“We know now, at any rate, the identity of our man,” Herbert said, throwing himself into one of the chairs on the verandah.
* * * *
And yet the mystery had only deepened. We now knew who the poor fellow was. But how had he met his end? And for what reason?
We could now understand, we thought, the explanation for his presence in the farm. He had fled from the gang working on the canal and, seeking refuge, climbed over the wall, believing the farm-house to be still deserted. There, at least, he would be safe from the wild beasts outside.
Was it not possible, however, that in doing so he had come face to face with a creature wilder than any of those he feared?
There were other questions. Had he been pursued to the farm? Or had he come there and inadvertently stirred an inhabitant who, or which, had turned on him perhaps in panic and killed him?
All this seemed possible and likely. What did not seem possible or likely was the tale told by the footprints: that some one or thing should enter the room while we were actually in it, our heads covered, it is true, but nevertheless there, pick up the bottle and then walk calmly out with it and disappear into the sandstorm.
* * * *
Later in the afternoon, after we had enjoyed the splendid Christmas lunch that Clara had prepared for us, the woman that the omda had promised came up to clean the house again. It was the woman we had seen on her own beside the well. Perhaps the omda had sent her up in pity, knowing that without her husband she would be in need of any recompense that we might offer.
She was a sturdy peasant women in her thirties, bare-legged and bare-footed, though without her face covered, as it would perhaps have been in the town. While we were enjoying our coffee and brandy, she set to work in the kitchen and soon had swept it clean. Then she came into the dining room with her brush. She saw the footprints, there, still in the sand that covered the floor, and stopped.
Then, without a word, she swept the floor clean and afterwards moved on to the bedrooms.
“There goes our chance,” said Herbert quietly, “of keeping this from the village.”
* * * *
When she had finished she went home. Herbert and I sat out on the verandah wondering what we should do. If she revealed what she had seen, the whole village would be up here. They would rout around and almost certainly come across the body in the ice-house. And then, as Herbert pointed out, it would not look good for us. We decided that in the circumstances we would have to revise our plans. We would go to the omda first thing in the morning and disclose the presence of the body.
* * * *
That night I found it hard to get to sleep. Inside the house it was insufferably hot so I moved my bed things out on to the verandah; but there the bright moon light made it almost as clear as day. I lay awake, listening to the cries of the jackals and the wild dogs, and the distant cry of a hyaena.
In the end I could stand it no more and got up. I did not wish to disturb Herbert but walked out into the yard. In my mind were strange memories - the memory of someone else who had once been fleeing from bondage and in his flight had come across a small boy. From that boy he had received a helping hand and that helping hand had stayed with him for the rest of his life. It had transformed his life, made it different not just from what it was but from what it might have been. It had put a light into the darkness of his mind, an ignis fatuus, perhaps, a false light, like those marsh gases or corpse lights that dance in graveyards, but nevertheless a light, and, on reflection, I would not have had it otherwise.
Now my mind was turning over uneasily another poor creature who had fled from bondage: for was it not bondage, where work was enforced with the whip?
Flight, flight: did we not all flee from pain? And hadn’t I, too, eleven years before fled from pain by leaving England? But was not that flight a false light, too? I had thought to distance myself from a cruel but broken woman. But can one ever distance oneself from one’s own heart? I knew now that if I had my chance again I would not distance myself but try, in whatever way I could, to mend what was broken. But chances, I have learned, do not come twice.
Thus musing, I turned on my heel, and, as I did so, I caught what seemed to be a movement in one of the out-houses. For a moment my blood froze. Could it be that our visitant of the first night had returned?
I roused Herbert and together we went over to the barn the noise had come from. There it was again! Something was definitely moving inside.
There were two doors. Herbert went round to the one at the rear while I stood by the main entrance. Something was coming towards it. It came very quietly, a soft padding of bare feet. It came through the door. I seized it and called for Herbert’s aid.
It was not as I had expected. Smaller, softer. Weaker. It struggled in my grasp. Herbert came running. I shifted my hands to get a better grip.
And then I nearly let go! The form beneath my hands was unmistakeably that of a woman.
I pulled her out into the moonlight. Herbert came rushing round the corner of the barn, saw her and stopped.
It was the woman who had been cleaning the house for us earlier.
“What are you doing here?” he said sternly.
She spat at him.
I dragged her towards the house. She resisted for a moment and then suddenly submitted.
On the verandah she sat silently and at first would say nothing.
Then she burst out:
“Where is he?”
Herbert and I looked at each other. Could we tell her?
“Who?” I said, temporizing.
“My man.”
“Your husband?” said Herbert.
She nodded impatiently.
Herbert and I looked at each other again.
“He is gone,” said Herbert.
She sat there still for a moment. Then—
“So he is gone,” she said. Her whole body seemed to slump. “So he is gone,” she said again. She shrugged. “I knew it,” she said bitterly, “I knew it when I saw—”
She stopped.
“He was not a good man,” she went on, after a moment. “He used to beat me. Especially when he had been drinking. He went with other women. I complained to the omda and the omda told him he would have to leave the village if he couldn’t mend his ways. But still he drank, and still he went with them. One especially. I told him I would denounce her to the omda and he would have her stoned. He begged me not to. He swore he would put her aside and be a good husband to me in future. He cried. He always cried after he had been drinking. And he said he would mend his ways. He had said it before, but this time I believed him.
“And I was right to, for he did try to put her away. And she was angry and taunted me, saying I was no good to a man, that I would never bear him children. And then she taunted him, saying that he was not a proper man. Still he would not go with her; but he went back to drink. He could not do his work properly. The Pasha’s man berated him and whipped him, and one day he could stand it no longer and ran away.
“He came home to me and I said: ‘If you stay here, they will find you. Hide yourself in the old farm-house and I will bring you food.’ But then I heard that you had moved in, so I dared not. But when I came up this afternoon I brought food for him. But I could not find him. I thought perhaps he had fallen asleep somewhere, so tonight I came again. But again I could not find him. And now you tell me he is gone.”
“Handel, old chap—” began Herbert.
I knew what he was thinking. We could not continue with our deception. It was cruel to this unfortunate woman. Let the consequences be what they would, we would go to the omda in the morning and declare all.
* * * *
The first thing in the morning we went down to the village and asked to see the omda. The villagers had sensed that something was toward and had begun to gather. The omda came out of his house and sat down on a bench in front of it. He had chairs brought for Herbert and myself. As the crowd grew deeper I grew more and more concerned
about what we had to say.
But then something surprising happened. The cleaning lady stood up first.
“Omda, I have come to declare a fault,” she said.
“Speak on.”
“I helped my man when he fled in fear from the Pasha’s man.”
“So?” said the Pasha’s man, who was standing at the back of the crowd, fondling his whip.
“He came to me at our house and I said: ‘If you stay here, they will take you. Go to the old farm-house and hide there.’ I meant to take him food.”
“And did you, Amina?”
“No. At least, I did: but I could not find him. Because by then he had fled.”
“Fled, Amina?”
“Yes, omda. With this woman.”
She was pointing at a woman in the crowd, the big, dark woman we had noticed among the hoers.
“I?” said the woman. “I?”
“Yes, you, Khabradji.”
“But I am here!”
“And he is not. But you know where he is, Khabradji.”
She looked at the omda.
“That is what I have come to declare, omda,” she said, and sat down.
Hands pushed Khabradji forward.
“She lies, omda. It is not so!”
Amina rose again.
“You were in the house with him.”
“Not so!”
“It was so. I saw your footprints.”
“What!” said Herbert and I simultaneously.
“They will confirm it,” said Amina, turning to us.
I stood up.
“Certainly, we saw footprints in the sand,” I said. “But whose they were—?”
“We thought they might be of some strange beast!” said Herbert excitedly.
“Strange beast?” said the omda, raising an eyebrow.
“They were large and—”
“Large, certainly,” said the omda, looking at Khabradji. Everyone laughed. She looked self-conscious. Evidently her size was a by-word in the village.
“- but no strange beast!” said the omda.
The crowd laughed again.
Herbert stood up.
“It was a mistake,” he said. “And yet in that mistake truth lies. Khabradji, you were certainly in the house. We saw your footprints. You came right into the room where we were sitting. And now, Khabradji, I have a question for you: did you take the bottle?”
“Bottle?” said the omda.
“Bottle?” said Amina.
Herbert turned to her—
“I know, alas, that you are familiar with bottles, Amina. Because of your husband. But was not Khabradji, too? So let me ask my question again: did you take the bottle that was on the table?”
“I - I -” stuttered Khabradji.
“I think you did, Khabradji.”
“Well, what if I did?”
“What did you do with it?”
“Do with it? I - I drank it.”
There was an amazed laugh from the crowd.
“No, you didn’t. You took it out and gave it to Amina’s husband.”
“What if I did?” muttered Khabradji. “What if I did?”
“Where is he, Khabradji? cried Amina suddenly. “Give him back to me!”
Khabradji seemed to shake herself.
“Give him back?” she said. “That I cannot.”
She sat down, as if she had said all she was going to.
* * * *
I rose from my place.
“But, Khabradji,” I said, “that is not all, is it? You gave him the drink, yes; and then what?”
“I do not know,” muttered Khabradji.
“I do. When he had drunk and was stupefied, you killed him.”
“Killed him!”
There was a gasp of horror from the crowd.
“Killed him?” cried Amina, and made to throw herself at her rival. Hands held her back.
Khabradji now rose in her turn.
“Yes,” she said, calmly. “I killed him. With my hoe. While he lay dulled and sleeping.” She looked at Amina. “I was not going to let you take him back. While I was in the field, I saw him running and guessed where he was going. That night I went to the farm-house myself and found him. I pleaded with him to come back to me. But he would not and spoke bad words. I was angry and rushed from him. But then I looked into the house and saw the bottle and the evil thought came to me: why should not I be revenged? So I took the bottle to him and let him drink; and then I killed him.”
* * * *
As we were leaving, I heard one villager say to another:
“What was all that about a beast?”
“There wasn’t one.”
“Odd that they should think there was. Strange minds these Englishmen have!”
“Superstition,” said the other villager. “That’s the problem.”
* * * *
All in all it was an odd Christmas indeed. But it had one effect that was lasting. It had taken my mind back to another time when my life had become strangely bound up with that of a poor fugitive. Indeed, it was that which had ultimately led to my flight to Egypt. Reflecting on that, I realized that I had left unfinished business behind me. It occurred to me that the time had come to return to England and address it. Perhaps, too - I confess it - it was the children’s Christmas stockings, bringing home to me that there was more to life than work in a Counting House. Anyway, I went back to England, expecting not great things now but very little: finding, however, when I got there more than I had ever dared to expect.
<
* * * *
GLAZED
Danuta Reah
Anthony Richardson woke up in the spare bedroom, aware that the mattress was not the well-sprung one he was accustomed to. His back was aching. He climbed out of bed and opened the curtains, looking out on to the grey November day.
He pulled on his dressing gown and tiptoed barefoot to the marital bedroom. He pushed the door open silently. Molly was asleep, her face hidden, her red hair spilling across the pillow. Her hair had lost its brightness over the years, and her face, though it still had its delicate prettiness, was creased from sleep. At one time, seeing her like that would have been a powerful incentive for him to climb back into the bed they had shared for over twenty years, but not any more.
Quietly, he collected his clothes from the wardrobe. He would shower in the other bathroom rather than risk waking her. He’d stayed too late the night before with Olivia, falling asleep next to her perfumed softness. “You see,” she’d whispered as he climbed reluctantly out of her bed, “It’s time to let Molly know. It’s for the best, darling. I wouldn’t want to keep you in a dead marriage if it was me.”
He sighed. He still cared for Molly. Of course he did. But. . . The image of Olivia, fair-haired, beautiful, and most of all young rose up in front of him.
Anthony Richardson had met Molly when she was twenty-one. He was handsome, in his thirties, sophisticated and successful with his own chain of exclusive designer stores. She was a graduate from St Martin’s College, with a degree in ceramics and a talent for design that was yet to be fully recognized. She was beautiful, of course. She had to be. Anything less than beautiful would have done. And she wasn’t just beautiful, she was one of the most talented ceramicists he had ever met. Her designs had a quality he had never seen before, designs that her current employer had dismissed because people who want cups with feet on them and smiling teapots tend to be limited in their appreciation of style. It was an added advantage that she was very young and not very confident.
It was serendipity. Molly needed a Svengali. Anthony needed her talent. His business, though successful, had reached a plateau. He worked by finding good designs and importing them, but a lot of other people were doing the same thing and there was nothing to distinguish his company, Richardson Design, from the mass. The continuing success of his shops depended on his having something new, something distinctive, something that no one else had. And in Molly, he had found it.<
br />
Molly Norman Ceramics became the cornerstone of his company, Richardson Design. RD, the discreet silver logo that marked his company, became a byword for the best in fine china.
Anthony was a good husband. He kept the business running well and provided a comfortable, even luxurious, home for her. And though any man has a need for variety that even a young, talented and beautiful wife can’t entirely fulfil, he kept his infidelities low key and away from home.
Best British Crime 6 - [Anthology] Page 30