray about it. Apparently he’s done a lot of thinking since. And praying too, come to that.’

  ‘And he’s not so sure?’

  ‘It started like that. Now he says he’s positive that your man’s version was right.’

  ‘I don’t see that it matters much. The jury didn’t believe him, anyway. If they had, you wouldn’t have lost the case.’ I was delighted to be able to remind him of that, at least.

  ‘It matters to him. He says it matters to his conscience. And, of course, the point is, old man, it matters to me.’

  I sat down then, opposite Dunster at my kitchen table. I felt exceptionally calm. He was hunched over his drink. The light fell on his face, which seemed, at that moment, a mask of anxiety.

  ‘Why are you so bothered? The case is over. I saw the solicitor today. Cris had instructed him not to enforce the claim for damages, or costs. It’s exactly what I told you.’

  ‘I’m not worried about that. I’m worried about the truth.’

  I said nothing. I sat waiting to hear more. What did he think the truth was, exactly?

  ‘You never talked to Midgeley, did you? No one from your side got at him?’

  ‘We never set eyes on him. Not till he turned up in court.’

  ‘Yes. That’s what he said. And you haven’t seen him since?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘He said that too. He said no one persuaded him to change his story.’

  ‘Why should we bother? After all, we won.’

  ‘I was so bloody sure it was true.’ Dunster was holding his glass tightly. He lifted it to his mouth and seemed to force himself to drink. ‘I had all the evidence. I had what Jaunty told me and what Sweeting told me. And I had Midgeley.’

  ‘And Jaunty changed his mind and so did Sweeting. And now Midgeley has too.’

  ‘Yes. He’s the worst. He was rock hard, and now he’s gone back on it all.’

  ‘Perhaps it just doesn’t do to be too certain. You know I found Lester Maddocks, the explosives man?’

  ‘You never told me.’ Dunster seemed hurt that I hadn’t taken him into my confidence.

  ‘Why the hell should I? You were against us.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He confirmed Cris’s story. He said the Germans did it.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you call him as a witness?’ Dunster sounded hopeful.

  ‘That was all explained in court He’d gone missing, out of the country.’ I looked at Dunster and summed up against him. ‘So now no one says Cris was guilty. Not one single witness anyone’s found. That fact is, old man, you never had a bloody case at all!’

  There was a long silence. I could hear the kitchen clock ticking and a police siren somewhere quite far away. I felt I had scored a hit but I never expected the astonishing result.

  ‘Do you think,’ Dunster asked me, ‘that I may possibly have been wrong about it?’

  ‘Completely wrong. Utterly wrong. I always knew that. I always told you so. You wouldn’t listen. You wouldn’t be put off. You had this idea about Cris. This fantasy.’

  ‘Fantasy?’ He said the word as though he loathed it.

  ‘Total fantasy.’

  Another long silence. Dunster had something to ask and I wasn’t about to help him to ask it.

  ‘And it really was an accident? What happened to Bellhanger?’

  ‘I’ve told you that. The doctor says it was an accident. Everyone says so. Cris had won the case, hadn’t he? He’d got everything to live for. At least your stupid mistake didn’t kill anybody.’

  ‘A stupid mistake? Do you honestly think that’s what it was?’

  ‘Of course. I’ve got no doubt about it.’

  ‘Then what can I do?’

  ‘You said you were worried.’

  ‘I am, old man. I am, quite honestly.’

  ‘I think you should be. What can you do? You can’t do anything. Except worry about it. Worry about it for the rest of your life. I’m sorry. That’s all I can say. Good-night, Dunster.’

  He’d finished his drink. He stood up and went to the door. Before he left, he turned round and looked at me reproachfully. ‘Old man, we’ve known each other for a long time.’

  ‘Too long.’

  ‘I came in good faith. I expected a bit more of you.’

  ‘You made another mistake. You had no right to expect anything.’

  When he had gone, when I heard the front door bang after him, I opened the table drawer. The letter was there, among the cutlery. I took it out carefully and read it for the last time.

  Dear Philip

  You are the only person in the world to whom I can write this and I feel, after all these years, that I have to tell someone. When you have read it I know I can trust you to destroy this letter, and never to say a word about it to anyone.
Angie, of course, must never get to hear about it.

  I don’t know how I can explain the way we felt during the Italian campaign. We were all tired, past the point of exhaustion. The war was four years old then. Most of us had fought across the desert. I’d done a bit in Yugoslavia. Now we were fighting a battle we didn’t really understand. After all, the Italians had surrendered. Why couldn’t we forget Italy and get on with the French invasion? What was the point of all that bloodshed? A lot of the men were disenchanted, some near the point of mutiny.

  But that’s not the whole story. You don’t know what it’s like to be fighting in a war. I pray to God you never learn. There’s fear and boredom and anger and an awful sense of unreality. What’ve you done that anyone should be trying to kill you? Why should you, aged twenty something, be dragged off to kill people who never did you any particular harm? Then it becomes unreal. They aren’t people you’re killing but a sort of abstraction called ‘the enemy’. The enemy are nothing like you, of course. They’re brutal, without feelings, and the best thing is for them to die in large numbers. At least, that’s what you’re meant to think.

  I want to tell you what happened at Pomeriggio. We knew that the local fascists, a collection of brutes who made the German Army seem like the Peace Corps, met in the old, disused church, the place they called the Chiesa Nuova. We’d kept a watch and we saw them go in there at the same time every night. They kept a few supplies there and they’d get together and plan some new bit of devilment.

  So our plan was to mine the church and blow up the fascists. Strangely enough, they didn’t take the trouble to guard the place properly when they weren’t using it. They didn’t have much stowed there anyway, so I suppose they didn’t bother. We got all the explosives packed as soon as it got dark. Maddocks, our explosives man, revealed a not unexpected talent for picking locks and, as I say, the church was deserted until the fascists showed up, which was regularly at 9.30, after they’d enjoyed a good black-market dinner.

  We got a timing device fixed for 9.45 and then we retreated up to a high point where we could watch the fireworks. You may think it strange that we should want to see a number of people blown to smithereens, even if they were fascists, but strange things happen in a war. To us it was a job, a technical challenge and we wanted to see it succeed. So what happened? I’m trying to get back to that moment, so I can tell you exactly how it felt at the time.