by Alec Waugh
His voice was under control, it had a rich fierce vibrancy. How sincere was he, how much was he a self-seeking demagogue the Governor asked himself? Did Boyeur at heart care for the welfare of his people or was it only that it paid him to appear to care? Mentally the Governor shrugged. You could not split hairs like that. In the last analysis the great patriots were those who identified personal ambition with the welfare of their country. The traitor, as often as not, was one who, failing to recognize where the true interests of his country lay, identified his personal ambition with the less noble aspirations of his people. That was what Lord Acton had meant when he had remarked in a cynical moment that all great men were bad men. There was no such thing as an unselfish patriot. Every man in public life worked for his own ends. But the statesmen whom history respected were those who out of a genuine and basic virtue in their natures, had identified themselves with noble instead of base aspirations. Hitler had become the focus of everything that was ignoble, every braggart, bullying, acquisitive, self-righteous, authoritarian, aggressive instinct in the German temperament. Churchill on the other hand, the subject of intense personal ambition, had been at the hour of his country’s greatest danger the spokesman of its highest courage. Who could tell what figure Boyeur would cut in the eyes of history? He was out for himself; but so were most young men who were anything. If Boyeur had identified his need to better himself with the ambitions of a backward and originally ill-used people, history might venerate him as a patriot.
It might. But that, Templeton reminded himself, was forty years away, and his own immediate problem was to keep this young firebrand under control. Boyeur must not get the bit between his teeth, and a good deal depended upon how he handled him today. Boyeur must be made to realize that he was one of a team, here to do a job.
“We were brought to this island, we the people of Santa Marta, from our huts beside the rivers of West Africa. We were deprived of everything that made us superior to the beasts of the field, our language, our laws, our faith. We were shipped in slavers from the Guinea coast. We were sold in the open market. We were treated as cattle; we became cattle. Gradually through the centuries we evolved again into human beings with our own language, our own laws and our own faith. And how have we done that, gentlemen? Through education.”
Yes, it was well enough done, the Governor thought. It had all been said a hundred times before: but the success of oratory lay in the speaker’s power to pronounce with conviction what an audience already knew. Conviction, that was the key word. Confirm people in their beliefs, in what they wanted to believe. That’s what Boyeur was doing; and he was doing it well and cleverly. Conscious though he must be of those crowded benches at his back, of the girl sitting beside Bradshaw, he never looked toward them, never gave the impression of appealing to them. He faced the chair. He was addressing the chair on behalf of those crowded benches. He was their spokesman, their champion, their defender. All the same, he had been talking now for thirty-seven minutes. There was a limit. The Governor tapped the table.
“I must remind the Honorable Member for St. Patrick’s that our time is limited. He has been speaking now for thirty-seven minutes. For the last nine minutes he has given the House a lecture on the value of education which is irrelevant to the motion which is entered under his name. I must request that he confine himself more closely to the subject.”
Boyeur rose, stood very straight, in silence, then bowed to the chair.
“I am sorry, sir. I am sorry, gentlemen. I was carried away. I will control myself. My old schoolmaster in that very building about which I am speaking to you, quoted to me a couplet from a poem about Savonarola. I shall always remember that couplet. Savonarola, it said:
was one of those who knew no rest
Because the world’s wound ached so in his breast.
That is how I feel about my people, my poor people. I am carried away. I apologize, gentlemen. I will be very brief. I have little more to say.”
He took, however, a long time in saying it. The Governor fidgeted. Boyeur appeared to have reached his peroration, yet he went on and on. It was like that Eastern music which he had found so exasperating during his service in India that had always seemed to be about to resolve itself into a rhythm and never did. Every sentence Boyeur began had the air of being his last, but always another followed. His voice had assumed the particular valedictory intonation that is associated with a peroration, but the final full stop was never reached. Boyeur had now returned to his attack on the Board of Education.
“Gentlemen, I must again remind you that the Board is our slave, our creature, not our master. Santa Marta belongs to us. Men come, men go. Administrations come and go. Governors come and go. Santa Marta goes on forever.”
No, this was too much. His Excellency’s patience was exhausted. Boyeur had been speaking for six minutes since his last interruption; for five minutes, at least, he had been off the point. The Governor was accustomed to military discipline, where the word “please” was an order. Boyeur had to be taught a lesson. The Governor rapped for the third time.
“For the benefit of the Honorable Member for St. Patrick’s who is not familiar with our procedure, I will call upon the Attorney General to read Standing Order 9.”
Standing Order 9 dealt with breaches of order. It stipulated that if a member showed disregard for the authority of the chair or abused the rules of the council by persistently and willfully obstructing the business of the council, the President should direct the attention of the council, mentioning the member concerned. A motion might then be put that such member be suspended from the council, no debate being allowed upon the order.
“I am forced,” the Governor said, “to call the attention of the Honorable Member for St. Patrick’s to the wording of that motion. If he continues to occupy our time with dissertations that are irrelevant to the motion I shall be forced to conclude that he is wilfully obstructing the business of the Council.”
This time Boyeur did not apologize. “Gentlemen, I have said all I have to say. I will now propose my motion.”
As he sat down, he turned for the first time to Muriel. She raised her hand shoulder high, fluttering her fingers. Her face was flushed. Pride was there and happiness. She was unaware, evidently, that he had been rebuffed. The episode was to her an official technicality. If she had missed its point then surely his followers had done. They would have gathered the general drift of what he was saying. They would have seen him, on his feet, haranguing the notables of the colony; they would have seen the Governor sitting in that high-backed chair, listening. They would have recognized that their representative was a man of consequence; that was all that mattered.
He took a sip of water and lolled back in his chair. On his right the member for St. David’s was seconding his motion, but in such a way as to be offering an amendment. He was in complete agreement, he was contending, with the Honorable Member for St. Patrick’s. The schoolbuilding there was in a lamentable condition. It should be repaired; it must be repaired; but at the same time he must point out to the Honorable Members of the Council that the schoolhouse in St. David’s was in an equally lamentable condition. That too must be repaired.
Boyeur smiled. He knew how it would go. He had sat in the audience for many meetings of the Council. He knew the form. Each man had to fight for his own district. One by one the elected members would stand up and testify to the dire condition of their own school. Finally an amendment would be moved urging that immediate steps be taken to modernize and repair schoolbuildings; and though immediate steps would not be taken, steps of some kind would be, and sooner than would have been possible if he had not proposed his motion. And when those steps were taken, the credit would go to himself, to David Boyeur; not only in his own district, but right through the island. He’d see to it that The Voice presented the issue accurately. He’d give Bradshaw the tip. And The Voice would print it the way Bradshaw wrote it. He could feel well satisfied with the way that things had gone, were goi
ng.
Next time it would be even better. Next time he’d be more careful. There were rules that he must remember. It was all the fault of Fleury: why had he interrupted him with that statement about the Board of Directors? That had put him off his stroke. Of course he knew about that damned board and its damned priorities. It was so like Fleury to have brought that up: typical of the whole Fleury point of view; trying to retard progress, to put a spoke in the wheels of progress.
He looked at Fleury sitting across the room, doodling on his pad. How smug he looked. Boyeur’s temper rose. Father and son: made in the same mould. They stood for everything he hated. Arrogant, supercilious, self-sufficient. He remembered how Maxwell had spoken to him the other morning and in front of Muriel. He had some unfinished business there.
3
“Gentlemen, it is now quarter-past twelve,” the Governor said. “I suggest that we adjourn until a quarter to two.”
There was a murmur of agreement. It was a good time to pause. Boyeur’s motion had gone the way that Boyeur had foreseen. All the elected members except Maxwell—I suppose he considers himself too grand, Boyeur had thought—had risen to plead the cause of their “own poor people.” Finally an amendment had been agreed upon and passed with Julian Fleury alone voting against it.
Council meetings usually adjourned at half-past twelve, but the next motion, proposed by Norman, requesting the appropriation of funds for developing the tourist industry, would need lengthy deliberations. This was the time clearly for an adjournment.
The policeman strutted forward, lifted the gold mace and sloped it like a rifle on his shoulder; the assembly rose as the Governor followed the policeman to the Judge’s chambers. The moment he left the room a burst of chattering broke out from the crowded benches. It was like a monkey house, Maxwell thought.
His father came across to him. “You’re lunching at home, aren’t you? Can I drive you down?”
Maxwell shook his head. “I’ll follow you. I’ve some eggs and fruit and vegetables in my car. I’d better bring them now. I won’t be long.”
He had parked his car in the road leading to the tennis club. The crowd from the courthouse was thronging out into it: he hesitated then took the narrow footpath that opened into the path leading to Carson’s house. It was the first time that he had been here since the night. He paused, looking first one way then the other, remembering how he had walked up here, at Carson’s side, his blood afire, his fists clenched: remembering how he had stolen back, a quarter of an hour later, alert, cautious, apprehensive, his nerves tingling, more conscious of being alive than he had been in his whole life. A quarter of an hour. That so much could happen in so short a time. He paused, pensive, in a reverie.
A hand fell upon his arm above his elbow; a familiar voice sounded in his ear. “He must have paused here on that night, wondering if there would be anyone to see him when he crossed this footpath. He may have stopped here for several seconds, listening: it was very dark. There was no moon that night as far as I remember.”
“There was no moon.”
Whittingham’s voice had fused into his reverie so completely, so harmoniously, that for a moment he had not been conscious of the interruption. Then he started.
“You made me jump,” he said and laughed.
Was it a nervous laugh? Had he given himself away? But it should, shouldn’t it, have been a nervous laugh? It would have been unnatural if it hadn’t been.
Whittingham did not appear to notice his start, his laugh, his interjection.
“It’s strange,” he said, “on this sunny morning to think of what happened here, three months ago on a dark moonless night. The man must have tiptoed out of the house, come through into this narrow path. At the end of it he could see the roadway, but he himself could not be seen. I’ll tell you a curious thing about this house. It’s a thing I’ve not told anyone, but it’ll interest you. Do you know why Carson took this house? Because he wanted a place to which a woman could come and which a woman could leave without being seen. It wasn’t a convenient house for him in other ways. He had to garage his car at Simpson’s. But he was prepared to endure inconvenience for the sake of privacy. He had the regular soldier’s respect for appearances, for not being talked about.
“After his death I made inquiries. I couldn’t find what women had been up here, though I know some had. That’s a feat in a place like Jamestown. It’s ironic that he should have had this passion for privacy. It was his undoing. If his house had not been so hidden, his killer could not have got away. Perhaps whoever it was killed him, might not have risked getting into the house at all. Perhaps Carson might be alive today, if he hadn’t chosen the kind of house where he could indulge his fancies privately. What an ironic revenge of fate’s. Isn’t there something in King Lear about our pleasant vices becoming thongs to scourge us? I can’t remember how it went. My memory’s hopeless.”
His voice had a slow, tranquilizing, languid quality. His hand still rested upon Maxwell’s arm above the elbow.
“It’s strange, isn’t it, to think of that dark night? Can’t you picture him pausing, there where the paths join. He’s fifty yards from the road. ‘If I can make the road, I’ll be safe’ he must have told himself. ‘No one will notice me, no one will suspect me. It’ll be natural for me to be in the road. No one would question it.’ That’s how he must have thought; fifty yards to safety. Such a short distance. If only he could make it. I wonder how long he stood there waiting. I wonder if he saw you go by. Do you think he counted the cars; gauging how long the interval between them was; deciding to start as soon as the next car passed: or did he make a dash for it? I wonder if he remembered this footpath, leading to the courthouse: perhaps he didn’t. It’s very little used. What do you think?”
“I dare say he didn’t.”
“That’s what I think too. He forgot all about it. There’s always something that the criminal forgets; that may have been one of the things he overlooked: one of them.”
“Were there other things then that he forgot?”
“Of course there were. There always are. But there, he was lucky; if he did forget, and we don’t know that he did, anyhow no one saw him. He may have stood, at that exact spot there, waiting, listening: or he may not. We can’t tell that. But what we do know, what we can guess at is the surge of relief he must have felt when he turned the corner, there, into the roadway. ‘I’m safe. I’m safe,’ he must have told himself.”
Maxwell closed his eyes. That was how it had been. How clearly Whittingham understood him. Whittingham’s voice was kind and tolerant. The pressure of his hand was reassuring. What a relief it was to be understood. If only he could relax completely: pour out the whole story to the one man in the world who would understand. It would be so easy to tell Whittingham. Whittingham knew so much, had heard so many confessions; he wouldn’t be shocked, or startled. He would make it easy for you, like the priest in the confessional: if only he could say, “Yes,” that’s the way it was.” Whittingham was the one man in the whole world who could understand.
“When I’m investigating a case,” Whittingham went on, “I always put myself in the position of the man who did it. Like an actor. It’s a great help to me.”
Maxwell nodded. That was Whittingham’s strength. That was where his skill lay. He knew how the criminal felt. Maxwell felt mesmerized; weak, helpless, hungry for surrender. If only he could discard this burden of personal responsibility. Another minute and the temptation to confess would have become unbearable. But in that half minute Whittingham had changed the subject.
“What a charming evening we had last night,” he said. “I’ve never seen Sylvia looking better. The old hag was saying the same thing. You’ve wrought a miracle in that girl. She’s become another person, so warm and out-giving. She always seemed frozen and shut in: you’ve unlocked the door. She used to seem happy on the surface, but now she seems happy in herself. By the way, I meant to ask you and forgot. Are you having any trouble with that man
Montez who had the case with Preston?”
“I’ve seen no signs of trouble.”
“That’s fine. I was wondering. A chap like that, you see …”
They discussed Montez for a couple of minutes, then Whittingham turned to go.
“Time for tiffin,” he said. “By the way there was something I wanted to ask you about Crime and Punishment. It’s a long time since I’ve read it right through; there was a point I’d forgotten. You remember that man who waylays Raskolnikov and mutters that one accusation ‘murderer’: was it ever cleared up who he was? Was he one of those mysterious sleepwalking characters that Dostoevski sometimes introduces, like the man who bows down to that wild Karamazov brother, what was his name—Dmitri, Michael, I can’t remember, the one who was accused falsely; or was he a police stooge, planted so that the detective can see how Raskolnikov reacts to the accusation? Was it ever cleared up which it was? I can’t remember.”
“I haven’t finished yet. There’s been no explanation so far. But I’ll look out for it and I’ll let you know.”
“Fine. Do that. I was thinking about it the other day. It was a trick I’ve not known in English detective practice and it’s a good one. Those Russians are no fools, where police methods are concerned. Their secret police could teach us a point or two.”
