Sea of Glass (Valancourt 20th Century Classics)

by Dennis Parry

  ‘Before the police hang me,’ she said, ‘I shall save my breath to utter a great cry of innocence.’

  I had given up trying to convince her that the English police in no way corresponded to the bodyguard of an alien Governor; consequently there did not seem much point in trying to dissociate them from the job of executioners.

  ‘You’re the only person in the world who even entertains the idea that you could be connected with your uncle’s death. Anybody who accused you would probably be locked up in a looney-bin.’

  ‘They know that he was my enemy.’

  ‘Rot! They know absolutely nothing about the private affairs of your family. Nor want to.’

  It was unfortunate that Nurse Fillis should have entered a few minutes later and announced that she had just been answering the telephone; the police had rung up to say that they would be coming round again that afternoon.

  ‘I hope they’re not going to ask you a lot of awkward questions,’ she said.

  I think she had forgotten the transient suspicions which cropped up when her mind was excited by brandy. Her remark did not strike me as carrying any innuendo. But of course her back was scarcely turned before Varvara had fitted her neatly into the Websterian plot.

  ‘She is their agent. She has given information against us.’

  ‘Can’t you forget your feuds for a couple of minutes?’

  ‘Why are they coming? Answer me that!’

  ‘Because there’s been a fatal accident. In this country inquiries into a death don’t mean suspicion of murder. The police are simply out to help the coroner and his jury.’

  Varvara changed her tack.

  ‘On the roof edge, even if a man slipped, there is a little wall to stop him. How did it not stop my uncle?’

  ‘Varvara,’ I said after a long pause, ‘if you go on in this way, you’ll soon have me and a lot of other people asking just that question.’

  ‘There you are,’ she said, with the splendid obtuseness of a lioness worrying at the jaws of a lion-trap.

  ‘Varvara . . . you don’t know any more about Cedric’s death than you’ve told me?’

  ‘I am innocent,’ she proclaimed.

  ‘That wasn’t exactly what I asked you. But never mind.’

  ‘You are innocent also. But who will believe us?’

  ‘I wish you’d leave me out of your damned fantasies,’ I said crossly.

  The persistent linking of our fates had begun to jar me. Varvara had a compulsive power which seemed to wax rather than wane with the absurdity of the idea which she was trying to impose.

  Possibly I have given the impression that she was in a panic. Far from it. She believed in her peril but she was facing it with a good deal of the joy of battle in her heart.

  The police were as good as their word. At three o’clock a party of them arrived: an inspector, a sergeant, and two constables. They asked to be shown on to the roof-garden. Varvara insisted on watching them from the morning-room and I was sticking to her like a shadow for fear that she would drop some disastrous brick.

  Thus it happened that I witnessed an experiment which further shook my complacency. The sergeant—not the one who had come on the day of the accident—was a big-boned man, about six feet in height, not fat, but well-covered. First he bound a couple of thick strips of sorbo-rubber round the middle part of his thighs. Then he put on a sort of rough waistcoat of very strong canvas; threaded through it, so as to run round his chest, was a rope, whose ends trailed behind him until the two constables picked them up.

  The harnessed man went to the parapet at the edge of the roof-garden, and stood sideways against it. I noticed that the piece of rubber on his thigh just about coincided with the coping.

  ‘O.K.,’ said the Inspector. ‘Watch out!’

  The last words were addressed to the constables and one soon saw why. The big sergeant began leaning gradually out over the drop. The ropes were still slack and it was remarkable what an angle his body could attain without needing their support. But suddenly he gave a shout and the two policemen jerked him back before he could fall.

  This procedure was repeated several times from different positions—with the face to the parapet, backing on to it, and half-turned. Then the experiment entered on a new and more exciting phase. The sergeant retreated a few yards and deliberately put himself into a stagger, so that he struck the parapet whilst still in motion. He was obviously simulating the action of a man who—for one reason or another—had lost his balance.

  I wondered whether it was tact and the awareness of our watching eyes that prevented the Inspector from starting his guinea-pig off with a good push.

  I must say I developed a respect for that sergeant. Even with his protective leggings it must have been a painful business to hurl oneself repeatedly against a sharp stone edge. Moreover, though the ropes were there to save him, his position would not have been pleasant if the constables had taken up the slack too late and allowed him to fall and dangle with only the dubious support of his canvas belt. But he stuck to his task and was rewarded by success in demonstrating several things to the most casual observer. The first was that a human body stationary by the parapet would not go over unless something happened completely to unsettle its centre of gravity. Secondly, though a man in motion would take the hurdle more easily, he would have to be pretty well out of control to get up sufficient impetus.

  There were two obvious ways in which this last condition could be satisfied: a suicidal rush or unexpected violence.

  I began to feel more than ever uneasy, and I was only slightly reassured by the bright candid friendliness with which the police took their departure. Surely they could not suspect Varvara when they called her Miss so deferentially and thanked her, as Mrs. Ellison’s representative, for putting the roof at their disposal? And yet—and yet—

  When we were alone, Varvara did not make any comment on the proceedings, and I thought that perhaps their significance had escaped her. After a while she disappeared. I sat on, however, gloomily pondering the situation and shying away at intervals from my own conclusions.

  Presently I heard soft footsteps passing the door on their way downstairs. One of the maids, I thought idly. But after they had reached the landing below there was an irresolute pause. Then they started to come up again with a firmer, louder beat. Now they unmistakably belonged to Varvara. The door opened and she walked in carrying a small suitcase and wearing outdoor clothes.

  ‘I could not do it,’ she announced.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Leave you here to be captured.’

  ‘What is this nonsense? And what are you doing with that bag?’

  ‘It holds my clothes and some poison in case I am caught.’

  The truth suddenly dawned on me.

  ‘My God, you little imbecile, you’re not running away!’

  ‘I am going into hiding,’ said Varvara with dignity.

  ‘How long d’you think that would last?’

  ‘Months, perhaps.’

  ‘More like hours! The police would be on your tracks immediately.’

  ‘Once a thief or murderer is outside the city and away in the country nobody troubles about him,’ she said stubbornly. ‘It is well known.’

  It was hard to keep in mind the shortness of her acquaintance with Britain and the gaps in her knowledge of it. Apart from the road to Henley and its environs she knew nothing of the countryside which she seemingly regarded as interfused with great stretches of desolation where outlaws could roam indefinitely. Her geography and her history were both about seven hundred years out of date.

  ‘Listen,’ I said. ‘You’re pushing your head straight into the noose. If there’s one thing that could persuade the police to charge you, it’s bolting. They’re bound to interpret it as an admission of guilt—particularly when you’ve been warned that you’ll be wanted at the inquest.’

  The Inspector had given us both this notification before he left.

  ‘They have already ma
de up their minds,’ said Varvara. ‘The fat one was proving that you cannot fall off our roof without . . . help.’

  ‘But you can, Varvara. You must be able to. Because Uncle Cedric did it . . . didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Varvara glumly.

  In the aggregate I recognized the psychological forces to which she responded. But I was like a layman in an engine-room, confronted by a tangle of anonymous pipes and taps. Together they made the machinery go but I had no idea which did precisely what. To me the signs were equally consistent with her having played some part in her uncle’s death (I could not believe that she had deliberately killed him); or with a morbid pleasure in the idea of being wrongly accused of a capital crime.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ I implored her, ‘let yourself be guided by somebody who knows the ways of this country!’

  ‘Who?’

  I had forgotten that she did not recognize the modest English idiom whereby people recommend themselves impersonally. Since she did not accept me as filling the bill I was virtually bound to produce an outside arbiter. Apart from other difficulties, there were not many persons to whom I would have cared to explain the situation.

  ‘Andrew, for instance,’ I said reluctantly.

  ‘Andrew would take me to a safe refuge in his car,’ she said.

  ‘Let’s see, then.’

  ‘Except that his car is still broken.’

  ‘Never mind. If he agrees with your tactics he can hire a horse.’

  The merits of Andrew as a referee grew with reflection. He was a calculator, a man who kept his own head and discouraged other people from losing theirs. He had no use for hysteria or melodramatics.

  Alas, Varvara seemed subconsciously to realize this. She would not agree to call him in. Several times she picked up her bag and made for the door. But a wedge of doubt had entered her mind. She was no longer anxious to take the plunge of departure. As she had apparently no goal except some imaginary wilderness, her hesitation was not surprising.

  Eventually, rather by the use of prayers than argument, I persuaded her to postpone her flight till next day.

  ‘But what if the police come and seize me tonight?’

  ‘They won’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well . . . after dark they’re too busy catching burglars and assassins.’

  ‘Where?’ said Varvara.

  In misfortune she had developed an embarrassing vein of scepticism.

  ‘Oh, Limehouse. The Chinese quarter, you know.’

  She nodded with satisfied comprehension and I knew that I had gained a respite.

  Later that evening it struck me that her refusal did not invalidate my plan of consulting Andrew. I could go by myself. The dangers of the situation were multiplying like yeast in my mind and I longed for support from any quarter.

  Andrew’s father’s flat was furnished in a way which seems to have died out in the nineteen-thirties. And small cause for lamentation. The prominent objects were in an off-centre Second Empire style and all quite useless—cabinets without shelves, console tables with pin-point tops and tabourets too low for a human and too high for a dog. Amongst this blaze of ornamentation the effective articles, those actually intended for use, skulked in corners as if aware of their own inadequacy.

  With difficulty I perched myself on a small black satin settee. Andrew stood in front of me, holding a drink, whilst I gave him a résumé of events. It was simplified by the fact that he had seen a paragraph about Cedric’s death in one of the papers.

  ‘I wonder you didn’t ring up,’ I said unthinkingly.

  ‘Why?’ he replied with unnecessary vehemence. ‘I didn’t see that I could do any good. People usually have too many ’phone calls at these times.’

  Very true, very just, very considerate. All the same it gave me a chilly feeling that, in time of trouble, Andrew might show remarkable powers of absence.

  When I had finished he asked one or two sensible questions. ‘What was Ellison’s build?’

  ‘Just over six feet and pretty solid. I’d put his weight at about fourteen stone.’

  ‘Could Varvara have thrown a man that size?’

  ‘She’s as strong as an ox,’ I said gloomily. ‘Besides, if you catch anyone unawares . . .’

  ‘Well, my God, David, I’m bound to agree with you. If the daft girl doesn’t show up at the inquest—the police will get ideas.’

  ‘To my mind it’s inconceivable she should imagine that decamping would solve any problems. What does she think she’s going to do with the rest of her life? Flit about Sherwood Forest like Maid Marian?’

  The slightly smug expression which both Andrew and I were inclined to wear when exhibiting our trophies of confidence came over his face.

  ‘It’s ridiculous, I grant you. But not entirely unintelligible—at any rate if one knows the background.’

  ‘What background?’

  ‘When she was five or six, before her father became such a big pot in their God-forsaken town, he and his servants had a dispute with some characters who were either Customs officials whom they mistook for bandits or bandits whom they mistook for Customs officials—I’m not sure which. Anyway, they killed half a dozen of them and it caused a certain amount of sickness on the part of the authorities. So, to escape arrest, the whole household migrated about fifty miles into the desert and camped at some monastery. They stayed there for six months; then they came back, and by that time nobody was interested in a few stale old murders. She thinks it would work out the same in England.’

  As usual I was not very pleased when I found somebody else knowing things about Doljuk which I did not. Shifting the subject, I said:

  ‘Well, anyway, you agree that it will be fatal if she runs away?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Andrew, but he paused with his head on one side as if he were listening to the echo of his own answer. After an interval he corrected himself: ‘I’m not sure that I do.’

  ‘What!’ I said, thunderstruck. ‘You must be as crazy as she is. She’ll—’

  ‘Wait a moment,’ he interrupted, ‘and give me credit for what I actually said. It’s not the running away which will cause the trouble, it’s being absent when wanted by the authorities.’

  ‘That sounds to me like a quibble.’

  ‘It isn’t, though,’ said Andrew, smiling whimsically. ‘I’m just pointing out that there’s no reason why she shouldn’t have the satisfaction of flight provided that we can get her back before she’s missed.’

  ‘That’s damned likely! Once she takes the bit between her teeth, it’ll need a public hue and cry to fetch her home.’

  Andrew did not take offence. Indeed he scarcely seemed to hear me, so deeply was he plunged in thought. At intervals he gave me little bulletins on his progress.

  ‘I’m getting it. . . . No, that won’t do. . . . What we want is something like ju-jutsu! You let the other party make his own move: then you give a subtle tweak which lands him exactly where you want.’

  ‘Very nice. But what does it mean?’

  ‘A bit of self-sacrifice, old boy, I’m afraid.’

  There came into his eyes a warm, human look which augured well for his public relations as a future captain of finance. To me it was faintly alarming.

  ‘Suppose,’ he continued, ‘you were to say, “All right, clear out, if you’re set on it. But you’ll need someone to look after you. I’m coming too”?’

  ‘This is me saying it?’

  ‘I can’t think who else would,’ said Andrew with a regretful shake of his head. ‘Besides, didn’t you tell me she insisted that the police were after you as well?’

  ‘Damned nonsense!’

  ‘Still, if she does bring them down on her, I shouldn’t be surprised if they began to wonder about her associates. Bad luck of course, but it does give you a sort of special stake in the business.’

  ‘O.K.,’ I said. ‘We both run away. And then?’

  ‘You choose the day before the inquest and some place
not too far from London, so that you might be on an ordinary short trip. There you commit an offence—quite a small one, but enough to get you both locked up for the night. Drunk and disorderly would do. Next morning you explain that it’s vital you should be back in London for an important inquest. Either you’re brought before the magistrate and given a brisk fine or you’re let out on bail. Either way you’re shipped back to London and Varvara has to give her evidence before the coroner. What do you think of that?’

  ‘I’ve heard of nothing like it since Harry Tate’s mousetrap,’ I said. ‘It seems just an elaborate way of piling one mess on top of another.’

  ‘That’s because you haven’t had time to take in the beauty of the scheme,’ said Andrew kindly. ‘For instance, you may say, “As soon as the girl is out of her cell, she’ll be off like a scalded cat”. But that’s not psychology. When she’s really been nabbed once, it won’t seem worth while running away. Damn it, it’ll probably give her confidence, like playing round a golf course before a competition.’

  I felt that in a crazy way he was right—though not quite for the reasons he gave. After the harrowing programme which he had sketched out, it seemed unlikely that anyone would feel equal to trying to escape even from summary execution. My objections began to come down from the general to the particular.

  ‘You suggest we should get drunk or pretend to. Varvara wouldn’t play on that.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Andrew, ‘it’ll be enough if you start something. Have you ever known that girl fail to join in any row that’s going?’

  Again I had to concede him at least half a point.

  ‘Well then . . . what about bail? They might not accept our own recognizances. You don’t suggest we should call on poor old Mrs. Ellison?’

  ‘We’re all in this,’ said Andrew warmly. ‘I wouldn’t mind coming down and springing the pair of you.’

  How far would it be effective? How great would be the cost? These questions kept me awake for most of the night.

  About the first, closer thought only strengthened my conviction that Andrew was right. It seemed to be an instance in human affairs when the homœopathic principle of countering one evil with another might pay off. Nothing except shock-treatment would cure Varvara of her stubborn folly.