Malice Aforethought

by Francis Iles

  “Would you?” said Dr. Bickleigh with interest.

  “Far and away the best thing to do in these incurable cases,” pronounced Mr. Crewstanton. “After all, why the hell keep ’em alive just to go through a lot of pain?”

  “There’s a good deal to be said for that point of view,” said Dr. Bickleigh unprofessionally.

  Hilda came back.

  “Oh, there’s no doubt about it at all,” she said. “Her arm’s a mass of punctures.”

  “I can’t tell you how worried I am,” said Dr. Bickleigh.

  Having, then, no further use for his visitors, he excused himself on the plea of an urgent case and offered them a lift to the station. There was an excellent train to Torquay, it transpired, which they could just catch.

  They just caught it.

  Dr. Bickleigh drove away from the station yard with the feeling of a good day’s work behind him. He had established his evidence, and on top of that it was pretty obvious, judging from the attitude of both of them, that there would be no trouble from Julia’s family.

  Things could not have been going better.

  CHAPTER VII

  1

  BEFORE HE killed her Dr. Bickleigh did give Julia a last chance.

  Now that it had come to the point, he intensely disliked the idea of killing her. He had, in fact, thoroughly hated the whole thing. It had been almost as much of a strain to him as to Julia. He was not callous, and the daily sight of so much suffering inflicted by himself had got completely on his nerves: it was awful that Julia should have to suffer so. He certainly did not love her; he had not much fondness for her; as an individual he did not like her at all: but he could hardly bear to go on torturing her, as a mere human being, to this extent. It was necessary to drive himself to the administration of the headache-producing medium. He would almost weep as he scattered it into her food.

  Three weeks after the Crewstantons’ visit he decided that he could stand it no longer. His growing nerviness had made him almost quarrel with Madeleine the day before—well, quite quarrel with her. And over Denny Bourne, of all absurd causes. Five days after the beginning of the summer term, his last term, Denny had been sent down for three weeks for depriving an unpopular don of his trousers and painting his hinder parts scarlet. If the don had not been so unpopular Denny would have been sent down for good, but the rest of the senior common-room, who also did not love their colleague, had felt that a certain justification, and more, was to be found in the existence of the fellow at all. Still, the man was a don, and one cannot have dons going about forcibly disguised as mandrills; so Denny had been sent down for three weeks.

  To Dr. Bickleigh’s disgust Madeleine seemed delighted with this exploit: that the idea of a trouserless don with a scarlet posterior is about as far removed from the spiritual as one can well get, Dr. Bickleigh pointed out; but Madeleine, though agreeing, and looking for a moment as a nun might on being confronted with such a spectacle, continued to give the impression that she thought Denny really had done something rather clever.

  That Denny thought so himself was obvious. Dr. Bickleigh had been forced to be quite rude to him over The Hall tea-table. Then he and Madeleine had nearly quarrelled. Well, quite quarrelled. He had been unable to control himself, and said things to her in front of Denny. And Denny, flushed with impertinent rage, had had the impudence to tell him that if he didn’t clear out that minute he’d take him to the stable-yard and do the same to him, then and there, with whatever substitute for red paint presented itself. And Madeleine had sat there with her big eyes and not interfered. Dr. Bickleigh had cleared out.

  That was the last straw. An end had got to be made.

  He made it the next day.

  On purpose he lay in wait for Julia’s arrival in the surgery, having made a pretence of leaving the house and returning secretly on foot. She came surreptitiously, and jumped violently when he surprised her. The movement added to the aching of her head, and she swayed for a moment.

  Dr. Bickleigh put his arm round her waist. He was wearing his hat and gloves. “Hush,” he warned. “Don’t want Florence to hear. You were after the morphia, Julia.”

  Julia nodded defiantly, holding her head. “It’s very bad to-day,” she muttered. “I must have an injection, please, Edmund.”

  “Well, it’s a long time since I gave you one,” he said in a low voice. “Perhaps you might have one.”

  He filled the syringe, keeping his body between her and his hands, so that she could not see how much he was putting in. Now that the moment had come he felt quite calm. His course lay like a map in his mind, every action noted down. He was surprised at the coolness with which he made his preparations; he had expected to be flustered and anxious.

  Pretending to be busy with something else for a second, he gave her the syringe to hold so as to secure her fingerprints on it, just in case.

  Julia pushed up her sleeve and held her arm out to him.

  “Just half a minute,” he said. “Before this takes effect, I want to ask you something, Julia. Will you reconsider your decision about divorcing me? Madeleine and I still love each other, and we want to marry.”

  “No, Edmund,” she replied decisively. “I will not.”

  “It’s been going on for nearly a year now,” he pointed out patiently. “I’m not a child. I know my own mind. I ask you, Julia, not as a wife, but as a friend. I’m very much in earnest.”

  “Edmund, nothing on earth would persuade me to divorce you for that gairl. She’s no good. No good at all.”

  “That’s absolutely final?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Julia had had her chance.

  Dr. Bickleigh took the syringe from her. With perfectly steady hands he injected into her veins fifteen grains of morphia. His brain seemed to have gone curiously blank. He felt no emotion at all, no pity, remorse, fear, nor even responsibility. It was as if the conduct of affairs had somehow been taken out of his control and he was following a course from which he had neither physical nor moral powers of deviation. The only thought in his mind was: In twenty minutes Julia will be dead. Julia. . . .

  “Thank you, Edmund,” Julia said gratefully, as he automatically dropped the syringe back in the drawer.

  “Go straight upstairs and lie down,” Dr. Bickleigh said tonelessly, not looking at her.

  “Very well. Oh, yes, there’s something I wanted to ask you. Will you—”

  “Not now. Some other time.” He could not bear to be with her a moment longer. He must get away from her. It was terrible. He had really done it. In twenty minutes Julia would be dead. Dead . . . Julia! In spite of its familiarity to his imagination, the thing in practice was inconceivable. And yet he had done it: he had killed her.

  He escaped from her in something like panic. The power of thought had returned, terrifyingly.

  But he did not regret it. Even now he could have saved her, but there was not the slightest impulse to do so. Nor did he lose his head. He got out of the house just as secretly as he had got in; for all that anyone but Julia could know, he had been out on his rounds for the last half-hour. The car even had been left in a road some distance away, carefully chosen in advance; a handy spot, quite a long way round by road, but to be gained in three or four minutes by crossing a couple of fields at the bottom of the garden; and the whole way was sheltered by shrubs and hedges from the windows of the house if one crept in a few places. He had been over the route several times.

  He gained the car without the slightest mishap.

  In twenty minutes—no, in seventeen minutes now, Julia would be dead. Incredible!

  Freedom. . . .

  He simply couldn’t realise it.

  For some reason the engine was sticky and wouldn’t start. Not that it mattered now, but it was annoying. The self-starter gave out too, as it usually did on such occasions, and he had to get out and swing her. The engine started at last, and he got back into the car. As he did so, he saw someone topping a crest in the road just ahead. It
was Ivy. Excellent. Ivy should help to prove his alibi for him. He was in admirable spirits once more as he waited for her. Really, when one came to consider it, he had done something rather notable, put it how you liked.

  “Hullo, Teddy,” gloomed Ivy. They had met several times since the incident in the wood. It had never been referred to between them.

  “Hullo, Ivy. This wretched car. Really, I shall have to think about getting a new one. Suddenly stopped, ten minutes ago. Did you see me swinging her?”

  “Yes. I say, Teddy . . .”

  “Yes? Oh, by the way, lucky I met you. My watch has stopped. Most awkward. Haven’t got the time on you, Ivy, have you?”

  “Yes, I have.” She pulled down the sleeve of her glove and looked at her wrist-watch. “Just twenty to three.”

  “Twenty to three, eh? Thanks. Sure that’s right?”

  “It was right this morning. Teddy . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “You know I’m engaged now?”

  “To Chatford? Yes, somebody told me months ago. Quarnian, I think. Congratulations. Capital fellow, Chatford.”

  “I don’t seem to have seen you for years,” Ivy mourned. “Are you glad, Teddy?”

  “What, that you haven’t seen me? Of course I’m not. I’ve missed you, Ivy.”

  “No, that I’m engaged, I mean.”

  “Oh! Yes, very glad. You’ll be happy, my dear. I’m sure you will. And Chatford’s a coming man. Well, can I give you a lift anywhere?”

  “No, thanks. I’m taking Juno for a walk. Where is she? Juno! Juno!”

  “Then I must be getting along. Au revoir, Ivy.”

  “Au revoir, Teddy.” Her eyes tried to detain him, as usual. Ivy was the kind whose love thrives on blows.

  Most useful, thought Dr. Bickleigh with satisfaction as he drove on. But how normal. Ivy just the same as ever, everything just the same as ever. He did not believe he had killed Julia at all. Julia dead. No, it was unbelievable. Julia could never be dead. And yet in twelve minutes now Julia would be dead.

  He couldn’t believe it.

  As nearly as he could compute, Julia died while he was sounding old Mr. Tracey’s chest just four miles away.

  2

  DURING THE afternoon his repugnance from returning home grew and grew. There was a horrible time ahead of him, beginning from the moment he set foot in the house again. Horrible. But it had got to be gone through. Yet minute after minute he kept putting off the beginning of it. No need to hurry things.

  As he drove from patient to patient (he had purposely left most of his visits for the afternoon, in order to have plenty to do) his thoughts roved endlessly round Julia—his marriage with Julia, life with Julia, Julia’s way of treating him like a small dog, Julia’s masterfulness, peremptoriness, rudeness, Julia’s quite unconscious habit of humiliating him before other people. He had been afraid of Julia. That he had always acknowledged to himself. Now he saw, for the first time quite clearly, that he had killed Julia simply because of this fear of her. He had been afraid to run away from her.

  That was very curious, and interesting. Dr. Bickleigh, not as a rule given to introspection more than any other person of some imagination, found himself turning over pages of his mind never before perused. Yes, that was quite true. He might have solved his problem so much more simply. He had asked Madeleine, and she had said she would go with him. It was only by way of a test, and he had never intended for a moment to do it, but Madeleine did not know that; she would have gone with him. And they could have lived on her money till he could establish himself somewhere else; their love was above petty considerations of convention like that; no economic difficulties had held him back. Why had he not gone, then? Simply because he could not have found the courage to run away from Julia. He had plucked up enough of it to ask for a divorce by consent; but when that had been refused he had accepted her ruling as always. No divorce: so another way had had to be found.

  Dr. Bickleigh smiled to himself. Was this the first time that murder was directly traceable to an inferiority complex? He did not think so.

  But really, what a little worm he had been then; there was no getting away from it. And how far from a little worm he was now. Put it any way you like, a successful murder (yes, it was murder: no need to shirk the word), brilliantly planned and flawlessly carried out, lifted one out of the category of worms for good and all.

  Would Florence have found Julia yet? . . .

  He would go to The Hall for tea. Why not? It was a Wednesday, and he always went to tea at The Hall on Wednesdays. The great thing was to carry on just as usual. And they could always get him on the telephone there. It would not look to suspicious eyes as if he had been trying to keep out of touch.

  Not, of course, that there would be any suspicious eyes, but still . . .

  That infernal Denny, lounging in the garden as if the place belonged to him. He’d laugh the other side of his face if he did know who it belonged to now—well, practically. Dr. Bickleigh felt quite angry for a moment. Really, it was too bad of Madeleine, on a Wednesday. And infernally awkward, after the contretemps of yesterday.

  Then his anger disappeared. Things fell into their right proportions. Denny was now utterly insignificant: did not count at all. Only one person counted, and that was himself. He and Madeleine. . . .

  What was Madeleine worth? He had never liked to ask; nor really bothered; considerations of that sort were beside the main issue. But nevertheless it was a marvellous feeling, that one was going to be actually rich—all the little economies and scrapings finished with for ever; able to afford any whim that took the fancy of the moment; soft living and luxury, owning this magnificent place. He and Madeleine. . . .

  Where was Madeleine?

  Dr. Bickleigh got out of his car and walked towards the front door. A shout from the lawn arrested him. Denny had got up and was strolling towards him. Damn the fellow! Oh, well, he probably wanted to apologise for yesterday. Dr. Bickleigh would accept that. But a hint must be dropped pretty soon, and more than a hint, if you like. Dr. Bickleigh felt quite equal to telling him in so many words. It was amusing to think that only last summer he had been quite ill-at-ease in the presence of Denny—forced, awkward, bad form, out of it. Lord, what a little worm. . . .

  “Come and sit on the lawn,” said Denny, rather abruptly.

  “I’m sorry,” Dr. Bickleigh returned coldly. “I have come to see Miss Cranmere about—”

  “Well, she’s out. Come and sit on the lawn. I want to say something to you.”

  What a parade the boy’s making, thought Dr. Bickleigh as he walked with Denny to the chairs under the cedar. Clumsiness of youth, no doubt. Why can’t people realise that an apology is even more embarrassing to receive than to offer, and cut it short? A form of egotism.

  Funny there had been no telephone message. Florence couldn’t have found her yet, obviously.

  But would Florence try The Hall? Probably. If he knew anything of Wyvern’s Cross, his visits here would be common talk in the kitchen. Well, let them talk.

  Poor Julia. It was a relief to think she was out of all that pain at last.

  They sat down in two deck-chairs.

  Denny stared straight in front of him. “Look here, Bickleigh. . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “About Madeleine.”

  All thought of Julia disappeared from Dr. Bickleigh’s mind. “Well?”

  “She’s—a very unusual girl, you know. Extraordinarily sensitive, and all that.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve seen a good deal of her lately.”

  “Have you?”

  “Yes.”

  The conversation seemed to be languishing.

  Denny, for some reason, was remarkably embarrassed—more so than Dr. Bickleigh would ever have expected from such a normally self-possessed young man. And it was an odd way of beginning an apology.

  Denny suddenly turned a somewhat flushed face towards his companion. “She doesn’t really care for y
ou, Bickleigh, you know,” he mumbled.

  “What the devil are you talking about?”

  “She told me about—you,” said Denny, looking supremely uncomfortable; but his eyes did not shift from the other’s face.

  “She did, did she?” Dr. Bickleigh had recovered his equilibrium. This young cub must have been pumping Madeleine, annoying her. Imagined himself in love with her, no doubt, and had the impudence to be jealous.

  “Yes. She—she doesn’t care for you, you know.”

  “Indeed?” Dr. Bickleigh was more amused than anything now. This really was rather humorous, in the circumstances. “Who does she care for, then?”

  “Me,” returned Denny simply, and blushed a deeper tint.

  It was all Dr. Bickleigh could do not to laugh in his face. “Really, Denny?”

  “Damn it, you needn’t smile. I mean what I say. I love Madeleine, and I’m dam’ well going to marry her. So now you’ve got it.”

  “Well, well,” said Dr. Bickleigh. Poor Denny; it really was rather touching. “And what has Madeleine got to say about all this?” he asked tolerantly.

  “She hasn’t tried to hide from me that she cares too, if that’s what you mean,” Denny replied in a gruff voice. “She’s too straight. She’d have let me kiss her when I went up this term, and you can imagine what that means with a girl like her.”

  “But you didn’t, eh?”

  “No, I didn’t. Well, I’m glad we’ve got that straight. Of course, she was carried away by your being so much older,” Denny grumbled. “Flattered her inexperience, or something. You sort of swept her off her feet. When she wasn’t with you she knew she wasn’t in love with you, but when she was you seem to have exercised some extraordinary kind of fascination over her. That’s what happened.”

  “I see,” said Dr. Bickleigh, with a small smile. He might have recognised the voice of Madeleine speaking; but he didn’t.

  There was a little silence.

  “Well, I must say,” observed Denny, if rather grudgingly, “that you take it dam’ well.”

  “Take what?”

  “Why, our engagement.”