The Shortest Way to Hades

by Sarah Caudwell

  “You were,” said Ragwort, “about to say?”

  “I was about to say,” I said, “that very little time can have passed between the moment at which Dolly left the roof terrace and Deirdre either fell or jumped from it. Almost no time at all.”

  “You surely aren’t suggesting,” said Ragwort, “that Dolly herself—? Oh nonsense, Hilary, she’s a simply delightful woman.”

  “She is indeed,” I said, “a most charming and attractive woman. The study of history, however, demonstrates that charming and attractive women are not incapable of murder. You do see, don’t you, that if murder was committed she is the only person who had time to do it? On Boat Race Day, remember, and at so crucial a point in the contest, there would have been a considerable commotion on the towpath: it would have taken a minute or so for those watching from the balcony to become aware of anything amiss. If she had thrown her niece over the parapet and immediately descended to the drawing-room, I dare say they would all have believed that she was already downstairs when Deirdre fell.”

  “Hilary,” said Selena, “you aren’t serious about this, are you?”

  “No,” I said. “No, as it happens, I am not. I agree that she couldn’t have done it—she isn’t tall enough.”

  “And a study of history demonstrates, I suppose,” said Ragwort, “that women of short stature are incapable of murder?”

  “The commonplace experience of lifting a suitcase into a luggage-rack demonstrates the muscular effort required to raise a heavy object above one’s head. If Dolly had ever trained as a weight-lifter, it is conceivable that she might be able to lift a young woman of similar height and weight to herself over a barrier some two inches taller; otherwise not—I am satisfied that the possibility may be excluded.”

  We continued eastwards in silence. It was not until we reached Trafalgar Square, where buses, pigeons and wandering tourists, all equally indifferent to impatient toots of the horn, reduced our speed to that of an unhurried pedestrian, that Selena spoke again.

  “I’m glad,” she said, “that there’s no question of murder. It means we can stop being anxious about Camilla.”

  Unaware that we had begun to be anxious about Camilla, I invited her to explain her meaning.

  “Well, you’ve always said, Hilary, that you didn’t think it was murder because the wrong girl was dead.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I have always taken the view that if a murder were to take place in the Remington-Fiske family it would be the heiress who was murdered.”

  “And it’s quite true, of course,” continued Selena, as she edged her way forward into the Strand, “that if anyone else in the family had wanted to inherit the estate, they would have had to dispose of Camilla. But Deirdre was the next in line of inheritance, so she was the only one for whom that would have been enough. Anyone else would have had to get rid of both of them. And there’s no particular reason, is there, why they should do so in order of seniority?”

  The crew after all arrived before the captain. We found my young colleague Sebastian Verity sitting in Selena’s room in 62 New Square, peacefully reading a copy of Homer’s Odyssey—a graceful young man, gray-eyed and silken-haired, of agreeably poetic appearance. His name will perhaps be known to my readers—though the work has not reached so extensive an audience, even among the discerning, as its artistic and scholarly merits would deserve—for his verse translation of the Idylls of Theocritus, published some fifteen months prior to the events here related.

  He rose and came forward to greet us with an eagerness astonishing in a young man who expected to spend the next two weeks being tossed about on the Mediterranean in a small, damp, dangerous sailing-craft. I reflected, however, that at the prospect of spending a fortnight in Selena’s company in a cell in Wormwood Scrubs the eyes of my young colleague would have shone with an equally rapturous delight; such is the effect of passion on a tender and devoted heart. Despite the adverse consequences which such familiarity might have on shipboard discipline, Selena allowed herself to be embraced.

  “The first question is,” he said, “whether I should begin immediately to address you as ‘sir’ or may continue to call you Selena until we are on board.”

  “I shall be quite content,” said Selena, “to be addressed as ‘skipper,’ provided that it is done in a suitably respectful manner.”

  “Those of you,” said Sebastian, “who have seen Selena only on dry land will probably think of her as a reasonable, good-natured, easy-going sort of woman, and may find it difficult to credit the transformation which takes place as soon as she sets foot on a sailing-boat. I think it’s because of the books she reads. She spends the winter months, you know, reading books about sailing and seamanship—they all seem to recommend that the conduct of the ship’s captain should be modelled as closely as possible on that of Captain Bligh of the Bounty.”

  “Sebastian,” said Julia kindly, but with a certain sternness, “we think that you exaggerate.”

  “By no means,” said Sebastian, “quite the contrary. I wouldn’t venture to tell you, Julia, of the dangers and appalling living conditions which are the fate of anyone who puts to sea with Selena. If you were to imagine me clinging precariously to the rigging in the sort of howling gale which she describes as a nice, lively little breeze, or think of me scrubbing decks and pumping bilges from dawn to dusk under the merciless sun, pleading in vain for a small sip of retsina to cool my thirst—no, Julia, it’s more than your gentle heart could bear. You would want to report the whole thing to the Court of Human Rights or someone.”

  “There is,” said Selena, “not a word of truth in this.”

  “Sebastian,” said Ragwort, “we believe every word you say. We ask ourselves only by what compulsion, knowing all this, you were persuaded to enlist for the voyage.”

  “Seafaring,” said Sebastian, “as of course you know, has from ancient times been a vital element in the Greek way of life, and has had a great influence on their thought and literature. I am anxious to achieve an insight into the sufferings and privations which would have been endured by the ordinary Greek seaman in the periods of which I profess the study. I dare say I’m overdoing it rather—one can hardly imagine that a freeborn Athenian of the fifth century, for example, however poor and economically exploited, would have submitted to quite such despotic treatment as I must look forward to. Still, I am doing my best.”

  “When we go aboard,” said Selena, “I shall be revenged for this.”

  “Your explanation,” said Ragwort, “reflects great credit on you. But it occurs to us, from our recollection of certain passages in classical literature, that rough words and harsh discipline were not the worst that an Athenian sailor—a young and personable Athenian sailor—might have had to face at the hands of his officers: advantage, we fear, would sometimes have been taken of his subordinate status to make him the instrument of sensual gratification. Have you considered, Sebastian, that you may be placing yourself in a similar danger?”

  “Hilary will confirm,” said Sebastian, “that in the cause of Scholarship no sacrifice is too great.”

  Having wished our friends a happy and prosperous voyage and waved them farewell from the great gateway between New Square and Lincoln’s Inn Fields, Julia and Ragwort and I turned by common consent in the direction of the Corkscrew. The weather, which had been charming, became suddenly gray and blustery, with a suggestion of rain: we quickened our step, and Julia put on the raincoat which she was carrying.

  “My dear Julia,” said Ragwort, as we walked through Great Turnstile, “I do not wish to appear critical, but would you care to tell us how in the world you came to purchase that raincoat? It’s at least two sizes too small for you.”

  “It is rather tight across the shoulders,” said Julia. “Indeed, quite uncomfortably so. I rather wish you hadn’t mentioned it, Ragwort—I’ve never noticed before.”

  “It might be better,” said Ragwort, “if you didn’t have so much in the pockets.”

  �
�I don’t have anything in the pockets,” said Julia. “I emptied them yesterday in the cause of nearness and order. Oh.” Seeking to demonstrate the emptiness of her pockets, she had produced from one a cellophane-wrapped box, containing, according to its label, a bottle of expensive scent, and from the other a thick brown envelope. “I don’t remember why I’ve got these.”

  “If you have been buying scents made by Monsieur Patou,” said Ragwort, “you may count on your bank manager to remember the transaction. Have you any idea what’s in the envelope?” Julia shook her head.

  Comfortably established at one of the round oak tables in the Corkscrew, and with a reassuring glass of Niersteiner in her hand, she nonetheless continued for some time to gaze at the envelope with bewildered apprehension, turning it this way and that, as if fearing that its contents might prove inimical to her welfare. At last, however, she was prevailed upon to open it. It contained photographs: some two dozen, all in color, of about the same dimensions as a postcard.

  “Julia,” said Ragwort with some severity, “these are not the sort of photographs which one expects to find in the possession of a member of the English Bar—except, possibly, for the purposes of a prosecution for obscenity. How in the world do you come to have them?”

  “I haven’t the least idea,” said Julia. “Oh look,” she added, with every sign of pleasure, “there’s one of Selena and me.” The picture showed them sitting side by side on a sofa: Selena, with a look of judicial detachment, seemed to be appraising the quality of her champagne; Julia was smiling with sleepy and bemused benevolence at two other persons—one male, the other female, both naked, in an attitude of greater intimacy than I would wish to describe in detail to my readers: though Selena and Julia were fully dressed, the photograph was taken at such an angle as somehow to suggest that all four figures were part of a single tableau. The background I recognized without difficulty, having seen it less than two hours earlier—it was the drawing-room of Rupert Galloway’s flat. It required but little scholarship to infer that the photographs had been taken at the gathering attended by Selena and Julia in the previous November; and it seemed not over-adventurous to surmise that the film from which they were made had been in the camera appropriated by the spurious policemen.

  “Julia,” I said gently, “is that the coat which Selena found for you in the cupboard at Rupert’s flat?” She nodded. “And are you,” I continued, “quite, quite sure that it’s yours?”

  She turned the coat this way and that, inside out and upside down, searching, I suppose, for some winestain or cigarette burn which would identify it as unquestionably hers. Eventually, at Ragwort’s suggestion, she looked inside the collar and found sewn there a small name-tape. On reading it, she became rather pale.

  “Oh dear,” she said, “it seems to be Deirdre’s. Do you think it’s been there ever since—?”

  “Undoubtedly.” I said. “She would have put it in the cupboard when she arrived for the Boat Race party and no one has since thought to move it. I don’t quite know how she came by the photographs, but I fear we may easily guess how she hoped to use them. And that, my dear Julia, solves the last of the mysteries.”

  Ragwort raised an eyebrow.

  “Deirdre’s letter. I think we may safely assume that what Julia construed as an appeal for help was in truth a prelude to blackmail. It would be not inconsistent with the impression we have been given of Deirdre’s character; and she would no doubt have thought—she was very young, after all—that this picture was sufficiently compromising for Julia to pay money for it. You had better give the photographs to me—if you keep them, Julia, you will mix them up with some set of papers you are dealing with and cause alarm to your instructing solicitors.”

  We were afterwards joined by Timothy and Cantrip and in their company spent an agreeable evening, at the end of which Timothy kindly offered me the hospitality of his flat. I rose late and breakfasted at leisure, reflecting with some complacency on the successful conclusion of my inquiry. I thought myself a trifle at fault in directing my mind too little to the point mentioned by Selena—that a person murderously resolved to secure possession of the Remington-Fiske estates, being more remote in the succession than both Deirdre and Camilla, would not necessarily have disposed of them in order of seniority; but since Deirdre’s death had not been achieved by malice, the point seemed an academic one.

  Towards noon—Selena, I supposed, was by then already under sail on the blue waters of the Ionian—I went out into Middle Temple Lane and turned my steps towards Fleet Street. The news-vendor on the corner of these two thoroughfares was already offering for sale the earliest edition of the evening paper. I paused to glance at the placard proclaiming the latest news:

  HEIRESS FEARED DROWNED IN SAILING ACCIDENT

  I purchased a copy of the paper and looked for the “Stop Press” column; but for some reason I scarcely needed to read it to feel certain that the headline referred to Camilla Galloway.

  CHAPTER 11

  There is a sense in which my inquiry had been successful. Its purpose, as my readers will recall, had been to stop Julia talking about Sir Thomas More: in this it had succeeded. It is right, however, to confess immediately that my conclusions were entirely erroneous. In reaching them, I had too uncritically accepted a view of Deirdre’s death which accorded with my own preconceived opinion, banishing from my mind those curious features of the unhappy incident which were left unexplained: an error all the more culpable in that the facts were already known to me which should have led to a virtual certainty of the truth, requiring only a trivial piece of commonplace research to be confirmed beyond question. I blame myself much for my failure of judgment; though I could hardly have foreseen how dangerous it would prove to persons whom I held in affection.

  The news of Camilla’s sailing accident did not persuade me, for more than a moment or two, to reconsider my opinion. Dismissing as irrational my sense of uneasiness, I concluded merely that the descendants of the late Sir James Remington-Fiske were peculiarly inclined to misadventure. Fuller and more accurate accounts of the incident appeared in due course in the English newspapers. I refrain, however, from setting out any of these in extenso, since there is nothing in them which is not also related in Selena’s letters to Julia: these, being most material to my narrative, must be placed before my readers in their entirety.

  The first arrived some ten days later, on a day when I happened again to find myself in London. Looking into the Corkscrew at an early hour of the evening, I discovered Julia on the point of reading it, and willingly accepted her offer to do so aloud.

  SV Kymothoe at anchor in the bay of Mourtos.

  Sunday afternoon.

  Dear Julia,

  I have been obliged to put in here by unrest among the crew, namely Sebastian. I had meant to take advantage of a nice westerly breeze to press on northwards to Corfu; but the crew claimed the sea was too rough for sailing on and threatened strike action. I pointed out that lying in the cockpit and reading aloud from the Odyssey—these being his principal duties—did not actually constitute an essential contribution to the smooth running of the vessel. It was further represented to me, however, that it would be wrong to pass by Mourtos without a second glance, since it was the scene of the great sea-battle which marked the outbreak of the Peloponnesian War and changed the history of the Western world; and had a taverna where we could eat grilled prawns. I yielded to these arguments against my better judgment.

  I must tell you a most extraordinary story I have heard about Camilla Galloway. It may perhaps have been mentioned in the English newspapers; but I don’t imagine they would have thought it worth reporting in detail.

  The first I heard of it was at Preveza.

  Preveza is on the west coast of mainland Greece, on the north side of the Gulf of Amvrakikos. We arrived there on Friday morning, collected the necessary papers from the shipping office and took possession of the Kymothoe. She is a 25-foot Snapdragon, small enough to be handled by two people
, but with plenty of space below decks and everything one needs to be comfortable—a well-designed little galley and a proper lavatory and shower, quite separate and private, with room to stand upright there as well as in the cabin. I really think, Julia, that even you—well, no, perhaps not.

  Our destination is Ithaca, but by a roundabout route: northwards between Corfu and the mainland coast until we round the northern end of Corfu, then southwards again. This is a longish voyage under sail in a fortnight, and of course I don’t want to motor any more than I have to: it seemed to me that if we were going to see anything of Ithaca we should waste no time, but set sail as soon as we were properly provisioned.

  I could see no reason for lingering in Preveza—it looked like a very ordinary fishing port, all whitewash and cobblestones, such as one might see anywhere on the Mediterranean, and distinguished only by the unusually pungent smell from the harbor. I was told by the crew, however, that in ancient and medieval times it had been a place of great strategic importance and that in the surrounding waters a battle had been fought which had changed the history of the world; I was also reminded that it was nearly lunch-time. (It’s rather extraordinary that whenever the crew wants to stop for lunch we find ourselves at the scene of a battle which has changed the history of the world—there are judges I know who would think it a most remarkable coincidence.)

  We accordingly went ashore and ate moussaka and Greek salad at a taverna overlooking the Gulf, while the crew told me all about the battle. It appears that Aktion, on the south side of the Gulf, is the same place as Actium, where Octavian defeated Antony and Cleopatra and started the Roman Empire—the Greeks, as is their custom, have changed the name to confuse foreign visitors. (Attempts were made to persuade me that it had really been called Aktion all along; but Shakespeare calls it Actium, so I dismissed these as subversive.)