House That Berry Built (18 page)

“Once on a time,” I said.

“Did all your murderers make a pack of mistakes?”

“That’s ancient history,” I said. “My memory’s dim. I can only remember Crippen.”

“‘Only’?” cried Shapely. “My God, you weren’t in that?”

“From beginning to end,” said I.

“You helped to prosecute Crippen?”

“I did.”

This was perfectly true. And I was accustomed to excitement, whenever I mentioned the fact. After all,
R v
.
Crippen
is a classic.

Shapely was leaning forward.

“Go on. Tell me about it. How many mistakes did he make?”

I wrinkled my nose.

“In fact,” I said, “Crippen made three. Three very bad mistakes. One was an error of judgment; one was an error of knowledge; and one was – well, just a mistake: he forgot to do something that he had meant to do.”

Shapely settled himself in his corner and crossed his legs.

“Let’s have the error of judgment.”

“Well, you know what he did,” said I. “He murdered his wife. Then he cut up the body and buried it in the cellar. Then he went about his business and, when he was asked where she was, he said that she had left him and he didn’t know where she’d gone.”

“And he got away with that?”

“For about six months. Then somebody got suspicious and went to the police…

“Well, the police didn’t think much of it. The scent was cold. But they called on Crippen and told him that people were saying things. And they pointed out that it might be a good idea if he could locate his wife. Crippen entirely agreed, and arranged to advertise. And the following day he bolted – to Holland,
en route
for Canada.

“Well, there’s the error of judgment. The moment they found he’d bolted, the police were perfectly sure that he’d killed his wife. And after a lot of labour, they found her remains in the cellar, where Crippen had laid them to rest.”

“By God, what a fool!” said Shapely. “And you mean, if he hadn’t run, he’d have been alive now?”

“That’s my private opinion,” said I. “I may be wrong.”

Shapely licked his lips.

“Let’s have the error of knowledge.”

“Well, before he murdered his wife, he took the precaution of buying a sack of lime.”

“A sack of what?”

“Lime,” said I. “Quick lime. It’s very ordinary stuff. But it’s useful in an interment.”

“Go on,” said Shapely.

“Well, he murdered her, cut her up and then began to shove her into the grave. And each time he put a bit in, he put in a spadeful of lime. The remains were laid up in lime.”

“Then how—”

“–were they discovered? I’m coming to that. When he put the lime in, he slaked it…wet it with water…made it into slack lime. And there he made his error of knowledge. Though he posed as a medical man, he was unaware of the elementary fact that, while quick lime destroys, slack lime preserves. In other and better words, he did exactly the opposite to what he was intending to do. He proposed to destroy the remains: in fact, he took care to preserve them – to send him down.

“Well, there was his second mistake. And if he hadn’t made that – well, he
would
have been alive now.

“And now for his third mistake…

“His wife had had an operation, and this had left a big scar. So he cut out the portion of flesh that bore the scar, intending, of course, to destroy it – in case of accidents. The scar was what passports call ‘a distinguishing mark’. Lime or no, if the scar was not to be found, the remains could not be identified as those of his wife. When he cut up the body, he laid that portion aside. (This is surmise, of course, but it’s probably sound.) And then, at the last, he forgot. Forgot he had meant to destroy it, and shoved it into the grave. He may have been startled, or something. The clock may have said it was later than he had thought. Anyway, in it went – the last piece of all; for that was the first thing they saw, when they opened the grave.”

“And that was identified…after a lapse of six months?”

“Why not?” said I. “He’d preserved it – by slaking his lime. The piece was in perfect preservation. I saw it in Court.”

Shapely made to let down the window: but when he stood up, his knees gave way and he crumpled and fell at my feet.

I lugged him on to the seat, loosened his collar and opened the window wide.

The next moment he opened his eyes.

“Lie still,” I said. “I’m sorry. It’s not a tale for weak stomachs. Half a minute. I’ve got some brandy here.”

He drank the brandy I poured, and then lay back.

“Weak stomachs?” he said. “I don’t know what you’re made of. It’s the most revolting story I ever heard.”

“Damn it,” I said. “You asked me.”

“You don’t leave much out, do you? Have you got any more of that brandy? I still feel sick.”

So Crippen served my turn.

For nearly an hour, Shapely never opened his mouth, but lay, either sleeping or dozing, whilst I sat back in my corner and read a book.

At the end of that time I saw him looking at me.

“All right now?” I said.

For a moment the man made no answer.

Then—

“The legal mind,” he said. “Trained in Treasury Chambers. You know perfectly well why I hope that they won’t find Tass.”

I looked at him very straight.

“What are you getting at, Shapely?”

“All right. Let’s pretend. And I’ll tell you what you know. You know I don’t care two hoots what happens to Tass. Why the devil should I? The man was a blasted nuisance, and if I’d had any sense, I’d have fired him before I did. But you also know that the very last thing I want is to be the principal witness at Tass’ trial…because you know what Tass’ reactions will be…when he sits in the dock and hears me swearing his life away.”

“Do his – reactions matter?”

Shapely sat up and swung his legs to the floor.

“They mattered a lot to Old Rowley. Old Rowley had done him no wrong. He’d every right to fire him. But that didn’t count with Tass. Tass is the kind of — who has it in for people who, as he himself would put it, let him down.”

“You mean—”

“This,” said Shapely. “If I go into the box, I put the rope round his neck. The moment I mention those keys, he’ll know that he’s sunk. So he’ll say, ‘All right, I’m sunk: but I’ll take the — that’s sunk me down with me.’
And he’ll say I gave him the keys
, to help him to do the job.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“He can make what statements he likes. It doesn’t follow, you know, that they’ll be believed.”

“Be your age, Pleydell,” said Shapely. “Which of us two stood to gain by Old Rowley’s death? He ‘eased a grudge’, as you put it: but I got three-quarters of a million – and more than that. That’s something like a motive, and you know it as well as I. And why stop at the keys? He won’t. He’ll say I fixed the whole thing – and promised him twenty thousand, provided he brought it off.” He threw himself back in his seat, and mopped his face. “So now you see, if you didn’t see it before, why I don’t want Tass to be found. Would you – if you stood in my shoes?”

I turned and looked out of the window.

“To be perfectly honest, Shapely, I don’t think I should.”

“Exactly. And, speaking as counsel, what would you give for my chances, if Tass went into the box and swore that I was behind him in all he did?”

“Quite a lot,” said I, “provided you hadn’t paid him his twenty thousand pounds.”

When I got back to Pau, I told Jonah what had occurred.

When I had done—

“This is not for Falcon,” I said. “In fact, as I see it, Shapely said nothing that Falcon ought to know. But, if you think he did, then you mustn’t pass it on. I dislike the fellow intensely, and I shall always believe that he planned the whole of the murder and that Tass was no more than the weapon with which the crime was done. But he spoke to me as an acquaintance, and not as ‘a copper’s nark’.”

“I quite agree,” said Jonah. “But, if you’ve left nothing out, he said nothing that could be used against himself.” He hesitated. “Well, perhaps I shouldn’t say that. He ‘visualized’ a certain contingency. I mean, he told you the line which Tass, if he came to be tried, would certainly take. And if Tass does come to be tried and does take that line – well, the fact that he had foreseen it would not sound well. Never mind. I won’t tell Falcon. But fancy his fainting like that! I wouldn’t have said he was squeamish. In fact, I don’t think he is. I think it was fellow-feeling. Fellow-feeling for a man who did murder – and got caught out.”

“You may be right,” said I. “But it was a bestial experience. Shut up for two hours with the swine. I tell you I damned near died when I saw who it was.”

“I can think of nothing,” said Jonah, “that I should have disliked so much. And now let’s forget the matter. I’m sure you’ll be glad to hear that they’ve finished the excavation. In fact, the retaining wall is already eight inches high.”

At eleven o’clock the next morning, I stood once more on the platform and looked at the mountains about me, lifting their lovely heads. The day was flawless. There was no cloud, no wind, and the sun rejoiced in an ocean of deepest blue.

A semicircle of wall was rising against the mountain behind the house, and Joseph was laying out the stem of the capital T. On the cross of the T, no work was being done, for all the masons were busy on the semicircular wall. To one side, lay a heap of tarpaulins, with which, every evening, the wall was carefully covered against the frost.

Joseph looked up and saw me.

He came at once to the platform, brushing the dirt from his hands.

“Well done, Joseph,” I said. “You said you’d have something to show.”

“To be honest, Monsieur, I did not expect so much. But Fortune smiled on us, and we have had weather like this to help us on.”

We spoke for a little of my journey. Then we went to look at the wall. This did not touch the mountain at any point, and the gap between them was being packed with stones.

“The house must be dry, Monsieur. And so the foundations of this wall are rather deeper than those of the house will be. And we have built a gutter behind it, to slope either way: and then we shall build another gutter this side; and of course the wall will be furnished with many pipes. So any water that comes from the earth behind will be caught and will flow away on either side of the house.”

Just before mid-day I gave him a cheap dispatch-case containing his book.

“The case is nothing,” I said. “But you are in lodgings up here and I think perhaps you have nothing which you can lock. And, since you are out all day – well, now you’ll know that no strangers are turning the leaves of your book.”

“Monsieur is more than thoughtful. I cannot bear my things being touched. But Monsieur has not said what the book is about.” He weighed the case in his hands. “It must be a very big book, to weigh so much.”

“Open it when you get back.”

“Monsieur has written my name in it?”

“Yes.”

And there the others arrived, with lunch in the car.

We broke our fast on the ledge, as we had so often done…

Joseph was standing before me, béret in hand.

“I have no words, Monsieur,” he said. “Of all things that I could have desired, Monsieur has chosen the fairest to give to me. I never knew that such books as this were made. And on every page, a picture. I opened it after my dinner – I made it wait until then. I always rest for an hour: but today, when the hour was over and it was time to return, the book was still open before me… And what shall I not learn from this book? It is a treasure-house. And now it is back in its coffer. See, I have the key round my neck. But it must have been dreadfully costly. Monsieur is very good to have spent so much money on me.”

“As long as you like it, Joseph.”

“It is my Bible, Monsieur, from this time on. Full of lovely pictures of lovely work. Tonight I study those of foundations. And this house will have the foundations which fine English houses have. It is, of course, composed by a master. And, thanks to Monsieur, I can now sit at his feet.”

I found such gratitude upsetting. Anyone would. I had so much, and Joseph had so little. And yet… I began to wonder if he was not richer than I.

Half an hour later, perhaps, Jill and I walked up the road towards Besse. As we came to the scarecrow meadow in which the half-built cottage was rearing its ruinous walls, I saw that labour of some sort was being done within.

When we came abreast of the doorway, I peered inside.

Two men were at work on the landslide – working with pick and shovel, to clear it away.

One I knew by sight – he was living at Besse.

He saw me, came to the doorway and gave me good day.

“You see,” he said, “I am following Monsieur’s example. I am going to dwell in the country. This beautiful field is mine, and so is this handsome house. Soon it will be one of a row. That is the way to make money. Build, and then let to your neighbours. Monsieur should do the same: he has plenty of room.”

“That’s quite an idea,” said I. “We shall have to think it over.”

As we passed up the road, Jill turned a horrified face.

“But, Boy! A row of cottages? Their smoke right across the terrace, whenever the wind’s in the west!”

I slid an arm under hers.

“They’ll never be built,” I said grimly. “He’s just ramming home the wisdom of buying his rotten field. And we shall have to do it. The sooner, the better, too: for he’s sure to add to the price the cost of the labour he’s putting into that house.”

“But it isn’t a house,” cried Jill. “No one can ever live there.”

“I know, my sweet. This is what is called ‘big business’ – by the people who win. The people who lose call it ‘dirty work’ or ‘blackmail’. And there you are. We’re on a loser, all right. Never mind. It might be worse, for those stones will be very useful. We’ll pull that ruin down and make something out of that meadow before we’re done.”

“If only,” said Jill, “it was the field with the grotto. I love that meadow, Boy.”

“So do I. But no one could build in that, so we’ve nothing to fear. And now I think perhaps we’d better get back. The others ought to know this, and I’d like a word with Ulysse.”