Five Roundabouts to Heaven (19 page)

“You shouldn’t have come, if you have got a chill,” said Lorna. “Not on a night like this.”

“What should I have done?”

“Stayed at home.”

“And not be with you? No, thank you.”

“Well, you’d better take a couple of aspirins before you go to bed.”

What time would he be going to bed? One o’clock? Two o’clock? It all depended. Perhaps three o’clock or four; in that case he would be taking his aspirins with the cup of tea which the sergeant and constable would bring him while they “looked round the flat” as they’d call it. He didn’t know what time he would be going to bed.

“One of the secretaries at the office gave me some red and green pills to take. She says they’re very good.”

“Have you taken any?”

He nodded. Even Lorna had to be deceived in a small way. Even for Lorna it was as well to provide a reason why his cold did not develop. Then he realized that this was unnecessary: he would not be seeing Lorna again for a month or so. So he needn’t have lied to Lorna. He would never lie to Lorna again, nor to anybody else, once this business was over. He was tired of subterfuge, fed up with intrigue.

He placed his arm round her shoulder and held her more tightly, not kissing her, however, but gazing silently at the carpet, as though trying to draw strength from the tranquillity which for him was one of her most wonderful characteristics.

“Darling Lorna, I do love you so.”

He slid his hand from her shoulders to the side of her head, and pulled her head down so that it lay on his shoulder, and bent down and put his cheek against her brow. Lorna reached up and put her hand on his, and caressed it.

Her hand was soft, her movements gentle, and little by little he felt the agitation within him dying down. Suddenly, she removed his arm, and said:

“Now, young man. I’m going to get the supper.”

“I’ll help you.”

He started to follow her to the door, and the corgi, instinctively guessing that food was being discussed, rose to his feet and pattered after her, too.

“Go and sit by the fire, Barty,” said Lorna. “Get thoroughly warm. Most of the supper is ready.”

“I’d rather help you, darling.”

“There’s nothing you can do, Barty. Really there isn’t. The trolley is laid—I thought we’d eat in here, as it’s so cold—the soup just needs heating up, and all I’ve got to do is to throw a little liver and bacon into the pan. The potatoes are cooked. So go and sit down.”

“I’d rather be with you. I would much rather be with you.”

But she pushed him gently from the door, towards the table where the drinks were standing.

“Don’t be obstinate. Pour yourself another whisky, a good stiff one, and go and sit by the fire. I won’t be ten minutes.”

He watched her go out, and did not dare to insist upon being with her, because that might have seemed unnatural. Tonight he could not afford to appear anything other than composed and normal. He poured out the whisky, sat by the fire, glad that he had not insisted. Tonight was the test of willpower. Once again he felt a curious little thrill which was entirely unconnected with Lorna.

He, Philip Bartels, was in conflict with all the forces of society. That took some doing. That required organization, forethought, nerve, courage. Admittedly, he had hesitated, had had qualms, even some personal fears.

Why not, indeed? What was more natural?

He might not be a very good traveller in wines. In fact, he thought, swallowing some of the whisky, he was frankly a pretty bad salesman. Well, not bad, perhaps, but not very good. One had to face that fact.

But he had won Lorna. And having won her, he had not let circumstances defeat him, as most other men might have done.

No fear! He had gone into action. Decisively. But with care and forethought, mind. Not rashly, committing one blunder after another, as others did. Coolly.

He wondered how many of the smooth gentlemen who disparaged his wines, even declined to see him when he called, would have had the nerve to do what he was doing.

They’d either have run out on Beatrice—a squalid and untidy procedure—or abandoned the whole project. It’s all very fine and dandy to sit in an office countering the arguments of wretched commercial travellers. Any fool could do that. But to take on the organized protective forces of the community, that was quite a different thing!

Some people might think he, Bartels, was a bloody fool. A bit of a poor fish. But he wasn’t. Not entirely. He was like the iceberg, which only shows a bit of itself on the surface, and he was just about as cool, when the need arose—though normally warm-hearted, mind you, very warm-hearted.

He put the empty glass on a table at his side, and stroked the head of the corgi, and thought of the dog Brutus lying under the snow at the end of the garden. Brutus wouldn’t get his headstone now. Well, what the hell did that matter?

What would become of his cottage?

It would presumably be his. He would sell it, of course. Couldn’t live there again. That would be too much. Or he might give it back to Beatrice’s parents. As a gesture. They would be upset, of course. But they’d get over it. They had three other children, and anyway they only saw Beatrice two or three times a year.

He heard the squeak of the trolley wheels in the passage, and got up and opened the door.

Rather to his own surprise, he was not very hungry.

“It’s your cold coming on,” said Lorna.

“Perhaps,” said Bartels, staring at a little Empire clock on the wall which showed 8.15.

“Maybe,” said Bartels.

It seemed only a few minutes since there had been four hours to go. Now there were barely three. Or even less. Time passed quickly sometimes.

U
p
in the woods above the château an owl hooted, and on the highway I heard the sound of a car.

Not yet, I thought, not yet. Don’t let them return yet. Don’t let them come swooshing round the drive in their high-powered car, the glaring headlights lighting up the woods; and come tumbling out of the car, laughing and joking after their day out, this one saying how hungry he is, that one calling out for somebody to go mix him the biggest goddam highball ever thought of, and the women calling to the children, and the lamps being lit all over the house, and the sound of snatches of song; and laughter, more laughter.

Nice people, no doubt, gay and generous and big-hearted, but I didn’t want them yet. Not just at that moment, when I had almost worked it all out, nearly had the picture clear of the workings of the mind of Philip Bartels, my friend.

The sound of the car drew nearer; then passed, and died away in the distance. I relaxed, thankful. The owl hooted again.

My pipe had gone out long since. I did not bother to relight it.

I
t was about 8.30, and Bartels and Lorna had finished the soup, and were just finishing the liver and bacon, sitting before the fire, the trolley between them, and George the corgi was looking hopefully from one to the other. Lorna said:

“How’s Beatrice?”

Bartels, picking about with his liver and bacon, looked at her in surprise.

“Why?” he asked in an astonished tone.

“Didn’t she have palpitations, or something, once?” asked Lorna, breaking a promise.

“Oh, that. Yes, she did, once.” He was about to add: “Her heart is sound enough, though,” when he stopped himself.

How much did a layman know about palpitations? he wondered. Did a woman like Lorna know that palpitations due to a few too many aspirins, a purely temporary allergy, had no significance at all? Might it not be as well to prepare her in some way for the news about Beatrice?

He toyed with the idea, then cut off a corner of liver and gave it to the corgi, and watched the dog eat it and look up for more. He put the idea aside. There was no point in trying to be too clever.

Lorna had finished the liver and bacon, and had turned towards the fire. She was peeling an orange, saying nothing, throwing the peel in the fire. Bartels mentally picked up the idea again, turned it round and round, and over. Why not? What harm could it do? One mustn’t overdo it, of course. Just toss the sentence out casually.

“Hearts can be a bit tricky,” he said absently, and left it at that. He was tempted to elaborate, but he resisted the urge, and congratulated himself upon his artistry.

“Yes,” said Lorna, still staring into the fire.

“Cigarette?” Bartels extended his case.

Lorna shook her head silently, began dividing her orange up into segments. The corgi, seeing nothing further was to be gained in the way of liver, walked to the grate and curled up for a nap.

After a while, Bartels said: “What’s the matter? You’re very thoughtful.”

“I’ve good cause to be.” She looked at him and smiled sadly.

“Why? What’s the matter?”

Some premonition of disaster, or the unaccustomed sadness on Lorna Dickson’s face, gave Bartels a curious feeling in the pit of his stomach. He shifted uneasily in his chair.

“What’s the matter?” he asked for the third time. “For heaven’s sake tell me; don’t just sit there.”

“Barty,” she began. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about what I’m going to say—there is no other man who means as much to me as you and never has been since Ronald was killed.”

She paused while Bartels, wide-eyed, still and unblinking, heard the wild tolling of alarm bells above the crash and surge of breakers on a rocky beach, and above that, louder and louder, the roll of drumbeats, in his breast, his head, every part of his body even to his fingertips.

Lorna was looking him straight in the face now. Her lips were slightly parted, her serenity was disturbed, but the inner beauty, glimpsed through the grey-blue eyes, was untarnished.

She rose and came and sat on the arm of Bartels’ chair, and put her arm round his shoulders, and pressed him against her side.

“Barty, I don’t think we can go through with this thing, dearest. I have given it a lot of thought. I don’t think it’s fair to Beatrice, and above all, it might be dangerous for her.” She hesitated, groping for the right phrase. “Above all, I don’t think it’s even fair to you—or me.”

“Why?” whispered Bartels.

The alarm bells had ceased tolling, the breakers had receded, leaving exposed the jagged black rocks of despair. But the drums were still beating louder and faster than ever.

“Why, Lorna? Why? Lorna, darling Lorna, you can’t let me down now. Not at this stage.”

She began to stroke his light brown hair, trying ineffectually to flatten the bits which stood up on the crown of his head.

“Do you wish me to marry you to avoid letting you down? From a sense of duty? Is that what you are suggesting?”

“This is only a passing qualm, Lorna.”

He tried desperately to sound cheerful. “You’ll feel better tomorrow. Come on, let’s have a drink! What’s yours?”

He tried to get out of the chair, but she gently pushed him back. “Not now, my dear. This is not a time for drinks. This is the moment for clear thinking and talking.”

He sat back in the chair, then, very still, his eyes staring at the ceiling, pale and drawn, the firelight reflected in the lenses of his spectacles.

“Don’t you see?” said Lorna miserably. “Don’t you see? If anything happened to her, we should never forgive ourselves. She would always be between us.”

“Would she?” asked Bartels bitterly. “Would she really? So they say in books of fiction. She would always be between us. Her shadow would come between us. Our happiness would turn sour. I know, I know, I’ve read about it. I wonder whether it is true. I doubt it.”

“I, for one, can’t risk it.”

The plans, the precautions, the hesitations, the fears, all were pointless. Beatrice was to die, a sacrificial victim on an altar of failure.

Even if Lorna changed her mind before he left, when she heard that Beatrice was dead she would think that he had taken matters into his own hands, had told her the truth; and that Beatrice had had a heart attack as a result. Lorna would never forgive him or herself.

He heard Lorna say: “I know what this means to you.” He thought how often people said that, and how little they really knew. He heard her add: “Believe me, I would like to have married you more than anything. But not this way.”

“Not this way,” he repeated softly.

That’s what he had said when Beatrice had her little palpitations and was so scared and unhappy.

Not this way. My freedom, yes, he had said, but not this way, not by her death; and later he had modified it, and said, not by her death in fear or pain.

“Don’t let’s come to any final decision tonight,” he implored her, but again he thought: What’s the use? If Beatrice dies, Lorna will blame me and herself.

“I think it’s as hard for me as for you,” said Lorna. “And I’ve already come to the decision. I shall feel no different tomorrow.”

Suddenly, she put her arms round him and placed her cheek against his brow, as he had to her earlier in the evening.

“Oh, my dear, I know it’s hard, but try not to take it too badly. Let’s see if we can’t get through to the end of our lives now without causing too much damage.”

After a while he said, quite simply: “All right, if that’s what you want.” He put her from him, firmly but not roughly, and rose to his feet. “Mind if I have that drink now?”

Lorna went over to the drinks table, poured him out a whisky, and handed him the glass.

“Aren’t you drinking?”

She shook her head, and stood by the grate, both hands on the mantelpiece, looking down into the fire. He drank half the whisky without a pause.

“What about us—now?” he asked.

“I think we should break it up,” whispered Lorna. “Half and half is no good, Barty.”

“All right,” he said, and drank off the remainder of the whisky. “As you wish.” He replaced the glass on the table.

“Don’t you think it better?” asked Lorna, still staring into the fire.

“As you wish,” said Bartels again. “I am going now. Thank you for your past kindness. Also for tonight’s supper.”

Lorna swung round quickly from the mantelpiece.

“Don’t let’s part like that, Barty, dearest.”

“Like what?”

“In bitterness.”

She made to put her arms round his neck, but he drew back.

“Don’t let’s part like that, either.”

She let her arms fall to her sides. “You think I’m beastly, I know, I’m sorry about that. I didn’t want that to happen.”

Bartels sighed and shook his head impatiently.

“I think you might have let me know a little earlier, that’s all.”

He was beginning to feel the panic rising inside him, in recurring waves; rising and subsiding, then rising again. Provided Beatrice adhered to her plans, he had time to get back. But he had to leave at once to be on the safe side. He had to go, now, without delay.

His emotions were confused, the pain caused by Lorna’s decision was anaesthetized by the fear that Beatrice might die for nothing, and the shock of Lorna’s words was deadened by the urgent need to get back to London as fast as he could.

Deep down, he was bitter and hurt, but those feelings were temporarily submerged beneath the turmoil of other emotions. He resented now every minute he had to spend in the house. He glanced at the clock. It was 9.10. An hour and a half. Less, to be safe.

He moved towards the door. He moved slowly, because the position was in one respect as it had been earlier: he could not afford to act unnaturally.

At the door, he turned. Lorna was standing in the middle of the room, looking after him.

“Let’s pretend I’m nipping down to the local to buy a bottle of gin,” he said. “Let’s make it easy, like that.”

His hand was on the door-knob when a thought occurred to him, and he paused, and came back into the room, and stood staring at the carpet, while the blood rushed into his face, as it always did when he was suffering from a sudden shock.

She had a habit of keeping his letters, and he had sent her a great many. He was trying to think quickly, to remember any phrase or phrases he may have written which, if the worst came to the worst, would sound damning in a court of law.

For a few seconds all he could think was: Thompson and Bywaters, Mrs Thompson, Frederick Bywaters, what had she written that had sounded so damning in court? Glass, it was something to do with glass. “I have tried the ground glass in his food, but it didn’t work,” something like that. Dramatizing herself, some said.

Her letters were found in his seachest, or somewhere. Both were hanged. His thoughts raced on. They put a white bag over your head, so that you felt all shut in, suffocating, worse than being in a locked room or a dark tunnel. He’d shout and struggle if they tried to do that to him, and it’d all be sordid and undignified.

A wave of claustrophobia swept over him, so that perspiration broke out on his forehead, and he had to clench his fists and breathe deeply, until, little by little, he could force his thoughts back to the letters he had written to Lorna.

Lorna Dickson stared at him. “Are you feeling all right, Barty?”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I’m all right. Just let me think for one moment.”

She said nothing, but moved over to the side table and poured out a small glass of brandy. She brought it over to him, but he only said:

“No, no, thank you. Not that. Just let me think clearly, Lorna. Clearly, just for a minute.”

But there was nothing in his letters. He was sure of that. There was no reason why there should be. What could there be? He hardly ever mentioned Beatrice in his letters.

He sought to concentrate his mind more narrowly upon recent letters—letters from Manchester, Bradford, Leeds, the south coast.

What had he written from Manchester, where he had bought the altrapeine? There was a mention of Beatrice in that letter, a reference to a talk with Lorna about telling Beatrice the truth, asking her to release him. It was before he had made up his mind to act differently. Only he hadn’t made it as clear as that in the letter.

Then he remembered the words he had used, and the significance of them again sent the blood rushing to his face.

“About Beatrice,”
he had written,
“I shall arrive at the cottage tomorrow evening. We shall be alone this weekend. A good opportunity to do it.”

And now he remembered another, an earlier one, written from Cardiff. Sometime ago now; but that didn’t matter, that didn’t matter at all, that merely tended to show how long a time he had been premeditating it all:
“I will spend the first part of the evening with you, my beloved, and from you I will draw the strength to enable me to do that which we both know has to be done sometime.”

He sat down on the arm of an easy chair and covered his face with his hands. Lorna came to his side and put her arm once more round his shoulders.

“What is it, Barty?”

He put his hands down, and got up and moved to the mantelpiece, and stood there irresolutely, still trying to think of other references, still trying to decide what to do.

There was at least one other reference, but he couldn’t exactly recall it, except to remember that he had thanked her for reassuring him that he would be justified in doing what he contemplated.

All were references to the talk which at one time he thought he would have with Beatrice; each and every one, taken in conjunction with other factors, was enough to sway the minds of a jury; enough to implicate Lorna as well as himself.

They hanged Mrs Thompson. What of Lorna? What chance does “the other woman” have in cases like this?

Counsel in court. Bewigged, hard, implacable Counsel. Hitching up his gown, smiling, self-confident.

“You have, then, members of the jury, ample evidence that the death of Mrs Bartels was calculated to further the sordid plans of both the accused.