I, Dreyfus

by Bernice Rubens

  Now of course I know. Which is why I can’t write any more. I cannot face the words of what must now be written. I shall wait for Sam to come and listen to it all.

  They have brought me my supper, but I have no appetite. I am glad when the prison governor comes to my cell. He drops in to see me from time to time. He has brought me something, he says. And he hands me a piece of paper, a poem written by his ten-year-old son and it is dedicated to me. I read it with gratitude. It’s about injustice and how truth will conquer. But most of all, it rhymes. I am suddenly elated. Beyond my walls there are still children who find joy in verse. There are still writers and poets and painters outside, who know the meaning of the spaces between words, who see the undrawn images, who hear the unnotated sounds, and somehow that thought creates for me a company of which, with luck, I may become a part. I am crying with the pity of it all. The governor puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘Thank your son,’ I say. ‘I will treasure his gift. Tell him it has given me hope.’

  Sam came yesterday and he listened. And I knew that I had to go on.

  Chapter 21

  It was the last week of term and I was glad of it. For I was still very frightened. I tried to ascribe the hostility I sensed around me to the need for someone to blame. George’s disappearance had rocked the school and, as headmaster, I was the obvious target for their rage, pain and bewilderment. I hoped that by the beginning of the summer term, time would have healed their wounds, and this hope helped to get me through. Every morning, at 9.30, the police would phone me with an update on the George investigation. It consisted of three words, and it never varied. ‘No further progress.’ I kept in constant touch with the Tilburys simply to commiserate with their fears. It was the waiting that was so painful. Sometimes I thought that a breakthrough of any kind, even of the worst, would have been a relief. I had cancelled all end-of-term festivities. Nobody complained. I hoped to see the term out in a solemn and dignified manner.

  Then the bombshell dropped. Though, as I discovered later, it had been slowly falling for some time. It was a Wednesday and I sat in my office waiting for my regular 9.30 call. My phone did not ring. At ten o’clock I thought of phoning the station myself and asking for my daily conduit Inspector Wilkins. I gave him till noon, but still he had made no contact.

  So I dialled his direct number. A woman’s voice answered.

  ‘Can I speak with Inspector Wilkins?’ I asked.

  ‘Who’s speaking?’

  ‘Sir Alfred Dreyfus,’ I said. It was a name of which she must take notice. There was a pause. Quite a long one, and I heard a rustling of papers. Then the woman came back on the line.

  ‘He’s out I’m afraid, and I don’t know when he’ll be back.’

  I put the phone down. I felt uneasy. I had the feeling that Inspector Wilkins was not out at all, that he was sitting at his desk miming his absence to his clerk. I don’t know why I was frightened. I felt like an innocent stag who, hearing with his inner ear the rustle of leaves and the cocking of a barrel, runs for his life into the camouflage of the forest. And I bolted, back to my house, and my safe haven. Or so I thought. For the news that was to await me there only served to augment my fears. We settled down to lunch, Lucy and I.

  ‘Any news?’ she asked.

  ‘None,’ I said. ‘The same message. No further progress.’ I lied to her because I didn’t want to show my unease. Halfway through lunch, Clara, our cleaner, arrived. She always came late on a Wednesday. Wednesday morning was her shift for preparing meals-on-wheels. She was all of a fluster.

  ‘Have you heard anything?’ she said, hinting that she herself had information.

  ‘No, nothing,’ Lucy said. ‘There’s been no progress.’

  ‘There’s a rumour going round the village. They say a body’s been found.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ I said. ‘Where? And is it George?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Clara said. ‘That’s all I heard. I asked around but no one knew anything. It was just a rumour I suppose.’

  I wondered whether the discovery, if there was one, had anything to do with my lack of daily bulletin. I went back to school soon after lunch and I kept my ears open, but the rumour had not spread that far. I waited at my phone for the rest of the day, hoping that Inspector Wilkins would call, but hoping too that he wouldn’t. At six o’clock, I went back to the house. The children were home from school and Lucy was preparing supper. I noticed that the table was set for five. Another tremor. Anything non-routine frightened me. I was about to ask Lucy who was the fifth diner, when Matthew came into the kitchen.

  ‘Surprise?’ he asked. ‘I got a few days off work, so I came down. Susan and the children arrive on Saturday.’

  I was delighted to see him of course, as I always was, but the timing of his visit seemed ominous. For some reason I saw it as a move of preemptive support and I wondered why I was going to need it.

  ‘Any news?’ Matthew asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said.

  It was Lucy who mentioned the rumour, but I said that I gave it no credence. The village was rife with gossip and gossipers and they were possibly so fed up with the lack of progress they had invented their own. Matthew suggested we go down to the village pub for a drink before dinner. ‘Perhaps we can pick up some more rumours,’ he said.

  I was wary of going. I felt that by showing myself in public I was placing myself in the firing-line. I don’t know why. I had absolutely no cause on earth to feel accused. It was preposterous even to think about it. I dared not share those fears with Matthew. I barely admitted them to myself. So I agreed to go with him for a pre-prandial drink. I half hoped that the rumour was true, that the body found, God forgive me, was that of young George Tilbury and that the police could once and for all find his murderer.

  The pub was crowded and full of loud whisper. I expected a silence to fall as soon as we entered, but though we were noticed the hum was interrupted only to greet us. Matthew was especially welcomed since he was an occasional visitor and they asked after Susan and the children. I noticed a few of my staff around the bar, and they acknowledged me with a smile. One even offered to buy me a drink. But somehow their smiles and bonhomie instilled me with the same fear. No one spoke of the rumour; it was obviously a stillborn hearsay. We had one more drink and then I suggested we leave since supper would be ready. I did not want to announce our departure, so I whispered ‘goodnight’ to the landlord and we made to leave. As we reached the door, the landlord shouted ‘goodnight, Sir Alfred’ across the bar, so our departure was public. Once outside, I lingered a while, fully expecting a sudden silence to fall, but the hum continued as before.

  We took a short cut through the grounds. The front of school was in darkness, which did not surprise me for the dormitories and staff quarters, including my own house were at the back. But as we passed I noticed that one front light was switched on and that shadowy figures filtered the uncurtained windows. I knew that room to be Eccles’s study and I don’t know why my unease returned. But during the evening, I relaxed once more. Lucy had made a special supper and I opened a good bottle of wine. We played with the children for a while until Matthew said he was tired and needed an early night. The children were bedded and Matthew settled in his room. We held our silence, Lucy and I, until the telephone screamed an interruption. I thought it must be a tardy call from Inspector Wilkins with the day’s bulletin. I rushed to answer it, but as I picked up the receiver, the purr of the dialling tone whistled past my ear.

  ‘It was nobody,’ I said to Lucy. ‘Probably the wrong number.’

  Why did I think it was the right number and that whoever it was on the end of the line was checking on my whereabouts? We went to bed early that night, Lucy and I. It was a way of avoiding the silence between us. But I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking of that light in Eccles’s study and the shadows that crossed the window-panes, and somehow it was all linked with that heinous Eccles wink that I had never forgotten. Eventually I fell asleep, exhausted by fear.


  (Oh Sam, Sam. Please come and listen.)

  I woke up suddenly and for no reason. My alarm clock showed 6.15. The house was very quiet. Lucy was sleeping soundly. I heard the tweeting of a bird and a distant cock crow. Through the window I could see the crowns of birch trees in full leaf. I felt suddenly joyful to be alive.

  The knock on the front door was not polite. It was thunder. I leapt out of bed, and so did Lucy. We stared at each other and I saw fear in her eyes. I heard Matthew leaving his room. Then the knocks came again and I hoped they wouldn’t wake the children. I tugged on my dressing-gown and leapt down the stairs, hoping that whoever it was wouldn’t knock again. Lucy and Matthew were by my side before I opened the door. Two men stood there, one of whom I recognised as Inspector Wilkins. Mercifully they were in plain clothes. They clearly had news of George and I made to invite them inside. But I didn’t have to. They invited themselves and shut the front door behind them. We stared at each other.

  ‘Sir Alfred Dreyfus?’ Inspector Wilkins said.

  I wondered at his sudden formality.

  ‘Of course,’ I laughed. ‘You know that very well.’

  ‘Sir Alfred Dreyfus,’ he said again, and there was no hint of a smile anywhere, ‘I am arresting you on the charge of the murder of George Tilbury. You don’t have to say anything, but anything you say will be …’

  I was convinced I was watching television or perhaps even playing a starring role in a crime series. I heard Lucy scream and I felt the handcuffs around my wrists and I still thought it was television and I wanted to switch it off. It was much too early in the day to be watching the box. I felt myself being led away. I heard Matthew say that he would get me a lawyer, and Lucy whisper, ‘This is monstrous.’

  I did not look back at the house. It did not occur to me that I would never enter it again. I was led to an unmarked car that was waiting in the driveway and noticed that my own car was not there. ‘My car’s gone,’ I said.

  ‘We’ve taken it away,’ the Inspector informed me. I looked back at the school and noted that Eccles’s light was still burning. And in that moment I knew that it was not television, and that I was being charged with young George Tilbury’s murder.

  I sat between my two silent captors during the ten-minute drive to the police station. Few people were in the streets, but none of them seemed to take note of the car. As we drew up outside the station, Inspector Wilkins asked, ‘Would you like a blanket to cover your face?’

  ‘Whatever for?’ I said. ‘I’ve nothing to hide.’ I don’t know what I expected them to say, but in any case, they made no response. I was practically dragged into the station, and during my passage, I imagined the apologies they would offer me when they realised their terrible mistake and I weighed up the pros and cons of forgiving them. I was Sir Alfred Dreyfus still.

  I was taken to a desk and told to empty my pockets. But I had none, since I was still in my pyjamas, so that routine was quickly dispensed with. The handcuffs were removed and so was my watch, for which I had to sign, and I was led to an interviewing room. My two captors sat opposite me. One of them turned on a tape-machine and spoke into it, giving the time and the names of those present. I said at once that I was saying nothing until my lawyer arrived.

  ‘Do you not want to hear the evidence?’ Inspector Wilkins asked.

  I was beginning to hate that man. ‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘I shall wait for my lawyer to advise me.’

  Wilkins’s side-kick then said, ‘Interview terminated,’ and once again he gave the time which was barely a minute after we had started. I was shown to a cell by another policeman, this one in uniform.

  ‘You’d better get used to it,’ he said as he let me inside. Then, more kindly, ‘Have you had breakfast?’

  I couldn’t answer him. I was beginning not to understand anything at all. I sat on the bunk that stretched along one wall and very much wanted to cry. I thought of Lucy and the children. They would be at breakfast by now. I wondered how she would explain to them my absence. And Matthew. What was he doing? How was he feeling? Was he sharing m3, own sublime indignation? I hoped he would contact Simon Posner, a good lawyer who knew our family well. He would be as horrified as I.

  Soon my guard brought in a breakfast tray. I was surprised at my appetite. The food was wholesome but tasteless, and it satisfied my hunger. I even relished the large mug of tea, and for a moment, I saw myself as a convict and I laughed. I imagined retelling the story to my children and I could picture their wide-eyed amazement. I looked at my wrist and realised that I had no way of telling the time. It would be quite exciting, I thought, to live without a watch, to check on time’s passing with the rise and setting of the sun. I couldn’t understand why I was having such gentle and benign thoughts, while inside myself I raged with fury. And that fury was fatiguing. I lay down on the bunk and shortly must have fallen asleep in an effort to make up for my so rudely interrupted night. When I was woken by the guard, I automatically looked at my wrist. I didn’t know how long I had slept. It was still light outside and I was hungry. I reckoned it must be lunch-hour. But the guard told me it was only eleven o’clock and that my lawyer had arrived. I was still muzzy from sleep and I wondered why a lawyer had come to see me. Then I looked at my surroundings and I knew.

  I was led to an interview room where Simon was waiting. I was glad to see him, and he gave me an equal welcome. The guard withdrew and shut the door. We were alone for whatever advice he had to give me. I sat down opposite him.

  ‘Forgive my attire,’ I said. ‘They got me out of bed.’

  ‘Matthew is bringing in a suit,’ Simon said.

  ‘Then at least I can go home dressed.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Simon laid his hand on my arm. ‘It looks bad, Alfred,’ he said.

  ‘What looks bad? What evidence have they got for heaven’s sake? They haven’t even found the body. What are they looking for? A scapegoat?’ Suddenly that word sounded particularly Yiddish, as if it had been coined for no other race.

  ‘They’ve found the body,’ Simon said.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘That’s the terrible point. It had been buried in your garden in Kent.’

  A deafening sound rang in my head. Simon’s words hit me like shrapnel. I curled with the wounds. In my mind my childhood village was host to only two graves, two sacred plots, and our cottage garden bore the fruits of what they had tended, and where Matthew and I had played with our children. Now it was sullied entirely, and their memory tarnished. ‘How dare they!’ I almost screamed.

  ‘It’s hard evidence,’ Simon said. ‘It points the finger at you.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ I said. ‘There has to be more than that.’

  ‘There is,’ Simon said, ‘but as yet I’ve had no time to assess it. All I know is that some of your boys have made statements accusing you and offering proof. I’ve not seen the statements as yet, but I gather that they are pretty damning.’

  I don’t know why, but at that moment I sensed that Simon was not the right choice for my defence. He showed little appetite in proclaiming my innocence, and his pessimism worried me. Now, in hindsight, I know I should have heeded those warnings.

  Suddenly I felt ill. I could actually feel the colour draining out of my face. Simon poured me a glass of water. I had entered a nightmare.

  ‘When will you see these statements?’ I asked.

  ‘I shall study them in the next few days while I prepare your defence. Meanwhile you are due to appear in the magistrates’ court in the morning. I shall be with you. You will be formally charged with murder and asked if you plead guilty or not guilty. You will reply "not guilty". Then you will be remanded in custody and probably be sent for trial at the Old Bailey.’

  ‘Simon,’ I said, unbelieving, ‘you’re my friend.’

  ‘And will continue to be so,’ Simon said. He rose. ‘There’s one thing I must ask you,’ he said. ‘It’s a mere formality.’

  ‘I know Simon,’ I said. Did I do it? And
the answer’s no. Absolutely not. So you can defend me with a clear conscience.’

  ‘Thank you, my friend,’ he said.

  I was led back to my cell and given a tray that passed for lunch. I must have dozed off again, for I was woken by my supper tray, though it was still light, and sardonically wished a good night. I didn’t expect to sleep at all and I wished I had something to read. But my fatigue surprised me, a fatigue fed by despair and utter bewilderment. And a terrible sadness. I wept for young George and I cursed whoever it was who had taken his life, and doubly cursed him for his choice of burial ground.

  I was woken by birdsong, but it did not elicit that joy I had felt as I lay in my own bed at home. And the thought struck me for the first time that this day might be my last of freedom for a very long time. The guard brought me my breakfast, together with my suit and toilet bag and, when I had eaten, he took me to the cloakroom where he watched me wash, shave and dress.