A Poisonous Journey

by Malia Zaidi

  "What do you want to do?" I can barely disguise my eagerness to delve in. He swallows, blinks a few times, and for a terrible few seconds I fear he will begin to cry. What will I do then? I cannot think of anything to say. It would be worse for him. A man has his pride. Thank goodness, we avoid that awkward situation as he takes control of himself again. He glances at his wristwatch. I reach over to turn on the small lamp on the bedside table, which casts a surprisingly wide glow around the room.

  "Thanks. It’s only twenty past."

  He isn’t willing to say that this will give us a moment to have a look at the contents of the journal, before we have to go down for dinner and drinks. Keen as I am to know what Caspar has written, I feel uneasy about the idea of reading his private thoughts and trying to pry into a life I never had any part of.

  "Daniel, I’ll give you some privacy. It would not be right for me to read this." Getting to my feet before I can change my mind, I take a few determined steps to the door. "I will see how Briony is. Take your time." Daniel, despite his solid frame and broad shoulders, looks lost and forlorn sitting on the corner of his dead friend’s bed in the meager yellow light, holding the journal like a hostile object.

  "Thank you."

  I linger for a moment on the precipice of walking back, putting an arm around his shoulders and a comforting hand on his, then restrain myself. He needs to do this on his own. He will tell me if he discovers anything important, of that I am certain.

  Without another word, I turn on my heel and silently as a cat retrace my steps and descend the stairs.

  CHAPTER 13

  Once downstairs, I drift towards the sitting room where the quiet scratch and hum of a gramophone record is coming from. Entering, I recognize the melancholy voice of Bessie Smith singing the blues. I am surprised to hear it here, of all places. I would not have known the soulful jazz musician myself, had it not been for a dear friend in London who introduced me to her and taught me the Charleston when we should have attended the "Ladies Lecture on Etiquette."

  Briony is sitting on one of the low settees, eyes closed, her foot tapping to an imaginary rhythm. As my heels click against the marble floor, she opens them, but doesn’t smile.

  "Is everything all right? You look—" I break off, noticing the line of her mouth is one of anger, not sorrow.

  "If I look upset, it’s probably because I am." She states this in a tone so reminiscent of the one she used as a child, I cannot help but smile.

  "Why? What has happened?" I wander over and crouch on the seat across from her, resting against the cushions in my back.

  "It’s not a lauging matter, Evie." She crosses her bare arms over her chest.

  "Well, enlighten me. I have no mind for guessing tonight." My patience for childishness is not abundant after the serious scene I have come from. "Out with it!"

  "It’s Jeffrey."

  I groan inwardly. I have been here less than a week and find misery and discord in all the married couples I encounter. With the exception of Paul and Rosie, who may have other concerns.

  "What has the man done now?" I should be more patient, yet I cannot deny I have the strong urge to take Jeffrey and Briony by the hands, like children who need to be guided, and lock tem into a room to sort themselves out, or at least to talk things through, like the adult couple they are. Such judgement is easy for me, I confess, as I have no experience with marriage or, for that matter, with any proper romantic attachments to draw from. Instantly repentant of my impatience, I smile and settle back to listen.

  "He’s not here."

  "Jeffrey?"

  "Of course, Jeffrey, who else?" She shakes her head in exasperation.

  "Sorry, go on."

  "He promised he would be here by five. I told him I needed to talk to him. I said it was important, and he isn’t here!"

  "It’s not yet half-past," I glance at the beautiful cherrywood grandfather clock in the corner. "He may well be here in a moment or two."

  "He might have called, if he was going to be late."

  "Perhaps he couldn’t. Didn’t have time or—"

  "Stop defending him, Evie!" Oh, dear, now she is angry with me.

  "I am sorry, I don’t like seeing you upset."

  "Well, I am. This is not the first time. He does this all the time. Leaving me here, pleading with the cook to keep the food warm, trying entertain the guests, his guests, while he is busy with some pile of rubble, or bits of useless glass. I have a lower priority in his life than that rubbish!"

  "Briony, I am certain it isn’t so." A weak answer, I know, but what am I to say? Jeffrey is not a bad man. Nevertheless, my loyality is always with Briony.

  "Evie, he isn’t interested in me. I am just his little wife who sits at home or goes off to make social calls. I left my home for him to have this opportunity. I at least expect him to show some understanding."

  Now we are heading into dangerous territory. I can hear the resentment in her voice and it worries me. "Briony, you know this isn’t fair. He adores you, you know he does."

  "He may have, not anymore."

  "You’ve not been married three years!"

  "Exactly. How could he lose interest so quickly? I did everything he wanted, getting married so quickly, moving here, and what do I have to show for it? A distant husband and an empty nursery." We have arrived at the source. All that ails Briony inevitably leads back down this much-trodden path.

  "Don’t blame Jeffrey. You have not been married long. Countless couples take longer to have children than you."

  "Evie—" she twists the dainty fabric of her skirt in her clenched hands and whispers, "he has given up on even trying."

  "Oh." I may be unmarried, but I have for sometime been quite clear on what is required for a preganancy to result.

  "What do I do about that? He is busy. He has to go to work. We have to host a dinner. We have to go to a dinner, a function and so on. It is always about him and his work and fawning over his collegues, who make digging around long-gone people’s property appear crucial to the development of humanity! I am alive now, I want to be happy now!" Her voice has grown shrill, her cheeks pink to the point of feverishness.

  "Please, Briony, calm yourself. You are right to be upset. Still, getting agitated will do nothing to improve the situation."

  "Then help me." Briony looks at me, her eyes swimming with tears. I drape an arm around her shoulder, wishing that I could.

  "What shall I do? I do not believe Jeffrey would take kindly to me ordering him to impregnate you." This produces a sliver of a smile on my cousin’s face.

  "I suppose not."

  "Well, you suppose correctly. I can talk to him, but I honestly doubt it would do much good, except make him believe that we are discussing him behind his back."

  "Which we are."

  "Indeed. Still, I doubt your relationship would benefit from him discovering this."

  "Probably not."

  "He would feel under attack in his own home, and, if anything, he ought to feel less so."

  "You are right as usual," she concedes; a sentence I never tire of hearing, though in truth it is a rare occurrance.

  "Give it time, Briony. I know you are struggling. Jeffrey loves you, I know it, and I am certain you do, too."

  Her shoulders rise as she inhales deeply. I remove my arm and find a clean hankerchief in my cardigan pocket and press into her hand.

  "Thank you." She dabs at her eyes.

  "Better?"

  "A little." She turns her head, giving me a sheepish look. "I am embarassed, Evie. I shouldn’t have said all of this. I am simply not feeling myself. Haven’t been for some time. I know people change when they get married, and I haven’t changed in a way I like. Maybe Jeffrey has become aware of that." Her quiet confession pains me.

  "I don’t like you being sad." A banal thing to say, still it is out before I have heard it in my mind. Besides, if there is one person I do not have to impress with the elegance of my speech and thought, it is Briony
.

  "I am a terrible host. Luring you here under the pretense of a holiday, and now you get is misery all around; Caspar being killed and me moaning all waking hours. It isn’t right, and I am sorry."

  "Don’t be. You know I am always on your side, though I will say, I am immensely relieved you have an alibi for the murder, so my loyalty must not be tested."

  "You shouldn’t joke like that." She smiles, if faintly. The force of the storm has passed for now.

  "You’re smiling again!"

  "Yes. Thank you." She sniffles once or twice and tucks the hankerchief into her pocket. Just then, we can hear the sound of the heavy entry door fall shut, followed by footsteps. A moment later, Jeffrey appears in the doorway. He looks dissheveled and sun-burnt, the eggshell color of his shirt a strong contrast to the tomato-esque tone of his skin.

  "Hello, sorry I am a bit late. Paul and I were drawn into a discussion with Darius, and he does go on."

  "Oh, has Paul come with you?"

  "No, no. Only dropped me off. Said he had to get home to see how Rosie was. I’ll wash up, and then we can eat. I am ravenous."

  Without another word, he disappears and we can hear him plodding up the stairs. Everything in this open house creates an echo. This can be both impressive and at times startling. "You see? He apologized for being late!" I try to make this out to be a great and wonderful thing. Briony, not easily deluded by my ploys, only shrugs.

  "It’s the least he can do. Let us leave it. Tell me something interesting."

  When we were younger, and Briony entertained her suitors while I was at University, she would always ask me, upon our twice-monthly meeting, to tell her something interesting. As it happened her stories of debutantes and jilted lovers were much better than my bland tales of dull professors and the tedium of translating Latin.

  "You ask too much. It has been a long day." I lean back into the sofa, feigning a yawn.

  "Fine, I will excuse you this time, though I must point out the very curious fact that you spent much of this long day with our dear Daniel." There is a distinctive twinkle in her eye and an unmistakable insinuation in her tone, making me toss a cushion her way. She easily evades the gentle missile and grins in an all-too wicked manner.

  "Whatever your immoral thoughts, I recommend you banish them immediately. Daniel is a good man, and I a decorous," I alter my voice to mimic Aunt Agnes, "and respectably lady."

  "Indeed." Briony cocks her head and raises an eyebrow, and while her line of questioning is decidely uninvited, I am relieved to find her spirits so quickly restored.

  "Yes, indeed. I will hear no more on the matter. Rather, you may tell me something." At Jeffrey’s mention of Paul, I remembered Rosie, his wife, and her oddly unnatural demeanor, which left me unnerved and confused when we met.

  "What may that be?"

  "Rosie, Paul’s wife, what happened to her?" At this, the playful grin on Briony’s face disappears and thin lines crease her forehead.

  "Oh, Rosie. So you noticed." Shrugging, she adds, "Of course you did. It is difficult not to. Yes, poor Rosie."

  "What happened?" I repeat, sitting up in my seat.

  "She drove an ambulance in France. Very brave, came as a volunteer."

  "Was she hurt?"

  "Oddly, she wasn’t. Came through it completely unscathed." Briony shakes her head.

  "Did she meet Paul during the war?"

  "No, they were engaged even before she left. He was at University when she decided to leave, to go off to the front. I doubt very much he was happy about it. There wasn’t much he could do. By the time he found out what she had done, it was too late."

  "But what happened then? You are telling me the story of a woman full of courage and will-power, and I am sad to note this, but Rose is nothing that anymore." Briony loves telling a story, and I am keen to find my answers before we are interrupted for dinner.

  "It is so tragic." Briony shakes her head, blond curls bouncing, "She arrives at home, is paraded around for her efforts, and finally marries Paul. Two months after the wedding, a car collides with her bicycle on her way home one evening. The driver never stopped and was never found. She was unconscious for days, and when she woke up, she was not the same."

  "Oh, Briony, how terrible. Poor Rosie, poor Paul."

  "Yes, they are both very sweet. Rosy does speak occasionally. Not much, still I think it gives Paul hope."

  "How long has she been this way?"

  "More than five years."

  "Such a long time. Do you think she is aware of it at all?" I ask, trying to imagine being trapped inside a body that will not function as I would like it to.

  "I do not know. Paul seems certain his old Rosie is in there still. I can tell when he looks at her, at least a part of him believes she will recover."

  "What a tragedy, for them to be robbed of a proper future together. I should like to have met Rosie the way she used to be. "

  "As would I. Looking at her, one would never think there is anything at all amiss. She gives the impression of being the picture of strength and good health."

  "Yes, I thought the same when she was here." We are silent for a moment. I reflect back on the tall, strong-looking woman, and I remember likening her to the fierce warrior, Brunhild, who was robbed of her powers. An eerie parallel! I won’t share it with Briony, she will only think me morbid.

  "Shall we go to the dining room? The men ought to be ready soon." Briony’s eyes dart over to the clock quietly ticking in the corner, and she adds, "It is nearly time anyway."

  We leave the room and find ourselves running into her freshly-laundered husband and Daniel, descending the last few steps. Together we make our way into the well-lit dining room where the four of us naturally drop into our regular seats at one end of the long table.

  Jeffrey asks what we have been up to and is in better spirits than the rest of us. We oblige by giving him the news of the alibis, at which he exclaims relief, "I never doubted them for a minute", and of the fire, "terrible, just terrible."

  The evening is pleasant, and I ease into conversation as it turns from the events of the day to literature, and then to the difficulty of obtaining good English beans here. I comment that I have not suffered from their absence, whereupon Jeffrey, and surprisingly Briony (apparently united in their strong feelings on canned beans) argue, "Give it week!"

  Thinking of food, we are served a delicate salad of tomatoes and spinach with warm walnuts, cubes of meat and vegetables on a little spit called "kebab", and a rare treat, or so I am told, Bird’s custard with rum-soaked figs. Altogether this is a pleasant conclusion to an otherwise draining day.

  CHAPTER 14

  We retire to the conservatory, none of us able to enjoy the terrace yet, as the view is inevitably of the oak tree, shielding a dead body only too recently. While we make ourselves comfortable around the table, Niobe brings out a tray of heavy brandy glasses along with a full decanter and a plate of cheese and grapes. Without saying a word. she disappears again like a spirit. My oblivious good humor is shaken by seeing her so soon after her confession, and the mysterious unease concerning her character returns.

  "Are you all right, Evie, you have suddenly gone a bit pale?" Briony asks, leaning forward in her seat.

  "Yes, fine." I must be unconvincing in my reply, for Briony looks at me with narrowed eyes before turning to the tray and its contents.

  "Here, have a sip." She tipples a finger or so of liquor into my glass. I take it, but do not drink, preferring to swirl its contents around, creating a small eddy as it whirls slowly up the sides.

  "Cheers!" says Jeffrey, and we all obligingly raise our glasses. "To us. To good company and good friends!"

  We lean across the large table and chink our glasses together. Only Jeffrey takes a sip. Daniel, who has been making a good attempt at light-hearted conversation throughout the meal, has grown quiet. I catch his eye across the table. He is to be trying to say something, but being unfortunately obtuse when it comes to the decip
hering of subtleties, I cannot quite comprehend what this may be. Finally, he breaks eye contact and looks at both Briony and Jeffrey, before opening his mouth to speak.

  "I think there is something you all should know. Something I have only today discovered." His voice is calm in spite of the tension in the tight set of his jaw.

  "What is it?" Jeffrey responds to the change in tone. I put my untouched glass on the table.

  "Before dinner, Evelyn and I discovered Caspar’s diary."

  "His diary? Where?" Jeffrey sounds puzzled. Briony remains silent, cradling her glass in both hands and flashing me a questioning look. I raise my eyebrows and shrug, not knowing what Daniel might be about to share.

  "In his room."

  "You searched his room?" Jeffrey leans forward, craning his head in Daniel’s direction.

  "Yes, I know it seems an intrusive thing to do—"

  "No, that isn’t what I meant," Jeffrey shakes his head, though it is exactly what he meant.

  I can only commend him for attempting to make the situation less awkward. Silently, I hope Daniel doesn’t mention that this search only began after he discovered me already practicing my sleuthing skills in his friend’s room.

  "It’s all right," he says, rubbing his forhead, his brows tensely knitted together. "It was not something I planned. The police have already been through his things, so my doing so did not seem harmful. Besides, Caspar would have done the same and sooner, too. He would have wanted me to understand what happened, to resolve this."

  "Likely as not," Jeffrey concedes and takes a small sip.

  "As I was saying," Daniel continues, "we found his diary. He kept journals all his life. Until today, I never knew what he wrote in them."

  "Didn’t seem the type to write about meeting Mr Jones at the club for tea, did he?" Jeffrey shakes his head. "So, what did he write about?"

  "That is the strange thing. Every page is written in a sort of code."

  "Code?" I cannot help but ask, wishing I had stayed upstairs to read it with him.

  "Was he some kind of spy?" Briony looks hopeful.