Revengeful Death

by Jennie Melville

  ‘I think there was a gap in time here,’ she said loudly. ‘ I think I lay down on the floor beside the body … then I telephoned the police. But it may have been the other way round. I’m, confused. Dizzy.’

  Gina walked in. ‘ I’m the police,’ she announced loudly. Naturally, she got a loud cheer from the growing audience. She turned to face them. ‘ If any of you know anything that would help find the killer, please come forward.’

  No one did, but it stilled the laughter. This was for real.

  Gina toured the room, and mimed a talk with Mary. Then Mary ran round the room, searching for the child. She found the boy and carried him away.

  ‘The child saw the killing, but he could not talk.’

  Gina walked towards the crowd, who were listening now with some intensity. ‘As police, we have not been allowed to question the child fully. What he knows, he can never tell us.’

  One woman in the audience turned to her neighbour. ‘ Then he’s not like any kid I’ve ever known.’

  ‘Ah, but he was shocked,’ said the other woman. ‘Does things to you. And if he could say, why, he might get killed too.’

  Emma, whose part as Alice Hardy was over, came round to join Gina as a police officer.

  Gina spoke again to the crowd, for it was a crowd by now. ‘The killing of the young Peter was violent and horrible. But it was not the end. There has been another death, and we believe by the same killer. This killer is into knives and blood and opening up the bodies of the victims.’

  Mary noticed that Gina did not name ‘his’ victim, kept it neutral. ‘But she’s laying it on me.’ She felt sick and moved her hand into her pocket for the knife that came everywhere with her these days.

  ‘The second murder was that of a young girl,’ announced Gina. She looked at Shirley, now dressed as the Second Murderer, already weaving a menacing, curving dance around Emma, the victim.

  Mary had to admit that Shirley had talent. ‘ I have no part to play here,’ she said in a thick voice to Gina who was striding past her.

  ‘Oh yes you do, there’s going to be a body outside your house. Presently you will have to receive the bloody jeans.’

  She really is keen to get me, Mary told herself. The whole point of this game is that she thinks I will break down and confess. ‘Can’t you have a part there?’ she asked. ‘Be the person who put them there?’

  Gina stared at her with expressionless eyes, then turned away.

  I wish I could shout at her, or swear at her, thought Mary, the bossy bitch: or even knife her in the back. But something held her back. She was sane now, she said to herself; what a nuisance sanity can be for those desirous of expressing anger.

  She saw then that a police patrol car had drawn up at the kerb, from which the driver and his mate were surveying the scene. Deciding what to do, probably, but any moment now they might get out of the car and come across and ask. So Gina might get her comeuppance.

  Emma was walking towards another set of chalk marks, which represented the steps outside her own house, Mary recognized. Emma was walking with her head down, but rolling from side to side, arms loose, signifying that she was now dead and was being transported to where she would soon lie.

  Before she could curl herself up on the steps, which were not there, the driver of the police car got out, but no: he was not coming across to them, he had got out because another car had drawn up.

  The cavalry had arrived. Charmian Daniels had got out of her car and was conferring with the other officer Charmian came into the car park, while the man drove away.

  Charmian Daniels had not given much thought to the message passed on by Rosie that Gina Foster wished to speak with her. Tomorrow would do.

  But she was not pleased to be disturbed, as she and Dolly Barstow went through the schedule for the day, to be rung up by Jack Headfort. He had brought an interesting man in yesterday evening, she had liked Dan Pitt, but she now wanted to digest what he had had to tell her about Mary March, sometimes Mary Janvier.

  ‘A performance? What sort of performance?’

  Headfort told her that the driver of a patrol car had reported in that a group was out there on the Basin Road car park acting out the two murders. And why? ‘The driver spoke to one of the women watching, who said it was to help discover the murderer. “Flush out the killer”, was the phrase used.’

  Yes, ma’am, no ma’am, Headfort had said to himself as he put the telephone down. You are not pleased. Yesterday I was the best boy in the class, today I’m right down at the bottom.

  Emma was now lying curled up, dead. Gina was looking down at her while Mary March was staring towards Charmian herself.

  Charmian pushed through the crowd and walked towards Gina. ‘You wanted to talk to me?’

  ‘Oh yes, just to say we were putting on this performance. It’s going well, isn’t it? You can see people are interested. It’s not against the law, is it? Not breaking any public or local ordinance? The Trojans often perform in public like this. Plays have always been a weapon, you know, to reach the public. We thought, I thought, that we might learn something that would help, that a person might come forward with evidence.’

  ‘As far as I know you’re breaking no local rules, but the crowd might find itself moved away by my uniformed colleagues. Nothing to do with me, though; not my concern.’

  She looked at Emma lying there, eyes closed. ‘What’s she doing?’

  ‘She’s the second victim.’

  Mary March came towards them slowly. Charmian found herself standing between the two of them.

  ‘One of you is probably the killer, and I don’t know which. I can think of the motive of madness and obsession for Mary March, but nothing for Gina, unless you were jealous of Pip and Emma.’

  Emma was still on the ground at their feet; now she opened her eyes and quietly got up.

  If I were you, Emma, Charmian said inside herself, I would watch my step here. Remember you’ve been allotted the victim’s part.

  Since the performance seemed to have wound up, the audience was drifting away. The children of school age had disappeared, their boredom level was low; cars no longer slowed down, the women shopping for the family were talking to each other and walking off.

  One woman, not young, plainly dressed in a thick coat, stood still, then she pushed through the fence to walk to where Charmian stood talking to Gina and Mary March.

  Hesitating, the woman approached them, bit her lip as if she was wondering what to do, then faced up to them. She spoke to Gina because Gina had been the talker.

  ‘You said … if anyone knew anything … I don’t say I know anything, but there is something you got wrong: you said the boy couldn’t speak. Yes? But he could speak, he came to my playgroup once, only once. His mother struck me as unstable, but he could speak. He spoke well and fluently for his age.’ She gave them a smile of great sweetness, ‘I thought him a clever boy.’

  Mary March met Charmian’s eyes. They understood each other. Mary’s eyes opened very wide.

  ‘Well, fuck you,’ she said to Charmian. ‘Fuck you.’

  She pushed Charmian in the back with such force that she fell against the woman, who in turn fell upon Gina, so all three went to the ground.

  When they had picked themselves up, with the playgroup leader saying ‘What language’ (although she knew, and so did the other two, that some of her own playgroup were more than capable of the same), Mary had gone.

  She could be seen disappearing through the hole in the fence to where the Rolls was. She was inside and speeding off.

  ‘My car, she’s got my car!’ Gina started to run after her, but Charmian stopped her.

  ‘No point in running, she’s away.’ Well away; the Rolls was already out of sight.

  ‘Where’s she gone? She’s a madwoman!’

  ‘Yes, she might well be.’ Charmian was calm; she was speaking on her mobile phone, just a few brisk words. Then she smoothed her hair, inspected her tights, which had a hole in the kne
e, and started to walk away.

  Gina followed. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m going after her.’

  ‘But you don’t know where she’s gone.’

  Charmian turned to face Gina very seriously. Her face was grave.

  ‘I know where she’s gone and why: if the child can talk, who knows what the child may say?’

  Chapter Twelve

  Charmian caught up with Mary March outside the house in Merrywick.

  ‘Oh, here we are then,’ said Mary, eyeing her coldly. ‘ You knew where to find me.’

  ‘I made a good guess. And in case you’re wondering, I’ve asked for support.’

  ‘I’ve wanted to kill you,’ said Mary, continuing to hammer on the door. ‘You didn’t bloody care what happened to the child.’

  ‘You’re wrong about that. I may have been slow but I’m not stupid.’ She pushed Mary away from the door. ‘ Here, let me do that.’

  ‘Think you’re magic, do you?’

  Charmian gave two crisp knocks, and waited.

  ‘Look through the letter box. I did, last time I came.’ Charmian took that in and raised an eyebrow. Last time? ‘Proper old tip, he’s no housekeeper. Knock again.’

  ‘He’s coming. I can hear.’

  The door opened slowly and not far. Edward Hardy peered round the chain. ‘Oh, it’s you, Miss Daniels … I suppose I should call you Your Ladyship.’ He still held the door on the chain.

  ‘Don’t worry about that, just let us in.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ his gaze flicked to Mary. ‘Both of you.’

  It was hardly a question but Charmian answered it. ‘Yes, both of us.’

  ‘I could sit outside and howl like a dog,’ suggested Mary.

  Charmian shook her head and pushed Mary in front of her into the hall as Hardy held the door open for them.

  The hall was neat and smelled of furniture polish; the carpet looked newly swept, clean of dust and fluff.

  ‘You’ve had a tidy-up,’ said Mary with deliberate malevolence. ‘Quite a womanly touch.’

  Edward Hardy looked awkward. ‘I try.’ He motioned. ‘You want to talk to me? Come into the sitting room.’

  It was clean and tidy here too, no flowers in vases, but a shine and polish about.

  ‘Tidy here too,’ said Mary.

  ‘I got a woman in.’

  In one corner of the room there was a child’s high chair in which Ned sat. He was quiet and watchful.

  ‘A high chair,’ commented Mary. ‘ You don’t see them very often now, do you? Mostly you see the low sort that wheels around. Gives the child more freedom.’

  ‘Well, you can’t always allow that,’ said Edward politely. ‘Single parent, you know, might be dangerous to the child to have too much freedom if you can’t keep an eye out for them.’

  ‘Yes, sure,’ said Mary. She smiled at the child, who looked back at her straight-faced. ‘I’ll work on you, Ned; we’ll get on better in the end.’

  Edward turned to Charmian: ‘What is it you want from me?’

  Charmian said: ‘We want to talk to the boy, if we can?’

  Edward shook his head. ‘I don’t think it’s wise. I’m advised against it. I guess you were told that, Miss Daniels – you’re going against advice in asking. I think, yes, I’m sure that I could get you into trouble for it. Please don’t persist.’

  ‘We really do need to ask him some questions.’ Charmian was gentle. ‘If I don’t do it myself, but get a child psychologist, your own, the one who has been helping you to do it?’

  Edward Hardy would have none of that. ‘I sent her away. I think a child’s father knows what’s best.’

  Mary had moved to sit near to Ned. He had a few toys and a small rag book on the tray in front of him but he did not appear to have been playing with them. The reason was, Mary thought, that they were too young for him. After all, she remembered, he had been living with his mother apart from his father and out of this house for some time, during which he’d grown.

  ‘He’s too big for this chair,’ she said. ‘ Jammed in, poor chap.’ She stretched out her hands. ‘Soon have you out.’

  Edward stood up. ‘Don’t touch him.’

  Charmian put her hand on Mary’s arm. ‘Leave him.’ She turned back to Edward Hardy. ‘It’s very important, Mr Hardy, that we should know anything your son can tell us. I have been patient, we all have, but we also have a killer rampant in the town. You know that. There are priorities, and to catch the killer comes top of the list. I promise you your son will not be harmed.’

  ‘I couldn’t risk it. I forbid it.’

  Mary had been prowling round the room, to the obvious irritation of Hardy. A small table bore a display of photographs. Mary picked one up.

  ‘Put that down,’ he said sharply.

  Mary was studying it, her face both sad and sombre. ‘It’s a lovely face.’ She held it out so that Charmian could see; it showed a young woman, smiling, hair free in the sunshine.

  Charmian took her cue from Mary. After all, she told herself, we seem to be on the same side, playing the same tune, as far as I can tell, although with her one must always look out, but she is in charge of the orchestra. It was new for Charmian to be in this position with another woman.

  ‘Is that your wife?’

  ‘No, it’s my wife’s sister.’

  Mary had obediently returned the photograph to the table, turning it round towards her. ‘Shouldn’t have the sun full on it like that, it’ll get faded, and you wouldn’t want that.’

  ‘This room doesn’t get much sun.’

  ‘No, I noticed that.’

  There’s a subtext here, Charmian told herself, damn both of them. But she kept quiet; she still needed to talk to the child. He was looking at them with a subdued yet watchful gaze.

  He knows something, everything, she thought. Inside him is a picture of that first killing. Please God, not the second killing. She had not forgotten the double stains on Alice Hardy’s jeans. Surely no one would carry a child around from killing to killing. No: she dismissed the idea.

  ‘I thought you had the killer in mind.’ He looked at Mary March with direct accusation.

  Charmian shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Wasn’t an actress mentioned? I heard the rumour.’

  ‘She’s out of it now,’ said Charmian.

  ‘Upon my word, you get through suspects quickly. Forgive me if I get the boy a drink,’ he stood up. ‘I think he’s thirsty. Didn’t have much breakfast. Neither of us did. Would you like some coffee?’

  ‘Leave it for a moment, please, Mr Hardy.’

  Mary was on her feet and moving. ‘I’ll get him a drink of water … the kitchen this way?’

  Edward Hardy had risen, but he sank back into his chair. ‘She’s a pushy bitch, your friend.’

  ‘We aren’t friends,’ said Charmian. ‘We just came together.’ I couldn’t leave her to go off on her own, and she couldn’t leave me. Or get rid of me. For the moment we’re anchored together.

  The kitchen was as tidy as the rest of the house. Someone had been at work – the woman he had got in, as he put it? Mary tried the back door; it was unlocked. The garden beyond, with a shed in the corner, had not received the same treatment as the house so that it still looked neglected, with a few dejected bulbs struggling up. A lonely father could not garden.

  As she returned with the glass of water, she reproved Edward Hardy. ‘Ought to keep your back door locked. Anyone could get in.’ Or out, but perhaps that was not the case.

  ‘The garden gate is locked and bolted,’ he said.

  Mary March had been gathering up her courage. She gave the water to the boy who drank it greedily. She put her hand on his to give it a pat, then turned towards Charmian and Edward Hardy.

  ‘I have a confession to make.’ She looked down at her hands. ‘But first let me tell you that I know the photograph is not of your wife’s sister, if she has one. I recognized it.’ She stared at Edward Hardy. ‘And in
recognizing it, I recognized you.’

  She took her knife from her pocket and rested it on her knees. Charmian made a move, but Mary waved her back. ‘Leave it.’

  Then she went on: ‘My confession is that I didn’t come to hear what Ned had to say, but to tell you that I knew what he had said.’

  ‘I think I know too, now,’ said Charmian slowly.

  ‘Of course you do, you picked it up the minute I did. When your son was questioned first about the murder in his mother’s sitting room, he said Dad, Dad.’

  She began to stutter with emotion. ‘ It wasn’t just the childish mutterings of a boy learning to speak. He could speak. He meant you. He named you as the killer.’

  She picked up the knife from her lap and held it in a clenched hand. ‘And we entrusted him to you. We sent him off with a murderer.’

  ‘This woman is mad,’ said Edward Hardy quietly.

  ‘No,’ began Charmian.

  ‘Shut up, Charmian,’ said Mary March. ‘ Leave this to me. I said I would eat you up, and this is me doing it.’

  ‘Mad,’ repeated Hardy as if in despair. ‘Mad, I say so.’

  Mary plucked Ned from the high chair and held him close to her. Charmian stood up, but Mary pushed her back. ‘ Leave me – the boy likes me, trusts me, and I don’t know that he trusts anyone else.

  ‘You would like me to be mad; perhaps you hoped to send me that way, threatening me, painting blood on my possessions. But, you’re not mad, you’re cold and deliberate.’

  ‘Mary,’ Charmian said, ‘you’d better tell me what you mean if I’m to defend you.’

  ‘My brother killed his sister,’ said Mary, turning her head away. ‘For that I was to be punished, persecuted, accused of murder, and my brother through me. A sister for a sister.’

  ‘You might have a job proving that,’ said Edward Hardy, unmoved. ‘Mad, you know, mad. The courts don’t like the insane, do they, Miss Daniels?’ He got up and advanced on Mary. ‘Give me my son.’

  For answer, Mary held up her knife. ‘I know about knives, and you know that I know how to use them. Indeed, you used that knowledge to create Mary March, the killer.’ In spite of her words, Charmian noticed that the boy clung to her, unafraid, but would not look towards his father. ‘You recognized me when I came to live opposite your estranged wife, and continued the persecution you had begun where I lived before.’