‘He was strong all right,’ Frank De Vere said. ‘What, two hours, was it, he was in the water? And he swam over five miles. Swam and drifted, I suppose. He must have had a heart like a bull.’
Dave Stutton said nothing, but got up from his chair and began to mend the fire. When he had sat down again, he snapped his fingers at the dog. It came, and he scratched the tan-coloured silk behind its ears.
‘What will become of that now?’ Frank wondered. ‘What did Harry’s brother say?’
‘That’ll stay here for a while,’ said Dave, with his face turned away. ‘I shall look after fings for him. You know, there’s a lot of them Uffords, brothers and sisters. They’ll get fings worked out between ’em after a while, but thass likely to take time.’
‘You’ll be staying on in this house, then?’ Frank said.
‘Yeh,’ Dave said, ‘for the time bein.’
‘And what about the job on the rig?’
‘I shall keep that, until I fink of somefing else to do.’
‘That’s a good idea,’ Frank said, ‘probably. Stick at it till the inquest, at any rate. It will look better. Though I don’t know: it would sound natural enough if you said you couldn’t face that barge any more.’
At last Dave looked round at him. The young face above the beard was set, and the black eyes hostile. ‘No more I can’t,’ he said. ‘However, I shall have to. I need a job.’
‘I see,’ said Frank, sardonically. ‘Turning over a new leaf, are we? Making the clock run backwards? Not easy, boy.’
‘I shall do it,’ Dave muttered; and went back to fondling the dog, while the coals blazed up, the cuckoo clock, whirring, produced a wooden bird to mark eight o’clock, and sleet raked the windowpanes with bursts like automatic fire.
‘You’ll be going over to the old home village, then,’ Frank said, ‘for the funeral?’
‘I s’poose I shall,’ Dave said. ‘Jim Ufford expect it. Well, anyone would expect that, wouldn’t they?—including my muvver, I should imagine.’
Frank was meditating another question, but hesitating over it. He brought it out with caution. ‘Did he know?’
‘What?’ Dave’s face was again turned down to the dog.
‘Did Harry know what you did to him?’
Instantly Dave was on his feet, and had Frank by the lapels of his coat, dragging him upright in the chair in which he lounged. ‘I dint do nofing to him,’ he said in a hoarse voice. ‘The rope worked loose, or he leaned on the ladder and brought it down on his foot. That was my fault, I know that, but thass the worst of it. So you watch your mouf, just watch your fuckin mouf, Frank De Vere.’
‘Dave,’ said Frank, ‘let go of my collar, Dave.’ His dark face was slightly darker, but his manner was calm. Suddenly he raised his right arm to deliver a karate chop, and the young man, with a hiss of pain, stepped back clutching his wrist.
‘That’s better,’ Frank said. ‘Now, let’s get a few things straight. I realize that today’s little tragedy off Birkness was a shock to you, and I sympathize. I know you wish it hadn’t happened. But don’t try to bullshit your old partner, don’t tell me it didn’t happen. I know better. I know what caused it: a halfhearted, gutless little booby-trap, that’s what. And there I could recognize your handiwork: because I’ve never been able to hide from myself that underneath the macho disguise you are a pretty halfhearted, gutless little individual, Dave, old friend.’
Dave was mute, still rubbing his wrist, and watchful.
‘That language too plain for you?’ Frank enquired. ‘I’ve always had to wrap things up for you, haven’t I? But I think we might as well drop the flannel now. Why should we pretend not to know things that we know perfectly well? It’s a waste of time, it’s a complication we don’t need.’
‘I on’y got this to say to you,’ said Dave in a choked voice. ‘Take away that fing out in the yard what belong to you. Take that away from here and get rid of it. And give me that key what you never ought to have had. And don’t you come back here, never.’
‘You’re throwing your weight around a bit, aren’t you,’ Frank said, ‘for a caretaker?’
‘I don’t want no more to do wiv you,’ Dave said. ‘You keep away from me after this, or you shall be sorry.’
‘Hey, now,’ Frank said, and smiled up from his chair in a tolerant way, though his eyes were cold. ‘You’re upset, Dave. Well, I understand that, and I’m making allowances. But cool it, d’you hear me?’
He got up from his chair, and the young man, who had been standing, wavering, suddenly came to life. The punch that landed beside Frank’s mouth sent him staggering back into the chair again.
‘Oh, you shouldn’t,’ he said, looking up, pale. A little blood was running from his lip. His hands were clamped tight on the arms of the chair. ‘That really wasn’t clever, boy.’
‘Thass enough of that,’ said Dave, fiercely, though looking alarmed at what he had done. ‘You int goonna talk to me like that no more.’
But Frank’s tensed hands had hauled him to his feet again in one movement, and he struck out with a punch to the wind, followed by another to the head. Dave, reeling away, found the coal bucket in his path, and fell with a crash to the floor. The cat sprang up from the nearby rug and the dog yapped. All around the room little objects of brass and china rang.
Dave was gasping, and gazing upwards, dazedly, at Frank kneeling over him. ‘I didn’t want to do that,’ Frank was saying, almost gently, ‘but it had to be done. You let yourself get a bit hysterical. But it’s over now, isn’t it? I don’t think this is quite the time for us to have a chat about things. We’ll have to, some time—but not tonight. What I’m going to do now is go out and have a few pints. I don’t suppose you want to come?’
Dave, on his back, made no answer.
‘I should think,’ Frank said considerately, ‘you’ll want to go to bed now, as you’re working such unsociable hours. But it’s a good idea for one of us to keep an ear to the grapevine. Tell me, mate, is there such a thing as a mirror around here somewhere?’
Dave was a long time in replying, but at last said in an unsteady voice: ‘Over the sink.’ When he opened his mouth a little blood from his nose, invisible in the beard, showed on his teeth.
‘Sorry,’ Frank said, with a straight face. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you.’
He went out to the kitchen, and carefully examined and bathed his cut lip. When he returned, he found Dave on his feet before the fire, his hands on the mantelshelf and his head, bowed over the glow, turned aside to a corner of the room.
‘Well, I’m off,’ Frank said, and opened the door. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow evening, I expect.’
There was a wrench of the glossy black head, and Dave was looking at him, sidelong. It was a look so candid and uncomplicated that Frank was taken aback by it, and made a movement as if to return. But the glowering, fire-dancing eyes under the black forelock presented too serious a problem. So he raised a finger to say goodbye, and went out with a bang of the door into the street hissing with sleet.
Is there a murderer here? No;—yes; I am.
Richard III
A streetlamp is fixed to the wall near his front door, and in the pinkish light the door gleams, with wet and varnish. The sleet has almost passed, but revives now and again in rattling flurries. The wind is so uncertain of its direction that a stiff piece of paper scrapes itself back and forth, back and forth, over the same short section of road.
He comes, bulky and black in his heavy clothes, from around a corner, and halts a yard short of his door, fumbling in his pockets. He is ponderous and slow tonight. He has been drinking, today and for several days, and his movements are careful, like an old man’s. He is very tired. He wishes to be tired before he enters that house.
He has found his bunch of keys. They swing from his fingers.
What does he hear, I wonder, in the first instant? Something, probably, like the flight of a hardshelled insect, a zing in the air beside him. The keys clink on to the pavement, and he is on his knees, groping for them. For a few seconds his distracted face is turned full on me, whom he cannot see.
He has found his keys and is on his feet. Another leaden insect takes flight, and smashes itself against brick near his shoulder. I think from his face that he gives a sob, but cannot hear, because of the chattering irruption of a motorbike into the next street, drowning the second shot.
His shaking hands have found the keyhole. The doorway gapes black, then is again a gleaming barrier, on which fingertips of sleet faintly drum for a moment, close to his ear.