Rustication

by Charles Palliser

  If it comes to a trial then I’m pretty sure that . . .

  A ¼ to 11.

  I was interrupted twenty minutes ago by a loud hammering at the door. I went down and found a uniformed police-officer standing there. He told me he had a message from Sergeant Wilson requesting that I be at home at eleven tomorrow because he is coming again to discuss “a new piece of evidence”.

  I assume that Fourdrinier has claimed ownership of that implement and made his grotesque allegation against me. I now know who misappropriated that tool. We weren’t the only people on the hill that afternoon—Fourdrinier and the girl and I. The implement was snatched while I was running after the little jade and the old dolt was chasing us. I am sure of that and yet I have no way of convincing anyone else of the truth. Will Wilson bring a warrant and arrest me tomorrow?

  Midnight.

  Found Betsy drying pans in the scullery and asked if she had heard anything new in the village today. She said in a tremulous little voice: His cock and ballocks was cut off and stuffed into his mouth. She turned away and said: As every man’s would be if I had my way.

  Very queer!

  Tuesday 12th of January, 11 o’clock.

  Managed to get Mother alone after breakfast. She sat looking towards the fire all the while as it slowly burned itself out. As I talked, I felt as if I were inching forward over the frozen surface of something that—if it gives way—will suck me down and drown me.

  I appealed to her again to say that I was home by eleven o’clock.

  She said nothing and didn’t look at me but just sat gazing ahead and twisting her hands together.

  Why is she so reluctant to tell that small lie on my behalf?

  ½ past 1 o’clock.

  The detective came as promised. We received him weirdly like an old friend of the family or a distant relative with a claim of kinship—a wealthy cousin, perhaps, whom none of us liked—ushering him into the parlour, plumping up his cushions, and plying him with offers of tea and cakes.

  He launched into a good-natured complaint about the amount of work he was having to do. You’ve no conception, he said, of the number of helpful members of the public who come forward with information they are convinced is the key to the case. And ninety-nine times in a hundred, all they turn out to be is bits of gossip, misunderstandings or grudges against neighbours. Take the business of the weapon. Rumours about it have got into circulation and a certain gentleman—the interesting customer I mentioned before who spends his time poking about in the dust for things the Romans dropped hundreds of years ago—has come to tell me about an item of his that was stolen that he believes sounds very like it. He claims he knows who stole it.

  His gaze rested on me benignly as he uttered those words.

  And then there’s a delightful family—a couple in their middle years with a young son and daughter, well when I say young I don’t mean children but young persons of ball age if I might be permitted that expression—who live in a charming house. Do you know that quiet little street between the Cathedral and the bridge—The Parade? No, really? It’s a lovely spot. That’s where their house is and it’s so handy for the centre of town that they were able to stroll home after the ball. (They all attended it. Did I mention that?) Anyway, they were walking along in the early hours of Sunday morning when they found themselves behind three people who had also just left the ball. A lady and her son and daughter, as they thought. And what they could not help noticing was that they were engaged in a bitter dispute. The two ladies were reproaching the young man and he seemed to be in a highly excitable state. It sounded as if it might have been your good selves? He turned his mild gaze to Mother: Was Mr Shenstone angry and upset?

  Yes, she said.

  And was peace made at The George and Dragon? he asked as if hoping the answer would be in the affirmative.

  I’m afraid not, Mother admitted. When my daughter and I left in the carriage, my son was still very overwrought.

  Is that why he walked back from the ball? Because he was irate and, if I may put it like this, flown with wine?

  Mother nodded. I’m afraid he had had more to drink than was wise.

  Then came the question I had been fearing.

  And what time was it that he arrived home, Mrs Shenstone?

  I expected you to ask me that, Mr Wilson, and the truth is that I simply cannot remember. I had so many things to do that morning after the ball that I hardly noticed the moment at which he appeared.

  Wilson listened sympathetically, his head on one side. Then he leaned back in the sopha. The post is an odd affair, isn’t it ma’am? One day you mail a letter and it arrives almost before you’ve handed it in or put it in the box. (We have a great number of those new boxes now in London.) Another time it takes an eternity to travel just a few miles. And in a case like this, there is another complication. If an unopened letter is found addressed to a person who is, unfortunately, not in a position to open it by virtue of being deceased, then it can be very awkward for us. The letter might be a vital piece of evidence but can we simply open and read it? No indeed. The next of kin have to be consulted and give their permission.

  I couldn’t bear the way he was torturing me. I asked: Was such a letter found?

  Odd that you should ask, Mr Shenstone. Yes, it was as a matter of fact. At the poor deceased gentleman’s lodgings in Hill Street. It was not discovered until this morning and then it had to be conveyed to his lordship, the earl, as the sole person who had authority to open it. And that letter has contributed something very specific to the case. It is one of those distasteful ones that people have been receiving in recent weeks.

  May we know what the letter contained? Euphemia asked.

  Her curiosity seemed genuine. What an actress! Though, now that I think about it, her lover must have written it himself and so she won’t know its precise wording. I wonder if she doesn’t quite trust him to have done it properly.

  Wilson said: It made some very disagreeable threats in which the writer undertook to do to the poor young man pretty much what was done a few hours later.

  A few hours later? I repeated.

  Yes, Mr Shenstone. The letter was mailed before Mr Davenant Burgoyne was attacked. Placed in the posting-box in front of the main office, in fact. The individual who wrote it must have done so after the ball but before the first collection at 7 o’clock because it was franked within an hour of that.

  I asked: Might we be permitted to learn its contents?

  Maddeningly he crossed one leg over his knee, leaned back, and said: This is such a charming old house. So much character. I love these old places. Mrs Wilson and I have a semi-detached villa in Clapham. (Do you know it, ma’am?) Run-of-the-mill little house. Built barely ten years back. Well, not so little, I admit. But nothing like as spacious and historical as this building. He turned to me: I imagine you have a funny old room up in the top with a floor that slopes in one direction and a ceiling that goes off in another? Am I right?

  I nodded.

  Would you do me the honour of showing it to me?

  If you wish, I said.

  Capital! he exclaimed, rising from his chair with more alacrity than might be expected of a man of his age and girth.

  So I led him up to this room and all the while he kept up a stream of small talk—very small. When he came in here he looked around with his head slightly on one side like a great sparrow. I saw his eyes resting on the trunk and then on this Journal. I suddenly realised that the law allows him to seize it if—say rather, when—he comes to arrest me. Once he had made himself comfortable in a chair he began in his rambling way: I don’t know about you, young man, but I find that when I’ve done something that I feel I really shouldn’t have, I have an oppressive sort of sensation. I have to tell whoever it is that I’m keeping it from. I’m afraid I’d make the most incompetent secret agent if the Home Office were ever ill-advised enough to ask me to undertake such work. I say this because I’m wondering if there’s something you might want
to get off your chest.

  He paused.

  When I said nothing he went on: I thought we could have a frank chat man-to-man about how you might have taken the wrong way walking home early on Sunday morning and found yourself on the road to Upton Dene and then along came a horse and rider and something happened. I once knew a case where a young chap was heated and—to be absolutely frank—a little the worse for drink and in some way or other there was a contretemps with another young fellow and our man believed the other was attacking him and defended himself. He sighed. A wretched case. But it’s perfectly understandable how such misunderstandings arise. And in a situation like yours, when you were on foot and a rider came galloping towards you and perhaps recognised you and stopped and said things. Well?

  I was not on that road, Mr Wilson, I said. Why should I have been? I came by the shortest way—through Whitminster.

  He smiled as if encouraging me to continue. I went on: And that brings me to another point. The weapon used to kill Mr Davenant Burgoyne was, by your account, a large object that it would have been difficult to conceal. Where could I have hidden it? Nobody saw me with it at the ball or at the inn. Could I have had it with me all that time without its being noticed?

  That would be an excellent objection, Mr Shenstone, if it were not that we assume that the killer had already hidden it at the spot chosen for the murder.

  Then the idea that the murder occurred as the result of an accidental encounter must be wrong, I pointed out.

  He smiled ruefully.

  I followed up my advantage: And since the murderer must have known that Mr Davenant Burgoyne would be taking that road alone at that hour, that in itself exonerates me. How could I possibly have known that?

  Unfortunately for that argument, Mr Shenstone, it was no secret that Mr Davenant Burgoyne planned to ride to the Castle that morning because he had arranged to go out with the Handleton hounds. He talked about it at the ball and explained to several people that it was why he would be leaving the company early. In fact, he was first missed when he failed to attend the meet.

  Well, I didn’t know his intentions, I said feebly. How could I have?

  He went on as if I had not spoken: I can comprehend completely how anxious you are not to cause distress to your mother and sister. What I suggest is that we slip away now and you come into Thurchester with me in the trap and we can talk comfortably at the station-house and clear this up to everybody’s satisfaction.

  Are you arresting me?

  He looked hurt: No, Mr Shenstone. I need a warrant to do that. And to be absolutely frank, I was hoping you would save all of us a great deal of pother and quill-work and avoid the necessity for that by telling me the whole unfortunate story chap-to-chap. Otherwise I would have to go and bother some poor old magistrate for a warrant.

  I’m sorry that my innocence is causing so much inconvenience.

  He appeared to be wounded by my sarcasm: Oh you’re enjoying your laugh, Mr Shenstone. And you’re so much cleverer and better-educated than myself, that I’m not surprised at that. And yet for all your sharpness, you made a bad slip when you virtually admitted to the attack on the late Mr Davenant Burgoyne in Hill Street on the 4th of January.

  As I told you, it was the following day I went to Thurchester.

  He shook his head reprovingly. Let us be frank with each other, Mr Shenstone. Why not confess that you fought with Mr Davenant Burgoyne that evening? It was an honest mistake. You believed you were being attacked. It does not prove that you killed him six days later.

  I was tempted to grant the point. But on reflection, I decided that that would be to concede too much. I said nothing.

  He shrugged and then pulled a sheet of paper from a cavernous pocket and put on a pair of half-moon spectacles. This is the letter I was talking about downstairs. At least, this is part of it since his lordship did not permit me to read the whole. It’s an important new piece of evidence. I won’t bore you with the whole of what his lordship allowed me to copy, but here are some of the more interesting passages:

  “If you lay hands on a decent girl you must pay for it. I don’t mean money. I am going to make you pay with your blood. You think you have got away with it. But you are wrong. You won’t be able to hide behind your friends the next time we meet. I am going to kill you but before I do that I am going to hurt you so badly you will scream for mercy. You are so proud of your cock. See if it will get you an heir when it’s stuffed down your lying throat!” Wilson paused in order to give the next words special emphasis: “You may be the heir to an earldom, but you are no gentleman.”

  He looked at me sadly over the top of his spectacles.

  In that instant I understood why Euphemia was listening at the door when I quarrelled with Davenant Burgoyne and why she had run off by herself as we were walking back to the inn. I had already guessed by whom that letter had been written and put in the posting-box and now I saw how Euphemia had supplied Lyddiard with its contents.

  I said: I understand completely. You have a dozen witnesses who can attest that they heard me address more or less those precise words to Mr Davenant Burgoyne a few hours before he was killed.

  He nodded with a melancholy expression. A loving uncle whose hopes have been betrayed by a promising nephew.

  I said: But there is an absurdity involved. Why would anyone put such a letter in the post knowing it would not arrive until at least the afternoon, and then set off to kill the person to whom it is addressed?

  You’re very sharp, sir. You’ve given it some thought. It’s true that there is an apparent anomaly and it had struck me in my own ponderous labouring manner though it took me a great deal longer to see it. But one possibility is that the individual decided to do what he did only after posting that letter.

  But had already taken the precaution of hiding the weapon several miles away! I exclaimed. It must be clear to you that that letter was written and posted for another purpose entirely: to incriminate me further.

  He shrugged. In every investigation there are always a few tangled threads that we never unravel.

  I said: Then here’s a reef knot for you. From what you’ve read out, the author seems not to have bothered to feign illiteracy.

  He looked at me with interest. I explained that the letters I had seen were pretending to be the work of an unlettered person.

  He waited until I’d finished and then said: What do you conclude from that?

  I said: As you will find out when you look at the letters you’ve collected in their order of sending, the writer began by impersonating someone who was barely literate and then successive letters gradually revealed more and more education. The intention was to draw out the process of speculation in the neighbourhood before narrowing the pool of possible authors. The letters were designed to make it look as if the libeller was pretending to be unlettered but failed to keep up the illusion as he became carried away by his hatred of his victims. This last letter threw off the pretence—or, I should say, pretended to throw off the pretence—because it was written in order to inculpate me more unequivocally than all its predecessors by quoting words that a number of witnesses had heard me utter.

  He made no response and seemed to be considering my point. Then he said: The individual who wrote that letter must have been present at the confrontation between you and Mr Davenant Burgoyne.

  Many people were present, I pointed out. And in fact the writer need only have spoken to someone who heard—or overheard—what I said.

  I thought of Euphemia listening at the door and then hastening to tell her fellow-conspirator what I had said.

  He was silent for a while and then said: You’ve given me something to chew over. I won’t deny that. Frankly, you don’t strike me as someone who would commit such an act. I need to read through all the letters I’ve collected. I’ve got a couple from Mrs Quance and one from poor Miss Whitaker-Smith and a number of others. I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Mr Shenstone. I’ll talk to a few more people tomorrow. One
of them will be the old gentleman who is so sure that the weapon that was used against Mr Davenant Burgoyne is the tool that was stolen from him. It’s Mr Fourdrinier, as you must know. He hasn’t seen it yet but he says he knows it from the description. And he’s convinced it was you who took it because there was nobody else in sight at the time—apart from that young lady of his who is his niece on Mondays and his ward on Tuesdays. Now if Mr Fourdrinier is wrong about his precious hoe or dibber or whatever it is, then I’ll pay more attention to the possibility that the crime was committed by some passing rogue or vagabond and has no connection with the letters despite all the apparent links. But if he recognises that thing, then I’ll have no choice but to get a warrant. Is that reasonable?

  What could I say? I said nothing.

  He stood up and I followed him out. As we went along the passage and then down the stairs he asked conversationally: Do you have any plans for leaving the district today or tomorrow?

  None at all.

  Just as well. Would you oblige me by staying within a mile of this house? I’d be quite anxious if you went any further than that.

  I indicated my agreement. He knows as well as I do that since the house stands on a peninsula, there is no way out except by the single path to the mainland and I imagine he will have it watched.

  We went back into the parlour and found Mother and Euphemia sitting as we had left them.

  Wilson smiled and said: Your son and I have had a delightful little tate-a-tate, Mrs Shenstone. But there is something you might be able to assist us in. That recent trip he made to Thurchester to book the rooms and arrange the hire of the carriage and to visit Mr Boddington—there is some uncertainty about the date. Your son is convinced it was Tuesday the 5th. Neither mine host at The George and Dragon nor the ostler at the livery-stable has the slightest idea of which day it was. Rather surprisingly, Mr Boddington says he can’t remember and that he made no note of it in his daybook.