“That’s a pity,” said Jonathan, sagging. “It was a general statement, that Dan’s death was a crime. When they said ‘crime’ they obviously meant what a godawful waste of a life at the end of a godawful waste of millions.”
“I thought so at the time. Until you related your story.”
It took a few seconds for Jonathan to work out who the writer of this letter might be. Philomena saw him arrive at the name and then discount it. He looked to her, a dazed expression in his eyes.
“He wrote to you?”
“If you mean Anthony Dore, yes.”
“He wrote to you,” repeated Jonathan, almost to himself. He grimaced. Something perhaps even more horrible occurred to him. “Condolences?”
She nodded. She could see the anger rising in him.
“I’m almost speechless,” said Jonathan.
He had so much energy churning inside him that Philomena feared he might combust. For the first time she understood how someone can be described as “beside themselves.” And she felt in danger. The heightened animation she’d previously witnessed in Jonathan on his feet in court inhabited him now, seated next to her. His mouth was open, his eyes blinked and flickered, his brow furrowed deeply. The forces at work here were intense and very powerful. Philomena was being caught up in them. They were threatening to encircle her. She could feel Jonathan’s energy pressing her to do his bidding, and Major James also pressing, and Dan, and on the fourth side a shadowy gray energy that she imagined was Anthony Dore. Her hands had lifted and were pressing outward; the backs were trying to make way for her to pass.
“I can only think of one word to describe Anthony Dore, and it’s far too rude to say out loud,” said Jonathan. “It’s a short word.”
“I think I know the word. But his letter proves nothing as far as I’m concerned.”
Jonathan changed, and studied her closely, and she could see he was putting the professional, lawyer part of his brain to work, to assess what she’d said.
“Yes. I can see that,” he said. “You’ve no reason to take my word as gospel. I can see that. I’ve grown accustomed to being disbelieved. At first I thought the force of my belief would carry, but what you eventually come to realize is that it’s possible that nobody else feels the same as you about something that you think is the most important thing in the world.”
There was no rancor in his tone, no accusation, no suggestion that he was leveling anything at her. Philomena decided that if ever she was in court accused of anything she would want Jonathan Priest to be defending her.
“Show me Anthony Dore. Point him out,” she demanded suddenly, surprising herself.
“You haven’t met him, then?” said Jonathan.
She shook her head.
“Come on,” said Jonathan, standing up.
“I don’t want to meet him,” she blurted out. “I just want you to show him to me, without him knowing.”
Jonathan opened his mouth to ask something, but didn’t ask it. He said something else: “He might know that you’re here by now. Someone might have told him.”
“Major James?”
“Or someone in his office, or someone else he has told about you. You can’t trust anyone.”
“I know,” she said, shooting him a look.
* * *
En route she didn’t let on to Jonathan that she’d already been to look at Anthony Dore’s house. Being less than candid with him felt awkward, but not deceitful, as she was sure that he hadn’t told her everything either. She felt that she needed to act in her own interests—hers and Dan’s, and if that meant keeping secrets from, or omitting to offer information to even the man Dan described as his “new best friend,” so be it.
They took up watch in the Mayfair square, their backs to the railings around the private gardens.
The side away from Philomena, Jonathan had his hand in his jacket pocket, manipulating a pack of playing cards, his nervous displacement. The Dore house was dark except for the entrance light and two upstairs windows. There was hardly anybody else on foot in the vicinity. For minutes on end all that could be heard were motor engines, horses’ hooves, cart wheels. From time to time Philomena asked a question.
“Is he married?”
“No. He lives with his father.”
Dogs in the distance. Ruff, ruff! Ruff! Echoing.
“What else do you know about him?”
“I know his walk, his shape, his rhythm—” Jonathan broke off because a male pedestrian had entered the square. The figure neared. Jonathan pressed back into the shadows, urging Philomena to follow suit.
“Some of his habits,” he continued, in an undertone.
He could see that Philomena expected him to say that this figure was Anthony Dore.
“Is that him?” she hissed.
“No.”
Another pedestrian entered the square from the other direction. Philomena looked again to Jonathan.
“You’ve been here before, doing this, haven’t you?” she asked.
“I’ve investigated him, yes,” he replied.
A dog snuffled loudly somewhere nearby in the dark. They both feared it would discover them and bark.
“Can you hear that?” whispered Philomena.
Jonathan’s answer was to press back against the railings. Their sides came together awkwardly but neither dared move until the danger was clear. The dog sounded as if it was rooting right at their feet now, which was strange, because they still couldn’t see it. A pile of last autumn’s leaves, trapped against the foot of the railings, moved.
“It’s a hedgehog!” giggled Philomena.
“Some spies we make,” retorted Jonathan.
They settled back to watching the house.
“He’s an only child now,” said Jonathan, sotto voce. “Mother deceased. Two brothers perished in the war. Anthony’s the middle one.”
A man appeared, heading into the square. Jonathan began to tremble. Philomena looked up at him and this time he gave a tiny nod of confirmation. In his pocket his hand fumbled the playing cards.
They watched the figure walking the other side of the road. So this was Anthony Dore? Philomena glanced sideways at Jonathan. His features were set. His jaw flexed as he ground his teeth. She experienced a surge of energy. She wanted to act, to achieve more than merely watch Dore walk the pavement, climb the steps to his house, and enter. Suddenly she found herself moving out of the shadows and taking a line that would allow her to pass him. Jonathan took a step and reached forward to grab her but he hadn’t reacted quickly enough. If he made another attempt he was at risk of revealing himself. She heard him stifle a cry then curse her roundly under his breath.
From a distance, but closing, she took in Dore’s appearance. Shorter than Jonathan or Dan, slighter than Dan, he seemed a little off-balance. Under the influence of something. She saw him register her presence. He’d seen what? A lower-class sort of a girl, to him. But good posture. Walking alone. Hmmm. Would he be able to hear her heart thumping in her chest? She noted everything she could about him as they closed on each other. Round face, thin mustache, uneven gait. But what she was really looking for was of course not visible. He slowed down, and cheekily raised his hat to her. Philomena became scared that now she was the object of his scrutiny. Her impetuous action started to seem more like dangerous folly. She tried to end the situation by speeding up a little, but couldn’t resist—right at the last, just as she passed—glancing into his eyes.
He smiled but she didn’t. Did he do lower-class girls? Was that a reasonable presumption? She kept going, fearing Dore might call out something, but he didn’t. Behind her she could feel that he had turned to watch her walking away.
“Go home, go home,” urged Jonathan under his breath until Anthony Dore turned and continued to the steps up to his house. When he had one foot on the lowest Jonathan’s impatience to get after Philomena won out. He broke cover to pursue her, but Anthony stopped! Jonathan froze, mid-step, in full view if Anthony looked
his way. Out of the corner of his eye Jonathan monitored him—an agonizing wait while Anthony continued to watch Philomena … and watch her … and watch her … until she was out of sight. Only then did he climb the steps to his house. Unable to wait for him to get inside, Jonathan sneaked away, and as soon as he felt that he was in the clear, he ran after Philomena.
“What the hell are you playing at?”
“I wanted to see him,” she replied.
“Did he have ‘I murdered Daniel Case’ tattooed across his forehead?”
“You’re being ridiculous,” said Philomena.
“Listen to me—”
“Why?” demanded Philomena, her voice rising. “Why should I listen to you?”
“Because I told you about this.”
“You told me that something terrible had happened but there’s nothing being done about it; that’s what you’ve told me. And we’re in the street.”
“So?” he demanded.
“The way you’re acting anybody watching is going to think I’m under threat from you. I didn’t know I was going to get that close to him. I didn’t plan it. But I don’t see why you’re so steamed up about it.”
They stood there for a few moments, their hot breath showing in the air. Jonathan’s like a stubborn animal, she thought. A goat. Are we just going to stand here?
“What if he ventures out again and comes this way?” she suggested.
They began to walk, side by side, a wide space between them, but not an empty space. The very first public house they came across, by mute consent, they entered. Philomena said what she wanted to drink and he made the purchase while she found an empty table. In a mirror she watched him grimly knock back a large whiskey chaser while the proper drinks were being poured. The shot seemed to sort him out. When he sat down he’d become much more reasonable.
She said: “Tell me the next bit of the story. What happened when you made your allegation?”
“Hmm,” he said. He looked straight at Philomena, warning her that he wasn’t going to spare her. She nodded her consent.
“I don’t know how long I’d knelt on the battlefield holding Dan’s body. Someone—a stretcher-bearer—eventually gently pried him away from me. I was covered in Dan’s blood, though didn’t realize it at the time. I stumbled back to our dugout to find that it appeared to have been visited by someone intent on searching his possessions. Whoever it was had been in a hurry because Dan’s kit was scattered all around. I knew instinctively that the searcher had been Anthony Dore, looking for the pledges, and later I assumed that he’d found them; otherwise why make it the first line of his defense that there had been no card game? If the pledges ever turned up the first line of his defense would be destroyed and the rest of his lies exposed.
“Still bloody, I went out and sought the location of Dan’s body. I found him covered in a blanket, on a stretcher, outside a medical tent. I gently searched him, but the IOUs weren’t on him. He felt cold, already. Nobody could tell me if Anthony Dore had been to visit him.
“Major James might have had a few, but he listened attentively to me, and made notes. At the end he grunted a few times then silently contemplated me for what seemed like an age before saying, ‘Get cleaned up while I look into this,’ and I realized how bloody I was. I found some water and had a dab at the worst of it, and waited irritably for any word. I tidied up Dan’s possessions until I was called to return to Major James’ dugout.
“It was empty, so I waited. Footsteps behind me warned that someone had entered. Major James started speaking before he reached his seat. He was brisk: ‘Priest.’
“‘Sir.’
“‘At ease.’
“‘Sir.’
“‘Your allegation.’
“Major James opened a file. I tried to read upside down the official letter on top of the papers in the file. It informed someone that someone had died in action. It was accompanied by a B104-82A notification of death.
“‘I’ve taken it seriously,’ said Major James, ‘because of your personal standing, but the bullet that killed him is enemy—we dug it out; Major Chiltern’s dead so no one can corroborate that there was a card game—’”
Jonathan looked around to make sure no one in the pub was eavesdropping. “I said to him, ‘Is Captain Dore saying that there was no card game?’
“‘Yes, he is,’ confirmed Major James.
“‘Oh,’ I said, ‘But these are the cards,’ dumbly holding them out.
“Major James took them from me, turned them this way and that. ‘That is a pack of cards, yes.’ He gently returned them to me.”
“You had the cards?” exclaimed Philomena.
“Yes, they were in our dugout. When I stumbled on them, for a moment I was elated. I was excited that they were evidence—was halfway out of the door to show the major—but he was right. It was only a pack of cards. You see, I thought that Dore would deny he’d murdered Dan, but it never occurred to me that he’d deny the existence of a card game. Clever bastard. Anyway, the other reasons Major James gave for not pursuing my allegation were compelling: no sign of the IOUs, no witnesses to the death. I didn’t even see it myself. Regardless of which—‘I believe that Captain Dore murdered Second Lieutenant Case, sir,’ I repeated.
“‘I advise you to be very careful about voicing that allegation,’ said Major James, chopping the air with his hand. ‘I’ve conducted this unofficial inquiry very hush-hush, so that it can’t rebound on anyone—’
“‘Dan was trying to tell me something,’ I countered.
“More footsteps entered the dugout. Major James leaned in toward me. ‘You know how it is,’ he confided urgently. ‘He was probably asking for his mother.’
“Anthony Dore was standing alongside me and I barked, ‘Where are those IOUs, Dore?’
“‘Captain Dore,’ said Major James, correcting me.
“Dore turned to Major James and opened his palms as if to say, ‘You see, what can I do?’
“‘Second Lieutenant Case was your friend, wasn’t he, Captain Priest?’ asked the major.
“I remained silent. I was having to stop myself leaping sideways at Dore. I’d viciously elbow him in the ribs to double him up, grip his head, pull it down and smash my knee up into his face. I’d wipe that supercilious grin right off it. He wouldn’t have a mouth left to grin with by the time I’d finished.
“‘Was he your best friend?’ Major James continued. ‘How long had you known him?’
“‘Six weeks,’ I replied.
“Major James raised an eyebrow. Dore looked sideways at me and his lips parted and he inhaled, and for a moment I thought he might challenge my claim. I bristled and clenched my fists and I knew if I ever did hit him I wouldn’t be able to stop. Sensing an impending explosion Major James put himself between me and Dore, his back to the latter. ‘Look at you,’ he said quietly to me, ‘you’re all in. We’re all in. But also “up.” Exhilaration plus relief plus exhaustion plus everything else.’
“Major James stepped away to a distance from which he could address both me and Dore.
“‘Captain Dore’s letting this go, aren’t you?’
“‘Yes sir.’
“‘As long as you never make such an allegation ever again,’ added Major James.
“I turned to Anthony Dore: ‘I saw the look in your eye and I know the truth and you know that I know.’
“And Anthony Dore turned to me and said—he explained, patiently, kindly, as if tolerating unruly behavior from a misguided minor—that if I did repeat the allegation to anyone he’d have to instruct his lawyers.
“I bridled and was about to snap when Major James again stepped in. ‘Captain Dore knows that you’re a hero, and that Daniel Case was, too.’
“At which I walked out. Without saluting. Or permission. Anthony Dore was posted to another zone soon after—”
A surge of laughter from a far corner of the pub had made Jonathan break off. Philomena watched him swill the dregs of his drink, stare
into the bottom of his glass, his mood altering.
“I detest being dominated by these thoughts. I don’t like the no-sleep no-rest life I’ve found myself in. Some days I feel like I died, that I’m a ghost, a wraith, muffled from the humans teeming this city, moving much more ponderously than they. Then I see another specter, recognize another spirit wading, head down as if into a headwind, having to think where to plant each step, with what degree of force to grip the ground, drive on; someone else flexing the joints consciously, aware of the effort to do the simplest, taken-for-granted things, and I avoid them, not wanting to be like them. I force myself to wade out of that viscous air that I so easily slip into. I’m normal again for some, impossible to predict length of time. Normal? No, not normal; normal was before.”
He got up and went to the bar, saying: “Same again?” not waiting for a reply.
Philomena sat stunned. That last speech of his had been like watching someone strip to their soul. She didn’t have to ask him “What’s your life like?” He’d told her. But he hadn’t looked nor sounded as if he were asking for sympathy. That was what made it so moving. He was describing a much more eloquent version of her walk with a black dog in a long dark lane. Again she watched him down a chaser while the drinks were poured. When he returned he sat and said, “Sorry about all that.”
“Don’t apologize,” she said. “No need.”
“I just go on,” he said.
“Who do you go on to?”
“Myself. Self-pity: ugly, weak, repellent. Never talked like that to anyone before. Won’t do it again. Don’t know what came over me. Usually just blather on to myself. First sign of madness, they say.”
Philomena puffed her cheeks and blew a stream of compressed breath out in order to indicate that she couldn’t possibly know.
“But there again,” he continued, “they say that if you think you’re mad then you can’t be. Only those who don’t recognize they’re mad can actually be mad.”
Philomena watched a muscle twitch in his cheek near his mouth. His eyes turned darker.
“If I could be certain. Verification; proof … If I was … I’ve sometimes thought that if I could be certain I’d … And he knew I was, he knew that I was … He’d have to know I was …”
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