by James Runcie
‘I was in my room at the time he left us.’
‘No one saw you. The only thing I don’t understand is why you needed to go through the whole business of joining the cult. Pascoe walked freely around Grantchester. He was an easy target.’
‘And so anyone could have killed him.’
‘Not anyone. You.’
Danny sighed. It was as if he was wearied by his denials at last.
‘Tell me, Danny. It will only get worse if you don’t.’
‘I don’t know. I suppose I don’t care any more.’
‘It must have been an extraordinarily hard decision to take. You must be exhausted. Don’t bear this burden alone.’
‘I had to learn to hate,’ Danny began. ‘I had to despise Pascoe even more than I did already. I had to prepare for so long in order to kill him. I had already had fantasies about punching him in the face or kicking his head in but I wanted to do something so violent that I needed fury and desperation. So I had to see him up close. Let the anger build. If it was to be a crime of passion I was going to show him what that really looked like.’
‘But you had to disguise all those feelings when you were with him.’
‘I let them build up inside. I had never felt so alive than when I thought of that man dead.’
‘And no one else knew?’
‘Tom helped. I talked to Tom.’
‘He knew about your plan?’
‘His dad too.’
‘But surely they warned you that you would be caught?’
‘I said I didn’t care. They said I needed to be clever about it. Tom’s dad knew people. They were going to come up with the perfect murder for me but I couldn’t wait. I remembered the old gardener at the church cutting back the long grass and the hedges and I noticed the shed was never locked. I remembered something from school, As for man, his days are as grass, and grass needs to be cut down, doesn’t it? Thrust in thy sickle, and reap, for the time is come for thee to reap; for the harvest of the earth is ripe.’
‘So you stole the scythe and hid it until the time was right?’
‘I told Pascoe I wanted to talk about the nature of love; what it really meant. He fell for it. That’s a joke. As if he knew about love, real love. He said we should go for a walk. I suggested the river past Byron’s Pool. It was a cold day and there was no one about. I waited until we reached the pool. I had brought a rug and a bit of the loving cup in a flask. We sat down and talked about love and how you had to really trust someone to love them completely. I asked more and more questions because I wanted to see how hypocritical the man was. He went on and on and I almost laughed when he talked about the dangers of betrayal. I could only think about my father and what my mother had done to him. I said I needed a pee and walked off to get the scythe. Pascoe got into one of his crazy yoga positions, closed his eyes and started to meditate. I knew that I would have to attack him from behind and that it would have to be a surprise and this was the opportunity. I took off my coat and jumper so I just had my shirt on. I wanted to have my arms free. The first swing was right into the neck. It was hard to get the blade out. I even thought it might be stuck. I had imagined one blow, like an executioner. Then I realised it would need more and more and I was glad. It would take longer. He would feel more pain. I could take time to enjoy that, knowing that there was no one there to stop me.’
‘Did Pascoe know what was happening?’ Sidney asked. ‘Did he see the “necessary hatred” on your face?’
‘I wasn’t expecting so much blood. The man – I won’t say his name, I’ve always hated it – managed to gargle some kind of plea to stop but I just kept on. I had a little chant going. Thrust in thy sickle and reap. I was almost singing it. In the end it must have taken fourteen or fifteen blows and his eyes kept on blinking at me even after the head was off. That was quite funny. I thought he was still going to say something. The man looked surprised. He didn’t seem to be dead. Yet there it was, a severed head. Still bleeding, still living. I couldn’t believe that he could go on like that. It must have been pulsing for ten or fifteen seconds longer and I wondered whether he was still able to think; if he realised that he was dying and knew why and felt horrified. Did he think those things? Perhaps it was just horror. I looked down and it was almost as if I wanted to make the whole thing last longer. I could have started all over again, or cut his body to pieces, but then I hated myself and it was cold and I knew I had to get away and I didn’t want to look at that stupid face any more and so I kicked his head as far as I could and ran back to where I’d left my stuff.’
‘And that was where you hid your shirt and scythe?’
‘I shoved them into the undergrowth and put my jumper and coat back on. I looked back to check that I had really done all that, that it wasn’t a dream. I wanted to laugh. I had done it, after waiting so long, and no one had been able to stop me. Part of me wanted to take a photograph and post it to my mother. That’ll show her, I thought. But I knew that would incriminate me. So I just looked back and saw the body. I couldn’t see the head any more. Then I got closer and stood over the body and started swearing at it. Then I found his head and kicked it around until I was bored.
‘I went back to my room and lay on the bed and looked at the ceiling. I kept saying the mantra, As for man, his days are as grass. Pascoe taught us to keep a phrase in our heads when we meditate and it felt good to have used one to kill him. I turned his teaching back on him. Thrust in thy sickle. What’s the mantra in your head now, you bastard?’
‘And did you tell Tom what you had done?’
‘He guessed as soon as the police arrived.’
‘And afterwards, I think you took an overdose and pretended that it was a murder attempt. You must have taken sedatives from your father’s practice. Or perhaps they were your mother’s sleeping tablets? I remember when she first came to me she said that she could not sleep.’
‘None of this was hard.’
‘Your mother was frightened you might do something like this and brought me in to try and stop it. Unfortunately she didn’t spell out her concerns as boldly as she thought. Perhaps she was worried she would sound mad.’
‘She is mad.’
‘That may be the case, but she knows you far better than you might like to admit. She had a mother’s intuition, and she was right.’
‘Will I have to see her again?’
‘Very likely, I am afraid, and probably in court.’
As Sidney left the hospital and crossed Grantchester Meadows, he thought about the power of hatred and the nature of revenge. He wasn’t at all sure that violent action had done anything to make Danny Wilkinson feel better, either about his mother or himself. Would there be any redemption at all from this, and what could Sidney have done to prevent it happening? Should he have guessed, on that first visit, that the boy’s membership of the Family of Love was just a front?
He had to see Barbara Wilkinson one last time. She had come to him in distress only a few weeks ago and the least he could do now was to tell her that Danny had confessed to the murder of Fraser Pascoe.
‘What’s he gone and done that for?’ she asked. ‘They must have threatened him. He’s protecting Tom Raven. His dad must be behind this. You can’t honestly think my son is a killer?’
‘He has confessed.’
‘Under duress.’
‘He told me. There was no pressure.’
‘He must be afraid. Let me see him.’
‘I do not think that will help, Mrs Wilkinson. Perhaps you should have been more honest about your relationship with Fraser Pascoe from the start.’
‘I would hardly call it a relationship.’
‘Your son thought it was.’
‘He didn’t know anything about it.’
‘I’m afraid he did.’
‘Well, whatever it was it can’t have anything to do with what happened. I know my son. Why is he confessing to something he couldn’t possibly have done? The fact is that those people tried to kill hi
m. Have they now brainwashed him into thinking he killed Pascoe as well?’
‘You should have been clearer with me from the beginning, Mrs Wilkinson.’
‘You can’t point the finger at me. I told you all you needed to know. I tried to stop all this.’
‘But it wasn’t enough.’
‘What more could I do? I was trying to save my son. What mother could have done more? You can’t blame it all on the past.’
‘For Danny there was no past. He lived with the memory of your actions all the time. I think he still does.’
‘You think this is some kind of revenge?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘For Pascoe?’
‘Yes.’
‘But that had nothing to do with him.’
‘He is your son.’
‘You are making a mistake. I’m the only person who tried to help Danny. Now you’re implying that it’s all my fault?’
‘I think the issue of blame can be complicated and it is not always helpful.’
‘Has Danny really confessed?’
‘He has.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he killed Pascoe.’
‘But what about the attempt to murder him?’
‘It was an overdose, designed to deflect attention. Danny took your sleeping tablets. They’ve gone missing, haven’t they?’
Barbara Wilkinson did not answer the question directly. ‘I only came to you because I was frightened all this would happen.’
‘Had Danny been violent in the past?’
‘He has a temper. But he’s clever. He made me believe he was serious about the cult.’
‘It’s strange Pascoe didn’t guess what was going on. You didn’t think of warning him?’
‘Fraser thought that everyone loved him. He believed he could turn hate to love. He could never imagine meeting anyone who wasn’t pleased to see him.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me exactly what you feared when you first came to see me?’
‘I thought you wouldn’t believe me.’
‘Did Danny take your sleeping pills?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘You never told us.’
‘I didn’t want to say anything that might incriminate him. He is still my son. And I won’t accept what anyone says. Do you think the police will blame me too?’
‘I don’t know. Perverting the course of justice is not the best way of going about things.’
‘You won’t put it as strongly as that, surely?’
‘That’s not my decision. I can only tell the truth about what has happened.’
‘Without pity or mercy, it seems.’
‘That has to come after the whole truth . . .’
‘And nothing but the truth.’
‘Remorse follows, then pity, then forgiveness. I think that’s the general order of things, Mrs Wilkinson.’
‘You never called me Barbara.’
‘You have to start with the truth. Everything flows from that.’
Sidney realised he was being harder on her than he had originally meant to be. Perhaps he was making up for all his softness at the start.
By the time he reached the Eagle in order to talk things over with Geordie he had still not made a decision on how much he should say. He should really tell his friend that Mrs Wilkinson had withheld information about the extent of her relationship with Fraser Pascoe, the forged cheque and the sleeping pills. She had also attempted to mislead the police by accusing Tom Raven. Was this enough for a charge of perverting the course of justice? Or should he adopt a more forgiving tone after all that trauma and remember Christ’s words to the woman taken in adultery: ‘Go and sin no more.’
In the end, he told Geordie everything. ‘I thought hell had no fury like a woman scorned,’ his friend began as he handed Sidney an inadequate tomato juice. ‘It turns out that children are even worse. It’s like a Greek tragedy out there.’
‘Well, the Greeks did write the first crime stories. They had murders all over the place.’
‘And they were supposed to be the greatest civilisation known to man. Just shows how little human nature changes.’
Sidney picked up his drink. ‘Barbara Wilkinson and Fraser Pascoe. If they’d known about the results of their affair they’d never have started it.’
‘I don’t know, Sidney. People are reckless. Sometimes these things are unstoppable.’
Geordie had that dangerous look in his eye that meant he was not going to hold back on what he was about to say, whatever the consequences. ‘You got off lightly when you think about it, old boy. Just imagine if it had been you and Babs instead.’
‘That was never a possibility.’
‘You are not going to admit that you were attracted to her when all this began?’
‘Never.’ Sidney stood up to order another round. ‘I love my wife. Restraint has always been my watchword.’
‘As long as you keep saying that.’
‘I mean it.’
‘Do you think you’re bored, Sidney?’
‘No. Too much to think about.’
‘Perhaps we still hanker for the drama of war-time?’
‘I don’t miss the loss of my friends.’
‘It’s funny, though. It seems religion is never quite enough for you.’
‘We have to keep searching. Sometimes people need distractions and moments of respite. They just have to choose the right ones.’
‘Drink is safer than flirtation.’
‘Sometimes one follows the other.’
‘In both cases you have to know when to stop.’
Sidney hesitated. ‘Have you ever given up alcohol, Geordie?’
‘I certainly have.’
‘When?’
‘I can give up for several hours at a time. Now stop getting so anxious about life, faith and women. Buy yourself a pint or a bottle of dog.’
‘Perhaps I will.’
‘You’ve earned it, man. No one’s looking.’
‘I feel a bit bad about it.’
‘If that’s the only temptation you’re submitting to then you’re doing well. Have a chaser while you’re at it.’
‘No, I think that’s too much.’
‘Howay, man, I’ll pay.’
Geordie barged his way past Sidney to the bar and bought beer and whisky for both of them. After they had settled back down in their seats and got out the customary game of backgammon, he mentioned that he thought he had seen Hildegard talking to Barbara Wilkinson in town. ‘But that can’t be right. Your wife wouldn’t bother passing the time of day with a lass like that. Just as well you kept your distance.’
‘I’ve told you, Geordie, there was never any danger of impropriety. I do have some standards. And I love Hildegard.’
‘You had a bit of luck in finding a wife like that. But I suppose you deserve it. You took a risk on a foreigner with a murky past and it paid off.’
‘Hers wasn’t the past that was murky.’
‘As far as you know.’
‘I do know. And, by the way, while we’re on the subject, I’d like to take some of the credit for my marriage.’
‘No one’s going to believe you, Sidney. Hildegard saved you. You may think it’s the other way round and even let people come to that conclusion . . .’
‘I’m just very grateful to be so blessed.’
‘I’m glad you realise. If I behaved like you do Cathy would give me hell.’
‘What do you mean “like you do”?’
‘Being all sympathetic to the ladies.’
‘That’s my job.’
‘No, it’s not. It’s what you like. That’s different. You can’t fool me.’
‘Hildegard knows all this. I tell her everything that’s been going on.’
‘Like hell. Does she do the same?’
‘Not always. I think she likes to retain a bit of mystery.’
‘Most women do. Canny, aren’t they?’
‘Would we have it any ot
her way?’
‘We would not,’ Geordie replied, before downing his pint and contemplating his next move on the board.
‘I am glad we agree then.’
‘You know what they say about marriage? A man can either be right or happy. At least neither of us would be foolish enough to carry on, like Barbara Wilkinson, with someone else in our own home and be discovered by one of our children.’
‘No, we certainly wouldn’t,’ said Sidney, as seriously as he could before catching his friend’s eye. ‘We’d book a hotel room.’
Both men laughed. It was the first time they had done so in ages.
Grantchester Meadows
The University of Cambridge was celebrating May Week and, as with many superior organisations that never feel the need to explain themselves, the celebrations lasted longer than a week and took place in June.
The students had completed their exams, the punts were out on the river, picnic rugs fluttered down on to daisy-decorated grass, Pimm’s was poured, strawberries were served and the barefoot dancing began.
Sidney had just finished a meeting in King’s Parade for a diocesan ministry commission that had been asked to set up a new payment scheme for clergy. The plan was to abolish the current system of private patronage, introduce compulsory retirement at the age of seventy and establish a level of remuneration that neither excited financial ambition nor resulted in economic embarrassment.
It had been a long, dull affair and Sidney was discombobulated by the contrasting elitism of May Week with its collision of youthful exuberance, alcohol and high expenditure. He was due to head on into Grantchester to visit his former curate, Malcolm Mitchell, but decided to cheer himself up by popping in to see Geordie at the St Andrew’s Street police station. This certainly livened up his day, as his friend immediately reported that one student had narrowly escaped being trampled to death by a herd of cows while another had had a family heirloom stolen.
The crime scene was a party on Grantchester Meadows, organised by a Magdalene College drinking club in memory of their founder, Sir Joshua Wylie. Twelve executors had dressed up in tails to serve vodka and grapefruit juice out of watering cans at the end of the May ‘Bumps’ on the river. Within hours the ground had resembled a medieval battlefield, with drunken students sprawled across the Meadows in varying stages of consciousness and undress. At one point in the proceedings Richard Lane had ended up in the middle of a herd of cows that had banded together to fight a rearguard action against the excess. By the time the ambulance arrived, the student was half-dead, having caught his ankle and fallen into a cattle grid while trying to escape.