“Who is Mrs. Barton?” I asked.
“A friend of theirn. A widow. She used to live in the village till she moved up to London. She come back to see them sometimes. She come back after Mrs. Warwick died. But he should have had somebody with him all the time.” She sighed, shrugged—gestures of helplessness. “I only saw him three times after Mrs. Warwick was killed,” she went on. “The first time was when I come round that next day to ask if I could do anything. That’s when he said he could manage on his own. So . . . I didn’t come round no more—not till after he was dead . . . I felt then that I ought to . . . The only other times I saw him was at the inquest and at Mrs. Warwick’s funeral.” She raised her head, gazing past me, unseeing. “He looked terrible. Like he was in a dream, almost. Mrs. Barton was with him then. And the doctor.”
“That’s a local doctor?”
“Yes. Doctor Reese. He’d been looking after Mrs. Warwick. They sent for him straightaway when—when she fell . . .”
After a moment she turned and began to move away from me. Her voice, more under control now, came to me across the grass as she stood in the doorway.
“I’m—I’m so glad . . . I’m so glad you’re here, Mr. David . . .”
“I’ll come by in the morning,” Jean Timpson said after dinner while I sat over my coffee. “—Just to see you’ve got everything you want.”
“It isn’t really necessary,” I protested gently. “I can look after myself.”
“I always used to,” she said, “for them. And I—I like to do it . . .” She waited a moment, eyes directed at my left shoulder, but I put up no further resistance. “Okay.” I smiled. “We’ll have to work out some arrangement as regards payment and so on.”
“Oh, that don’t matter . . .” She paused. “I’ll get Dad to come up and see you, if you like. Maybe there’s something you’ll want done with the garden.”
“I don’t know anything about gardens.”
“That’s what your brother said, at first. He soon wanted to learn, though.”
“I can’t stay here,” I said. “I have to go back—to New York.”
“Ah, but per’aps you’ll like it so much you won’t want to go back.”
“I thought of Shelagh. “No,” I smiled. “I have to go soon. Quite soon.” Then I added, “But I shall come back again, one day.”
After she had gone I realised I still hadn’t phoned Shelagh. I had just let the day slip by. Ah, well, it would have to wait till tomorrow . . .
Opening off the dining-room was Colin’s study. Quite small. I hadn’t investigated it before. I went in there now though, softly opening the door, switching on the light that banished the hushed, grey-blue dusk. I stood in his little hideaway; looking at his desk, the pictures around the walls, the shelves laden with books, rolls of stiff paper,—obviously various architectural plans and things—his typewriter on the desk’s polished surface. Everything very neat. Somehow it all appeared just as I had imagined it would.
On the desk next to the telephone I saw a little pile of unopened mail. My sense of guilt as I sorted through it was unrealistic, I told myself; it was something that had to be done. There were various bills,—for gas, electricity, etc., an invitation to a party in London (the date of the party had come and gone), a postcard from someone called Hal who was having a wonderful time in Rome, a couple of circulars, a letter from me (how strange to see it there, still sealed, after its long journey, ending up in my own hands!), and three or four other letters that told me nothing—from people I’d never heard of, and who didn’t—going by what was written—appear to figure very strongly in the lives of either Colin or Helen. The wire I had sent was there too. And a number of birthday cards. Among the cards I saw the familiar one from Shelagh and me; one, very warm, from my father; one from someone simply signing herself With love—E, and one from Jean Timpson. Happy birthday from Jean, she had written, adding two kisses. Baby rabbits on the front. There was nothing that seemed in any way remarkable. Certainly if their mail was any indication, Colin and Helen had led very quiet lives. I stacked the pieces together again and put them back on the desk . . . Who was E?
Unrolling a sheet of paper that lay there I saw on it some sketches and a finished plan for a little gazebo or summer-house. Obviously something to do with his job, I assumed.
As I turned to go I saw beneath the window two suitcases with Colin’s name on them. I lifted the nearest one and found it full. The other also. I snapped open the catches. Whoever had packed the cases had done so in pretty much of a hurry. The contents seemed to have been thrown in without any kind of order—all very haphazard. My hands moved amongst various items of clothing. I found papers and drawings relating to his work—what looked like unfinished projects; I saw his passport also, his birth certificate, several other documents. It looked as if he’d been packing to go away . . . and in a hurry.
At the top of the cellar stair I flicked the light-switch several times, but no light came on. I went back to the kitchen, searched around there and eventually came up with a pocket torch. Returning, I flicked on the beam and went carefully down the steep cellar steps. At the bottom I stood still, shining the light around me.
I could understand what Jean Timpson had meant when she’d spoken about “the state of it” . . . The whole room seemed to be jam-packed with the cast-offs of the house’s inhabitants over the years. I saw boxes, crates, chests, old pictures, picture-frames, discarded lamps and assorted pieces of furniture. There was so much junk there that it would take a week to get through—if one had a mind to try.
I wandered over, squeezed between an enormous old Welsh dresser, an old clothes-horse and a chair and lifted, at random, the lid of a chest. The smell of mothballs rose up from the clothing neatly packed away there forever—protected from the moths for what purpose?—the clothes would never be worn again. Another box held just piles of books. I directed the light onto some of the titles, recognising none; I saw the names of unknown authors printed on pages speckled with time and yellowed around the edges. The book I took up felt dry and unpleasant to my touch. I dropped it back with the others and a small drift of dust rose up, the scent of brittle, decaying paper lingering under my nostrils.
As I turned, moved away, the arcing beam of the torch reflected in two round eyes that stared into my own, and I jumped so violently that I hit my elbow a sharp blow on the corner of the dresser. I swore. Then I saw where the eyes belonged. What on earth was the cat doing down here? I wondered . . . My heart still pounding, I called softly:
“Here, kitty . . . here . . .”
She didn’t move. I remembered the name Jean Timpson had mentioned and I called again, my voice cooing:
“Girlie . . . come here . . . Come on, Girlie . . .”
Still the cat didn’t move; just crouched low there, mouth open in a silent snarl, baleful eyes unwinking in the beam of light.
And then I saw that it wasn’t Girlie at all. I went nearer and looked more closely. I saw the stuffed robin between its dry claws; saw the dead, dry look of the cat’s dead hair, the coldness of those round, glass eyes. Under its crystal dome it stared out, past me, impassive, rigid, a decaying, moulting monument to Miss Merridew’s love for her pets.
There were other treasures there too from Miss Merridew’s occupation of the house: sepia photographs in cracked and dusty frames. I found also another sampler from the needle of Margaret Lane—so much painstaking work, and all so meaningless now. From Keats this time; I recognised some of the last lines from The Eve of St. Agnes:
And they are gone: ay, ages long ago
These lovers fled away into the storm.
So exquisitely wrought, but torn and discoloured behind its cracked and broken glass.
My torch beam swung around, slowly, it picked out another old chest, delicately carved on the lid with flowers and the letters BDG; I saw a stack of canvases with their faces to the wall, an enormous old brass pot, more books—and then my torch went out.
&nb
sp; Futilely I flicked the thumb-switch back and forth, but nothing happened. In the end, giving up, I carefully groped my way back to the stairs and up again into the fresh air and the light.
As the evening deepened into night I sat in the living-room, poured myself a scotch and set myself to relax in the stillness.
I should, by rights, have been sitting there with Colin and Helen. We should have been talking happily over our drinks, time flying so fast we’d have been unaware of the swiftly darkening night. Perhaps Helen would have played the piano; we might have sung old songs, our voices joining in together, and we growing closer—Colin and I—dispelling the awkwardness bred by the years of separation, making up for lost time, and making it up irrevocably so that there would never be that distance between us again . . . But I would never see him now. He was dead. I said aloud, “Dead,” and wondered at the fragility of our bodies—and why death should be so final . . . Wounds, blood spilt, holes in flesh, organs torn—adding up to the ceasing of our being—so that we became just things, soulless, rotting flesh, clay . . . dead. And Helen was dead too. Both dead. It was more than I could conceive of, even now; I could only pay lip-service to such knowledge.
I could understand now why Colin hadn’t written, hadn’t even opened my last letter to him. The wonder was that he had, somehow, through his grief, remembered to send my birthday card . . . That part, I could see him shutting himself off, avoiding the pain of any outside contact that might only add to his sorrow and bewilderment. It would be my own reaction, I was sure. We’d follow the same pattern.
Had, I asked myself, Helen’s death contributed in any way to his own? If she had not died might he still be alive tonight, talking to me, smiling at me across the room . . . ? If Colin had died because of Helen I could begin to understand, in a way, my father’s resentment, even hatred, of her. Poor dead Helen, to have heaped upon her even now, in the grave, such a passion of enmity, when probably all she had sought had been love and understanding . . .
As I sat, the light in the room had grown steadily dimmer. Outside in the garden the leaves and flowers became silvered by the moon, the same light that filtered into the quietness around me, palely shining on the frame of Margaret Lane’s sampler and the roses. The rest was nearly all a shadow. I turned on the small lamp at my elbow and the garden fell to a blanket nothingness while I sat surrounded by the relics of the house’s history, relics that covered so many, many years—from the old portrait of Temple and his wife to the new cigarette-butts in the ash-tray at my hand.
From a shelf I took at random a book and flicked through its contents. Names I saw there, some well-known, some more obscure; the coiners, the thieves, the killers. Accounts of those different few who had gained their own kind of immortality by their acts of passion or greed. There was Christie, Haigh, Madeleine Smith; the great criminals and the not so great. Colin’s name was scrawled on the fly-leaf. I laid it down beside a little white statuette—a knight on a charger. On the base of the statuette were Helen’s initials. Helen and Colin . . . they were everywhere.
When I had finished my cigarette I turned off the light, went upstairs and got ready for bed. Jean Timpson had been there before me and turned back the coverlet. On my pillow lay a perfect rose—white, with just the softest touch of pink on the edge of each petal. I picked it up, smelled it. Silently, through my surprise, I thanked her.
When I lay down at last the scent of the rose was still there on the linen. I relaxed, comfortable between the smoothness of the sheets. I remembered I hadn’t taken a sleeping-pill. To hell with it; perhaps tonight I could get by without one.
I would. It was my last clear thought before I slept.
Leaving Jean Timpson busy with the washing-up after breakfast the next morning I made my way towards the village. There had been a moment, earlier on, when I had almost thanked her for her thoughtfulness with the rose, but I had let the moment slip by and it was too late.
In the square I stopped at a phone box and reported the cottage telephone still out of order. As I replaced the receiver I asked myself why I had bothered; by the time they got around to fixing it I would probably be away again. Still, if they did it promptly, then at least for a short time Shelagh and I would have easier means of making contact with one another.
There was only one bank in the village, so it didn’t take much working out that it was the one that must have looked after Colin’s affairs. Mr. Jennersen, the manager—after he’d offered me his condolences—confirmed at once that they were, indeed, the executors and trustees of Colin’s will. “We’ve written to you about it,” he told me, consulting his file, and I said that his letter must have arrived in New York after my departure. He nodded, passed some papers across the desk to me. “Your brother’s will. As you see, you are the sole beneficiary.”
“Yes . . .” I didn’t read the paper. Didn’t try to. I couldn’t. Not then.
“It’s quite straight-forward,” he said. “The house will be yours and, after the various expenses—the funerals, the administering of the estate, Estate Duty—there’ll be some money, too; quite a considerable sum.” He added: “Eventually.”
“Money?” I said. “I didn’t think my brother had very much.”
“No, but his wife did. She was what you might call ‘comfortable’. And now whatever’s left will pass to you.”
“I had no idea that she was—was wealthy,” I said. “Though I knew she didn’t work for a living—apart from her painting, I mean.”
“I believe she was quite successful,” he said. “But that only formed a part of her income. She’d also inherited some very profitable shares.”
It was a bit too much to take in all at once. “So I’ve got money and a house,” I said.
“First the will will have to be discharged. That might take two or three months.”
“I’m living at the house now.”
He smiled. “I don’t think that need worry us. I hope you enjoy it. It’s a beautiful place—the cottage.” I nodded agreement, and he asked, “Do you intend to stay there?—to live there?”
“I’ve got to get back to New York, soon . . .”
“Well, if you should decide to sell the cottage we can arrange the sale for you . . .”
“Thank you. I’ll give it some thought.”
On leaving him I followed his directions, crossed the square and found the door with Doctor Reese’s nameplate beside it. I rang the bell and waited. His wife answered, tall and well-groomed. I could see she knew at once who I was—though she did a fair job of concealing her surprise. I told her I wanted to see the doctor, and she said he’d be starting his consulting hours in a few minutes if I’d care to sit in the waiting-room.
“I’m not sick,” I said. “I don’t want to see him professionally—not in that way . . .”
She hesitated for just a second, then said, adding a smile, “I’ll see if he can spare you a couple of minutes first, then,” and led the way into a small sunny room facing the square. She left me there and after a short time the doctor appeared, cheerful-looking, tall and round-faced; and obviously fresh from the bathroom—he dabbed with a tissue at a small bloody nick on his chin. He smiled at me, we shook hands and he urged me to sit down, his eyes straying to my foot as I did so. That didn’t take him long.
“I haven’t got very much time, I’m afraid,” he said apologetically, sitting on the arm of the sofa. “Tell me—how can I help you?”
“It’s about my brother—and his wife . . .”
He nodded sadly. “Of course. Let me say how very sorry I am.” I thanked him for his sympathy. He went on:
“I didn’t know your brother that well. As you know, he’d only been here about a year. I knew Mrs. Warwick better. I saw her several times towards the end . . . treating her for one or two household injuries. Nothing serious: burns, cuts . . . She always seemed to be doing odd bits of damage to herself out in her studio. An occupational hazard, I suppose. But mainly, of course, I saw her beca
use of the baby.”
“The baby . . . ?”
“She was three and a half months pregnant when she died.”
“She was pregnant,” I said, “yet in that state she goes climbing up on the roof—in the middle of the night.”
The shrug he gave said there was no accounting for some people’s actions. I said, after a moment:
“You were at the funeral with my brother . . .”
“Yes. He was in a very bad state, naturally. I wanted him to go away—leave the house for a while—get away from all its sad associations—if not for always then at least for a holiday. It wasn’t the place for him, not then, not at that time. That house—there’s been so much unhappiness there.”
“What are you saying?—that the place was getting on his nerves? That he was in some way—responsible for his own . . . end . . . ?”
He said simply, “Aren’t we all—to some degree or other?”
“Was anyone else involved in his—accident?”
“No. As far as anyone knows, anyway. There was no one else in his car, and no other car involved.” He looked at his watch.
I pressed on. “How did it happen? Do you know? Was he—drunk . . . ?”
“Definitely not. Most certainly not.”
“Look,” I said, “I’m asking because I don’t know anything. I’d just like to know.”
He shrugged. “It seems to have been one of those—freak accidents. It appears he just drove down the driveway of the cottage at a tremendous speed—and in that car of his you could get up to a high speed over a very short distance. It appears he just went straight down the drive and right across the road. There’s a beech-tree facing the entrance—you must have seen it. He—drove right into it—head on. I got there a couple of hours after it happened. He was quite dead.”
In my mind I had a sudden picture of Colin lying smashed and bleeding in the wreckage of his car, and I thought again of how in school I had felt the impact of his collision—strong enough to knock me over.
“The sexton told me he probably died around eleven . . .”
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