‘That’s impossible. I didn’t stop anywhere on the way back from Colonel Babington’s house, and I locked the car up immediately, and it’s been locked up ever since. How does this particular steel compare with the wound for size?’
‘It’s the right size exactly.’
‘Quite a coincidence,’ Helen had said stiffly. ‘Are there any traces of blood on it?’
‘A few. They’re being tested now… Helen, you’re certain no one could have stolen it?’
Beneath her surface equanimity Helen was desperately afraid: it needed an almost physical effort not to lie in self-protection. ‘And returned it as well?’ she had responded coolly. ‘That’s asking a bit much, isn’t it?’
‘I’m wrong, then,’ he had said half to himself. ‘And yet—’
‘And yet it looked so promising.’ Helen’s fear broke suddenly through the mask. ‘Why don’t you say straight out that you—’
‘It may have been planted on you.’
‘My dear man, how? How?’
‘All right, then. I am wrong about it—must be. But you can surely see that I had to follow it up.’
‘A little trustfulness would have saved you the trouble.’
‘A little trustfulness would put the police out of action for good.’
‘Damn the police!’
He had not answered that. ‘I’d better go,’ he had said. ‘We’re in the hell of a mess, and we shall go on being in it till this whole filthy business is cleaned up.’ Then his voice had grown gentler. ‘I’m sorry, Helen. If it’s any consolation to you, I can tell you that I shall probably chuck the case up in the next few hours.’
‘Thanks. I can understand that. Because you wouldn’t want me hanged, would you?’
‘Of course I wouldn’t want—’ And then, looking into her eyes, he had suddenly realized what she meant. ‘I see. Yes, I see how our marriage might look to a certain type of mind. Good-bye for now.’
With that he had gone. For a time you could shut out the shame of your own wretched, indefensible innuendo by indulging your resentment at that ‘certain type of mind’. But the more dreadful thing which underlay shame and resentment alike was such as no amount of emotional juggling could suppress. For Helen knew that whatever he might have said, Casby had gone away still believing, in spite of everything, that that damnable steel was what had killed the Swiss schoolmaster; and where the steel was concerned, not love and confidence were at stake but life itself…
It was only later that she learned of his return to examine the garage; and that was well, for if she had seen what he did she would have known how to interpret it, and she was already quite close enough to panic without the addition of that. Moving restlessly about her sitting-room, while the daylight failed and the dull moon took lustre from its failing, Helen experienced positive loneliness for the first time in her life: it seemed to her that with Beatrice gone there was no one, no one, to whom in this extremity she could turn. A lawyer, she thought vaguely: I ought to get a lawyer. But long hours of wretchedness had so sapped her energies and her resolution that she was by this time incapable of action, incapable even of making plans.
The room was wholly in shadow; light lingered only on the massive silver-plated inkstand and on the glass front of the corner-cupboard. In the whirligig of memory and emotion Helen had been oblivious of the besieging darkness. But now, as reflection petered out in misery and she raised her eyes from the desk at which she had been vacantly staring, she became all at once aware and afraid of the thickening gloom, so that her movement, when she swung round abruptly to turn on the lamps, had the quality of an animal’s when it scents a trap.
Quietly, almost timidly, someone knocked on the front door.
Chapter Fourteen
Light filled the room as the switch clicked; the sullen, ponderous furniture, whose replacement—much as she hated it—Helen had never been able to afford, absorbed the light without refracting it, deadening it as sound is deadened in a building which lacks resonance. During the heat of the day Helen had left her front door standing open. In a village where two decades had not produced a single theft, that was often done, though it had not been done so much since the anonymous letter-writer had started work: the continual mistrust wrought by the letters had proliferated irrelevantly into every department of normal life. But the habit still prevailed so long as conscious defensiveness did not interfere, and Helen could hear soft footsteps, now, as her unknown visitor accepted the open door’s invitation to stroll into the house. In the hall outside the sitting-room, a voice called inquiringly.
‘Hello!’ it said. ‘Anyone at home?’
Inwardly cursing her nervousness, Helen strode to the sitting room door and flung it wide.
‘Oh, there you are,’ said Dr. George Sims. ‘I thought everyone must be out. Whatever were you doing—meditating in the dark?’
When Helen had last seen him he had been in tennis kit. Now he wore an ancient, baggy hacking-coat with ancient, baggy grey trousers and a pink tie which clashed deplorably with his untidy ginger hair. His pale, straggling eyebrows were lifted in humorous inquiry; the summer sun had reddened his face (he had the sort of skin which can never acquire a tan) and had brought out orange freckles round the root of his irregular nose; a curved briar pipe, unlit, projected solemnly, with an air of self-parody, from a corner of his ugly, attractive mouth. As Helen stood aside, he ambled into the room with the nonchalance of perfect physical health; and for all that she hardly knew him, his coming seemed to her then like the magic of a fine hot fire in a chilly room, so that she laughed in sheer relief.
‘Meditating?’ she said. ‘Well, as a matter of fact, I was. Do sit down, and I’ll get you a drink…Oh Lord, though, I don’t believe there’s anything but beer. I’m so sorry. The fact is—’
‘I like beer,’ he said argumentatively, as though someone had accused him of the contrary. ‘I drink a lot of it, especially in the evenings. The only trouble is that it makes one so hellish fat…’ He looked round him with the naive curiosity of a child. ‘So this is where you live. It’s nice,’ he said politely.
Helen, busy at the sideboard, laughed again. ‘You know perfectly well it’s quite awful. If I had any money, I’d burn every stick of furniture in the place, and buy a new lot.’
‘Not these days you wouldn’t,’ he responded a little absently. ‘Not with quality and prices what they are…’ Then with more interest: ‘I say, though, it might be quite a good notion to put in a window-seat. There’s room enough, and—’
‘I don’t like them.’ Helen was pouring beer into pint pewter tankards. ‘If you want to look out of the window they give you a crick in the neck—and what’s the good of that?’
‘Oh, nonsense,’ said Sims vigorously. ‘The whole point of them is—’ And for two or three happy minutes they argued zestfully about window-seats, so that Helen temporarily forgot her wretchedness, and wondered—at last recollecting it again—that so small a thing could succeed where all her solitary efforts had so pathetically failed. The effect lasted, too. There was a refocusing: her difficulties, when she thought of them again, seemed not quite so large or so immitigable as they had done in solitude. And the reason for that was that with George Sims you could never be other than uninhibited, since his own extravagance, his total absence of self-consciousness, made your social defences seem so petty and unnecessary that it was child’s play to abandon them.
‘Well, all right, have it your own way,’ he said impenitently at last. ‘But I still don’t believe a single word of it.’ And then all at once he was serious, with a seriousness as large and unqualified as his controversial mood had been. ‘Still, I mustn’t go on all night about that. You’ll be wanting to know to what you owe the pleasure, et cetera, and I’m afraid the reason I came here isn’t particularly cheerful—rather the reverse, in fact…
‘Helen, I’m worried.’
It was the first time he had ever addressed her by her Christian name, and he used it d
iffidently—the tone in which it was spoken an implicit apology for not asking permission, so that the touchiest person could hardly have taken offence. Moreover, Helen sensed then—and knew for certain later—that the words which followed it were true: George Sims was really perplexed and uneasy on her account—so much so that for a moment he was unable to find more words with which to continue.
‘Look here,’ he said presently, plunging where calculation had failed, ‘I’ve been getting about a bit this afternoon, and talking to people. And to be frank with you, I haven’t much liked what I’ve heard. Mind you, I’m not saying there’s anything to be seriously alarmed about, but I do think that in common fairness you ought to know where you stand… For instance, I met Burns an hour or two ago, and he handed me out some rigmarole about a butcher’s steel.’
Helen’s dread returned. She nodded.
‘I know.’ And she explained how she knew. ‘I don’t pretend to understand,’ she said in conclusion, ‘and I can only assume that the particular steel I had wasn’t in fact the one which—’
‘Only apparently it was.’ Sims got up from the chair into which he had lapsed on entering, and slouched moodily to the window, his hands thrust deep into his jacket pockets. ‘Larkin and I have been doing the autopsy on Rubi this afternoon—as you know. While we were at it, Walton traipsed in to get a blood sample from the corpse, and of course I asked him what it was for, and equally of course, I saw him before I left Twelford to find out what results he’d got. They’re pretty conclusive, I’m afraid.’
‘But that’s impossible!’
He turned back towards her, smiling. ‘Now, for the Lord’s sake don’t get panicky. No one’s going to believe you killed him.’
‘But I’ve thought and thought, and there isn’t a loop-hole anywhere!’
‘No?’
‘Well, can you see one?’
‘Certainly I can. Several. For instance, we’ve no means of knowing that the steel Burns gave to Casby—the one with Rubi’s blood on it—is the same steel you gave to Burns.’
Helen stared. ‘Burns? But surely you can’t believe that Burns would—’
‘No, I don’t, as a matter of fact. But you said there weren’t any loopholes—so I was just giving you a sample. Another would be that the steel Casby gave the laboratory wasn’t the same as the steel Burns gave Casby.’
Helen’s heart was beating very fast. ‘Absurd,’ she said levelly.
‘Perhaps. But I’m still inclined to think there’s more than steel involved in this business. They’re more or less standard in size, you know, and some sort of deliberate duplication isn’t at all inconceivable.’
Helen considered this. She could not bring herself to suspect Burns of trickery, and as for Casby—well, better not think about that for the moment. But the point was that George Sims had shown her escape-routes where none, earlier, had seemed to exist; and if there were these, there were probably others too. Her spirits rose; she even managed to smile.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I’ve been needing a little common sense.’
‘Welcome, I’m sure,’ he answered in Cockney. ‘And as I see it, the next thing is: where were you at the time the murder was done?’
‘That’s easy. I was—’
And then, for the first time, Helen realized. ‘Oh, my God,’ she said quietly.
Sims had lifted his tankard and was about to put it to his lips; now he replaced it without drinking.
‘Well?’ he said. ‘I was—I must have been there. In the water-meadow. I—I went for a walk, you see. Rolt was there too, we talked and…’
The blood had ebbed a little from George Sims’ sun-reddened cheeks, leaving them a dirty pink.
‘Not so good,’ he said. ‘Definitely not so good… There’s one thing, though, Rolt’s in exactly the same boat. And as between the two of you—’
‘Rolt,’ Helen interrupted, ‘hasn’t had anything to do with any butcher’s steel.’
‘That we know of… Look, Helen, I don’t want to interfere in what isn’t my affair, but I think that just for safety’s sake you ought to get in touch with a solicitor straight away.’
Helen regarded him steadily. ‘Do they in fact suspect me?’ And he shrugged uneasily as he replied.
‘God knows. No one’s said anything definite to me.’
‘But if they do suspect me’—and for Helen, a world of pain lay hidden in that seemingly impersonal ‘they’—‘if they do suspect me, whatever do they imagine my motive can have been? After all, I’ve never even spoken to the wretched little man.’
‘He left a sort of diary, you see.’ Sims was at the window again, gazing at his own reflection in the darkened panes. ‘That’s another thing Burns told me about—thanks to me being police-surgeon, he feels it’s ethical to confide in me. And that diary—’ He gave her an account of what was in it.
‘But then, if they think I killed Rubi, they must think I wrote the anonymous letters as well.’
‘Yes. That would seem to follow. But of course, it’s all of it utter nonsense, and you’re not to let it worry you. All I’m trying to do now is explain how the official mind works—or to be accurate, may be working.’
The official mind…
Helen said: ‘Yes, I do understand that. And I’m grateful to you for coming. I was—I was feeling a bit lonely.’
He swung round to face her, twitching the pipe out of his mouth. ‘We’ve never seen very much of one another, have we?’
‘No. It’s—it’s been my fault.’
‘And for that reason I certainly oughtn’t to say what I’m going to say. In the circumstances, it’s conceited and tactless and discourteous and altogether mad, but I’ve still got to say it. Helen, will you marry me?’
Outside, the wind was rising. It rattled a pane and woke sighs among the bold new leaves of the trees at the bottom ofthe garden. A tracery of hurrying clouds flecked the moon, and the stars were coming out, like sparks kindling, dying, kindling anew. In the sombre sitting-room it was very still.
‘It’s hopeless, I know,’ George Sims went on after a fractional pause. ‘I’m an ugly devil and a rotten catch. But ever since you came here I’ve wanted to—to be friends with you. You’ve always avoided me, and that’s made it worse, of course. I shouldn’t have blurted it out now if I hadn’t been afraid that as soon as all this mystery was cleared up we should go back to the old footing… Please forgive me. It’s an impossible sort of question to ask, when you hardly know me at all, but if you could—well, keep me in mind, perhaps… What I mean is,’ blurted Dr. Sims, fierily red, ‘that I don’t want an answer. I mean, I don’t want an answer straight away. Well, of course, I do want an answer straight away, but I quite see that you—I mean, I want it if it’s the answer I want, if you see what I mean…’
‘Thank you,’ said Helen simply. ‘I’m very grateful, and if it didn’t sound old-fashioned and—and insincere, I’d say I was honoured, because I am. But you see, Edward Casby asked me this morning to marry him, and I said I would.’
It was as if she had struck him. Not a muscle of his face moved, but the sun’s reddening stood out on it like rouge, and his hands grew taut with the effort of self-control. After a brief but unendurable silence he said shakily: ‘I’m sorry,’ and she saw with horror—almost, for a moment, with repulsion—that tears had started into his eyes.
‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated meaninglessly. ‘I didn’t know. I—I think I’d better go.’
Helen scrambled to her feet. ‘No! Please don’t go! I never realized—’
‘I must.’ He had turned his head away. ‘I’m sorry, but I must. I—I can’t—’ Two seconds later the door had slammed behind him, and Helen was alone again.
His behaviour was not destined to be the last shock of that eventful Sunday: but certainly it was the most unexpected, and in that sense the most terrifying. Helen was dumbfounded. Standing helplessly, motionless, in the centre of the carpet, while his rapid steps receded down the path to th
e gate, she found herself scarcely able to believe that the whole swift episode had not been a kind of hallucination; the refusal of an offer of marriage could only seldom in the world’s history have provoked so violent and sudden a reaction as that. And Helen was not flattered. That short, astounding scene had had a quality which even the most conceited woman would have found it difficult to interpret to her advantage—a quality almost animal in its ferocity. Shaken, Helen crept back to her chair, groped for a cigarette. Consolation, and its instantaneous sweeping away; hope, and its immediate annihilation. She was as near now to breaking-point as she would ever be. Loneliness had returned the stronger for its temporary exile, and her only thought was to find, at all costs, someone to come to her whom she could trust.
Presently she went to the telephone.
The telephone was in the hall, recessed beneath the stairs. With unsteady hands Helen sought a number and took the instrument from its cradle.
‘Exchange? I want an Oxford number, please. 317723.’
She waited, her heart thudding uncomfortably in her breast. If Alice Riddick didn’t happen to be in…
But Alice Riddick was in.
‘Helen? How nice to hear your voice, child. How are you?’
‘Alice, I’m in horrible trouble. I suppose you couldn’t possibly come?’
‘Come when, child? And what is the trouble?’
‘Now. To-night.’
‘My dear, I certainly would if I could, but it’s out of the question, I’m afraid. I’m stuck in bed, as it happens, with a broken toe. What’s the matter, though? What’s happened?’
‘Alice, I think the police suspect me of killing a man.’
There was a pause; then: ‘Do they? More fools them. But I can quite see that you need company, and since you’re phoning me, I take it there are reasons why you can’t find it in your own village… Look, why don’t you come here?’
‘I daren’t. God knows what they’d think if I was to clear out. And besides—well, I’ve got to be here, don’t you see, so as to know what’s happening. And—oh Lord, it’s all so complicated… Alice, I’m frightened.’
The Long Divorce Page 15
