by Ed O'Connor
‘A valediction is a poem that is concerned with saying goodbye. In Latin, “vale” means farewell. In this poem, Donne is saying goodbye to someone he is in love with. The poem is constructed around a conceit: an elaborate metaphor. It’s a common device in metaphysical poetry. In this case the conceit is that the tears of each lover bear the image of the other.
‘Look at the first verse: “Let me power forth my teares … For thy face coines them and thy stampe they beare”. In other words Donne is saying “Let me cry, my tears will have value because they contain your reflection”.’
Stussman took a swig of coffee from the mug on her desk and sat down in the spare amchair. She was directly opposite Underwood now and addressed her comments to him.
‘But Donne doesn’t leave it there. He develops the idea. This is the argumentative element of the poetry that I mentioned earlier. He draws in a sexual image: “For thus they bee/ Pregnant of thee” – the tears are bulging full of his lover’s image. Imagine the shape of a pregnant woman. Then, like ripe fruits of pain (“emblemes of grief”) they fall to the ground.’ She looked Underwood straight in the eye. ‘Are you with me?’
‘Just about,’ he lied.
‘In the second verse the argument moves into phase two. Do you know what a microcosm is?’
Underwood shook his head. Julia had called him intellectually flat-footed once. Now he knew what she had meant.
‘It’s a miniature representation of something large: like a room representing the whole universe or, as we see in the second stanza, a tear representing an entire planet. Donne says that “A workeman … can quickly make that which was nothing All”. In other words, through the prism of his argument the tears may be seen as a globe, a world of their own. He then injects the idea that as the tears of the lovers mix together, the imaginary world they created is destroyed by a biblical-style flood: “This world by waters sent from thee, my heaven dissolved so”.’
‘A biblical flood?’ Underwood remembered the terrible mess at Lucy Harrington’s house: the bloody water that had washed away and corrupted all residual evidence. Harrison had had a similar notion the previous day. Underwood looked at the page and concentrated on the third verse.
‘So the last verse is the one that contains the line he wrote on the wall: “Draw not up seas to drowne me in thy spheare.”’ He struggled to understand. ‘He’s saying that his lover is like the moon and controls the tides?’
Stussman nodded. ‘Almost. Donne is saying that his lover is more powerful than the moon; that the power of her will is greater than that of nature itself; that she can draw up oceans of tears that can destroy worlds.’
‘Eyes. Water. Blood,’ said Dexter quietly.
Stussman turned to her. ‘Does that help? I mean, does what I said have any bearing on what happened to the girl?’
‘It might do. There are certain common elements.’ Dexter didn’t look her in the eye.
‘Like what? If you tell me I might be able to help you,’ Said Stussman.
‘I doubt it. In any case, we can’t reveal important details of ongoing investigations to the public.’ Dexter’s eyes remained glued to the page of notes she didn’t understand.
‘I am hardly the public. And I do have a vested interest in you catching this guy. He knows where I live, after all. He has selected me already.’ There was an edge to Stussman’s voice now. Dexter noticed it. So did Underwood.
‘I have a question, Dr Stussman,’ the inspector asked. ‘Do eyes have any special meaning or significance in metaphysical poetry?’
‘Eyes?’ Stussman hesitated momentarily at the implication of the inspector’s question. ‘Well, yes, in a number of ways. We have alluded to the idea of microcosms already. In “A Valediction: of Weeping” the microcosm was in the tears of the two lovers. In other poems, Donne uses eyes to similar effect. Entire universes or planets are compressed into the eyes of a lover.
‘There’s a poem called “The Good Morrow”, for example. Donne awakes and sees his own reflection in his lover’s eyes: “My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears/ And true hearts doe in the faces rest/ Where can we find two better hemispheares/ Without sharpe North, without declining West?”. Do you see what he’s doing?’
Underwood shook his head. Stussman continued, ‘Each eye is a hemisphere – half a world. Together, the two reflections make a whole new world; a perfect construction without the hostility of a frozen north or the sunsets of “declining West”.’
‘A bit Spandau Ballet, if you ask me,’ said Dexter.
‘What else, Dr Stussman?’ asked Underwood. He was making extensive notes and was not looking forward to making sense of them later.
‘There is something else that strikes me. Remember the line from “A Valediction: of Weeping” that I was sent: “Draw not up seas to drowne me in thy spheare.” As I said, that line is about the power of the human will. Humanist thought during the Renaissance emphasized the importance of the rational human mind in contrast with divine belief systems. In the poem “The Sunne Rising”, Donne is lying in bed with his lover, addressing the sunrise. He implies that his will, expressed through closing his eyes, is more powerful than the sun: “Thy beames so reverend and strong/ Why should’st thou thinke?/ I could eclipse and cloud them with a winke/ But I would not lose her sight so long”. Maybe your killer thinks that by using his rational mind he can create a new world.’
‘A rational mind wouldn’t do what he’s done,’ said Dexter dismissively. ‘This guy’s a fruitcake.’
‘Don’t underestimate him. He’s been very careful, methodical almost,’ said Underwood. ‘He thinks he’s being rational. Everything that’s happened so far he has willed. Maybe he believes he is a force of nature. We’re here, aren’t we? He willed that. Now it’s happened.’
‘Am I in danger, Inspector?’ Stussman asked. ‘I feel like I don’t want to be here any more.’
Underwood considered for a moment. ‘The honest answer is that I don’t know. My instinct is to say no. This guy, whoever he is, has chosen to communicate with us through you. For whatever reason, he thinks that you understand what he’s about. I’d like you to stay here. He may try to contact you again. For safety’s sake, I’ll arrange for a uniformed officer to be outside your door from this afternoon. We’ll tell the porters to lock the college gates early and only to admit people that they recognize. You should tell them the names of all your visitors in advance so they can check them as they arrive. This is a pretty secure room. You’re on the first floor and the door is the only way in. I would recommend that you stay in college as much as possible. Is that feasible?’
‘I guess so.’ Stussman considered. ‘The only times I have to go out are for my lectures and the next one isn’t until the middle of next week. I can eat in college.’
‘Do that.’ Underwood scribbled three numbers on a piece of paper and handed it over. ‘You can contact Sergeant Dexter or myself on either of the first numbers if he calls you again or if anything else occurs to you. The last number is our fax. We’ll contact Cambridge police now and make sure they put a guy on your door today. Are you okay with that?’
Stussman looked at the numbers on the notepaper. ‘Not really, but I guess I don’t have much choice.’
‘You’ll be fine. If we think that you are at risk, if the guy threatens you on the phone or something, we’ll put you in a hotel or a safe house.’ Underwood stood up. ‘Thank you for your help. I don’t pretend to understand everything you said but I get the gist.’
‘If I think of anything else I’ll let you know.’ Stussman suddenly felt very small. Vulnerable. Maybe Underwood sensed it. He shook her hand again, more gently this time. He held her grip for a moment too long, as if frozen for an instant by those crystal-blue eyes. Dexter turned away and briskly walked to the door. For a split second, Underwood felt that there might be an ounce of beauty in the universe after all; reflected in those eyes, maybe even he could be beautiful. The moment vanished. He walked away, hopin
g that the killer of Lucy Harrington hadn’t seen Heather Stussman’s photograph.
20
Harrison was already on his fifth coffee and it was still before midday. It had been a fairly productive morning and the benefits of working a case with WPC Jensen were not lost on him. Aesthetic advantages aside, she was an enthusiastic worker and keen to make an impression. She was also a willing fetcher of cappuccinos. He would take her out for a beer soon: she looked the pub type. Harrison wondered if her flirtatiousness would get her into trouble one day: he hoped he was there when it happened.
The two of them had spent the previous three hours following up leads from the preliminary house-to-house enquiries. Mrs Edith Jackson, an elderly homeowner in The Crescent, London Road had previously told Harrison that she remembered a white van – like an RSPCA inspector’s van – had been parked outside her house the night Lucy Harrington had been murdered. It had disappeared by the following morning. Jensen had spoken to the RSPCA that morning and determined that their inspectors generally used the white Ford Escort 1.8d. She had then downloaded a picture of this type of vehicle from a Ford dealer website and on Harrison’s advice had then driven up to The Crescent. Mrs Jackson wasn’t confident but agreed that the van she had seen looked very similar to that in the photograph.
It was something, but Harrison found it hard to get excited. Even if the van had been driven by Lucy Harrington’s murderer, they had nothing else to work with: no registration plate, no description of the driver. There were thousands of white Escort vans across the country; hundreds in the New Bolden area alone. Underwood’s tip concerning the BMW seen on the Hartfield Road didn’t seem a much better bet. He had called the DVLA and had them process the registration through their central computer. It had thrown back a name and address in New Bolden: Paul Heyer, 17 The Blossoms. Harrison knew the area: detached houses mostly owned by affluent business types and located about two miles from Lucy Harrington’s cottage.
He cross-referenced Heyer’s records with the New Bolden and Cambridgeshire police records. Heyer had been fined for two minor speeding offences in the previous five years. He was hardly a ‘ten-most-wanted’ candidate. The records showed that Heyer was a local property developer and a director of the New Bolden Chamber Orchestra. ‘Pillar of the community,’ mused Harrison; it looked like another dead end. However, he was experienced enough not to assume the obvious and if Heyer had been in the area that night he might have seen something. It would be worthwhile speaking to him.
On Dexter’s instructions Jensen had started compiling a list of all those arrested for housebreaking in the New Bolden and Cambridge region over the previous five years. The list was pretty extensive, covering Peterborough, Cambridge, New Bolden and Ely as well as the rural districts. There were just under a hundred names of suspects with arrest records still living in the county. It would take time to check them all. Jensen decided to wait and tell Underwood herself. She would cross-check to see if any of them owned white Escort vans. They probably all did.
Jensen also began to sift through the huge pile of unsolved burglary cases, looking for similiarities with the break in at Lucy Harrington’s cottage. It was a tedious task that Harrison had happily delegated. Many of the crime reports were incomplete or contained only scant details. Making connections was going to be tough. However, Jensen had already claimed the biggest success of the morning. She had fielded a call from the forensic laboratory. The lab confirmed that the flower petals found by Dexter the previous evening matched the petal Underwood had found stuck under Lucy Harrington’s back door. They were Saintpaulia ionantha: African violet petals, probably from the same plant. Harrison now knew for sure what Underwood and Dexter had suspected: that Lucy Harrington’s killer had waited in the woods outside her house for her to leave and then gained entry by the back door.
‘Why carry flowers around with him, sarge?’ Jensen asked. ‘You’d think he’d have had more important things on his mind.’
‘My mum grows African violets,’ Harrison replied. ‘Kind of an old people’s thing, aren’t they?’
‘Don’t ask me. The only flowers I know are roses.’ Jensen smirked.
‘So you’re used to little pricks, then?’
‘Have to be, working here.’
Jensen was sharp. Harrison liked that. He would push it one step further. ‘You’re obviously hanging round with the wrong people.’ This time Jensen just smiled at him. He hadn’t enjoyed work this much for ages.
‘I’ll get some more background on these flowers, then,’ she said eventually, ‘see where you can buy them locally – that sort of thing.’ Jensen had come over all businesslike now. Harrison knew when it was time to back off. He was in no hurry. The chase was invariably more enjoyable than the main event. The phone rang. Jensen answered and handed the phone to Harrison.
‘It’s Underwood, sergeant. Sounds like his mobile.’
Harrison took the phone from her. ‘Hello, sir. Anything interesting?’
‘Confusing,’ said Underwood. ‘Any joy on the van or that licence plate?’
‘We are pretty sure the van was an Escort 1.8d. Beyond that it’s anybody’s guess. No one else saw the bastard.’
Underwood’s voice softened slightly. ‘What about the BMW?’
‘Licensed to a Mr Paul Heyer. 17 The Blossoms. Local business type. Couple of driving fines but nothing more serious than that.’
‘Get him in.’
‘You sure, guv? Sounds like a non-starter to me.’
‘I’ll see him this afternoon. You and Jensen pick him up.’
Twenty miles away, Underwood clicked off his mobile phone. So his rival’s name was Paul Heyer. Mr and Mrs Paul Heyer. The thought ricocheted around his mind like a squash ball. Paul and Julia invite you to a barbecue … Paul and Jules At Home. He screwed his eyes shut. Julia would be worrying about him by now; wondering where he was, why he hadn’t come home or called. Fuck her, he thought bitterly. Let her suffer. The suffering was only just beginning and he was going to make the most of it. The suffering was all he had left. This afternoon he would look into the eyes of the man who was screwing his wife. Underwood wondered what kind of nightmare world he could create from the reflections he would see in them.
21
Julia Underwood lay back in the bath. There was a pain behind her eyes and anger in her belly. She had hardly slept. Every passing car, every creak and rattle in her old house had made her jump. She had returned from Paul’s place before eleven the previous evening steeled with resolve; prepared for the confrontation that he had compelled her to undertake. But John hadn’t been there. Progress came only with pain. She understood that. Like childbirth, new life only came with agony. Julia knew that it was probably too late for her: once she would have liked to have children. Now she was glad that she hadn’t. She shuddered at the new dimension of complexities that a child would have brought to her current situation.
In the darkest moments of her despair over the previous six months, Julia had often thought about killing herself. Sometimes, if she was standing at a station, she would imagine falling in front of the approaching train; progress only came with pain. She had thought of taking pills: there were two boxes of paracetamol in the kitchen and John always kept a bottle of vodka in the cabinet. She had thought of cutting her wrists: in the bath, probably, to dilate the blood vessels. The last option appealed to her most; there was something beautifully ironic about leaving the world the way you came into it: in blood and water. Riddled with fear and self-doubt, torn between conflicting responsibilities, Julia Underwood had stared into the abyss and found nothing. That scared her the most: the nothingness of her life, the nothingness of her death. She had been alone for eighteen years. She would not be alone any more. She had read a line in a women’s magazine once: ‘If you can save one life, make it your own.’
She had called her husband four times in the previous twenty-four hours. Two calls to his office, two to his mobile. She had left recorded messages and t
ext messages. No response. Julia understood what was going on. John always retreated from confrontation; rather than take up the exposed ground of an argument, he preferred to launch a kind of intellectual guerrilla warfare. This usually involved long periods of absence or silence bookended by occasional fusillades of invective. It had been going on for eighteen years and she was tired of it now. At least there were winners and losers in arguments. In the war of attrition that was her marriage, everyone had lost out.
Julia looked at her body. She would be forty in five months’ time. You could tell the age of a tree by cutting it in half and counting the lines. Julia could count her lines all too easily. Sometimes she felt like she was trapped in another, unfamiliar body, the body of a stranger. It wasn’t that she was fat: her weight fluctuated but it never soared beyond her control. It was more that she just looked exhausted: baggy and exhausted. She looked like a crumpled suit someone had left hanging in a wardrobe for eighteen years.
When she had started seeing Paul, Julia had avoided overdressing. She had chosen her plainest, smartest, most sexless clothes. From early in their relationship – God, how she hated that word – she had fantasized and panicked about sleeping with him in equal measure. She had feared the moment when he would look on her naked for the first time; feared that he might in that instant feel he had been misled or had made a terrible mistake. ‘At least,’ she had reasoned, ‘if I dress like a frump he won’t be surprised.’ She needn’t have worried.
She had met Paul at a concert in the New Bolden Theatre. It was a charity fund-raising event. The orchestra had played Ravel’s orchestration of Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition. Paul had introduced himself at the interval. He was a director of the orchestra. They had talked about Mussorgsky. Julia remembered snippets about the composer from school but Paul had talked freely about Mussorgsky’s early life in St Petersburg and his training with Balakirev. Julia felt in that instant that her life had changed gear: that she was being engaged; he had assumed intelligence in her, he had taken an interest and opened the door to a different world. A rarefied world of music and conversation. In that moment she was lost. At the end of the performance Paul had invited her to a recital of Mussorgsky’s Songs and Dances of Death in Cambridge the following week. It didn’t sound particularly romantic but she was intrigued. He was polite and softly spoken. She had accepted.