Chapter Eleven

 

The Act

 

He had not decided upon the method and manner of committing the act without thought. It was tempting to play with the idea of planning some deliberate deception about the time of death. ‘It is not possible to be certain about the rate of cooling of a body’: those encouraging words had been written by no less a medico-legal expert than Sir Sydney Smith, and books of medical jurisprudence all spoke with delightful uncertainty about establishing the precise time of death. Suppose that one placed an electric fire near to a body, the time of death would appear to be an hour or two later than was actually the case. Or suppose – more ingenious and interesting – that one took ice cubes from the refrigerator and placed them in plastic non-leaking containers at various points about the body, the normal cooling process should be speeded up. He reluctantly rejected such ideas, partly because of the distaste that he felt for having anything to do with a dead body, but chiefly (or so he felt) because such ingenuity was in itself to be deprecated. If the police happened to notice that the electric fire, although turned off, was still curiously warm, if ice water somehow leaked out of the plastic packs, if in fact the police thought that deliberate deception was being attempted, might they not immediately suspect him? The strength of his position was that Arthur Brownjohn and Easonby Mellon were two wholly separate characters, and that there was no reason in the world why they should be associated. This was what he must remember. The act should be simple, quick and obvious. His plan was simple, and entailed practically no risk.

At Euston Station, on his return from Birmingham he telephoned Clare, and cut short a burst of recriminatory phrases by saying that he was coming home and wanted to see her.

There must have been something strange in his tone, for she checked abruptly as a horse coming to a jump. ‘What about?’

‘I can’t explain now, but –’

‘You can’t explain,’ she said incredulously.

‘You’re alone, aren’t you?’

‘Of course I am alone. I am just finishing my lunch.’

‘I shall be back soon. Don’t tell anybody I’m coming, will you?’

‘Arthur, have you been drinking?’

‘I’ll be there soon after three.’ He put down the telephone. His hand was shaking.

In the station lavatory he changed into Easonby Mellon’s clothes, and carefully adjusted the wig and beard. He went out carrying Arthur Brownjohn’s clothes and diary in his suitcase. He caught the two-thirty train from Waterloo for the half-hour journey to Fraycut.

This time Major Mellon made his way straight out of the station in the direction of Livingstone Road. Phil Silvers was not on duty, and the man at the barrier took his ticket without a glance. The Laurels stood foursquare in exurban dignity. The rest of Livingstone Road appeared to sleep. He opened the gate, which gave its accustomed small squeak, walked up the path, inserted the key in the lock, turned it, was inside. Mr Slattery stared at him accusingly, as though aware of the revolver in his jacket pocket. The door of the living-room opened, and Clare came out. ‘What –’ she said, and stopped. He found himself holding his breath, as if something important depended on her words. Then she completed the sentence.

‘What are you doing in those ridiculous clothes, and that –’ She seemed to find it impossible to specify the wig and beard. ‘Take it all off immediately.’

She had known him at once. It was awful. His fists were clenched into tight balls. ‘I can explain.’

‘Your telegram, what was the meaning of that? I waited for more than an hour at Waterloo. And now this fancy dress.’

‘I said I could explain.’

‘I doubt it very much. I cannot think what possible explanation there can be.’

He heard himself saying that it was quite simple, and knew with dismay that the tones were those of Arthur Brownjohn, not of Easonby Mellon. How could boldness have so speedily and humiliatingly abandoned him? One hand went into a pocket and drew out the revolver.

‘What is the meaning of this masquerade?’ Clare was becoming angry, it could be seen in the thickening of her neck muscles and the spot of colour in her cheeks. He was near the door of the living-room and she stood in the middle of it just beside the mottled grey sofa. She saw what was in his hand, and her reaction was one of pure exasperation. She spoke like a mother to a misbehaving child. ‘Arthur, what are you doing? Put it down.’

‘No.’ He found it impossible to speak, then swallowed and managed it. ‘I really must explain.’

She took a step towards him. He retreated. ‘If you could see how silly you look.’

‘Silly!’ he cried out. The word moved him to anger. He raised the revolver, squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened.

‘Of course you do. Just get that stuff off and wash your face and you’ll feel better.’

‘I am not silly,’ he shouted. Why didn’t she realise that he was a dangerous man? He realised that he had not moved the safety catch and did so. Suddenly the revolver went off, making a tremendous noise. The kickback jolted his arm severely. What had happened to the bullet? He became aware that Clare was strangely pale.

She took another step towards him and said in a low voice, ‘What is the matter with you, Arthur?’

He retreated. He had his back to the door. The revolver went off again, almost deafening him. This time she put her hands to her stomach, so evidently the bullet had hit her, but she did not fall down. Instead she put out a hand, and he felt that if she succeeded in touching him something terrible would happen. He cried out something, he could not have said what, and fired again and again, he did not know how many times or where the bullets went. There was a ping of glass and he thought: ‘Heavens, I’ve broken the French window.’ He looked and saw the window starred at one point, and with a deep crack down the centre. He was so much distressed by this time that his attention was temporarily distracted from Clare. He saw, however, that she was badly hurt. She appeared to be trying to speak to him, but failed to do so. Blood shot in a stream from her mouth – he jumped back hurriedly so that it should not touch him – and she fell over the back of the sofa and then down the side of it to the floor, clawing at the sofa for support and making unintelligible noises in her throat. She seemed still to be trying to say something to him, but he could not imagine what it was. She lay on the carpet groaning. Blood continued to trickle from her mouth. He found it unendurable that she was not dead, perhaps would not die. The revolver was empty, but in any case he could not have fired it again. He stood and watched helplessly as she tried to inch her way across the carpet to – what would it be? – of course, the telephone. There was blood on her face now, and she moved more slowly. He could not have said whether it was seconds or minutes before he realised that she was not moving at all.

It would have been impossible for him to touch her with his gloved hands, but he moved across with the caution he would have used in approaching a squashed but possibly still dangerous insect, and rolled her over with his foot. She lay still, staring at the ceiling with her eyes open. She was, she must be, dead.

He felt that he could no longer bear to be in the house. He dropped the revolver to the floor, looked round him without seeing anything, and ran out of the room. His case stood in the hall. He picked it up, opened the front door, and began to run down the path. Then he checked himself. In the garden of Endholme old Mr Lillicrapp was at work with his fork and trowel. He straightened up and said, ‘Afternoon. Some boys been breaking windows round here. Heard the glass go. Thought it might be mine, but it wasn’t. Not next door, I hope.’ He laughed heartily, but the man leaving The Laurels in a hurry made no reply. Mr Lillicrapp leaned on his fork and stood looking after the man as he walked down the road. Discourtesy was rampant nowadays. He ascribed it less to rudeness than to the hurry and bustle of modern life.