The Protagonists

by James Barlow

  ‘It amounts to this, then,’ said MacIndoe. ‘You become friendly with a girl, you seduce her, allowing her to talk marriage without rebuffing her. She falls in love with you and gives you all that a woman in love can. At the same time you are not in love with her. You are married and explain this to her, telling her that your wife is ill …’

  Fortescue glanced up in pure fright at the last words, which must have seemed to come from the very grave. ‘I didn’t kill her. You can’t blame me if I pick up a good-looking woman who’s giving it away. She was bound to meet someone unpleasant sooner or later. I expect she’s given herself to one of these mad bastards who get excited and kill people.’

  MacIndoe knew now, from the mouth of the man who had destroyed Olwen’s innocence (unless the diary was a fantasy, all lies, and there had been others before Fortescue), that, although she had had frequent intercourse with Fortescue, her motives had been comparatively innocent. This had little value in any legal proof of guilt; but MacIndoe wished to bring the realization to Fortescue that, irrespective of murder, he had done an evil thing. It was not just that MacIndoe intended to do what the priest wished. The dead Olwen had affected him personally more than had any previous victim. Only somebody of extraordinary evil could do what had been done and then talk about the girl as if she were rubbish, of no account, as Fortescue was doing. Even if Fortescue had not committed murder, his dialogue showed an exceptional callousness. Evelyn, another victim, had said, ‘I don’t want to hear what some shop-girl said.’ Perhaps she had been tainted by her husband; perhaps she had merely flinched from the words of the shop-girl; but in any case the attitude was mistaken. It was as if each stood as a symbol – the girl of goodness and the man of evil. The words of the good were feeble; they showed no results or dividends; held out promises only of suffering and endeavour and at most peace. The words of the evil seemed more subtle and persuasive; they proceeded more logically; they held out proofs and possession and enjoyment, at any rate until death. In the face of distance and time, the bleatings of the good about life after death, the reward of a particular type of behaviour against all instincts, seemed absurd. The Fortescues of the world knew that the churches were empty except for those whose fear and feebleness made enjoyment for them impossible in any case; those who could not indulge and enjoy protested at those who did; it was the reverse side of the acceptance of instincts. This was the attitude MacIndoe had to defeat, and he knew in dejection that he was making no progress.

  It would, of course, have been necessary to find out Fortescue’s exact relationship with the girl apart from the moral sense. Since Fortescue had admittedly been sexually involved with her, from the police point of view it remained to be established when he first became involved with her (if, in fact, he could have caused her pregnancy), and when he was last involved with her. It was obvious that he, as a person intimate with a girl who had on the day of her death allowed a degree of intimacy (the undone blouse) – and allowed it willingly – would have to account very precisely for his movements on that day. The fact that MacIndoe was quite certain of Fortescue’s guilt did not make such questioning unnecessary.

  He asked, ‘When did you first meet her?’

  ‘In the spring.’

  ‘In March?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘How often did you meet her?’

  ‘Once a week.’

  ‘Any particular day?’

  ‘Usually on Tuesdays.’

  ‘Why that particular day?’

  ‘She had her half day then.’

  ‘Did you ever meet her on any other day?’

  ‘Once or twice on a Sunday.’

  ‘How were you able to meet her on what was for you a working day?’

  ‘I used to hurry up my work so’s I could see her.’

  ‘At what time on the Tuesdays did you meet her?’

  ‘When she finished work.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘One o’clock.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At the cross-roads.’

  ‘In Clifford Avenue?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘After lunch?’

  ‘Sometimes before.’

  ‘Then you took her to lunch?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Where did you take her to lunch?’

  ‘Anywhere handy.’

  ‘Where in particular?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Did you ever go to the Priory Tea Rooms?’

  ‘We may have done.’

  ‘To the Dragon Hotel?’

  ‘No, not the Dragon.’

  ‘You can’t remember where you went, but you can remember where you didn’t. Do you know where the Dragon is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You might have been there.’

  ‘No. It’s a boozer. Olwen didn’t drink.’

  ‘She didn’t have to drink.’

  ‘Well, we didn’t, anyway.’

  ‘On how many Tuesdays did you take Miss Hughes to lunch?’

  ‘Nearly every time I met her.’

  ‘You met her often?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Every Tuesday?’

  ‘Well, almost.’

  ‘Miss Hughes has been seen in the Dragon.’

  ‘Not with me.’

  ‘She’s been in there with a man for lunch – always on a Tuesday.’

  ‘I didn’t meet her every Tuesday.’

  ‘You met her almost every Tuesday.’

  ‘We didn’t go in the Dragon. It was probably another red-head.’

  ‘No, no,’ said MacIndoe. ‘The barman and the waiter identified her at once from a photograph. It was they who said she had red hair.’

  ‘Then it shows you – she was anybody’s pick-up.’

  ‘It was always the same man.’

  ‘It wasn’t me.’

  ‘Where did you go to lunch with Olwen?’

  ‘We once went to the Castle at Brownhill.’

  ‘Is that a licensed hotel?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Miss Hughes didn’t want to go in the Dragon, but she didn’t mind the Castle?’

  ‘Well, they’ve done it up to look like a castle.’

  ‘Did she have anything to drink?’

  ‘She sometimes had a sherry.’

  ‘Sometimes – when you only went once?’

  ‘I brought it in the car sometimes.’

  ‘Why, since she didn’t drink?’

  ‘She didn’t at first.’

  ‘You persuaded her to?’

  ‘It was the same with everything: she’d pretend to be goody-goody until she’d been talked into it: then she was the same as the others.’

  ‘You had to talk her into things?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you talk her into love-making?’

  ‘Why else would I go with her?’

  ‘Is that how you deal with other people?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Has anybody ever talked you into anything, Mr Fortescue?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘How would you feel if someone talked you into doing something you knew was wrong? Would you love them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Olwen Hughes loved you. Can you imagine why?’

  ‘Because she was a fool.’

  ‘Do you think all pretty girls are fools?’

  ‘Most of them.’

  ‘What about the ugly ones?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Are they fools too? What are their qualities?’

  ‘They’re just damn unlucky.’

 
‘Why do you think people are created, Mr Fortescue?’

  ‘Because their parents went to bed.’

  It was useless. He was impenetrable. MacIndoe said in something like despair, ‘What do you think of your mother? Are you fond of her?’

  ‘You bet. She’s got the cash.’

  Perhaps, thought MacIndoe, he will see it if we can break him the other way. He proceeded: ‘Where did you take Miss Hughes in your car?’

  ‘Usually for a drive in the countryside. We’ve been to the pictures a few times.’

  ‘To dances?’

  ‘One or two.’

  ‘And always on a Tuesday?’

  ‘Nearly always.’

  ‘What did you do last Tuesday?’

  ‘I worked.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘In Birlchester.’

  ‘Which part?’

  ‘All over.’

  ‘Including the south-west?’

  ‘No; not that part.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’d no cause to go there.’

  ‘Do you have a routine of any sort?’

  ‘Not specially.’

  ‘You just go to places when you feel like it?’

  ‘I go when I’ve got to.’

  ‘That’s no answer. You have already told us that you visited that part on a Tuesday. Am I right, Constable?’

  The constable turned back the sheets of his note-book. He said, ‘You said to him, “Have you ever called at Swan’s of 57, Clifford Avenue?” – “Yes. I often go there” – “How often?” – “Once a fortnight” – “On what day” – “Tuesdays usually” – Then just now you said to him, “How often did you meet her?” – “Once a week” – “Any particular day?” – “Usually on Tuesdays.”’

  Fortescue, sweating slightly, said quickly, ‘Well, it wasn’t as hard and fast as all that. I tried to get there on Tuesdays when I wanted to meet Olwen.’

  ‘Did you meet her on Tuesday?’

  ‘No. I’d stopped meeting her.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘For several weeks.’

  ‘Had you dumped her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She was mushy.’

  ‘You have already denied dumping her,’ said MacIndoe.

  ‘Also that she dumped you. Suppose you tell us what did happen.’

  ‘She said that she’d met another man, and that we mustn’t meet again.’

  ‘So she did dump you?’

  ‘It was mutual.’

  ‘Did she say who the other man was?’

  There was the ghost of a smile on Fortescue’s face as he said, ‘His name was Harrison.’

  ‘We’ve been trying to find Mr Harrison,’ said MacIndoe. ‘The only information we had was that he had a mad wife called Evelyn. You’re married, aren’t you, Mr Fortescue?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s your wife’s name?’

  ‘She’s not mad …’

  ‘I didn’t ask that. Her name?’

  ‘Evelyn Margaret.’

  ‘Which do you call her?’

  ‘I call her Evelyn.’

  ‘And she has a psychological illness, hasn’t she?’ MacIndoe said. ‘Your mother calls her Margaret. Can you suggest why?’

  Fortescue was at last startled. ‘My mother?’

  ‘Answer the question!’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Have you seen your mother lately?’

  ‘Ten days ago.’

  ‘Can you suggest any reason why she should think you were dead?’

  ‘Think I was dead?’

  ‘Yes. She thinks you’re dead, Mr Fortescue. I wonder why?’

  ‘I don’t understand all this.’

  ‘I think I do. I don’t believe in coincidences, not when there are four, fìve and a dozen of them. Did you ever know a man named Guy Lester?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you ever heard of him?’

  ‘No. What’s his line?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘I don’t know any dead people.’

  ‘You don’t think much about death, do you, Mr Fortescue?’

  ‘I’m not scared of it.’

  ‘Do you ever think about old age?’

  ‘I’ll worry about that when I reach it.’

  ‘And if you reach it, Mr Fortescue. A lot of people die young these days. What will you do if you reach old age? Will you, in the absence of physical potency, read dirty books? You’ll have to do something, won’t you, Mr Fortescue? Perhaps you’ll start to think.’

  ‘I’m under no obligation to listen to this tripe. Have you run out of questions? You’re not allowed to threaten me.’

  ‘There was another subject I’d like to talk about. I see you’re wearing a Royal Air Force tie. Are you a member of the R.A.F.?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I understand the Mr Harrison we’re seeking may be a member of the R.A.F.V.R. Are you in any Air Force reserve, Mr Fortescue?’

  ‘No. I’ve more sense.’

  ‘Why do you wear the tie?’

  ‘I was in during the war.’

  ‘Were you really? Sergeant Baker here was on fighters. Whirlwinds, was it, Sergeant?’

  ‘Spitfires,’ said Baker.

  ‘Were you on fighters, Mr Fortescue? You look the type.’

  ‘I was on bombers.’

  ‘I had a cousin at Mildenhall,’ said MacIndoe. ‘He was on radar. Perhaps you met him.’

  ‘No. I was at Little Over.’

  ‘The name strikes a chord. Didn’t something special happen there?’

  ‘We did the Kiel show from there. Dropping mines in ten-tenths flak. Only a few got back.’

  ‘Did you go on that show?’

  ‘You bet.’

  ‘Did I ask you about a man called Guy Lester, Mr Fortescue?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve never heard of him.’

  MacIndoe said in a hard, official voice, ‘Wing Commander Guy Lester led the Kiel show, Mr Fortescue. He was killed. You didn’t fly on that raid, did you? You don’t know any dead people, do you? I think you know one named Olwen Hughes very well.’

  Fortescue’s hands writhed. ‘There were other raids on Kiel. I thought you meant –’

  ‘We know where you went,’ said MacIndoe. Fortescue flinched before the power of his voice. ‘You were at Little Over in April and May of 1943. After that you proceeded to Biggots Aybury, where you met your wife.’

  Fortescue said in fear, ‘It doesn’t prove anything.’

  ‘You say Olwen left you for a man named Harrison?’

  ‘Yes. It must have been –’

  ‘Do you know Harrison’s Christian name?’

  ‘She didn’t say.’

  ‘A friend has told us that it was Roy.’

  ‘I can’t help that. My surname’s Fortescue.’

  MacIndoe slammed the desk with the palm of his right hand. It was a movement of tremendous strength, so suggestive of physical power that even Baker and Maddocks were quite startled. ‘Mr Roy Harrison was a pilot at Little Over in the war,’ he said in an immense voice. ‘He was a commercial traveller. He took Olwen Hughes to the Castle at Brownhill. He cooked her up on sherries in his car. He had a mad wife called Evelyn. What kind of fools d’ye think we are? Did ye kill Olwen?’

  Fortescue’s mouth, scarcely under control, the jaw slack and the teeth chattering, said in a feeble, childish voice, ‘You’re saying all that because you know I was all those things …’

  ‘Harrison said them.’

  ‘I don’t know Harrison.’

>   ‘Olwen Hughes did.’

  ‘If you know Harrison said them to her, you must know Harrison … He must have told you.’

  ‘He told her, and she told us.’

  ‘She’s dead. How could she?’

  ‘In her diary.’

  Almost inaudibly Fortescue said, ‘Oh, Christ, oh, Christ.’ (Oh, Christ, in whom I, Roy Fortescue, do not believe, save me now from the justice of these men who will kill me, so that I may again have the privilege of not acknowledging You.)

  Death, the thing he had mocked at as trivial and defeasible a few minutes before, looked at him from across the desk. Death was a middle-aged man in a cheap, dirty raincoat. Fortescue looked at him in fear: he had not seemed an important opponent: even now he did not look like a man who won intellectual arguments. Death was a tubby man who had left his tea to grow cold. He was a man with a rounded, benign, sunburnt face, going bald so that the top front of his head was browned also, like the sort of egg housewives prefer. His brown eyes stared at you in sadness. He did not seem to mind the fact of your death: he had some other bee in his bonnet about Olwen: whether you had loved her and a lot of curious questions about morality: as though, if you said, ‘Yes, I know I did wrong,’ he would smile and say, ‘Well, that’s all right then, and we can both have a clear conscience about your death.’ They all moralize when they are old, but make sure of their pleasures first. Donne’s famous sermon had the title, ‘Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth’; but Donne had been as bawdy as the rest of the youth of his time. What he had done to Olwen was no worse than what Donne had done to many a girl in his youth. Olwen had asked for it, hadn’t she? Was it that he, Fortescue, was married? Was it the fact of Olwen’s pregnancy? Death had said nothing about that, although he must be aware of it since every newspaper in the land had mentioned it. Fortescue, so frightened that he could scarcely hold his water, and without the strength to stand upright and walk, was yet able to think. He made no surrenders or apologies yet, and his only acknowledgement had been negative and selfish, but thoughts beyond himself were beginning to enter his head.

  MacIndoe, seeing that his agony included something else besides fear, aware that at last something had penetrated, said quietly and even reluctantly, ‘Are these your shoes, coat and flannels?’