by John Burke
Laura stared, dumbfounded.
PART THREE
Then, venom, to thy work.
Chapter One
Laura followed the first wardress up the steps, and emerged into the large room with its dark woodwork and bleak, aseptic light. There was a faint rustling and a murmur of voices, stilled at once. She did not look round, but stared impassively at the judge.
The second wardress came up quietly behind her.
The clerk of the court stood below. He spoke to Laura in a solemn voice whose dramatic effect was, for her, ruined by his adenoidal intonation. She listened with professional calm, as though the way he spoke were more important than what he said.
‘Laura Felicity Swanton, you are charged on indictment for that you on the 4th day of August in this present year did feloniously, wilfully and of your malice aforethought kill and murder . . .’
It was often like this. There was so much that she did not need to listen to. And now, although he was addressing her directly and purposefully, she could not take the matter seriously. She was so used to letting people talk without taking too much account of what they actually said.
But now there was a question she must answer. The clerk was challenging her.
She said: ‘Not guilty.’
Then she was allowed to sink back into contemplation. She watched the nine men and three women filing into the jury box, and heard them mumbling the oath. ‘. . . that I will well and truly try and true deliverance make . . .’ She studied them with dispassionate curiosity. They might have been sitting in her surgery, waiting for her to pass sentence or relieve their fears. That woman on the end there had signs of a thyroid deficiency. The man in the front row, popping a small tablet surreptitiously into his mouth, might be any kind of a hypochondriac. Or perhaps he had a peptic ulcer.
But she was not here to judge them. For once her verdict was not sought. There had been a reversal of the natural order of things, and for once her life was in the hands of others. They were the ones who would make the assessment and pronounce the verdict: they were here to judge her.
Not guilty, she had said. And said it firmly, for it was true. She was not guilty. This ritual was a grotesque mockery. How could she, Laura Swanton (Laura Felicity Swanton) be declared guilty?
She felt tolerantly sorry for them, wasting their time in this way.
Waste. Of her time and theirs. And of money.
This bewigged creature down there now, for instance. How much money was being wasted by the Crown on the presentation of this case — how much per hour did the services of that portentous man warrant?
‘May it please your lordship. Members of the jury, you have heard the charge against the prisoner, and you will be aware that yours is a heavy responsibility — the heaviest that can be laid upon any man or woman. I must lay before you a sequence of facts which will make extremely unpleasant hearing. These facts will, I know, be most carefully considered by all of you, and I am confident that you will in due course agree with the contention of the Crown that the prisoner did commit this appalling murder with which she is charged.
‘All murders are appalling. You may feel that one can make no distinction between this murder and any other. Yet I shall unfortunately find it necessary to draw attention to one particularly revolting aspect of this crime which is new in my experience. It will be necessary for you to follow most closely, for on the face of it you may be misled into believing that because the prisoner did not personally administer the poison which resulted in the death . . .’
The sonorous phrases died away into unintelligibility. Laura, seated, slightly in advance of the two wardresses, no longer caught even the vague meaning. Occasionally it seemed that a door opened, and a burst of sound came through; but then it receded again. She tried to concentrate, and could not. She had done nothing but think for the last few weeks, and now somehow, when she sought to be at her most alert, she was incapable of further thought. She was tired.
‘It is all the more lamentable’ — the counsel for the prosecution had turned away from her, addressing himself earnestly to the jury — ‘that this crime should have been carried out by a woman of considerable intelligence and with grave responsibilities towards society. It should hardly be necessary for me to remind you, members of the jury, of the sanctity of the oath which every doctor swears — an oath which the prisoner has seen fit to disregard . . .’
She found herself thinking of Peter. All this was due to Peter. She remembered that day when she had seen him standing in the dock and heard sentence pronounced, and somehow it was far more real than the present scene. What Peter had done was just what she would have expected him to do. And the consequence had been merely a few months in prison. Soon he would be free.
Laura could not let herself think about the result of this present trial, if the verdict went against her. It was inconceivable.
Peter. He would be free, and of course she, too, would be free — she would be, must be, acquitted — and then somehow they would settle down and everything would be all right.
It had to be, after all that had happened. Events would not have taken this fantastic turn if it had not been for Peter. If he had not been arrested and tried and sentenced, she would not herself be appearing in this court. If there was a logic in that, then continuation of that logic must lead to eventual freedom and happiness for both of them.
‘At this point, members of the jury, I feel that I must read to you the prisoner’s statement — her signed statement — to the police. It may seem an innocuous document to you. And that is why I must read it. For I propose to call witnesses who will testify that after agreeing to sign this recording of her statement, the prisoner began to cast suspicion on another member of her household. She began, I say, maliciously and cruelly, to imply that this cold-blooded murder was the work of a mere boy. She tried to dissociate herself from all responsibility for providing the poison which caused the death, claiming that the whole situation arose from an error on her part, of which this boy took advantage.
‘I fancy that my learned friends for the defence will endeavour to make much of this point. It will be necessary for you to consider every aspect of it most carefully. If you are absolutely convinced that the prisoner’s story is true, or — and this is a most important thing, which will be put to you more than once during the course of these proceedings — if you are not absolutely convinced that the prisoner’s story is not true, you will of course have no hesitation in acquitting her. It will be my painful duty to endeavour to convince you that the vague implications made against another party are a monstrous fabrication, and that the murder was a calculated deed — a killing evolved by a woman whose profession should have made her, above all things, aware of the sanctity of human life.
‘I will now read the first statement which the prisoner made when questioned by the police . . .’
Calculated? thought Laura. The foolish man (what an unfortunate nervous trick he had of plucking at the lank strand of dark brown hair that showed between his wig and his left ear) was making it sound so devilish and methodical. At least, she supposed that was his line of argument. And of course it had been nothing of the sort. She had merely been nudged along by events, and even when the time came to do what she had planned to do, the circumstances had been far from perfect.
Very far from perfect, she thought wryly.
So much fuss over the death of a worthless woman. So much fuss over a . . . well, a mistake. For wasn’t that what it was — a mistake?
If they had been trying her for clumsiness, she would have pleaded guilty. She had miscalculated hopelessly. To try her for wanton negligence, for thinking she understood Gil, for acting too quickly and without due consideration for consequences — not working it out like a chess game, and foreseeing where a false move could lead to disaster — yes, it would have been reasonable that they should accuse her of such things.
This other charge was so silly that she could not apply her mind to it.
She wanted to stand up and tell them how silly they were being. It was all a mistake, it had all got twisted. Something different would have happened if only that bottle hadn’t been broken. Oh, yes, there would have been a death — certainly, she smiled grimly to herself, there would have been a death — but it would have been in different circumstances. She would not have blundered; she would have acted less impulsively. The bottle had smashed, the beginnings of the idea had stirred, as though the poison itself had begun to burn slowly into activity in her mind, and later she had acted because the opportunity seemed so perfect, so enticing.
If only it were possible to go back and cancel out that false start.
‘This boy, Gilbert Drysdale, was on holiday from school during the month of August. He was accustomed to running messages for the prisoner, and delivered medicines to patients or to the office of the local bus company. This is a common arrangement in country practices where a doctor does his or her own dispensing. It was also the practice to leave medicine bottles labelled with patients’ names on the ledge in the doctor’s waiting-room, to be called for. During this holiday period, Gilbert Drysdale frequently went into the consulting-room to talk to the prisoner. He had been informed by the prisoner, only a few months before, that he was the illegitimate son of her brother, Peter Swanton — who is at present serving a prison sentence —’
‘My lord,’ protested counsel for the defence, rising, drawing Laura’s gaze quizzically towards him, ‘I must object to this attempt to blacken the character of the accused by implication — that is, by bringing in irrelevant remarks about her brother.’
The judge leaned forward. ‘Has this point which you have seen fit to introduce, Mr. Taplow, a direct bearing on the issue?’
‘I can assure your lordship that it has.’
‘Very well, Mr. Taplow. Continue. I trust that I shall not be compelled to stop you.’
‘I sincerely trust not, my lord. As it happens, the fact of the boy being the illegitimate son of the prisoner’s brother, and of that brother being in prison, has an important bearing on subsequent events. We do not know precisely what conversations took place between the boy and the accused, but various witnesses will testify that the accused had proposed certain plans for the boy’s future — plans which, as you will realise, might well have been jeopardised if the deceased woman . . .’
If only that bottle hadn’t been smashed, thought Laura.
Chapter Two
Gil propped his bicycle against the wall and went indoors. The back of his shirt clung to him. His face felt suddenly raw now that he was in the house, with its welcome coolness coming to meet him. Wind and sun had scorched his cheeks.
He heard the chinking of bottles in the consulting-room, and then the hiss as the jet from the tall tap struck the sink.
Automatically he pushed his hair back from his damp forehead, and glanced at himself in the mirror above the umbrella stand.
‘Is that you, Gilbert?’
‘Yes,’ he said; and added, with a hesitation that was a fraction less than it had been yesterday and the day before: ‘Aunt Laura.’
She did not say anything further as he went in to her.
It was bright in here. The bench and sink gleamed, and the light played across the metallic brilliance of the steriliser.
‘Done all the shopping?’ said Doctor Swanton . . . Aunt Laura.
‘Yes. I’m ready to take the medicines, if there are any.’
‘I haven’t done them yet. Surgery’s only just over. Really, it’s as bad as winter, all the petty ailments they’ve been dreaming up. Bank Holiday hangovers, most of them.’
‘Winter?’ he said. ‘It’s awfully hot this morning. It’s lovely out.’
She did not look hot. Gil felt that she must know lots of things that only doctors knew — something to take that kept you cool when it was hot, and warm when it was cold.
Remembering, he said: ‘Oh, I passed Mr. Howick by the sluice. He said I was to ask you —’
‘About Mrs. Howick’s indigestion mixture. I know, I know. He’s a dreadful fidget, that man. He knows perfectly well I promised to call in this evening.’ She opened a round tin, peered into it, and then jotted a note down on her pad. ‘I might as well get it done now, though. But first of all’ — she reached for a bottle full of cloudy liquid — ‘I’d better see to Charlotte’s gripe water.’
Gil said nothing. He looked out of the window at the tamarisks, their pink spikes twitching in the warm breeze.
‘She’s still lying down upstairs,’ said Aunt Laura.
‘What’s wrong with her?’ asked Gil, because he had to say something.
Not that he cared. Lying up there, doing nothing . . . All washed out, lazy, that’s what she was.
Aunt Laura said: ‘Nothing much. Nothing that you’d be likely to catch, Gilbert.’
He flushed. It must be something womanish, one of those things you didn’t mention.
The doctor — his aunt — was busy at the bench, measuring, filling, corking. She mopped up something she had spilt, and then said:
‘I’ve spoken to Mr. Cartwright. And to Dr. Powell over at the Agricultural College. If you work hard when you get back to school, I’m sure you’ll be all right. Mr. Cartwright is very pleased.’
The way she spoke, you wouldn’t have thought she wanted you to thank her. She had told him already what she was planning for him, just as she might have told him that there was some small job she wanted him to do for her. In the face of such matter-of-factness it was hard to feel excited; yet, as she brought up the topic once more, he did feel the tension in the pit of his stomach which meant that something wonderful — and frighteningly unbelievable — was going to happen. He would get to the Agricultural College after all. If he worked hard, he would get there. And he intended to work hard.
If only she didn’t turn away, keeping him at a distance. He wanted to show her how much it meant to him, but he couldn’t do it when she was so off-handed.
To go to the College, to learn the things he wanted to learn, to live here in this house with his father and his aunt and . . .
He said: ‘But what about . . . what will she think of it?’ He made only the slightest, non-committal movement of his head upwards, but Aunt Laura saw this although she had failed to see the happiness he had tried to communicate to her.
‘She won’t stop you.’
‘No, but . . . well, I mean . . . if my father’s here . . .’
Because having his father here had become, obscurely, part of the dream. Aunt Laura herself had made it so. She was the one who had painted it as a wonderful possibility.
If only it had not been for his father’s wife. If only she had been . . . well, just not there.
Aunt Laura said: ‘What do you think about Charlotte? Do you like her?’
He had cooled down since coming into this room, but now he began to feel hot again. Perspiration stood on his skin; his neck became damp.
Aunt Laura was asking too many questions these days. She was talking about personal things, getting close to him. It was like having someone crowding up on you in a bus. She was there, standing over him. First there had been the cool announcement that she intended to keep him on at the school and then send him on to Agricultural College, which gave her a sort of hold on him that he couldn’t very well break; then it was ‘Aunt Laura’ instead of ‘Doctor Swanton’ or ‘miss’; and now she was asking him in that flat voice what he thought about Mrs. Swanton. Several times just lately she had brought Mrs. Swanton into the conversation — Mrs. Swanton, the young one, the one he would no longer name, the one who was idling upstairs. Especially she talked about her when she was telling him of plans for the future. Only a few words each time, but those words were more important than anything else. Gil, she might say, wou
ld be going to the College, coming home at week-ends often to see his father . . . and then she would be saying something about his father perhaps not being here, because Mrs. Swanton would have different ideas. After all, she was his wife, and he would have to put her first.
He said unhappily: ‘Well . . .’
‘Mustn’t forget Mrs. Howick, must I?’ It was as though he had answered her. She sounded satisfied, and suddenly willing to talk about something else.
She reached for an old-fashioned bottle with a wide, open neck and domed stopper, its label marked in a spidery, faded script. It said: Tr. Belladonna. Aunt Laura paused. ‘She’ll need a fair amount — ten minims to the dose.’ She measured out a quantity into the already half-filled medicine bottle on the bench before her, and then held it under the tap until it was full. She pushed the cork in lightly, upended the bottle, and gave it a bang on the bench to drive home the cork.
The dome-shaped stopper of the dispensing bottle quivered, rolled slowly over, and crashed into the sink. It seemed to come apart, not cracking so much as dissolving into fragments.
Gil, glad to be able to do something, came forward to clean up the mess.
‘Be careful of the splinters.’ Aunt Laura sighed. ‘That was the last of my grandfather’s bottles. They don’t make them like that nowadays.’
He looked at the wide neck. ‘We haven’t got a cork that’d fit that.’
‘No,’ she said absently. She, too, was looking at the bottle. Her expression frightened him in some way he could not explain. ‘We must decant it into another bottle,’ she said, very slowly, as though working something out.
‘I’ll go and get one of the empties from the store cupboard,’ said Gilbert.
‘No.’ She spoke sharply, but at his stare she recovered herself. ‘There’s not much left in it. It’ll go into a twelve-ounce bottle for now.’ She was already transferring the contents of the old bottle while she spoke. ‘There. I knew it would just about go in. We must be careful with it, though. It wouldn’t do to get it mixed up with another medicine bottle, would it?’
