The blood ran down my leg. She was pressing me down, determined I should not move.
I said: ‘ Olive, for Christ’s sake!’
And then her eyes fluttered and turned up.
Sickness in my throat; I struggled and wriggled to be free of her. I got myself free, looked down at my leg, which was thick with viscous blood. I looked at Olive. She wasn’t moving. I turned her over. The revolver was still in her hand and pressed into her abdomen, just below the navel. That was where the blood was coming from.
For a moment or two I passed out. The next thing I remember is swallowing the vomit in my throat as I crawled towards the door to reach the telephone. Telephones were not so common in bedrooms in those days. But at the door I stopped. A doctor. A doctor at once. I pulled myself slowly upright and looked back. She was lying across the bed, her golden crown a little tarnished with time, her left arm raised provocatively, lying across the pillow, one leg folded. Must get a doctor. Get to the telephone. The room was still quavering. I came unsteadily a few paces back, gripped the corner of a chair, stared. Her eyes were open. But they didn’t see me. Gone was the malice, the rancour, the envy, the hate. Only the beauty remained. But it was an empty beauty …
A doctor. The first thing. A doctor. Must get one soon. Quickly, quickly …
Three more steps back towards her. Fingers to her wrist. Nothing. Effort now. Great effort now. Put hand slowly under her slight breast. Nothing. Watch the mouth … Her eyes were staring at the ceiling … A doctor.
It was impossible.
I stared down at my own leg where the thick blood was congealing. Her blood. Not mine. Her blood. Get a doctor. Then the police.
I turned away and fell on my knees and retched. I knelt and held my head in my hands and retched.
A bell. Not a doorbell but a clock bell, a chime, coming from the open door of the living-room. Midnight.
All in ten minutes. Ten minutes ago we had still been lovers, just breaking into the fatal argument. Fatal? Get doctor, to be certain. But wasn’t one … certain already?
A doctor and the police.
Could it happen as quickly as this? All the incredible and intricate mechanism of a human body with its marvellous secretions, nervous impulses, muscular adaptability and sensory sagacity and discrimination, all stopped, permanently put an end to by a small discharge of cordite and lead from a machine only a few diameters larger than a peashooter? Virtually in seconds. And her blood – on my leg. First, I must be rid of that …
I somehow got into the bathroom, turned on the shower, sluiced my body of its stain. When I began to dry myself I kept dropping the towel, picking it up with trembling fingers, dropping it again.
When Maud came … Any time now. She would go for a doctor, know who to ring. And the police …
Maud of course would say I’d killed her. Was it true? Some urge in me wanting to destroy her when I leaped at her across the bed. For years attraction–repulsion working in the subconscious. Tonight the two impulses had polarized. In sex there is always conquest – carried to excess it produces the urge to destroy. Notable syndrome among criminal lunatics.
I began to pull on clothes. At least I must be dressed to face Maud and the others. My forearm where she’d scratched me was still oozing blood – it stained my shirt. Tie wouldn’t tie. Struggle with it. Too preoccupied staring at the ashen man in the mirror. Shoes … where were my shoes? I was not a criminal lunatic. And, however one might pile up the responsibility, the moral guilt, it was she who had produced the revolver, she who took off the safety catch, and an accident had caused her death. An accident?
Who’d believe that? Not Maud. Certainly not Maud. The police? Well, Olive was holding the revolver. But how had it come to turn upon herself and fire? The result of a struggle? What were we fighting about? Why should she threaten me with a revolver if I constituted no threat to her? Probably I had intended rape. She had clearly not committed suicide. Or had she?
Who knew I was here tonight? Maud might have known Olive was going out with me; but in view of what Olive said it was unlikely they were any longer on those confidential terms. I had no car and we had come by taxi. But what taxi driver would remember? Would anyone even know Olive had been out tonight? Could she have become intensely depressed in her loneliness and walked into her bedroom and committed suicide? Or she might have been out with me and I had left her at her door? Who was to say I had ever been in her flat tonight? Only Maud, due back soon.
It was seven minutes after midnight.
Somehow the watch got back on my wrist, the tie tied, the hair straightened over the drawn and bitter face. Already fifteen minutes had passed, and no police called, no doctor summoned. Get out. Those were the words Olive had used. Get out. Good advice. I’d brought no coat and hat. Leave now – let Maud find what I’d left – slip out of the flat – look each way. Clarendon Gardens was still lighted by gas, and there were shadows to cling to. Get out. Get away.
But with returning nerve came returning sanity. I was not such a fool. Panic must be controlled. The police would come, would find fingerprints everywhere, glasses, door handles … Well, not everywhere, but plenty in this room.
A decision to be made. Almost guiltless, I could stay and see it out. Or a guilty flight?
But a battle’s to fight ere the guerdon be gained, the reward of it all. Browning a bad counsellor?
Oh, Christ, what was I to do?
Start in the living-room. Two glasses. Wash one, leave the other with the dregs from both. Unscrew cap of brandy bottle. Wipe cap. Wipe door handles. Anything else? I had not handled the gramophone. The only other thing I’d touched in this room was her. Use my handkerchief as a precaution down the cushions and the back of the settee. All clear. Back to the bedroom. Dead silence. Dead silence. Clock ticking. A creak somewhere. Maud back, door opening? No. Only my foot on a carpeted floorboard.
Olive stared fixedly at the ceiling. She was paling now. No blood in the lips. It had all oozed out on to the bed.
And on me.
Bedrail. Had I touched it? Handkerchief over to make sure. Bedside table … Chair … Clock? No … No fingerprints possible on bedclothes. Twelve twenty-two. Any other hard surfaces? Bathroom door. Bathroom towel rail. That was it.
Finally the revolver. This was the vilest part. Though I’d never wrenched it out of her grasp I had clutched it. What risk of marks here? Gently I touched her hand, half expecting it to react. It didn’t. Gently I rubbed, the corner of my handkerchief round the barrel, dabbed the butt. That was all. That really was it. Time to go. To go.
I left the light on. No one ever committed suicide in the dark. Twelve twenty-seven. I might just make it. Now all the panic signals were out urging flee – flee – flee.
Stumble into the little hall. Listen. Nobody coming up the stairs. Handkerchief round the knob, open, slide out. The stairs were lit but empty. Two seconds to bolt down.
But with handkerchiefed hand on door I stopped. Oh, God! What was the use of any of this without … Nails had scratched my arm. Any pathologist would see. Time? Was it better to check and away? The blood could belong to anybody … But she had no scratches to suggest she had been inflicting wounds on herself. It proved conclusively that someone else had been with her and that they had been fighting …
Twelve thirty-two. Where was Maud?
So back into that bedroom I’d hoped never to see again, with its occupant sprawling and glaring. ‘And her eyes close them, staring so blindly.’ I could not have touched the lids. It was bad enough to take the cool left hand in mine; she might have been out in the frosty night.
Take out that used handkerchief, moisten it with my tongue, go carefully under each nail. Yes, there was something under them: pink particles of skin; careful to gather them, not drop them on bed. A few flakes of dust floated down, and I dabbed at them with my finger and tried to put them into the loop of the handkerchief. Perhaps at this stage it was luck how far an investigating detective might go; but at lea
st her nails were clean.
Click … I swung round, nerves stammering. The door, which had been ajar, had tapped to. There was no wind tonight. Errant breeze? Someone had opened the front door? Hair literally raised, I went to the door. If Maud were there, what did I do? A clean admission? With a corner of the towel I pulled the door slowly open again. There appeared to be no one in the hall. It was a quarter to one. Perhaps she had come quietly in while I was cleaning up and was sitting in the living-room enjoying a last cigarette. But there was no light on in there. Perhaps Maud was sitting in the dark. Perhaps she was sitting in there with her throat cut, the blood staining the big white settee.
Last control snapped; I clutched at the front door, opened it clumsily, just remembered to wipe the catch, pulled it to after me with a thump, went down the stairs. Knees were without joints. I leaned against the wall, gasping for breath. The outer door.
I opened it, turned up the collar of my jacket, walked out into the street.
Chapter Twenty-Three
There was a half gale blowing the next morning. Heavy rain in the night had washed away the hoar frost, leaving this legacy of wind.
About eleven the telephone went.
‘Hullo’, I said, licking a swollen lip.
‘This is Osway, Grant.’ Osway was a news editor on the Chronicle. ‘Pennington tells me you’re off work.’
‘I rang him earlier. It’s only a chill. I’ll be OK tomorrow.’
‘Bill, what was the first Mrs Stafford’s christian name?’
‘Stafford?’
‘Paul Stafford’s wife.’
‘Olive.’
‘That’s the one then. I thought there couldn’t be a mistake. She lived in Clarendon Gardens, didn’t she?’
‘Yes. What of it?’
‘You know them both pretty well, don’t you? She shot herself last night.’
‘Good God!’ I said. ‘ Shot herself? Are you sure?’
‘Beasley’s come in with the story. Her maid found her late last night.’
Oh, my God … This is a shock! Thanks for letting me know. I suppose it couldn’t have been an accident?’
‘It doesn’t sound like it. Beasley’s going back again to see if he can get more details.’
‘D’you – I suppose you don’t know yet when the inquest will be?’
‘No … I’ll let you know when we hear.’
‘Thanks.’
I hung up.
II
At twelve Jeremy Winthrop rang. He had been back from Washington six months.
‘Is that you, Bill? I telephoned the Chronicle but they said you were sick. Nothing serious, I hope?’
‘A touch of flu. I’ll be about again tomorrow.’
‘Good man. I phoned you about Olive.’
‘Yes?’
‘Haven’t you heard? It says in the early edition of the Standard that she’s been found dead in her flat. Shot apparently.’
‘One of our staff gave me the news an hour ago. An extraordinary thing to happen.’
‘I agree. Though if it’s suicide I wouldn’t be very astonished. From what I saw of her she was very much the neurotic type.’
‘Living on her nerves’, I said.
‘Maybe she’s been living on other things as well.’
‘It’s possible.’
‘I really rang you to know if you could give me any more details. I gather not.’
‘Not yet anyway. I missed the full story with being sick. Though I believe not much is being released yet.’
‘When’s the inquest?’
‘I haven’t heard.’
‘Let me know when you do, will you? If I’m free I’ll pop in.’
‘Of course. Goodbye.’
I hung up and then rang the local newsagent to ask him to send me copies of the evening papers.
III
The Standard headed its paragraph: ‘Society Woman Found Shot’. The News said: ‘Tragedy of Artist’s Ex-wife’. The Star put it: ‘Death in Mayfair Flat’. The bare details were there but nothing more. The later editions might fill it out. There would be pictures.
I tried to work. At ten past two the telephone rang again. It was Vincent de Lisle.
‘Is that you, Bill? Have you heard about Olive?’
‘Yes … A real shock …’
‘I should say so. What d’you think can have happened?’
‘No idea. I suppose some sudden impulse.’
‘There isn’t any suggestion of foul play, is there?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘Have you seen her lately?’
‘… About a fortnight ago.’
‘As recently as that? Did she seem all right then?’
‘Sane enough. Rather bitter still.’
‘About Paul? Well, this will certainly ease things for him.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘Hadn’t you? It’s the first thing that occurred to me.’
Careful; it should have been the first thing that occurred to me too.
‘In a way’, he said, ‘it’s a good thing Paul lives in Cumberland.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, if anyone had an excuse for bumping her off it was Paul. I would have felt like murdering the woman.’
‘I don’t think there’s any suggestion of foul play at all!’ I said shortly. ‘But perhaps you’re right: it’s better he should be out of reach of any whisper of suspicion.’
‘As you know’, said Vincent, ‘I’ve always felt it a mistake of his going up there and burying himself. One doesn’t – or shouldn’t – need to do that. Every artist, wherever and however he lives, has to come to terms with life.’
‘I think he’s doing that’, I said, ‘ but he’s worked it out so that they’re nearer his own terms.’
We rang off and again I tried to work. My right forearm was still burning. There was a bruise on my cheek-bone. My head felt as big as a football. The deeply reminiscent sound of the wind pushing among the houses made me think longingly of that solitary trip in the Patience. To feel the sun and the salt spray on one’s face, to hear the creak of tackle and the drum of canvas and the never ceasing babble of water under the keel. It was not only Paul who needed isolation, who wished to withdraw from the world.
Half an hour later the phone rang again. I wished to Heaven and I wished to God that people did not keep ringing me up to talk about Olive. Little glaring silent Olive with the blood-red finger-tips and the revolver pressed into her abdomen.
I took up the receiver. But this time it was only Pennington.
IV
Two days later I slipped into a seat in the coroner’s court. Proceedings were already under way. Evidence of identity had been taken and a police constable was in the stand giving his account of finding the body.
It seemed that he had been patrolling Curzon Street at 1.14 a.m. on Wednesday morning the fourteenth instant, proceeding in a westerly direction towards Park Lane when a woman approached him who appeared to be in considerable distress and asked him to accompany her to Clarendon Gardens, because, she asserted, there had been ‘a dreadful tragedy’. Accordingly he made a note of the time and accompanied her some five hundred and fifty yards ro the first floor of a block of modern flats leading out of Shepherd’s Market. Here he mounted the stairs, and entered the bedroom of the flat where he observed the deceased lying on the bed. The bed was stained with blood and there was a wound near the navel, some two inches below and to the left. Life appeared to be extinct. The woman’s head was towards the pillows and a pocket size .32 Colt revolver was clasped in her right hand. One chamber was discharged. Deceased was attired in a white woollen jumper and grey serge skirt. She wore no underclothes and was barefoot. She was wearing diamond stud earrings, and a diamond bracelet watch was on the table by the bed. The bed appeared to have been occupied. The windows of the room were shut and the light was on. There was a damp towel on the floor between the bedroom and the bathroom. The woman who had summoned him g
ave her name as Brade, personal maid to the deceased. After satisfying himself that the recumbent person was beyond his aid, he had proceeded to …
I wondered where the police were taught the English language and why some of them seemed to think it wrong to use one syllable where three would do. The court was crowded. Olive’s mother was there and apparently her uncle, a man who looked so much like the recently deceased Sir Alexander Crayam that he could have been mistaken for him. One or two others I dimly remembered from the wedding. And Vincent de Lisle and Jeremy Winthrop. And a fair gaggle of reporters. I thought of Paul and Holly in Crichton. They would have heard by now, but neither had come down. Why should they? On a bright cold morning like this the air would be fresh and sweet and the hills a special shade of gold-brown.
The police surgeon had taken the stand. Death, he said, had been caused by a bullet from a Colt .32 revolver, and he held up a small flattened piece of lead for the court to see. The bullet had been fired with the barrel of the revolver pressed hard against the abdomen but pointing upwards in a peculiar way, as if the wrist holding it had been bent. The bullet had lodged in the spine, severing the spinal cord, and death had been instantaneous. When he reached the dead woman the time was 1.52 a.m. and he doubted if she had been dead much more than an hour. There were no other marks on the body except a slight abrasion on the left wrist and another on the right upper arm. These had occurred before death.
The coroner said: ‘Could the wound which caused death have been self-inflicted?’
‘It could.’
‘In your opinion is it such a wound as might in fact result from an attempt to destroy one’s own life?’
Little spiteful golden-haired Olive … clinging to me … clinging …
The surgeon said: ‘Except for the unusual angle, quite consistent.
Possibly one might suppose she fell forward on the bed before she pulled the trigger.’
‘There is no evidence of foul play?’
‘No, sir.’
Maud Brade was called. A different person from the timid little maid the court might have expected to see. No snivelling into a handkerchief for Maud. Dry-eyed and tart, she gave her evidence as if holding a grievance against the coroner.