Death Takes a Lover

by Olivier Bosman

  “Who from?”

  “Who do you think? He hovers over us like a buzzard and sees everything we do.”

  “I was just looking at it.”

  There was more sniggering from the servants crowding the doorway.

  “Indulging in solitary vices can lead to lunacy,” said Roger, with a mocking grin on his face. “They taught me that at Sunday school.”

  “I didn't do anything,” Billings protested.

  “But you wanted to. A sin's a sin. God does not differentiate between sins of the mind and sins of the body.”

  Billings turned his eyes away and hung his head.

  The syringe kept rattling against the floor. Roger turned to look. It rolled straight from the doorway towards his foot and he trapped it beneath his boot. He bent over and picked it up.

  “And what is this?” he asked, holding out the syringe to Billings.

  “It helps me to sleep.”

  “Do you think that God doesn't see you just because you inject after sundown?”

  “There’s no harm in it. I get tense sometimes. And anxious. It helps me rid myself of troubling feelings.”

  “Why are you so tense and anxious?”

  “I don't know.”

  “It’s because you choose to lead a life of solitude.”

  “I did not choose a life of solitude.”

  “Why are you always alone then?”

  “I’ve yet to meet the right lady.”

  Roger laughed and turned to the servants in the doorway.

  “Lady, he says!”

  They laughed with him.

  “Why are you laughing?” asked Billings, offended.

  “Because it’s not a lady you want, is it, Detective Sergeant?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Don’t you? Have you never seen a handsome young man walk past you in the street and wondered what it would be like to hold him?”

  “No.”

  “Have you never wondered what it would be like to cup your hands around his buttocks?”

  “No, I have not!”

  “You need to be touched more, that's your problem. When was the last time you were touched?”

  “Touched?”

  “Embraced. Loved.”

  “I do not need to be touched.”

  “Would you like to hold me?”

  “No.”

  “Let me hold you then.”

  Roger crouched down and began taking Billings in his arms.

  “Get off me!” He was frantically pulling himself away, but Roger wrapped his arms tight around Billings’ torso and would not let go.

  “Hush. Don't fight it. It's only for comfort,” said Roger as he rested his head on Billings’ shoulder.

  He glanced towards the doorway, feeling guilty and embarrassed. Wilcox, Martha and Gracie were gone and the door was shut. Eventually he gave up the struggle and let himself go limp.

  “That’s it,” said Roger. “Give in to it. Enjoy it.”

  Billings closed his eyes and rested his head on Roger’s shoulder.

  “Can you smell the scent lavender wafting from my shirt?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do you feel my golden locks tickling your nostrils?”

  “Yes.”

  Then there was a knock on the door. Billings opened his eyes, alarmed.

  “There's somebody there…”

  “Let them wait.”

  Billings tried to break away from the embrace.

  “I can’t! I have to wake up. I have to open the door.” But Roger continued to hold him tight.

  “Have you found out what happened to me yet?”

  “Please let me go!”

  “You don't really believe that I walked out on to the moors in feverish delusion and froze to death there, do you? They'll laugh at you back at the Yard if you write that in your report.”

  “Let me go, please! I don’t want them to find me dazed and doped again!”

  Billings tore himself free from the embrace and opened his eyes. Roger was gone. The window was closed. There was a gentle tapping on the door.

  “Mr Billings, open up.” It was Wilcox’s voice. “It’s time for you to go.”

  Billings threw the blankets off him and was about to get up and answer the door when he noticed a wet patch on his pyjama trousers.

  Damn it! he thought. He hadn’t had one of those for a long time.

  “Mr Billings!” Wilcox was still knocking on the door.

  “Yes, yes, I’m coming.”

  Billings got up, took off his pyjamas, shoved them into his satchel, put on a pair of trousers and rushed to the door to open it.

  Wilcox stepped in and looked around with disdain. The room was in disorder. Billings’ belongings were scattered all over the floor and he himself was only half dressed.

  “But you're not ready!” said the butler. “Yeardley's waiting outside for you. The train to York leaves in an hour.”

  “I’m not going.”

  “You’re not? But you promised Mrs Thornton that you would be off first thing in the morning. We arranged a carriage specially for you.”

  “Well, I've changed my mind. I haven't finished my enquiries.”

  Wilcox rolled his eyes in exasperation.

  “There isn't anything else for you to learn here, Mr Billings. We've given you the whole story between us.”

  “Why don't you meet me in your parlour in half an hour, Mr Wilcox? I have some questions I should like to ask you.”

  “Can't you ask me them now?”

  “I'd prefer to get dressed first.”

  “Mrs Thornton will not be happy about this.”

  “You can tell your mistress that I shall be speaking to her too.”

  “She won't talk to you again, Detective Sergeant Billings. I can tell you that now.”

  “She'll do as she's told, Mr Wilcox. As will you. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to get dressed. I shall see in you in your parlour in half an hour.”

  Wilcox hesitated. There was a worried light in his eyes and it seemed he was about to protest again, but he changed his mind and left the room without uttering another word.

  *

  The butler was waiting in his parlour, fidgeting with the buttons on his black coat, when Billings came in.

  “Well, what is it now?” said Wilcox, scowling at him. “What on earth could there be that you are still unclear about?”

  “Will you sit down, Mr Wilcox?”

  “No, I will not!”

  “Well, you won't mind if I do.” Billings pulled up a chair and sat down. “The Yorkshire Constabulary’s report made no mention of Gracie's maltreatment in this house,” he continued. “It seems to me that the abuse she suffered under your supervision must certainly have contributed to the distress which drove her into the asylum.”

  Wilcox looked aghast.

  “Maltreatment?” he exclaimed.

  “Isn't it odd that the Yorkshire constabulary did not report on it?”

  “There was nothing to report. Gracie was not abused.”

  “So she wasn't beaten?”

  “Beaten?”

  “She wasn't hit? Or slapped? Or kicked?”

  “Why are you asking me that? Who told you Gracie was beaten?”

  “I'm the one doing the interviewing, Mr Wilcox. Will you answer my question?”

  The butler hesitated briefly, then sat down opposite him.

  “You must understand, Gracie had a child's mind and it was easy to forget sometimes that she was actually a fifty-two-year-old woman. I admit Martha did sometimes resort to disciplining her the way she would a child. A slap on the head if Gracie wouldn't listen or a kick on the backside when she was frustratingly slow over her chores, but it was never forceful. Never painful. And it had the desired effect.”

  “So you wouldn't call that abuse?”

  “No, I would not.”

  “I wonder if the cook would see it differently. She spoke with great relish and delig
ht when she told me about tormenting Gracie.”

  “You mustn't believe everything Martha says. She likes to embellish things.”

  “She told me a few interesting details about you too.”

  “About me?”

  “About you and Mr Thornton.”

  There was a short pause and Billings could see Wilcox's eyes darting to and fro, trying to calculate precisely what the cook might have said about him.

  “Martha has always been a little jealous of my relationship with Master Roger,” he said eventually. “I was a surrogate father to the young master and he always showed me a great deal of affection. As I said, you mustn't believe everything she tells you.”

  “Are you married, Mr Wilcox?”

  “Married? Me? No.”

  “Have you ever been married?”

  “No, I have not.”

  “Are there no women in your life, Mr Wilcox?”

  “I do not have the time for women, Mr Billings.”

  “Must be very lonely for you.”

  “Not at all. I have my work to distract me. And the family has always been most kind. As I said, Master Roger was like a...”

  “Ah, yes. Master Roger.”

  Wilcox seemed taken aback by this interruption and looked confused.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Mrs Pringle has made some rather salacious allegations about you and Mr Thornton.”

  “Salacious allegations?”

  “Something about a scarf.”

  There was a pause. Wilcox looked away and began shuffling uncomfortably in his seat.

  “I don’t know what you mean, Detective Sergeant Billings,” he murmured, without meeting the detective’s eye.

  “She says she saw you take Miss Whitfield's scarf from Mr Thornton and tie it over your head.”

  “And why would I do that?”

  “To please Mr Thornton.”

  “Please him?”

  “To please him in a sexual way.”

  “I see.”

  Wilcox was still looking away. He was beginning to blush.

  Billings suddenly felt a pang of sympathy as he watched the other man cringe and squirm, but then memories of his own disturbing dream flashed back and he quickly collected himself. Why should he feel sorry for Wilcox? This was the sort of ignominy you deserved when you gave in to your own base desires. Such a thing could never happen to Billings himself.

  “I suppose you find all this amusing,” said Wilcox, without looking the detective in the eye.

  “I do not find it in any way amusing, Mr Wilcox.”

  “You think I'm ridiculous, don't you? You take pleasure in embarrassing me. You're mocking me.”

  “I am not mocking you. I am merely...”

  “You feel contempt for me.”

  “I do not feel contempt for you, Mr Wilcox.”

  “Yes, you do. You feel contempt for me and the whole servant class. It’s pathetic, isn’t it, the loyal old butler who stoops to pleasing his young master. That's how you see me, isn't it?”

  “Mr Wilcox, I was only trying to verify an allegation which...”

  “Well, it's not true, Mr Billings. I deny it! I deny it most vigorously! Martha is a liar. And if she wants to blacken my name then I will blacken hers. Martha was a bully, Mr Billings. She was a sadist and a tyrant and she made life in this house hell for Gracie!”

  I knew it! thought Billings. Now all he had to do was make a few casual enquiries without letting Wilcox know that he had fallen into a carefully laid trap.

  “A sadist and a tyrant? Those are strong words, Mr Wilcox. Would you care to elaborate?”

  “Let me tell you about the time Gracie mixed up the sugar with the salt. She came into my parlour screaming, tears rolling down her face.

  “'Oh, Mr Wilcox! Please! Please!' she cried, helplessly.

  “'What is it? What's wrong?' I asked her.

  “Then Martha appeared in the doorway behind her. She was holding a bowl of gruel in her hands.

  “'Tha aren't getting away from me, tha stupid bint!' she said.

  “Gracie screamed and hid behind me.

  “'Oh, Mr Wilcox. Please! Please!' she begged again.

  “'What the devil is the matter?' I said, angry at being disturbed during my rest. 'Why is Gracie crying?'

  “'Because she's a baby, that's why!' said Martha, approaching us with the bowl of gruel still in her hands. 'A baby who won't eat her gruel!'

  “'Won't eat?'

  “'She won't eat, Mr Wilcox. Hasn't eaten anything all day.'

  “I turned back to Gracie, still cowering behind me but no longer crying.

  “'You must eat, Gracie,' I said gently.

  “'I won't! I can't!'

  “'Come, come, Gracie. You must eat something.' And I took the bowl off Martha and held the spoon out to the cowering maid.

  “'I won't! It's horrible!' she said, turning her head away from the spoon.

  “'Yes, you will, Gracie. We can't have hotpot every day. I've had my gruel. Cook's had hers. Now, come on.'

  “I was still holding the spoon out to her, but she stubbornly refused even to look at it.

  “'Gracie, you're acting like a spoiled child,’ I said. ‘You've had this before. Cook hasn't made it any differently today, have you, Cook? Now, come on, I don't have time for this. Eat up.'

  “'No!'

  “'For heaven's sake! Look, I'll have a taste of it. See, I'm putting it in my mouth now.'

  “Both Gracie and Martha watched as I tasted the gruel. It didn't take long for me to realise there was something wrong with it and I spat the contents back into the bowl.

  “'It's salty!' I said in disgust.

  “'That's right, Mr Wilcox,' Martha nodded smugly. 'It's salty.'

  “'You must've put a whole pot of salt in it!'

  “'I did put a whole pot of salt in it, Mr Wilcox. And Gracie knows why. Go on then, Gracie, tell Mr Wilcox why I put salt in th'gruel instead of sugar.'

  “'Because I filled the wrong pot,' Gracie mumbled, looking down at the ground.

  “'What?'

  “'She filled the wrong pot, Mr Wilcox! Gracie put salt in the sugar pot! I've made a whole pan of salty gruel now! That's a half a bag of it wasted! Who's going to explain that to Mrs Thornton?'

  “'I can't read letters,' Gracie mumbled in an attempt to defend herself.

  “'I can't read letters either, but I know t’salt pot's on the left and t’sugar pot's on the right! Dost tha know thy left from thy right, Gracie?'

  “'Aye.'

  “'No, tha doesn't!'

  “'Aye, I do.'

  “'Put up thy left hand, then.'

  “Gracie hesitated and put up the wrong arm.

  “'See, Mr Wilcox!' Martha pointed out triumphantly. 'That's what I have to put up with. I'm not gonna throw a whole bag of salt away! She's the one who ruined the gruel, she's the one who's got to eat it!'

  “She then took the bowl out of my hands, grabbed Gracie by the hair and began pouring the contents of the bowl into her mouth.

  “I was trying desperately to separate the two women, who were screaming and crying like cats in the night time, when Master Roger suddenly came barging into the parlour.

  “'What's all this commotion?' he asked, angrily.

  “We were all taken aback by his sudden appearance and stared at him guiltily, like three naughty children about to be reprimanded

  “'My mother is upstairs with a headache, trying to get some sleep,' he said. Suddenly he noticed Gracie was crying. 'What is it? Why is she crying? What have you done to her?' he said, looking at Martha.

  “'Me? I...'

  “'Gracie is homesick,' I explained. I did not want to pass on my problems with squabbling housemaids to Master Roger. It wasn't his task to settle servants’ disputes. 'She is having problems settling in.'

  “'Homesick? Nonsense! You're far better off living here than on that old farm of yours,' he said, with a gentle smile for Gracie. 'What's there
to go back home for? There's nobody left there. At least here there are people who care for you.' She was visibly soothed by the attention he was giving her. 'Now dry your eyes, stop squabbling and get back to work. All of you. And do be quiet, for my mother’s sake.'

  “Gracie talked of nothing else for the next few days but the kindness which Master Roger had showed towards her and the beautiful smile he had given her. She was so proud of it. He really was the only person who treated her with any kindness. It's no wonder she...”

  Wilcox stopped talking all at once and stared worriedly towards the open door. Billings followed the direction of his gaze. Mrs Thornton was standing in the corridor, looking into the parlour.

  “Wilcox, why the delay?” she asked. “Yeardley is waiting with the carriage to take the detective away.”

  “Detective Sergeant Billings is not leaving,” Wilcox announced.

  Mrs Thornton raised an eyebrow. She stared into the pale, set face of the policeman.

  “But you gave me your word, Detective Sergeant.”

  “I've changed my mind.”

  “You cannot do that… you gave me your word!” She was trying desperately to suppress the rage bubbling up inside her. “Do you think I have lied to you?” she added in a calmer tone.

  “I'm not saying you lied to me. There are merely some further details I should like to...”

  “You must think I'm an evil harpy who has been trying to manipulate you!” Her rage was boiling over now. She clenched her fists so tight that her fingernails started to dig into her palms.

  “Mrs Thornton, I assure you...”

  “You must think I murdered my own son and bathed in his blood!”

  She had now given up any attempt to restrain herself and was stalking angrily around the room.

  “Mrs Thornton, you're being melodramatic.”

  “You gave me your word. You told me yesterday that if I'd talk to you, you would go away… leave me to mourn in peace!”

  “I know I did, but...”

  “But what? Do you enjoy doing this?”

  “No, I do not. I...”

  “You're a sadist, aren't you! That's what it is.”

  “A sadist?”

  “I thought somehow, as a police detective, you would be a better class of person, but you're not! You're just like the rest of them. Like those nasty policemen from York who came here to revel in my misery. Another upstart who has come to gloat at the distress of the upper classes! You're here to taunt me, that's it, isn’t it? Well, I hope it gives you pleasure, I really do. You'll never see a proud lady more broken than I am!”