Something Wicked

by David Roberts

  ‘And then you telephoned the police?’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t know what to do, who to call. I could see he was dead. His face was all . . . all of it that I could see . . . swollen and black . . .’ She shook her head as if trying to dislodge the memory.

  ‘When did you notice the piece of paper with the writing on it?’

  ‘Not until they moved his body. I think it must have been pushed under him or something.’

  ‘It wasn’t on top of him?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so . . . it might have been . . . I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking straight. I just saw the piece of paper and the pen.’

  ‘It was his Parker?’

  ‘Yes. It was his pen – the one he always had in his breast pocket.’

  Edward furrowed his brow. ‘It seems odd, don’t you think, that whoever killed your husband took his pen out of his pocket and wrote “buzz, buzz” in capital letters when his body was covered in bees.’

  ‘He was probably wearing protective clothing.’

  ‘You saw Bill’s protective gloves? They are thick and stiff – so it would be rather difficult to remove a pen from the inside pocket of a jacket covered in bees. Why didn’t he use his own pen?’

  ‘We are certain it was Jimmy’s pen?’ Harry asked.

  ‘According to Treacher’s notes,’ Edward replied. ‘A Parker is quite distinctive but, I agree, it needs checking.’

  ‘Perhaps he wrote in capitals because he was still wearing gloves,’ Harry hazarded. ‘Much easier than writing normally.’

  ‘Good point! Mrs Herold, would you mind if we borrowed Bill’s gloves and did a little experiment. I don’t know that it is significant though. Once the murderer had the pen and was away from the bees, he could have taken his gloves off.’ He turned back to her. ‘And the paper was torn from . . .’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Is there a book of some kind in which Bill records how the bees are doing on – the honey yield – that sort of thing?’

  ‘Yes, Bill has it. Do you want to see it?’

  ‘Please.’

  Mrs Herold stood up and called across the orchard. Bill lifted his head from the mowing, turned off his machine and came over. She asked him if he had the bee book and he said it was in the shed.

  ‘Could we see it, do you think, Bill?’

  ‘It’s not quite up to date,’ he said defensively.

  ‘Don’t worry, we just want to see if anything has been . . .’

  Edward stopped her. ‘We’d be most grateful,’ he said with a smile. ‘Oh, and could you bring your gloves – the ones you use to deal with the bees.’

  Bill looked doubtful but nodded and ambled off to fetch the book and the gloves.

  ‘You didn’t want me to say what we needed them for?’ Mrs Herold queried.

  ‘Better not.’

  ‘Mrs Herold – Cathy . . . I’m so sorry.’ Harry had taken her hand and she let him stroke it. ‘This must be awful for you. Forgive us for opening it all up again.’

  ‘No, I want to know the truth.’

  ‘I think someone killed your husband,’ Edward told her. ‘Don’t you?’

  She looked at him wide-eyed. ‘But who would want to do that?’

  ‘That’s what we must try to find out,’ he said gently.

  Bill returned with the gloves and a small, cheap notebook – the sort you could buy in any stationer. Mrs Herold put out her hand to take it but Edward was there before her.

  ‘Thank you, Bill,’ he said soothingly. He leafed through the pages, which were full of measurements and brief, dated comments on the condition of the bees. He came to the final page.

  ‘You haven’t written up the damage to the hives yet?’ he asked, looking up at Watkins.

  ‘I didn’t know what to write,’ he whined, almost wringing his hands.

  ‘Of course not, Bill,’ Mrs Herold said. ‘We’ll think of something together, shall we?’

  Edward was not listening. He had found what he was looking for – a jagged tear where a page had been roughly torn out. ‘Do you know anything about this?’ he asked. Bill scratched his head as though thinking hard how much he should say. ‘You must have noticed this page had been torn out? Did you do it?’

  ‘No, sir!’ He sounded aggrieved. ‘It were an empty page. I didn’t think nothing of it.’

  ‘Very well. You can go now. I’ll return these to you in a few minutes.’

  ‘Don’t blame me for nothing,’ Bill cried. ‘It weren’t me what killed the master. He loved the bees . . . we both did. I didn’t set them on him!’

  ‘We don’t think you did, Bill,’ Mrs Herold said placatingly. ‘We’re not accusing you of anything.’ She patted his arm and he seemed reassured.

  After he had gone back to his mowing, Edward and Harry both tried to write while wearing the gloves. It was difficult but not impossible.

  As they were about to leave, Mrs Herold said, ‘So my husband was murdered?’

  ‘I’m sure of it,’ Edward replied gravely. ‘By the way, one last question. Was your husband a friend of Jack Amery?’

  ‘We knew him, of course. He was . . . is a neighbour and he and Jimmy shared the same political views.’

  ‘Do you like him?’

  ‘No. I can’t bear him. He tried to kiss me once, in the passage with Jimmy in his wheelchair only a few feet away.’

  ‘So you’ve seen him recently?’

  ‘The last time he came was four weeks ago. He didn’t stay long when he saw the state Jimmy was in and I knew he wouldn’t ever come again. He doesn’t like illness and he was too selfish to pretend otherwise.’

  ‘Well, thank you so much, Mrs Herold. You have been most kind. By the way, may I borrow a copy of The Fall? I’d be very interested to read it.’

  ‘Of course.’ She went over to a bookcase full of works on mountaineering and two or three, Edward saw, about Hitler and National Socialism. She took out her husband’s book and handed it to him. Edward thought how odd it was to have found a second wife through an extended love letter to his first. ‘Will you find the person who did this?’ she asked quite fiercely.

  ‘I will indeed. Have no fear of that,’ Edward answered, her hand in his. The look in his eyes seemed to convince her because she nodded as though satisfied and turned to say goodbye to Harry.

  9

  Verity had not seen as much of Kay Stammers as she would have liked because Kay was in training for Wimbledon. She believed she had a good chance of reaching the finals and even of winning. So it was a delight for Verity when her friend breezed in one morning and said she had Dr Bladon’s permission to take her on the river.

  Kay said she despised motor launches and insisted on a rowing boat. Verity protested that she was not up to rowing but Kay said she would provide the muscle if Verity would steer. For fifteen minutes Kay rowed hard and Verity enjoyed watching her. Occasionally, Verity would forget what she was supposed to be doing and put them in the path of a motor launch or into the bank. The trouble was she found Kay fascinating and distracting. She was just the sort of woman she admired – independent, adventurous, intelligent and physically in her prime. The sweat began to pour off her forehead and she had to wipe her eyes almost every time she took a stroke so that Verity finally begged her to rest.

  ‘We’re not going anywhere.’

  ‘You’re right, we’re not. I’m sure you wish we were.’

  ‘You mean . . . I want to escape from the clinic?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘Actually, I think I may be getting institutionalized. I’m not even sure I could cross a road by myself any longer, let alone a continent.’ Verity hesitated. ‘I expect you think it’s rather childish – my wanting to rush around the world when I should be tucked up with Edward in some baronial hall.’

  ‘No, of course not. I admire what you have achieved – Guernica, for example. Your report did more than anything to make people realize the tragedy that was taking place in Spain.’

>   ‘Oh, gosh! It’s only by the wildest stroke of luck that a reporter is actually on hand to describe a convulsion – a significant moment in history – a landmark which stands out even in our horrible century.’

  ‘Like me being born left-handed. Most people think it’s a disadvantage being left-handed but it’s a real stroke of luck for a tennis player. Believe it or not, my teacher forced me to write with my right hand until my mother made a fuss. She thought I was crippled or something. Sorry, I didn’t mean to go on about me. I say’, Kay rested on her oars, ‘do you mind talking about it . . . about Spain, I mean?’

  ‘No, I feel like talking.’

  ‘Well, let’s tie up under that willow over there and rest awhile.’

  When they were safely moored, Kay joined Verity in the back of the boat and they lay together like lovers enjoying the sound of the water and the wind rustling in the willow above them.

  ‘May I ask you something Verity, if it won’t make you cross?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Do you think your lot can really win?’

  ‘Last winter, I thought there was a chance. We . . . I mean the Republicans,’ she corrected herself with a wry smile, ‘won a great battle at Teruel.’

  ‘I read about that. It’s a city on the Guadalajara front, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. The battle was fought in the most terrible conditions. One thinks of Spain being so hot but you have no idea how cold it gets in winter. There was snow, frostbite, starvation and, as usual, not enough guns but the town was taken.’

  ‘And lost again.’

  ‘Yes. It was a great blow and now they are fighting on the Ebro river and we seem to be losing.’

  ‘Do you know one thing that surprises me?’

  ‘No, what?’

  ‘You’ll think me cynical but why has it taken Franco so long to win? I thought it would only be a matter of weeks before the Fascists took Madrid but the war still drags on. Is it just that the Republicans fight so fiercely?’

  ‘They do but that’s not the reason – at least so my friends there write to me. They say – and I’m inclined to believe them – that Franco doesn’t want to win too quickly. In fact he wants to go as slowly as possible, never giving up an inch of the territory he gains, like some sort of awful meat grinder. He wants to spread terror, squash any sign of dissent and annihilate as many Republicans as possible. It’s said that Franco told Mussolini, who asked the same question, that the military occupation would be useless if Spain wasn’t “pacified” at the same time. He knows that the roots of anarchism there are very deep. To put it another way, he wants to eradicate anything which will be an obstacle to the survival of his dictatorship. I think, beneath the cynicism, he really believes that he is God’s agent on earth.’

  ‘How chilling!’ Kay said. ‘What help is there when such monsters roam the world?’

  ‘We must face it down. That’s all there is to it,’ Verity replied gloomily.

  ‘You won’t believe this because I’m not brainy or anything like that but a friend took me to a reading by a poet called W.H. Auden in London last week. I thought I wouldn’t understand a word but he read a poem about Spain and it really moved me. It made me think of you, of course!’

  ‘Can you remember any of it?’

  ‘Not that I can quote. I’m afraid I don’t have that sort of memory but I do recall one phrase. He talked about the deliberate increase in the chances of death and – this was the phrase I remember – “the conscious acceptance of guilt in the necessary murder”. I wonder if that is how Franco sees it?’

  ‘Auden is a supporter of the Republic.’

  ‘Yes, but that is what’s so tragic. The other side seems to view the war in the same way you do. I mean, are ideals the most dangerous thing? Worse than greed or nationalism?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, Kay. We have to believe in something otherwise we might as well be animals.’

  Kay thought for a moment or two and decided to change the subject. ‘It must be wonderful to have your reputation. You know people trust you. When you describe some battle or whatever, people know that was how it was.’

  ‘It’s kind of you to say so but I don’t fool myself. Many people don’t trust me and they’re probably right. I don’t pretend to be omniscient. On the ground, it’s all such a muddle. I never know the whole truth and, if I did, no one would publish it. From the air – as it were – I could probably pick out some sort of pattern but I can never see more than a small part of what’s going on. We have to leave it to the historians to make sense of it all. I try not to generalize or make pronouncements. I have to stifle my doubts even about small things. Am I really seeing what I think I’m seeing?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, take Guernica. I thought I knew what happened, but did I? I saw an undefended town destroyed by German aircraft but was I being manipulated? Did I simply see what the Communist Party wanted me to see? I’m pretty sure now – though I have no proof – that the Communist leadership had notice of what was going to happen. Stalin has his spies in the enemy camp just as there are German spies inside Russia. They – my trusted leaders –’ Verity spoke with heavy irony – ‘allowed it to happen to alert the world to the plight of the Republican cause.’

  ‘And it did.’

  ‘Yes, but they could have saved many innocent lives if they had given the city some warning. Still,’ she added sheepishly, ‘I’d like to think that, even if what I write isn’t the whole truth and doesn’t lead directly to action, it at least has some effect on public opinion. I mean, I know whatever I say won’t change our government’s policy of non-interference. However, I hope that what I write – what I wrote, I should say – makes people a little more receptive . . . a little more aware of what is happening.’

  ‘It’s all such a muddle – Spain, I mean,’ Kay said, thumping her hand against the side of the boat. ‘Who is good? Who is bad? Both sides kill innocent civilians.’

  ‘The thing to remember – what I hold on to over and above the muddle and cynicism – is that the war in Spain is fundamentally a class war. It’s the people against the ruling class. Whatever else, that’s true.’

  ‘You aren’t fed up with journalism?’ Kay asked after a pause.

  ‘No, it’s good for me. I have only to go to another country with a different sky and a different language to feel that life’s worth living. There are things for my mind and eyes to feed on – actual sights rather than things I’ve read about. I’m one of those people who have to see something before they can imagine it. Doubting Thomas is my saint. And I meet people I would never have met otherwise. The boys I met in Spain – particularly from the International Brigade – were from all sorts of backgrounds but united by their hatred of Fascism.’

  ‘So you learnt something – in Spain, I mean?’

  ‘I learnt that you can be right and be defeated,’ Verity replied bitterly.

  ‘I suppose you must have had to sacrifice a lot?’

  ‘You mean husbands and babies and things? No, as a woman I count myself very lucky to be able to do what they call a man’s job. Most women can go nowhere and see nothing. They become tame rabbits and their husbands get bored with them. I like the long, cold train journeys listening to people talk. I like sharing the discomfort of the men at the front. I think it is not disgusting to look at the world and see it for what it is. I reported on the war in Spain and, if I am spared, will report on the war to come because there must be witnesses. I have trained myself to observe. I’ll never see enough but I will report what I see. Journalism is an honourable profession.’

  ‘You must be sick of war.’

  ‘It’s a solution to life,’ Verity said sadly.

  ‘Well, that’s one thing you haven’t seen before, I imagine.’ Kay lifted her head and pointed across the river. ‘Isn’t that Edward – the one in front? Or do I mean stroke?’

  Two men were sculling up the river in a pair. They were going fast but both see
med relaxed, their long, level strokes taking them quickly past the little rowing boat. Neither man turned his head and the two women watched mesmerized as the slim, fragile craft disappeared upstream.

  ‘Very impressive,’ Kay commented but Verity merely bit her lip.

  How near am I to losing him? she asked herself. Should I burden him with a sick wife who cannot even do the job she was trained for? Silently, she spoke to him: My life is not long enough to love you properly. Shall I ever sleep in your arms as your wife, Edward? Oh God – if I believed in your existence – give me courage.

  Kay, sensing her dejection, kissed her quickly on the forehead, sat up and took hold of the oars. ‘Come on, Verity. Get a grip on the tiller or whatever they call it. It’s time we went back.’

  It had been at breakfast that Harry said to his guest, ‘You know, Corinth, you look jaded, pooped, not to say tuckered out. It’s time I took you out on the river. I can fit you up with a rigger or . . . I know . . . much better – a pair. There’s one in the boathouse. It’s not in the first flush of youth but it’s perfectly sound.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ Edward said weakly. ‘I don’t think I’m up to it. It’s been a lifetime since I did any serious rowing.’

  ‘Nonsense! Have you finished breakfast? Right then – meet me at the boathouse in twenty minutes in kit suitable for messing about on the river.’

  It pained Edward to have to admit it but he was jaded and desperately in need of exercise. As soon as they were on the river, he felt better. He had been worried that he would be an embarrassment and catch a crab or worse, but it was like riding a bicycle – something which, once learned, your body never forgot. His hands were soft, of course, and his breath not as good as it had once been but he was one of those lucky people who remained reasonably fit without taking regular exercise.

  ‘Where shall we go?’ Harry had asked as they slipped the oars through the rowlocks.

  ‘Do we have to go anywhere in particular?’ Edward responded. Then an idea occurred to him. ‘I tell you what. We might go up to Amery’s house if we can identify it and it isn’t too far.’