'Helen, I'm worried.'
It was the first time he had ever addressed her by her Christian name, and he used it diffidently – 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 you 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 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 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 of the 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 the 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; '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.'
'So I gather,' said Alice Riddick grimly. 'Listen, my dear – will you be all right for tonight? Because I'll get to you by lunch-time tomorrow, even if I have to steal one of the Radcliffe ambulances and a driver with it . . . Will that do?'
Helen's heart sank. It wouldn't do, of course; it wasn't nearly soon enough. But she still had reserves of pride to draw on, and she drew on them now.
'Yes, thank you, Alice, that's marvellous. Bless you.'
'And in the meantime, get yourself a lawyer, and don't go making statements to the police, even if they happen to be true.'
Helen laughed tremulously. 'It's Sherlock Holmes I really need, not a lawyer so much. Alice, it's all so –'
'Sherlock Holmes? Now I wonder if – Oh no. He's away.'
'What were you going to say?'
'I was going to say I might have brought Gervase along with me. It sounds as it if might be in his line. But I was trying to get in touch with him yesterday, and apparently he's been out of Oxford since Friday, and no one seems to know, quite, where he is.'
'Gervase?'
'Gervase Fen. Didn't you ever come across him when you were up?'
'No, I don't think I did. He's Professor of English, isn't he? I've heard of him, of course.'
'Yes . . . Well, I shall just have to see what I can do on my own. Helen, it is – it is manslaughter, isn't it? I mean, they just imagine you've been careless about a prescription, or some nonsense like that?'
'No, Alice. It's murder.'
There was a second pause – a longer one.
'Oh . . . Well, you're still not to worry, child. No certainly innocent person has been executed for murder in England or America for the past fifty or a hundred years, and I see no reason at all why they should abandon the precedent in your case.'
'Then you don't believe I'd –'
'Tush, child! Of course I don't. Nemo repente fuit turpissimus, and your extreme lack of turpitude when you were reading medicine here was one of the most depressing human phenomena I've ever come across. If you've murdered anyone, I'm a Dutchman. So what I should do now, if I were you, is lock all your doors and windows, drink a bottle of gin and go to bed soused. In the morning you'll feel horrid, but benzedrine'll cure that.'
This time Helen's laughter was sincere.
'Thank you, darling. I dare say I'm just being a nervy fool, and I'm sorry to be such a nuisance, but – well, if you only knew the things that have been happening to me . . .'
'Tell me in the morning. I'll be there. And if you want to ring me in the night, go ahead. I can't sleep a wink with this bloody toe, anyway.'
'Oh, Alice, I'm so sorry about that. However did it happen?'
'An old fool of a don called Wilkes ran over it on his bicycle.'
'Oh, Alice!'
'Yes, child, I know it's funny. That's been borne in on me with increasing force every time I've mentioned it to anyone. But you just try it, that's all I say.'
'I'm sorry, dear. I didn't mean to giggle. I know it must be damnably painful.'
'It belongs,' said Miss Riddick philosophically, 'to the same class of affliction as warts on the behind. One doesn't expect sympathy; all one hopes is that people won't actually make themselves sick with laughing . . . But that's enough about me. Keep cheerful, child, and I'll see you in the morning.'
'Well, Alice, if you're sure . . .'
'I'm sure, God bless.'
Helen rang off. And that was when a man's voice, immediately behind her, said:
'I'm so sorry, but –'
She swung round, her brief spell of reassurance dissolved on the instant in panic terror. 'Who –'
'Please.' He put strong hands on her shoulders to steady her. 'Your front door was open, and I heard your voice, so I came in.
'I'm sorry if I frightened you.'
Helen went limp. 'Mr Datchery,' she said, and began to laugh. She laughed quietly, without hysteria, until the laughter turned to tears. With her head on Mr Datchery's shoulder she cried some of the wretchedness out of her; and when her sobs began to diminish he said briskly:
'Without at all wishing to alarm you further, I think I ought to mention that the hall is flooded and we're both of us about to go under for the third time.'
She broke away from him, flushed beneath her tears. 'I – I don't know what you'll be thinking of me,' she said with a doleful sniff. 'I – I d-don't always weep on the s-shoulders of strange men. And every time we've met so far –'
'Every time we've met so far,' he said gravely, 'I've felt, I admit it, a little like a feast at a skeleton. But that's hardly been your fault.' He offered her a silk handkerchief. 'You look awful,' he added more cheerfully. 'There, there, don't drop it about. Wipe your face with it, and if you smear your lipstick like that it'll look as if you've been drinking blood. Your collar's undone. Your hair's coming down. As soon as you're ready you can offer me some beer, if there is any in the house.'
'Oh, don't bully me,' said Helen. 'I've been so miserable, and – '
'No doubt you have. But just as it happens, there's very little left for you to worry about now. What I've come to ask –'
'Wait,' Helen told him, and fled upstairs.
Five minutes later she returned, looking, except for the pallor, her normal self again, to find Mr Datchery in the sitting-room, loudly singing a hymn to the accompaniment of her father's harmonium. 'Greenland's icy mountains,' he murmured, desisting from this performance as she came in. 'And they're not quite so irrelevant as you might at first think. That looks better, I must say. Will you take my word for it, please, that no one suspects you any longer of murdering dominies or writing anonymous letters? I've just come from talking to Colonel Babington and Inspector Casby about it, so I ought to know.'
Helen said: 'Who are you?'
He chuckled. 'I'm a friend of a friend of yours. But never you mind who I am. The point is, do you believe what I've just said?'
'Yes!' cried Helen. 'Yes! But in that case, the steel I had –'
'Ah. The steel. You've been fretting about that, hav
e you? Quite right, too. Of course, it was in fact your steel which killed Rubi,' he added dispassionately, as an afterthought.
'But – '
'But there's still a loose end to be tied in, you were going to say. I quite agree. And that's why I'm here. There's only one question I need to ask, so you must answer it very carefully.'
Helen braced herself. 'Yes?'
'What sort of books' – Mr Datchery's pale-blue eyes were directed ruminatively towards the ceiling – 'what sort of books did Beatrice Keats-Madderly read?'
'I – I beg your pardon?'
'Who,' Mr Datchery elaborated with a gracious air, 'were her favourite authors?'
Helen stared helplessly at him. 'But you can't be serious!'
'Of course I can be serious. I often am. I am now.' Mr Datchery had by this time left the harmonium in order to lower his long, lean body into an armchair, where he sprawled gracelessly. 'Do answer,' he said waspishly after a moment.
'Well, I – I suppose,' said Helen in a daze, 'that Emma Paton was her favourite novelist. She used to enthuse about her an awful lot, and –'
'So!' exclaimed Mr Datchery in a guttural, Teutonic manner. 'Also gut! That, you know,' he said more mildly, 'is just the answer I wanted.'
'But what has it got to do with –'
'With the Cotten Horror? A good deal. You'd be surprised. May I use your telephone?'
'Yes, of course. It's – oh well, you know where it is, don't you?'
She sat bewildered for a while after he had gone out of the room, trying vainly to assemble her thoughts into a coherent pattern. But there was renewed hope for her now, and she was content to struggle no longer, to let events carry her wherever they would . . . Mr Datchery had left the sitting-room door open, and she realized presently that she could hear him talking on the telephone.
'Look here, Emma, when I take the trouble to ring you up I don't expect to be treated to a great diatribe about not writing for six years.'
'Yes, yes, that's all very well, but we were both much younger in those days.'
'I don't regard it as an unchivalrous thing to say, at all.'
'No, I haven't read any of your books for decades. I've read some reviews of them.'
The Long Divorce (A Gervase Fen Mystery) Page 15
