Someone Lying, Someone Dying

by Burke, John

  They were fixed in their positions for a timeless moment. Then Mrs Hemming tore herself free. She set off after Martin, stamping up the stairs.

  “Well,” said Campbell. “Looks very much to me as if…”

  There was a scream. It was Mrs Hemming’s voice, strangled almost out of recognition.

  Campbell was a big man but he moved fast. He was halfway up the flight before Arthur and Nell could get out of the room. They reached the top to see him holding Mrs Hemming and trying to shake her into silence.

  Up here there were no lights on yet. A tall frosted window at the end of the landing shed a pearly twilight on the carpet and on the doors at either side. One door was open. A dark shape lay crumpled on the floor, blocking the doorway.

  “Stairs,” Campbell was imploring Mrs Hemming. “Are there any more stairs? Another flight down — another way out?”

  She waved speechlessly towards the tall window. Campbell hurried along the landing and turned left, out of sight.

  Mrs Hemming went down on her knees. Nell tried to bend down beside her, but was pushed unceremoniously back.

  Inside the room were two suitcases, tipped over on their sides. Clothes were spilt out across the floor. The shape huddled across the doorway was Martin’s — Martin, his face drained of colour in the uncertain dusk, with a deep, dark stain welling from his side.

  The flat had not really existed until now. While the decorating and furnishing had been going on, the two of them had tacitly played a game of ‘let’s pretend’ — making decisions about each room, accepting and rejecting advice from Mrs Johnson and Mrs Hemming, yet somehow not acknowledging that any of this related to anything solid and substantial. Until they got back from their honeymoon and settled into it as their home, the flat was not really there.

  Now the fancy had to be abandoned. Brigid tried not to be upset. With Fernrock Hotel condemned and scheduled for demolition as soon as possible, it made sense that Mrs Hemming should move into the spare bedroom of the flat for a few weeks. It was even more reasonable that Martin should go straight there when he came out of hospital. Only a selfish child would go on stubbornly insisting on the make-believe. But selfish and sentimental as it might be, Brigid couldn’t help wishing that the place could have remained untrodden and unoccupied until Martin carried her over the threshold. Now he might not even be able to do that: it would depend on the speed with which his wound healed.

  He had been lucky. The knife, driven in so savagely, had been deflected by one of his ribs. He had suffered a considerable loss of blood but no more serious damage. By the end of the week he was fit to be allowed home; and home now was the bedroom that he and Brigid were to have shared when they returned from Malta.

  Propped up against the pillows when the doctor had gone, he said:

  “Well, that’s a relief. Up tomorrow.”

  “He said you were to take it easy.”

  “Yes. But there don’t seem to be any real worries. No complications. Nothing that fresh air and exercise won’t settle.”

  “Exercise?” said Brigid.

  “Like this.” He leaned towards her and drew her closer to the bed. He kissed her hand and then pulled her down so that he could kiss her lips.

  Mrs Hemming came back from seeing the doctor out of the flat.

  “He said you were to take it easy,” she said accusingly.

  Martin sank back with a rueful grimace. Brigid sat defiantly on the edge of the bed.

  “He also said,” Martin observed, “that I can get up tomorrow.”

  “Not by rights you shouldn’t. Better off where you are.”

  “I’ve got things to do.”

  “They can wait.” Mrs Hemming walked round the bed without once glancing at Brigid. “Nothing that can’t wait,” she said.

  Brigid’s mother had arranged flowers in a vase on the bedside table. Mrs Hemming twitched the stems into a new pattern and carried the vase round the bed to the small bookcase on the other side.

  Martin grinned at Brigid. She did her best to grin back. This was what she most hated. Mrs Hemming would leave a permanent imprint on the place. Even after she had gone, there would be a fidgety ghost drifting from room to room on its campaign of petty disruption.

  Martin said: “Any more news about the old dump?”

  “So it’s the ‘old dump’ now, is it?” His mother breathed in and out, hard. “And the news…” She paused to give it its full strength. “The news is that … they’re going to blow it up.”

  “Phew.”

  “Blow it up. As though there were a war on, or something. Bang — and that’s the end of that.”

  Her voice was stiff with fury, but tears sparkled in her eyes. Brigid reached out to touch her, ready to make sympathetic noises; but Mrs Hemming jerked away.

  Martin said: “Never mind, Mum. I’m sure they know what they’re doing. And we’re insured.”

  “They just won’t take the trouble, that’s all. Easier to have a big bang and get it over with.”

  “Daddy says it wouldn’t be right to risk men’s lives on an ordinary demolition job,” Brigid tried to explain. “The cliff is in a dreadful state. Once they started bashing away at the walls, the whole lot might go without any warning.”

  “When do we light the blue touch-paper?” asked Martin.

  “Not till the Easter holidays are well and truly over.”

  “Mustn’t frighten the holidaymakers away!” said Mrs Hemming. “The Corporation want to see them back next year. Mustn’t disturb them, must we?”

  She raised her hands as though expecting to find something in them. Their emptiness was an immediate spur. She went towards the door, off in search of an occupation. On the way she glanced back, once, at the picture which dominated the room — a Polish artist’s painting of a group of teasels which Martin had seen in Canterbury, liked, and impulsively bought. Brigid approved his taste: the picture was an integral part of the room.

  “Couldn’t live with that,” said Mrs Hemming. “Oh, well…” She shrugged, sighed, and made her exit.

  “Oh, well,” Martin echoed. He pulled Brigid down and kissed her again. Then he said: “Any more news from the outside world? Something really good, you know — calculated to spread gloom and despondency.”

  “The police haven’t found him yet.”

  “That’s the stuff. More!”

  “And Daddy’s cheque hasn’t been paid in anywhere.”

  “Waiting till he gets back to his native soil, maybe.”

  “No trace of him having left the country.”

  The police had no lead on Martin’s assailant. They had no lead on Peter Blythe. It could not be established that the two were one and the same; but Detective-Sergeant Campbell believed neither in coincidences nor in random, motiveless stabbing, and he had discreetly put out a description of Peter Blythe, whom the police hoped might be able to help them in their investigations.

  Enquiries at ports and airports produced nothing. Long-range enquiries from Lurgate to Rome and Sicily via somewhat complicated channels did not produce much more. The Sicilian authorities appeared to think that the English were up to something sinister, such as planning an invasion, or at the very least a sly infiltration. They began by making out that they didn’t know what the English police were talking about, and then wanted to know why they wanted to know all this anyway. In the end, grudgingly, they confirmed that Peter had lived and worked in Palermo, and lived and worked in Rome, just as Peter himself had said. He was reputed to be a good guide, popular with foreign visitors. He knew some of the not too savoury night spots, but had never quite overstepped the law. He was sharp, but knew how far he could go. How far, they demanded, had he gone?

  This was something which nobody in Lurgate knew. Even the handful of people who knew all that had happened since Peter’s arrival in the town — and this did not include the police — didn’t know all the answers. It looked as though Peter had come back to reclaim his precious particles of identification as the
Blythe heir, tossing clothes and everything else aside, and then had attacked Martin. But why? He already had a generous cheque in his pocket. There was no cause for vindictiveness. Even if for some perverse reason he held a grudge against Martin, there was little sense in drawing attention to himself at this stage by attempting murder.

  But had it really been Martin he was after? The call from Room twenty-two had asked for Mrs Hemming. Martin had taken it on himself to go up in place of his mother. Would she have been attacked if she had got there first? And again, why?

  “I’ve been lying here,” said Martin, “going over and over those few minutes in my mind. It’s still a blur. I can’t get it straight. The light wasn’t so good when I went in — you remember what a dismal sky we had? — and I didn’t know what hit me. Someone came at me fast, and it was just like being thumped in the side. Not hard — just enough to knock me off balance. I didn’t see anything, just felt it. Then it hurt like hell and the whole place went round and round and up and down, and I don’t remember a thing after that.”

  “If he’s still around … waiting for you to come out…”

  “Lurking? I can’t imagine why.”

  “But we can’t imagine why … well, why any of it.”

  Martin hoisted himself into a more comfortable position. He said: “One thing … You’re not sorry he’s gone, are you?”

  “Sorry? If only I could be absolutely sure he was right out of the way and we’d never see him again!”

  “Good.”

  “Why? What were you thinking? Martin…”

  “It just occurred to me that you might have found him interesting. He did have a sort of — well, a kind of sparkle.”

  “Yes,” said Brigid: “like rotten mackerel.”

  Faintly they heard the telephone ringing. Brigid slid off the bed, but before she could cross the room the receiver was taken from its hook and they heard the murmur of Mrs Hemming’s voice.

  “Now what?” said Martin.

  A minute later his mother came in. This time she looked straight at Brigid. “Your mother phoned to ask if you were here.”

  “Oh. I’ll have a word with her…”

  “It’s all right. She’s rung off. She didn’t have any special message. Just wanted to tell you not to make a nuisance of yourself.”

  “To me?” said Martin.

  “I think she meant me.”

  “Am I being a nuisance?” asked Brigid.

  “I didn’t say you were. Nothing to do with me. After all” — Mrs Hemming looked round the room, her lips pursed — “it’s not my house, is it?”

  She went out again.

  Martin began to laugh weakly, then pressed a hand to his side. “Your mother and mine!”

  “Do you think we’ll ever be able to manage them?”

  “Fighting every inch of the way.”

  “Do you think perhaps they’re right?”

  “I’m doubtful they could be right about anything — individually or collectively.”

  “I meant,” said Brigid, “about postponing the wedding.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Darling, you know I don’t want to…”

  “You’re afraid I’ll be too feeble to satisfy you?”

  She felt herself reddening. “No. I don’t get that impression at all.”

  “You’re worried about being tied to a potential invalid all your life?”

  “Martin, don’t talk rubbish.”

  “Then don’t talk rubbish. You’re going to marry me — date and time as scheduled. Right?”

  “Right,” said Brigid.

  In spite of all the lunatic upheavals of recent weeks it was impossible not to feel happy.

  A sprinkling of holidaymakers joined the throng outside the church. It was an extra treat for the women visitors. They cooed sentimentally as the bride emerged from the shadows of the porch.

  Martin pressed her arm against his side.

  Familiar faces turned upwards, some friendly and some merely curious. Among the locals there were plenty who had come simply to stare, to accuse someone, somewhere, of somehow hushing something up. It was as though the wedding itself might just possibly be a conspiracy. “Wouldn’t be surprised if they hadn’t done that other one in as well. Not a sight or sound of him…”

  Brigid had not been a devout churchgoer, but standing at the top of the steps she sensed the weight of it, and at the same time the gracefulness of it, behind her. It had been a part of her life for so long. With a sharpened physical awareness of everything today — the smell and sound and feel of things; the sight of the finely chiselled stone face of Sir Richard Welling, benefactor of this parish, beaming blankly yet reassuringly down at her during the ceremony; the ageless chill of the nave and the warmth of old Mr Hadow’s voice — she was acutely conscious of being alive. She tasted the savours of Lurgate on her tongue as she looked out over the sea: tang of salt and of woodsmoke, sweetness of the flowerbeds along the promenade and the blossom she was carrying; and the faint, acrid, dusty smell of the road, and the metallic warmth of the waiting car.

  Martin was beside her, close to her. They went down the steps to the car.

  The reception was to have been held in Fernrock. Now it had been switched to the Copperfield Hotel, obscurely so named because, according to a plaque in the dining room, Charles Dickens had stayed here while writing a few chapters of Barnaby Rudge.

  Mrs Hemming paced round the tables. She examined the tablecloths for stains and the wedding cake for cracks in the icing. “If only we’d been able to have it where we ought to have had it…” She circled round a large spray of flowers, and sniffed.

  Mrs Johnson talked gaily and a trifle shrilly to her friends and Brigid’s friends. Then she detached herself from one chattering group and joined Mrs Hemming, taking her arm and walking round the room with her. They were both tense and both terribly affable. Brigid got the impression that from the corners of their fixed smiles they were contriving to carry on an argument about trivialities of which even thirty seconds later they would deny all knowledge.

  Brigid’s father winked at her.

  “Always the same. Families. Part of the ritual — bristling at each other. It was much worse at our own wedding, though I don’t imagine your mother lets herself remember it.”

  A self-conscious line of people waited to shake hands with the bride and groom. It all seemed a bit solemn. Sarah Iggulden spoilt it by giggling when she reached Brigid. It was certainly a bit odd to be going through this formality with a girl you’d known for fifteen years and with whom you hadn’t once in your life shaken hands until now.

  At last they began to split up and form new groups round the buffet tables. Brigid felt dizzy. She clung to Martin’s hand, and he steadied her.

  “Malta, you’re going to?” A girl called Veronica, with a twentyish fringe and a hat of pink petals, looked wisely over her champagne glass. “Of course you’ll take some of your foreign currency allowance as well? I mean, it’s so easy to hop over to Tunis or somewhere. Pity to miss it while you’re in the Med.” She had spent two holidays on Ibiza, and knew all the places one could hop to.

  The speeches were short and not too embarrassing. The ritual was not so awful as Brigid had feared. A few of the girls were growing as arch and sniggery as Sarah, but the people around kept them subdued.

  I want to be out of here, thought Brigid. The pressure of voices, even the rational and amiable ones, grew too intense. I want to be with Martin — that’s what all this is for, but what on earth has it really got to do with it?

  Her mother came up beside her and kissed her. It was a warm, instinctive kiss. Brigid wanted to hug her; but she did wish her mother did not have to look so ruefully defeated when she glanced at Martin.

  Again her father winked.

  The groups reshuffled. Mrs Hemming was talking with belligerent matiness to an elderly woman in a corner; the Johnsons split up and made brief, dutiful forays into the different clusters of guests; Ma
rtin’s best man came towards Martin and stood without saying a word for a minute or more. He was a colleague from the research centre, devoted to his work and shy with anyone who did not understand his professional language.

  “Not going too badly,” he managed at last.

  It was a noble effort at general conversation.

  “Let me top up your glass,” said Martin.

  “No, this is plenty, thanks. Plenty.”

  Brigid said: “Thank you for keeping your speech so neat and short, Eric.”

  He flushed and said, “Oh,” and, “Well, you know … short and sour, that’s me.” He laughed. They all laughed. Martin slapped him lightly and affectionately on the back. Brigid could never be at ease with Eric the way Martin was, but she liked him, and wasn’t sure that she didn’t in fact envy him: it must be wonderful to have such a passion for one’s work — a vocation, in Eric’s case.

  “I’ve told them,” squealed Veronica from the far side of the room, “that they simply must hop over to Lampedusa. Such a waste not to, when you’re in that part of the world. Sicily, of course, has been spoilt. Overdone…”

  “So you haven’t given any more thought to the Ryneside project?” Eric was saying.

  “Enough on my mind,” Martin replied in a voice so muted that Brigid only just caught the words.

  “You’re the obvious candidate.”

  “Me and a hundred others.”

  “No. You.” Eric sounded unusually fervent. On his own subject he was a man transformed. “It fits in with all that work you’ve been doing on acaricides. A new application like this … the facilities you’d be given for broadening the basis of research…”

  “You’re very anxious to get rid of me, aren’t you?”

  Brigid said: “What on earth are you two talking about?”

  Eric stared as though at a complete stranger, then said: “Hasn’t he told you?”

  “Told me what?”

  “This new international project they’re setting up on…”

  “This,” said Martin with a flamboyant gesture which was too showy to be convincing, “is my wedding day. Can we save the shop talk?”