by John Lodwick
“All right,” he said. “I’ll get you some, but I’ll have to go downstairs.”
“You could get it from the bathroom.”
“Certainly, I could,” he said. “But I’m hungry. I want to make myself a sandwich. You can wait five minutes, can’t you?” The need which he felt for spitefulness was surprising. He loathed her and . . . in consequence . . . there was urgent need to loathe himself.
“Or are you afraid, perhaps, to be alone? Don’t worry. Leave the light on. Read a book.”
She looked at him piteously. “You don’t love me, do you? You don’t really care at all.”
“Cherchez pas à faire apitoyer,” he said, and fastening his dressing gown, tucking toes in bedroom slippers, left the room.
But on the landing, in the fustian darkness, above the death-watch-beetle tick of the grandfather clock, he heard a noise as of a metal tray being pushed across a wooden surface.
“Now where could that be coming from?” he thought and, quick with instinct, entered the bathroom, filled the carafe, then nipped back into his bedroom.
“Here’s your water,” he said, and watched her drink. “Now I’m going down to make my sandwich. I may be twenty minutes even. It takes time to cut the ham.”
“Bring me some, too,” she said, dry-eyed, and then bent closer to her book. The Concluding Unscientific Postscript of Kierkegaard it was. Like many with a dislocated mind she had a philosophic turn.
Rumbold padded down the stairs, the banister his guide. Without mishap or even need to light his torch, he reached the kitchen, heard the noise renewed within.
He opened the door. Peggy, warm inside a thick blue flannel dressing gown, with blonde pigtails for a contrast, stared at him from just above a coffee percolator.
“That won’t make you sleep any better,” he said. He said this slowly.
“No,” she said. “Nor you, it seems. . . .”
“Perhaps this is the better drug?” he said and advancing, his purpose manifest, suddenly enfolded her within his arms, bent back her head and kissed her lips until these yielded and his tongue sought hers.
“Dreams are very curious things,” he continued. “Supposing that you commit murder . . . then you will be quite certain to dream about the bulls-eyes that you stole from the locker of your friend at school. There is a censor in the subconscious who would like us to be better than we are.”
“Is there?” she said; this with faint irony.
“Oh, not in your case,” he continued. “Nor in your sister’s either. You both dream direct. You must find it tiresome to repeat the same experience almost every night.”
“Well,” she replied. “I daresay I would if I had the faintest idea what you were talking about.” The upper section of the percolator was now empty of all liquid. She removed it. “Won’t you have some coffee?” she said.
“Thank you. I will,” he said, and watched her opening the cupboard, fetching the sugar basin and the cups. As she moved, the loose nether of her dressing gown swung. She wore pyjamas. He laid his hand upon them.
“Where is Fiona?” she said.
“Fiona is reading. We’re a very wakeful household, aren’t we? Don’t worry. She’ll not come down, because she dreads the darkness. We can therefore have our little talk in peace.”
Around the greater perimeter of the table there were stools. The coffee poured, she drew one up beside his own, stirred, blew across the steaming surface like a little girl, and sipped.
“And when do you propose to leave?” she said, ignoring the investigations of his wandering hand.
“I don’t know that I propose to leave at all.”
“I should leave if I were you,” she said. “You see, I know that you’re not married. I wrote to the British Consulate at Barcelona and they say that they have no record of such a marriage.”
“Ah,” he said, his turn now to sip at coffee. “So you are not only sharp: you are also clever. But supposing that I don’t want to leave . . . supposing it’s my intention to remain here, in this house?”
“Take your hand away,” she said.
“Why should I when you help to keep it warm? Besides, we’re comrades, you and I . . . behind those pigtails and that modest dressing-gown there lies something of which I could willingly see more.”
“I hate you,” she said.
“No, not hate . . . fear is the word you mean, for our characters are really not much different. I think the time has come to talk about your dreams.”
“You prey upon women, don’t you?” she said. “That’s your profession because you are a coward. But don’t prey here because, a hundred yards away, I have a gardener who doesn’t like you very much. It would give him great pleasure to chuck your suitcase on the road.”
“I don’t think, somehow, that he will ever do that.”
“No?”
“No. As I was saying, let’s talk about your dreams. Ten years is a long time, isn’t it: more than twice the number of the Arabian nights. Your mouldering Granny must have tickled your scruples quite a bit within that period.”
From his own dressing-gown he drew the chemist’s receipt from Edinburgh, laid it on the table, smoothed it.
“One really should not keep such things, should one?” he said. “Do you know . . . although I must condemn your negligence . . . I feel sincerely sorry for you. If there hadn’t been a prying mind like mine, you might have been safe to-day.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, unsteadily.
“Listen,” he said, and took the opportunity of looking at the kitchen clock. “We have approximately fifteen minutes now. After that, Fiona will brave the terrors of the landing and come down. It’s important that we should understand each other. Why did you kill your grandmother?”
Slowly, very slowly, the colour began to leave her face: pink became white, white grey, and grey a fluorescent green. The features lost cohesion. Even the formidable and jutting chin broke loose from its anchorage.
“What makes you think that?” she whispered.
“What . . . no attempt at denial, no protests, no signs of outraged modesty? The Public Prosecutor would be shocked.” Leaning forward, he touched her hand, but she shrank from the contact.
“I asked you what makes you think that?”
For answer he pointed to the piece of paper on the table.
“That proves nothing,” she said more calmly.
“No, in itself, it proves nothing, as you say. I see you are regaining confidence. In a moment, when you think I am not looking, you’ll stretch out your tiny fingers and tear that piece of paper up, won’t you?”
And, indeed, already she had sketched a gesture which might have had that intention as its object.
“Go on,” he urged. “Why don’t you do it? I shan’t have you charged. My kingdom is not of the law courts, but in this house. Quite sufficient for my purpose that you know I hold the secret. . . .”
“I don’t think,” she said, “that I’ve ever met a man as truly wicked as you are.”
“Oh, come now, not too many claims to virtue. We’re all murderers in this household, you know; all equal in the sight of Martha’s God. Yes . . . even Fiona is an only too easily indictable accessory. Didn’t you know, or did you perhaps guess? The other day I knocked off her little curly-headed boy.”
Swiftly she slipped from her seat and sped towards the door, but he moved more swiftly still. “Not so fast,” he said, and seizing the fastening of her dressing-gown he tore the garment from her shoulders, then flung it in a corner.
“That’s better,” he said. “What . . . shivering already? This won’t do at all. You must get used to walking about in your nightie. Come . . . sit on my knee. It’s very much more cosy.”
“Murderer,” she said.
> He grinned. “No pot and kettle stuff please. We’re both black. Let’s make the best of it.”
He had her cornered now, between the dresser and the bread bin. Swooping, he placed his left arm behind her knees; his right behind her shoulders. He carried her towards Martha’s easy chair, beside the dying fire. She struggled.
“Right,” he said. “Now tell uncle all about it. In what way did poor granny offend her little girl? Incidentally I notice you haven’t got rid of auntie yet. Can the packet be empty so soon?”
“I shall tell you nothing . . . nothing.”
“I’ve heard braver people than you say that, my dear. The only ones who were ever able to say it afterwards were those for whom the entertainments provided had been too mild . . . if you take my meaning.”
He placed his hands about her wrist, gripped hard, then twisted each hand in a different direction as cruel schoolboys sometimes do.
“You’re hurting,” she said. “Please leave me go.”
“Then lay your head on uncle’s chest and speak, my darling.”
She ceased to struggle, and looking at him, showed more curiosity than fear. “Do you know,” she said, “I honestly believe you’re mad.”
“Mad?” He set her down. “Mad?” he repeated. “Oh, not at all, I promise you. I’m quite a natural phenomenon. For example, I always wanted several women. There must be something of the Pasha in me. And these too,” he touched several of the kitchen utensils and the stove, the cupboards and the table. “All mine now. I like the sense of power that gives. It’s another of my failings.”
“One denunciation will bring the second,” she said slowly. “Surely you can’t help but realise that.”
“Naturally,” he said. “And, once again, allow me to compliment you. No tears for the little nephew lost for ever, no prevarication, no useless arguments. You go straight towards the point. I told you we had much in common. There’s the same hard streak in both of us, whereas sister Fiona has rather too many virtuous impulses . . . don’t you agree?”
“Perhaps,” and standing before the stove, half smiling she said, “May I put my dressing-gown on now?”
“As you wish,” he said indifferently, but when she crossed the room he leapt up, followed, seized her in his arms again.
“Who do you belong to now?” he said thickly.
“Not to you in any case.” She shook him off, returned towards the stove.
He resumed his seat upon the stool, leant forward, elbows on his knees. “How did you do it?” he said. There was admiration in his stare.
She paused, with one arm inserted in her dressing-gown. The scene had undergone a curious transformation: it seemed to be no longer he, but she, who led the debates.
“You really want to know?” she said, almost scornfully.
“Yes, I want to know.”
“It would be a mistake to think you can draw any profit from it. The evidence is very old now and rather patchy. Besides, in Scotland, exhumations are not popular.”
“Reassure yourself,” he said. “At ten years distance very likely nothing would be found except her bones and three or four assorted salts, none of which would be the ones that you administered.”
“I put it in her lemon toddy,” she said, “last thing at night. I was lucky. Even slaves have their compensations. Before she went to sleep she used to hold a private prayer meeting; with me kneeling by the bed—I daresay you can imagine that. Anyway, it gave me an opportunity to bring her the drink, although in principle she disliked a night-cap. The first night I put in far too much. She was already ill, with a chill or something, but the next day she was almost in extremis. I was badly frightened and went much more carefully afterwards. I don’t know any physics. I had to work by trial and error. That’s why the whole job took me something like three months. . . .
“And at the end she guessed,” she added.
“She guessed? You mean she really knew?”
“I think she did. Sometimes she would look at me . . . wondering, I expect, whether it was me, or Martha or even poor old auntie: we all had cause to hate her. Sometimes I used to wonder, too, why she didn’t break the glass or refuse the broth she had at lunchtime. I was very ignorant at that time. Since then I’ve read a lot. I’ve read that that . . . stuff saps the will-power a great deal. . . .”
“Besides,” she continued, this time with more animation, “those old pharisees are all the same. I sometimes think they’re like a man who’s placed a bet involving all his fortune. When they see death near, it must be dreadful for them. So much to lose and, with their black hearts, nothing gained for certain. Believe me, she had obsessions much more powerful than the question ‘who was poisoning her?’ She often muttered to herself, I noticed. She was having arguments with God when she did that.”
“I see,” he said. “And she died peacefully?”
“No. I’m glad to say in agony.”
“I see.” He considered, holding the cup of cold coffee in his hand. Then: “May I ask about one small detail?” he said. “One tiny, teeny-weeny thing.”
“Well?” she said.
“Why did you do it?”
“That will be for another time,” she said. “Believe me, I had good reason,” and moving from the stove, which scorched her back, she blew her nose upon one of those minuscule, embroidered handkerchiefs which women carry in their bags.
“And you?” she said. “Why did you do it, since you ask the question?”
“For money,” he replied. “Perhaps also as a prop to failing self-reliance. A cliff, a push, and all was over. You’ll agree the method is less harrowing.”
She did not reply for a moment, but instead stretched her handkerchief upon the stove to dry; by this gesture presenting herself to him in three-quarter profile. Her chest was abnormally flat, her hips wide but also angular; not gently curved as are those of child-bearing women. Rumbold was reminded of the photographs of famous Rugby players, taken just before the match begins. In these photographs the hands are always proudly thrust within the pockets. The trousers bell out, achieving the dashing and desired effect of jodhpurs.
“And don’t you run any risk?” she said, turning to observe the reason for his silence.
“None that I know of,” he replied drily. “I took the necessary precautions.” A continuance of the conversation presented little further interest to him. He experienced a pressing need to digest what had transpired, and to reflect in solitude. Had she said all she might have said, had he been wise to. . . .
But even as he formulated this last thought, he knew it to be inappropriate. She had begun to talk again. From now on, she would never cease to talk.
“Then you’re very lucky,” she was saying. “I suppose that old gossip Martha’s told you how I fainted by the grave-side. That wasn’t remorse . . . it was sheer fear. She tried to persuade me not to go, but I had to go. I was convinced the doctor knew, absolutely certain of it. When they were lowering the coffin . . . oh, I admit that I was overwrought . . . I saw something in his eyes which made me shiver.”
“Oh, and what was that?” Rumbold now felt completely at his ease. To prove this, he crossed his legs with uncomfortable abandon and lit another cigarette.
“Not what you think,” she said. “He made his pass a few days later. Imagine it . . . a medical man, with a girl still in her teens.”
Her indignation was undoubtedly genuine.
“I can imagine it very well,” said Rumbold. “And was he handsome, the devoted family medico?”
“Not a bit . . . an old whiskered paterfamilias with bad breath and a truss. You can’t imagine what I went through. I sometimes wonder how I was able to bring myself to marry.”
“Yet he knew?”
“No, he didn’t know at all. I must have been mad to imagine that he
did. But, of course, by the time I was certain, it was too late.”
“And how long did this charming affair continue?”
“Don’t laugh at me,” she said, sharply.
“I’m not laughing, but you can’t blame me if I find it funny.”
“Every Wednesday and Saturday, weather permitting, in the summer-house for four years. I couldn’t break it off because I was never absolutely sure. Then he died. That was just before the war.”
“By whose hand?” he interposed.
“Oh, not mine, I promise you, though I wouldn’t put it past his wife. Our affair was not exactly known . . . but, shall I say, surmised. There was quite a bit of gossip at the time.”
A long silence. Rumbold regarded the last, faint, red coals inside the stove.
“What was that?” said Peggy suddenly.
“I heard nothing,” he said lazily.
“There was a step. I’m sure of it.”
“It’s probably Fiona. Half an hour alone gives her courage for almost anything.”
Carefully, he deposited his cigarette ash in the coffee saucer, then rising, gripped her elbows.
“You and I . . .” he said.
She gazed at him, as if conscious for the first time now of all that had been confessed within that brief half hour.
“I’m certain that I heard a step,” she said. “God help us if it’s Martha.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. He said this almost soothingly. His hands were now beneath her armpits. “Don’t worry. To talk at last, after ten years silence, must be a great relief. Don’t worry: the cad can also be a gentleman.”
“Come in, Fiona,” he shouted, and receiving no response, opened the door.
