Not to Be Taken

by Anthony Berkeley

  I was speechless, simply speechless. I had known that Rona’s ideas were revolutionary, but this sounded to me like sheer Bolshevism.

  Rona smiled at me in a pitying way.

  ‘You’re thinking I ought to be punished. That’s in accordance with your code, isn’t it? Well, my code doesn’t approve of punishment. Punishment does more harm than good. It’s barbarous. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a life for a life, eh? I’m afraid you’re terribly Old Testament, Douglas. Still, if it’s any consolation to you, I have been punished, and shall continue being punished all the days of my life – unbearably. Don’t you think that’s worse than being hanged by the neck?’

  ‘But…but that’s different,’ was all I could find to say.

  ‘Different, yes. And worse. No, Douglas, I can’t see that, because I attempted to rid society of a useless member, a member who can still be useful should be exterminated, as your code demands. Nevertheless I’m prepared to make a concession to you. I’ll undertake that my life shall be more useful to the community than it has been. There are plenty of openings. Yes, this decides me. I’ll leave Glen and these petty activities here and go back to London. I need work anyhow now, real work. I’ll let you know later what I intend to do.’ Rona smiled at me derisively. ‘You shall be my warder and watch that I’m working out my sentence properly.’

  ‘But, Rona –’

  ‘That’s enough, my friend.’ Rona cut me short with a firmness that took my breath away. ‘You may do what you like, I’ve told you what I shall do. We’ll discuss it no further.’

  There was in any case no chance to discuss it further at the moment, for just then Glen appeared.

  ‘Hullo,’ he said. ‘Been sticking on in the hopes of being offered a glass of sherry?’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said, pulling myself together. ‘And with the intention of asking for one if not offered. I feel I need one.’

  3

  Well, that was eight days ago.

  I have not seen Rona since, I have done nothing, I have not said a word to anyone, not even to Frances. And the reason is simple: for the life of me I can’t decide what to do.

  This morning Harold informed me, with much excitement, that Rona was going to leave Anneypenny for London again. He said she was taking up a post in a big charity organisation for helping destitute children – an unpaid post, added Harold, his eyes bulging. No doubt Harold’s information is correct; it usually is.

  But things can’t be left like that. I must do something, mere justice demands it – though Rona is, of course, right, and justice would never be done. But that does not shift my responsibility.

  I feel I really ought to do something.

  But what ought I to do?