The Yeare's Midnight

by Ed O'Connor

  ‘She to whom this world must it self refer / As suburbs, or the Microcosme of her,’ said Crowan Frayne to the cat between gasps.

  ‘Shee, shee is dead; shee’s dead; when thou know’st this / Thou know’st how poore a trifling thing man is,’ the cat replied.

  Dawn was finally breaking up the night sky into fragments. Frayne tried to clear his head, to restore his focus. He left Elizabeth Drury’s broken body at the foot of the stairs, opened the front door and walked outside. He drove his van around to the side of the house so that it would be invisible from the road and quickly returned to the warmth, carrying his ophthalmic surgery kit. He needed to work accurately and fast: Elizabeth Drury would be missed.

  32

  Dexter arrived in the office early. Even Harrison hadn’t arrived yet. Maybe he had been up late: Dexter had seen Jensen leave in Harrison’s car the previous night. Was she jealous? She tried to focus on the pages in front of her.

  They had finally got through all the Drurys in the phone book. There had been no Elizabeths and only one Robert, an old age pensioner. She had been through most of the electoral registers, with only Peterborough and Evebury and Afton remaining. She looked at the clock: the information centre at County Police HQ in Cambridge opened at eight and Dexter wanted the news run before Underwood got in. At one minute past eight she called. The phone rang for an age before Dexter finally got through.

  ‘It’ll take about twenty minutes,’ said a tired voice at the other end. ‘Do you want me to e-mail it?’

  ‘Yes, but fax it too, it’s urgent.’

  ‘They all are, love.’

  Dexter bought herself a ditchwater coffee from the machine and began trawling through the electoral register for Peterborough. Jensen and Harrison came in together at ten past eight. Dexter didn’t look up. The pair seemed to be giggling at some secret joke: she imagined it would be at her expense. She ignored them. Other officers began filing in: the level of conversation rose. Dexter covered her ears with her hands and tried to concentrate. Then a dialogue box popped up on her computer screen. It said, ‘You have new mail.’

  Her computer took an age to shift to her e-mail inbox. At the top of the list was a new message from ‘Paul@infocent_CamPHQ.org.net.’ She clicked the attached Word document open. There were four news stories attached, the search term highlighted in bold. Each headline was dated and cited the source newspaper. She scrolled down the page:

  ‘Rats Invade Theatre Royal, Drury Lane: Evening Standard 5/11/98’

  ‘Mayor Resigns, Drury, Missouri: International Herald & Tribune 6/6/99’

  ‘The Drury Clinic’s Recipe for Success: Daily Mail 8/12/98.’

  ‘Roger Drury, Violinist dies at 89: Daily Telegraph 4/2/99.’

  There was nothing obvious. Dexter clicked on the third headline and the story popped up on her screen. Before starting to read, she took another swig of coffee, its bitterness searing her throat: her breath would be terrible.

  The Drury Clinic’s Recipe for Success

  The fat of the land is proving profitable for one London company. Paddington-based dietary consultants the Drury Clinic are moving to more salubrious offices in London’s Mayfair Crescent. The private clinic was founded in 1993 and now boasts a number of show business celebrities amongst its clientele.

  The Drury Diet runs a psychological self-help guide for people with weight problems. The clinic offers counselling programmes and discussion groups that attempt to develop its patients’ self-esteem. Patients are then invited to draw up their own diet plan in conjunction with a nutritionist and a psychologist.

  ‘The Drury plan changed my life,’ said Melissa Wyatt-Faulkner, host of TV’s Can’t Stop Cooking! ‘It introduced me to the thin person I knew I always was at heart. Fat is all in the mind.’

  They say the proof of the pudding is in the eating and the Drury Clinic certainly seems to have hit upon a successful recipe: its Mayfair Crescent offices have cost the company 2.6 million pounds. ‘It’s a calculated risk,’ said Cambridge-educated founder Dr Elizabeth Drury, 37, ‘but this will carry the clinic into the twenty-first century and enable our clients to benefit from truly world-class facilities.’

  Dexter immediately picked up her phone and got the number of the Drury Clinic from Directory Enquiries. A dry panic was beginning to overtake her. There was no reply: an answerphone clicked on: ‘You are through to the Drury Clinic. Our opening hours are nine a.m. until six p.m. If you’d like to make an appointment—’ Dexter hung up. She thought for a second and called Underwood’s mobile. It rang for an age before she heard the inspector’s voice:

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Sir. It’s Dexter. I’ve found an Elizabeth Drury.’

  ‘Who?’ He sounded hungover, half-dead.

  ‘The name Dr Stussman gave us. There’s an Elizabeth Drury in London. She runs some clinic for fat people.’

  ‘A clinic?’

  ‘Yes. But it says she was educated in Cambridge. She might still live up here somewhere.’

  ‘Is she on the electoral register?’

  ‘Not for Cambridge or New Bolden. I haven’t been through all the others.’

  ‘Call her clinic and get her number.’

  ‘I’ve called them already. It opens at nine.’

  ‘Well, call them again then.’

  The line went dead.

  The next half an hour lasted an age. Eventually Dexter got through to the clinic at five minutes to nine. An Australian receptionist told her that she had just had a message from Dr Drury and that she had been delayed at home. There was no reply on her mobile so she was probably on her way in. Dexter asked for Drury’s address. The receptionist suddenly became defensive and said she couldn’t give out Drury’s home address over the phone, even if Dexter was a ‘fucking policeman’.

  ‘Just tell me the name of the fucking town, then.’ Dexter was losing patience.

  ‘Afton. In Cambridgeshire.’

  Dexter turned back to her computer and called up the electoral register for the Evebury and Afton constituency. The screen scrolled down at a painfully slow rate. The she saw it: Drury, E. The Beeches, Blindman’s Lane, Afton, Cambs, CA8 9RJ.

  ‘Christ.’

  She grabbed her keys, jumped out of her seat and ran from the Incident Room. The door slammed behind her.

  ‘What’s rattled her cage?’ asked Harrison.

  ‘Time of the month,’ mouthed Jensen silently.

  33

  John Underwood, aged forty-two, lies half-dead on his empty marital bed. He has chronic inflammation of the pleural membrane of his left lung and is in considerable pain. Most of a bottle of whisky still lashes at his stomach and his head. He is torn in pieces, ulcerous and rotting from the inside. A corruption of a man. His radio alarm has clicked on and he listens to a traffic report, too tired to turn it off. The booze has made his legs ache, the poison crawling through his marrow, nibbling at his joints. His mind is falling through memories and time, looking for a hook to cling to.

  Yorkshire. September 1981. Their first holiday together. More of a long weekend. Three days walking in the Dales. The weather had been damp and cold. Ingleborough, Whernside and Pen-y-Ghent in one day. The twenty-five miles on rough ground, the two-thousand-feet climb in inadequate boots had made his joints scream and his feet raw with blisters. But it had been fantastic. Clean air in his lungs, the vast silence at the peak of Wernside, waving at the motorcyclists in the winding country lanes, the thick, sweet smell of cattle. He had taken Julia’s photo next to the Ordnance Survey point on top of Ingleborough: she had stuck her tongue out. The last five miles had killed him. She was lighter and fitter than him and he had problems keeping pace despite his longer legs. The pain was excruciating – only the image of a warm pub and comfy sofas kept him moving forward.

  As they climbed the last hill into Ribblesdale, Julia suggested they sing a song. He laughed at first but joined in quickly: there was something about her beautiful rising and falling voice that had once
made him want to improve himself to bind with her in whatever way he could. He didn’t know all the words to ‘Greensleeves’ but followed her lead:

  Alas my love you do me wrong

  To cast me off discourteously

  And I have loved you so long

  Delighting in your company

  Underwood opened his eyes. The dream had made him cry. With an effort he rolled out of bed and, wobbly on his feet, headed for the bathroom. The song still reverberated around his head. Only now, hungover and ill, it began to irritate him. Especially the dreadful, insipid chorus:

  ‘Greensleeves was all my joy

  Greensleeves was my delight’

  He would call her today and wring the tune from his head.

  34

  Crowan Frayne had taken his time with Elizabeth Drury and the results were very gratifying. He had taken the left eyeball with care and considerable precision. His experience with the Harrington woman had been helpful. He had used two of his four clamps to hold back the eyelids of Dairy’s left eye while he toiled; he had also used a smaller, lighter scalpel this time, which had reduced the collateral damage to the eyeball itself.

  Two hours of concentrated effort, but it had been worth it. After all, Michelangelo hadn’t painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel with a roller. Elizabeth Dairy’s eyeball now nestled comfortably next to Lucy Harrington’s on the silk lining of Frayne’s wooden box. The image excited him enormously. As did the texture of the eyeball: the sclera was springy, tough, elastic. He had imagined the eyes would feel like glass: rigid and fragile. Like his conceit the eyes were perfectly formed, fully evolved structures. Two-thirds of his argument was now complete. Only his logical denouement remained.

  He washed his instruments carefully in the bathroom sink before replacing them in the instrument case. He checked to make sure that every item of equipment had been returned to its correct resting place. Was he taking unnecessary risks? Drury’s mobile had already rung three times. Perhaps it was now time to go. He was reluctant to leave the house: it had been a fitting theatre for his poetry. Drury had excellent taste: there were a number of antique clocks and prints on the walls. To his delight, Frayne had even found a series of prints depicting anatomical drawings by Leonardo da Vinci hanging in what seemed to be Drury’s office. He took them from the wall and placed them on Drury’s bed next to his instruments and his hammer. He would need to make two trips to the car now.

  The gate was open and Dexter swung her car through in one smooth movement. She peered through the windscreen at The Beeches: it was certainly an impressive building. She crunched up the gravel drive and came to a halt next to the Audi TT with two flat tyres. The front door of the house was open but there were no signs of life. Should she radio for a squad car? She decided not to and walked up to the front of the house.

  ‘Hello?’ she called through the open door. ‘Elizabeth Drury?’ Silence. Dexter hesitated, then stepped inside. ‘Is anybody here? It’s the police.’ She looked down: there was blood on the carpet and a long red smear leading up the stairs. A cold rush of panic, then excitement. She should definitely call for a squad car now. She looked up the stairs: she had to know for sure. This was her discovery; the credit should be hers. Besides, she reasoned quickly, Drury might still be alive. ‘Inspector Dexter’ – she liked the sound of that. She took a deep breath and began to climb the stairs, her heart pounding.

  Crowan Frayne stood flush to the wall at the side of the house, deciding what to do. He had put the framed prints in the back of his van. He knew he should make a dash for it: drive away while the policewoman marvelled at his poetry. He was shocked that they had made the connection with Elizabeth Drury so quickly. The woman had been awkward enough for him to find. Stussman was obviously alert to the notion of a pre-selected audience. Perhaps this policewoman was also worthy of admission.

  He tried to reason clearly. It was too risky to delay. He should leave now. There was a good chance that she hadn’t seen his car. He could be away before she realized what had happened. That was the most sensible option. He was about to get back into his van when he remembered that he had left his hammers and, more annoyingly, his medical instruments on Elizabeth Drury’s double bed.

  Dexter, driven on by nervous excitement, fear and curiosity, pushed open the door to Elizabeth Drury’s bedroom. Bath taps. She heard the water running and, with a terrible sense of inevitability, stepped over the bloodstains on the carpet and pushed open the door to Drury’s lush en-suite bathroom.

  Elizabeth Drury lay half-submerged in a bath of bloody water. Dexter felt her stomach contract but she wasn’t sick. She felt paralysed, unable to move. The woman was fully clothed, dressed for work. Her left eye had been removed and the socket stared emptily up at the ceiling. The water was thick red like some terrible soup and Dexter, inching closer, could see the edge of the impact wound in the side of Drury’s skull. The collar of the dead woman’s jacket was torn. Had she fought her attacker? Dexter shuddered at the thought. She followed Drury’s dead gaze to the ceiling, where in hideous red letters she read the following:

  ‘For in a common bath of teares it bled

  Which drew the strongest vitall spirits out.’

  Steam from the hot tap was already making the text run. She took her notebook from her handbag and, with a shaking hand, wrote down the words. Then she noticed there was blood smeared on the lid of the toilet. Dexter took out her handkerchief and delicately turned off the bath taps, trying hard not to corrupt the fingerprints she knew wouldn’t be there. Then, with the same hand, she lifted the toilet lid.

  Inside was a dead tabby cat. It had been placed sitting upright in the toilet pan, its tail in the water, its head bleeding and hanging down and to one side. Both the eyes were missing. Wedged between its forepaws and its bulging belly was a piece of white card, carefully inscribed in flowing red handwriting:

  ‘Or if when thou, the world’s soule goest,

  It stay, ’tis but thy carkasse then,

  The fairest woman but thy ghost

  But corrupt wormes, the worthiest men.’

  Dexter knew she had to call for help now. Her early excitement had been replaced by a nagging fear and a sense of isolation. She stepped gingerly over the bloodstains on the bathroom floor and back into the bedroom. It was only then that she noticed the strange black case on the bed. And the two hammers. As she began to panic something hit her hard on the side of her head. She lurched against the bedroom wall, barely conscious. She could make out the dark image of a man. He was tall. She couldn’t fix her eyes on him: the room was moving around her. She knew she musn’t go down. Something struck at her again and she fell, hitting her head against the frame of the bathroom door. Darkness.

  Frayne crouched over her, confident that the woman wasn’t getting up. She was breathing, though, moaning softly. There was a cut in the side of her head. He opened her bag and withdrew her police ID. Alison Dexter, Sergeant. Cambridgeshire CID. A number. A barely recognizable photograph. He sat back.

  ‘Alison Dexter.’ The name meant nothing to him: it was a colourless name. It scarcely resonated with poetry. And yet, she had found the Drury woman. She had found him. Crowan Frayne was impressed. He reached over and pushed back Dexter’s left eyelid and considered. Green eyes. Unfortunate. And yet, perhaps there could be a role for her in the final ecstasies of his argument. A child in the oven. The idea appealed.

  Images. A man standing over her. Pain banging at the side of her head, warm above her eye. Panic. Was he killing her? Had he taken her eye? Please, no. Not her eyes. She tried to see. Lights, images, the room spinning. She tried to move: no response. He was over her, speaking: ‘Bedtogotobedtogo’. Gibberish. Noise. See his face. Try to see his face. He was moving. He was gone. ‘Stupid cow, you stoooooopid ca’– her mother’s voice. The room spins. Sickness. Nausea. ‘Come on, Ali, got to move.’ She hauled herself to the side of the bed and blinked, trying to decipher the chaos. She was alone. She could see. Relief. She climb
ed the side of the bed and got to her feet. She could hear a car. Gravel scrunching. Bedtogotobedtogo. She scrabbled in her bag for her mobile phone. 999.

  35

  Heather Stussman’s phone rang at 10.30 that morning. The voice filled her with dread.

  ‘Write this down.’ He sounded dry, irritated, tired.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘You know who it is. Don’t waste time. Write this down. It’s your starter for ten.’

  She picked up a pen. ‘Go on.’

  Crowan Frayne dictated the stanza of poetry that Misty the cat had shown to Alison Dexter.

  ‘Or if when thou, the world’s soule goest,

  It stay, ’tis but thy carkasse then,

  The fairest woman but thy ghost

  But corrupt wormes, the worthiest men.’

  Stussman recognized it.

  ‘It’s from “A Feaver”.’

  ‘Correct. Ask yourself. When is the world a “carkasse”?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Your list obviously worked.’ The had voice softened.

  ‘My list?’

  ‘The list you did for the police. It worked.’

  ‘The coterie idea? I gave them a list of names, associates of Donne’s.’

  ‘Do you think you understand?’

  ‘I understand Donne. Isn’t that why you contacted me?’

  ‘You have a narrow window of perception. But you operate in two dimensions. You wire plugs without comprehending the nature of electricity. Do you hear music when you stand at your little window? When you look at the stars and pirouetting planets, do you hear the intelligences? The Harmoniae Mundorum?’