My spirits rose when we reached the hotel. My room sported a balcony that overlooked the sea, a blue-green sea, unlike the Margate variety and the colours of Donald’s recall. There were still two hours to go before dinner, so I rested a little, then showered and dressed. As I took myself down to the bar, I felt very ‘Verry’ and faintly brazen.
Our courier was already ensconced at the counter, and he offered me the free welcome drink that the brochure had promised. Others of our party – we were about twenty in all – were gathered around the bar and seemed to be keeping themselves to themselves. Most of them gave the appearance of being in couples, glued to each other’s side in silence. But there were a handful of lone travellers shifting uncertainly from one foot to the other. I found that I was doing the same, like a visual advertisement for singleness. Someone had to make a move, and it was little me, the non-Verry of old, who went over to a single woman to halt her shifting.
Her name was Penny, and she admitted to being nervous. ‘It’s the first holiday I’ve taken on my own,’ she said. And then, as if to explain herself, she added that she had been recently widowed. I gave her my sympathies, though these seemed not to be required. He’d been ill for a long time, she was saying. It was a blessing when he went. I refrained from celebrating her blessing and I said, ‘Yet you must miss him.’
She nodded. ‘But life goes on.’
I thought the same for myself.
‘And what about you?’ she asked.
‘Oh I’m married,’ I protested. ‘Just having a break. He’s away, anyway. He’s a portrait painter and he’s been commissioned to do a portrait of the Queen of Jordan.’ And I’m the Queen of Sheba, I thought to myself. Yet I was pleased with my invention. It kept Donald the painter by my side. Moreover, I didn’t have to be anything in my own right. It was enough to be the helpmeet of a successful artist and I could spend my holiday promoting Donald the painter.
Penny was clearly impressed. I hoped I hadn’t gone too far. It was a story I would have to maintain the length of my holiday and to all those of the party who sought to enquire. I prayed that there was no portrait painter among them.
In a short while, we were invited to take our places for dinner. Penny waited for me to move in order to follow me and no doubt to sit by my side. There were five tables reserved for our party. The couples walked boldly to their seats. The singles lagged behind, so that they ended up seated at the same table and although we were together, our unity seemed to heighten our otherness from the main party. Penny seemed glued to my side. Next to me sat a gentleman who introduced himself to me as Carruthers. ‘Call me Jim,’ he added.
‘I’m Verry.’ He’d have to do without my surname.
He took my hand. ‘I’m glad to make your acquaintance.’
I was unused to such formality and especially when he picked up my napkin and spread it over my lap. This man will take care of me, I thought, and I shall allow it without any scruple.
I am reasonably familiar with Turkish food. Donald and I would often visit a Turkish restaurant. It is an intimate cuisine, unsuitable for sharing with strangers. Yet I was happy to share it with my neighbour.
‘I always come to Turkey for my holidays,’ he said. ‘I just love the food.’
I asked him what he did, safe in the knowledge that my own response, if called for, was ripe and ready.
‘I’m retired,’ he said. ‘From the army. I’m doing an Open University course in botany. Must keep the old cells active. And you?’
I pulled out my Donald portfolio and recounted the tale that had so impressed Penny.
‘You’re obviously very proud of him,’ Jim said.
I nodded. Though I was anything but proud. You cannot sustain pride in a myth, and already it was losing its credibility. The reality was so different and called for nothing but humiliation. I was ashamed of Donald. Deeply ashamed. Innocent or guilty, there was no denying his location, and it was a far cry from the palaces of Jordan. But I was stuck with the story, and I hoped I wouldn’t be called upon to spin it again, lest my own qualms betray me.
It was while Jim was helping me to wine that I felt his leg pressing on my own. I hoped my astonishment did not show on my face, or indeed my pleasure. For pleasure it was, I must confess, and I made no move to discourage him. Verry Dorricks, I said to myself, what are you doing here, away from the prison gates, on your own, with a stranger’s leg pressing against yours, and all with your pleasurable permission. I couldn’t understand myself. Never in all my years with Donald had I experienced an illicit thrill nor, more importantly, had I made myself available to one. I already saw myself as an adulteress, but I had no sense of betrayal. I’m forty-seven years old, I told myself, and I’m still entitled to happiness. I knew it was a dangerous thought and God knew where it would lead but I would follow it with pleasure.
The meal was over. It was late and I was tired, not so much as the result of the long journey, but because of the unaccustomed but wondrous battering of my senses. I made to rise. Jim was already standing. He held the back of my seat so that I could rise in comfort. I was feverish with his chivalry.
‘A little nightcap?’ he suggested, and he took my arm and led me towards the bar. As we walked, I noticed that he was limping.
‘Have you hurt your foot?’ I asked. That question signalled the dissolving of my euphoria.
‘No,’ he said. ‘War wound. I’ve got a wooden leg.’
I checked that it was the very leg that had rubbed against mine. I tried to hide my shame. I had misread. I had misunderstood. Misconstrued.
‘I’m tired,’ I said. ‘I think I’ll just go to bed.’
I had to be alone. I had to unravel myself. The fact that the lecherous leg was wooden, unfeeling and without intent, that fact was irrelevant. It was my leg that starred in the role, my yielding and inviting leg that was clearly asking for more. By the time I reached my bedroom, I was crumbling with shame. I could have done without knowing that aspect of myself, and its discovery frightened me, for it pointed to what I was capable of, and to the inevitable break-up of my marriage. I thought of Donald sleeping in his cell, and I couldn’t bear the pity and the love of it. I wanted very much to go home. But I had another nine days of the fabled palaces of Jordan and myself as a woman of virtue, worthy of praise. But I weathered it, and tried to enjoy myself. As the days passed, I gradually withdrew into my old Verry, or rather non-Verry, self. That assertiveness of mine was a mere passing phase. And a dangerous one, for it opened up avenues of excitement of which I had been unaware. I must not risk such a phase again. I must keep within those boundaries that I had fashioned for myself, and which my Donald had confirmed. I felt safe within them. Donald was innocent, because he said so, and he had never lied to me. He would be on his best behaviour in prison and he would earn an early parole. Then we would spend our days at the sea together and I wouldn’t have to pity him any more. These were not cloud-cuckoo thoughts. They were within the realms of possibility.
On the last day of my holiday, I took a walk along the shore. Fallen stone pillars were strewn at intervals along the sand: torsos; broken stone heads; remains of temples where people had once worshipped; monuments to the glory of the past. All that was gone, and in its stead, a marketplace of carpets, saffron and sponges. I picked my way through Turkey’s broken history and I decided that I was not a holiday person. I belonged at home, non-Verry within its walls. I would take my non-Verry self to Parkhurst, and comfortably believe in Donald’s innocence.
The Diary
Seven Down. Two to Go.
I can’t seem to get going again. I want to hold on to the power, that power I felt at the Manor House. I don’t want to let it go. I want to keep Wilkins waiting. I want to see him pacing his room, itching for my next sortie. I want to hear him curse me aloud, unable to give a name to his target. I want him at my mercy for a little longer. But why? Wilkins is not my enemy. He has done me no harm. Why should I want to punish him? This is an ill trait in me and
I must put it aside, for it sullies my crusade. In any case, in clinging to this sense of power, I might well lose my appetite for my mission, and that in the long run is far more important to me than Wilkins-baiting. Besides, it’s quite a while since I polished off Dr Fortescue.
I read about that suicide. Dr Yonge. She was a friend of Dr Fortescue. But her suicide was none of my doing. So I won’t chalk her up. Nevertheless, she was one of them. And now she is no more, and I didn’t have to lift a finger. God is on my side after all.
I have to look around for another victim. That will leave only two. I am well on my way to vindication.
It was a woman’s turn. I like to be fair in my choices, and I lit upon a Melissa Fairbanks who plied her dubious trade somewhere in Hertfordshire. I didn’t need to use the Devon ploy. I could be there and back well within the day. I staked out the address and particulars before making my move. Melissa was a divorcee who lived alone. Her dwelling was a cottage that was generously isolated. She gave me an appointment at five o’clock in the afternoon. A poetic time I thought, for it is at this hour that the doomed bull enters the ring. There was a mini-market car-park near her home. It was pretty full, and I slipped into a space unnoticed. Then I walked across two fields to her cottage. I was gloved, of course, but that was the extent of my cover. I looked at my watch. It was exactly five o’clock and I almost heard the flourish of trumpets as the bull roared into the ring. I saw myself in my suit of lights, amply prepared.
I rang the bell and she opened the door herself.
‘Mr Crawford?’ she asked, for that was my seven-down two-to-go name.
‘No,’ I said. I had to. I couldn’t perform. Wilkins would have to wait, for Miss Fairbanks was the spitting image of my Verry. The same colouring, the same hair, the same plump figure, the same smile.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ I said quickly. ‘I must have the wrong address. I’m looking for a Mr Thomas.’ I was pleased with my prompt invention.
‘I don’t know a Mr Thomas in these parts,’ she said. ‘But you could ask at the post office in the village.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry to have troubled you.’ I left her, crossing the fields without fear of witness, while Melissa waited for a Mr Crawford who had changed his mind. It was surely her lucky day. I was relieved for her, as I was for myself. I can’t honestly say that I enjoy my sorties. I am killing after all, and that calls for little pleasure. Of course, I am thrilled each time I get away with it but that thrill is temporary and I have continually to bear in mind the purpose of my crusade. It is that which propels me. I thought of Verry. Her resemblance to Melissa had shaken me, and I valued her more and more. I thought I’d buy her a little treat, so I dropped into the mini-market with my trolley, like any respectable shopper, and I bought a side of smoked salmon and a good bottle of Chablis.
I had saved Wilkins a journey to Hertfordshire, and I wondered where he would like me to send him next. He’d already been to South Wales on my behalf, the London suburbs, Birmingham and, to top it all, Paris. I thought another journey to Kent might please him. He could take his wife along and she could visit her relations, while he was looking for clues and witnesses – of which there would be none. So I decided on Canterbury.
On investigation, I found the place riddled with psychotherapists. Perhaps it was the awesome aura of the cathedral and its pious overtones. Therapy must have been seen as a safe haven from its guilt-inducing severity. There was a Mrs Sheila Stephens practising there, audaciously in the precincts of the cathedral itself. Her location plainly proclaimed that she was offering an alternative. I was aware that it was a strike that entailed some risk – and a very special disguise. Mrs Stephens lived in a well-populated quarter, where tourists outnumbered residents. I first thought I might dress as one of them, an American perhaps, with a garish T-shirt and cigar. But that was too easy, too obvious and lacking in imagination.
A better disguise was that of a clergyman. In my reconnaissance I had noted that many men of the cloth ambled in the cathedral precinct. I made a note of their garb and their gait and I felt that both suited me. I hired the costume from a theatrical costumier. I told them it was for amateur dramatics, which was partly true. Drama it certainly was, but by now I was far from amateur. I didn’t bother to make an appointment. The arrival of a clergyman at a Canterbury door would be no surprise. I would carry a box with me as though collecting for charity.
The cathedral clock struck four as I passed her doorway. I knew that sessions usually lasted about fifty minutes, and just in case she had a patient I would wait around until he or she left. But within ten minutes, a man emerged, looking rather distraught, I thought. His had clearly been a depressing session. I waited a while, then I boldly went to her door and rang her bell.
She answered almost immediately and smiled when she saw me. Men of the cloth are used to welcome and I returned her smile. I decided that this was going to be a quick one.
‘I’m collecting for children in Ethiopia,’ I said, and I stuck my foot in the door.
‘Just a moment,’ she said. ‘I’m on the phone.’
I went straight inside.
‘I’ll be there at six,’ I heard her say.
I wouldn’t count on it, I thought. Then she came back. My string was at the ready. I took her from behind, rather as I had poor Miss Mayling about five killings ago. It was all over quickly. There was a lot of blood, but I kept myself spotless. I made sure her pulse was still, then I left, rattling my collection box, first making sure that no one was in the close. I joined a group of clergymen who were making their way to the cathedral. I acknowledged one of them and commented on the weather. But he shook his head. ‘Spanish,’ he said and I was relieved.
I had never been inside the cathedral and I thought I might as well do a bit of sightseeing. But once inside, I felt deeply out of place, and for good reason, and slowly I backed my way outside. I was anxious to get out of my disguise. I thought that without it my shame would cool. But it took some time, and I had reached the outskirts of London before I was calm again. The thought of the purpose of my mission justified all.
The following morning, I returned the costume to the costumier. The assistant asked me if the play was a success.
‘Did you have a good house?’ he asked.
‘Full,’ I said. ‘Relatives.’ I laughed.
‘What was the play called?’
He’d caught me on the hop.
‘The Vicar’s Lapse,’ I said off the top of my head.
‘Sounds interesting,’ he said.
I fled before he could question me further. I was glad to get rid of that costume and I resolved never to use such a disguise again. It was a temptation to fate. It was an insult, an offence, a base irreverence, and to whom I dared not contemplate. So it’s
SEVEN DOWN. TWO TO GO.
It was Save the Children …
It was Save the Children Week in Canterbury. Much work had gone into its promotion. Sundry committees had organised events which were to culminate in a grand fête in the city square. Coordinating all these committees was Mrs Sheila Stephens, a bigwig in the Canterbury community, a JP who sat on the Bench, and who, apart from all her good works, practised as a part-time psychotherapist. A final meeting of all the committees to coordinate events was scheduled to take place on a Thursday evening at six o’clock.
They were gathered in the council chamber of the Town Hall. The chairmen of each committee had prepared their progress reports. They were ready to begin. But they were missing their president. Mrs Stephens was a stickler for punctuality and they couldn’t understand why she was late. Some emergency might have occurred, one suggested. She may be ill, said another.
‘She’s not ill,’ a woman said. ‘I spoke to her on the phone at about four o’clock. She said she’d be here at six.’
‘Let’s give her another ten minutes,’ they decided. ‘She’s bound to have some explanation.’
Since it was Mrs Stephens’ duty
to authorise all the arrangements, it was impossible to proceed without her. The minutes went by. The gathering was restless and a little concerned. At six-thirty, the Reverend Tom Fenby, who was in charge of the tombola, offered to go round to the precinct and knock on her door. They all agreed and said that they would wait for his return.
When he was gone, they speculated on the causes of Mrs Stephens’ absence.
‘Cold feet at the last minute,’ Mrs Havering suggested. She had never liked Mrs Stephens. Thought her a bossy-boots.
‘I must say,’ Mrs Gordon of the cake stall offered, ‘it’s quite a relief to be without her. She should never have been elected in the first place.’
‘Amen to that,’ Mr Naughton offered. He’d wanted to take charge of the coconut shy, but Mrs Stephens had ordered him to the ticket booth where he would be stuck for the whole afternoon and could enjoy nothing.
By the time the Reverend Tom Fenby returned, Mrs Stephens’ reputation was in tatters. Unmendable, torn asunder by many bitter words, which later would have cause to be eaten and swallowed in shame. Or pretend that none of them had been said or heard.
They were appalled at Reverend Fenby’s appearance. He was white. He struggled into the hall and groped for a seat. He was breathless with horror.
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