by Cathy Ace
‘Peter wasn’t up and about in the night – I’d have known about it,’ called Sally Webber from her seat against the black window.
‘And I know Sally wasn’t. Not that it could have been her anyway,’ added Peter, trailing off into silence.
‘And Joe snores like a train – I wake when he stops; I’m afraid he’ll stop breathing, so I know he didn’t do it,’ interrupted Martha Gray.
‘You were awake at four a.m.,’ broke in Luis. ‘Perhaps you are the killer.’
‘Be sensible, man,’ said Joe Gray, ‘why would Martha say she was up and about at the time of the murder if she was the murderer? Not even Martha’s that dumb.’
‘Thank you, dear,’ said Martha Gray, then realized what her husband had said, and tutted.
‘Couples might give each other an alibi, but everyone else? No.’ I said, pointedly.
I knew I’d have to come clean soon. Not even I could cope with this level of tension for much longer. I forged ahead. ‘You all know each other’s secrets now – so you all have as much of a chance as I do of working out who had a good enough reason to kill Meg . . . though , of course, there’s no such thing as a good enough reason to take a person’s life. What I can tell you, as a professional, is that it takes more than a reason to kill someone. And it takes more than an opportunity – whether that opportunity is created, or naturally occurring. What it also needs is the ability of the killer to believe, deep within them, that they are truly more important than the victim; that their needs and desires outweigh those of anyone else. Sometimes a death is caused by a fleeting outburst – a fit of rage, a lashing out; in those instances the loss of perspective, the loss of judgement, the aspect of putting oneself before all else, is temporary – and it usually dissipates quickly, leaving guilt in its place. The killer may or may not make an effort to cover up the results of their fatal outburst, or their connection to it, but the feeling of terrible remorse, of a psychological burden they will carry for evermore, poses a real threat to their sanity, and their ability to live anything approaching a normal life thereafter. Was this such a killing? Is the murderer now feeling that burden? Or does the murderer still feel they were right to do what they did? That they were justified in removing Meg’s ability to maybe expose them and their secrets?’
I couldn’t wait any longer. It had to be done. I was sad. I was tired.
‘So who here felt Meg should be wiped out, and with her any chance of their secrets coming out? Who felt so much more important than Meg? Was it about ownership? Was it, as I said, about love? And who here could kill? Has anyone here ever killed before? Peter – your hit and run; Adrian - an unexplained dead body; Dan – your wife’s lover’s work, ridiculed; Joe – your wife’s lover dead; Luis – a suicidal ex. So many deaths. So much guilt. And what about you, Jean? What about your husband? I remember Mr Jones . . . I never did know his name; Meg called him Daddy. How did he die? Did he fall . . . or was he pushed? Why was Meg so keen to get away from you after his death? Why was she so frightened that she might become like you? Peter – it’s time for the truth . . . you were lying to me, weren’t you? Meg told you she saw something the night her father died, didn’t she?’
Peter shook his head, then said, quietly, ‘No . . . I wasn’t lying. I just didn’t tell you everything she told me. You see, Meg didn’t see Jean push her father, she was hiding under her sheets because she was sick of the rows. She heard her do it. Apparently Jean screamed a whole bunch of obscenities, then Meg heard pushing and shoving. Meg believed her mother literally kicked her father down the stairs. That’s why Meg had to get out.’
‘Yes, it makes sense, to me,’ I replied. ‘That was the first time Meg ran away; that’s where the pattern began. We psychologists like to find out when, where, and why, a coping mechanism is first utilized, you see. So –’ we all turned and looked at Jean – ‘what was it, Jean? A fit of temper and a hairdryer that was close to hand . . . or was it a planned action, using the little fan heater from your room? By the way, I know the answer, so just tell the truth, Jean.’
Jean Jones smiled a very unpleasant smile. ‘Oh, you’re so clever, aren’t you, Caitlin Morgan? But just be careful girl; it’s all well and good throwing accusations around, but there’s no proof, is there? Not about Meg, nor about Hywel . . . that was Meg’s father’s name, by the way – Hywel. So you can say what you like. Sticks and stones, girl. I’m not saying anything more, and that’s that. The police would never believe that a mother would kill her own daughter – nor her own husband. And you’ve got nothing; no fingerprints, no marks, no nothing.’
‘How do you know, Jean?’ Asked Adrian, sharply.
‘Well, if everything was wiped down, like Cait said, then it stands to reason, doesn’t it?’ she gloated.
‘I found the hairdryer in your room, Jean,’ I said, flatly. ‘Your hair is cut extremely short – not the sort of style that calls for a dryer that must have cost several hundred dollars, and has a North American plug on it; why would you own one like that anyway, given that you live in Wales? And what about the hamper of wet towels in your room, Jean? Why so many? You’d have needed to have bathed half a dozen times today to use all those towels. And when we found Meg’s body we all looked like unmade beds; you were very well put together . . . burnt orange lipstick – before eight a.m.? Matched to your dressing gown, no less. Lots of attention to the wrong sort of detail there, Jean. And your constant referral to Meg as some sort of possession? What of that? You gave birth to her, but she’d stopped being your daughter a long time ago – why did you keep reminding us you were her mother?’
‘Nothing on me – like I said, nothing,’ repeated Jean Jones loudly.
Everyone in the room was clearly thinking through what I’d been saying, and it seemed to make sense to them too. I could tell Jean was keen to say something. I wondered if she’d stick to her very sensible plan to keep quiet.
She crowed, ‘So how did I know Meg was even having a bath at four a.m., then, clever clogs?’
‘Maybe you got up to use the loo and heard the water running—’
Jean cut across me, ‘I wasn’t next door to her, was I? She had that pretend-fiancé of hers one side, and bloody Martha Gray the other. I wouldn’t have heard through all those rooms, would I?’
‘—or maybe you were just going to try to talk to her about your secret; just a mother and daughter chat. She was about to take a bath, but let you in . . . you tell me, Jean . . .’ I continued calmly.
‘I’m not telling you nothing, ’cos you know nothing,’ said Jean, vindicated.
‘You’re the only one here who’s actually killed before, Jean – killed when they meant to,’ said Peter Webber, holding his wife close to him. ‘Whatever you say – and whatever Meg didn’t say – I always thought she believed you killed her father.’
‘Yes, none of us here have ever killed that way before,’ said Adrian. ‘I bet that makes a big difference, right, Cait?’
‘Oh, yes, ask little Miss Smarty Pants, why don’t you?’ mocked Jean.
‘It can do, Adrian,’ I replied. I knew I’d sound like a know-it-all, so I just set about answering him. ‘If you’ve come to terms with having taken one life, research suggests a person might find it easier to plan to, and to take, another. The mechanisms for diminishing, managing and coping with remorse are already in place, you see, and can be used to help justify future plans. Also, the unknown – the ‘impossibility’ of taking a human life – is no longer an issue for the killer . . . they know they’ve done it before, so they know they can do it again. Isn’t that true, Jean? Once you’ve crossed a threshold, it’s easier to return and cross it once again?’
‘Rubbish – it’s all rubbish. Don’t pretend that any of you liked her . . . you must have all hated her. Look what she did to you all. She was a bad lot, was Meg. Just like her father; all fun and laughter when there were other people around, but when you were on your own with her? Not much fun then, was she? Yes, I can tell by your faces
you all know exactly what I mean.’
‘And where do you think she got that from, Jean?’ It was Peter again. His eyes glittered in the firelight, but he still spoke softly. ‘She got it from you. You. When Meg told us last night that we were the ones who’d made her what she was, she was right; we all chipped in our own little bit of hell for her. But Cait makes a good point; we all inherited a damaged Meg from you. I know these psychologist-types always say it starts with the mother – that you’ve got to go back to the womb and all that . . . but I think Cait’s got it right. You killed Meg to stop her from writing about you and her father. She told me how horrible you were to her when she was growing up; how you would hit her, and undermine her every way you could. I thought she was exaggerating. Oh Jean, how could you? Your own daughter.’
Jean’s fighting spirit was at its height. I could tell there was no way she’d confess, but wanted to push her just one more time.
I spoke again. ‘You know what’s ironic about all this, Jean? About what you did to Meg, and about what we’ve all been through here today? I called Meg’s shrink this evening; the number was, predictably, programmed into her cellphone. I wanted to ask him about the “autobiography” they’d been working on together, and guess what he told me?’
I knew everyone wanted to hear this one.
‘He said that what Meg had been doing was a part of her therapy, that she’d been working through past issues and writing them down, and that she’d invited us all here so she could apologize to us for how she’d treated us. She wasn’t working on an autobiographical book, she’d just put together some notes for their sessions, and realized how she’d wronged us all. He knew exactly what she wanted to say to each of us – because he and Meg had discussed what she planned to say here this weekend; today, in fact, on her birthday.’
‘And – what was she going to tell us?’ asked Peter.
I replied, ‘She wanted to apologize to you, Peter, for not letting you give yourself up after the hit-and-run. Adrian – she knew it wasn’t your fault your baby had died, and she was sorry the death had poisoned her against you so much that she spread untrue stories about you and that unknown teen. Dan – she realized she hadn’t supported you in the one way that mattered – with your work – and she wanted to come clean about the affair with your student Robert, the collapse of which, and his death, was why she left you. Luis – she was breaking up with you, but it was because she truly liked you, and wanted you to be happier than you could be by covering up your sexuality with her. Joe – she wanted to thank you for all you’d done and apologize for firing you and not trusting you. Martha – she’d broken your trust by telling your secret to her mother – she had to open up about that. To me, apparently she wanted to apologize for taking my boyfriend off me when we were sixteen . . . a boy who meant nothing to me six months after she stole him from me. And you, Jean? She wanted to apologize to you for not having been there to support you . . . as you’ve been battling cancer recently. She knew you wouldn’t be able to travel for much longer, and was planning to take you around the world with her on one last Big Trip.’
I allowed time for all of this to filter through to the individuals, and the group.
We were a group now, an entity; we’d always have this weekend to bind us together. Nothing would be the same, for any of us, ever again. We all knew that.
No one spoke. We were all thinking about ourselves . . . and Meg.
Then Jean’s harsh voice cut across our thoughts like a knife. ‘Thinking about Meg, are you? Thinking about your futures? A year. That’s about it for me. So I haven’t got long to go, and I’ll be with her. It was funny when you said she was killed for love, because she was . . . for the lack of love she gave me. If she was going to tell everyone about me and her father, then she didn’t deserve the love of a good mother.’
‘A good mother? A good mother?’ Adrian had exploded; he was on his feet. ‘What would you know about that? You killed your daughter because she didn’t love you enough? Love has to be earned, it’s not a right. You gave her life, then you poisoned it for her. You might be sick, Jean, but don’t expect that to sway my opinion of you. You’re a cold-hearted witch.’
‘So will we tell the police about Jean when they get here?’
Needless to say, it was Sally Webber speaking.
Adrian was still boiling. ‘Of course we will, Sally. She killed Meg, you stupid woman. What do you expect us to do? Draw straws and get someone else to confess to it just so that Jean can live her last year outside a cell? No way.’
‘I don’t know what we should do, but I know we should talk about it.’ Joe Gray could smell a negotiation, and he was going for it. ‘I mean, would anyone know that Meg was murdered? From an autopsy? Could we ask for there not to be an autopsy? Would there be bound to be an inquiry? Could we say we just found her dead . . . and forget all the rest of it? The memory of her for her fans would be much happier that way. I mean, it’s not like she was a crime writer; if a crime writer died like this it could be great publicity. But a romance novelist? It kinda messes with the image – a murderous mom and all. It might be a kindness to Meg to not involve her mother.’
‘You are right,’ agreed Luis from his dark corner. ‘It would be better for Meg’s memory if she had just died. I will lie for Meg if this is what we agree. She lied for me. It is the least I can do.’
‘That’s outrageous,’ boomed Dan James, who had something to say, at last. ‘This woman has murdered an innocent person. Whatever any of us might think of Meg, she was, essentially, an innocent. And Jean killed her – because of pride, and to no effect in any case . . . because Meg wasn’t going to publish. Jean, you’re a stupid, ignorant woman who put two and two together and got six. You killed your husband, and you killed your daughter; why should we let you get away with that?’
It seemed that at least two of Meg’s ex-husbands agreed on something; they were both baying for Jean’s blood. I wondered about Peter; would he prove to be the voice of reason? Whose side would he take?
‘What about you, Peter? What do you think?’ Martha Gray’s question startled her husband. He looked at her accusingly.
Peter Webber looked at his wife, and then around the room. Again, as was his habit, he spoke quietly. ‘At a time like this, I always ask myself “What would Jesus do?”.’
Mouths fell open.
He continued. ‘But, on this occasion specifically, I think it’s better if we ask “What would Meg do?” She knew about all of us; it seems she had worked pretty hard to understand her own flaws. And what was she going to do? Forgive us all. She was going to take her mother on a wonderful trip, not throw her to the mob. I think, for once, we should take our lead from a mortal, rather than the divine . . . though I think they are both the same on this occasion. I think we should forgive Jean, and each of us should agree to tell one more lie . . . a lie that will protect Jean, but that will also protect Meg’s memory from some pretty awful revelations. After all, who knows what might come out in a court of law if there’s an investigation into what happened here this weekend.’
For all his talk about Jesus, I wondered to what extent Peter Webber was saving himself. Call me cynical, call me anything you like, but that’s what I wondered.
Of course, everyone else got to thinking about what Peter had just said; I don’t think it had occurred to anyone until then. I could feel the mood in the room change. And I didn’t like it.
‘Peter’s got a point. It might well be what Meg would have wanted,’ murmured Adrian.
‘I suppose one could look at it that way,’ rumbled Dan James from his fireside spot.
‘Martha?’ snapped Joe Gray.
‘I think it would have been what Meg wanted,’ she replied quietly.
‘And I agree with my husband,’ piped up Sally Webber.
So, once again, all eyes turned toward me.
See what I mean about ‘Aftermath’? There always is one . . . and it always stinks.
I looked
at the faces surrounding me. Already these people were my co-conspirators, and I could tell they wanted me to play along with their request that we should all lie about Meg’s death.
Peter’s comments had illuminated for everyone what I’d known all along; if Meg’s death was portrayed as anything but natural or accidental, there’d be an investigation to seek to uncover exactly what I had uncovered – who might have wanted her dead, and why. And that wouldn’t be good for the people sitting here in the firelight with me. Not good for their families, or their futures.
But good for justice. And good for poor Meg.
I have dedicated my career to those who’ve been wronged; if I didn’t believe those who’d wronged them should be held to their responsibilities, why would I do that? Now I was being asked to do something that was utterly contrary to all my natural instincts. And I didn’t like it. Not one bit.
If I agreed with everyone else, I’d be safe; otherwise, maybe I’d be the next one waking up dead. If I agreed, we’d all come up with a version of the discovery of Meg that could be seen as presenting a natural death; she could easily have died sitting up in bed. But I wondered about the forensics involved; I am at least sufficiently self-aware to know I have gaps in my knowledge-base.
I decided to play the situation out. For the moment.
‘We could stick to the whole story about how we found her in bed,’ I said. ‘None of us will have to act that . . . all we’ll have to do is tell the truth, which is always for the best. But there might be internal indications of electrocution that I know nothing about. So we’ll have to say that someone originally found her dead in her bath – that her hairdryer must have fallen in by accident, and that she was pulled out of the bath, dressed, and put into bed all for decency’s sake. If we decide to do this, I believe Jean should be the one who confesses that she did all that; it would be psychologically believable, and – since Jean did do it – she could truthfully answer any and all questions pertaining to the process. We all know that Jean’s a good enough actress to carry it off; and she wouldn’t want to bring any of us into it, because she’s the one with everything to lose.’