Malice Aforethought

by Francis Iles

  “Really, really?”

  “Really, really, really.”

  Dr. Bickleigh released her and began to walk about restlessly. Madeleine sat on the arm of a chair and watched him.

  “Darling, I know you do love me, but how much?”

  “Quite a lot, Edmund.”

  “If only I knew how much,” he groaned.

  “Why?”

  “I want to know.”

  He did want to know. If she did—well, everything else could go to the wall, including Julia. Not that Julia’s beastly jealousy had made him doubt Madeleine for an instant, but he had to know how great her love was. A test—he must think of a test that would show him once and for all.

  He thought of one. Trembling, he crossed to where she sat and took her hand. “Madeleine,” he said hoarsely, “suppose— suppose I asked you to come away now, just as we are, and—and live with me. Would you?”

  Madeleine tilted back her head and looked him full in the eyes. “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Then you do love me!”

  “Yes.”

  It was his supreme moment.

  They clung to one another in a holy embrace.

  That night Dr. Bickleigh decided that Julia must die.

  CHAPTER VI

  1

  EARLY IN November, Dr. Bickleigh met Quarnian Torr late one afternoon some miles from Wyvern’s Cross. She had been out beagling, and, stopping him, demanded a lift back.

  One could always rely on Quarnian for the neighbourhood’s news. He had scarcely tucked the rug round her before she began.

  “Heard the latest, Dr. Bickleigh?”

  “I don’t expect so. What?”

  “About Ivy?”

  “No.” Dr. Bickleigh had almost forgotten Ivy. He had not seen her for months. There had been some unpleasant episode. . . . Oh, yes.

  Quarnian eyed her companion surreptitiously, and was disappointed to notice his lack of interest. Everybody knew that at one time he had been quite sweet on Ivy.

  “She’s engaged.” Her news was falling disgustingly flat.

  “Is she?” said Dr. Bickleigh heartily. “Good. Who to?”

  “Mr. Chatford.”

  “Excellent. Capital fellow, Chatford. Very sound.”

  Quarnian rubbed her nose. “Shouldn’t care for him as a husband myself,” she laughed, rather noisily. “Still, there’s no accounting for tastes, is there? I dare say he’ll suit Ivy well enough.”

  “I dare say,” murmured Dr. Bickleigh absently. He was thinking that this tidied up the unfortunate Ivy episode very satisfactorily. Lord, what a rotter he had been in those days. Beastly. . . .

  “Ivy’s awfully gooey, isn’t she?” Quarnian was hopefully prodding.

  “Gooey?”

  “Soppy.”

  “Oh. Yes, perhaps she is a little.”

  Quarnian sighed. This was uphill work. She decided to employ more direct methods.

  “You used to like her all right, though, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, quite. Perfectly harmless. Which is more,” said Dr. Bickleigh, “than one can say for everyone round here.”

  “People do gossip a hell of a lot, don’t they?” agreed Miss Torr frankly. “They make me sick. Miss Peavy, for instance.”

  “Miss Peavy?” Dr. Bickleigh had never classed Miss Peavy among the gossips. She seemed altogether too vague. Miss Wapsworthy, perhaps; there was plenty of malice there. But not Miss Peavy.

  “Rather. And who do you think she’s got her knife into now?”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “Why, Madeleine Cranmere, of all people.”

  If Miss Torr’s object had been to enlist Dr. Bickleigh’s interest, she had succeeded. He stiffened visibly. “Indeed?”

  “You bet she has,” continued Miss Torr with enjoyment, noting her companion’s sudden rigidity. “She’s saying the most awful things about her. I can’t imagine why. I’m awfully fond of Madeleine. Aren’t you, Dr. Bickleigh?” she added artlessly.

  “I think Miss Cranmere is a very charming young lady. It’s disgusting that people should gossip about her.”

  There was a little silence. Quarnian hugged herself. She was far too much of an artist to overdo her effects. Dr. Bickleigh’s tone had suggested plainly that he did not wish to pursue the subject further, and yet Quarnian hardly thought he would leave it at that.

  “What,” asked Dr. Bickleigh very stiffly, “is Miss Peavy saying about Miss Cranmere?”

  “Oh, a most extraordinary story,” replied Quarnian, who thought she could now let herself go. She would have liked a little flirtation with the doctor herself on the way home, but, though she had given him some small encouragement, such as the careful juxtaposition of her knee with his and requiring to have things tucked rather intimately round her, he was obviously not going to oblige; and this was certainly the next best amusement.

  “She’s saying that Madeleine’s in love with a married man, and making the most awful trouble between him and his wife; and that’s why she went away so suddenly. She says they want a divorce and the man’s wife won’t divorce him, and there’ll be the most awful scandal when it all comes out, and—oh, lots of extraordinary things like that. I don’t believe a word of it, do you, Dr. Bickleigh?”

  “Certainly not. It’s—it’s ridiculous.”

  “But it’s all round the place, for all that,” said Quarnian with gusto. “Everybody’s talking about it. I think it’s disgusting, don’t you?”

  “And—who is this married man that Miss Cranmere’s supposed to be in love with?” asked Dr. Bickleigh, very casually.

  “Oh, nobody seems to know that,” Quarnian replied, with complete untruth. “I expect there isn’t such a person at all, if you ask me. Don’t you, Dr. Bickleigh?”

  “I think it’s abominable. And I shall make it my duty to inform Miss Cranmere of these lies when she comes back.” There was a pink spot on each of Dr. Bickleigh’s cheek-bones, but he had his voice quite under control.

  “Oh, do,” urged Quarnian hopefully. “When everybody knows it’s Denny Bourne she really likes,” she added, more hopefully still.

  But this time Dr. Bickleigh was not to be drawn.

  He dropped Quarnian outside the Vicarage, and drove straight to Miss Peavy’s cottage. Miss Peavy was at home, and received him in a flutter of welcome. She had always liked Dr. Bickleigh.

  He marched into the tiny sitting-room and confronted her.

  “Miss Peavy, I hear you’ve been spreading libellous reports about Miss Cranmere. I propose to advise Miss Cranmere to instruct her solicitors. Have you anything to say?”

  “Dr. Bickleigh!” Whatever Miss Peavy might have had to say had apparently been struck clean out of her mouth. She worked it, without result.

  “You don’t deny it, then?”

  “Really, Dr. Bickleigh. . . . This is . . . I don’t understand in the least. Nobody has ever said such a . . . Certainly I have done nothing of the sort. How—how dare you?” Indignation was gradually restoring Miss Peavy’s power of speech.

  “Then you do deny it?”

  “Certainly I do. I—I never spread gossip. I make it a habit. Not to, I mean. Just like Mrs. Bickleigh. This is really quite . . .”

  “Then how do you account for the rumours which I hear are circulating about Miss Cranmere?”

  “I don’t see why I should be called upon to account for them at all,” retorted Miss Peavy with spirit. “What rumours?”

  “Connecting her name with some married man’s, or some nonsense. Do you still deny you’ve been spreading that?”

  “How dare you speak to me like that, Dr. B-bickleigh? C-certainly I d-deny it.”

  “Then I suppose you deny that you’ve ever heard such a rumour?”

  “I shall do nothing of the sort. I hope I shall continue to speak the truth, even if I am to be insulted like this. Quarnian Torr told me that. I refused to listen.”

  “Oh, that’s your story, is it?”

  “Dr.
Bickleigh,” said Miss Peavy, with unusual dignity, “it’s my opinion that you’ve been drinking.”

  Dr. Bickleigh disregarded Miss Peavy’s opinion.

  “Why have you got your knife into Miss Cranmere?”

  “I haven’t got it. My knife. In her, I mean.”

  “Do you tell me that you like Miss Cranmere?”

  “N-no,” squeaked Miss Peavy, but with courage. “No, I don’t like her. I never have liked her. I think—I think she’s untruthful. And—and if you don’t want rumours to go round about her and a married man, you’d better blame the married man, and—and tell him to see that in future there’s no cause for them, Dr. Bickleigh. Th-th-that’s what you’d better do.” And with that she fled out of the room and upstairs to her bedroom, where she hurriedly locked the door.

  Dr. Bickleigh, who had had no intention of pursuing her to that fastness, walked out to his car again. He felt pleased with himself. More, he positively glowed. He had struck a blow for Madeleine. That would stop that hag’s poisonous tongue, and perhaps a few others as well; he certainly had given her the fright of her life.

  Upstairs, Miss Peavy was peeping round the chintz curtain. Breathing very rapidly, she watched the doctor get into his car and drive off.

  “Well . . . ! Well, I . . . I’ve never been so . . . Horrible man! Poor Mrs. Bickleigh . . .” said Miss Peavy, mostly in italics, and burst into tears.

  2

  MADELEINE WAS abroad. She had gone away in the middle of October; in fact, not very long after Denny had returned to Oxford for his last Michaelmas term, and just when Dr. Bickleigh was revelling in having her all to himself; for, though he quite saw the necessity of her spending so much time with Denny, even to the extent of appearing to the gross public to be having an affair with him, and applauded such self-sacrifice on her part, yet it had been nice to have her all to himself. Especially after September.

  September had not been an easy month at all. For one thing, the sanitation motif had kept cropping up, and it had decidedly lost its sanctified aspect. Madeleine had done nothing about it, and Dr. Bickleigh was beginning to take her drains almost as a personal matter. They were abominable, disgraceful, a sheer danger to the whole household: Madeleine must do something about them at once. But Madeleine, displaying unexpected meanness, kept prevaricating, sometimes apologetically, more often testily.

  Her attitude towards her drains was typical of Madeleine just then. She had been—well, not difficult, but obviously suffering from the strain of it all. It is impossible to carry on the love-affair of a century at white heat with a man who happens unfortunately to be married to someone else and not feel any strain, as anybody could understand. September was therefore spent by Madeleine in deciding, on alternate days, that Dr. Bickleigh and she must for a hundred thousand reasons give each other up for ever, and that they could never part at all for the one good reason that they loved each other so stupendously. There had been long and earnest discussions in the library at The Hall (gradually the library had been adopted instead of the drawing-room, as more suitable to such momentous business), to a running accompaniment of passionate embraces, ardent protestations, and tears; but the situation remained apparently unaltered one way or the other.

  Dr. Bickleigh continued to assure Madeleine that to distress herself on Julia’s account was waste of time and trouble, because Julia didn’t deserve it. That Julia had changed her mind about the divorce he judged it better not to mention. He did not tell Madeleine that she need distress herself all the less because he had quite decided now to put Julia out of their joint way, because that is not the sort of consolation one very well can administer; he had to content himself with affirming, as one who knew, that things would come all right for them in the end. Madeleine, not being one who knew, continued to kiss him good-bye for ever one minute and plan to elope to Paris with him the next.

  In the end she eloped to Monte Carlo alone, to “think things over.” It was not the season, she pointed out earnestly, and therefore Monte Carlo would be quite innocuous, even for a high-souled young woman all alone.

  While she was away, Dr. Bickleigh wrote to her ardently every day, and about once a week heard from her in return—artless, sincere little notes such as this:

  “EDMUND DARLING,—I just loved your letter this morning. I could hardly wait for my coffee and rolls to read it. Edmund dear, remember that you promised you wouldn’t let Julia divorce you without letting me know first. Edmund, I do hope I don’t have to marry a divorced man. I love you, darling, love you, love you, love you.

  “Your MADELEINE.

  “PS.—I love you, Edmund.”

  If these notes did not breathe quite all the reckless passion Dr. Bickleigh might have wished, this was doubtless because Madeleine was such a pure and innocent person.

  Well, she would not have to marry a divorced man.

  Dr. Bickleigh had not yet decided on his method, but he had formed his decision.

  Any idea, however preposterous at first sight, if toyed with for long enough will begin to take on a practical aspect; any ugliness will be lifted by familiarity, if not into beauty, at any rate on to a plane where those relative terms have no meaning. The public monuments of Mr. Jacob Epstein cease to be the most preposterously hideous works of sculpture since the antediluvian days of Ur, and become handy conveniences for sparrows. Murder ceases to be murder at all, and becomes a merciful release.

  Of course, Dr. Bickleigh did not think of what he proposed to do as “murder” at all. Not that he consciously avoided the word. He simply could not accept it. Other people “murdered” their wives, but other people’s cases were quite different. His case was unique: Dr. Bickleigh was quite sure of that. Julia was impossible; life with Julia any longer was impossible; divorce by consent was impossible, because Julia, having had her chance, had thrown it away, and Julia never changed her mind more than once; divorce in any case would be calamitous, from his professional standpoint; a future without Madeleine was unthinkable; only one course was inevitable. It was quite simple.

  Dr. Bickleigh did understand quite well that the world would call that course “murder”; but how could the cloddish world ever understand the peculiar delicacy of his own feelings, or appreciate what Madeleine meant to him? Better that a thousand humdrum Julias should be sacrified than that Madeleine should suffer a moment: Julia simply did not count, compared with Madeleine: but how could the world ever understand that? Occasionally, in moments of surprised detachment, Dr. Bickleigh did find himself on the world’s side of the fence. “By Jove, but it is murder.” But the thought was invariably followed by an odd little thrill of pride: “Well, then, here’s one murderer going to get away with it, anyhow.” And the next moment he would see that of course it was not murder at all.

  His normal attitude was simplicity itself. In his duties he had put away plenty of pet animals who had passed their usefulness. Now the time had come to put Julia away. That was all.

  On one point he was quite determined. Not until he had found the perfect plan, the utterly undetectable method, would he do anything at all. To rush things would be fatal.

  His visions took on a new significance. Having contemplated ever since June the fortunate removal of Julia by some opportune disease, the idea of her death was already familiar to him. From that to himself as the cause of it was the smallest of steps. The vision of Julia’s deathbed found itself extended backwards; instead of being occupied exclusively with the result, it began to concern itself with the cause. Poison of some sort? A fatality that would be accepted as an accident? Drowning, if managed in some cunning way? During the winter Dr. Bickleigh lived through them all, while his hours of sleep grew less and less.

  He did not consider that, so far, he was doing anything at all out of the ordinary. From what he had seen of marriage he did not doubt that most married men spend no small part of their lives devising wistful plans for killing off their wives—if only they had the courage to do it. Where his superiority was going
to show itself was in putting his own dreams into action.

  That this superiority was indeed his he now took quite for granted. The fact that Madeleine loved him proved it. Madeleine’s love lifted him out of the ruck and set him on a pedestal, infinitely lower than her own, of course, but infinitely above the common mass too. The man whom Madeleine loved must be a super-being, capable of anything; and if she loved Dr. Bickleigh, as she did, then a super-being Dr. Bickleigh must be—little though he had suspected it before. Now at last his eyes had been opened to himself.

  And, of course, to a super-being murder is merely incidental.

  His visions gradually extended now into the daytime. In a scattered country practice such as his the panel is not large, and there are plenty of private patients. Often Dr. Bickleigh had to drive several miles between visits. It amused him now to amble along at the wheel of the Jowett, down lanes and deserted little roads on which one hardly ever met another vehicle, and chew over, point by point, the details of the plan of the moment: so absorbed that his driving was just mechanical, and the salutations of passing acquaintances went as often as not unnoticed. Over and over it again he would go, by night and by day, with a few tiny variations each time which his imagination, uncurbed by repetition, would always supply; following it step by step and incident by incident through imagined weeks, months, and even years, till at last some major flaw would reveal itself to his patience and he would thankfully discard it to look for another. Julia Bickleigh must have died in at least a dozen different ways before her husband, at the beginning of December, found at last the scheme he had been seeking.

  It was a wonderful scheme. So obviously fool-proof that very little testing was needed. Whatever happened, it could never be found out. There was the possibility of failure, it was true, but that was well worth risking in view of its other merits. He could never find another plan to come near it.

  Curiously enough, it was Julia herself who put it into his mind. Julia had one of her headaches, and asked him for some phenacetin. It was an exceptionally bad one, so he gave her morphia instead, a subcutaneous injection, and told her what it was and why he was doing it. As before, the morphia relieved her at once, and she remarked how much more efficacious it seemed to be than phenacetin. That was all, but it presented Dr. Bickleigh with his plan ready-made.