Sweet Sorrow

by David Roberts

  To Edward’s amusement, Verity was surrounded by a rather larger group of admirers. He was delighted to see his wife lionized by intelligent young people and tried to make himself invisible. She deserved to be fêted and he knew it would do much for her fragile self-confidence. He retreated to a corner to talk to Tommie but he made his excuses and went off in search of Paul Fisher.

  Much to his surprise, one girl – rather younger than most of the women – came up to Edward and introduced herself.

  ‘I believe you know my uncle. He said you were coming to Newnham for the lecture.’

  ‘Your uncle?’

  ‘Paul Fisher.’

  ‘Of course! You must be Catherine?’

  ‘Yes, Catherine Fisher . . . or rather, Catherine Gates.’

  ‘Catherine Gates? I don’t understand.’

  ‘I call myself Catherine Fisher but actually Byron Gates was my father.’

  Edward was nonplussed. ‘How could he have been your father?’

  ‘I can’t tell you now, there’s no time. You’re about to be called in to dinner. I say, I don’t want to be a bore but I wondered if we could meet later? It’s important. I need to talk to you about my uncle.’

  ‘About Paul? Of course we can meet. When and where do you suggest? If there’s anything I can do . . . though I’m afraid he doesn’t have a lot of time for me. By the way, my friend Tommie Fox – he’s also a friend of your uncle’s – has gone to look for him. I don’t know if you met Tommie? He came to the lecture but slipped out afterwards. I know he was worried about Paul.’

  ‘Yes, I do know him and I’m very grateful but, Lord Edward, my uncle needs your help. He seems to be in trouble. He won’t tell me exactly what but I think it’s to do with a murder in his parish. He said you would know. I think he may have wanted me to talk to you though he wouldn’t admit it. The truth is I’m afraid of what he might do.’

  ‘I see. Well, I hope he can be persuaded to talk to me but I wouldn’t count on it. As I say, he doesn’t approve of me. Look, shall I cut this dinner and come with you?’ Edward offered, sensing the girl’s distress. ‘I’m sure the Principal would understand.’

  ‘Thank you but no. You must stay for the dinner. I’m probably getting het up about nothing.’

  Pernel was beckoning the guests to follow her. ‘Where’s Paul staying?’ Edward asked hurriedly.

  ‘With Aunt Gladys and me.’

  ‘Give me your address.’

  ‘No, we can’t meet there. I don’t want my aunt to know that I’ve talked to you. She wouldn’t understand. I’ll meet you on the Backs, behind King’s College Chapel – say about eleven?’

  ‘Are you allowed out so late?’

  Catherine looked at him pityingly. ‘I am grown up, you know.’ Then she added conspiratorially, ‘I can get out of my bedroom window without my aunt knowing – a convenient drainpipe.’ The tension left her face for a moment and she looked younger and prettier.

  ‘Who was that you were talking to?’ Verity asked as he caught up with her.

  ‘Paul Fisher’s niece, Catherine. Do you remember him mentioning he had a niece at Newnham? She lives with her aunt in Cambridge. I’m not sure where exactly – she wouldn’t give me the address. She’s worried about Paul. Apparently he’s in rather a state. I haven’t had a chance to tell you but Tommie says he’s in Cambridge and he’s gone to see if he can do anything to help. Catherine says she needs to talk to me so I’ve agreed to meet her on the Backs about eleven.’ Verity looked puzzled so Edward had to explain. ‘That’s by the river. Come on, Pernel is looking cross with us for lagging behind.’

  On any other occasion, Edward would have enjoyed the evening. The dinner was good and the dons friendly. There were several from other colleges most of whom seemed to be spending the long vacation in Cambridge researching or writing books – as well as some favoured students, all women. If this was the kind of female who wanted to fill in the gaps in her education, Edward decided that he was all in favour of it. But try as he would to be interested in the burning issues of the day, he could only join in half-heartedly. Would Newnham be closed down in the event of war? When would women be awarded degrees? What did he think of women in the House of Commons? Had he met Nancy Astor or Ellen Wilkinson ? Although he found himself stimulated and entertained, his thoughts constantly strayed to his meeting on the banks of the Cam and the girl who might hold the key to the identity of the Rodmell murderer.

  Several hours later, he escorted Verity through narrow arches, down little-used passages and across damp grass towards the river, their way lit only by the occasional lamp and an almost full moon. Verity was reminded of Venice, which she had only seen in pictures but imagined having this same air of floating through time, above and beyond reality. The spires gleamed ghostly pale in the silvery light and, clinging tightly to Edward’s arm, she felt very much a stranger.

  Cambridge was not her natural habitat – she was not an academic and found it difficult to understand the intellectual urge that made women shut themselves away to study as though they were nuns. True, their host, Pernel Strachey, was active in what Verity thought of as the real world and fought doughtily for women’s rights, but she was an exception.

  As they passed beneath the shadow of King’s College Chapel, a vague feeling of foreboding made her shiver. Suddenly, the bells of Cambridge began to chime eleven. Verity had never liked the sound of church bells, perhaps because they challenged her lack of faith or reminded her how short life could be, but these chimes were different. Yes, they seemed to say, we are living on the edge of a precipice and these are almost certainly the last days of peace, but England will survive as it has survived so many trials in its long history. Her anxiety was replaced by an equally irrational optimism. Surely the Luftwaffe could never triumph over so much beauty and wisdom? She was being sentimental, she knew, but there it was – she was calmed and reassured.

  They had no difficulty in seeing Catherine, a single white figure on Clare Bridge, gazing up at King’s College Chapel as though expecting to see something or someone appear among its elegant spires and turrets. To Verity, the Chapel seemed too large for its surroundings, as though the medieval Christians who had built it had committed an error of taste, but Edward seemed entranced.

  His mood changed as soon as Catherine ran towards them, waving and pointing.

  ‘Lord Edward, thank God you’re here.’

  ‘Why? What’s the matter?’

  ‘It’s my uncle. He’s . . . I think he’s gone mad. We were walking up from the river . . . he wanted to talk to me in private. He told me he had decided that Cambridge was a godless place and he wanted me to leave . . . He wouldn’t listen to anything I said. Then we saw the Chapel and I asked him how Cambridge could be godless with a church as beautiful as that.

  ‘He went all silent and began to breathe in a strange snorting sort of way. I thought he might be having a heart attack but suddenly he started running towards the Chapel. I caught up with him when he stopped for breath. I tried to put my arms round him but he shook me off. He said . . .’ Catherine was crying now and her voice was hoarse. ‘He said God had commanded him to come to Him. He started to run round the Chapel as though he was looking for something. I tried to stop him but he’s surprisingly strong. Then he seemed to find what he was looking for. It’s in a corner over there . . . a sort of ladder. He started climbing up it. I tried to drag him down but I couldn’t. Look . . . there!’

  Edward looked up at the Chapel and groaned. He knew that without ropes it was almost impossible to climb the forbidding turrets that sprang from the roof, delicate as crystallized sugar, but it was just possible to climb on to the roof itself. Several undergraduates had managed it in his time but it was dangerous. If you fell halfway up, you could break a limb or worse.

  They ran towards the corner of the Chapel where Catherine had seen her uncle start to climb and stared up into the darkness. A black shape like a monstrous spider seemed stuck to the wall about fifte
en feet above them.

  ‘You see, Verity, this corner of the Chapel forms a sort of chimney. I remember trying to climb it once. I’d had too much to drink and nearly killed myself.’

  ‘Shout to him to come down,’ Verity said. ‘Tell him you want to talk.’

  ‘I’m afraid of distracting him. If I made him look down or lose his footing he could easily fall and break his neck. Oh God, I think he’s stuck. No, he’s moving again.’

  The first part of the climb was made easy by bands of stone that acted like a ladder. After that, Paul had taken a grip of the lightning conductor – little more than a copper wire attached to the wall by clamps. He had managed to loosen one of them, get his fingers around the wire, and was now pulling himself up, using the conductor as a rope. It was a painful and exhausting business. The width of the ‘chimney’ down which the wire ran was scarcely more than that of a man’s thigh. As they watched, Paul levered himself up on to a broad sloping ledge and stopped to draw breath.

  Edward sighed with relief, judging that it was now safe to urge him to come down. Just as he was about to do so, Paul began to climb again, his feet pressed against a stone flange about four inches wide, his back taut against the side wall at right angles to the main wall of the Chapel. Edward saw that he had taken off his shoes so he could grip with his bare feet. He climbed rapidly and was soon eighty feet above them. Then he was on the roof and Edward breathed a second, more profound sigh of relief. Provided Paul did not attempt one of the Chapel’s four turrets, he was safe. He knew he needed to keep Paul talking until the authorities could be summoned and the Chapel opened. There was, he remembered, a stone staircase inside which led on to the roof.

  ‘Catherine, call to him and ask if he’s all right,’ Edward said, as calmly as he could.

  ‘Please, Uncle, come down! You are frightening us,’ she cried, cupping her hands to her mouth to make her voice carry. If Paul heard, he gave no sign of it.

  They watched in amazement as he began to take off his clothes. He was soon naked and they could hear that he was singing. He spread his arms wide, either in imitation of Christ on the Cross or perhaps to show himself to his God without a fig leaf behind which to hide himself. It was a ludicrous sight, almost funny if it had not been tragic. Paul – so tightly wound up – had finally snapped like an over-stretched rubber band.

  ‘The Nunc Dimittis,’ Edward muttered. ‘Now let us depart in peace . . .’ Was he now preparing to depart from the world he despised?

  ‘Paul, it’s me, Edward . . .’ he called, cupping his hands to make a trumpet. ‘You wanted to talk to me, remember?’

  He shouted so loudly that he was sure Paul had heard him. He looked down and almost fell. He righted himself but Edward had no idea if he knew who was calling to him. In his madness he might think it was God or, more likely, the devil.

  He made a decision. ‘Paul, wait!’ he shouted. ‘I’m coming up. You said you wanted to tell me something.’

  Paul seemed to recognize him for the first time and beckoned with his finger as though tempting him to join him on the roof.

  ‘No!’ Verity said. ‘I won’t let you, Edward. It’s too dangerous. It’s not worth the risk. They’ll come and rescue him.’

  ‘It’s not dangerous – not that first bit. I want to talk to him face to face. Catherine, you run and get help – call the Proctors – while I keep him occupied. Take this, will you?’

  He took off his jacket and gave it to Verity to hold. She bit her lip, knowing that once Edward had made up his mind there was no point in trying to get him to change it. Quickly, he pulled off his shoes and socks and swung himself up the first few feet. He then began to climb, using the slender wire as a rope. It was harder than he had thought and he found it difficult to get a grip. Being much taller than Paul, he was unable to use his feet against the stone wall where the chimney was narrowed. He had to drag himself up using just his arms and, though he was strong, he was not as fit as he had once been. He wondered how long his muscles would do his bidding before they weakened or cramp set in.

  The stone was soft and, as he fought to gain a foothold, a sizeable piece came away, narrowly missing Verity. The sweat poured off him and, when a cloud briefly obscured the moon, he missed his footing and was a second away from falling. He struggled on, feeling his strength ebbing, but at last he reached the low stone balustrade which encircled the roof and scrambled over it. He lay on the lead platform panting, unable to move. He was as exhausted as he had ever been climbing in the Drakensberg as a young man. His legs and arms trembled uncontrollably but he had made it. A sense of triumph turned him light-headed. He was not too old yet, he thought grimly.

  He had met the physical challenge but now a new, psychological, challenge faced him. He had to prevent this crazed man from killing himself. Paul stood, stark naked, on the very edge of the roof swaying backwards and forwards as he communed with his God.

  ‘Paul!’ he called urgently when his chest had finally stopped heaving and his heart racing. It was more of a grunt than a voice he recognized and Paul ignored it. Edward struggled to his feet and called again. ‘Paul! Tell me what has made you do this.’

  It sounded feeble but how to ask a man on the point of jumping from the roof of King’s College Chapel whether he was a murderer? ‘Paul, is it because of Byron Gates . . .? Is it because of Catherine . . .?’

  As he had hoped, the directness of his questions caught Paul’s attention.

  ‘There’s an axe in the belfry covered in blood,’ he almost chanted.

  ‘And did you put it there, Paul?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ He sounded uncertain but then he added in a stronger voice, ‘Guilty as charged.’

  Edward felt nauseous. ‘Why did you do it?’

  Paul wiped a hand over his eyes as though he was puzzling something out. He swayed and Edward put out a hand to steady him, but Paul pushed him away.

  ‘God told me to . . . to write and warn people . . .’

  ‘So you wrote those letters to Byron, to Miss Bron and Miss Fairweather, and to me . . .?’

  ‘I had to . . . immoral lives . . .’ Paul was mumbling now. Then he said quite firmly in a normal voice, ‘But I didn’t kill . . . I’m sure I did not kill. Christ forbade vengeance.’

  ‘Then you aren’t a murderer!’ Edward felt relief overcome his weariness.

  ‘I did kill . . . I wrote a letter to Mark Redel and he killed himself.’

  ‘He tried to kill himself but he survived. He will soon be out of hospital.’

  ‘He’s alive?’ Paul sounded disbelieving.

  ‘You’ve forgotten. You’ve been ill. Yes, Mark survived. You haven’t killed anybody.’

  ‘I’ve been ill . . .?’ Paul repeated doubtfully.

  ‘Yes, you’ve been ill but now you will get better,’ Edward said with gentle urgency. ‘Please understand, you are not a murderer.’

  ‘No, I remember now. He confessed to me kneeling at the altar so I could not tell anyone. The burden was intolerable.’

  ‘Who confessed? Mark? Did Mark confess? You can tell me now and lay down your burden.’

  ‘“Seeing we are compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which doth so easily beset us . . . Almighty God who desireth not the death of a sinner, but rather that he may turn from his wickedness and live . . .” I told him . . . I told the Colonel . . .’

  Paul was looking inwards and in another moment might have collapsed on to the roof. But that was not to be. There was a sudden noise far below them. A police car’s strident bell broke the silence . . . a blue light flashed.

  Paul turned his head and took a step back. Puzzled by the lights and the noise, he seemed overcome with giddiness. Turning to Edward, he stretched out a hand, whether in appeal or apology Edward would never know, and toppled back over the parapet, thudding against the stone as he fell.

  Edward rubbed his forehead as he always did under stress and then knelt, his head pres
sed against the cold stone, but in that holy place no prayer came to solace him. Rather a few words of Horace, ‘Premet nox alta’, ‘Deep night will cover it.’ Paul Fisher was dead. Edward had failed.

  17

  Edward drove Verity back to Rodmell in the Lagonda on the Monday. Tommie had returned to London by train the night before. He had been waiting anxiously for Paul and Catherine on the Friday evening at her aunt’s house and had been horrified when he heard what had happened. He blamed himself for not having been able to help his friend but Edward told him that Paul’s brainstorm had been so sudden that it could not have been foreseen.

  Privately, Tommie believed that Paul might have benefited from psychoanalysis but this was probably wishful thinking. He would never have let his deeply held faith be explained away. He believed he knew what God was asking him to do and, surely could never have been persuaded that this was a delusion. He had confessed to Edward, on the roof of King’s College Chapel, that he had sent poison pen letters to people of whose morals he disapproved and that he was tormented by the notion that Mark Redel might have tried to kill himself after receiving one, but that was all. He could admit to no other sin. He was doing God’s work and that was all there was to say about it.

  Tommie tortured himself with the thought that persuading his friend to come to dinner with Edward, Verity and the Woolves had tipped him over the edge but, as Edward said, had it not been that it would have been something else. In his view, if there was anyone to blame for Paul’s descent into the hell of madness, it was the murderer who had confessed to him at the altar and left a bloodied axe in the church. This man had murdered Paul just as surely as he had murdered Byron Gates and Frieda Burrowes.

  Greyshott had been shocked when Edward returned with Verity in a police car at three o’clock in the morning, utterly exhausted, his clothes torn to shreds. He had sat in his pyjamas, his head in his hands, as they told him what had happened. Afterwards, GG had looked at Edward as though he was responsible for the tragedy and Verity had had to work hard to persuade him otherwise.