by Niels Hammer
“Now, not a word to anybody, promise, across your heart?”
“All right. Here they are. Shall I forward them to you?”
“Yes, then I can print them out.”
“Will you stay for dinner, I expect Perry in about an hour?”
“I must read this autopsy first, and then I will have to go to London later to-night.”
He kissed her on both cheeks – for help and loyalty. A suggestion of musk – which suited her rôle as prima donna – lingered in his nose as he drove home to telephone Fjodor.
“How are you?”
“Fine, and how are your prospects?”
“Presently it’s a mixed blessing. It can still go either way. But I’m sending you a couple of photographs of hand-made jewellery. Could you print them out and get somebody to enquire at the most likely places if any of these items still are available. And if they are, then buy one of them, and make a note of where the other items can be found if need be. Though it’s against all principles I would jump for joy if the identity of the individual who happened to have one of these items could be divulged in a general sort of way, like the ‘grey-haired middle aged man in Gower Street,’ or something similar. I want to indicate to her that I know to whom she sold it.”
“So she has appropriated the jewellery of which you’re sending me photographs. They’re arriving now. Are we approaching the anagnorisis?”
“A final ‘aye’ or a final ‘nay’ should emerge in less than forty-eight hours.”
“All right. We’ll tip-toe out on the thin ice here but probe it very carefully for cracks.”
He began reading the autopsy. Diagnostic indications of corpses – found in water – anserina cutis – goose flesh – skin maceration – adipocere. He looked it up in Stedman’s. The fatty layers beneath the skin – soap-like – this process – forty-five to ninety days. Post mortem injuries – the body would have been buffeted around in the water by winds and shifting currents – difficult to distinguish from injuries sustained prior to death/while alive. Absence of fine white froth in airways. Hardly death by drowning – but – and likewise – not all that much water and debris in stomach – so not a symptom of drowning either. Time before resurgence in March – April three to six days. Putrefaction in the head – neck and anterior chest – greenish-brown colour. The skin – blanched – sallow and wrinkled – putrefaction of the epidermis – the nails peeled off – sustained injury from fish and sea-lice – right shoulder dislocated but – again – difficult to distinguish ante from post mortem injuries. He had a glass of Armagnac to strengthen his now rather moribund imagination and as the dreamy flavour of old rosy grapes enveloped him he saw what had happened. George had surprised her. They had fought and he had continued to fight even though she had wrenched his arm backwards to pacify him. He had had too much to drink and been too mad to heed the pain and as she had been afraid to release him from her grip he had simply been asphyxiated. Then she had dumped his body in the river – assuming that the spring current would carry it away from the house – and the bad luck of having killed him had been mitigated by the fact that it had taken nearly ten weeks before the body was discovered. That had made it difficult to associate his death with the burglary. So it had been an accident and she had regarded it as an accident and probably been mad at his insensibility – but it had not hindered her from keeping the jewels. An idiotic mistake. So he had the major argument ready – but it would only be definitive if he could prove his point with the jewellery. It had been unpardonably stupid of her to have kept the jewellery after she had killed him but if she already had taken it she may have been so eager to get away that she had lost her sang-froid and been unable to replace it. However – she ought at least to have kept it for a year or two – but maybe she had not sold it yet? He had simply taken it for granted that she had sold the jewellery already and by doing so he may have done her an injustice. If she had kept it – unless hidden somewhere outside of her house – in a forest or the like – she would still be very vulnerable – however – her reaction would indicate what she had done with it in case the search did not yield any positive results. By knowing exactly how she had killed him and by being able to prove it with the jewellery he would become her accomplice and by becoming her accomplice he would gain her confidence and by gaining her confidence he would aspire to her trust – but the force of the argument depended to a great extent upon what she had done with the jewellery. If he could not prove his reconstruction of the event he only had her imagination to rely on. However – if she chose to regard his approach as a form of coercion he would have no option left but to withdraw gracefully with an apology for his frowardness.
XX
As the light burned the last vestige of darkness away in the West he began to think about what kind of impact his visit might have had on her plans for the future – and became aware of a growing anxiety – for although he had found her now – she could still vanish into thin air if she imagined that there might be sinister motives behind his strange approach – but conceivably she might just reach the conclusion that he happened to have seen her at her club or somewhere else – and had become infatuated enough – though without knowing her at all – to entertain the idea that it would be advantageous for his spring-green hopes if he could surprise her with a bottle of Champagne and a large bouquet of red roses. And if she were as discriminating as he wanted her to be she would notice that the colour of the roses were finely matched and that there were sixty-six – about twice her age – and of course that the Champagne was a Dom Pérignon. If she were inquisitive enough to discover these signs of his affection she would rest content with having frightened away an infatuated suitor who had imagined that he would appear to be irresistible and daring if using such an unconventional approach to woo her – and she might then even be able to see that the daring he had displayed was nothing but a reflection of the force of character and independence which she exhibited with every breath. In that case it would whet her curiosity and she might begin to wonder if she had been subject to observation since he had entered her house while she was away – and investigate the surroundings – especially the small grove that commanded such a good view of her house. As the grass yesterday would have had forty-eight hours in which to rise and the droppings time in which to look authentic he felt reasonably certain that she would think that the depression in the grass had been made by a Red Deer rather than by a Human – and then she would doubtless – given the reception with which she had received him – rest assured of not being troubled any more. But regardless of this the roses and the Champagne ought to have made it clear that his visit could not in any way be connected with her nightly activity. Such pious and deceivingly rational explanations only served to smoothe the seas for he still felt troubled by vague misgivings of how she might disappear like an Elf at the first approach of the daylight of having caught sight of him if she could detect the faintest whiff of something untoward in the incident. With that nagging insecurity beating in his blood – in spite of how carefully he had tried to allay the fears that surged up from his subconscious – he rose and had breakfast quite automatically and out of tune with the natural beauty of the morning – before he drove down to the small track east of her house to make a litmus test. The transmitter was still working. So far so good – and while he felt softly assuaged he was still – even now – slightly ill at ease. Could it merely be his general anxiety or were there indeed a real reason to be suspicious of her immediate intentions? She could easily have come to the simple conclusion that she had been followed for a while and search her car as well as her house and the surroundings. Maybe she had searched her house already and found nothing – and conjectured that he simply had taken a chance and crawled in through the open window when he found that the house was empty. So he drove home again vaguely hoping for the best though still fearing the worst – for she might have found the transmitter and placed it in the garden –
so he decided to have a look later. Feeling restless he continued where he had stopped yesterday but his shoulder was still sore so progress was slow. The afternoon had been quite warm and he had nearly finished with the Carrots and the Leeks but there were at least six hours till midnight and the revolution of the Earth seemed to have stopped to magnify his torments – but then – endeavouring to act in accordance with the season and the hour he made dinner – ate slowly – and went out to sit in the hammock with a blanket and a glass of wine. As twilight approached from the East he merged with the evening and the suggestive sounds that came from the immediate environment. A dog barked in delight – a car passed slowly by and the Blackbirds sang the evening in. Different odours arose from the humid soil – mushroom and truffles – to tint the pungent half-rotten smell of Black Horehounds and the fresh sweet smell of Woodruffs – from the bank beside the Honeysuckles – so he rose and buried his face in a thick dewy cluster to get the sweet and peppery green floral notes to anoint his anxiety for an evening while – but when the mosquitoes became too bold he sought refuge behind closed windows. Fjodor would telephone the minute he had any news – but there were no news yet – not yet. He missed the Broads but maybe the day after to-morrow? Maybe! He should see if the Kingfisher had returned to his old haunt. Waiting was an intolerable mental state for it prevented him from living in the present as all his attention was focused on making the seconds pass as quickly as possible in order to arrive at some future state of activity. His inability to wait with natural patience was frightening. He was too upset to do what he ought to be able to do – but at one o’ clock he drove down to the little track east of her house. Still the transmitter seemed to work and he had again that feeling of relative calm – a feeling of assurance that God was in his Heaven and that all was well with the world – but he had to ascertain its presence beside the front wheel with the tips of his fingers before he could feel safe enough to wait for news with a fair degree of equanimity – so he looked up and down the road and as there were no lights from cars in either direction he ran up towards her house while praying to all the hidden forces in the universe to let her car stand as usual in the driveway – and he did it with such an intensity that he felt he was able to materialise it in front of his eyes and create a mirage in a rural area thirty degrees North of the Tropic of Cancer. The car was where he had expected it to be and feeling an irresistible urge to investigate – to get at the truth even if it meant death – he crawled forward on the grass between the flagstones and felt for the transmitter with his fingertips – everywhere. It had gone. There was a small smooth spot where he had cleaned the metal. His heartbeat increased to blacken his sense of hearing. He became unable to move or to think but crawled nevertheless back automatically as quickly as he could and hurried down to his car. It was extremely unlikely that it had fallen off in the vicinity of her house. She had found it and placed it in the garden. The necessity to act had become imperative. Jewels or no jewels – he would have to use the evidence he already had. She could be on the point of departure – to-morrow – either Hell or Heaven. Surrounded by a thickening fog he drove home vexed with forebodings and looked at his emails. There was a message from Fjodor ‘Expect one item as required to-morrow morning at eight’ and he answered ‘Will be there at eight.’ The best bet would now be to surprise her with irrefutable evidence around eleven and not – as he had first thought – with circumstantial evidence at six.
XXI
At a quarter to five he began – still half asleep – to perform the matutinal rituals of his species and half an hour later he found his way – navigating the deserted road towards Ipswich – to catch the early morning train. The journey unfolded slowly like the day as the clarity of his habitual state of awareness slowly ousted the natural drowsiness of far too little sleep – but it was only when he was walking down the morning-brisk and busy street which still smelled fresh from its nightly bath – that he dared to feel alive with the anxiety of the impending acid test of his intuition and of the values he felt it embodied. Almost as soon as he had pressed the bell the door was opened and Fjodor – wrapped up in his large loose purple morning gown – let him in – looking too grumpy for words because of having to be awake at such an ungodly hour.
“I’m expecting him any minute. We had to pay two thousand five hundred Pounds for it.”
“Ne t’en fais pas, we’ll be reimbursed by the woman who had it. Say six thousand.”
“Fine, but come upstairs. There’s no need for you to see him or for him to see you.”
He nearly stumbled over a pair of shoes in the hall.
“I have a guest as you can see, and no stale comments, please.”
Warmed by the loyal response of complicity he pointed to the bedroom door and put his finger across his lips. They came and they went – one after the other.
“Come out here in the kitchen.”
He followed him out into the holy of holies.
“She’s very sweet and very good, so I don’t want to wake her before it’s time to wake her. When he comes you can stay here. Make yourself a cup of tea while we wait. I’ll deal with him in the office. This is not something I like, but we have of course to take the risk.”
“Is he unreliable?”
“I have no reason to think so, and yet, unless we relate unequivocally to emotions and values, self-interest will always triumph, so it would be prudent to take great care. In fact, I’d rather deal with him on the stairs; the less he sees the better.”
“I thought you knew him?”
“Oh I do, but I have only met him in public places such as galleries and museums.”
Feeling Fjodor’s disgust and acknowledging his weighted consideration of the potential risks beside his deliberate disregard of them made him regret having insisted on picking up this probably quite superfluous ace.
“I deplore the hazard of this extraordinary effort, but I’m desperate to meet my fate to-day.”
The bell rang and Fjodor went down the stairs – slip slop slip slop – the water boiled – the tea changed colour from translucent gold to transparent orange – the fragrance grew honey green and flowery – the flip-flops became audible on the steps again – first as they descended and then when they changed rhythm to ascend. The door was flung open and with a large satisfied smile Fjodor held a large silvery wristlet ornamented with agates in his outstretched right hand.
“Here you are! We got it from someone living in Greek Road, Deptford.”
“That’s a miracle, and Greek Road, Deptford. A detail, hard as a diamond.”
“Should he continue his search?”
“No, it has already exposed him and of course you to a considerable risk. We had better stop.”
“That was also what I told him to do unless he heard from me again.”
“Fine, and I will give you a call later; but here’s a letter, you can read it now if you like. It’s the whole story, including her address. In case you do not hear from me by to-night, do not hesitate to act, though of course it may be too late.”
“Is she really that unpredictable?”
Fjodor knitted his brows and the impish expression in his eyes changed to silver pinpricks of worries. Ill-boding stars with variable magnitudes.
“I don’t think so, but I would like to be able to tell her that I have paid my insurance.”
“I see, but do take care with the deadly sex or would you like me to join you? I could wait outside and in case all went well just quietly vanish and in case you needed a helping hand rush in and sustain your endeavours?”
“I’m glad you suggested it, but no, I’ll telephone as soon as I know whether it’s head or tails.”
But Fjodor could not but be aware of how the light tone of his voice was intended to hide – not only from his eyes – but from his own as well – the gaping void of existential angst the uncertain outcome of his maddening love had kept ex
panding – hour by hour – since her first defensive act of violence and grace had epitomised her as the earthy beauty of an ethereal epiphany.
“If I have not heard anything by twelve o’ clock I’ll initiate a rescue operation, so expect me around half past two, and I have her address here?”
“Yes! I have even enclosed a rough plan of her house, but I’ll call you before twelve o’clock. ”
With not a second left to lose he jumped down the stairs and hurried out of the door to circumnavigate the single individuals who rushed along in his direction or who came running against him or to fight his way through the tardy crowds like a swimmer struggling to get through patches of kelp in a strong roost. Like he was himself they were all blinded by the single purpose of reaching the final destination of their mind-jailed goal – namely death. At the station – standing still in a swarm of apparently random activity that made him dizzy with its apparent lack of cosmic orientation – he had to wait seven motionless minutes for the slow train to Holborn and once it had arrived he had to endure the torment of being pressed up against the smelly bodies of careworn or apathetic travellers. At Holborn he jumped out to burrow his way forward towards the Central Line to Liverpool Street. Another loss of precious minutes – but the traffic above would have been even more enervating. A centipede of compartments crawled through a tunnel made in the earth to enhance the speed of going from one place to another in a vast termite anthill of bricks and asphalt – lethargy and frenzy. At Liverpool Street – where the light was mute – he ran out only to despair when seeing that he had to wait twenty-six minutes before the next train left for Ipswich. How could he live through this great gap of uncertainty about what she might be doing? Probably she had already begun packing! Yes – she was on the point of covering her tracks – and she might very well cover them so thoroughly that he would be unable to discern her wake across the high seas or her spoor along the barren roads. He definitely had the notion that she was packing – and he saw her move around the house – quickly – feeling determined and efficient. In the train he imagined that she had decided to move to Valparaíso – Ulaan Baator – Limerick – Port Moresby – Vladivostok – London – Durban or Antibes – and yet he felt that none of his conjectures held any of the strange attractions that might indicate a plausible guess. He had taken too great a risk for he ought to have woken her up at sunrise to confront her with the information he already had. What if she had disappeared when he finally came knocking at her door with all his persuasive arguments? Where should he then try to find her in this wide wide world? All his endeavours would have been in vain and life – colour – form and soul would become meaningless. He had only himself to blame – as usual – having taken a wrong decision and ruined his life – and hers as well. Her car though – might be his only hope – a hope that would only last a few days. As the train continued to stop and to leave – station after station – to spew out and to suck in streams of passengers – to mole its way forward through the densely populated landscape whose variegated features accentuated his nervous anxiety as well as his tentative trust in a distant future – he sat clasping the wristlet in his pocket as the wristlet was the skeleton key to her door – but when at last the locomotive – which pulled the wagon in which he stood ready to jump out – crept into the station at Ipswich where it came to a stand still after a wheel-grinding whine of agony – he ran out to embark on the last independent leg of his journey. The changing scenery of fields and villages – of houses and traffic – began to soothe his working memory by engaging his eyes and his ears – but beneath the stilled surface of his will and the dire necessity of attention seismic tremors threatened to explode in chaos. It had begun to rain and the landscape seemed sullen and colourless beneath the thickening nimbostratus layer of clouds from the Atlantic – the father of Καλύψω – so were he imposing archetypal patterns on stochastic events to infuse them with meaning? Would oh would that her car still would be there in the driveway where he had seen it last night – but he would soon know what had happened and meet with unmitigated misery or unmitigated joy. Stasis or kinesis – but then he flew out of his car – up over the green fields and up above the uniform grey layer of clouds – far up into the blue blue Sky above. All his anxiety had been unnecessary for as usual her car was parked in the driveway so she was still at home. He took the autopsy and the wristlet out of his pocket and went up the stairs to ring her silver bell. Realising that the final – the ultimate confrontation – was immediate his knees began to tremble so violently that he became afraid of falling down the steps like too famished a beggar – but the house was silent. Maybe she had gone already and left the car to give him the impression that she were still at home? He felt sweaty and uneasy – but had nevertheless an impression of being watched though he could not pinpoint exactly from where that would be likely. Then he heard steps and stood suddenly in front of her as she opened the door ajar – clad in a white morning gown – with her hair hanging down over her shoulders and not as the first time he had seen her knotted in a chignon behind her head.