Pieces of Justice

by Margaret Yorke

Two days later we went home, as planned. Oddly, Mary- Emily wept at the news of George’s death. She was tenderhearted: one of life’s victims. That was why she had not been able to protect herself from him.

  The next year, on Aegina, where I had gone after a week in Athens, I met a couple who, morning and afternoon, carried airbeds down to the beach, to roast. Or rather, the wife carried them, trudging behind her empty-handed mate. She bore also, slung round an arm, a carrier holding towels and suncream. Her skin grew scarlet; she panted; her eyes had the dulled look of a cowed beast. She was beyond protest – long past hope – but she should have her chance.

  Disposing of him was easier than getting rid of George. Daily he paddled far out to sea on his mattress, then dozed, floating in the sun. People commented on his foolhardiness, lest the meltemi blow up suddenly. I never saw him swim, and guessed he could not; real swimmers show respect for the sea. I merely pierced his mattress with a penknife, swimming close to him on my back as if I had not seen him, ready to apologise when I gently thumped against him. Drowsing, he scarcely noticed me. I had entered the water from some rocks, away from the hotel beach, and I left it the same way before the airbed began to sink, dropping the penknife in deep water. He had been floundering for some minutes before a water-skier’s boatman noticed his predicament and turned. I had guessed that his blood pressure was high; he drank a lot, and looked a likely coronary candidate, so that if he did not drown, heart failure might account for him.

  I was never sure, in fact, exactly what he died of; it was a tragic accident, everyone said, and the formalities were soon over. It was thought that the mattress must have been punctured on a rock. I hoped he was well insured.

  Next year I pushed a woman from a cliff top near Nissaki. Daily I had watched her humiliate both husband and teenage daughter as she dictated their plans for the day in a hectoring voice which caused all heads to turn. She spoke to me with gracious condescension, and was at her most odious when ordering the Greek waiters about in her loud voice as if they were deaf. Once, father and daughter slipped off along the cliff path to the next cove without letting her know where they were going, and she was furious when they returned, sheepish but happy, after eating shrimps at the little taverna and swimming from the rocks. They did it again another day, and then I told her where they had gone, adding that I was going to walk that way myself. No one else was in sight. Her horrified face when I lunged against her and pushed her over the cliff top remained in my mind for some hours. She screamed as she fell. I walked back quickly the way I had come, and after her disappearance was reported, agreed we had started out together. She was worried, I said, because she did not know where her husband and daughter were, and had set off to look for them. I had left her after a time as I found it too hot for walking. Her body was washed up the next day on rocks beneath the cliff.

  The daughter seemed very upset and the husband was stunned. I hoped they would not blame themselves for long and that they would make good use of their freedom.

  Then Mr Bradbury, next door to me in Little Wicton, bought his scooter.

  For years we had been neighbours, and Mr Bradbury left the village daily for his London office, getting a lift to the station with a friend. The friend retired, and Mr Bradbury bought the scooter. Thereafter, he tooted his horn in farewell to his wife every morning at a quarter to seven as he rode off. It did not disturb me, for I was always awake then, but it woke others. Besides, blowing one’s horn at that hour in a built-up area was against the law. He tooted again each evening when he returned, an announcement to his wife, just as his morning signal was a farewell. When I mentioned to Mr Bradbury that he was disturbing people, he was quite rude and said that what he did was his own business.

  Reporting him to the police would cause a lot of unpleasantness; and a man capable of such thoughtlessness for others would not stop at merely blowing his horn: who knew what went on in the privacy of his home?

  His journey to the station took him along a quiet lane, and one morning I was there ahead of him, with a wire across the road. Several cars passed, running over my wire as it lay on the tarmac, and I let them go, watching from my vantage point behind the hedge. It was like old times; I had enjoyed planning this and felt quite youthful again as I waited for Mr Bradbury. My acquaintances in Little Wicton thought I was in London for the night, but I had driven back at dawn and hidden my car some way off; I would return again to London for two nights when the deed was done.

  Mr Bradbury never saw the wire spring taut before him. I braced myself to take the strain; I had wound it round a tree as a support, finding a place in the road where two elms face each other on either side. He was travelling fast, the bike engine noisy in the morning air.

  His ridiculous Martian helmet saved his skull from shattering, and he lived for a week before the rest of his injuries killed him. I remembered to remove the wire, not losing my head as he hurtled through the air, and I got away before the next car came along. Such a shock, I said to his wife later, when I came home to hear the news.

  She grieved a lot.

  ‘He loved that silly bike. Would blow the horn like that, saying goodbye, though I know he shouldn’t have. I’d have got him to stop it, in a bit,’ she said, looking bleak. She’d soon get over it, and find a way to use her life more profitably than spending it cooking and cleaning for one selfish man.

  Mr Bradbury had an invalid mother, it seemed, whose fees in a private home used up much of his salary, and this was why they had never run a car. Mrs Bradbury seemed to think that she would now have to provide for the old lady though there was some sort of insurance.

  It was a surprise, two months later, when the doorbell rang and I saw a woman whom at first I did not recognise on the step; her hair was quite grey and her face lined. It was Mary-Emily.

  ‘Ah – you do remember me,’ she said, as I struggled at first to place her among the generations of girls I had tried to ground in the rudiments of French grammar, and then realised who she was. ‘I was passing and thought I’d see if you were at home.’

  ‘Do come in,’ I said, but I felt the first sense of unease. I was sure I had not told her where I lived. I don’t give away detailed information about myself; old habits die hard. ‘How are you?’

  I asked. ‘Still living at—Putney, wasn’t it?’ I pretended to be uncertain.

  ‘Yes. I need not enquire about you. You don’t look a day older,’ said Mary-Emily.

  It was true. I took care to keep physically active, and though I missed my work, now I was on the alert at all times, looking for opportunities to free others from bondage, so that my perceptions were acute.

  I made tea for Mary-Emily and offered her a home-made scone. She told me she had remarried.

  ‘You’ve met my husband and stepdaughter,’ she said. ‘You were in Corfu when his first wife died in a fall from a cliff.’

  She could suspect nothing, but I knew sudden fear.

  ‘It was such a coincidence that poor George should have been killed like that in Italy, and then Betty in Corfu, and that you should have been there both times,’ said Mary-Emily, and took a bite of her scone.

  ‘But Betty wasn’t killed,’ I objected. ‘She fell – either accidentally, or it was suicide.’

  ‘She could have been pushed,’ said Mary-Emily. ‘And wasn’t there a fatal accident on Aegina, too, when you happened to be there?’

  How could she have found that out? Anyway, it didn’t matter. Nothing could be proved.

  ‘Accidents do happen,’ I said, pouring out more tea.

  ‘Rather often, in your company,’ she said, looking at me steadily. She had changed in character as well as in appearance, I realised; she was bolder. I decided to attack.

  ‘Well – things have improved for you, haven’t they?’ I remarked. ‘You’ve remarried, and that man and his daughter are no longer bullied or humiliated. I’m sure you’re good to them both, and no one could miss that dreadful woman, just as no one could miss George.’
r />   ‘George meant to be kind, though he failed,’ said Mary-Emily. ‘And Betty was domineering because both Hugh and Jane are so weak that someone has to take charge of them. You never saw them at home – only their holiday face. They still blame themselves for causing Betty’s death by slipping off on their own.’ She put sugar, in her tea and stirred it. ‘Hugh and his family were patients of the doctor I worked for. After Betty’s death someone had to marry Hugh to save him – drive him on – and to fend for Jane. Better me than someone who wouldn’t understand him. I try to remain kind, but I’m getting quite aggressive myself,’ she said, and took a sip from her cup.

  I waited for her to disclose the reason for her call. Was it to blackmail me? How had she found me?

  ‘I believe your neighbour, Mr Bradbury, was recently killed in a road accident,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘The roads are so dangerous.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have done it,’ she said. ‘I can see that you’ve set yourself up as some sort of judge, deciding that certain people should be exterminated, like the Nazis during the war. But I don’t know why you picked Mr Bradbury. He seemed harmless, from what I can discover, and he grew beautiful begonias.’

  My hand, holding my teacup, remained quite steady as I said, ‘Picked him? What do you mean?’

  ‘He must have annoyed you in some way,’ she said. ‘It was people who annoyed you whom you despatched.’

  She was wrong. It was people who made life intolerable for others, not me, whom I removed. But I did not fall into the trap of replying. I tried instead to think of a way to silence her. For the first time since the war it seemed that I would have to act for my own protection.

  ‘It will make a sensational case when it comes to court,’ she was saying. ‘Wartime heroine turned murderer. You see, I know all about you now. I traced you through the travel agent Hugh booked with that time. And in case you’re thinking of a way to dispose of me, save yourself the trouble. Detective Superintendent Filkin from the local CID knows everything, and he’ll be here soon. He allowed me some time with you first, for my own satisfaction, as I was the one to uncover your trail. It’s taken me a year, and at last I’ve got proof of something you’ve done. There are marks on the trees where you stretched the wire across the road to bring Mr Bradbury off his scooter, and even after this lapse of time there were shreds of clothing found in the hedge where you hid. I’m sure they’ll match something upstairs in your room. It was your speciality during the war, wasn’t it? Dealing with German despatch riders. Commendable then, but criminal now.’

  How could she have found out so much? I could not ask, for to ask was to admit. But she told me a little.

  ‘You were the last person to see Betty alive. Her death didn’t make sense – she’d never commit suicide, and she was much too capable to fall accidentally. I enquired at newspaper offices about other accidental holiday deaths, and I followed up some of them, asking if you were there at the time. It wasn’t easy, but I discovered that you were on Aegina when there was an accident. The woman whose husband died told me you were there. Poor thing, she had a mental breakdown and has been in and out of hospital ever since.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. That man had destroyed her,’ I said.

  ‘She could have protested,’ said Mary-Emily. ‘Or left him. But she was one of those helpless women who are good only at running a home. She married him for material security, which he gave her. She didn’t deserve more.’

  ‘Now who’s making a moral judgement?’ I demanded.

  Mary-Emily ignored my comment.

  ‘It can be proved that you were present on those three occasions,’ she said calmly. ‘It adds up to just too many coincidences. Maybe there were more, which I haven’t discovered, but if so the police will ferret them out. They’re very thorough. However, there will be enough proof from the Bradbury case to put you in prison for the rest of your life. You won’t like that, will you, being confined – shut up? You’re paranoiac, I suppose.’ She set down her cup. ‘I found out what happened at the school where you taught – how you started to bully girls who found their work difficult and eventually locked one up in a music-practice room for three hours. The headmistress wanted no scandal because of your war record, so she asked for your immediate resignation.’

  My mind was batting about like a rat in a trap seeking a way of escape. There must be one; there always had been before, even from that cell I was once in, shut away from all light and freedom. I could never endure that again.

  Mary-Emily got up.

  ‘I’m going now,’ she said. ‘The superintendent will be here in a little while. There will be time for you to make some arrangements.’

  I had the pills. I kept them just in case. You never knew. Not cyanide, like we had then, but strong barbiturates obtained from a gullible doctor who thought I needed sleeping pills. When she had gone, I swallowed them down with tea – I made a fresh pot – and laced the cup with brandy to help them along. I could see no other way. This would protect my reputation for posterity, for my deeds were on record for anyone to read, and save me from confinement.

  Mary-Emily had surprised me. I would never have thought she could possess so much initiative. And then I realised that it was through me she had discovered her own power; she had married a weak-willed man and had been forced to develop strength of her own. She would not be a victim again. My own ill luck lay in the coincidence that two people whom I had liberated had known one another.

  The pills are working. I feel drowsy already. That superintendent should be here soon. He’ll arrive in a police car. I won’t open the door, and it may take him some time to decide to break in. Will he realise what I’ve done and take me to hospital—yes—of course – and they’ll use a stomach-pump. I hadn’t thought of that. They may prevent my final escape. Why didn’t I think of it? But Mary-Emily said there would be time to make arrangements. How long ago did she leave? I can’t see the clock very well. Why, it’s over an hour already—nearer two—the superintendent is late . . . very late.

  What’s that noise? The doorbell? No—it’s the telephone.

  Who can it be? Shall I answer it? I can’t—my legs won’t move—I can’t reach it . . .

  Mary-Emily let the telephone ring for a full five minutes. She had been right. The old woman had taken something which by now had begun to work. She walked away from the telephone-box from which she had been able to watch the house and see that no one had left it. Her car was parked nearby and as she got in she glanced at her watch. It would take her about an hour and a half to get back to Putney, and by the time the old woman understood that there was no Detective Superintendent Filkin and that the police would not be calling, she would be beyond help. Mary-Emily hoped she would realise that, but she could not be certain if that part of her plan had worked. She had only one regret: that she had been too late to save Mr Bradbury. But his killer would despatch no one else, for whatever motive.

  Mary-Emily, however, had learned that with some ingenuity, and a lot of daring, such things could, if necessary, be accomplished.

  It's Never Too Late

  Stella suddenly appeared again yesterday.

  She first rode into my life more than sixty years ago on a small pony when we were both twelve. I was on a pony too, that day when our mothers introduced us, but a shaggier, cosier one than Stella’s, and we were both taking part in a gymkhana. Stella’s mother was a widow who had recently married Mr Gregson, who owned the Manor House and most of the land around the village; my father was his estate manager. The gymkhana, an unambitious local affair, was held in one of Mr Gregson’s fields, and when Stella and I met, I had just come second in a bending race.

  Stella’s pony was smart and speedy, but it knocked over some of the posts and was disqualified. This didn’t please Stella, who rode off scowling. She was a pretty child with fair hair and a deceptively fragile look; in fact, she was as tough as whipcord. I was square and sturdy, with dark hair cut in a straight fringe
over my brown eyes. I looked rather like my pony, really, peering out at the world as I did from under my mane. My pony’s name was Mr Chesterton, because of G.K.; he was a brave animal who did anything I asked of him and performed obediently in the games and competitions for which I entered him. He was not smart enough to appear at the county show, although I spent hours schooling him in the field behind our house as if he were. Everyone was very polite to me about Mr Chesterton because his nature was so kind and they knew I loved him dearly, but no one could commend his looks.

  On this day at the gymkhana, Mr Chesterton knocked down several jumps because he was too fat to be very springy, but he had a go at them all. He knew I wouldn’t ask him to tackle anything that was really beyond his powers. Stella’s pony belted round when her turn came, and won. I must admit she rode it bravely, and all the mothers said so too. I noticed that my mother had rather a subservient manner when she spoke to Stella’s, and she agreed at once when Mrs Gregson suggested we two girls should ride together in future; she didn’t like Stella going out alone all the time, and the district was still strange to her. So after that every day we set out on our contrasted mounts. Mr Chesterton often had trouble keeping up with Stella’s pony, whose name was Lochinvar. We jumped fallen tree trunks, and some fences my father put up in one of the fields. Stella jumped Lochinvar over the stone walls that kept the sheep in, but I knew that Mr Chesterton couldn’t manage them, so we went round by the gates, although Stella mocked and said that Mr Chesterton would clear them if I made him, and that I must be scared. Before Stella came I used to pretend to be a knight riding out to joust, or a lone cowboy on the trail, but I knew it was no good suggesting such ideas to her.

  Towards the end of that first long summer holiday I developed measles, no one knew where from. Stella had already had them. She continued to ride every day while I lay in a darkened room feeling dreadful, but then Lochinvar went lame. He’d strained a tendon. Mrs Gregson told my mother that Stella was bored without him to ride and without my company. As Mr Chesterton was out in his field getting steadily fatter with no exercise while my measles ran their course, wouldn’t it be a good idea if Stella rode him while waiting for both Lochinvar and me to recover?