But I said nothing; and in the silence she handed me my tea.
“It’s the key to the great hall,” she said unexpectedly, a few moments later. And when she spoke she did so calmly, with quiet consideration; for Sarah knew my weak- nesses. She knew that I was helpless in the face of her vulnerability. And so she sat, the bones of her neck showing taut and delicate above the neck of her dress, her hands in her lap, her head tilted a little.
“Tell me how you got it,” I said at last: almost willing her not to; dreading what she might say.
“I have nothing to hide, James,” she said slowly, a picture of bruised innocence. And it was only then that her fragility—so artfully maintained until then—gave way for a moment to a brief flicker of pride. For a moment, no longer, she looked proud and unafraid. And although she looked away again, and wiped her eyes as though a tear had trickled from them, it was too late. And Sarah knew it. When she spoke again it was in quite a different tone.
“Have we really come to this?”
“Yes,” I said evenly, drawing strength from my repulsion; allowing her ill-concealed pride and all it provoked to feed my fury; struggling to conquer the sensation of a rising nausea. From the sofa my wife continued to look at me; but her spell was broken and she knew it. For the first time in our married life I was immune to the power of her pale blue eyes; they had lost their hold over me. And from that moment I was free.
“In that case ask me any questions you like,” she said almost haughtily, sensing this perhaps. “I see that you have rifled through my desk; that you have found something you should not have found.” She rose and walked across the room to the windows; and looking out to sea, or perhaps at the rocks below, she turned her back on me with splendid indifference. All efforts at placation were over now, I saw, for Sarah did not waste her energies in vain or throw her tender glances to the swine. The lines were drawn; and her last effort at concealment was delivered with the air of a grave warning.
“You would do well to think carefully before asking me anything,” she said, “because I will tell you the truth. And that is not always as palatable as one might wish it. If you take my advice you will return what you have taken from me and think no more about this.”
But I knew as I listened that I had done with Sarah’s forgetting. There was no way back now; we had come too far. Her illusion was shattered. And so I asked the first of many questions; and perhaps I knew, even then, that we were nearing the end.
“Did you kill Alexander?” I asked quietly.
And in the silence that followed I thought that Sarah had probably not expected anything so direct as this; that she would break now into confusion. But her answer, when it came, showed only irritation; annoyance at my rebellion. She was not accustomed to losing the upper hand, you see; and my newfound daring seemed to infuriate her.
“I see you have decided to ignore my warning,” was all she said; icily.
“Yes.” And as I spoke I felt something close to exhilaration in my defiance.
“Then you must have my answer.”
“Yes.”
“And my answer, also, is ‘yes.’” For the first time since she had gone to the window my wife turned to face me. In silhouette against the setting sun I could hardly see her face; but her hair seemed ringed in fire. “I killed him,” she said slowly; then, after a pause: “And to anticipate your next question … another ‘yes.’ It was no coincidence that Ella went to jail for her father’s murder.”
So it was done; it had been said. I knew the truth now; knew it more certainly than I had known it hours before, when I had stood in the great hall watching the backs of retreating tourists in disbelief, thinking only of being alone. I knew; I had knowledge. But truth to tell, at that moment—at that precise moment—I hardly felt at all. I was drowning already, perhaps; drowning though I did not know it. And it was Sarah and her quiet calm—for so long my only lifeline—that was dragging me under. I see that now.
Then I could see nothing; and conscious only of a room beginning to blur as quick, hot, childish tears filled my eyes, I could only ask her why; why she had done it.
There was silence; my wife seemed to be considering the question; and she chose her words with chilling succinctness.
“Ella had everything,” she said at last; slowly. “And from me who had no one and nothing, she took the person I valued most.”
She had moved from the window as she spoke and walked now across the room: very upright in her blue dress; her hair falling in wisps from its neatly pinned bun. And as she sat beside me on the sofa I smelled her clean, warm smell: of powder and rose water. She no longer smoked. But it was her eyes, not her smell, which will stay with me; her eyes and her words. And remembering it now I cannot bear to think of the hardness in them as she spoke; of the way she underlined, by her physical proximity, the vastness which separated us. For I learned then—as I am beginning to accept only now, I think—how little I had ever meant to her; how little she had ever cared for me in any but the most material of terms. I tell myself now that my wife’s calculation made connection with others impossible; that she could not share herself openly, however hard she tried, because of what had been taken from her. And I think as I do so that I am probably right; that by the time she married me Sarah was incapable of feeling, though she simulated it with such ease. I was no more than the crowning glory of her success; I see that now. And part of me knows that it could not have been otherwise.
It was the knowledge of my wife’s dissimulation that hurt me most, I think; the dawning suspicion as she spoke that she had never been true. It was that which destroyed our past; that knowledge, as certain as it was unspoken, which made a mockery of all our years. And I realized, as I listened to her speak, that the Sarah I had known—the Sarah I had loved, even—had never been anything more than an artful façade, designed to preserve my allegiance and prolong my subjection; for Ella’s cousin never lost her fear of betrayal. In the glow of the setting sun she came alive; alive with triumphant radiance. And there was something terrible in the contrast between her beauty and her words; something chilling in the way she spoke to me of loss and jealousy and grief and revenge with such barely containable pride.
“You hardly need me to enumerate Ella’s blessings,” Sarah said; stiff still, almost childlike in her stiffness. She sounded like a little girl. “She had a father who doted on her; freedom; friends; this house. The best of all worlds. And still she took him from me, from me who had no one.”
“Took whom from you?” Even through the blur I had to ask; I had to know.
“Charlie Stanhope,” said Sarah quietly.
And I thought, for the first time in years, of Charlie Stanhope: tall; awkward; loyal.
“Charlie?”
“Yes.” My wife looked at me. And she stood up again and crossed once more to the window, restless as she spoke. The sun was slipping over the horizon; the room was hazy now. “Ella took him away. She took him away and showed me she could take him and then she discarded him. That was what hurt most; the fact that she didn’t even want him.”
And from far-off years I saw Ella by another window looking out onto the same sea and I heard her tell me, in tears, what she had done.
“And the day she broke her engagement to him I made myself a promise,” Sarah continued. “A promise to take all that she loved most from her. To show her what loss was really like.”
I said nothing; I could not.
“And I think I have kept it,” my wife finished with, quiet triumph.
Still I could not speak.
“It was no easy task, I assure you. Even as you judge me understand that.”
“I do.” And I understood also, I think, that this was Sarah’s moment; that now she could not help but claim her glory.
She had told no one, you see; over long years of enforced secrecy she had remained silent. But the urge to tell had always been there, I suspect; the urge of a proud nature which seeks acknowledgment. And I think that yes
terday afternoon, her guilt exposed, she was fearless and past caring. That is how I understand it now, at any rate. Even then Sarah thought herself invulnerable, you see; and she spoke with a readiness made compelling by its lack of shame if nothing else. Standing at the window, the sun behind her, she glowed with victory; and I see her now, though it is dark in here and cold and she is dead and nearly buried, with a clarity which will never fade. I see her and I hear her and I listen to her still.
She began boastfully, exulting coolly in the challenge of it.
“You have no idea how difficult it was,” she said. “Depriving Ella of all she had: of her father; her friends; this house and all that went with it. No easy task. And it required daring, believe me. Courage.” She paused, looking out to sea. “But also a great deal of meticulous planning,” she went on at last. “That was where success lay and I realized it. I knew that attention to detail was everything; and I think you will agree that although a risk was involved—and, frankly, that was unavoidable—I did all I could to eliminate it, to reduce it to manageable levels.”
“But…”
“Don’t interrupt. It was all such a long time ago. I haven’t thought of it for years; my train of thought mustn’t be broken.” And she continued with splendid indifference, talking as much to herself as to me; relishing all the intricacies of her daring. “Of course Uncle Cyril’s party was a blessing,” she said quietly, introspectively almost. “And the fact that Ella and I looked so alike. That had to be the foundation of my plan, I knew; and curiously enough, it was you who proved to me how things might work.” She turned from the window.
“Me?” I asked hoarsely.
“Long ago. In Hyde Park. A summer’s afternoon. Don’t you remember? You thought I was Ella. And the way you behaved at the Hibberdson prize-giving just confirmed things. It was so obvious from your disappointment when we spoke that you’d made the same mistake. That gave me confidence.” She smiled. “And it made me sure that if you could be convinced, from a distance, others might be convinced also; particularly if all the details were right. Hair; clothes; posture. You know.”
I did know.
“So without asking Ella, which might have given everything away, I had to find out what she was wearing. That was the first step. And that was where that ridiculous friend of yours came in so handy.”
“Who?”
“Camilla Boardman her name was, wasn’t it?”
I nodded, my throat dry.
“I went to her for fittings, you see, counting on her notorious indiscretion. And predictably, without my asking, she told me on my second appointment, in the greatest confidence”—Sarah’s eyes sparkled as she imitated my friend—“that Ella would be wearing a man’s dinner jacket. Admirable for my purposes, of course, because at once distinctive, unusual for a woman to wear, and easily obtained.”
“I see.”
“And Camilla was hardly happy when I stopped going to her and wore a dress by someone else. But that couldn’t be avoided. I needed to be brashly noticeable in the crowd, you understand. Brashly noticeable so that enough people would see me to cover my disappearance for five or six minutes. That, I thought, was all it would take if I planned properly; and in the event I was only away for seven. Not a long time in the middle of a party, particularly when you have made certain of speaking to enough people.”
“Which you did….”
“Of course. And everything else was planned in advance.” Sarah was talking quickly now; almost tripping over herself in her eagerness. “I had the right clothes; a blond wig of real hair, cut and parted like Ella’s; two keys to the great hall, one of which was in Ella’s pocket before the party even began.”
“The other of which is this?”
“Yes. Kept for a keepsake.”
“I see.”
“Foolish, I know; but an irresistible mistake.”
My tears had gone now; and I watched my wife with sickening attention as she moved about the room with restless concentration: first to the fireplace; then to the window; then to the sofa again. The tea things lay forgotten on the table, our cups untouched. And though she brushed against the handle of the teapot as she passed it in the twilight, nearly knocking it over, she gave no sign of noticing that she had done so. Instead she talked, with mesmerizing fluency; and I listened to her and thought with dread of what she had done and of what I had yet to do. I am not, by nature, a violent man.
But Sarah talked on, oblivious to me and my thoughts; and she spoke with increasing pride in a kind of unthinking stream, her usual quiet manner completely overthrown.
“It was easy work to remove the original key from Cyril’s desk for a night while I had duplicates made in London. And I wore the wig when I went into the shop to get them done because it’s little touches like those that make all the difference, you know. And although it was a slim chance, I thought that if I dressed and spoke like Ella the man might recognize her from her pictures in the papers later on and come forward.”
“Which he did.”
“Yes. And then there was the physical preparation.”
“Of what sort?”
“Well, Alexander was a big man and I’m not particularly strong, so I had to practice the lift to make sure I got it right. That was weeks before. And on the night of the party itself there were endless things to do. So many details; and with such time constraints. Timing was everything.”
“What did you do?”
She stopped, disoriented for a moment; and I saw that I had interrupted her flow. “While we were all dressing,” she began slowly again, as if trying to remember it all, to leave no detail untold, “I put a note under Ella’s door asking her to meet her father secretly in his room at eight, and to wait for him if he wasn’t there. I couldn’t have her turning up anywhere while I was on the balcony with Uncle Alex, you see.” My wife smiled at me. “I got him to come up by saying that the speeches were going to be made from the great hall, not in the marquee, which he thought rather a good idea. And he waited for me while I changed. I think he was quite amused by my clothes, in fact. I told him Ella and I were dressing identically as a joke.”
“Go on.”
“Well so far so good, but the point of highest risk was still to come.” My wife looked at me; and I wondered suddenly how I could have lived with her for as long as I had done with so little idea of who she was. Our marriage, in all its wealth of peaceful detail, seemed suddenly unreal; unreal before the shining fire of Sarah’s eyes.
“I couldn’t be visible to everyone for too long,” she was saying. “A moment was all right, but more than that was an unacceptable risk. On the balcony itself I stood behind him as much as I could, and I can’t tell you how it unsettled me when old Lord Markham called out for Ella to show herself. I had to act quickly then.”
“So you pushed him.”
“Lifted him then pushed him. It was quite a complex maneuver, in fact. But it caught him so completely by surprise and the balustrade in any case is very low. It wasn’t difficult in the end. I almost lost my nerve when he clung on like he did, though; and I thought he might scream my name or something. So I had to loosen his grip as quickly as I could.”
“That was when people thought you were helping him.”
“Yes, though I can’t imagine why. It was ludicrously clear what was happening. That was the point. And as soon as he had fallen I went in and ran to my room; took off the wig and my clothes; put them in a bag and the bag into a drawer where no one would think to look for it; put on my dress and went downstairs. No more than seven minutes, the whole thing. Oh, and on my way I liberated the note I had given Ella, which fortunately was on the dressing table in her room. It was printed, of course, so no real harm would have come of anyone finding it. The police would have thought it was a fake she had written to herself. But I was glad to get it nonetheless. And the next day, when all was quieter, I simply took the bag down to the cliffs, added a few stones, and threw it off. It was done.”
“B
ut Ella accused you.” I had been drawn in, now; drawn in to Sarah’s story in all its manic glibness. And she pounced on my observation with delight.
“Ofcoursex she did. I had known that she would. Being innocent herself, she was the only person who could have known—really known—the truth.”
“But you had prepared for that already,” I said slowly; and I saw the sweep of Sarah’s plan with sickening clarity
“Clever, wasn’t it?”
I said nothing.
“That little monograph; my book. Everything paved the way. And when Ella was weak and stupid enough to use insanity as her excuse for ending with Charlie, the game was as good as won. You should never underestimate the power of the press. Those jurors’ minds were made up before ever they walked into the courtroom; and she had lied to the family for so long that no one was really surprised by what she seemed to have done. Shocked, of course, but not surprised. She had been seeing psychiatrists for years by the time I killed Alexander. And her hysteria, however understandable you and I might know it to be, did her no favors at all. Even when she tried to tell the truth—and she told the court doctors all about her relationship with me, for instance—she wasn’t believed. She was caught by then; she had nowhere to turn.”
There was silence.
“I don’t believe it,” I said hoarsely.
“Yes you do.”
But it was still with something like disbelief that I looked at her, silhouetted against the fiery last rays of the sun; and it was then that I knew that I was the last thing she had taken from Ella.
The Drowning People Page 32