A Deadly Marriage

by Roderic Jeffries

Tears of amusement spilled down her cheeks. “David, he’s a shrimp of a man, with a wispy moustache and an incredibly deferential air. When he said he was a private detective, I nearly laughed. I’m sure that if he took two sniffs at a bottle of whisky, he’d collapse.”

  David smiled. “What’s this Goliath want?”

  “To see you in bed.”

  “To do what?”

  She spoke more seriously. “David, he’s been hired by solicitors acting for Catalina. She’s going to divorce you.”

  “No!” he said excitedly.

  Her eyes were shining. “It’s true. But isn’t it difficult to believe after all this time?”

  “Good God!”

  “The man’s come for proof that you and I are indulging in sin. He was so terribly serious when he said he’d be as discreet as he could. He’s far more embarrassed than me.”

  “That’s because you’ve no shame.”

  “I know. Isn’t it fun to be that way? David, shall I bring him up?”

  “Not before.”

  “Not before what?”

  “You’ve kissed me.”

  She bent down and kissed him.

  “Tell me something,” he murmured.

  “What?”

  “Would you like to marry me?”

  “David, darling, you need kicking just for asking. You know damn well there’s nothing in the whole world I want more. I love you until it hurts.” She pulled herself free and left the room.

  He stared up at the ceiling. Catalina had finally decided she would get enough out of him in maintenance to make it worth her while to give him his freedom and he wasn’t even going to have to offer the bribe Tullett had suggested. It struck him as an almost incredible thought that he’d be free to marry Patricia and lead a life in which bitter rows were not the commonplace.

  There was a knock on the door and a little man looked into the bedroom. David was irresistibly reminded of a rather tatty mouse.

  “Good morning, sir. You are David Plesence, aren’t you?”

  David felt so light-headed from joy, he almost laughed.

  CHAPTER II

  On arriving back at Frogsfeet Hall, David learned that Catalina had left the house. Mrs. Yarrow, who helped with the housework every week day, hurried into the hall as he stepped inside and said that Mrs. Plesence had left a message for him and it was on the dining-room table. He went into the dining-room, beautifully panelled, and picked up an envelope from the highly polished table. The flap wasn’t sealed, which meant Mrs. Yarrow would have read the letter inside.

  The note was short, vituperative, and misspelt. He had shamed her beyond all bearing, she could no longer suffer the pangs of torture of knowing he was with Another, and sorrow had carved a path through her heart. He wondered what woman’s magazine she had been reading just before she wrote the note.

  He began to whistle. Life could sometimes turn round and pat a man on his back so that he felt a mile high. It called for an immediate celebration and he hurried into the sitting-room where he poured himself out a whisky. He held the glass up in salute and drank. He heard a sound and looked round. Mrs. Yarrow was standing in the doorway and watching him with a fascination that was obvious from her expression. The village would be regaled with reports of his madness, drunkenness, and/or utter callousness. The villagers would be pleased. In this part of the world, the natives did not expect or like newcomers to be normal.

  “She said she won’t never be coming back,” said Mrs. Yarrow, loudly.

  “Thank you.”

  “What’s more, she took all ’er things, ’cepting clothes.”

  “It’s kind of you to tell me.”

  Defeated, Mrs. Yarrow retired and closed the door. David finished his drink. He lit a cigarette and then looked round the room. Frosgfeet Hall was a charming house, with all the characteristic elegance of the Georgian period. He had bought it because he loved the period, not because it was a big house and obviously cost a considerable amount of money: he had never felt the need to parade his wealth. Unfortunately, there had been nothing elegant about the life he and Catalina had lived together and sometimes, with sad imagination, he’d wondered what the house thought about it and whether it was hurt by such internal discord? The future was going to be utterly different, though. Patricia would turn the elegant house into a marvellous home.

  He poured himself out another whisky. A man who drank on his own at ten o’clock in the morning was normally presumed to be heading for the D.T.s. He was heading for nothing but a happiness he’d thought he’d never know.

  The telephone rang. He stayed where he was. If this was Harris ringing to boast that he’d sold another half-dozen parlour-shed units, Harris would have to wait until some other time for the praise.

  The ringing ceased and he heard Mrs. Yarrow answer the call. A little later, she knocked on the door and half entered the room. “It’s Mrs. Plesence,” she said, excitedly.

  “Who?”

  “Mrs. Plesence. Says she wants to ’ave a word with you.” Mrs. Yarrow watched him closely “Sounded proper upset, she did, and no mistake.”

  He slowly put down the glass on the table. What in the hell more could Catalina want? He walked through to the hall and picked up the receiver. Mrs. Yarrow went along and into the kitchen. He was just able to see that the door was left slightly ajar.

  “Hullo,” he said.

  Catalina spoke in Spanish, as she so often did when fury scrambled her mind.

  “What’s the matter?” he demanded wearily.

  When she next spoke, it was in English. Her voice was shrill. “You spent the night with her. My solicitor’s just telephoned to say you were found in bed with her. You weren’t wearing anything.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You filthy swine. You’ve ruined my life.”

  He sighed.

  “I’m not staying with you any longer. I’ve taken away all my things except my clothes and someone will collect them. You lied to me about going up to London. You spent the night in bed with her. She didn’t wear anything either, did she?”

  “It was a hot night.”

  “You spat on my bed.”

  He was silent.

  “My solicitor says I’ve got all the proof I need. The whole world can learn how you’ve treated me, that you’ve spat on my bed, that you’ve preferred a cheap tart to your lawful wife.”

  “Lay off that,” he said tightly.

  “You’d like me to shut right up, wouldn’t you? You’d like me to be a sweet little English lady who doesn’t dare open her mouth. But I’m not like that. I’ve got fire inside me. I’ll tell the world. I’ll make you pay. My solicitor says you’ll pay at least ten thousand a year.”

  “I can’t possibly...” He became silent. There was no point in arguing with her, in telling her that no court in the land would award her that large a sum as maintenance. “I’ll tell the world.”

  “Very well.”

  “The court will hear everything.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  “What d’you mean by that?”

  “Nothing.”

  “My solicitor says the court will immediately give me a judicial separation.”

  “A...a what?”

  “Judicial separation.”

  “Aren’t you getting a divorce?”

  She laughed. “D’you think I’m that stupid? D’you think I’m going to let you get off with that dirty little tart of yours and enjoy yourselves?”

  He slowly replaced the receiver. He felt as though he had just been kicked hard in the stomach.

  Eight days later, on a Monday when the weather forecast had talked about showers but it was bright sunshine, the telephone rang once in David’s office. He lifted the receiver.

  “A call for you, Mr. Plesence,” said his secretary, in her best Kensington voice. “Mr. Cabbot would like to speak to you.”

  “Cabbot. Who’s he?”

  “I’m afraid I do not know, Mr. Plesence. I asked h
im if it was business and he said it was important but private.” She sniffed, loudly enough for him to hear the noise. She was annoyed that anything should be considered too private for her to hear.

  “O.K., shove him through.”

  As he waited, David looked across the room at the framed photograph on the far wall. He was standing behind a model of his milking unit and was talking to royalty and both of them were laughing. The photo had appeared in the national Press as well as the farming magazines. Everyone had assumed that royalty was talking about the new and revolutionary system of milking. In fact, royalty had been totally uninterested in the milking unit and had made rather a weak joke about his corns. Yet from that day on, the Frogsfeet milking unit had sold.

  fck Mr. Plesence?” said a voice that was accented.

  “Speaking.” He tried to place the accent, but failed. It sounded mostly American, but there was something more to it.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but I would very much like to meet you. I have something very important and confidential to discuss.”

  “With respect to what?”

  “In respect of a private matter, a matter that concerns you very closely. You’ll forgive me, though, if I don’t elaborate over the telephone.”

  “Surely you can give me some idea...”

  “May I call on you this evening at your home at seven o’clock?”

  “I suppose so, but can’t you say...”

  “Until seven o'clock, then, and thank you. Good-bye, Mr. Plesence.”

  David replaced the receiver. Experience had taught him not to be too rigid in dealing with callers — business sometimes came in the most unexpected guise.

  He turned his attention to the reports on his desk. The brains of his milking system was an automatic vacuum cut-off which came into action as the milk flow ceased. Reports from farms said that some of the units were giving trouble and field inspectors could only suggest wrong assembly. It was a fault that must be eliminated at once: faulty milking almost inevitably brought on mastitis, the scourge of so many herds. He wondered if the faulty units had all come from one workbench. Some months ago, they had hired a man whose references appeared excellent, but who had soon shown himself to be a trouble maker: he had been sacked a day later than was advisable. In that day, he might have carried out considerable sabotage.

  David drove home at five past six. It was a drive he usually enjoyed. To reach Frogsfeet Hall, he went first across the south part of Borisham, much of which was little belter than slums with rows of houses set directly on to the pavements — Borisham had once been very closely connected with the weaving trade. This part of the journey was an ugly one, but it did serve to highlight by contrast the beauty of the countryside that lay beyond the town. The early part of May had been wet and the grass was very green. Fields were small and hedges were mostly blackthorn and hawthorn, together giving a patchwork effect. The river ran parallel with the road for half a mile and along the banks were a number of large weeping willows whose trailing branches spread out in billows. It was a tidy countryside, obviously man-made, yet not ruined by this. Many of the houses were old and built of the local grey and red bricks and tiled with the multi-shaded red tiles: about such houses was a look of permanent peace.

  He parked the Aston in front of Frogsfeet Hall and went inside and through to the sitting-room. He poured himself out a drink. It had been a tiring day and a hell of a frustrating day, since closer investigation of the cut-off units had unfortunately not confirmed that they had been wrongly assembled. On top of that, there was the bitter knowledge that Catalina was not going to give him the freedom he so desperately longed for. The divorce laws of England were vindictive and they refused the guilty party any chance to initiate a divorce to put an end to a marriage which lay shattered beyond repair. Did the law rejoice in the fact that someone like Catalina could destroy his chance of happiness merely because she had lost hers?

  He heard a car door slam shut and silently cursed. Was Cabbot this early? He turned and looked through the window and saw Catalina as she climbed out of a taxi. She was dressed in an orange coloured frock that made her skin look like dried-up parchment, her hair had been tinted and tinted badly.

  He cursed again, this time out loud. What had brought her back? She paid the taxi-driver and David saw the man argue, which meant he had received either no tip or a very small one. David smiled bitterly. The taxi-driver was on a losing wicket if he thought any words of his would shame her into giving a better tip.

  Catalina walked from the taxi to the front door and rang the bell. David drained his glass, then left the sitting-room and went across the hall to the front door, which he opened.

  “David, my darling,” she said, in a husky voice.

  The one emotion he had not been expecting from her was this. He stared at her with a dislike he made no attempt to hide. She was everything that was cheap and nasty. She spent hundreds of pounds a year on her clothes and make-up, yet somehow she always looked as if she had just returned from a jumble sale.

  She spoke with deep theatrical emotion. “Aren’t you glad to see me, David?”

  “Not very,” he answered shortly.

  “You’re so cold, so cruel,” she said, in a choking voice.

  He ignored her.

  “Please be kind to me, David. Let’s remember how things used to be, the joy, the happiness. Let’s remember the dance on the ship when we were in each other’s arms and...”

  He broke in roughly. “What the hell’s the use of remembering the dead past?”

  She ran her right fore-finger across her eyes as if she were crying, but he could see no tears. After a while, she said: “Give...give me a drink, David. You won’t refuse me that much, will you?”

  He wondered why she seemed so nervous, unable to keep still for a second. He walked over to the cocktail cabinet. “Does your solicitor know you’re here?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then why d’you come? If you’re after a judicial separation...”

  “Please, please, David, I don’t want to talk about it.”

  He poured her out a large gin and added a dash of French. “How much d’you want?” He said suddenly, and much more loudly than he’d intended.

  “What d’you mean?”

  “How much d'you want before you’ll give me a divorce?”

  “But I don’t want to divorce you, my darling.”

  He noted the expression in her eyes and was certain she was wondering just how much she dare ask for. “A thousand pounds?”

  “Won’t you try to salvage our marriage, my love?”

  He didn't know whether to laugh or cry and in the end did nothing other than to carry the drink over to her. When she took it, her hands were shaking so much that some of the liquid slopped over the side of the glass. He went back to the cocktail cabinet and poured himself another drink. He remembered, with very great bitterness, how that morning, as happy as he’d ever been, he’d come back and drunk to his own future happiness only to learn that there was to be no divorce because she was never going to give him the freedom he so desperately wanted.

  A movement outside attracted his attention and he looked through the window to see that a green post office van had parked by a telephone pole and that men were unloading an expanding metal ladder.

  He looked back. “I want a divorce,” he said. There was no point in trying to hide just how much he wanted it — she knew this as well as he did. “I’ll pay you something on top of what the court awards you — if you’ll divorce me. You’ve all the proof that’s necessary.”

  “I’ve got all the proof.” Her voice had suddenly become hard and vicious.

  He stared at her. Even now, after seven years of miserable marriage, he could still be surprised by the speed with which her emotions changed. Emotionally, she was a child.

  “The detective,” she said, “saw you in her bed.”

  “He did.”

  “Yet you swore you were going to London.”


  He sat down and looked at his watch. Was she going to spend the rest of the evening ranting and railing at him or trying with painful coyness to recapture the past and the moment when they’d stared into each others eyes and sworn eternal love? Memory could be like a sword, hewing, hacking, and bringing agony.

  They were silent. By chance, he looked at the writing-table in satinwood and numerous other woods on the far side of the room. He’d bought it because he thought it one of the most elegant pieces of furniture he’d seen, not because he was in any sense a connoisseur of furniture. Two years afterwards, it had been identified as a Sheraton. He could have sold it for ten times what he paid for it. Catalina had never been able to understand why he did not sell it and so make this enormous profit.

  “She’s no prettier than me,” she said suddenly.

  He looked at her. She was in her late thirties by her own account, certainly in her middle forties in fact, and in her late forties according to her looks.

  “Well, is she?”

  “I’ve never compared the two-of you,” he finally answered.

  “Then compare us, now. Didn’t you tell me I was the most beautiful woman you’d ever met? Didn’t you say that if Helen of Troy launched a thousand ships, I’d launch ten thousand?”

  He winced.

  She stood up and cupped her breasts. “I’m not flabby here. She looks flabby there. Is she?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Liar! Bloody swine! You were in bed with her. You were caressing her breasts, kissing them, fondling them, making love to them. And you try to tell me you don’t know whether they’re flabby, or not. I’ll tell you. They swing every time she walks.”

  He could not stop himself from laughing and this so provoked her fury that she shouted a string of Spanish curses.

  He stood up. “Have another drink,” he said wearily. Experience had taught him that liquor was the only thing likely to calm her down at a moment like this. She didn’t answer him, but he picked up her glass and went over and poured out two drinks.

  She drank eagerly. “I couldn’t find my pearl ear-rings,” she said, after a while. “Did you hide them?”