Let's Kill Uncle

by Rohan O'Grady; Rohan O’Grady

  The motive, of course, was the uncle, but the evidence against him is shaky and circumstantial to say the least, and inorder to establish even that, the boy will be involved in a particularly sordid and unpleasant interrogation. You see, there’s more to this than someone like yourself would imagine or understand. Looking back on some of the phrases in Hobbs’s letter, and the boy’s general attitude, I am pretty sure the boy was molested by the uncle. If I start this particular ball rolling, I can’t stop it. It seems cruel, but he will be questioned very, very thoroughly.

  I can’t do that to him. He begged me for help and I didn’t give it to him. I have to protect him now, even at the cost of my own integrity.

  All these things will come out if I file that report, and God knows what else, once they begin to talk. Make no mistake about that, I can make them talk. It’s just a matter of starting on the girl, and once she does, I can break the boy easily. This sounds merciless, but it’s part of the job, and I’ve been trained for it.

  I have thought it over, and I am trying to do the right thing. I am also trying to imagine that you and I have talked it over, and what your attitude and advice would be. I know you would want the children spared any further horrors, because that’s what more interrogation adds up to. The uncle is dead now, and that will have to be the end of it. It is going to be the end of it. They are young and have their full lives ahead of them, and they must not start living with this on record. Fortunately, they’re as tough as nails, both of them, and as things stand now, going no further, I don’t think any damage done is irreparable.

  May God forgive me if I am not making the right decision. This may seem like a simple thing to you, but I never thought the day would come when I would have to protect children from the law. I never thought the day would come when it would be necessary for me to be unethical in order to be moral.

  Goodbye, my dear Gwynneth. I am, as always, yours,

  Albert.

  He destroyed both the letter and the report, and walked over to his father’s cottage. He changed his clothes. Then, with his hands thrust into his pockets and his shoulders hunched moodily, he set out to find the children.

  They were not at the store or the goat-lady’s. He finally found them at the graveyard. They did not hear his approach, and continued working, clad in the ridiculous Dickensian garments, but wearing new shoes now.

  He stood on the other side of the shaky cedar fence watching, then he vaulted over and called them.

  They gave him a guilty, startled look, gazed at each other and prepared to bolt.

  ‘Come here,’ he said firmly. ‘I want to talk to you.’

  Hesitant and cringing, they took a step toward him and stopped, like a couple of obedient pups waiting for a good beating.

  ‘I said come here,’ he repeated. ‘Come on, I won’t hurt you.’

  With lagging steps and downcast eyes they stood before him.

  He stared at them, wondering what to say. He looked around the little graveyard and was amazed to see what a good job they had done during the summer. The whole thing was more than the two of them could manage, but what they had done, they had done well. Most of the graves were neatly tended and garnished with fresh wild flowers. They had propped up the tilting wooden crosses with stones, and lined the paths with white pebbles from the beach.

  They stood silently before him, their faces twitching with fear.

  He came straight to the point.

  ‘I know everything,’ he said. ‘Desmond told me everything. Everything, you understand? What have you got to say for yourselves?’

  They were too frightened to cry and stood trembling, staring at their feet.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Don’t tell,’ whispered Barnaby. ‘Please don’t tell.’

  Albert looked from him to the girl.

  ‘Don’t put us in jail, please!’

  What could he say to them? Now, children, don’t steal any more guns, and don’t go around planning any more murders, either, it’s not nice.

  He sat wearily on Sir Adrian’s grave.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said finally. ‘I’m not going to tell anybody.’

  Their faces crumpled with relief.

  Albert looked at the wretched little figures, and again he felt a great pity for them.

  ‘Come here,’ he said softly.

  They crept toward him.

  ‘You have nothing to worry about any more. I want you both to forget all about the whole thing. Will you do that?’

  Shaking, they nodded.

  ‘I had made out a report,’ he said, ‘but I have destroyed it, so that no one will ever know. It was like cheating, or telling a lie for me, I shouldn’t have done it, but I did, for you two. And because I did that for you, you must promise me that you will always try to be good and honourable. Will you?’

  They flung themselves upon him.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said. When he felt their frail shoulder bones beneath his hands and he remembered Uncle, he knew he had done the right thing. He hugged them and repeated, ‘We’ll all forget that any of it ever happened. And you must promise me to try to be extra good to make up for your part in it.’

  They clung to him and kissed his chin and shoulders.

  ‘I’ll be the best boy in the whole world.’ Barnaby’s voice was soft. ‘I’m going to be a Mountie, just like you. Oh, Sergeant, I love you more than anybody.’

  ‘Oh, Sergeant,’ cried Christie. ‘I was so frightened. I thought you’d put us in jail. Oh, thank you, thank you. I’ll never forget, and I promise I’ll always be good. Next to my mother, I love you more than anybody. Thank you. I’ll never forget. You shouldn’t have done it for us.’

  ‘No, I suppose I shouldn’t have,’ he said bluntly. ‘But it’s done now, and we’ll all forget it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Barnaby, rubbing his cheek on Albert’s shoulder. ‘You shouldn’t have done it for us.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said, wiping their noses with his handkerchief. ‘Everything’s fine now. Run along and play.’

  They gazed at him, hugged him tightly and then moved on obediently.

  They paused at the fence.

  Barnaby waved to him and Christie blew him a kiss.

  ‘Poor Sergeant Coulter,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry we made you cheat.’

  Barnaby nodded. ‘I’m sorry too. You shouldn’t have done it for us.’

  ‘But we won’t forget,’ said Christie.

  Albert smiled and rose. He felt much better now.

  ‘So long, kids.’ He waved and went back to his cottage.

  He hadn’t intended to tell them about the report, but he had been as profoundly moved as they. It was as well he had told them; it would impress upon them as nothing else could the gravity of their behaviour.

  He was glad he had done it. Poor little things, they were good, and how quickly they had responded to his kindness and love. Maybe there was something in this child psychology business.

  In a glorious weekend of relaxation, Albert wandered down Government Street in Victoria. He had bought himself a new suit, and seeing his reflection in a store window, he decided he cut an impressive figure. He had just finished a hearty meal in the Empress Hotel, and there was a movie he particularly wanted to see that was running now.

  And they were going. He felt very happy. They were finally going, back to their respective schools. Summer was over, life was beautiful and Albert’s blessed little Isle would return to its usual state of grace. No more wicked uncles, no more near drownings, no more cougars, no more stolen guns and no more lies.

  He felt as he had the day he was released from the POW camp, hesitant, unsure, and not quite able to believe in his good fortune. His heart sang, physically he felt he was almost floating, and he had to resist a boyish impulse to turn cartwheels or chin himself on the gay flower baskets hanging from the lampposts.

  He stopped again to look at his reflection and found he was in front of a toyshop. He smiled happily to him
self. He would buy them each a goodbye present.

  Once he had entered the store, he felt awkward as he faced the clerk and stated his needs. He suddenly realised he had never bought a present for anyone before.

  ‘A boy and girl about ten?’ repeated the clerk. ‘Yes, we have a good many things for children that age. Would you be interested in one of these lovely queen dolls for the little girl?’

  It was, Albert agreed, a beautiful toy, elaborately dressed in a scarlet robe and gold crown, but it wouldn’t do.

  Not for her. If they had one of Lady Macbeth, perhaps yes, but not the Queen. It smacked of treason somehow and it wouldn’t do.

  The clerk brought out toy after toy, but none of them seemed to be right. Albert’s face was getting red. He hated bothering people, and he felt he was being a nuisance.

  And then he spied it, high up on a shelf, at the back.

  ‘That,’ he pointed.

  The clerk got a ladder and lifted it down.

  ‘I’m afraid this is a rather expensive gift for a ten-year-old girl,’ she said, turning the price tag over. ‘Perhaps I can give you a reduction though, it’s been in stock for years. There were only two made. The original owner of the store brought this one from Australia.’

  Sergeant Coulter, who had never had toys as a boy, turned it over with delight.

  ‘It was made as a novelty for export,’ said the clerk. ‘That’s genuine koala fur. I think I can let you have a 20 per cent discount.’

  ‘I’ll take it,’ said Sergeant Coulter.

  He turned it upside down, and chuckled as the music box inside tinkled ‘Waltzing Matilda’ and the merry brown eyes winked at him.

  ‘Now for the little boy’s present,’ said the shopgirl.

  She pointed hopefully to a rack of toy rifles.

  Sergeant Coulter almost burst out laughing.

  A popgun for that kid?

  No, he thought, something a little older.

  ‘A Meccano set?’

  Yes, Albert nodded, Barnaby was a mechanically minded child, maybe a Meccano set. He had always wanted one himself, but of course he’d never had one.

  ‘They start at quite a reasonable price,’ explained the clerk, ‘and then you can add to them. It’s a sensible way - every birthday you can give him another section.

  That was hardly likely. Albert smiled smugly to himself.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘do you mind if I look around a bit, just in case there’s something else?’

  He was fascinated by the toyshop. He got down on his hands and knees to examine a beautiful electric train, and moved on to a model village. He smiled again as he looked at the gleaming toys. It must be fun to be a child.

  ‘How about this?’ asked the clerk. ‘We just got them in. It would be a nice hobby to start a boy in.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Albert, looking at the shining tan leather case.

  ‘It’s one of those cameras that takes instant pictures. Here, I’ll show you.’

  She snapped a picture of Albert.

  ‘It’s really very simple, you just have to wait a few seconds, and presto, there’s your picture. Now isn’t that a good likeness?’

  ‘It’s remarkable,’ said Albert. He was sold on it. ‘I’ll take it,’ he said.

  After all, if the boy did like to go around shooting, this ought to direct his energies in a healthful way.

  ‘Would you like them gift-wrapped?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Albert.

  They must be wrapped exactly the same way. The children were already jealous enough for his affections, it would never do for one to have nicer wrapping than the other.

  The presents were expensive, but he didn’t mind. He had nothing except himself to spend his money on anyway. He might as well do it properly. In a way, it was almost like a bribe - the payoff. He’d pay anything to get them off his Island. A goodbye present, and as long as they left, he didn’t mind the cost.

  FACED WITH THE PROSPECT of being parted from their many loved ones, the children had spent a melancholy evening, though when morning arrived and nothing remained but for them to go, they seemed resigned.

  All who came to the store were startled by their beauty. Was this Christie, of the floating spun-silk hair and flushed, heart-shaped face, the same shabby and sallow child who had arrived only two months ago? It hardly seemed possible.

  As a going-away present, the goat-lady had knitted her a cardigan and tam-o’-shanter in a delicate, pastel Fairisle pattern, while Mr and Mrs Brooks had given her a short white pleated flannel skirt, and she flitted into the store with all the innocent nonchalance of a visiting butterfly.

  By her side was Barnaby, wearing a blue-and-white-striped seaman’s sweater, gift of the goat-lady, and short grey trousers donated by Mr and Mrs Brooks.

  Surely this handsome child with the carriage of a toy soldier, his small manly face generous and frank, was not the rude, sullen-visaged little boor who had landed in their midst only a scant eight weeks before?

  Even Sergeant Coulter, who was not given to being mistyeyed over children, stared at them in wonder when he came bearing his ornately wrapped gifts.

  Some alchemy of the Island had transformed them into a pair of royal children. Magic children.

  All their friends had sent presents. Lady Syddyns gave a huge armful of her most precious roses. From Mr and Mrs Rice-Hope were a tiny coral necklace for Christie and a pocketknife for Barnaby. Agnes Duncan, confined to the parental acres, sent by way of poor Desmond two one-dollar bills in an envelope, and on behalf of poor Desmond, Mr and Mrs Brooks gave them each a cheap fountain pen.

  The children accepted Sergeant Coulter’s gifts gravely and unwrapped them without haste.

  When Christie saw the beautiful camera, she let her breath out slowly. She had always wanted a camera, and speechless, she could only gaze up at Sergeant Coulter and clasp his hand.

  Before Sergeant Coulter could explain that the presents were mixed, he heard Barnaby shout: ‘ Rodney! Rodney!’

  Sergeant Coulter’s fate was sealed.

  ‘Oh, Sergeant! I knew I’d find him again, someday, somehow! How did you know where to find him! Oh, I’ll be the best boy in the whole world, for ever and ever now!’

  Sergeant Coulter didn’t know who Rodney was, but if they were both satisfied with their presents, he was certainly not going to start any new inquiries.

  The children shimmied up him as if he were a Maypole. They wound their arms about his neck and their legs about his waist, and they smothered him with kisses.

  He hugged them, then smilingly set them on their feet.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it wasn’t such a bad summer, was it? Things turned out pretty well, but I suppose you’ll be glad to get back to town.’

  ‘Oh,’ said that star-bright child, Barnaby, ‘I’m coming back.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Sergeant Coulter suspiciously.

  Barnaby turned to Mr Brooks. ‘Tell him, Mr Brooks, tell him!’

  Mr Brooks smiled at the boy and said.

  ‘Oh, it’s your good news, Barnaby. You tell him.’

  And so Barnaby explained that Mr Brooks and Mr Robinson, his uncle’s lawyer, had had a long conversation, and it was decided that Barnaby would attend boarding school in the city but spend his holidays on the Island with the Brookses. All that remained to be settled was for the courts to appoint a legal guardian for Barnaby. Because of Mr and Mrs Brooks’s ages, both they and Mr Robinson thought a younger person should be appointed, and Mr Brooks had suggested none other than Sergeant Coulter.

  Sergeant Coulter was appalled.

  ‘Oh, no,’ he said, and then, ‘I really don’t think I could do that.’

  ‘Yes you can,’ said Christie.

  ‘Yes you will,’ Barnaby spoke significantly.

  No I won’t, thought Sergeant Coulter stubbornly.

  Their direct, unflinching gazes suddenly chilled him.

  The report.

  Oh, no, he was dreaming. They
wouldn’t do that. Why, why, that was blackmail!

  As if reading his thoughts, they nodded.

  ‘You shouldn’t of done it for us, and we promise never to forget.’ Their eyes were adoring.

  No, no, they wouldn’t do that. He’d done it for them, hadn’t he? They wouldn’t do that, they loved him. He was certain of it.

  Jesus! They loved poor Desmond too, and look what they had done to him, to say nothing of the uncle, whom they had not loved. Yes, they would do it, precisely because they did love him.

  ‘Oh, Sergeant, you are going to be my guardian!’

  Not on your bloody life, thought Sergeant Coulter.

  Then a nasty little thought which had never before occurred to him hit him like a blow between the eyes.

  If the case were ever reopened, it was not at all unlikely that his superiors would imply he had done it to protect his own reputation. After all, he had had a homicidal maniac right under his nose for two months, and the children had begged for the protection of the law.

  He tried desperately to justify his position, but there were certain inescapable facts.

  Under questioning he would be forced to admit that Hobbs had written him a letter, warning him. And he had withheld evidence. He had also acted with fear, favour and affection.

  God! The world was populated by either Gwynneth Rice-Hopes, so brimming over with morals that you almost hated them, or by people who apparently had none. As he thought of the Etruscan figures he realised that the perfidy of man was beyond belief.

  Even decent, honest Constable Browning thought Albert should still go to New York to see the statues, his reasoning being that if they fooled the world’s greatest antiquarians and art experts, they must be worth seeing. Even Browning would pay money to see frauds. Piltdown Man or the Cardiff Giant would be his idea of a joke. Was there nobody honourable left in the world? Not like her, but like himself?

  The whistle of the S.S. Haida Prince blasted its approach to the Island.