Pax Britannia: Human Nature (44 page)

"But you're going to get yourself killed!"

"What do I care? I'm an old man. I might die in my sleep this very night! And my son's life ended thirty-seven years ago. What have I to live for?"

Deciding that actions, in this case were definitely going to speak louder than words, Ulysses gave up attempting to talk the old man down and instead set off in pursuit, swinging from one columned archway to the next, using his unnaturally strong left arm to aid him in his gymnastic endeavour.

Havelock might think he had nothing to live for, but Ulysses wasn't going to let him get off that lightly; he wanted to see him brought to book for what he had engineered. He wanted to see justice served.

With one last death-defying swing, Ulysses cut the last corner of the tower and threw himself into the colonnade opposite the spot from where he had commenced his approach on the old man.

Preternatural senses flared and Ulysses doubled up as the warning bolt of prescience shot right into the middle of his brain. The old man was ready for him. A vicious kick to the shin brought Ulysses down hard and he almost lost his grip on the stone pillar he was still holding with his primate hand. The priest bore down on him, blowpipe to his lips once more, and this time, if he threw himself out of the way Ulysses would be throwing himself to his death on the stone-flagged floor at the bottom of the tower.

Grabbing the other open end of the carved wooden blowpipe, Ulysses tugged it forwards and put it to his own lips - and blew.

The old man dropped the primitive weapon immediately. He stumbled backwards, palsied hands reaching for his throat, a choking rasp escaping his gaping mouth, his failing eyes wide with the shock of it. As Ulysses pulled himself to safety between the arches, the priest's faltering steps carried him to the edge of the ledge - and beyond.

Screams rose from the appalled watchers below, but the old man made no sound as he plummeted to his death. He was dead even before his skull cracked like an egg on the stones below.

X - IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE

"So, you're done here, are you?" Lucy asked Ulysses as he walked out of the police station. His shoes crunched on the ice-crusted snow covering the ground.

"Yes, we're done here," he said, pulling up the collar of his coat against the cold and adjusting the scarf at his neck. He had a wide-brimmed hat pulled down firmly over his ears as well.

The Silver Phantom was pulled up next to the kerb, Nimrod at the wheel, the engine ticking over to warm the interior of the car.

"So, what's the story? Why did this all come to pass at this moment in time?"

"You mean, when the wrong done to the Reverend Havelock and his son occurred thirty-seven years ago?"

"Yes."

"It was all down to Doctor Lacey."

"Really?"

"Yes. It all started when he took up a new post at the Saint Ophelia Sanatorium for the Mentally Infirm. Marley was one of the residents there."

"That's something else, I don't understand," Lucy said, interrupting Ulysses' explanation of the events surrounding the Christmas Killings. "Why did Reverend Havelock let everyone think that his son was dead?"

"I would have thought that was obvious."

"Humour me," she said, nudging Ulysses in the ribs.

"Embarrassment. Marley had been a scholar, accepted to study at Boriel College, Oxford. It was all about intelligence, as far as the old man was concerned. And then his boy went and shot himself. He didn't know it had been part of some ridiculous college club initiation. The Damocles Club members covered that bit up, remember?

"Havelock thought his son had attempted suicide, and suicide is a sin against God. As if that wasn't embarrassing enough he didn't have the common decency to die but instead survived, with the mental state of an idiot child, and with a Father Christmas fixation to boot. As far as the Reverend was concerned it was better that he kept his son hidden from the world, and let the world think his son was dead."

"But that's terrible."

"That's as maybe but then of course the Reverend didn't know that his son's condition wasn't a direct consequence of a suicide attempt."

"Yes, how did he find out?"

"Lacey wrote to him. The police found the letter at the Reverend's place. It was effectively a confession and suicide note all rolled into one. Lacey was manic depressive, you see, which meant that he understood what it was like to be mentally ill and so wanted to help others in a similar condition. But when he discovered that his one-time paramour was a dribbling infantile retard he was overcome with guilt and remorse, and started on a downward spiral of depression from which he never recovered.

"Somehow, the letter came to be posted after Lacey's death and when Havelock read it, it brought back all the memories - the hurt, the guilt - which soon turned to anger. And so he planned his revenge more for his own benefit than for his wretched son. But he was old, he couldn't accomplish what he wanted to himself and so we come to his crowning achievement; he used his own brain-damaged son as the instrument of his vengeance.

"He checked Marley out of the asylum, equipping him to fulfil his own dark designs, while he tracked down the surviving members of the Damocles Club, who Lacey had so helpfully listed in his confession. Chief Inspector Thaw and Sergeant Whately found evidence that Marley had been living with the Reverend Havelock in his quarters at the cathedral."

"Incredible," Lucy said, dumbfounded by the immensity of the reverend's plan. "So what will happen to Marley now?"

"I believe he's been returned to the asylum where he has spent the last thirty-seven years of his life, to live out the rest of it, in the maximum security wing."

Ulysses looked thoughtful for a moment as he studied the patterns the snow had made on the toecaps of his shoes. "It's ironic really."

"What is?"

"This all began because Marley wanted to join the Damocles Club but failed the initiation. And in the end, all the Damocles Club members are dead, and Marley's the only one left alive."

Ulysses turned from his musings to his waiting car.

"I can't tempt you to spend what's left of Christmas Day here, in Oxford?" the young woman asked, looking up at him from beneath the brim of her beret.

"Aren't you spending Christmas with friends or family already? Surely your life isn't all work, work, work. It's not good for you. You must have plans."

"Nothing that couldn't be changed," she said, her cheeks reddening in embarrassment. "I don't know about you but I could quite happily spend the rest of the day in bed, catching up, having not slept at all last night."

Ulysses grinned.

"Thank you for the invitation, my dear," he said, smiling wryly, "but Mrs Prufrock's coming in especially and will doubtless already have the turkey on the go. And besides, my brother Barty would cut a very pathetic figure if I wasn't there. You can't pull a cracker by yourself, can you?"

"You've managed," the young woman smiled coyly.

Ulysses took a deep breath. He gazed up at the clear cerulean sky, savouring the honeyed sunlight and the crisp cold air on his face. And then he turned from the car and returned to Lucy's side.

"Tempting as your offer is, and I may well live to regret this, but if I have learnt anything from the Case of the Christmas Killer it is that the rash actions of your youth will inevitably come back to haunt you one day, so, Merry Christmas, Miss Gudrun."

He lent forward and kissed her on her heat-flushed cheek.

"Well, you can't blame a girl for trying," she said, returning the kiss. "Merry Christmas, Mr Quicksilver."

Back in the security of his own cushion-walled room, he opened the jotter on the table in front of him and creased it flat at a clean page.

For the first time in as long as he could remember, he hadn't written a letter this year, but he hoped it wouldn't matter. Father Christmas would understand.

Pulling a bright red crayon from the box beside the jotter, clenching it tightly in the fist of his right hand, the tip of his tongue protruding from between his lips, he began to write.

Dear Farthr Krissmus,

I'm sorry I not wrote my letter in time this year but I was on holiday with my Dad. It was a lot of fun. I haven't seen my Dad in ages. And I was a good boy, like he said I had to be. I always did as I was told and ate up all my greens, even though I don't like greens.

So now you know I bin good this year and said sorry for not writin in time can I have my present anyway?

I really liked seeing my Dad again so this year for Krissmus I dont want any more crayons or a puppy or nothin like that. I would like to go and stay with my Dad again. Do you think I could do that? I hope so.

Happy Krissmus

Love Marley

THE END