The Transcendental Murder

the room beyond, there was a woman laughing. It was a peculiar, babbling laugh. Rowena looked up at Homer. 'Is there anything else I can do to help?' She was wearing black already. No lipstick. Just mascara. Lovely and tragic. Her father was dead, her brother under suspicion, her mother collapsed or something—but Rowena the actress was playing a part, just as Edith was in her clumsier way. Mary asked after Charley.

'He's confessed,' said Homer shortly.

Confessed. Oh, oh, no. Mary put out an unbelieving hand. Her eyes filled with tears. She turned her back on them, pushed open the front door and stumbled out. The door closed after her, and she started home, her knuckles in her mouth, thinking wretched thoughts.

*22*

Let us settle ourselves, and work and wedge our feet downward through the mud and slush of opinion ... till we come to a hard bottom and rocks in place, which we can call reality ... a place where you might found a wall or a state. —Henry Thoreau

Jimmy Flower had dragged another desk into his office for Homer Kelly. But Homer wasn't using it, he was leaning against the wall. Jimmy sat on his swivel chair, screwed high up with his feet off the floor. Philip Goss and his law partner, George Jarvis, sat in the two hard-backed chairs. Harold Vine took notes.

Philip answered most of the questions himself, calmly, in his clear voice, progressing in polished sentences from subject to predicate, adorning them with dependent clauses and participles that never dangled. Now and then there was a gentle demur from George Jarvis, uttered in the politest tone, with an air of such extreme courtesy that one hardly knew that a question was being parried and set aside. There was an atmosphere of extreme fair play.

No, Philip had not seen his father leave the Rod and Gun Club. Yes, it was true that he himself had left for an interval. No, he wasn't sure of the time, nor how long he had been out. He had felt the need of fresh air to clear his head. Jerry Toplady had mixed the drinks with a heavy hand and Philip h never been able to live up to the Battery's mighty reputation for stowing it away. Where had he gone? To Nicholson's Barn, by the old sawmill there. No, he didn't think anyone had seen him, he had kept away from the road.

Jimmy asked him point-blank if there had been time for him to have walked home, changed clothes, ridden Dolly to the bridge, shot his father, ridden back home, changed clothes again and come back to the Rod and Gun Club?

Philip frowned and hesitated. George Jarvis broke in softly. How long did Chief Flower think all those things would take? Chief Flower thought it would be hard to squeeze 'em all in under an hour.

Perhaps, George Jarvis thought, it would be preferable if Chief Flower simply asked Philip whether or not he had been away for an hour.

Philip could not seem to remember. He thought not. Well, then again, maybe he had been.

Homer Kelly sat down on the edge of Jimmy's desk and folded his arms. 'Philip, can you tell us what went wrong this morning when the Battery was firing the Sunrise Salute? You made some sort of mistake?'

'I was tired. It was the sheerest stupidity. I gave the order to fire when my father was still standing in front of the gun with his ramrod down inside the barrel. If the lanyard man had pulled the string in response to my order my father would have been killed.'

George Jarvis corrected him. 'I doubt he would have been killed. You remember, Philip, when this very thing happened in Acton, the unfortunate fellow lost an arm, but that was all.'

Homer scowled. 'Isn't the order to fire supposed to be the duty of the captain? That's Harvey Finn, isn't it?'

'Yes, you're absolutely right. I'm only the lieutenant for the number one gun. All I should have done was to inform the captain that the gun was ready, so that he could give the order to fire. I guess I was trigger happy, as they say. I was tired.' Philip smiled. 'I still am.'

'Why were you tired?'

Philip explained it patiently. 'I went to the Ball last night, and of course the Battery gets up before Dawn in order to be the bridge before sunrise with the guns.' That was all for Philip. As he and George Jarvis were shown out, to wait in the front office, Charley was ushered in. Homer caught the look in Charley's eye as he glanced at his brother. It was a speaking glance, full of message and meaning. And something else—sympathy, affection? Philip seemed to avoid it. He spoke to Charley, his words rapid and businesslike. 'You're going to have legal counsel, aren't you, Charley? Let me get John Frippen, He's the best there is.' Charley said nothing. He looked back and forth between his brother and George Jarvis, and then moved on into the office and closed the door behind him. He looked uneasy.

'What did my brother say?' he wanted to know.

Homer Kelly looked at Jimmy. Then he directed Harold Vine to read the first part of Philip's statement.

Harold flipped over the pages of his notebook and found the words taken down by Jimmy Flower. 'Philip Goss said, 'I don't know what you want with me. I know nothing whatever about it. Nor will I answer any questions until I can discuss the matter with George Jarvis, my law partner.' '

'I don't believe it,' said Charley. 'You're lying. No, of course you're not lying.' His face was distorted. He was hit hard. He folded over in his chair, and clasped his hands behind his neck, struggling silently with himself. 'What do you want to ask me?' he murmured, his face still hidden.

'You say that you killed your father. Did anyone see you? Speak louder, Charley, I didn't hear you.'

'I said, someone may have.'

'Was it a man or a woman?'

'I don't know. I didn't see anyone.'

'What were you wearing when you killed your father?'

Charley paused. He was still staring at the floor. 'I was wearing these pants and a khaki shirt.'

'How did you get there? To the bridge and back?'

'Well, I walked to the Rod and Gun Club and took Philip's car. Mine was—out of gas. Then I left it at the Club afterwards, and walked home.'

'You got to the bridge in a car? Charley, the witness says the presumed murderer was dressed like Samuel Prescott and riding a horse. Your story doesn't fit with that very well.'

Charley lifted his head and stared at Homer. 'Like me? He was dressed like me?' Then he stood up and gesticulated. 'It's not true. It's a lie. He wouldn't do it to me...'

'Who wouldn't? The witness?'

Charley's eyes were red. He glanced around the room, then sat down with his head in his hands. 'Oh—my— God,' he said.

*23*

He shrinks from me as far as I have shrunk from him; his eyes no longer seek mine; there is war between us; there is hate in him and fear in me. —Ralph Waldo Emerson

Arthur Furry had been brought back from Acton. He bit his fingernails nervously and looked with popping eyes at Charley Goss.

'All I saw,' he said piously, 'was the man's back.'

Charley grimly turned around and showed Arthur his back.

'What about his height, Arthur?' said Jimmy Flower. 'Would you say the man was about that tall? Mr. Goss is fairly tall.'

Arthur, thinking about the honor of the Boy Scouts, stared at Charley's back and then rolled his eyes up at the ceiling. Jimmy felt a twinge of irritation. 'I think,' said Arthur, 'if he were dressed up the same way the man was, it might be easier to tell.'

'Have you got the Prescott outfit, Jimmy?' said Homer Kelly.

'Sure,' said Jimmy. 'It was in the horse's stall, kind of stuck behind the hay.' Sergeant Ordway brought out a cardboard box and displayed its contents, piece by piece. There was a black coat, longish and flared in the skirt, streaked and caked with mud on the left side, a ruffled shirt (obviously a lady's blouse in a large size), a yellow vest, a pair of narrow riding pants, also stained, and a set of soft leather boots. There was an orange mohair wig