by Carol Hedges
They proceed across Trafalgar Square, the tourist crowds parting before them, like a shoal of minnows sensing the presence of predators. Nobody wants to get in the way of police officers pursuing their duty. After all, you might get caught up in something unsavoury that wasn’t your fault.
Cully continues, “I’d also advise you to keep your report as simple as possible. And as clear. I’ve observed you have a good written style. That will help you when presenting your evidence publicly in the witness-box.”
Cully decides not to share some of Robertson’s more esoteric offerings. He recalls the time the police surgeon referred to an ‘apoplectic extravasation’ rather than a blood clot. Another time, it was a ‘contusion’ not a bruise. The Middlesex coroner was neither impressed nor amused.
Constable Williams nods. “I understand.” He hesitates, seems as if he is about to say more, but then closes his mouth firmly.
Cully notes the gesture. “Go on, Tom, what do you want to say?”
The constable takes a deep breath. “I have been thinking about the man I found and how we’ve stopped looking for the person who murdered him. I’ve been thinking about it a lot, Mr Cully, and it disturbs me.”
Cully has a notion where this conversation is going. It is almost as if he is listening to his younger self, railing at the inability of his superiors to track down a man who’d brutally strangled a child prostitute and left her in a sordid alleyway, where young Constable Cully had discovered her. He was only a beat constable at that time, just starting out, and their incompetence and reluctance to bring to justice the man who’d taken her life, because, at the end of the day, it was only a twelve-year old girl, was one of the driving forces that had convinced him to apply to join the detective division.
They reach Pall Mall East and proceed towards Haymarket. It is easier to talk while walking. Side by side rather than face to face. Cully stares straight ahead, waiting for the script that he could’ve written to be spoken.
“You see, Mr Cully, it strikes me that there’s more than one way to look at what they call justice. If you’re the man who doesn’t get caught, then justice means getting away with your crime. If you never have to pay for what you did, why should you care about what’s right ~ as far as you’re concerned, whatever you get away with is right. That is what justice means to you. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, I do.”
“And for the man you murdered, the life you cut short, that sort of justice means nothing. Nothing to his family and friends. They need to see the man who committed the crime in front of a judge and jury. They need to hear sentence delivered and punishment handed out. If there is to be no punishment, no trial, then where is their justice? Maybe I’m being muddled, I don’t know.”
“You are being very clear, Tom. Very clear indeed.”
“The man I found that night, someone ended his life. He was about my age. He had everything to live for. Why should they not face a trial? Is that not an injustice?”
Cully stops walking, turns, and looks into the honest and indignant face. “Yes, I agree, Tom,” he says quietly. “But sometimes, it just doesn’t happen like that. If you want to join the detective division, you need to take it on board, or it will drive you to despair. We do not always ‘win’, because we are dealing with human nature, and human nature goes sideways, and crookedly, and not in a straight line.
“People get away with crimes. Big ones, small petty ones. We can only investigate and explore and deduce as best we can. This is a huge city, and there are many places a criminal can hide and a lot of ways of covering up their crime. I know you are disappointed. So am I. Whenever a young man or woman loses their lives in a violent way, I grieve for the future they will no longer have. But I am convinced that somewhere along the line, the people who take those lives will be punished. We may never know who they are, but I believe it will happen. Maybe not in this world, but it will happen.”
The constable sucks in his bottom lip. “I wish I could believe that too, Mr Cully.”
“I think you will come round to believing it in time, constable. The main thing is to make sure that at every stage, we do the very best we can to catch the wrongdoers. And if one slips through the net, then so be it. Someone will catch him further along the line.”
Cully places a kindly hand on Constable Williams’ shoulder. “And now, we have come far enough. I think a drink and a bite to eat is called for. I see a coffee-stall up ahead. How about a cup of coffee before we go back? I don’t know about you, but I am parched from all this walking.”
Upon their return, they discover the pale spindly young parliamentary clerk who identified the body once again seated in the outer office. He rises at their entrance and stands awkwardly, hands dangling by his sides, waiting to be acknowledged. Cully greets him in a kindly manner and inquires after his health. The Replacement shrugs. He has walked here without stopping for lunch. He seems to be missing more and more meals at the moment. And thinking more and more. The need to discover who killed his friend has taken him over, body and soul.
Every day he trudges from his lodgings to his place of work without really being aware of his journey, repeating the same process in reverse at the end of the day. He dresses in the morning, undresses in the evening. Work is done in between the times. Sometimes, he lies awake, watching moonlight chasing shadows across the ceiling.
His mind is always elsewhere. Time folds back on itself, as if a fault line has opened up. The present falls away. He wanders through the ruins of the past, when his friend was alive. They meet and discuss matters. He remembers his eyes, the slant of his cheekbones. He has never felt so close to his dead friend; he has never felt so alone. In the dark of his head, he realises that his friend will always stay with him, even though he will never see him again.
“I recall you said that I might speak with the officer who found my friend’s body,” he says hesitantly. “When might I speak with him?”
Cully indicates Constable Williams. “You are in luck. This is the very officer. You may speak with him right now. Tom ~ take our friend to the interview room.”
The Replacement turns to face the sturdy young constable, who regards him with wary sympathy. “If you’d like to follow me, sir,” he says, leading the way.
The afternoon sunlight streams in through the grimy window, lighting the whitewashed walls and the simple wooden table and chairs. They sit down either side of the table. An awkward silence falls.
“How can I help you? What do you want to know?”
The Replacement frowns, works his mouth. “Can you paint a picture for me. Exactly as you saw him on that night. Everything you remember. Leave no detail out.”
The young constable begins to speak. As his voice rises and falls, the Replacement closes his eyes, letting the words wash over him. He tries to see the picture being described, but it is as if a curtain has fallen between them. Eventually, when the constable stops speaking, he opens his eyes and raises his head.
“I went to the place a few days ago to see it for myself. I met a man there, a short man with a pock-marked face. He could be the foreman: he carried a set of keys. Or the developer. Maybe he knows something about my friend’s murder? Perhaps he was there on the night and saw something that might help catch his killer? Will you question him?”
The constable shifts awkwardly on the hard wooden chair. “I wish we could. But you see, we can’t. Not now. The investigation has been closed. Orders from Detective Inspector Stride. There is no evidence. Nobody saw the attack. Nobody has come forward with any information, other than you. So even if this man does know something, it is unlikely Scotland Yard would re-open the case.
“Also, your friend’s parents have said they see no point in the investigation going forward. His mother has been badly affected, and his father does not wish for any more suffering to be inflicted on her and the family. They have applied to remove the body for burial in their own town.”
The Replacement stares at him. “But
a man has been murdered, in cold blood. Someone must be held accountable. There has to be justice for his life surely?”
Constable Williams pulls a face, “My thoughts exactly. And I said as much to the detective sergeant not half an hour ago.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said: sometimes, you never know who committed a crime. You never see justice done. But he also said he is sure people do get punished, even though we may never know it. I am very sorry. That is all I can tell you.”
“It is not enough,” the Replacement mutters, his jaw tightening. He feels a pain in the place where tears come. A heaviness in his heart.
The two young men sit on, both trying to find words that elude them. In the distance, a church bell chimes. A cab goes by. There are jagged shouts from somewhere deep in the building. A background noise of people. The Replacement rubs his forehead with the back of his hand. His mouth tastes of ashes. He had thought by speaking about the death, by hearing about it, he might understand, and could leave his dark thoughts behind. Instead, he is left with a feeling of bitterness, a sense of even more loss than he felt before.
Eventually, when it is clear that there is nothing more to be said on either side, the Replacement rises. He steps out into the hot noisy street, blinking dazedly in the sunshine. People rush past him, bright and busy. The world continues on its uncaring way, frighteningly impossible in its thinness. He feels cheated. He twists through the crowd, sensing that he is changing. He is not sure what he is becoming.
****
It is hard enough facing one’s own demise. It is even harder when it is framed by regular visitations from eager-eyed relatives, under whose superficial solicitude lies a cold calculation of one’s proximity to the reaper’s scythe. So thinks Euphemia Harbinger, as she lies in her bed, her blue-veined hands encased in woollen mittens, for even in the heat of the late afternoon, she still feels a chill. She is so worn out by the competitive caring of her greedy nephews; even her initial interest in the two children has faded. She would like to spend more time with the girl Harriet, who piques her interest, but it has been made clear that the children come as a pair.
This afternoon, she has endured the boy’s recital of the kings and queens of England, applauded by his doting father, followed by a list of the things they saw in the British Museum. Her days of interest in the Assyrians being long past, if it ever existed in the first place, Euphemia Harbinger had listened with polite indifference. Out of the corner of her eye, she’d observed the girl, who sat mute on the sofa, crumbling a shortbread biscuit and staring at her feet. Occasionally, she tried to interject some observation or other, but was quickly shut down by the two male members of her family.
It was a short, uncomfortable visit, and then, ten minutes after the family departed, the older brother had arrived, unaccompanied, but laden with chocolates she could no longer stomach, and a bunch of white lilies, whose smell always reminded her of funerals. She wonders idly whether it is a subtle message? The old woman sighs. It is difficult work, this dying. She glances at the little bedside clock. Now it is 6.30, almost time for the mush that constitutes her dinner to appear. And even as her brain takes this in, her ears hear the unexpected clang of the letterbox downstairs in the hall, and a few minutes later, the maid steps into the room carrying a letter.
“This letter has just been delivered, ma’am. It is marked urgent, so I decided to bring it up right away.”
Euphemia Harbinger levers herself upright with an effort. Then, taking the teaspoon from her saucer, she works a corner of the envelope open and extracts a sheet of closely written notepaper. As she reads the contents of her letter, her eyes narrow and her mouth sets in a determined line. So that is the lie of the land, is it? Reaching the end, she picks up the little bell that summons the housekeeper, and requests writing material to be brought to her chamber.
“Come back in ten minutes,” she orders. “I will need you to post three letters for me. It is imperative that they go tonight. And I’ll take a little glass of sherry wine with my meal. No point in leaving the bottle to gather dust in the pantry.”
****
It is the morrow, and breakfast is being served at the Excelsior Hotel. Eggs march in serried silver-cupped ranks across the mahogany buffet. Domed dishes protect kedgeree, bacon, kidneys and sausages. Toast stands racked to attention. Butter and assorted preserves lie dormant in small glass dishes. It is like a military manoeuvre, supervised by the hotel under-manager with ferocious side-whiskers and a black tailcoat.
The guests help themselves. There is an air of relaxation and enjoyment, for most of the guests are tourists. Copies of Bradshaw are being scrutinised, and discussions held as to where to go on this lovely sunny day, with the smell of freshly brewed coffee backgrounding the various conversations.
Only at one table is none of the above taking place. Here, breakfast is being gulped down at speed and in complete silence. The reason for this undue haste can be explained by a letter in the pocket of the paterfamilias, received this morning by the 7.30 post, summoning him to his aunt’s house.
Scarcely has the last mouthful been swallowed, when Sherborne Harbinger rises, gestures to his children to go and get ready, and orders his wife to remain in her room with the baby, to await developments.
“This is it, Charlotte,” he says. “She is going at last! And Arthur has been cut out of the Will ~ that much is abundantly clear!” and with a barely concealed smile of triumph, he hurries to get his hat, coat and gloves.
The three Harbingers barrel along the early-morning street, fighting the shop workers and street-sellers, tripping over baskets of flowers, being cursed by small child shoe-blacks, until finally they reach the environs of Chelsea. Suddenly, Harbinger stops, his body stiffening. The instinctive reaction of a man sighting a natural enemy, for there, just going in through the gate of his aunt’s house, is his brother Arthur.
Sherborne grabs his offspring by various elbows and propels them at speed towards the house. They arrive just as Arthur Harbinger is being ushered over the threshold by the maid. Sherborne almost flings the twins into the hallway, hissing: “What the hell do you think you are doing here?”
Arthur Harbinger calmly divests himself of his coat and hat, then turns to face his irate, red-faced sibling. “I was invited by our beloved aunt to attend her this morning. And you, little brother ~ what brings you hot-foot from your cheap hotel?”
Sherborne produces a letter and waves it in his brother’s face. “I have a letter inviting me.”
“As do I,” Arthur Harbinger says calmly. “So, we have both been invited then. I presume it is about the event that we have been awaiting. Let us therefore attend our aunt and witness her last moments upon earth with suitable solemnity. I suggest your children remain in the hallway.”
In reply, Sherborne pushes the twins past Arthur, saying to the astonished maid: “Show us into our aunt’s presence, at once.”
The warring tribe follow the servant into the sitting room. Sunlight streams through the window. A soft August breeze flutters the net curtain. In its cage, the grey parrot bobs and bows. Aunt Euphemia, wrapped in a soft blue cashmere shawl, reclines on the sofa, watching its antics. She glances up sharply as the visitors enter.
“Why, dearest aunt,” Arthur gushes, “You are out of bed? Really? And looking … so well?”
Sherborne applies a hand to Hanover’s back, propelling him towards the sofa. Hanover, well-schooled in the art of inheritance-seeking, and a chip off the old paternal block, makes a low bow accompanied by an unctuous smile. Harriet goes straight over to the cage to talk to the parrot, who turns delighted somersaults at the sight of her.
“Be quiet Charlotte, you stupid woman,” it shouts. (Sherborne attempts to drown it out with a fit of fake coughing.)
“I have summoned you both here,” Eugenia Harbinger says, when some semblance of order has eventually been restored, “because I have recently received a letter. From your sister, Wilhelmina.”
<
br /> Absolute, stunned silence. Arthur looks at Sherborne, who looks back. Both are nonplussed.
“Yes, indeed,” the old woman continues, her face wiped of all expression. “She has written a long and very nice letter, inquiring after my health and apologising for not coming to see me sooner, but, as she says, neither of her brothers bothered to inform her that I was in failing health.”
She stares at Arthur. “I thought you told me you were going to write to your sister?”
“Oh. I. Well. Business affairs …” he stammers.
Sherborne frowns. “But you said, dearest aunt, that you had yourself written to Wilhelmina, but received no reply to your letter.”
“But now I have,” the old lady snaps. “She has been travelling with a companion, and the letter has only just been forwarded to her. No thanks to either of you, eh?”
Arthur’s eyes narrow. “Wait a bit. Wait a bit. Not so fast. How do we know that it IS her? Anybody could have signed their name ‘Wilhelmina’. Perhaps the letter is a fake, from someone who wishes you harm. Maybe they just want to get their hands on your money. Such things are all too commonplace in this wicked world. The person signing themselves Wilhelmina might, in reality, be the leader of a gang of swindlers. I believe you should not regard it as genuine.”
In reply, the old lady hands him the sheet of writing paper. “See for yourself. I presume you recognise your own sister’s handwriting?”
Arthur Harbinger reads the letter, bites his underlip, then passes the letter to his younger brother. Both men’s faces exhibit all the terror of free fall, as if a comfortable and predictable world had suddenly become an abyss.