Sweet Sorrow

by David Roberts

  After a few hours tossing and turning in GG’s rather uncomfortable guest bedroom, Edward had bathed, eaten a hurried breakfast and driven round to the police station. He had a lot of explaining to do but was finally able to convince the Cambridge police that Paul’s fall from the roof of the Chapel was an accident, not suicide, and that he had done everything he could to prevent it. Paul’s broken body was to be returned to Rodmell for burial as soon as the police had completed their inquiries.

  There would, of course, have to be an inquest but, with the police offering no evidence to the contrary, the verdict would be accidental death. No one wished to muddy the waters and encourage the press to speculate on how a respected Church of England vicar came to die in so dramatic a manner. Edward had hinted to Ken Hines that Paul had drunk rather too much and then tried to emulate a youthful exploit which had gone tragically wrong. Ken had his own suspicions – the connection with Rodmell was too much of a coincidence – but, at Edward’s urging, he kept them to himself. None of the papers, to Edward’s relief, mentioned that he had been present when the accident occurred.

  On the Saturday morning, while Edward was being interviewed by the police, Pernel Strachey had gone to see Catherine. Verity had telephoned Newnham first thing that morning to let her know what had happened. She had grasped immediately how important it was that Catherine should be comforted and supported and had offered to go round straight away.

  She found Verity and Catherine going over the events of the previous night, trying to decide if there was anything more they could have done to save Paul. Catherine’s aunt, a cold woman who seemed unmoved by her brother’s death and her niece’s distress, had made it more than obvious that the invasion, however kindly meant, was unwelcome. She pursed her lips and informed Verity and Pernel that she had known for some time that her brother was mentally ill but had not been able to make him see a doctor. It was clear she thought her niece was making a fuss about not very much.

  ‘I can’t think why she is taking on so. She hardly knew Paul and he had done all he could to stop her going to Cambridge, so why should she mourn him?’

  She had no patience with sentiment, she told them, and repeated that her niece ought to pull herself together and get on with her life. To their relief, she disappeared into the kitchen, without even offering them a cup of tea. Disgusted, Pernel and Verity decided to ignore her and concentrate on giving Catherine the support she so desperately needed and would not get from her aunt.

  They set out to convince her that she could not have prevented Paul’s death. She had gone to Edward for help as soon as she understood that his mind was disturbed. There was nothing else she could have done. Pernel, who often had to deal with undergraduates suffering breakdowns of one kind or another – usually the result of pressure from their families to achieve more than was possible academically – knew only too well the damage that could be done to a young mind if that guilt was not expunged, and she encouraged her to tell them everything.

  ‘When Uncle Paul arrived here without any warning, I thought he had come to tell me that I must leave Newnham – which he did. However, there was something much more important he wanted to tell me – who my father was. He said he was a man called Byron Gates. I knew the name because I’m keen on poetry and had read in a newspaper that he had been murdered in a rather macabre way, but you can imagine how amazed I was to be told that this man was my father.

  ‘According to my uncle, he had been teaching at a preparatory school where my mother was the under-matron. She was seventeen and very pretty and Byron – I can’t seem to think of him as Mr Gates – was unable to keep his eyes off her. When she eventually had to confess everything to my uncle, she told him that she had resisted him at first but Byron could be very charming, very persuasive. He was much older than her and a published poet. She fancied herself in love with him and it was inevitable that she would let him seduce her – at least, I think so. My uncle was much more severe in his judgement.

  ‘Anyway, as I understand it, all might have been well except that my mother became pregnant with me. When she told Byron, he said it was nothing to do with him but offered her fifty pounds to have the baby aborted. My mother was horrified and saw for the first time the true nature of the man whom she thought she loved and who, she had believed, loved her.’ Catherine sighed. ‘I’m afraid my father – I must call him that and not evade the issue – was that all too common figure, a practised seducer, selfish, cold and without any compassion. Nothing bored him more than a needy woman, I am sure. I think I have enough of him in me to understand how he thought.’

  She spoke with dry eyes but her voice was hoarse with suppressed emotion. Verity nodded her head but did not interrupt. She wanted Catherine to tell the whole story, as she had heard it from Paul, convinced that it would ease her heart to repeat it to a comparative stranger. It was as though, as she spoke, she was testing the validity of the story. Was it convincing or was it a fabrication of her uncle’s?

  ‘When my mother’s pregnancy became so advanced that it was visible,’ she continued, ‘she was interviewed by the headmaster. He called her a silly trollop but was relieved she hadn’t become pregnant by one of the boys – something which had, apparently, happened some years earlier. When she mentioned Byron, the headmaster refused to accept that he was to blame. I expect having Byron on the staff attracted parents to send their boys to the school and, if his name was tarnished, so would the school’s be. The headmaster’s one concern was that Byron should not be caught up in a scandal which might result in boys being withdrawn from the school. He told her to leave, refused her a reference and threatened her with legal action if she spread any rumours that a member of staff was responsible for her condition.

  ‘My mother did not dare go to her parents, who were set in their ways and deeply religious. They would not have been sympathetic, she knew, and would probably have made her have an abortion. For some reason, she was determined to have me even though she knew that she would become a social outcast. She went instead to her brother, my uncle Paul, who was five years older than her. He had been brought up, my aunt says, to regard the sins of the flesh with the same horror as my grandparents and, furthermore, he was about to take holy orders.

  ‘Nevertheless, he did what he could. He persuaded his elder sister, my Aunt Gladys,’ she nodded towards the kitchen, ‘to take me in. My aunt is not religious. I’ve never asked her but I have always felt that, as soon as she was able to, she rejected the family’s stern Calvinist views. I know she left home when she was only twenty-one and became a teacher here in Cambridge. She’s retired now but I love her and owe her everything.

  ‘According to my aunt, my mother died giving birth to me, although now, when I think about what Uncle Paul told me, I can’t help wondering whether it could have been a sort of suicide. Why would she want to live with so much shame heaped on her?’

  ‘She would have wanted to live for you,’ Verity told her gently. ‘You mustn’t believe that your mother rejected you. If she had wanted to do that, she would not have had you. She resisted what sounds like considerable pressure to have an abortion. What does your aunt think?’

  ‘You’ve met her.’ Catherine shrugged her shoulders. ‘You can see she’s not one to speculate about someone’s state of mind. She’s pretty tight-lipped and she has told me a very little.’

  ‘Did you grow up thinking your aunt was your mother?’

  ‘No, she explained to me when I first asked – I must have been about eight – why I did not have a mother or father that my mother had died having me.’

  ‘Did she say anything about your father?’

  ‘She said she didn’t know who my father was. I accepted that, as a child does. It came as a shock when my uncle told me the truth.’

  ‘I’m sure it did!’ Verity said with feeling. She thought how difficult it must have been for the child to come to terms with being so alone in the world. Catherine had said she loved her aunt but, from what Verity had
seen of her, she was inclined to doubt it was possible. Gladys Fisher seemed to be as unlovable as her brother.

  ‘Did Paul tell you that you had a half-sister?’ she asked Catherine as gently as she could.

  ‘No! Have I? I never thought of that, though of course my father must have had other children.’

  ‘He had a child by his first wife who died of cancer a few years ago. Her name’s Ada and she’s twelve. His second wife has a fifteen-year-old daughter – Jean – by her first husband.’

  ‘Jean and Ada!’ Catherine exclaimed. ‘Well, I suppose I had better get used to the idea. It’s rather exciting actually. I never liked being on my own. I always wanted to be part of a big family and now I am.’

  ‘Jean’s mother is the actress, Mary Brand. Have you heard of her? She’s appeared in some Hollywood films.’

  ‘No, but then we don’t go to the cinema much – my aunt and I.’

  ‘She’s very pretty, like you.’

  Catherine looked startled. ‘Do you think I’m pretty?’

  ‘I do, and clever as well. Not very fair.’

  ‘You’re teasing me!’

  ‘I’m not. I suppose what I mean is that you have a lot going for you. You mustn’t let this terrible tragedy spoil Cambridge for you. You must do well, get a good job and marry Prince Charming.’

  ‘Now you are teasing me.’

  ‘A little, perhaps. Anyway, you and your aunt must stay with Edward and me when you come to Rodmell for Paul’s funeral. You’ll meet Ada and Jean then. By the way,’ Verity added, ‘how did your aunt explain you to the neighbours? They must have thought it strange when she suddenly acquired a baby – do you know?’

  ‘I think she always gave people the impression that I was some sort of orphaned cousin or grandchild – my origins left to be guessed at.’ Catherine managed a smile. ‘As I said, she’s always been tight-lipped and certainly isn’t someone who gossips with the neighbours.’

  ‘But she’s been good to you?’

  ‘She took me in and loved me in her fashion. Otherwise I might have ended up in orphanage. She can be stern but she’s been a true mother to me. It was a bit of a surprise to her when it turned out that I was clever – or at least clever enough to get a scholarship to Newnham. As you know, my uncle doesn’t – I mean, didn’t – approve of girls being educated, but my aunt insisted I should have my chance.’ Catherine shrugged. ‘So here I am. By the way, I am right, aren’t I? You don’t really think that Uncle Paul murdered anyone, do you?’

  ‘I don’t,’ Verity said firmly.

  Leonard and Virginia had returned to Rodmell on the Saturday when it became clear that there was nothing they could do to help but, before leaving, they visited Catherine and her aunt to offer their condolences.

  Despite her other responsibilities, Pernel told Verity that she would see Catherine on a daily basis and Verity left feeling confident that Catherine was in good hands.

  Edward had telephoned Inspector Trewen and informed him that Paul Fisher, his chief suspect, was dead. Trewen, rather reluctantly, confirmed that, after an anonymous tip-off, the axe used to decapitate Byron had been recovered from St Peter’s Church the previous week. Byron was blood group AB and the blood on the axe belonged to this fairly rare group. Trewen volunteered the information that, although the only fingerprints on the shaft were Paul’s, he had not arrested him. There had been something about the way Paul looked at the axe when it was shown to him and his admission that he might indeed have killed Byron Gates that made even Trewen, whom Edward did not credit with much imagination, feel that a guilty man would not behave in this way. The Inspector had recognized that Paul was confused and disturbed and he had asked Dr Hind to examine him, but Paul had refused to see him.

  ‘You don’t believe Paul was the murderer, do you, Edward?’ Verity asked, as the Lagonda sped away from Cambridge. ‘I told Catherine we didn’t.’

  ‘I don’t, but we know he wrote those poison pen letters. He had convinced himself that it was his duty to reprimand those of his parishioners he believed to be leading an immoral life.’

  ‘And that included us?’

  ‘It did, V. He even followed us to London. He must have overheard me say something to Leonard about having a last night on the town.’

  ‘It must have been a terrible shock to Paul when the axe was found in his church,’ Verity mused.

  ‘Yes,’ Edward agreed. ‘He must have known the police would assume that he had killed Byron. Unbalanced by the strain he was under, he convinced himself – temporarily at least – that he might indeed have used the axe. As a man who put such a high value on morality, he might well have been unable to cope.’

  ‘But before he fell from the roof, he told you that Colonel Heron had confessed to the murders?’

  ‘He said “Colonel” not “Colonel Heron” but I think we can assume that was whom he meant.’

  ‘And you think Heron is the murderer?’

  ‘I’m afraid I do. There’s no evidence, of course – just the word of a man suffering a nervous breakdown, but still . . .’

  ‘So he wasn’t the innocent man we thought him?’

  ‘In my defence,’ Edward said, ‘I merely pointed out that the only evidence against Heron was the bloody sword and it obviously wasn’t the murder weapon. It was possible, I thought, that he might have been framed by the real murderer – but it was just possible it was all an act. At the time, I doubted whether Heron was capable of acting the innocent so convincingly, but I was mistaken. I believe now that Heron wanted to be suspected. He wanted his motive to be too obvious. He had made no secret of hating Byron, knowing full well that there would be others – like Paul – with equal reasons for wanting to – how did he put it? – “mete out justice”.

  ‘Heron also knew that it would quickly become obvious that Byron had not been executed with his sword. I should have been suspicious that he made so much of the sword and how it had been in his family for generations. Anyway, had I not pointed out that Byron was killed by a sharp-edged instrument like an axe, the doctor doing the post-mortem would have spotted it. I have to confess, it does rather hurt my pride to think how easily Heron fooled me. He played me like a salmon, knowing my vanity would make me want to score over Inspector Trewen.’

  ‘When you spoke to the Inspector on the telephone, did you tell him what Paul said about Heron just before he fell?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. It was hearsay and nothing more. Before I tell Trewen anything, I need to have some hard evidence.’

  ‘Ah, so you are investigating Byron’s murder after all,’ Verity could not help teasing. ‘Heron certainly had the measure of you.’

  ‘I think I must finish the job,’ Edward said calmly, refusing to rise. ‘There are the three innocent girls – Ada, Jean and Catherine – who deserve to know the truth, and I don’t anticipate Inspector Trewen finding that out very soon.’

  ‘I must say, I find it difficult to feel sympathy for Byron. The man was a monster.’

  ‘Maybe, although he would be hurt and puzzled to hear you say that. He would have said he had a healthy sexual appetite and, as a poet and a liberal, he could not pay too much attention to middle-class morality.’

  ‘I don’t have much time for middle-class morality myself, particularly if it drives people mad – as it seems to have done to Paul,’ Verity said defiantly. ‘What I do object to is Byron’s selfish, callous betrayal of one woman after another.’

  ‘I agree with you, V, but he still didn’t deserve to have his head cut off.’

  ‘Not his head . . .’ Verity agreed.

  18

  The first thing they noticed when they entered the house was that Basil was unwell. Instead of the enthusiastic rough and tumble that normally greeted them – Basil sometimes almost knocking Verity over – he lay in his basket hardly able to wag his tail. He was panting hard as though he had just chased a couple of hares over the downs. Verity threw down the bags she was carrying and rushed over to kneel besid
e him.

  ‘What’s the matter with Basil, Mrs Brendel?’ Verity asked as the housekeeper appeared from the kitchen. ‘Has he been like this long?’

  ‘Good heavens, no! He was all right a moment ago when Colonel Heron dropped in the gas masks.’ She indicated a pile of respirators near the front door. ‘He wants us all to try them on for size. Basil was jumping up and down with excitement and the Colonel remarked on how well he was looking.’

  ‘I think we should take him to the vet immediately,’ Edward said. ‘It looks to me as though he’s been poisoned. You see his tongue is an odd colour and his breathing is affected.’

  ‘Poisoned?’ Verity exclaimed. ‘But how?’

  ‘No time to discuss that now,’ Edward said grimly, glancing at the gas masks. ‘I’ll get him into the car. You telephone the vet and make sure he’s there.’

  Mrs Brendel and Edward had quite a struggle getting Basil into the Lagonda. He seemed to weigh a ton and was incapable of standing upright, let alone leaping on to the seat as he normally did.

  Edward drove the Lagonda dangerously fast into Lewes. The vet took one look at the dog and confirmed his suspicion.

  ‘Is there anything you can do?’ Verity was close to tears.

  ‘How long do you think he’s had the poison in him?’ the vet asked.

  ‘Only a few minutes. Thank God we came back when we did.’

  ‘I’ll have to rinse out his stomach and his mouth. I don’t know what he could have swallowed but it’s obviously pretty unusual – not something he could have picked up naturally.’

  ‘Look, V, you stay with Basil,’ Edward said. ‘I’m going back to the house to see if I can find out how this happened.’

  ‘No, I’ll come with you. I’m not good in hospitals – not even animal hospitals – and I’ll go mad waiting to hear if he’s going to be all right.’