The Hunter and the Trapped (24 page)

“I ought to have seen it earlier,” John murmured over her bowed head, holding her close. “But he seemed so normal most of the time.”

He grieved for Penny's grief, but knew that Simon's death had brought him her truer love.

“It was God's will,” Mrs. Allingham said, in a shaky voice. “He was an embodiment of evil and he did evil. He has destroyed himself as evil is meant to be destroyed.”

“If I were your God,” said John, outraged by this, “I would call that blasphemy!”

Diana spoke, slowly and with difficulty.

“You are all making excuses. For yourselves. I make no excuses. I am the only one who loved him, truly loved him. And I am guilty, too. But I make no excuse. I loved him.”

A call came through on the house telephone. Chief-inspector Mont and the Mental Health officer would like to say a few words to them all.

Mrs. Stone, pale, shaken, but competent as ever, brought the two men to the flat and left again discreetly. It occurred to William for the first time to wonder what she had thought of Simon, how much she had guessed of his place in the lives of those assembled. He would never know. Mont, grave-faced and upright, looking as solemn as if he were in church, would have learned nothing from her, either. This was entirely obvious when the Chief-inspector began to speak.

“I thought it might be helpful to you all if I told you, at this stage, as much as I can about the – er – deceased,” he began.

He glanced round his audience, so quiet, so self-contained. The one on the sofa, who seemed to have suffered the most shock, would be Mrs. Allingham. The old lady perhaps her mother or his.

“I discovered certain things in the course of my investigations into the murder of Mrs. Morris that led me to conclude that Mr. Fawcett was responsible. But also that his act was due to mental unbalance. This is confirmed by Dr. Allingham's diagnosis, made here this afternoon, when Fawcett finally broke down and showed that he was indeed insane.”

He paused. The faces turned towards him gave him no help. These people, he thought bitterly, would never have helped him. They were strong in their quick intelligence, their habit of individual thought, their tradition of command, their unassailable self-confidence. He could see that they were suffering, but in front of strangers, such as himself, they were in control of that, too. Their facade was perfect, unbreakable.

“Mr. Fawcett,” he went on quietly and deliberately, “suffered from schizophrenia from the age of eighteen. He had always been a shy, withdrawn child. At eighteen he killed a little boy of twelve in his first paranoiac attack.”

That shocked them. There were cries from the women, gasps from the men, stammered questions, denials. He had broken through, temporarily at any rate.

“There is absolute proof of it,” he told them and gave them the evidence he had discovered. “Following that incident, which no one suspected at the time, he was acutely ill for a number of years, his true condition being most unwisely kept secret by his parents. Or as secret as possible. I think the village where they lived knew pretty well what was the matter, but they loved and respected his father, the vicar. As Dr. Allingham has told me, the disease may become quiescent for years, perhaps for the whole life-time. This was so in Mr. Fawcett's case, for many years. I have no absolute proof of his motive for killing Mrs. Morris, but motive is hard to pin down in the case of the insane. It need not be adequate from a common sense point of view.”

He paused again. The thirty pounds in Fawcett's wallet had convinced him that attempted blackmail by Mrs. Morris was the motive, the missing cheque the object to be bought. Its absence had triggered off the violence. But he had no absolute proof here and thanked his stars he need never find it.

“In any case,” he went on, “Dr. Allingham tells me he confessed to the murder. Taken with the clear diagnosis and in the absence of other suspects …”

“There was a Mr. Nelson …” began Diana, coldly. But she stopped, seeing how pointless was any argument, how fruitless, now that Simon was dead.

“The weight of evidence points to Mr. Fawcett, madam,” said Mont, politely. “I am quite satisfied and I am sure my superiors will be, too.”

“There will be an inquest, of course,” said Hubert. “How much of what you have told us will come out, then?”

“It depends on the coroner, sir,” answered Mont. “The earlier murder case is closed. I don't think it need be mentioned. There is sufficient evidence of the onset of the disease without that. Schizophrenia being fully established, the rest follows.”

“You will want some of us to give evidence at the inquest, won't you?” Hubert asked.

“Just Dr. Allingham, I should think sir. But the coroner …”

“Jardine,” said Hubert to William. “I'll have a word with him.” The latter nodded.

“There's just one thing more I think you'd all like to know,” Mont said, anxious to end this uncomfortable interview. “I got in touch on the phone downstairs with a Mr. George Clark, a friend of the deceased. He was a close friend – in fact, as far as I know, the only intimate friend Mr. Fawcett had. Mr. Clark was naturally most upset, but he agreed at once to act in the matter, arrange burial, get in touch with the college, any relatives that can be found, wind up affairs and so on. I'm telling you this because you might feel in some way responsible, seeing that – well, that it happened here. And being, to some extent, acquainted with Mr. Fawcett.”

“Thank you,” William said, when no one else spoke.

A silence followed. None dared to look at another. They had each been exposed to all the rest, naked in their several inadequacies, their collective blindness. It was a sore punishment and also an enormous relief, to find that Simon had a loving friend who had done him no wrong and would bring him back in death to the world of sane men and decent disposal.

Penelope and Mrs. Allingham wept openly in shame and sorrow. Diana covered her face, her hurt as yet too deep for tears. The men stared before them with stern faces, longing for this painful scene to end but not knowing how to end it.

Chief-inspector Mont said awkwardly to William, “I'll be going now, sir,” and turned to the door, looking round for the Mental Health officer to follow him.

But the latter knew more than Mont of the havoc that had been wrought in the minds and lives of those in the room. He had experienced these occasions before. He knew the long struggle of the collapsing mind, he knew the terrible effect it had on those in contact with it.

“You mustn't blame yourselves,” he said, earnestly. “Think what it'd have meant for him if he'd been taken to hospital with the charge of murder pending. Lifelong imprisonment in a mental institution. It couldn't have been overlooked, could it? I mean to say, not with the earlier incident, it couldn't. That made it multiple murder, you see. So it really is for the best the poor soul did what he did. I'm sure you'll come to see that in the end and not blame yourselves, any of you. You'll excuse me speaking out, I'm sure. I've had a lot of experience, believe me. And I know none of you folk were to blame. You did your best. I'm sure of that.”

This time not only William murmured, “Thank you.” Penelope whispered it and Mrs. Allingham added, “God bless you.” Only Diana remained frozen, motionless, with her hands still covering her face.

But when William had taken the two men down and had come back to the silent room those last comforting words had begun to take effect. The women dried their eyes and sighed and began to look about them. The men moved together, waiting for William to suggest a restoring drink. “You did your best, I'm sure,” the man had said. Perhaps the coroner would say the same.

Complacence, flooding in gently, soothingly began to wash away the agonising guilt.

First published in 1963 by Hodder & Stoughton

This edition published 2012 by Bello an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR Basingstoke and Oxford Associated companies throughout the world

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Copyright © Josephine Bell, 1963

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