Ellis Peters - George Felse 04 - A Nice Derangement of Epitaphs (22 page)

“It was ludicrous, it didn’t mean a thing, it was no threat to anyone, how could it be? I burst out laughing in his face. And then he called Phil—the sort of name—
Phil
! The truest soul alive, and the one I’ve injured most already!

“And
I hit him
.

“I don’t know if it makes sense to you. It was somehow the one thing I couldn’t stand. After all I’d done to them, making use of them for my own ends when it suited me, and then wanting to steal Paddy back—because I did want to, very badly. And then on top of everything, this futile, meaningless, humiliating bit of dirt. You can’t imagine how horribly it offended.”

“I think,” said George mildly, “I can. You’re sure he didn’t lose his head and hit out at you first? Or shape towards it? When you laughed at him, for instance?”

“Don’t tempt me, George. I’m a dodger but not a liar. He never raised a hand.”

“Did you ever, even for an instant, mean to kill him?”

“Good lord, no! Well,—I don’t think so. I don’t know that I
meant
anything. I just blew up. I hit him with everything I’d got, but I give you my word I only hit him once. I even woke up in time to make one wild grab at him as he dropped, but he slipped through my fingers. I’d turned, you see, when he came up to me, there was the rise of the Dragon’s Head on my right, and the drop to the deep water outside the haven on my left. If I lash out, it’s always with the right. I hadn’t thought how it would swing him round. I hadn’t thought at all, it was too quick for thought. It wasn’t quite a sheer fall, we weren’t that near the edge. He went lurching two or three strides downward, and then lost his footing and rolled. Before I could slither after him he was over the edge. He dropped into the deep water. I think he must have been stunned, because he never came up.”

The lines of strain had eased a little, blood was coming back to his face. He drew breath deeply, and let go of the rail.

“We’d better be moving along, hadn’t we?”

“When you’re ready.”

“You’re not in any hurry to turn me in, are you?” said Simon, with the first reviving smile.

“I’m not turning you in. And there never was any hurry. We hadn’t got a murderer at large to worry about. Go on, if you care to. You went in after him, didn’t you?”

“How did you know that?” He was capable of feeling surprise again.

“Because you went in again with Dominic afterwards, so long afterwards that it couldn’t have been with any hope of finding him alive. It must have been full tide when he fell, if there was deep water off the haven. It was at least half an hour past when you showed up on the beach with the boys. So either it was just for the look of the thing generally—which isn’t entirely convincing where you’re concerned—or because you wanted to account satisfactorily for wet hair and wet underclothes. The boys wouldn’t be noticing that you were wet already, before you went in, they were much too preoccupied then.”

“That’s pretty good, but I can tell you one more reason. I’d skinned my knuckles on the right hand, when I hit him. Diving and swimming round those rocks, I made the other hand match. I hadn’t thought about that the first time. You can get cut about quite extensively if you’re not careful. Paddy was quite concerned, when we were cleaning up afterwards, and he saw them.” He looked down with a dark, remembering smile at the backs of his hands, the points of the knuckles still marked with small, healed lesions.

“Yes, I went in after him. I scrambled down the rock path, and shed my top clothes, and dived and dived for him until I was worn out, and by then it would have been no good, anyhow. It was pretty rough going, but I’m a strong swimmer. And after that, I suppose, it came over me what I’d done, and I knew I had to get away from there, fast. I couldn’t get through the Dragon’s Hole, or I’d have beat it through there and let myself be seen along the harbour. But it was deep under water at that time. All I could do was put on my clothes and bolt back up the cliff path, and work round by the Maymouth side on to the road. And when I came up over the neck on my way home I saw your boy hauling Paddy out of the rough water. I ran down to them, and you know the rest. I went in and worked hard for the complete answer to why my hair was wet and my knuckles skinned. Praying we wouldn’t find him. Praying he’d never be found.

“And that’s all. Except that Sam said, that night, he’d probably come in on the Mortuary with the next high tide. That gave me a shock. I’m not a native, that was something I didn’t know.”

“And the first thing you thought of was Paddy running down to the beach about seven o’clock in the morning and finding him.”

“Wouldn’t it be the first thing that would have occurred to you? If the body was going to be cast up here, I wanted to be the one to find it, not Paddy. I was awake all night, brooding about it, and before it was light I got up and dressed, and sneaked out while everybody else was asleep. High tide was about a quarter past four that morning. I bet I was down on the shore before five.

“And he was there! I hadn’t really believed in it till then, but he was there. Miles of sand every way, and he was a big fellow, and dead weight. And the sea was no good, the sea wouldn’t have him. There was only the church anywhere near for a hiding-place. And the key of the vault was in my pocket. So I put him in there. We had crowbars and wedges down there, already, waiting for the big job. I suppose I thought I could move him again the next night. Maybe I didn’t think at all, just huddled him out of sight. It was getting light, and all the time I had Paddy on my mind. It was quite a job, single-handed, but it can be done if you’re pushed.”

“So you very honestly explained to me,” said George, “when I asked you, yesterday.”

“Well, by instinct I am honest. I’ve never had any reason to be anything else, before. It gets everything snarled up, though, when you do get into a jam. Well, I got him into the coffin. I thought I was putting him in with Treverra. And all the time I was shutting him in with the man he’d killed two years before. Who says providence hasn’t got a sense of humour?

“And yet it doesn’t make me feel a bit better about it, that he turned out to be a murderer. It doesn’t alter anything.

“And then afterwards, when I began thinking where I’d move him to, I thought, well, why? Why move him at all? For all I knew then, he had a loving family. I don’t think I’d ever wanted to deprive them of him, and I didn’t really like the thought of them waiting and worrying, and looking for him, not even knowing whether he was alive or dead.
Never
knowing. I’d killed him, and that was bad enough. But I found my conscience was going to give me double hell if I tried to sneak out and leave them to fret, and justice to fumble around without any hold on me. But most of all, I suspect, I simply hated and dreaded the thought of touching him again, and going on with this awful game of hide-and-seek. Oh, I wanted to get off scot-free, if I could. Half of me did, anyhow. But not quite on those terms. So I thought, all right, let it just happen. We’re going to open the tomb, right, we’ll open it. Murder will out, let it at least out in a decent, orderly fashion, with no kids and no women to happen on it unawares, and nobody to give emotional and misleading evidence that can land some innocent person in trouble. That’s why I asked you to make one.”

They had walked the length of one little shopping street from the end of the harbour, and emerged into the square. Without consultation, but quite naturally, they crossed the cobbled space of parked cars towards the door of the police station.

“I’m glad I did,” said Simon, producing suddenly, even out of his profound depression, the smile that drew people after him.

“You didn’t need me,” said George. “This has been your show throughout.”

They reached the apron of paving before the steps, and halted there by consent to take breath before entering. Neither of them noticed the light flurry of steps on the cobbles, heading for them at a confident run from the newsagent’s shop at the corner of the square.

“Well, that was exactly how it happened. Pointless and needless. Nobody even wanted it. But it happened, and I was the one who made it happen.” Simon filled his lungs deeply, as though there was going to be less to breathe inside. Very soberly he asked: “What do you think I shall get?”

The running feet broke rhythm, suddenly and very close to them. A breath caught on a half-sound, as if someone had been about to speak quite loudly and gaily, and then swallowed the word unspoken. George swung round, and found himself staring into the wide, wary, golden-hazel eyes of his son.

“Dad, I—I was only—” His voice wavered away into uncertainty and silence. He looked from one face to the other with that bright, uneasy, intelligent glance, and drew back a step. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to butt in. I’ll see you later. It wasn’t anything.”

“That’s all right, Dom,” said George calmly. “But not now, we’re occupied. Run off and take care of your mother, I’ll be with you at lunch.”

“Yes, of course. I didn’t realise you were busy. Sorry!”

He drew back at once, gladly, quickly, but the stunned look in his eyes had begun to change before he turned his back on them and walked away rapidly out of the square, and the imagination behind the eyes was at work frantically with what he must certainly have heard. “It happened, and I was the one who made it happen. What do you think I shall get?” His innocent approach couldn’t have been better timed to tell him everything in two sentences. And he was exceedingly quick in the uptake.

“I’m sorry about that,” said Simon with compunction, looking after the slender figure as it walked too steadily, too thoughtfully, away from them. “But he’d have had to know pretty soon, I suppose. What
do
you think I shall get?”

“With luck,” said George, “a discharge. At the worst, up to three years for manslaughter. If you tell it as you’ve told it to me.”

“Ah, but I shan’t be doing that. And neither will you, George, not quite. If they reduce the charge to manslaughter, or unlawful killing, or anything less than murder, I’m going to plead guilty. Then they won’t have to call evidence at all—will they? So everyone will be spared.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” said George with equal firmness. “You’ll employ a good lawyer, and be guided by him how to plead. You just tell the truth and leave the law to him. With any luck he’ll get you off.”

Simon’s tawny face had recovered something of its spirit and audacity, and all of its obstinacy. “I’ll tell the truth, and nothing but the truth, but not quite the whole truth. I’ll say he came following and threatening me, I’ll say he was abusive. And with what’s going to come out about Ruiz, that won’t be at all hard for them to believe and understand. But I won’t bring Paddy and Tim and Phil into it. They’re back safely on the rails, and running like a train, and I’m not going to do anything to shake them again, and neither are you. I’d rather plead guilty ten times over. I’m not what I’d call a good man, George, but that’s one thing I won’t do, and won’t let you do, either. And unless you promise me here and now to keep them out of it, it’s your word against mine for all this. I won’t co-operate. I’ll turn back here and deny everything, and make you sweat your case up as best you can. I don’t believe you could ever make it stick.”

“You wouldn’t be happy,” said George, smiling.

“No, I wouldn’t. I’d much rather go in there and get it off my chest. But not at that price.”

“I told you,” said George, “
I’m
not turning you in. You brought yourself here. It’s your show.”

“Good, then they’re out of it. For keeps. I look upon that as a promise, George. But—would you mind coming in with me? And will you be kind enough to let Tim know, afterwards? Don’t let them worry. They’ll know best how to tell Paddy. It isn’t that I wanted to keep him from knowing,” he said, as they climbed the steps side by side. “I just wanted him safely off the scene until I’d got the worst over.”

The shadow of the doorway fell on him, softening the tight, bright lines of his face, braced again now for the ordeal.

“Oh, well,” he said, with a small, hollow laugh, “I’ve never been in gaol before. It should be a rest-cure.”

From the corner of an alley at the far end of the square, Dominic watched them disappear into the dark doorway. When they were gone he came out of hiding, and began furiously to climb the steep streets inland, towards the upper town and Treverra Place. Inside him a weakening sceptic was still clamouring that it was impossible, that he was making a fool of himself, that there were dozens of possible interpretations of what he had heard, besides the obvious and yet obviously inaccurate one. But he went on walking, at his longest climbing stride, and with lungs pumping.

“Nobody even wanted it. But it happened, and I was the one who made it happen.” And then, in that quiet voice: “What do you think I shall get?”

It had to mean what he thought it meant, there was nothing else it could mean. But in that case it could tell him more, if he looked closely enough and carefully enough. “Nobody even wanted it.” It wasn’t intended, it wasn’t done deliberately. Not murder, then. “But it happened, and I was the one—” Still not murder, something that happened by Simon’s act, possibly by Simon’s fault, but not deliberately. Manslaughter, culpable homicide, but
not
murder. And he wasn’t expecting extremes in the penalty, either. “What do you think I shall get?” Dominic wished he’d been clever enough to blunder in just two or three seconds later, in time to hear the reply. To make it easier to tell, to answer some of the frantic anxieties that would result, before they could even be voiced. Because there was still just one thing a knowledgeable friend could do for Simon, in this extremity. And Dominic was the one person who knew exactly how to do it.

He arrived blown and panting at the absurd, top-heavy gates of Treverra Place, and took the drive a little more soberly, to recover his breath.

Tamsin was in the library, copy-typing catalogue notes, her underlip caught between her teeth, the reddish-gold fringe on her forehead bouncing gently to the slight vibration of her head. He marched straight to her desk, leaned a hand on either side the typewriter, and looked down into the startled face that warmed immediately into a smile for him. He wondered why he felt like the bearer of good news, when he was only the messenger of disaster. Still, you may as well pick up the better pieces even of a catastrophe, and see what they’ll make when you put them together.