Original Sin (60 page)

How had he managed that alibi for Esmé Carling’s murder? But of course; he and Bartrum had been the only two left alone with her body before the police arrived. Wasn’t it Dauntsey who
had suggested that the women should be taken indoors, that he and Bartrum would wait by the body? He must have arranged his alibi then. But it was surprising that Bartrum had agreed. Had Dauntsey promised to support him in keeping his job? To get him promotion? Or was there an existing obligation to be repaid? Whatever the reason, the alibi had been given. And the pub at which they had met half an hour later than they claimed had been well-chosen. No one at the Sailor’s Return had been able to say precisely when two particular customers had entered that large, raucous and overcrowded tavern.

The murder itself would have presented few problems, the only moment of danger the moving of the launch. But that, of course, would have been necessary. He needed the launch; only in the safety of its cabin could he kill, unseen both from the land and the river. Esmé Carling had been a thin woman and not heavy but Dauntsey was seventy-six and it would have been easier to string her up from the launch than to manoeuvre her body, dead or alive, down the slippery tide-washed steps. And moving the launch would be safe enough if he kept the engine low. The only person living close was Frances and Dauntsey knew from experience how little could be heard from her sitting room with the curtains drawn. And even if she had heard the noise of an engine, would she really have taken the trouble to investigate? This, after all, was a common sound of the river. But after the murder the launch had to be moved back. He couldn’t be certain that there wouldn’t be a trace of her, however small, in the cabin, particularly if there was a struggle. It was important that no one should associate the launch with her death.

She had come to this last fatal appointment by taxi. That must have been by Dauntsey’s suggestion, and his suggestion, too, that she should be put down at the end of Innocent
Passage. He would be waiting there in the shadows, standing in the doorway. What had he told her? That they could speak in greater privacy if they went on the river? He would have placed the manuscript and her message to the partners ready in the cabin. What else would have been there? A rope for the strangling, a scarf, a belt? But he must have hoped that she would be carrying her usual shoulder bag with the strong strap. He must have seen her with it often enough.

And now, with his eyes fixed on the road ahead, his hands lightly on the wheel, Daniel pictured the scene in that narrow cabin. How long would they have talked? Perhaps not at all. She must already have told Dauntsey on the telephone that she had seen him at Innocent House coming down the stairs carrying the vacuum cleaner. That in itself was damning. There was nothing else he needed to know from her. It would have been easiest and safest to waste no time. Daniel could see Dauntsey standing a little aside, politely waiting for her to enter the cabin first, the strap of her bag over her shoulder. Then the quick flick upwards of the strap, the falling and thrashing on the cabin floor, the old hands ineffectively clutching at the leather noose as with both hands he tugged it tight. There must have been at least a second of horrified realization before merciful unconsciousness blacked out her mind for ever.

And this was the man he was driving to warn, not because there could now be any escape for him, but because even the horror of Esmé Carling’s death seemed only one small and inevitable part of a greater and more universal tragedy. All her life she had fabricated mysteries, exploited coincidence, arranged facts to conform to theory, manipulated her characters, relished the self-importance of vicarious power. It was her tragedy that in the end she had confused fiction with real life.

It was after he had left Maldon and turned south by the B1018 that Daniel got lost. He had earlier stopped the car in a lay-by for a minute to consult the map, resenting every second of lost time. The shorter route to Bradwell-on-Sea was by a left-hand turn off the B1018 and through the villages of Steeple and St. Lawrence. He folded the map away and drove on through the dark, desolate landscape. But the road, wider than he had expected, stretched on with two left-hand turns which he hadn’t remembered from the map, and with no sign of the first village. Some instinct which he had never been able to explain told him that he was driving south, not east. He stopped at a crossroads to consult a signpost and by the lights of the car saw the name Southminster. Somehow he had got himself onto the more southerly and longer road. The darkness was intense and thick as a fog. And then the clouds moved from the moon and he saw a roadside pub, closed and derelict, two brick-built cottages with dim lights behind their curtains, and a single wind-distorted tree with a fragment of a white notice nailed to the bark, fluttering like a pinioned bird. On either side of the road the desolate country lay wind-scoured and eerie in the moon’s cold light.

He drove on. The road with its twists and turns seemed endless. The wind was strengthening now, gently buffeting the car. And here at last was the right-hand turn to Bradwell-on-Sea and he saw that he was passing through the outskirts of the village to the squat tower of the church and the lights of the pub. He turned once again, towards the marshlands and the sea. There was no sign of Dauntsey’s car and he couldn’t tell which of them would reach Othona House first. He only knew that for both of them this would be the journey’s end.

He opened the rear door. After the enclosing darkness, the smell of petrol, of the rug, of her own fear, the fresh moonlit air touched her face like a blessing. She could hear nothing but the sighing of the wind, see nothing but his dark form leaning over her. His hands stretched towards her and he fumbled the gag. She felt the brush of his fingers momentarily against her cheek. Then he bent and untied her ankles. The knots were not difficult. If her hands had been free she could have untied them herself. He didn’t need to cut them free. Did that mean that he hadn’t a knife? But she was no longer worried about her own safety. Suddenly she knew that he hadn’t brought her here to kill her. He had other, and for him more important, preoccupations.

He said, with a voice as ordinary, as gentle, as the voice she had known, relied upon, liked to hear: “Frances, if you turn over I can get more easily at your hands.”

It could have been her rescuer speaking, not her gaoler. She turned, and it took only a few seconds to free her. She tried to ease her legs out of the car but they were stiff and he put out his hand to help.

She said: “Don’t touch me.”

The words were indistinct. The gag had been tighter than she had thought and her jaw was fixed in a painful rictus. But he understood. He stepped back at once and watched while she dragged herself out and stood upright, leaning against the car for support. This was the moment for which she had planned, the chance to outrun him, it hardly mattered where. But he had turned from her and she knew that there was no need to run, no point in trying to escape. He had brought her here from necessity, but she was no longer dangerous, no longer important. His thoughts were elsewhere. She could try to stumble away on her cramped legs but he wouldn’t prevent her and he wouldn’t follow. He was moving away from her, staring at the dark outline of a house and she could feel the intensity of his gaze. For him this was the end of a long journey.

She said: “Where are we? What place is this?”

He said, his voice carefully controlled: “Othona House. I’ve come to see Jean-Philippe Etienne.”

They went together to the front door. He rang the bell. She could hear its peal even through the strong oak. The wait was not long. They could hear the rasp of the bolt, the turn of the key in the lock and the door opened. The stocky figure of an old woman dressed in black stood outlined against the light of the hall.

She said: “Monsieur Etienne vous attend.”

Gabriel turned to Frances. “I don’t think you’ve met Estelle, Jean-Philippe’s housekeeper. You’re all right now. In a few minutes you can telephone for help. Estelle will look after you in the meantime if you go with her.”

She said: “I don’t need looking after. I’m not a child. You brought me here against my will. Now I’m here, I’m staying with you.”

Estelle led them down a long stone-floored passage to the back of the house, then stood aside and motioned them to enter. The room, obviously a study, was dark-panelled, the air stagnant with the pungent sweetness of wood smoke. In the stone fireplace the flames leapt like tongues and the wood crackled and hissed. Jean-Philippe Etienne was seated in a high winged chair to the right of the fire. He didn’t get up. Standing against the window, facing the door, was Inspector Aaron. He was wearing a sheepskin jacket, its bulkiness emphasizing the stockiness of his figure. His face was very pale, but as a log of wood crashed and flared it glowed for a moment into ruddy life. His hair was windswept, dishevelled. He must, thought Frances, have arrived just before them and parked his car out of sight.

Ignoring her, he said directly to Dauntsey, “I’ve been following you. I need to talk to you.”

He took an envelope from his pocket and, drawing out a photograph, laid it on the table. He watched Dauntsey’s face in silence. No one moved.

Dauntsey said: “I know what you’ve come to say, but the time for speaking is over. You are here not to talk but to listen.”

And now for the first time Aaron seemed aware of Frances’s presence. He said sharply, almost accusingly: “Why are you here?”

Frances’s mouth still ached but her voice was strong and clear. “Because I was brought here by force. I was bound and gagged. Gabriel has killed Claudia. He strangled her in the garage. I saw her body. Aren’t you going to arrest him? He’s killed Claudia and he killed the other two.”

Etienne had got to his feet but now he gave a curious sound, something between a groan and a sigh, and sank back into his chair. Frances ran to him. She said: “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,
I should have told you more gently.” Then, looking up, she saw Inspector Aaron’s horrified face.

He turned to Dauntsey and said almost in a whisper: “So you did finish the job.”

“Don’t blame yourself, Inspector. You couldn’t have saved her. She was dead before you left Innocent House.”

He spoke directly to Jean-Philippe Etienne. “Stand up, Etienne. I want you to stand.”

Etienne rose slowly from his chair and reached for his cane. With its help he got to his feet. He made an obvious effort to steady himself but swayed and might have fallen if Frances hadn’t moved forward and put her arms around his waist. He didn’t speak, but gazed at Dauntsey.

Dauntsey said: “Stand behind your chair. You can use it for support.”

“I don’t need support.” Firmly he removed Frances’s arm. “It was only a temporary stiffness after sitting. I’m not standing behind the chair as if I were in the dock. And if you have come here as a judge, I thought it was usual to take the plea before the trial and to punish only if there is a verdict of guilty.”

“There has been a trial. I’ve conducted the trial for over forty years. Now I’m asking you to admit that you handed over my wife and children to the Germans, that in fact you sent them to be murdered in Auschwitz.”

“What were their names?”

“Sophie Dauntsey, Martin and Ruth. They were going under the name Loiret. They had forged documents. You were one of the few people who knew that, who knew that they were Jews, who knew where they were living.”

Etienne said calmly: “The names mean nothing. How can I be expected to remember? They weren’t the only Jews I informed on to Vichy and the Germans. How am I expected to
remember the individual names or the families? I did what was necessary at the time. A great number of French lives depended on me. It was important that the Germans continued to trust me if I were to get my allocation of paper, ink and resources for the underground press. How can I be expected to remember one woman and two children after fifty years?”

Dauntsey said: “I remember them.”

“And now you have come for your revenge. Is it still sweet even after fifty years?”

“This isn’t revenge, Etienne. This is justice.”

“Oh don’t deceive yourself, Gabriel. This is revenge. Justice doesn’t require that you come finally to tell me what you have done. Call it justice if it comforts your conscience. It’s a strong word, I hope you know what it means. I’m not sure that I do. Perhaps the representative of the law can help us.”

Daniel said: “It means an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.”

Dauntsey was still gazing at Jean-Philippe. “I have taken no more than you took, Etienne. A son and a daughter for a son and a daughter. You murdered my wife but yours was already dead when I learned the truth.”

“Yes, she was beyond your malice. And mine.”

He said the last two words so quietly that Frances wondered if she had really heard them.

Gabriel went on: “You killed my children; I have killed yours. I have no posterity; you will have none. After Sophie’s death I could never love another woman. I don’t believe that our existence here has a meaning or that we have any future after death. Since there is no God there can be no divine justice. We have to make justice for ourselves and make it here on earth. It has taken me nearly fifty years but I have made my justice.”

“It would have been more effective if you had acted sooner. My son had his youth, his young manhood. He had success, the love of women. You couldn’t take those away from him. Your children had none of them. Justice should be speedy as well as effective. Justice doesn’t wait for fifty years.”

“What has time to do with justice? Time takes away our strength, our talent, our memories, our joys, even our capacity to grieve. Why should we let it take away the imperative of justice? I had to be certain, and that, too, was justice. It took me over twenty years to trace two vital witnesses. Even then I was in no hurry. I couldn’t have stood ten years or more of prison and now I shan’t have to. Nothing is impossible to bear at seventy-six. Then your son got engaged. There might have been a child. Justice required that only two should die.”