"Because he'll have two, and a crossbow."
The car slowed and she pulled in, angry as hell. "Who?"
"The murderer."
"Is that where we're going?"
"Yes." There was a prolonged silence. For a moment I thought she was going to make me get out and walk.
"Does she know?" she asked after a while.
"No."
"Certain?"
"No." I paused. "But she might have guessed. You know how people guess the truth sometimes."
We resumed the journey.
"Aren't you going to tell me?" she said.
"Lagrange, the Reverend gentleman from near the wrong bird sanctuary."
"So that's what all those lies were about stuffed birds?"
"Well, the odd white lie," I mumbled.
"You mean it was him? The shooting? The… Sheila's accident? Everything?"
"And poor Eric Field."
"And you?"
"And nearly me," I corrected.
"But he's a… a reverend."
"Borgia was a pope."
I told her how my suspicions gradually rose about Lagrange. Who had the best opportunity of learning of Eric Field's find? Who couldn't afford a car yet would need a small put-put for frequent local visits in a rural community? And what was more natural than a woman's bike for somebody who occasionally had to wear priestly garb? An authentic collector-friend of Eric Field's, he'd started revisiting Muriel's house. Collectors, like all addicts, need money. He was with Muriel in her posh gray Rover when Sheila gave me the turnkey at the war memorial. Muriel had blossomed with his feet under her table, and he'd started watching me from then on, using Muriel's place as a base. Not a lot of trouble with a small motorized bike and only a narrow valley to cross.
I'd stirred things up and reaped the consequences.
It fitted together.
"Are you… fond of this Muriel?" Margaret wanted to know.
"I suppose so."
"More than that?"
"I'm always more than that where women are concerned," I said starchily, then added, "She's just a child, gormless and bright."
"Poor Lovejoy," Margaret commented in a way that told me I'd had my lot. You can tell from how they say things, can't you?
She asked if Lagrange would be at Muriel's. I said I couldn't be sure.
"He's her boyfriend, though," I said sardonically. "The gardeners set me off thinking the other day, by being embarrassed at the odd innocent cussword. Thought I was him for a moment. He's a cool customer. Insists on having tea in the same room where he killed poor Eric Field stone dead. A right nutter."
"Couldn't we get the police—?"
"Not just yet."
After that I got a dose of the thick silence they give you as corrective when you've transgressed. Nothing short of a miracle would make her smile on me again.
There was a small blue motorized bike to one side of the Field drive, no surprise. We rolled to a stop.
"Lovejoy?"
I paused, already at the door.
"Is there no… jealousy in this?"
"Jealousy?"
"You. Of him."
"No." Nothing had ever seemed so true. She accepted it and came with me.
"Good heavens!" Muriel, open-mouthed, was in the doorway. Her reaction was a disappointment to me. They are supposed to faint or at least go white, but then she hadn't felt quite so gone over me when I was alive, so I couldn't really expect too much.
"You remember me, Muriel?" I'd planned a much cuter entrance line and forgotten it like a fool.
"Why of course, Lovejoy!" She drew me in. "We heard the most dreadful things about you. The papers said you'd had a frightful accident! Do come in."
"I'm Margaret."
"I'm Muriel Field— Oh, you telephoned. I remember. Please come in. What a perfect nuisance the newspapers are!"
"Aren't they!" The bastard would be in the study glugging tea from the Spode. Hearing my name would have made him slurp.
"What's happened to your face?"
"The odd crossbolt," I said airily. "Nothing much."
"Look, Mrs. Field," Margaret started to say, but I cut in sharply.
"Where's Lagrange?"
Muriel looked blank. "How did you know he was here?"
"His scooter, and a good guess."
"Hello, Lovejoy."
He was standing in the doorway to the study, pale but polite as ever. For some strange reason he was actually glad to see me.
"You bastard," I said. "You killed Sheila."
"Have you brought the police?"
"No. They'll have to wait their turn."
"Just one witness." He nodded at Margaret.
"Don't fret," I snapped.
"This is the man, Lovejoy," Margaret said to me quietly.
"Eh? What man?"
"He came to the arcade asking about you some time ago. I tried to tell you but didn't see you for days." The phone message to ring Margaret I'd not followed up.
"Darling what is this?" Muriel went to stand by Lagrange.
He shook her from his arm impatiently. "Nothing of any importance, my dear." He was even beginning to talk like a squire.
"He killed your husband, Muriel," I said. "He used the Judas guns your Eric had found. Some 'accident' while Eric was showing them to him, probably. Then he stole them for himself, only he couldn't quite make up the set. The turnkey was missing. I got it from the auctioneers. He saw me and Sheila. You remember coming out of the car park and seeing us by the war memorial. Then he killed her and tried to do the same for me."
"That set of sharks—incompetent sharks!"
I understood his anguish and rejoiced. "You'll never get it now, Lagrange."
His eyes blazed. "Won't I?"
"Lovejoy, what did you mean?" Muriel glanced from me to Lagrange. "What does he mean?"
"He killed Eric," I explained. "Then he realized your brother-in-law had asked me to find the Judas pair. He assumed Sheila'd kept the turnkey in her handbag for safety when his burglary at my cottage proved fruitless. So he snatched it and he pushed her under the train."
"No!" Muriel stood facing me practically spitting defiance. No compassion for Sheila now, I observed.
"Yes," I said calmly.
The pig was smiling. "Well, yes," he admitted, shrugging.
"You must recognize the truth, love," I told Muriel gently. "He's mad, a killer. He tried to kill me with a crossbow, and he burned my cottage down."
"I knew you'd get out," he said regretfully. "There wasn't a trace of you. I had a suspicion you were still around, an odd feeling you were there. Know what I mean?"
"Oh, yes," I said bitterly. "I know."
"Lovejoy," Muriel said.
"What?"
"He is my husband."
"Eh?"
"We were married three days ago." I swallowed but it was too late to change things.
"Don't be tiresome, my dear," Lagrange said to her. "You'd all better come into the study. No use standing in the hall."
I uncovered the Nock and brought both flints to full cock. "Stay where you are."
He gave me an amused glance. "Don't you be tiresome, either," he said, and walked ahead of us all into the study. That's the trouble with conviction. It can be as crackpot as anything, like the great political capers throughout history, but if it's utterly complete even sane people become meek in its presence. We three followed obediently. He paused at the desk and gestured us to be seated. I remained standing as an act of defiance. The swine actually smiled at that. "Now, Lovejoy," he said conversationally. "What to do about all these goings-on, eh?"
"Police," I said.
"Rubbish. Act your age."
"I'm going for them now. And I'd advise Muriel to come with us for her own safety."
"You're getting more fantastical every minute." He put his fingertips together, a thin burning little guy intense as hate, certain of success. How the hell had he got Muriel under his thumb? "I shall simply deny every
thing. And you, Lovejoy, aren't exactly the most convincing witness, are you?"
"You'll never get away with it."
He snorted with disgust. "That the best you can do, Lovejoy —a line from a third-rate play?" He grinned. "I already have, you see."
"I… I don't understand." Child Muriel was at it again.
"I'll explain everything to you later," he said calmly. "Well, Lovejoy?"
"Margaret," I said desperately. "We're both witnesses. We heard you admit it."
"Certainly," he said. "A man forces himself into my house carrying a loaded gun and accuses me of murders, burnings, robberies I'd never heard of—wouldn't anyone try to humor him into reasonable behavior? Especially as he's known to be… mentally unstable?"
"Lovejoy," Margaret said gently, "come on home. He's right."
"Then I'd better kill you now," I said.
"Alternatively…" Lagrange said, and pulled out from his desk a case. He placed it on the leather writing surface with pure love shining from his eyes. "Alternatively, Lovejoy, there's a means here to settle your obsessions once and for all."
"Is that…?" My voice choked and my chest clanged and clanged.
"Oh." He feigned surprise. "Would you care to see them?" He turned the case so the keyhole faced the room and gently opened the lid.
Never in all my life. I mean it, never, never. They lay dark and low, glowing with strength. Their sheer lines were hymnal, the red felt imparting on their solemn shading a ruby quality setting them off to perfection. I practically reeled at the class, the dour elegance of the pair of flintlocks embedded in the shaped recesses. Not an atom of embellishment or decoration marred their design, not a hatch on either butt, yet there was the great maker's name engraved in the flickering luminescence of the casehardened locks. A silver escutcheon plate was set into each stock, but no monogram had been engraved on either. The only jarring feature was the empty recess for the turnkey. Murderer or no murderer, I thought, reverently taking out the missing item from my handkerchief and passing it over. For once he lost his composure.
"Thank you, Lovejoy," he said, moved. "Thank you. I'll remember that."
The set was complete.
"What are you going to do?" Muriel was shaking me.
I emerged irritably from my reverie to hear Lagrange say, "Do, my dear? Why, we're going to resolve poor Lovejoy's delusions permanently."
"How?" I asked, knowing already.
"Duel," he replied. "We have the perfect means here already to hand. And the motivation."
"You can't!" It hurt me to hear Muriel's cry for him. "You might be—"
"Not I," he said calmly. "Impossible."
"Is it really?" my voice asked from a distance away.
"Oh, yes. I'm afraid so."
"Lovejoy, come away!" Margaret dragged at me, but I couldn't take my eyes off the Judas pair.
"He won't, my dear," Lagrange said gently. "He has to know, you see. Don't you, Lovejoy? Also, let's all four contemplate the benefits of a duel—no loose ends for a start. Either way, I'll gain by knowing Lovejoy won't one day lose his composure and come to kill me with that rather splendid Samuel Nock he's waving, and should matters inexplicably go right for him he'll have the satisfaction of knowing justice was done. And nobody can be blamed afterward, can they? I'll explain to the police I was made to fight a duel by this maniac here, and alternatively Lovejoy will have the proof of the means of poor Eric's death."
"Please, Lovejoy!"
"No, Margaret." That was me speaking, wanting to duel with a monster. I could hardly stand from fear at what I was doing.
"There's no choice," Lagrange said kindly to her.
"But—"
"No, Muriel." He pointed to a chair and she crossed meekly to sit down. "There's absolutely no danger. It will all come right. Now." He shut the case and carefully lifted it. "If you will excuse me."
"Where are you going with that?" I demanded. He looked pained.
"For black powder," he said. "I have it in another room. Surely you don't expect me to leave these in your tender care?"
"You might…" I dried, not knowing what he might.
He smiled. "I'll bring the powder back, dear boy," he said. "You can load them any way you like, I promise."
His bloody certainty dehydrated my tongue and throat. I could feel my forehead dampen with sweat.
The door closed.
"Muriel, you have to stop this." Margaret shook her shoulder roughly.
"Will he be all right?" was all she could say.
"You stupid woman!" Margaret cried. "Don't you care that he killed your husband? And Sheila? He's going to do the same to him!"
Even paralytic with fear I felt a twinge of resentment that everybody was speaking of me as if I was an odd chair. I spent the few minutes waiting, while Margaret went on at Muriel and me alternately, trying to think and failing hopelessly. The terrible idea emerged that it would happen too quickly for me to understand. I might—would—never know.
"Everyone all agog?" He came in smiling, as though to one of his little tea parties. "You'll find everything in order, Lovejoy. Oh, and I thought we shouldn't put too many finger marks on such lovely surfaces. Here's two pair of white gloves."
"I know."
"I'm phoning the police." Margaret rose, but Lagrange stepped between her and the door.
"No, my dear. Lovejoy?"
"Er, no," I managed to croak.
"Lovejoy!" she pleaded once, but I already had the gloves on. He offered me a piece of green velvet to rest the flinters on as I loaded.
I became engrossed. Their sensual balance, vigorous and gentle, almost brought them to life. Their quality sent tremors up my fingers as I poured black powder from the spring-loaded flask. Tamp down. Then bullet, then wadding. Test the vicious Suffolk flints for secure holding in the screwed jaws of each weapon, flick the steel over the powder-filled pan only after ensuring the touchholes were completely patent. Interestingly, I noticed one had gold stock pins and the other silver. I'd never even heard of that before.
Ready. Lagrange was waiting at the desk. Throughout the loading he had watched intently. I'd been stupid. Only now it dawned on me that I'd fallen for every gambit he'd played. Being so distrustful of him fetching the powder I'd been tricked into loading. Now here I was with the obligation of having to offer both to him for his choice under the rules. No wonder the bastard kept smiling.
"Ready, Lovejoy?" If only he didn't sound so bloody compassionate. I nodded.
"No!"
"Get away with you!" I snarled at Margaret, and offered both weapons to Lagrange after making a clumsy effort to swap them from hand to hand to confuse him.
"Thank you. This one, I think." He took one and weighted it in his hand. "The study's not quite sixty feet, Lovejoy, I'm afraid."
"That's all right."
All this stuff about ten paces is rubbish. It was usually ten yards each way, carefully measured, making twenty yards in all.
"Where would you like to stand?" he asked pleasantly.
"I want both of us to sit at the desk."
His eyebrows raised. "Isn't that a trifle unusual?"
"There are precedents."
"So there are." He wasn't disconcerted in the least.
I brought a chair and sat as close as I could, opening my legs wide for balance. He sat opposite.
"Closer, please."
"As you wish." He hitched forward until his chest touched the rosewood. We leaned elbows on the top and waited.
"We need your assistance, Muriel," he said calmly. "Over here, please, with your handkerchief."
She came and stood by the desk.
"Hold your handkerchief up above us," he told her, watching me. "When Lovejoy tells you, let it fall."
"But—"
"Do as you're told, my dear," he said patiently. "It won't take a moment. You'll be quite safe. Do you understand?"
"Yes," she quavered.
It was now. No matter what I did, how fast I was, h
ow good my aim, I would die the instant I pulled the trigger. He needn't fire at all. Yet I'd loaded both meticulously. There couldn't possibly be any trick.
I pointed the beautiful Damascus barrel. His gaped back at me. Behind the cavernous muzzle his calm, smiling face gazed into my eyes. We held position, brains and barrels inches apart, me sweating in terror and him enjoying the last few moments of my life. In a blur I saw the single line of awareness—his eyes, his barrel, the black muzzle, then my own ribbed barrel and, in a blur nearest me, the blank silver escutcheon plate just showing above my hand gripping the stock. The silver plate set in the stock. All in a line, from his mad hating brain to my terror-stricken consciousness. Eye to eye, in a line. And, nearest of all to my eye, the silver escutcheon plate. In line with my eye.
"Now," I said.
The handkerchief fluttered down. I turned my flinter around as the handkerchief fell, pointed the muzzle of my own gun against my forehead, and pulled the trigger.
There was no explosion, but the recoil snapped the barrel forward against my skull and nearly stunned me from the force of the blow. As if in a dream I saw Lagrange's eye splash red and gelatinous over his face. His head jerked back. He uttered a small sound like a cough as he died and the flinter in his hand clumped heavily down onto the desk, firing off as the hair trigger was hauled back by his convulsing hand. The ball sent glass flying from a shattered window. I was missed by a foot or so.
It seemed an hour before the echoes died away and the screaming began. My senses slowly came creeping back.
It was logical. Your eye's in line with the barrel. So if it's your own gun that shoots you through your right eye, aiming it frontward at your own right eye will shoot your opponent. But how?
Amid the moanings and the tears, as poor Muriel wailed and screamed on Lagrange and Margaret tried some hopeless first aid, I examined the pistol I held. It was the one with the silver stock pins—that was probably how to tell them apart. Lagrange had picked the gold-pinned one. Yet mine was still loaded.
I got the green velvet and the case and set to work while somebody phoned the police. It's always important to unload a gun first, no matter how old it is. This I did safely, then dismantled the lock. Any flinter enthusiast lifts the lock out to look. It does the piece no harm and the mechanism's everything.
It was exquisite, delicate as a lady's hand. There were not two lock mechanisms inside as I'd guessed. The standard firing mechanism was actually unworkable. The trigger activated a small air chamber which worked by propelling a missile along a reverse concealed barrel toward the eye of the person holding the weapon. The missile pushed up the silver escutcheon plate on a minute hinge unlocked by the trigger. Highly ingenious. The better your aim the more likely you were to shoot your eye out.
The Judas Pair l-1 Page 20
