True Murder

by Yaba Badoe

  I had seen the same excitement on my mother’s face. I had felt the same burning desire through Mama: that with Christmas and the coming year she could somehow recreate the good times we’d enjoyed at Kuku Hill, when it seemed the whole of Accra devoured the cakes she had baked for New Year. Pa had never succumbed to Mama’s determination to rebuild the past on a new foundation. But perhaps Peter would, I reasoned. With Polly and Isobel working together, he might succumb to anything. After all, he’d agreed to return, despite the destruction of the painting he loved most in the world.

  Peter arrived on the 23rd with bad news. Theo would not be home for Christmas Day. Peter had refrained from calling Isobel to forewarn her of the exact hour of his arrival, knowing what a stickler she was for time and detail. He hadn’t wanted her to fuss over what was, after all, a mere four-day holiday. I suppose he hoped that a relaxed homecoming would underline the casualness of his visit as well as giving him the advantage of surprise.

  After the initial mayhem of his return, Polly and I helping him in with his parcels, Isobel embraced him warmly. Momentarily flustered by Theo’s absence, she had quickly regained her poise, no doubt rearranging meals, juggling cheeses, puddings, the consumption of Christmas delicacies in her head. Peter explained Theo’s delay: he had gone to Paris as soon as his exams had finished, where, released from academic constraint, he was indulging in a frenzy of adolescent romance. He claimed to be in love, and in his enthusiasm for Sylvie had missed his return flight to London. He promised to be home for Boxing Day.

  I felt a stab of jealousy at the thought of Theo spending Christmas with Sylvie. I had already decided that I was going to marry him when I grew up. He gave me sound advice and was kind to me. I hoped Theo would have me, even if my breasts didn’t ripen into the voluptuous mounds on Sylvie’s chest. I was tired of being a Benson. I wanted to be a Venus, in name at the very least.

  ‘Drat the boy,’ Isobel said, laughing. ‘I think he’s avoiding me!’

  Peter appeared surprised at the note of self-irony in her voice. He must have anticipated anger, complaints about the disruption of her plans followed by a family conference. Should they have the turkey on Boxing Day instead? Should they open their Christmas presents later? Isobel was always punctilious about performing rituals. But if such details crossed her mind, she kept them to herself.

  Instead, she seemed as happy and relaxed as if an old friend was visiting her home. Peter was visibly relieved. He remained reassured over lunch and throughout much of the afternoon. While Isobel drove into Axminster for a final shopping expedition, Peter walked with Polly and me in the grounds.

  The improvements Isobel had embarked on that summer were complete: a brick terrace swept out from the back of the house, and outside the kitchen door a herb garden of rosemary, sage and varieties of mint imprisoned in pots recommended the culinary skill of the mistress of the house.

  I remembered walking the grounds with Isobel on the first day of the summer holidays, when she’d described her plans to me. At the time, I’d wondered if the Venuses would survive their marriage: if Peter would return and make Isobel happy again. Walking around the estate, my arm linked to Peter’s, I could see he was impressed by what Isobel had achieved. And with Polly and me giving him a blow-by-blow account of what had happened and when – I knew the details better than Polly did for I’d listened closely to everything Isobel had told me that summer – I watched Peter marvelling at Isobel’s single-mindedness. He had never been interested in the house and its grounds, yet making the rounds with us on that cold December afternoon, the gardener Mr Furzey doffing his cap as he finished spreading gravel on a path, Peter seemed charmed by what he saw and full of admiration for Isobel.

  I became aware of a change in all of them the longer they spent in each other’s company. I sensed growing exhilaration and eagerness when Isobel, returning from her shopping trip, started conspiring with Polly. To say that the Venus women ganged up on Peter would be untrue. They ensnared him in a web of complicity by exchanging smiles while teasing him about the present they were giving him for Christmas. They had bolted the door of his former study to prevent him guessing what the present might be; and when Peter innocently asked if he could look at some of Isobel’s paintings, the two of them laughed. There were whispers, winks and raised eyebrows, so that the atmosphere, thickening with intrigue, aroused Peter’s senses. Before long, I noticed him looking at Isobel with renewed interest. Like a cat cleaning himself by the fire, watching every movement at the far end of a room, he observed her; appraised her; deliberating whether he should step closer or not.

  As far as I was concerned, I wanted them to be a family again. The Venuses possessed an alchemy that stirred whenever they were together. It radiated from them, warming outsiders, drawing us in. Bereft of my mother, I was ravenous for love, yet a part of me remained alert to Isobel. Despite her new-found ability to make me laugh, having absorbed the pain of her distress that summer, I couldn’t forget it. I half-hoped that Peter’s return would make Isobel and the house safe once again.

  ‘How are you?’ Peter asked eventually. ‘How are you getting on, Isobel?’ He was looking at her with new eyes. In my mother’s words, his eyes were opening and he was seeing her clearly for the first time in a long while. Isobel was slicing chunks of crystallised ginger to flavour the rhubarb crumble she was making for dinner.

  ‘I’m very well,’ Isobel replied. ‘Getting back to painting has helped enormously. And there’s Robert of course. My therapist,’ she added with a smile, noting a flicker of interest on Peter’s face. ‘I do get lonely at times but I’m learning how to live with myself.’

  ‘Same here. I’ve missed you, Isobel.’

  She admitted that she had missed him as well. He seemed surprised at her openness, the ease with which she stated her feelings without complaint or recrimination. They fell silent and in their silence I felt the tension rise between them as Peter, stepping closer, sniffed Isobel out. I could tell he was aroused by her, because the blue in his eyes flashed turquoise and his body odour changed; exuding the heavy scent of musk.

  ‘A woman is her own watchdog,’ Aunt Rose had once told me. ‘Even a one-eyed woman can find someone to love her. As far as men are concerned, Ajuba, there’s no such thing as an ugly woman.’ Isobel’s watchdog, a black mastiff with ferocious teeth, was sitting poised at her feet. And Isobel was still beautiful, despite the lines on her forehead and the grey hair she had acquired that summer. She had aged, but maturity became her. She had the look of a woman who, weathering a terrible storm, has learnt how to survive. There was a toughness about her, a hardy resilience bred of experience. ‘Control is everything,’ she had said to me. Unlike Maria’s mother, Isobel appeared to know what she was doing.

  Polly, oblivious of what was happening between her parents, was sorting out two packs of cards for a game of Racing Demon. I remember thinking at the time that if Peter wanted Isobel again, and if she were to have him back, he wouldn’t make Polly move to Paris when he settled there. She could stay at school and we would remain friends. I can’t say for certain exactly what I wanted for the Venuses. I know that I craved their affection, but the shape their love would take left me confused.

  I started wondering what Malone and Leboeuf would make of my dilemma. I had not heard from them since I’d discovered that my mother was dead, most probably because they no longer considered me a competent detective. They had written in True Murder that a detective should be clear-sighted at all times and I had deluded myself. But to my surprise, just by thinking about them, I began to hear them whispering in my ear. Magnanimously ignoring my shortcomings, they murmured: ‘Listen, kid. Don’t get your hopes up. As you know already, adults are by nature unreliable.’

  Nodding in agreement, I placed my hand on Peter’s knee. ‘Would you like to play with us?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, Daddy. Why don’t you join in?’

  Though I could see that his interests lay elsewhere, Peter graciously accepted o
ur offer, and Polly dealt his cards. He prepared his hand while Polly and I waited for him. When he was ready, and I’d said, ‘Go!’ our fingers flew over the table, piling cards up in the centre. Peter fumbled. He kept turning around every now and again to look at what Isobel was doing. Every time Isobel sensed his interest, she smiled, enticing him closer. She was a model of self-control, seductive yet evasive.

  Perhaps I should have told Polly what was happening before she saw it herself. Perhaps I should have drawn her attention to the game her parents were playing. Maybe, if we had sat them down and talked to them seriously, they might have considered their intentions in a sober, rational manner. Yet I believe that if I had spoken to Polly earlier, she would merely have shrugged, saying: ‘Lighten up, Aj. I’ve been living with these guys for almost thirteen years and they still don’t get it. I’ve learnt to ignore them because they always do what they want to in the end.’

  I wasn’t able to talk to Polly, but when Peter turned for another peek at Isobel, I said to my friend, ‘Adults, huh?’

  Polly raised an eyebrow, winning the set of Racing Demon.

  On tenterhooks with the scenario Isobel had set in motion, and agitated as to how its outcome might affect me, I tried to distract Peter with a question I had been considering since my conversation with Miss Edith: ‘Who’s Othello?’

  ‘Yeah, who is she?’ Polly seconded.

  ‘Othello,’ Peter sighed, ‘is Shakespeare’s Noble Moor. He was a soldier from North Africa who married a woman from Venice called Desdemona.’

  ‘How come he loved not wisely but too well?’

  ‘Well, he’s the hero of one of Shakespeare’s tragedies, Ajuba.’

  ‘And what exactly is a tragedy?’

  ‘A play with a sad ending. You see, Othello doubted his wife’s love, and murdered her in a jealous rage.’

  I was trying to hold Peter with the force of my eyes but he kept turning to Isobel. They were speaking a secret language, a silent language of shining eyes and soft glances. I was no closer to understanding the meaning of Miss Edith’s statement, so I demanded to know why Othello had murdered his wife.

  ‘Iago led him to it,’ Isobel replied, placing a bowl of nuts on the kitchen table. Polly wolfed down a handful, while Isobel’s watchdog, though still alert, began wagging his tail. To my alarm, he seemed to want to lick Peter’s hand.

  Aware of my incomprehension, Peter explained gently: ‘Someone Othello thought was a friend lied to him, Ajuba, feeding his insecurities. And then, believing Desdemona had betrayed him, Othello strangled her.’

  ‘Just because of sex?’ I spat out in disgust.

  ‘It was much more than just sex, little one. It was jealousy and love combined. In the end, the poor fellow lost control. He murdered his wife and then killed himself.’

  ‘He wasn’t very clear-sighted then, was he?’ I retorted.

  Placing a hand casually on Peter’s shoulder, Isobel said, smiling at him: ‘Beware the green-eyed monster.’

  Their secret language, instead of enlightening me, left me perplexed. Struggling to understand Miss Edith’s words, it came to me that perhaps if Shakespeare had listened to Roy Orbison, he’d have written a sad song instead of an impenetrable play. ‘You mean Othello murdered her because love hurt him so much?’ I enquired of Peter.

  ‘Exactly, Ajuba.’

  By five o’clock, Polly, overjoyed by the prospect of Christmas Eve the next day, was too excited to notice anything amiss. She was in her element, vivacious and affectionate with her father. Every now and then she ran to the Christmas tree, examining the presents awaiting Christmas morning. Imagining Peter’s delight at her portrait, gift-wrapped at the side of the tree, she ran her finger down the length of its frame.

  ‘Do you think he’ll like it?’ she asked me.

  ‘Of course he’ll like it, Polly. It’s just like you.’

  ‘But it’s not as cool as his Paul Nash, is it? It’s not half as gloomy or depressing. It doesn’t make you want to cry, does it, Aj?’

  ‘That’s why he’ll like it.’

  ‘Are you sure? You know how much he likes gnashing his teeth when he stares at things.’

  ‘Of course he’ll like it. Isobel’s good. She’s much better at painting than Rolf Harris is, and this is the best picture she’s done yet. Peter will love it.’

  We sauntered back into the kitchen. Peter, leaning against the mantelpiece, was still staring at Isobel. As far as I could see, he wasn’t gnashing his teeth. He seemed dazed by an emotion I’d never seen on his face before. Like Isobel, he was sipping a glass of white wine. The web Isobel had spun with Polly’s help held him spellbound. I thought at first that what I saw on his face was the look of love: his features had softened and his eyes shone with tenderness. If only it had been a look of love, an expression of faith in Isobel and their future together. I know now that what I saw was a haze of bewildered desire. I felt the strength of the tug between them. I tasted the potent brew of chemistry and charisma that sizzled whenever they were together. I imagine that having lassoed Peter once again, Isobel was trying to decide what to do with him. I saw her watchdog, its tail wafting gently, beginning to doze by the Aga. I crossed my fingers, hoping that Isobel knew what she was doing. Young as I was, I understood, thanks to Aunt Rose, that when a woman’s watchdog falls asleep, she opens herself up to pleasure and pain in equal measure.

  Polly, seeing with my eyes, was suddenly aware of the current crackling between her parents. She moaned, exasperated: ‘There they go again,’ she said to me. ‘If I wasn’t a pre-teenager, I’d have divorced them long ago.’

  ‘Are you going to be all right?’ I asked her.

  Malone and Leboeuf were telling me that it was time to split. It was time to exchange the uncertainty of Graylings for the calm sobriety of school.

  ‘Sure. I’ll be fine. This is always happening, Aj. I’m used to them now.’

  ‘Adults are so pathetic!’ I exclaimed. ‘They just don’t get it, do they?’

  ‘You got it, kid. They can’t learn because they think they know it all already. And they never listen. Not on this planet, anyway.’

  ‘Do you think they’re still going to get divorced?’

  ‘Sure. Peter’s made up his mind. He doesn’t want her – not like before, at any rate.’

  I didn’t really know if what Peter and Isobel were doing was sensible or not. I didn’t much care, as long as Polly could stay in England and she remained my friend.

  ‘Best friends?’ I enquired.

  ‘Always,’ Polly replied.

  Peter took me back to the Derbys that evening, although by seven o’clock on Christmas Eve, I was back at Graylings again with a group of carol singers from Sunday School. When we had sung the final chorus of ‘The Holly and the Ivy’, I shook the box of donations I was carrying. Polly, in a red dressing-gown Isobel had bought her for winter, waved at me from an upstairs window, shouting my name. I waved back. A minute later, Isobel was at the window, a protective hand on Polly’s shoulder. And when Peter joined them, I wanted to be with them. As soon as the carols were over, Polly ran downstairs and opened the front door to me.

  She led me into the house, and while the other singers trampled in behind, she grabbed my arms and drew me to her heart. Her blanket of golden hair fell against my face and I felt the pulse of her breath as she warmed my body with hers. ‘Let’s go upstairs and rehearse our songs,’ she whispered in my ear.

  ‘In a while,’ I said. I wanted to see what her parents were up to. I wanted to see if they were behaving themselves and if Isobel’s watchdog was wide awake.

  Isobel was warming mince pies for us and Peter was pouring out glasses of ginger wine. Although they were separated and Peter was supposed to be a guest in Isobel’s house, the season’s festivities seemed to make them a couple again. Peter behaved as the man of the house might, refilling glasses, passing plates. And when the food was almost finished, a glance at Isobel produced another tray of mince pies from the Ag
a.

  Isobel’s mastiff had disappeared, yet the intense excitement between Peter and Isobel was palpable. It was as if only they knew how to elicit the full magic of Christmas, replenishing it with generosity and glee.

  For my part, I recognised their exuberance as similar to my feelings for Polly. I was convinced that we would always be best friends. My mother might have abandoned me, but Polly would be my friend for ever. Tugging at my shoulder, Polly dragged me upstairs for a final rehearsal of the show we were going to perform the next day.

  We were perfecting the dance steps for ‘Living Doll’, which we were going to sing back to back and then facing each other, when I heard Mrs Derby shouting my name. She called me a second time, bringing our rehearsal to a halt.

  ‘Why don’t you sleep over?’ Polly suggested. ‘Peter’s staying, so you needn’t be scared of Isobel any more.’

  I was already through the bedroom door. ‘I’ll think about staying tomorrow night,’ I said in the corridor.

  I ran downstairs, Polly following me. As I slipped on my gloves and coat, struggling to put on my shoes without undoing the laces, Polly demanded of Mrs Derby: ‘Why can’t Ajuba stay? Then you won’t have to bring her tomorrow.’