The Governor's Lady (50 page)

She had dropped her voice while she was speaking; it was so low that he could scarcely hear her. And, when he looked across at her, he could see that her eyes were closed. She seemed to have forgotten about him; seemed simply to be thinking a whole lot of her thoughts out loud.

‘But I don't think he was ever once unfaithful. It would have taken up too much of his time. And he'd never have let that happen. He was always working. That was half the trouble. He hardly came near me again after Timothy was born. He'd got what he wanted.'

Her eyes were open again; she had turned her head slightly, and was watching him.

‘D'you realise that we probably wouldn't be here, not like this, if he'd needed me even a little bit more.'

‘I need you.'

She did not seem to have heard him.

‘After all, I was only eighteen when I had Timothy. That wasn't exactly ancient. I didn't even want a baby; not particularly, that is. I just wanted to be loved. There's nothing unnatural in that, is there? So I had to find somebody when Gardie wouldn't. Only they weren't always awfully nice people. I wish now I hadn't.'

She sat up, and was facing him.

‘Miles wasn't the first, I mean. That's what I'm trying to say. You don't think I'm wicked, do you? Not
really
wicked, I mean?'

The words had come all in a rush as though it were something that had been in her mind for a long time, the one question that she had to ask.

Harold sat there, staring past her.

‘I don't think about it at all,' he said. ‘I don't want to.'

There was a rustle from the couch, and she came over to him.

‘I didn't have to tell you, did I? I only did it because I love you so much. It just wouldn't have been right to have any secrets between us.'

She was standing in front of him, smoothing back her hair. He noticed that she was swaying slightly.

‘But all that's over. I shall be as good as gold from now on. We won't ever talk about it again. There's no need to.'

The gilt clock on the mantlepiece struck one: they'd sat up a long time talking.

Lady Anne pushed her foot up against his.

‘Give me another drink,' she said. ‘And then we'll go to bed. I feel all at peace inside me. That's because I've told you everything.'

He was careful about the drink that he poured her. There was not much whisky in it; just enough for her to feel that she hadn't actually been refused it. And she didn't seem to notice the pale straw-colour when he gave it to her.

She was smiling to herself again.

‘It might quite easily have been the other way round,' she said. ‘If he'd had his way, all those presents would have been for Gardie and his new wife. He was still frightfully attractive, you know. He'd have got married again for certain, if I hadn't killed him.'

ii

The hands of the clock showed two-fifteen.

She got up and went over to the window, standing there with her back against the closed shutters. It was as far away from him as possible.

‘Well, what are you going to do?' she asked. ‘Hand me over to the police, or something?'

She was calm now; perfectly calm. Only the catch in her voice showed that she had been drinking; but that had been earlier, much earlier.

‘Don't,' he told her. ‘You can't know what you're saying.'

She laughed; it was a hard, unpleasant little laugh.

‘That's what Sybil was always telling me,' she said. ‘That's why she wouldn't let me see anyone.'

‘She was only trying to protect you.'

There was that same high-pitched laugh.

‘No, she wasn't. She didn't want other people to know about
her!
She paused. ‘Sybil was in this too, you know. She was just longing for something to happen to Gardie. She used to keep on about it all the time. Then we could go away together, she said: that's what she was waiting for. She prayed something would happen.'

‘That didn't mean she wanted anyone to kill Gardie.'

Lady Anne raised her eyebrows.

‘He's dead, isn't he? Somebody must have killed him.'

She was still standing there, pressed up against the shutters: the whole length of the room was between them.

‘It was Old Moses who killed him,' Harold said.

He spoke very slowly so that she could hear every word he was saying: so that she could remember them.

‘They arrested him. They tried him. There was a jury. They found him guilty. Old Moses didn't even appeal when the judge sentenced him.'

Lady Anne did not laugh this time: she just spread her hands wide open to show the sheer hopelessness of trying to convince him.

‘How could he? It was all over by then. It was all over for him as soon as it happened.'

‘He could have denied it.'

‘And let me be hanged?'

She gave that little laugh again.

‘You didn't know Old Moses like I did. He could never have let that happen: he loved Gardie too much: Gardie was Master. Besides, he was afraid of Gardie's spirit. He knew if he said anything it would come back and haunt him.'

‘Not if he was innocent.'

Her hands were still spread out. She was speaking quite quietly now; reasoning with him.

‘Gardie wouldn't have wanted everyone to know that his own wife had murdered him, would he?' she said. ‘People would have started talking: they'd have said that there must be a reason. Dying in the course of duty was quite different. Gardie wouldn't have minded it that way.'

‘Old Moses couldn't have know that.'

Lady Anne was silent for a moment.

‘I think he did,' she said.

Harold passed his handkerchief across his forehead. Even though in Nucca it got quite cool, chilly even, after nightfall, he was sweating.

‘Old Moses is dead,' he told her. ‘And Gardie's dead, too. They're both dead.'

There was a sudden movement from the window where Lady Anne was standing.

‘But Sybil isn't.'

She started to come forward as she said it.

‘Ask her. She knows. She saw it all happen. I was still standing right behind Gardie when she came in. That's when I got all that blood on me. She had to burn the housecoat. She told me so.'

She had come close to him now: he was looking full into those fine, dark eyes of hers. Only they weren't particularly fine tonight: the whites were all bloodshot from the crying, or the tobacco smoke, or the whisky, or whatever it was.

‘And I thought you knew all the time,' she said. ‘That's what makes it it so funny,' She gave that little laugh again. ‘After all I only did it for your sake. I had to stop him sending that letter.'

‘What letter?'

For a moment she stood there, not answering. Her hand was up to her forehead and she was frowning.

‘Then that's something else you don't know,' she said. ‘You'd better read it. I've kept it just as it was when he was writing it. I don't need it any more. It's all yours now.'

Epilogue
Part Two
Absolution, almost

The Chief Magistrate took out his spectacle case, opened it and began wiping the lenses; in that heat, they had steamed up in his pocket while he had been sitting there talking.

‘You still think it's necessary?'

The man opposite nodded. He didn't say anything; just pushed the envelope closer and sat back in his chair again, waiting. He seemed composed enough.

Ever since he had asked the question, the CM. had been staring at him across the table; but he could not see his expression. All that he could make out in the semi-darkness were the black triangle of the eye-shade and the white, neatly clipped moustache.

The pressure lamp made a shrill, hissing sound as the CM. turned it up. The Governor had shifted himself round a little, sheltering his good eye from the sudden brightness.

‘It's sealed down, y'know. I'll have to break it,' the CM. said.

As he inserted his finger, pieces of the red wax went scattering over the bare table-top. He brushed the larger fragments aside. It was a single sheet of paper that the envelope contained; a single sheet, folded over and discoloured.

The CM. spread it out in front of him, smoothing down the ridges with his finger-tips.

‘It's badly stained,' he said.

‘He was still writing the letter when it happened,' the Governor told him.

The CM. drew his hand away rather hurriedly; he was, however, by nature difficult to convince.

‘It doesn't look like blood.'

The Governor gave a rather weary little sigh.

‘It's been a long time drying.'

The CM. was peering down at the paper again.

‘Some of the words are quite blotted out,' he observed. ‘They're indecipherable.'

‘Hold it up to the lamp. It's easier that way.'

With the light coming through the paper, the words showed up plainly enough: it might have been only yesterday that Sir Gardnor had written them. There was no mistaking the handwriting. It was a distinctly elegant script, with something of a flourish to it: in his heyday, Sir Gardnor's penmanship had been very much admired. The date at the top of the Government House notepaper was 14th May, 1931.

‘Read it out loud,' Harold told him.

‘Dear Mr. Raymond,' the CM. began.

‘That was Raymond of Raymond and Walsh,' he said quietly. ‘They were his solicitors.'

The CM. was tilting the notepaper a trifle, so that the light could penetrate into the creases.

He pursed his lips, and went on reading; to himself, this time.

‘So he wanted a divorce, was that it?'

‘That's what it says.'

The CM. screwed up his eyes, and bent his head down lower over the paper.

‘And you were the one he was going to cite.'

Harold nodded.

‘But I thought you said he didn't want a scandal.'

‘Not while India was still on, he didn't. That's what I was explaining. It was different when he knew he'd lost. He didn't mind after that.'

The CM. was reading to himself again. He did not look up until he had reached the end of the sentence.

‘Then Lady Anne was right about the A.D.C. He
had
been spying on you.'

‘All the time. He couldn't very well have refused. H.E. knew too much about him.'

There was still a little gin left in the bottle. The CM. poured it out for both of them.

Then he went on reading.

‘There's something about no marital relations,' he said at last. ‘I can't really make it out: it's all smudged. It appears to suggest Miss Prosser as a witness.' He paused. ‘That might have been a mistake mightn't it i I understood she was on Lady Anne's side.'

‘It would have come to the same thing. She wanted the marriage broken up. She was jealous.'

The CM. did not seem even to have heard the reply. He was frowning slightly.

‘If the letter had gone off, it would have ruined you, wouldn't it?' he asked. ‘Ruined your career, that is. You'd have had to leave the service.'

‘Yes: I'd have been thrown out.'

The CM. was still frowning.

‘There is, of course, the other side. This letter would have affected Lady Anne as well. There'd have been a new will. And fresh provisions for the child, no doubt. Lady Anne would have been left far worse off. She had a powerful motive.'

Harold started forward.

‘That wasn't why she did it.'

The CM. did not reply immediately: he was brushing the smaller fragments of sealing wax into a little heap.

‘Have you shown this to anyone else?' he asked at last.

‘You're the first person to have seen it.'

‘Then why show me
now?'

‘I couldn't any earlier. Not while my wife was still alive.'

The answer was clearly unsatisfactory: the CM. began tapping the table with his forefinger.

‘But your wife's been dead for a long time, hasn't she? Ten, twelve years it must be.'

‘There was Timothy,' Harold reminded him. ‘It wouldn't have been very nice for him if all this had come out.'

‘And now it doesn't matter?'

‘Not any longer. It was there when I got back. My
Times
, I mean. I saw it in the Deaths. That's why I came over.'

He broke off, and seemed to be working out some sort of calculation in his mind.

‘Forty-six, it said. That makes it about right. He was still at prep, school last time I saw him.'

He passed his hand across his face as though wiping something invisible away.

‘There's no one else left to worry about.'

The CM. seemed rather quick to fasten on the point.

‘That's what I was thinking,' he said. ‘They're
all
dead now.'

‘There's one that isn't.'

The CM. raised his eyebrows.

‘And what can he do?'

He studied Harold very carefully as he asked the question. There was a sense of urgency about him, an eagerness almost, which was unusual.

‘Make a statement,' he replied. ‘On oath. Put it right for the record.'

‘To what purpose?'

‘Clear Old Moses. That's one tiling.'

‘And the other?'

‘My own conscience,' he said. ‘I've had to live with this.'

There was silence again. They remained there, not speaking, with the lamp, and the letter and the Gordon's gin bottle in between them.

Then the CM. gave a little cough.

‘You retire some time next year, don't you?' he asked.

‘First of September.' He paused. ‘I feel about ready for it.'

The CM. had pulled his pencil out of his pocket and thrust it sideways into his mouth with the point sticking out on one side and the stub end on the other. It was a gesture with which counsel were familiar when the CM. was pondering.

Then he flicked his nail across the letter.