by John Bingham
The whine of the windscreen wiper, an old-fashioned type, added to his depression. The thing squeaked protestingly on the windscreen, and twice the blade faltered and stopped while the mechanism continued to moan ineffectually.
Once, he spoke out loud, above the noise of the engine and of the windscreen wiper and of the wind: “It’s not when you die that matters-it’s how. What are a few years more or less in the infinite, limitless realm of Time?”
And once he said: “It’s better this way. It’s better for her to avoid the suffering and the loneliness. It’s a form of mercy murder, that’s all. Mercy killing is almost condoned by society for physical suffering, why not for mental? Why not for the suffering of the mind and spirit?” It was his old argument, brought out to comfort him on his way.
But were they Five Roundabouts to Heaven? Or did they lead to Hell? They did, if the Scriptures were right. But the Scriptures, the Ten Commandments, the thou-shalt-not-kills and thou-shalt-not-
covets, were a mere set of simple rules to maintain order among a wandering desert tribe. Moses was an old fraud who had gone up into a mountain and come down again claiming Divine inspiration for some rule-of-thumb laws which he had thought up in his goatskin tent.
Did God exist? If He did, what was He thinking now of him, of Philip Bartels, scurrying through the snow and the traffic because he, Philip Bartels, needed the company of a woman to prevent him thinking too much about a deed so logical, a deed so humane?
If the deed were so humane, did he need distractions for his thoughts? A deed, a deed, distractions from a deed. And this foul deed shall smell above the earth, that’s what he had recited at school. Smell above the earth. With carrion men groaning for burial. Cassius, he had been. Not Royal Caesar. But yesterday the word of Caesar might have stood against the world.
But yesterday the word of Philip Bartels might have stood against nothing. Nor tomorrow. Nor the day after. Did he expect Lorna to make a man out of him? Could he expect that? And one laughed in his sleep, and one cried “Murder”; but that was in Macbeth, a play about another murderer.
Another? Wherefore another? One cried “God bless us,” and “Amen” the other. Duncan’s guards. I could not say “Amen” when they did say “God bless us.” Wherefore could I not pronounce “Amen”? I had most need of blessing. Wherefore said I another murderer? Macbeth and Caesar. The killer, the victim.
He had been Cassius, the killer, but that was at school. Cassius at school; and would Beatrice’s spirit, ranging for revenge, come hot from-heaven, if there were a heaven? And with Ate by her side cry, “Havoc, and let loose the dogs of war”? The windscreen wiper stuck again, but the blade turned upon its axis, saying: “Havoc-havoc-havoc.”
Bartels drew the car in to the side of the road until the shivering in his limbs had died away. Perhaps he was, in fact, getting a cold. Perhaps, all unknowingly, he had told Miss Latimer the truth. If he had caught a chill, if he were confined to his bed, how would that affect things?
Not at all, except that he would have to nurse himself. Alone. In some cheap hotel bedroom. He was in Cobham now, and caught sight of a hotel, and eased the car along to it, and went in and had a large whisky and soda.
He felt so much better that he ordered another. He had time for it, if he drank it quickly, as he had done the first one.
He raised the glass and was about to do so, when he paused.
He must not drink it quickly. He must drink it slowly, unconcernedly. He had already acted unwisely in ordering a second large one, in drinking the first so hurriedly.
He must linger over this one, as though he had all the time in the world, and not a care in the world, because if things, somehow, went wrong, and if his photograph were to be published in the papers, and if the barman saw it-what then? He imagined how it would go in court.
“And you were on duty at the bar of your hotel on 26 February, is that right?”
“That’s right, sir.”
“How do you manage to recall the date so accurately?”
“Because it was so bitter cold that night, sir.”
“And I believe that while you were on duty, somebody came in and ordered a whisky and soda, a large one. Do you see that person anywhere in court?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, point him out to the jury, please.”
“It was him. In the dock.”
“How do you manage to remember him so well?”
“I remember thinking that he had a very wide mouth for his size, sir. And wore specs with gold side-pieces. Rather old-fashioned specs, I thought. Spectacles, I should say.”
“Remember anything else about him?”
“He looked pale, sir.”
“He looked pale, did he? Anything else?”
“Well, kind of hot and bothered.”
“What exactly do you mean by ‘kind of hot and bothered’? Try to be a little more precise for the jury, will you?”
“Well, kind of upset. As though he was afraid.”
“Agitated and distressed, would you say?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What made you think that, apart from him looking pale?”
“Well sir, he ordered a double whisky, and drank it very fast, kind of gulped it down. And then he ordered another, and gulped that down, too, and went straight out. I could understand him gulping the first one, sir, owing to the weather and so on. But I remember thinking it a bit odd about the second. ’That’s queer,’ I said, ‘two doubles like that, quick as a flash.’ That’s why I remember him, really. Whisky costing what it does, most gentlemen like to linger over it a bit.”
“So you would definitely say that he looked agitated and distressed?”
“Yes, sir, I would.”
“Thank you.”
Then Counsel for the defence, of course. Twisting and turning and wriggling. Trying to make out it was quite normal for a man to look pale on a cold night and gulp down two large, expensive, double whiskies, in about three minutes, and go out into the cold again. All that sort of nonsense.
Quibbling and quibbling about identification. Haven’t you seen lots of men with large mouths? Is it so rare that you see a man with spectacles like that? You admit you have seen his picture in the papers? So you didn’t have much trouble about picking him out in court, did you? You admit that?
You admit this, you admit that, you admit the other.
Yes, sir. No, sir. Three bags full, sir.
And on and on and on.
So he must drink it slowly. Very slowly, when all the time he wanted to be with Lorna. To find strength in her steady blue-grey eyes, tranquillity in gazing at her brow and at her calm, rather squarely cut jaw.
But he must be careful. First, Miss Latimer: he had snapped at Miss Latimer. Now, he had nearly attracted attention by drinking too much too quickly. Miss Latimer in court, plump and bewildered, the perkiness knocked out of her, awed by her surroundings:
“Well, sir, he seemed a little upset about something.”
“And why do you think that, Miss Latimer?”
“He kind of snapped at me.”
“And that was unusual?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How unusual?”
“Well, very unusual. He was such a good-tempered man. I’ve never known him get cross before. Not like that. Snappish, so to speak.”
“Was there anything which made you think he was-not quite himself, shall we say?”
“Well, he looked a bit pale one moment, and hot and red the next. And he put his head in his hands.”
“And how did he explain that away?”
“He said he thought he might have a cold coming. So I gave him some red and green pills.”
“And did the cold develop?”
“No, sir.”
“But that might have been due to the remarkable efficacy of your-ah-little red and green pills?”
Laughter in court, of course. Ha-ha-ha, very funny. Swiftly silenced by the officials.
; Bartels moved over to a chair by the wall. He took out the tube of pills, extracted a few, threw them in the fire. You couldn’t be too careful. Miss Latimer, and the barman, one mistake and one near-mistake, in a couple of hours. And the fingerprints. So much to think of, so many of the foreseeables and the unforeseeables.
He took ten minutes to drink his second whisky, and then, while the barman was serving somebody, he went quietly out.
He arrived at Lorna’s house in the lane near Thatchley at about seven o’clock. The light was switched on in the porch, offering warmth and shelter from the snow, and from the darkness of the night, and from the black shafts of his thoughts.
Lorna heard the car arrive, and before he could reach the door she had opened it and stood in the porch light to welcome him.
“You must be frozen, Barty.” She smiled affectionately at him, and he took her eagerly in his arms, in the doorway, and kissed her.
“I’m not exactly perspiring in every pore.”
“Come in, I’ve got a fine blaze of a fire in the sitting room.”
He took off his coat and hat, and put them on a chair in the hall, and followed her into the sitting room.
“A drink to warm you up, Barty?” She moved over to the table by the side of the wall.
“Gin and mixed?”
“I’d rather have a whisky and soda, if you can spare it.”
“Of course I can spare it. It’s yours, anyway. You bought it.”
Bartels, standing in front of the fire fondling the corgi’s ear, said: “Don’t keep telling me that such few little things as I give you are mine really. They aren’t. They’re yours, or at the most ours, darling.”
She mixed a gin and Italian for herself and a whisky and soda for Bartels, and brought them over to the fireplace. She gave him his glass and raised her own, and said:
“Well, cheers. God bless us, my dear.”
One cried “God bless us” and “Amen” the other. I could not say “Amen” when they did cry “God bless us.” Wherefore could I not pronounce “Amen”? I had most need of blessing. Wherefore must I always think of the guards in Macbeth thought Bartels. Murdered in their sleep, like Duncan. Beatrice would be murdered just before she would have gone to sleep. He glanced at his watch. 7.15.8.15. 9.15. 10.15. 11.15. Four hours. Hours and days and years, and what are a few years more or less?
Ten million light-years for the light of a star to cross the empty spaces of the night. Ten million more for the light of some star beyond the star to reach that star. The fault, dear Brutus, lies in ourselves not in our stars. The dog, Brutus, he was dead, too. Beatrice would be all right, but would he, Philip Bartels?
Beatrice, barefooted, twanging a harp? Not likely!
Beatrice the competent, her red hair aflame in the light of a thousand suns, armed with Delegated Authority, sorting out the Milky Way! That was more like it. Could it be that the slayer was more affected than the slain, the murderer than his victim?
“Are you feeling all right, Barty?”
He wanted to snap back that he was certainly feeling all right, why shouldn’t he be feeling all right, what made her think he wasn’t feeling all right? But he had learnt his lesson.
“I feel all right thank you,” he replied gently. “Why?”
“You look a bit pale, that’s all.”
“I think I may have caught a little chill. It’s nothing.”
He put his arm around her shoulders, and tilted her face up and kissed her.
“You shouldn’t have come, if you have got a chill,” said Lorna. “Not on a night like this.”
“What should I have done?”
“Stayed at home.”
“And not be with you? No, thank you.”
“Well, you’d better take a couple of aspirins before you go to bed.”
What time would he be going to bed? One o’clock? Two o’clock? It all depended. Perhaps three o’clock or four; in that case he would be taking his aspirins with the cup of tea which the sergeant and constable would bring him while they “looked round the flat” as they’d call it. He didn’t know what time he would be going to bed.
“One of the secretaries at the office gave me some red and green pills to take. She says they’re very good.”
“Have you taken any?”
He nodded. Even Lorna had to be deceived in a small way. Even for Lorna it was as well to provide a reason why his cold did not develop. Then he realized that this was unnecessary: he would not be seeing Lorna again for a month or so. So he needn’t have lied to Lorna. He would never lie to Lorna again, nor to anybody else, once this business was over. He was tired of subterfuge, fed up with intrigue.
He placed his arm round her shoulder and held her more tightly, not kissing her, however, but gazing silently at the carpet, as though trying to draw strength from the tranquillity which for him was one of her most wonderful characteristics.
“Darling Lorna, I do love you so.”
He slid his hand from her shoulders to the side of her head, and pulled her head down so that it lay on his shoulder, and bent down and put his cheek against her brow. Lorna reached up and put her hand on his, and caressed it.
Her hand was soft, her movements gentle, and little by little he felt the agitation within him dying down. Suddenly, she removed his arm, and said:
“Now, young man. I’m going to get the supper.”
“I’ll help you.”
He started to follow her to the door, and the corgi, instinctively guessing that food was being discussed, rose to his feet and pattered after her, too.
“Go and sit by the fire, Barty,” said Lorna. “Get thoroughly warm. Most of the supper is ready.”
“I’d rather help you, darling.”
“There’s nothing you can do, Barty. Really there isn’t. The trolley is laid-I thought we’d eat in here, as it’s so cold-the soup just needs heating up, and all I’ve got to do is to throw a little liver and bacon into the pan. The potatoes are cooked. So go and sit down.”
“I’d rather be with you. I would much rather be with you.”
But she pushed him gently from the door, towards the table where the drinks were standing.
“Don’t be obstinate. Pour yourself another whisky, a good stiff one, and go and sit by the fire. I won’t be ten minutes.”
He watched her go out, and did not dare to insist upon being with her, because that might have seemed unnatural. Tonight he could not afford to appear anything other than composed and normal. He poured out the whisky, sat by the fire, glad that he had not insisted. Tonight was the test of willpower. Once again he felt a curious little thrill which was entirely unconnected with Lorna.
He, Philip Bartels, was in conflict with all the forces of society. That took some doing. That required organization, forethought, nerve, courage. Admittedly, he had hesitated, had had qualms, even some personal fears.
Why not, indeed? What was more natural?
He might not be a very good traveller in wines. In fact, he thought, swallowing some of the whisky, he was frankly a pretty bad salesman. Well, not bad, perhaps, but not very good. One had to face that fact.
But he had won Lorna. And having won her, he had not let circumstances defeat him, as most other men might have done.
No fear! He had gone into action. Decisively. But with care and forethought, mind. Not rashly, committing one blunder after another, as others did. Coolly.
He wondered how many of the smooth gentlemen who disparaged his wines, even declined to see him when he called, would have had the nerve to do what he was doing.
They’d either have run out on Beatrice-a squalid and untidy procedure-or abandoned the whole project. It’s all very fine and dandy to sit in an office countering the arguments of wretched commercial travellers. Any fool could do that. But to take on the organized protective forces of the community, that was quite a different thing!
Some people might think he, Bartels, was a bloody fool. A bit of a poor fish. But he wasn’t. Not entire
ly. He was like the iceberg, which only shows a bit of itself on the surface, and he was just about as cool, when the need arose-though normally warm-hearted, mind you, very warm-hearted.
He put the empty glass on a table at his side, and stroked the head of the corgi, and thought of the dog Brutus lying under the snow at the end of the garden. Brutus wouldn’t get his headstone now. Well, what the hell did that matter?
What would become of his cottage?
It would presumably be his. He would sell it, of course. Couldn’t live there again. That would be too much. Or he might give it back to Beatrice’s parents. As a gesture. They would be upset, of course. But they’d get over it. They had three other children, and anyway they only saw Beatrice two or three times a year.
He heard the squeak of the trolley wheels in the passage, and got up and opened the door.
Rather to his own surprise, he was not very hungry.
“It’s your cold coming on,” said Lorna.
“Perhaps,” said Bartels, staring at a little Empire clock on the wall which showed 8.15.
“Maybe,” said Bartels.
It seemed only a few minutes since there had been four hours to go. Now there were barely three. Or even less. Time passed quickly sometimes.
Chapter 16
Up in the woods above the chateau an owl hooted, and on the highway I heard the sound of a car.
Not yet, I thought, not yet. Don’t let them return yet. Don’t let them come swooshing round the drive in their high-powered car, the glaring headlights lighting up the woods; and come tumbling out of the car, laughing and joking after their day out, this one saying how hungry he is, that one calling out for somebody to go mix him the biggest goddam highball ever thought of, and the women calling to the children, and the lamps being lit all over the house, and the sound of snatches of song; and laughter, more laughter.
Nice people, no doubt, gay and generous and big-hearted, but I didn’t want them yet. Not just at that moment, when I had almost worked it all out, nearly had the picture clear of the workings of the mind of Philip Bartels, my friend.
The sound of the car drew nearer; then passed, and died away in the distance. I relaxed, thankful. The owl hooted again.