by Muriel Spark
‘Take it from me,’ said Wells, ‘you’re going to have to pay me damages.’
‘Alas, where have you been damaged?’ said Jimmie, nursing the towel.
‘I’m covered with knocks. I’m going to claim damages.’
‘Tell him it’s an Act of God,’ I said to Jimmie.
‘Is an act from God,‘ said Jimmie.
‘Like the murder,‘ said Wells.
‘How do you mean?’ said Jimmie. But Tom Wells walked tremulously into the house.
Miguel had started clearing up the mess, as if by routine. I joined him in the kitchen, separating the broken crockery and glass from that which was left intact, or merely cracked. Very soon, however, the delayed effects of the earthquake overtook me, and the lamp-lit kitchen went out of focus, swimming before my eyes as if I had tried on someone else’s glasses. I went to my room and lay down, not sure if, on entering the room, I had encountered Tom Wells again, startled and guilty, outside the door of my room, or if I had imagined it.
Next day Jimmie had to set up the memorial again. It had toppled over during the earthquake. Miguel, however, did not accompany him, but instead hung round me to see the completion of the rosary which was now quite presentable. I fixed to the chaplet a cross which I had made, with difficulty, from the smallest of the amber beads threaded with thin wire. Miguel was magnetised by this new trinket, and when I showed him how to use it he was not content until he had mastered the technique, holding between his frail brown fingers and thumb glittering bead by bead, nodding his head in time to the repetitive prayers, completely under the spell. It crossed my mind how easily he was influenced. ‘Santa Maria,’ he said suddenly. ‘Mãe de Deus,’ and I realised he had heard the rosary recited in his infancy.
By way of conversation, and because he liked to know the ins and outs of anything, once it had captured his interest, I said, ‘It ought to be blessed by a priest, but as there isn’t a priest on the island I daresay you can gain all the indulgences without a blessing.’ These words, which he but dimly understood, dazzled him considerably. I suppose the unknown element, ‘indulgences’, to be gained from a ‘priest’s blessing’, gave extra glamour to his rosary. He questioned me all afternoon.
‘What is indulgences?’
‘Can you pray on Ethel of the Well?’
‘Is Mr. Tom a Catholic?’
‘Is Jimmie …?’
He displayed the rosary to Tom Wells at the first opportunity.
Wells said: ‘That’s an R.C. item. Robinson wouldn’t have approved.’
Miguel sensed danger and hurried off with his treasure.
‘You should respect Robinson’s wishes,’ said Wells. ‘He always said how easily anyone could corrupt the boy.’
‘You speak too late,’ I said, ‘since I’ve already started to corrupt him.’
‘It isn’t a laughing matter.’
‘Very true.’
Something else about his words sounded odd to me:
I could hardly believe that Robinson’s murderer would say, ‘You should respect Robinson’s wishes.’
Chapter X
IT IS not that I judge people by their appearance, but it is true that I am fascinated by their faces. I do not stare in their presence. I like to take the impression of a face home with me, there to stare at and chew over it in privacy, as a wild beast prefers to devour its prey in concealment.
As a means of judging character it is a misleading practice, and as for physiognomy the science, I know nothing of that. The misleading element, in fact, provides the essence of my satisfaction. In the course of deciphering a face, its shape, tones, lines and droops as if these were words and sentences of a message from the interior, I fix upon it a character which, though I know it to be distorted, never quite untrue, never entirely true, interests me. I am as near the mark as myth is to history, the apocrypha to the canon. I seek no justification for this habit, it is one of the things I do. Most of all, I love to compare faces. I have seen a bus conductor who resembles a woman don of my acquaintance, I have seen the face of Agnes throwing itself from side to side in the pulpit; I make a meal of these.
All the time I was on the island I set considerable store by faces; and in the absence of normal criteria of judgment, I fell back on intuitions of faces whenever I was frightened.
The facial resemblance between Tom Wells and Curly Lonsdale lay more in the expression than the actual features. Curly’s mouth was not so loose. But both had the habit of keeping their mouths open all the time, and you would sometimes think they were smiling when they were not.
Curly Lonsdale once remarked, ‘Life is based on blackmail’, but I have since come to think he had himself in mind, not as the blackmailer but the blackmailed. I think he had in mind the fact that he had always operated within an inch of the law; and ‘life‘ for Curly consisted of those standards of behaviour which he had set up for himself.
The pomegranate boat was expected in nine or ten days. I was more and more impatient, and at the same time apprehensive. It gave rise to a feeling not unlike guilt to imagine in advance the men spilling ashore on the white beach. ‘Where’s Robinson?’ Or perhaps they spoke only Portuguese, and would question Jimmie or Miguel. Tom Wells and I would look on, as if we were both of a piece. And they would, in turn, look at us, would of course put us under arrest. Probably weeks and months of detention and enquiries would transpire before I could go home.
Tom Wells found me alone in Robinson’s study and said, ‘There’s something I want to say to you privately.’
I said, ‘If it’s blackmail, sorry I’m not rich.’
He said, ‘I don’t understand.’
‘True enough,’ I said. ‘No-one will believe you if you try to pin the murder on me.’
‘Honey, I wouldn’t dream of framing you. What I wanted to say was—‘
‘Why are you blackmailing Jimmie?’ I thought for a moment that he was still smiling, but I was wrong, it was his loose mouth. He said, ‘If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your mouth shut.’
‘I do not, as a rule, go about with it hanging open.’
‘That’s the bitch,’ he said. ‘You were always a bitch to Robinson.’
‘You are trying to blackmail Jimmie.’
‘I’m negotiating for a settlement. I’ve sustained damages on his island. If he doesn’t want a reckon-up with me, he’ll get it elsewhere.’
‘You’ll never get away with that,’ I said.
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘be reasonable. Do you want me to put your boy-friend in the way of difficulties?’
I said, ‘What difficulties?’ and looked out of the window to see if Jimmie or Miguel were about.
‘What I want to say to you,’ he said, ‘is this. We’d better have an understanding about the murder.’
‘In my opinion,’ I said, ‘it was occasioned by a supernatural force.’
He looked at me to see what I meant, and was not sure. He said, ‘That’s a good enough yarn for ourselves, dear—or rather, was until your boy-friend settled down a bit. He must have been worried, naturally, after what he did. But you mustn’t talk about the supernatural to the dicks, dear, it makes them cross as hell.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘I shall not say things like that.’ I looked out of the window.
‘Now you’re talking sense, sweetie, you’re talking good sense. Now, we’d better have an understanding. I did think of suicide. What do you think of suicide?’
‘If you care to commit suicide,’ I said, ‘that’s your affair. But I’m bound to point out it is a mortal sin.’
‘You playing dumb, dear?’
I said, ‘I don’t agree to put out the tale that Robinson committed suicide’, and took another look out of the window to see if anyone was nearby.
‘Then it’ll have to be an accident. Robinson had an accident. He slipped and fell on the mountain and he broke his neck. His face was badly bashed in, d’you see, not recognisable. We buried him among the victims of the crash, po
or chap.’
‘Anything else?’ I said. ‘Because I’m busy at the moment.’
‘We’ll burn the evidence to-night,’ he said, ‘and we shall sign the statement to-morrow.’
‘What statement?’
‘The one I’m going to prepare. I just wanted to know whether you preferred suicide or an accident. Mind you, suicide would be sound, because he was a bit touched in the head, Robinson.’
I said, ‘Have you consulted Jimmie?’
‘About the damages? — That’s another matter, you don’t come into that. We sign the statement about Robinson’s misfortune after Jimmie has signed his agreement with me about the damages.’
‘Has Jimmie agreed to swear that Robinson was killed in an accident?’
‘Oh yes, and he’ll come across with it. What d’you take him for?’
‘I don’t believe you.’ There was no sign of anyone from the window. I did not know if Jimmie or Miguel were near the house.
‘D’you suppose he’s going to give himself up?’ said Wells.
‘No; why should he?’
Tom Wells said, ‘Yes, why should he?’ He looked at me in a frightening way and said, ‘You’re not such an unnatural bitch that you’d shop your man, are you? ‘He laid his large hand on my shoulder, gripping painfully.
I said, ‘Take your hand off my shoulder.’
He said, ‘You’ll sign the statement.’
I said, ‘Take your hand off my shoulder or I shall scream.’
He dropped his hand, and said, ‘You’ll sign the statement.’
I said, ‘I don’t see why I should put Jimmie’s money your way.’
‘What you say, honey,’ he said, ‘is natural enough. I’d give you a slice, but you won’t need it, that’s honest, if you know how to handle your boy-friend. You’re on to a good thing there, and some of it’s in motor-scooters, — you can’t go wrong with motor-scooters.’
‘You have forgotten Miguel,’ I said.
He said, ‘Tom Wells never forgets.’
‘He saw the blood,’ I said, ‘and the bloodstains and the knife.’
‘Naturally,’ said Wells, ‘he saw the blood and the knife. Anyone can see the youngster’s backward. And he has a lot of imagination, and he has a touch of fever besides being a bit peculiar in the head — not surprising when you think of the unnatural life. No-one’s going to listen to Miguel about the blood and the knife.’
‘Anything else? Because I’m busy.’
He said, ‘You’ll sign the agreement.’ Out of the window I saw Jimmie and Miguel walking across the patio. I said to Tom Wells, ‘Go to hell’, and left him.
Ten minutes later I saw Miguel sidle up to Tom Wells on the patio. I had long been disabused of the idea that a child is an instinctive judge of character, but I never ceased to wonder at the attraction Miguel felt towards Tom Wells, who moreover treated him quite roughly.
‘Sign his paper,’ said Jimmie. ‘Is best.’
‘You must be mad,’ I said.
‘Is so,’ said Jimmie, ‘that I want my head examined. But I see is best to sign.’
‘You must be guilty,’ I said, ‘of killing Robinson.’
‘Is not so. Never do I think to take care of Robinson.’
‘Then I’d see Tom Wells in hell before I would sign his statement. And mind you don’t sign any agreement to pay him money.’
‘Is a dangerous man,’ said Jimmie. ‘You do not conceive what story he has prepared, in the event we do not sign.’
‘He will accuse you of the murder. Don’t worry, the motive of Robinson’s inheritance doesn’t count for everything. The police usually find the guilty man; and if you’re innocent, simply say so.’
‘Is not the story which he has prepared,’ said Jimmie. ‘He has prepared to accuse you, that you have stabbed with the knife.’
‘I really don’t think that would be believed,’ I said. ‘I don’t think I look strong enough to drag a body up the mountain.’
‘Tom Wells has prepared to accuse that you did knife Robinson at the dawn in the mustard field, and he accuses that he has heard you return to the house and confide these doings to me, which this Wells declares he has heard. Whereafter together we depart to the place where is the body of Robinson, and we transport this body to the Furnace.’
I said, ‘Why should I kill Robinson?’
‘Is the declaration of Tom Wells that you have done the crime on purpose to gain for me the fortune. Whereafter you marry me.’
I said, ‘You must see now, Jimmie, that Tom Wells is the criminal.’
‘I do not accuse. Is dangerous to accuse. Mayhaps in consequence he should request a duel. He is entitled to make such demand. Then is mayhaps blood shed. Is serious to say to a man, “Behold, you have killed.” Is better to sign the statement.’
This speech gave me no pleasure.
‘Do you really think,’ I said, ‘anyone would believe his story?’
‘Is better to sign,’ he said.
I wrote my island journal that night, Saturday, the 31st July. I did not know at the time that it was to be the last entry, but I realised for the first time that my journal might be a fateful sort of document, might come in useful, and so I wrote with special thought.
1) I begin by stating that I have reached the conclusion that T. Wells murdered Robinson.
2) I may remark that the motive of gain which might lay suspicion on Jimmie Waterford or on myself is not likely to be thought unquestionably conclusive. The question would arise, might not the transparency of this motive deter a potential murderer? Further, would not the criminal take the utmost care to conceal this guilt? — It must be remembered that the bloodstained articles which were found between the mustard field and the Furnace had been in use by Jimmie, Robinson and myself. Nothing belonging to Tom Wells was found. Far from contributing to the case against Jimmie and me, this casts suspicion, I believe, on Tom Wells.
3) Also, I observe that from the type and position of the bloodstained articles they had been deliberately planted there.
4) Tom Wells is a blackmailer. He has put it to me that we all three sign a statement to the effect that Robinson died of an accident. I say ‘put it to me‘ but in fact he seemed to think it certain I would agree. I gained the impression from Wells that he was counting on my affection for Jimmie, and my desire to cover up for him.
The price of this hushing up of the murder is a sum of money to be extorted from Jimmie.
But I have further information from Jimmie about Wells’ intentions. Failing our agreement to sign his statement, he proposes to inform the Portuguese authorities that I murdered Robinson by stabbing with a knife, subsequently persuading Jimmie to assist me in disposing of the body; motive being to acquire for Jimmie Robinson’s fortune, and later to marry Jimmie.
5) Jimmie tells me he is prepared to sign the statement. This may mean one of four things:
i) That he is guilty.
ii) That he is innocent but afraid of being implicated, or desires to avoid trouble in general.
iii) That he desires to save me from being implicated.
iv) That he is in league with Tom Wells.
6) I favour the proposition that Jimmie is innocent but wants to avoid trouble and so is prepared to acquiesce in Tom Wells’ demands.
7) I leave the possibility of Jimmie’s guilt to consider the question of Tom Wells.
8) I know him to be a blackmailer in one instance. I think he may be a professional blackmailer.
If that is so, and Robinson had evidence of it, that would provide a motive for murder.
I am thinking of the papers which were missing from Tom Wells’ bag when it was restored to him by Robinson, and about which Wells made a fuss, (see Journal 31st June), and I think it possible that his luck-and-occult racket is a cover for trade in blackmail, and a means to it. I am thinking of all the people who write and tell him all their secrets.
9) It is possible that the body may be retrieved from the Furnace.
10) I do not think of signing Tom Wells’ statement.
I had been using loose sheets of paper for my journal since I had filled the blue exercise book which Robinson had given to me. I slipped the sheets inside the back cover of the exercise book and put it in a drawer in my room where I kept it.
The question of signing the statement was giving me more trouble than I had allowed to appear in the journal. The morals of the question apart, I felt strongly that it would be the greatest folly to falsify evidence in a way that might easily be detected by expert criminologists, and I also had a horror of placing myself in Tom Wells’ power.
I felt that in opposing Jimmie and Wells I was up against two different types of the melodramatic mind; one coloured by romance, the other by crime. We were on the same island but in different worlds.
Although these things were clear to me, I was afraid of pressure. I feared the united pressure of Jimmie and Tom Wells, and, more, the pressure of the scheme’s expedient attractions. If successful, it would facilitate my homegoing — no interrogations, no unpleasantness in the newspapers. I was beginning to think up an idea that really there was no reason why the scheme should not be successful, when I decided to put the temptation out of my reach. I went to find Miguel. He was fishing in the lake. ‘Miguel,’ I said, ‘do you know what a lie is?’
He said, ‘Yes.’
‘What is a lie?’
He screwed up his face to search his memory, then he said, ‘When you say something is different from what you think it is.’ It sounded like a set piece of Robinson’s teaching. Although Miguel was truthful, I was not sure that he understood the formula.
‘Do you remember,’ I said, ‘the day that Robinson disappeared?’
He screwed up his face as if to recall something and I understood that he was trying to remember the date.
‘I mean, do you remember what happened on that day, and what we did?’
‘Yes, Mr. Tom found the knife and Robinson’s jacket. We went to look for Robinson.’
