A Pocketful of Rye (15 page)

‘Why are you giving me this!' she said angrily. ‘Don't I know it?'

‘Because, in the first place, the solicitor for the Davigan family did not represent you.'

‘Thank God, he did not.'

‘And in everything he said, he expressed the general feeling of doubt as to how your late husband managed to slip off that parapet. Of course you told me it was a very windy day.'

I thought she would deny it but, no, she said, in a hard voice:

‘Yes, I did tell you.'

‘But at the Inquiry, the Fiscal made it a big point that it was a completely windless day.'

She was silent, then she said:

‘I was unconsciously defending myself when I invented that wind for you, Carroll. I knew what was in your mind then, and what is in it now. You think I shoved Dan over.'

‘No.' I half shook my head. ‘ Still, the Davigans seemed to have that in mind. Dan's father came out with some rough stuff in the witness box.'

‘He's always had his knife in me, that old ram. And since he went bankrupt he's practically half witted.'

‘But the Fiscal,' I reasoned, ‘even he expressed his doubts, you might even say his suspicions … that a man, shown by the evidence of the pathologist who did the post-mortem, to be in perfect health, with no evidence of heart trouble or cerebral condition that might cause collapse, a man who was, in addition, a seasoned builder, well trained to heights should, on a dead calm day, suddenly …'

‘I know all that, Carroll,' she cut in. ‘ I heard him say it.'

‘Then the piece of your dress, torn from your sleeve, still clenched in Dan's hand when they got to him.'

‘That was highly inconvenient for me. Naturally, it was his grab to save himself as I pushed. Almost damning, wasn't it, Carroll? But the police did not think so, or they would have prosecuted me.'

‘Yes, on criminal charges,' I murmured. ‘It was fortunate you got the verdict. Though it was not unanimous. A split four to three, wasn't it?'

‘It was enough. And afterwards I was congratulated by both the solicitor for the employers and the Inspector of Factories – who was officially present. They said my behaviour was above reproach.'

I had to admire her, controlling her nerves onder that dead-pan calm. She was tough. But no more than me.

‘I'm well aware of your saintly disposition. And of course, by the split verdict you were technically exonerated. However,' I paused, and went on mildly, ‘there's just one or two other points I'd like to clear up. Was Daniel called to give evidence?'

‘Certainly not. A mere child. He was excused on grounds of his youth.'

‘And the good Canon Dingwall? Did he have any part in this affair? His name has never been mentioned, no, not once, and yet … somehow … I have an idea, one might say a suspicion, that his master mind … directed, shall we say, the strategy of your defence.'

She had flushed angrily.

‘The old Canon has always been a good friend to Danny and me, and he was a perfect godsend to us all through this ghastly misery … it's so like you, Carroll, to try to soil that relationship. Now get this straight. I've been persecuted enough. I'll take no more interrogations or cross examinations from you. You can't do a thing about the case, it's closed, finished and done with.'

‘Naturally,' I said. ‘But as you've been kind enough to supply the Matron with my past history I might well return the compliment with some of yours. She's a strict, straitlaced character. And while you didn't create that miraculous wind for her, I think you did imply, shall we say, natural causes. There was no mention of this strange fatality, the subsequent Inquiry, the split Jury. Indeed, I think I recollect hearing you sadly breathe those useful words, heart failure.'

‘Don't, Carroll. Don't do it. For if you try, I have the drop on you. I'll go to that professor of yours with your fake testimonials and have him accuse you before the Medical Council.'

‘You'll have to dig him up first.'

It did not get through to her at first. Then she sat down suddenly, on the enamel kitchen chair. She was as white as the chair, even before I said:

‘You don't think I'm a complete moron. To run such a risk. He had been dead a full year before I wrote them.'

I saw her breast fill up with a slow, painful breath which came out as a long, soundless sigh. A silence followed, during which an extraordinary feeling seeped through me. I felt sorry for her, an emotion evoked, or at least intensified, by her attitude. Where had I seen it before: the head slightly drooping, face half averted, her profile clearly lined against the window – the dark eyes deep set against a high cheekbone, the nose with the faintest upturn that had once struck a note of high audacity, the mouth drooping now, but still beautiful, the clear cut defiant chin? Yes, she was still, or had again become, an attractive woman.

‘Carroll.' Speaking slowly she went on. ‘Let's make a deal … a non-aggression pact.'

For a moment I was tempted. But no, Carroll, no. You're too wise a bird to be caught with chaff.

‘It would never work,' I said. ‘ I'm sorry for you, Cathy. But you and I are natural antagonists. You've already been undermining my authority. All the time you'd get in my hair. You would interfere with my … my way of life.'

‘You mean the Swede?'

‘Since you mention it, among other things, yes. Let's face it. You started this thing. I was ready and willing to welcome you, to be the best of friends. But from the minute you laid eyes on me at the airport you set out to wreck me.'

‘Not really, Carroll,' she said, seriously. ‘Please believe me.'

I ignored that and continued logically.

‘Now I don't want to hurt you, although you've tried to hurt me. I just want you to realize this is no place for you, and go quietly home.'

‘Home?' The way she said it was enough.

‘You must think of your boy. He's more ill than you imagine. But perhaps you don't trust me.'

‘I know you're a good liar, when it suits you.'

I let that pass and went on:

‘He'll soon need hospital treatment. But you don't seem to show much feeling for him.'

‘I never show what I feel now, it's safer.'

I had said it all, yet she had a secret quality that baffled me. Without moving, her eyes still fixed and sad, she said:

‘I can still wreck you, Carroll. I can have the last word. You're such a smartie I'm surprised you haven't tumbled to it sooner. But you will, Carroll, and that's why I've held it back. It's staring you in the face.'

I did stare at her. What was she getting at? Nothing. I shook it off.

‘Don't try on that old cliff-hanger. I know you.'

‘Do you? It's surprising, Carroll. You've chased women and slept with them most of your life, yet you don't in the least understand them.' Her voice broke. ‘And, dear God, you've never understood me. Never. No, not ever.'

There was a deeper silence. The sky had clouded and all at once a heavy spatter of hail hit the window. That is the way of it in the high Alps … weather changes so dramatic they shake you, fascinate you, half drown you. Suddenly I remembered the brat parked on the open terrace. I got up and moved towards the door. I would not say another word. I had settled the whole blasted business.

But as I went out, butting against a blast of hail, she said:

‘I'm not going, Carroll. Never.'

That same evening in my room I poured myself a soothing Kirsch and settled down to work things out. I had just made my routine visit to the ward with particular thoroughness, giving Garvey, the older of the ex-pleurisy cases, who was due to go home tomorrow, a going over. He was completely recovered, but from her little side room Matron's eye had been on me, and it was my policy now to recover lost ground and work in with her again. I had already washed out that first idea of dropping the
Herald
on her desk. She read English badly, Davigan would talk herself out of it in a dozen different ways – such a shock, the accident, could not bear to think, even to speak of it! No, it would not be conclusive, not the real clincher.

A hard case, that Davigan, she had ruffled me, put my back up. While giving nothing away, she had set me worrying, with her: ‘ I can still wreck you, Carroll.' What could she be getting at, not bluffing I was sure, she had something important in reserve, still held back from me. I was now convinced that she had delivered the fatal nudge. Up there, on the parapet, already sick to death of him and with the big drop below, almost waiting one might say, she had been struck by that sudden irresistible impulse which induced in the same second the reflex shove. In self-preservation he had grabbed at her, caught the sleeve of her dress which had torn away, then toppled. It was a simple positive equation. But I needed proof.

To stimulate cerebration, I took a slow sip of the Kirsch, which is made from the best Swiss cherries with admirable results. Yes, the answer must lie in what might be named the Dingwall-Daniel alliance. Impossible though it seemed, an understanding appeared to exist between these two, or to be more specific, a secret, unrevealed or purposely suppressed, perhaps even a shred of vital evidence, bearing on the case. On the face of it, an absurd situation, an inconceivable hypothesis – involving two opposites – an aged Canon of the Church, steeped in virtue, desiccated by holiness, and a small boy, the son of the victim, no more than seven years old. Yet these two were intimates, the one as teacher, the other as pupil, a strong sense of interest and affection bound them closely. And more, from the boy's manner, his reticence to all my tentative approaches, there was evidence of a pledge, at least a given promise, not to reveal the secret.

The longer I brooded over this the more my curiosity grew, the more I realized I would never get the bare unvarnished truth until I had it from Daniel. And I wanted it badly. I couldn't force the boy in any way, but there were subtler ways of getting round him. And on this decision I finished the Kirsch.

I knew I would not sleep easily with this on my mind so I went to my desk and dashed off a letter to Lotte explaining how busy I had been and how I hoped, and wanted, to see her, but for the time being must continue to toe the line of duty. I'd had two from her since she phoned, the second had been more than impatient. It was late when I sealed the envelope. I yawned, undressed, took a warm shower, and turned in. Even then I could not sleep. For once my phobia was not the trouble. Apart from the Davigan muddle, it was too long since I had been in Lotte's bed.

But next morning I was up, bright and early, consorting with Matron in the office and winning a brief nod of approval for my punctuality.

‘You know that we send Garvey home today?' I said, after I had greeted her.

‘Jawohl.'
She gave me a queer look, charged with suspicion. ‘So you go once again to the airport?'

‘No, Matron,' I said, confidingly, almost endearingly. ‘I've had rather too much of that place lately. Garvey's a big boy, I'll put him on the train at Davos with his air ticket in his pocket and a tag in his button hole. All he has to do is walk across Zürich station to the air terminal. They know all about our Maybelle lot there.'

‘Ach so.' She looked pleased, even gave me a half smile. ‘That I like besser for him …' adding significantly, ‘and for you, Herr Doktor.' It was the second Herr Doktor I had that week.

‘And if it's all right with you, Matron – you know I always consult you – I thought I would take Daniel along. It would be a nice change for him.'

‘So? You think him well enough for such?'

‘You know what his future is, Matron.' I presented her with my most humane expression. ‘Don't you feel he ought to have a little enjoyment in his short life, while he's having this good spell?'

‘Ja, it is well said. I agree.' She nodded, and gave me that look again, the Hulda version of whimsey. ‘At least he keeps you from mischief, which is goot.'

As might be expected, Davigan was busy in the kitchen, producing savoury smells from a range of pots. Without disturbing her, I managed to get hold of Daniel who jumped at the unexpected prospect of the trip. We got into the Opel, Daniel and I in front, Garvey behind. He was a lumpy boy of fifteen from Edmonton, who never had much to say for himself. Since his pleural effusion had dried up he had put on weight, he looked well, and although incapable of expressing his thanks he was, I imagined, grateful for what we had done for him.

‘Glad to be going home, Garvey?' I said, making conversation over my shoulder.

‘So, so, sir.' He almost whistled that one.

‘You've missed your folks?'

‘Well, I've missed the Spurs.'

‘Your what?'

‘He means his football team. Tottenham Hotspurs,' said the little know-all at my elbow.

We were at Davos in half an hour and after I had put Garvey, well labelled, on the Zurich train, we had a hot chocolate at Zemmer's in the High Street, after which, as I'd planned, I took him to the big covered ice stadium. The hockey match between Villars and Davos had just begun.

I had thought he would enjoy it, but not all that much. He lapped it up, cheering the home team like the oldest inhabitant. After the fourth quarter, when we went out, he said:

‘I wish I could skate like that, Dr Laurence.'

‘Why not?'

He smiled and shook his head.

‘I'm afraid chess will have to be my game.'

‘It is your game,' I said heartily. ‘ If you're still keen on that match at the Pfeffermühle I might put it on for you.'

‘Ah, yes,' he said eagerly. ‘I would love that, absolutely.'

‘Let's make a date then,' I said. ‘How about next Saturday?'

He began to laugh, in great spirits.

‘May I look up my little book to see if I'm free …?' Then broke off the joke. ‘No, seriously, that would be wonderful.