Perfect Gallows (22 page)

Nunc Dimittis
.

“Well, watcher got to say?”

“It's been very interesting, sir.”

The eyes opened, furious.

“Watcher mean, interesting? That all you got to say?”

Andrew paused, mastering the rage inside him, keeping his face marble. The rage was intense, a focused blaze, far stronger than what he'd felt running up through the plantation when he'd heard Jean's scream and Brian's laugh. This old wretch, this useless left-over, trying to sucker himself on to Andrew, to attach the long loathsome trail of his own life, all the way back to that afternoon in the Itchen reeds, for Andrew to drag on through the years. It was not going to happen. Mum was dead. There was going to be no past. He let the pause stretch while the clock tocked in the corridor outside and the painful breath wheezed to and fro. At the twanging instant he spoke, icy but amused.

“It has been useful to me as an actor to listen to an old man on his death-bed.”

Instantly, with no pause at all, the body beneath the bedclothes convulsed. That spasm jerked the shoulders up and sideways, with the head seeming to lunge snarling for Andrew's wrist. The movement stopped. In fact it had been only a twitch of a few inches, but its suddenness and speed had given it that sense of violence, the last spurt of life's energies exploding out of an ember. The right arm scrabbled to support the body, failed. The body flopped back. The lungs dragged at air, choked on the indrawn breath. The face suffused blue-purple and lay staring at the ceiling.

After a couple of seconds Andrew took the right wrist and tried to find the pulse. None. With his index finger he pulled an eyelid down. It came at his touch and stayed. He closed the other eye and stood staring down.

We did that, he thought. Adrian and Andrew. We spoke the word, and it was done. A clean cut. No past. Gone.

He waited half a minute more, filled with the wonder of it, then turned and ran to the door. The nurse was standing along by a window into the courtyard, frowning at the crossword she was doing on the sill.

“Quick!” he blurted (worried, scared, only-a-boy). “Something's happened!”

She scuttered to the room, saw the still-purple face on the pillow, paused and went quietly over. She felt for the pulse, raised an eyelid and closed it, and stood back.

“He was telling me a story,” he said. “Then suddenly he sort of choked.”

“Now don't you go fretting—it was none of your fault. Could've happened any instant. A wonder he'd lasted that long.”

“Shall … shall I go and tell my cousins?”

“And if somebody could phone up the doctor …”

“All right.”

Cousin Blue sobbed gustily. Cousin Brown went to her desk and began a list of things to be done. Charles, after a few grave murmurs, stared out of the window. Andrew had found the three of them in the Boudoir, apparently in the pause of an argument. Now all he could do was wait. Jean would be coming along for a rehearsal in ten minutes, and he could slip out and explain …

Cousin Brown rose and left the room with the list in her hand. Cousin Blue dabbed her eyes, blew her nose and crossed to the window where Charles was standing. She put her hand on his shoulder, a gesture implying ownership as much as affection, and looked at the familiar view in silence. Cousin Brown came back into the room.

“How very peculiar,” she said. “Please ring that bell, Andrew—two pushes. I telephoned Oyler to tell him of Father's death and to ask him to come out as soon as he was able, but it appears that he had already arranged to do so this very afternoon.”

“On a Saturday?” said Cousin Blue.

“Samuel apparently telephoned him on Thursday, saying that he was speaking with Father's authority. He would have preferred to come yesterday, naturally, but was told that was too soon. Furthermore, he was not to let any of us know that he was coming.”

“Really!” said Cousin Blue. “It seems to me that Samuel is becoming a thorough …”

She stopped as the door opened and Samuel came quietly in.

“You rung, miss.”

“Yes,” said Cousin Brown. “I'm afraid I have some sad news. My father has died.”

“We are all very sorry, miss.”

“Thank you. And you have known him a long time and been a very faithful friend and servant. Would you please see that the others are told?”

Samuel nodded and turned as if to leave.

“One moment,” said Cousin Brown. “I gather you spoke to Mr Oyler on Thursday and made arrangements for him to come and see Father this afternoon.”

“Yes, miss.”

“And you asked him not to let any of us know he was coming?”

“Only what Baas Wragge told me to say,” said Samuel, not at all defensive.

“But why? It seems very peculiar.”

Samuel hesitated, looking gravely at the four of them in turn. “He said to tell Mr Oyler to bring out the old will,” he said. “He was planning to change it.”

“Oh, nonsense!” said Cousin Blue.

“I do not agree,” said Cousin Brown. “All we know about the old will is that he made it when he was in a rage with Clarice …”

“Your silly little wife, Charlie,” said Cousin May.

“Ah,” said Charles.

“It would be entirely sensible for Father to make a new will,” said Cousin Brown. “He would no doubt leave instructions for the clarification of Charles's position, and also make some provision for Andrew. Did he say anything to you about any of this, Andrew?”

“Andrew is hardly a reliable …”

“May!”

“Dear Andrew, I am not talking personally, of course. But anyone who thought he might inherit
rather
a lot of money would be bound to be a
bit
influenced …”

“It's all right,” said Andrew. “I mean, well, actually he spent most of the time telling me about the row he had with the rest of the family. I sort of got the impression that he knew he was, well, dying, and he just wanted to rub it in he'd been in the right.”

“Of course he was,” said Cousin Blue. “That goes without saying. Samuel, I have to tell you that in my opinion you are grossly exceeding your duties and we are far from pleased with you. You are not to tell anyone else this ridiculous tale. You agree, Charles?”

“Er, well … isn't it all a bit late? I mean, er …”

“It is clear,” said Cousin Brown, “that Father intended to do something for Andrew. That is no doubt why it wouldn't do for Oyler to come out until this afternoon. Father wanted to speak to Andrew first. Samuel, did he tell you anything about how he proposed to change his will?”

“Yes, miss.”

“Well?”

“He said for me not to tell anyone.”

There was a long silence while they looked at him. Cousin Blue was about to break it when Samuel held up his hand.

“Baas Wragge is dead,” he said. “No good me saying anything now.”

“You know, I seem to think that's right,” said Charles. “Let's see what's in the will, eh? Then we'll know where we are.”

“Very well,” said Cousin Brown. “Andrew, I think you had better stay here this afternoon. Mr Oyler will no doubt wish to speak with you. And Samuel, I think you would be well advised to tell Mr Oyler what you know, too.”

“I must think, miss.”

“I'd better go and rescue Jean,” said Andrew. “She hasn't got a pass.”

“Oh yes, of course,” said Cousin Brown. “Now, Samuel, what time …”

Andrew slipped away. He had to wriggle through a sort of traffic jam on the stairs, where the GIs carrying the officers' personal belongings down from the upper floors had become enmeshed with others ferrying cases of equipment out of the lower rooms. There were still the same furious outbursts but their tone had changed. The frustration was now of hustle. I'll make her go alone, he thought. The trailers had looked like rubbish, back-row stuff. No harm in reminding her what it used to be like without me.

SIX

Old Mr Oyler was a surprise—not all that old, for a start. Andrew had been expecting someone ancient, parchment-dry, with a reedy voice and gold-rimmed spectacles. He turned out to be around sixty, a large man with jutting bones, like a starved cart-horse. Certainly he appeared exhausted, with deep-sunk eyes and wet purplish lips. When he spoke the air in front of him was filled with spray. To Andrew he had the look of a visiting preacher, the sort about whom the chapel-goers murmur afterwards that he used to be a very fine man.

Altogether the scene was a bit like Chapel. The furniture in the Boudoir had been rearranged with Mr Oyler facing his congregation across Cousin Brown's desk. His clerk, a nut-coloured little woman, sat at his elbow. The family were in the front seats and the servants behind. Flies tapped and buzzed on the window-panes. Orders and music—Cousin Blue's nice war-music—came faintly from the camp tannoy. Brief spells of sunshine shafted between speeding clouds. It was difficult to stay awake.

“Bit premature to read this,” said Mr Oyler, “but since I'm here, and it's here, and you're all here, and we don't want a lot of unnecessary speculation at a time of great uncertainty for us all, and there's the difficulty of getting everyone together …”

He drew a wheezing breath. The clerk took her chance to whisper in his ear.

“Yes, yes, of course,” he said. “I'd best explain before I start that there are provisions in this will—my father drew it up … when was it? Oh, yes, 1922—provisions about which my father was dubious from the first … whether they would stand the test of the courts, you understand … supposing it came to litigation, that is. Sir Arnold was absolutely insistent, it seems. Be that as it may … ahem … in view of recent events, let us hope …”

He glanced at Charles who was staring at his own shoes and did not stir. As the lawyer began to read, Andrew withdrew himself into his inner cave. The will was nothing to do with him. He would not move a muscle, breathe a breath, for the sake of a single penny of the estate. He would not even take an interest in the outcome. He let the words bumble against his mind like the flies against the window.

“To Samuel Mkele, so long as he shall remain in service at The Mimms … To Mary Mkele … service at The Mimms … To Florence Lavender Franklin … The Mimms … The Mimms … The Mimms …”

Endless commaless sentences. Jean would be at the cinema by now—he'd bike out and meet her on her way back. No rehearsal tomorrow. Church, of course. Black arm-bands? Uncle Vole's death was not part of the plan but it was perfectly timed, heightening the drama, the feeling of world-change, of time rushing away, of a moment to be seized and clung to—she would feel that. He would see that she did. And at a tactical level the domestic upheavals meant that he could see just as much of her as he needed, judging his point each time at which to sigh and say he'd better be getting back to the house, so that by the time she cycled off to milking tomorrow afternoon … He must find an hour somewhere to get the eyrie ready. It looked like being a colder evening than he'd hoped for. They'd need something to cover themselves …

“… my son Charles Arnold Bellamy Wragge … using their utmost diligence in such inquiry … failing such proof … my grandson John Nicholas Wragge … conditional upon his residence at The Mimms …”

As Mr Oyler tired, his voice became hollow and dragging, a voice from the grave, muttering instructions—well said, old Vole, canst work i' th' ground so fast.

“… predecease me, leaving no male issue … my house The Mimms … and all other structures whatsoever to be utterly demolished …”

“No!”

Cousin Blue's shriek of protest shook Andrew from his trance and allowed his aural memory to reconstruct the rhythm of the preceding phrase and then to understand it. Mr Oyler looked up.

“This is the provision about which my father was dubious,” he said. “Rightly, in my opinion. It could certainly be contested in the courts by any interested party, though the litigation might prove lengthy and costly, so let us hope …”

His voice trailed away. He glanced towards Charles, as if expecting him to come to his rescue, but it was Cousin Brown who spoke.

“May we have this quite clear? My father left instructions that a search was to be made for my brother Charles, and if he was found then the estate was to be his …”

“After certain bequests and the settlements upon yourself and Miss May, yes, yes.”

“If he was not found, then Nicholas was to be heir. And if Nicholas died before my father, leaving no children …”

“No
male
issue …”

“… then May and I and the servants would still get our share and after that something called the Wragge Foundation was to be set up, and everything left would be sold and put into it, except that this house and all its outbuildings had to be pulled down …”

“Ridiculous!” said Cousin Blue. “He must have been of unsound mind.”

“Nonsense,” said Cousin Brown. “It was absolutely typical of Father. He hated women.”

Yes, thought Andrew. The old poison-spitter, in his prime of malice, twenty-five years ago, just after he'd lost his law case to get his hands on Nicholas, standing on his terraces one evening, looking at his view, hearing a daughter's voice from behind his rose walk—May's simper to some shiny fortune-hunter, perhaps, or had it been Elspeth hallooing to her actors—women, stupid cows, only good for a couple of functions. No harm in daughters, rounded the family out, wore the stones, gave the artist-Johnny something to paint. But it was the house that mattered, and a man in it, a man with your own name, living on for you when you were a goner and his sons doing the same after. You'd have thought Charles had the right ideas about women, way he treated his sisters—what did he want to go marrying that Aussie cow for? Couldn't he have had her without? Had all the women he wanted on his allowance? Now there was only this brat, other side of the world. He'd come back for the money though, and boot his cow of a mother out for the money too. Must remember to put that in the bloody will. But suppose he went and died like Charlie … (May's simper beyond the roses. Elspeth's bray.) No! Nobody! Hang on as long as you can, squeeze the utmost relish from your pile, then when you've got to go wipe the slate clean. Finish.