The Lazarus Secrets

by Beryl Coverdale

  Drawing his pistol, the officer ran towards him yelling and yelling into his face. He dragged the demented man to his feet, forcing the rifle into his hands and pushing him toward the ladder. A single shot rang out and the officer dropped dead before he hit the wet, muddy ground. The screaming stopped. The noise of battle raged on, but the occupants of the trench were silent, all eyes turned to the sergeant, who lowered his rifle and turned back to the muddy wall.

  *

  “I shot him in the head,” said Alexander. “He had orders and he was going to carry them out and all of us, including him, were going to die so I shot him and the rest of us lived.” He turned a pleading face to Clive, “I’m not a coward, not now, not then.”

  “Of course you’re not,” Clive said with conviction, “you’re the bravest man I know, but when did this happen Uncle Alex?”

  “On the eleventh of November, 1918 — you remember, the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month!”

  “Of course, I remember but are you saying you were fighting right up to the eleventh hour?”

  Alexander nodded, “Thousands of men died in those last hours. Both sides were still shelling and keeping their heads down just praying for the end. Our illustrious leaders of course, were sitting safely around the table discussing peace terms with the enemy, crossing the ‘T’s and dotting the ‘I’s while the fighters on both sides continued to tear one another to pieces. Perhaps they just forgot to tell us to stop, too busy thinking about how good the eleventh of the eleventh of the eleventh sounded!” His voice broke and a single tear rolled across his cheek. “We had been through so much Clive. We’d given everything asked of us for so long and it was coming to an end and it was unbearable to die at that moment. For months, years even, I didn’t care whether I lived or died, death became a way out if you like but not that day, not the eleventh, I refused to die or let my men die on that day.”

  Clive covered Alexander’s hand with his own, “Such dreadful times, but no man can be your judge and God is merciful, he knows what’s in our hearts.” He made the sign of the cross, “Be at peace now, Uncle Alex.”

  The old man smirked, his voice was steady again. “I warned you to wait until I was finished. The worst is yet to come Vicar.”

  Exhausted and at peace after his long confession, Alexander slept and was unable to protest when Clive knelt at his bedside and muttered the Prayer of Absolution for his uncle and for himself.

  Almighty God, our heavenly Father, Who of His great mercy hath promised forgiveness of sins to all them that with hearty repentance and true faith turn unto Him; Have mercy upon you; pardon and deliver you from all your sins; confirm and strengthen you in all goodness; and bring you to everlasting life. Amen

  Closing the bedroom door behind him, he stood silently in the hallway, his hands shaking and his heart heavy with the burden that had been laid upon him.

  “Are you all right Alexander?” Clarissa asked. “Clive was with you a long time I hope he didn’t tire you too much.”

  Alexander struggled impatiently with his breathing, “He advised me to set the record straight so I did. Not that I believe in this confession before death lark, but I did it and now there are things I need to confess to you.” He grasped her hands tightly in his.

  Clarissa shook her head slowly, “No, you don’t need to do this Alexander. We know one another’s darkest secrets and as far as I’m concerned anything you’ve ever done has been for someone else’s benefit,” she smiled, “not that you haven’t overstepped the mark sometimes, but usually in a good cause.”

  “These damned sedatives are making me drowsy but I must tell you Clarissa you should know that I did you a great wrong and I want you to forgive me.”

  Clarissa sat on the bed and cradled him in her arms, “My darling Alexander you’ve been my strength and stay all these years and I don’t want to hear any of this nonsense.”

  “Listen to me!” he rasped impatiently, “it’s about Edwin Scott, the good doctor. He didn’t just abandon you out of hand, he was in love with you and I spoilt it all.”

  “What do you mean?” Clarissa looked puzzled.

  “I think he was going to ask you to marry him but I scared him off. Clarissa, I threatened to kill him.”

  Like some voyeur lurking in the shadows, he had watched them and grown to hate the friendly, smiling doctor. He saw them laugh together and hold hands and Clarissa blossom like a woman in love. Even when she was alone, she smiled as if remembering some pleasant moment and Alexander’s imagination ran riot as to what the moment could be. He said nothing to her, but he plotted. Not under any circumstances would he allow his reason for waking each day to be taken from him and Edwin Scott was certainly not nearly good enough for his Clarissa.

  “You did what?” Clarissa demanded softly.

  “I threatened to kill him if he didn’t stop seeing you. I waited for him one night in the village and threatened him and he stopped calling on you.” He coughed painfully. “I didn’t think it would be so easy. I never laid a finger on the man. He was a coward you see and wouldn’t have looked after you properly or my threats wouldn’t have stopped him. He would’ve fought for you if he had really loved you.” He coughed again and she held a glass of water to his lips and he drank then fell back on the pillow, “Please say you forgive me.”

  Clarissa spoke softly as though chastising a wayward child, “You haven’t changed at all, have you? Not since you dealt with the Brown brothers all those years ago. I always thought those tales were exaggerated, but they weren’t were they? You ought to be ashamed of yourself bullying a nice man like Edwin, I enjoyed his friendship. I was worn down worrying about Max and looking after Jules and he was a pleasant diversion but nothing more, in any case you wasted your time and energy threatening him because I had already turned him down.”

  “He asked you to marry him?”

  “Yes. I said no and we agreed to be friends so there was no need at all for your bully-boy tactics.”

  “Why did you turn him down?”

  “Because I was in love with someone else,” she touched his gaunt face, “someone I’ve been in love with for many, many years.”

  Fighting the restraints of his weakened body Alexander moved to put his arms around her and she rested her head on his shoulder. “Was it a waste Clarissa? Did we waste our lives?”

  “No. It’s been a great life with you by my side, you’ve been good company and kept me safe. We made our decision as to what kind of love it would be and I have no regrets. Do you?”

  “Never, ever. I love you, Lass.” ‘Lass’ was the endearment he had used on the day they met and she had thought it, and his northern accent, quaint. Over the years, his accent had softened and he was a clear and articulate speaker but sometimes in private moments, he called her ‘Lass’. It was like something from a North Country novel and she loved the basic familiarity of it, the idea that she was his ‘Lass’.

  He fell asleep and she moved closer to lie within his embrace. Since the day during the First World War when he had come barging into her life and saved her from abject misery, she had loved him. Even while Michael was still alive, she had loved something about him and that love had grown and grown over the years. She very much hoped it hadn’t been a selfish love on her part and was pleased he had no regrets. The love she bore for her dead husband burned as brightly as ever, still she could put no man in his shoes but there were parts of Alexander that were Michael and she had wanted nothing more than to live in his presence. Occasionally, they had half crossed the boundary of chaste love but neither was prepared to risk breaching the essence of their relationship which was a delicious mixture of things that might be.

  A gentle tap on the door did not wake them and Charles opened it just a little and watched them lying together. In each other’s arms, they lay perfectly still, lovers in name only but a more intense love he had not witnessed. It made no sense to him. When he had found Barbara again the time they had lost gnawed at him co
nstantly and he had wanted nothing more than to join with her in every sense, as lover, husband, friend and her death had left him desolate. Yet these lovers seemed to feel no deprivation, on the contrary they had lived their lives happily, content in one another’s company.

  The dreadful thought they might both be dead urged him closer but Alexander’s short rasping breath and the gentle movement of Clarissa’s body reassured him and he left them alone with their last moments.

  The laboured breathing stopped abruptly and Alexander Xavier Darrington let slip his hold on life. Clarissa opened her eyes and gently closed his. Life would never be the same again. At her side always there would be an agonisingly empty space but for him she felt only relief that his suffering was over. She kissed his lips and her tears dropped onto his face, “Goodbye my darling Alexander, brave as a lion,” she whispered.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Clive conducted the funeral service in the village church but at Alexander’s request, he was buried with his mother in the churchyard near the house in London that had once been their home.

  Clive loved and admired Alexander but as he stood before the grieving congregation he struggled with the burden of the dying man’s secrets. There were grim shadows surrounding Alexander Darrington’s life and they now cast their darkness upon him. The church was full and rows of sad faces waited for him to speak, the saddest and most uncomprehending that of his daughter Julia, whose eyes never left his.

  “We come together to mourn the loss and celebrate the life of Alexander Xavier Darrington. Everyone here today will have come across him at some time or another and it would be a memorable moment for there were no half measures in Alexander’s world. Without regard for his own safety or the opinions of others, he always did and said what he believed to be right. The young people here, most of whom mourn the loss of an elderly relative, are probably unaware of what a brave, courageous man he was in his youth. Alexander began his adult life at 14 years of age working long, backbreaking shifts in a coal mine to provide for his widowed mother and younger brother until the outbreak of the First World War, when he volunteered for the army. As a soldier, his young life was torn apart by four years of vicious fighting and the loss of his brother. He survived and, seeking no concession for his suffering, picked up his shattered life and dedicated it to the protection of others in his family.”

  Clive paused and looked at Max and thought he had never seen a man suffering so. Although everyone in the family, including Max, had known for some time that Alexander was dying slumped in his seat, he stared ahead his face pale with dark circles beneath his eyes; in contrast, Clarissa sitting next to Max, looked calm and smiled serenely.

  “I met Alexander when I was twelve years old and thought him a fascinating character in whose company I always felt secure, it was impossible to feel anything else. I was warned by the other adults in my life never to repeat his bad language but told I could find no-one better to emulate when it came to moral courage.”

  A mirthful murmur passed around the church together with an audible whisper from Ruby Rudge, “That’s right, that is, he were a good man, Mr Darrington, but sometimes he did use some awful bad language.”

  Clive smiled at Julia whose perfect face was now drenched with tears and tried to speak personally to his child. “Our lives have been enriched by knowing this complex man, and we will never forget him because he will live on in our hearts forever. Alexander told me many times he didn’t believe in God and only wanted this service to please the family, but God believed in Alexander and so I commit him into God’s care and ask that he be blessed for his virtues and forgiven his sins, however grievous.”

  At the graveside in London, Julia dropped a single red rose amongst the wreaths, kissed her fingers and touched Alexander’s name engraved beneath that of Eloise. “Goodbye, Grandpa Alex,” she whispered, “no swearing in heaven.” Charles left yellow roses, Eloise’s favourites, in her memory and suddenly it was over.

  Max took his mother’s arm and they walked slowly toward the park behind their old home. It was the same path they had walked after burying Eloise so many years ago, but their whole lives had changed so much since that time. “It’s strange being here again,” Max said, “but there’s the park just the same and the house. I wonder who lives there now.”

  “I believe it’s still a private home,” said Clarissa, “not an office like some of the others, sometimes there are children playing in the garden.” Max looked at her quizzically and she smiled, “We come here every year Charles, Alexander and myself on the anniversary of Eloise’s death. We put yellow roses on her grave, sit in the park and think about the past.”

  Max stopped walking and stared at her, “Every year since we left London, the three of you came here! And you never said anything to anyone. That’s amazing.”

  His mother patted his hand as they walked on, “And there’s something else Max, Charles and I want to be buried here too. I know how difficult it is to coordinate everything but you will see to it won’t you when the time comes. It’s rather important we’re together in death as we were in life.”

  Not wanting to go down the avenue of another death, Max nodded and wondered what else these straight-laced adults of his childhood had concealed. Discovering buried secrets in his own past he had recently begun to examine and scrutinise other people he thought he knew for chinks of deception in their apparently uneventful lives.

  Clarissa glanced at his worried face and thought how unwell he looked after his initial excellent recovery and prayed this recent sadness would not make him ill again. “Don’t be sad about his passing Max,” she said, “he was ready to go, he hated the idea of being an invalid. He made his peace with everyone and set his affairs in order, he even made a list of personal items he wanted to be given to the family. As you know he didn’t put much store on possessions but the things he had were precious to him and always the most expensive.”

  “Cars and cufflinks,” they said together and laughed in spite of their sadness.

  Max tried to put his own fears aside for this important time with his mother, “Do you remember the MG?” he asked.

  Clarissa laughed gently, “Yes, he was far too old for that car but certainly couldn’t afford it when he was young and couldn’t resist it when he could afford it. I think that’s why he gave it to you. By the way, he has left you his red Jaguar.”

  “Sarah will be so pleased,” Max grinned, “she just loves the idea of me and fast cars.”

  “What did you think of the service?” Clarissa suddenly asked.

  “I thought it appropriate. Clive always manages to make these things personal rather than ritual and he kept it to the point without missing the point. I thought it was good. Didn’t you?”

  Clarissa hesitated, “Well he certainly captured the spirit of Alexander, but I wondered about ‘sins, however, grievous’. Alexander was no saint and, like all of us, must have committed sins but ‘grievous’ seems a bit extreme don’t you think? I wonder what he meant by it.”

  The possibility of his own grievous sin flashed through Max’s mind, “Well who knows what other people have done during their lives; perhaps he needed absolution for something that happened earlier in his life or when he was fighting in the First World War.”

  Clarissa stared at him, “I can’t believe you said that Max.”

  “Mother, I’m sorry that’s not what I meant,” he said hastily, “and not what Clive meant either, there’s probably some set pattern within a funeral service covering everything. According to faith we are none of us free from sin but I don’t suppose Alexander had any hidden mortal sins and let’s face it most of what he said and did was out in the open to the horror of many. Anyway, he wouldn’t hide anything from you would he?” He hoped he sounded more convincing than he felt.

  Clarissa smiled girlishly, “Do you know before he died he told me during the last war he threatened to kill Edwin Scott for taking me out!”

  “I don’t believe it!” s
aid Max incredulously. “No, no, on second thoughts I do believe it, that’s just the sort of thing he would do but it’s hardly a grievous sin!”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Darrington returned to the archives and carefully smuggled the red file back to its rightful place. Miss Bevis offered condolences on his uncle’s death and seemed concerned that he had returned to work too soon. He assured her he was fine but once ensconced in the vault and away from her surveillance, he again pored over Claudine’s file always coming to the same fearful conclusion.

  Like the singing in the air-raid shelter, fragmented moments came back to him but events were blurred and possibly out of sequence. He remembered being in London. He had used the key Claudine had given him and followed her and her lover into the flat and watched them making love on the living room floor but, according to the file, her body was found on the bed in the bedroom and that was where she had died. The memory of their lovemaking was sadistic and cruel, they hit out at one another and tore at clothes and hair then like an erotic dream the memory faded. He remembered the air-raid warning siren blaring in the background and being herded down the staircase amongst a sudden push of people fighting their way out and then being lost and wandering the deserted streets. Smoke, fire and noise were all around him; he thought himself in hell and crouched in a doorway covering his head with his arms. In the past, he had remembered this as being in Portsmouth but since his talk with Douglas he now knew he was in London.

  According to Douglas, he had blood on him but wasn’t injured, so whose blood was it if not Claudine’s? He had clearly seen the cross around her neck but where was it now? Had he killed her, taken it from her and thrown it away after its defilement? Douglas had said he probably wouldn’t have done such a thing if the cross meant so much to him, he would have kept it. Perhaps Claudine and the French sailor had moved into the bedroom and their violence had got out of hand and he had killed her and stolen the cross. Perhaps the serial killer had murdered her and taken it as a trophy, or the person who found the body had stolen it, such things happened.