The Judas Pair

by Jonathan Gash

  ‘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 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 to 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 everything. 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 humour him into reasonable behaviour? 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 to 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 case-hardened 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 afterwards, 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 tried, 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 fingermarks 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 touch-holes 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 pl
ayed. 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 weighed 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, how 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 round 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 forwards 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 on to 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 frontwards 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 towards 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.

  But what was the missile? What had exploded into his eye with such force? Clutching the parts I went out into the hall. An old crone – the one I’d been so unhappy about on my previous visit – was sobbing information into the telephone.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said politely, taking the phone from her to calm her down. ‘When the Reverend came out of the study a few minutes ago, where did he go?’

  ‘Into the kitchen for some ice,’ she said, red-eyed, and at last I knew.

  You crushed a piece of ice into a sphere in the bullet-mould, inserted it into the concealed chamber and made sure your opponent got the silver-pinned pistol. No wonder the pathologist had never found the bullet. The ice had pierced Eric Field’s eye, penetrated his brain from there and instantly melted away from his body heat, just as the ice ball was now doing in Lagrange’s silent skull.

  Yet . . . I sat at the hall table examining the weapon further. Who on earth had had the gall, not to mention the authority, to compel the world’s greatest gunsmith to make a treacherous pair of weapons like this so long ago? Duelling was crackers, but it was supposed to be an affair of honour. Somebody had wanted to be bold and dashing around the Regency clubs, but was unwilling to run any actual risk while going about it. I inserted the turnkey and rotated gently against the spring’s weight.

  The locks came out and showed their secret beneath the recess. There, engraved in gold, was my revelation: REX ME FECIT. The King made me.

  It brought tears to my eyes. I had a vision of the old gunsmith in his darkened workshop, all his assistants and apprentices sent away for the night, as in obedience to royal command he fashioned the brilliant device alone. Yet he was determined his complaint should be recorded for others to realize in later years. The old genius had made the Judas pair – they bore all the characteristic features of his consummate skills. But he cleverly recorded the customary Latin inscription to tell the despairing truth why he had: the King had made him. That deranged sick man George the Third, or the Prince Regent, wencher and gambler? Probably the latter.

  Before the police arrived I’d substituted a pair of officer’s pistols, Joseph Heylin of London, quite well-preserved in an altered cutlery box, for the Judas pair. Lagrange’s small collection in the morning room cabinet was easy to find and he’d left the key in. I whisked the Heylin pair outside where I burned a little black powder in one and loaded the other. Amid the general alarms and excursions nobody took much notice of me wandering about. I swapped both pairs. Going out to wait for the police to arrive, I tucked the Durs case on top of the engine of Margaret’s Morris beneath the bonnet – carefully wrapped, of course, and wedged in good and proper.

  And when the pathologist couldn’t find the bullet? I was suddenly unutterably weary. I decided to let them all guess till they got tired, just like they did of old Eric Field and Sheila. When the Old Bill came hurtling up I was back in the study wringing my hands with the others. I was clearly very upset.

  Three weeks later, Margaret was quizzing me again. I was just back from George Field’s.

  ‘What did he say when you told him you’d found the Judas guns?’

  There’d been no mention of Margaret’s husband. We’d just taken up together, going into her arcade shop daily and scratching a living. Naturally,
the inevitable had happened, as it always does when a man and woman live in one dwelling, but that was all to the good and it was long overdue anyway as we both knew.

  The trouble was this conversion gimmick they have. That I was quite content to drop in to my old garden and still hadn’t started clearing away the cottage’s ruins obviously niggled her. She’d let several hints drop, asking what plans I had for rebuilding and suchlike. You have to watch it.

  ‘Lovejoy!’ she complained. ‘You’re dreaming again.’

  ‘Oh. He said he didn’t want anything to do with them – said it was poetic justice.’

  ‘And then?’ she pressed.

  ‘He shut the door.’

  ‘I don’t think he likes your instincts very much, Lovejoy.’

  ‘I’m surprised,’ I said. ‘I’m really quite lovable.’

  ‘Won’t you offer them back to Muriel?’ was her next gem. Sometimes I think women have no sense at all.

  ‘Of course,’ I said, thinking, That’s not poetic justice.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Well,’ I said after a long, long pause. ‘Well, maybe later.’

  ‘Lovejoy!’

  ‘No, look, honestly,’ I began, searching desperately for some way out. ‘It’s honestly a question of time and personal values.’

  ‘Lovejoy! How could you! It’s stealing!’

  ‘Honestly, love – judgement comes into it,’ I said. ‘I’d take them back this very minute, but –’

  ‘You’ve absolutely no excuse!’ She started banging things about.

  ‘Maybe in time, honestly,’ I said. ‘I’m only thinking of her –’

  Women have no tact, no tact at all. Never noticed that?