I turned to Mrs Locard. ‘I am in a minority on this point. The Coroner said virtually the same thing this afternoon when he warned the jury against giving credence to a theory of my own.’
The servant handed me the plate of beef that her master had just carved. ‘While I concede that there are some trivial anomalies’, Dr Locard said, ‘in the explanation of the old gentleman’s murder that the Coroner recommended to the jury ...’
I could not forbear interrupting: ‘The time of death? The fiendlike destruction of the victim’s face? Trivial?’
The Librarian continued as if I had not spoken: ‘The essential truth is very simple. Perkins was put up to the murder. He was paid to kill the old gentleman and secure his will.’
‘You don’t accept that, Dr Courtine?’ Mrs Locard asked.
‘I am convinced the young man is innocent.’
‘I’m frankly astonished that you should say that,’ her husband said. ‘However, I am in hopes that by the time of his trial a link will have been proven between him and the sister.’
‘Then the will has not come to light?’ his wife asked. ‘And she will inherit?’
‘Perkins must have received money as payment for the murder,’ Dr Locard said. ‘I expect proof of that to be discovered.’
‘No,’ I answered Mrs Locard. ‘The will has not been found.’ I was surprised that her husband had not told her.
‘It never will be now,’ Dr Locard said. ‘Perkins took it when he ransacked the house. That fact must emerge. And that’s why, Courtine, when you are in the witness-box at his trial it would be advisable not to blur the issue by saying that the house had already been searched. It will only confuse the jury.’
‘It’s an unimportant anomaly?’ I suggested.
He glanced at me sharply. ‘Precisely. And try to avoid other matters which will muddy the waters like the old man rubbing out the message on the slate which you suddenly brought up, although you had not mentioned it to the police.’
‘My memory was jogged and I literally recalled it only at that moment.’
Dr Locard said very carefully: ‘You’ve remembered so much that I am hopeful you might remember more.’
‘It’s perfectly conceivable,’ I said. ‘The memory is a strange thing.’
We had just begun to eat, but now he laid down his knife and fork and said: ‘Very little would be required. Thorrold assures me that a sworn affidavit from yourself would be sufficient to allow Mr Stonex’s will to be probated. He has reconstructed it from the draft.’
‘Thorrold? The executor of the Stonex estate?’
‘He also acts for the Dean and Chapter.’ I was astonished. Was I absurdly fastidious to think that the lawyer had an obvious conflict of interest? ‘Such a move would, of course, be contested by the sister but Thorrold believes it has a fair chance of being upheld. Especially if Perkins is convicted.’
‘What would I need to remember?’
‘Nothing more than Mr Stonex mentioning that he had found the will in the clockcase and saying that he intended to lodge it somewhere for safekeeping – perhaps with his solicitor or at the Bank.’
‘Fickling would contest that. He would accuse me of lying.’
He pushed his plate away. ‘Let me speak with complete frankness. This affair has ramifications involving Fickling, Slattery, at least one of my fellow canons and other individuals, of which I am sure you, as an outsider, are unaware. If Thorrold’s reconstruction of the will is accepted and probated, nothing of these larger complications need become public, for the sister of the deceased – or whoever it was who hired Perkins – would have nothing to gain from either his conviction or his acquittal. The estate would be disposed of in accordance with the terms of the will, regardless of who Mr Stonex’s heir is. If, on the other hand, the reconstructed will is not accepted, then certain facts will inevitably emerge during the trial of Perkins. I dearly hope that can be avoided because it will be enormously damaging to many people, but if that is the price that has to be paid, then so be it.’
There was a silence. I glanced from the face of my host to that of his wife who crimsoned slightly and looked away. I carefully phrased my next remark: ‘I’m reluctant to swear such an affidavit given that a man is on trial for his life.’
Dr Locard said in a low, intense voice: ‘If you swear this affidavit and allow the will to be executed, you can say what you like at the trial. It would then be a matter of complete indifference whether Perkins was convicted or not.’
‘But if I don’t swear it, then the trial would turn out to be a very disagreeable experience?’
‘Inescapably. For Fickling would have to be discredited by letting certain circumstances become known and that would be most unpleasant for you.’
I made no response. It occurred to me that by delivering to the Dean the package of photographic plates stolen from Sheldrick, I had put into his hands a weapon which could, under certain circumstances, effectively bring about the death of Perkins. And I regretted my impulsive naivety in having done so.
Dr Locard went on: ‘Cruel rumour would spare nobody. Do you understand me, Dr Courtine?’ I gazed back at him without making any response. ‘One consequence would be that I would be unable to persuade my fellow canons to entrust publication of the manuscript to you, for every past acquaintance of Fickling would be under suspicion. You are unmarried, I believe?’
‘I have no wife.’
He glanced at his wife and then turned back to me: ‘An unmarried friend of Fickling would, to speak quite bluntly, be peculiarly vulnerable to gossip of the most malicious kind.’
Mrs Locard lowered her gaze.
‘I have nothing to hide.’
‘I have no doubt of that, Dr Courtine. You may be prepared to accept the risk for yourself, but can you inflict this on your family and friends?’
‘I have no family.’
‘None at all!’ Mrs Locard exclaimed, trying to turn the conversation. ‘How very sad. No brothers and sisters?’
Dr Locard turned away with an expression of irritation.
‘I had one sibling only – a sister who died four years ago. My only living relative is her daughter. I am on my way to stay with her and her husband for the festive season.’
‘Do they have children?’
‘Two little girls. My bag is filled with gifts for them.’
‘I can see you are a devoted uncle – and great-uncle. But you have no children yourself?’
‘As I just said, I have no wife.’
I had spoken more abruptly than I had intended and I saw that she was dismayed.
At that moment the servant came in and handed a note to her employer. With an apology to me, he opened and read it. ‘I am terribly sorry, but I am summoned to the Deanery.’
‘At this hour?’ his wife exclaimed.
‘Something has occurred which the Dean wishes to discuss with me.’
‘And, Robert, you’ve hardly eaten a thing.’
‘I do beg you to forgive me,’ Dr Locard said to me. ‘Please continue with your dessert and I hope to rejoin you very soon in the drawing-room.’
As soon as he had left us, I said: ‘I must request your pardon for my rudeness just now. I don’t know why I spoke so curtly.’
‘I should not have asked you such a question,’ she said.
‘Not at all. It is I who was in the wrong. I’m still upset because of everything that has occurred in the last two days.’
‘I’m so sorry you were involved in the dreadful business with poor Mr Stonex. It must have been deeply upsetting for you.’
‘And in addition to that, I’ve just had one of the most disagreeable experiences of my life. To discover that an old friend ... is not a friend.’
I glanced up and found her grey eyes upon me. ‘I had the most terrifying nightmare last night. This morning, I should say. I woke with a black sense of despair that has stayed with me all day. How strange that the thing that has shaken me most is not something that actuall
y happened.’
‘I’m not surprised you should have a nightmare. You’ve been so close to death – to violent death – in the last two days.’
‘And yet the dream seemed to have nothing to do with that. I believe it was occasioned by the memory of a story I recently read – a foolish thing that upset me, though I can’t imagine why. I believe it’s not death that frightens me for when I looked at the body of Burgoyne this morning I found it merely sad and moving. Even Mr Stonex. He died hideously but he is at peace. What has disturbed me is the sense of evil.’
‘Because both of them were murdered?’
‘Murder is part of it. But evil does not manifest itself merely in murder. And, heaven knows, not all murder results from evil.’ Seeing that she looked puzzled, I said: ‘For example, if Perkins had killed Mr Stonex it would have been the result of greed and stupidity rather than evil.’
‘But you don’t believe he did?’
‘No. I’m sure that he was killed from real malevolence and that’s what has upset me.’ I had no intention of describing to her the brutally battered face of the old man. ‘The conviction that I have been in the presence of evil.’
‘People mean such different things by that word.’
‘For me it means pleasure in inflicting pain on others or seeing others suffer.’
‘Are any of us entirely innocent of that?’ Coming from her those words astonished me.
Perhaps because I was taken by surprise I found myself saying: ‘I’ve certainly had to acknowledge it in myself today and I think that is what has frightened me most.’
Apparently unperturbed by my admission, she said: ‘If we are honest, we will all recognize it in ourselves. Our religion teaches us to return good for evil. But that is hard.’
I had no desire to tell her that her religion was not mine. And had I cast off Christian superstition if I could still talk of evil?
‘It’s particularly hard when the person who is being cruel has been a friend,’ I said, ‘and therefore knows how best to wound.’
‘And yet, don’t you think that only people who are themselves very unhappy want to inflict pain on others?’
‘I suppose so. But I’m shocked by the malevolence he showed towards me, his anger and the strength of his desire to hurt me. And that was what had terrified me in my nightmare – the feeling of evil.’
‘Would you like to tell me about it? I find that it often helps to dispel the effect of a nightmare if you narrate it to someone.’
‘It seems ungenerous to inflict it on you.’
‘I am truly interested. I should like to hear it, Dr Courtine. But let us move to the drawing-room and have our coffee there.’
A few minutes later we were sitting on the large sofa in the brightly lit room with a cheerful fire blazing before us. My hostess prompted me to keep my promise.
‘Well, it was very strange,’ I began. ‘I had my arms locked around some creature – something that was reeking with the most appalling smell. My eyes were closed. I seemed to be fighting it. I was high up somewhere. I think I was lying on a bed. There were birds crying outside the window. What was so upsetting was my conviction that the monstrous thing had some kind of claim upon me. It was almost a part of myself. In desperation and in order to save myself, I tore off an arm – or, rather, a thing like an arm which was more like a wing or a tentacle – and I felt pain in my left arm. Then I woke up – in my dream, I mean, though I believed I had really awoken – and found that I was lying on the sofa in my rooms in College. I felt such a terrible, black sense of despair. There was a period in my life when I slept on that sofa. It was not the happiest of my existence. Then I really awoke and found what seemed to be my own severed arm beneath me. I had been sleeping on it and it had lost all sensation.’
She shuddered sympathetically. ‘Nightmares are like vultures that emerge to prey upon us in our moments of vulnerability.’
‘I have been sleeping badly ever since I arrived. I will be glad to leave the town.’ Tomorrow I would be making a long journey by train, travelling from one place where I was not wanted to another. ‘I’m sorry. That was rather rude of me.’
‘Of course not. You must be looking forward to Christmas and the children will be excited at the prospect of seeing their uncle.’
‘The truth is that I am dreading it.’
If she was surprised she concealed it and waited for me to go on with an expression in which sympathy was so evident and was so different from mere curiosity that I continued: ‘They are so happy with their new baby and so much in love that I know they don’t want me there. They ask me each year because they feel sorry for me being alone at Christmas.’
‘I’m sure they want you there, I’m sure of it.’
‘Why should they want me?’
‘You seem to me to be a very kind person. Well-intentioned and honourable. Forgive me for being so presumptuous but I can’t believe that you don’t have friends who love you.’
I smiled. ‘A few old College chums, as dusty and as dull as myself. I don’t think “love” would be at all the appropriate word for our feelings for each other. I should have stayed in College with them as usual and not thought of inflicting myself on my niece. It’s a terrible thing when the happiness of others makes one feel sad. And then one feels so guilty for resenting their happiness.’
‘It would be unnatural not to feel that,’ she said. ‘But that’s not the same as wishing them harm.’
‘No, no. I don’t wish anyone harm. I just wish myself a little more good. I could never have guessed when I was young that at nearly fifty I would have so little. I thought that everything I wanted would just happen. I threw away my single chance.’
I regretted the confession as soon as I had made it and perhaps because she sensed that, she said: ‘I believe you can be more lonely when you’re not alone.’
I was surprised by the frankness of her admission. I had seen enough of her husband’s manner towards her to have formed some conception of their life together. In that moment I had a vivid and unbidden image of what I had glimpsed in the front-parlour two hours earlier and it seemed to me suddenly that I had lived a life devoid of courage or daring. At least Burgoyne and Fickling had not done that.
‘Especially’, she added, ‘when there are no children.’
‘That is my great regret,’ I said, recalling what Dr Sisterson had said about her loss of a child. ‘I feel it more and more as I grow older.’
She gave me a sad smile: ‘I have known gentlemen considerably older than you marry and have children.’
‘As far as marriage is concerned, I’ve had my single chance.’
‘But I understood you to say you have no wife.’
‘I can’t marry. I wasn’t merely rude a little while ago. I was also somewhat dishonest. I told you I have no wife. The truth is ...’ I stopped.
‘You don’t need to say anything,’ she said gently.
‘She left me. I was devastated. I was completely destroyed by it. It’s easier to give the impression that she is dead. I used to try to think of her as dead. But I now know that is wrong. It’s not she who has been dead all these years. It is I.’
‘I understand. When you love, you entrust to that person your sense of your own worth and if that person throws you aside, you believe profoundly and utterly that it is because you are worthless. That is a kind of death.’
‘That describes my experience precisely. May I tell you the whole story?’
‘Are you really sure you want to?’
‘Yes, though I’ve never spoken of it to anyone. There has been enough lying and concealment and I would like to tell the truth now. That is, if you don’t mind hearing a common enough tale?’
‘Every such story is unique.’
‘Twenty years ago I married a woman – a girl, for she was ten years younger than I. She was the daughter of the Master of an Oxford college. She was very beautiful. Very sweet and very beautiful. I loved her and I believed, I still
believe, that she loved me – to begin with. And we were happy at first. At first! But it all happened so quickly. Our time together was so brief – just a few months. I first saw her when she was fifteen. But then she was sent abroad to be educated and I did not see her again until one Christmas – just after I had been elected to a Fellowship at my old College, Colchester. I proposed that January and we were married in April. After the honeymoon – which we spent in a Scottish castle owned by relatives of my wife – we moved into a house my College owned. We were happy then.
‘I had a friend. An old friend from my days as an undergraduate. He had been disappointed in the degree he had hoped to obtain and had had to abandon his expectations of a Fellowship but he had stayed on and was teaching at one of the choir-schools. He was witty and charming and he made my wife laugh, and moreover he sang and played the flute and she sang and played the piano, so they made music for whole evenings together. And I was grateful, for I fear that our life was rather dull for her. She must have been lonely for she knew very few young women in Cambridge. I was deeply preoccupied with my duties – for I was now Junior Dean of my College – and my historical studies and spent all day at the College and most evenings working in my library. Then my friend began to bring a friend of his. I was a fool. A complacent, conceited fool. I hardly need to go on.’
‘Go on if you wish,’ she said very gently.
‘I both knew and did not know – or did not want to know – what my friend was doing. Many years later I forgave him. Or, rather, I thought I had forgiven him because I allowed myself to believe that he did not play a malign role in what happened. I have recently discovered that he did indeed do exactly what I accused him of. He must have resented me. I suppose he envied my happiness. I had embarked on a career as a scholar and was happily married. He was in neither of those fortunate situations. So he envied me, but I think that he was even a little jealous of me. And perhaps he wanted to do a favour to his friend, even though it was at my expense. The friend was a man he was fond of. Particularly fond. The story is banal – like an incident from a French novel.
The Unburied Page 32
