a murder he had not committed.
Nothing, to this point, had any relevance to my brother, or so it seemed. But in her final chapter Caurer tried to answer the question: if Sington was not the murderer of Commis, who was?
She examined the lives and backgrounds of other people who had been near the scene of the crime at the time. There was the manager of the theatre, the directors of the company which owned the theatre, several performing artistes, the technical and backstage crew, some itinerant manual workers, townspeople, visitors, members of the audience on the night when the killing took place.
And — ‘a young man, employed on a part-time basis as a general assistant backstage.’ No name was mentioned. Later the young man was brought into the story again. Shortly before the death, ‘he had been involved in a violent street scuffle with the murdered man, but according to witnesses in the street it had appeared to be a misunderstanding and the two men parted amicably.’ And again: ‘the young man had applied for the job under an assumed name, a fact which greatly interested the investigating officers. Furthermore, he left the island in mysterious circumstances, and at a time no one was able to be sure about. These two facts made him the number one suspect, at least for a time.’
Then this paragraph: ‘The policier authorities later established the true identity of this young man. Although he was then unknown, he later became a world-renowned writer of novels, a man of unquestioned integrity and honesty who is entitled to remain anonymous. Moreover, once his real identity became known, investigations were taken to his home island, where a conclusive alibi was established.’
There was no other mention of this young man, either directly or by implication. Of course I realized he was Chaster: the story about a violent scuffle in the street certainly had a ring of truth to it. At that age Chas had always been quick to ball his fists and strike an aggressive pose, and as a teenager he had involved himself in arguments in Piqay Town several times, and been beaten up for his trouble.
Caurer ended her book with the statement that although it was impossible for her to identify the real killer of Commis, the central truth remained unchallenged: that Kerith Sington had been wrongly accused, convicted and executed.
At first, I was not sure how I should react to this book. Chaster was not named. Nothing in it implicated him in anything illegal, and the identification of him was so vague that the ‘true identity’ could have been one of several people — Chaster was by no means the only world-renowned novelist of his, or my, approximate age.
When he threw Caurer’s book at me, though, he had clearly been upset, which made me wonder if there was more to know or tell than there appeared. Perhaps he was concerned that Caurer had revealed enough clues for other people to follow up. Surely there would be an interest in trying to identify who this mysterious young man had been?
I assumed that his anger against her was more or less the same as mine: that he realized now that she had gone directly to his house, not to seduce him or in any other way inveigle herself into his life, but simply to ask some questions, while she researched her book on Commis’s death.
The fact that he had fallen for her so completely had probably helped her cause on the day, and was a matter of indifference to her afterwards.
As had become my habit for many years, I decided to say nothing to Chas, nor to ask him any questions about the book. I continued to feel angry with Caurer on his behalf.
A few weeks later, I was amazed to receive a card from Chaster, inviting Hisar and myself to the house for drinks one evening. It was totally unprecedented. I had not been near the old house for several years, so if nothing else I was curious to see it again.
When the day came, Chaster greeted us with great friendliness and apparent good cheer, introduced us to the other friends he had invited, and made us welcome not only with generous quantities of drink but a superb meal too.
I couldn’t help noticing that a copy of Caurer’s book was standing prominently on one of the bookshelves, its cover facing out. Later, I spotted another copy, less obviously on show, in a neat pile of books stacked on a reading table in one corner.
When I could I took Chaster aside and asked him outright what had happened to change his mind about her.
He said, simply, ‘I love her, Woll.’
‘Still? After all this?’
‘More than ever. Nothing has changed since the day I met her. I think about Esla every day. I hope and plan to see her. I imagine that every letter that arrives, every email, every telephone call, will be from her. She is an inspiration to me, the woman I most admire and love. I shall never meet another like her. I live my life for her, I write every word for her.’
‘But you were so angry with her about the book.’
‘I was hasty. I thought she had betrayed me, but I realized later that in fact the opposite was true. She protected me, Woll.’
‘So this means — do you have any plans to see her again?’
‘All I know is that one day she will come back here to see me.’
Tragically, he was right.
Only three weeks after this evening meeting at the house, Chaster went down with an attack of pneumonia. He fought for life and the hospital did everything possible to save him, but he died in terrible discomfort a few days later.
Of course there was a funeral and following his instructions, whispered to me from his hospital bed, and later found in a sealed letter addressed to me in his study, Caurer was to be invited to be present.
She was then well into her sixties but she was one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen. She said hardly anything to the other people who were there, and always stood alone. I could not stop looking at her. I began at last to understand much that until then I had not.
We returned to the house after the funeral ceremony, and everyone had a few drinks. As the guests started to depart, Hisar and I stood formally by the main door to give our thanks and say our farewells.
When Caurer’s turn came I felt overcome with a strange but powerful sense of wanting to hold her, embrace her, possess her in some way, however briefly. I did not want to lose sight of her, let her away from me. I was finally understanding the charismatic effect on which so many people had remarked, over the years and in so many different contexts.
She thanked us politely for our hospitality. I held out a hand to shake hers. She did not respond.
She said, ‘He told me a lot about you, Wolter. I am pleased to meet you at last.’
Her voice had the unmistakable and always attractive burr of the Quietude islands, that picturesque but remote group far to the south.
I said, fumbling for adequate words, ‘I’m sure Chaster would have been pleased to know that you were here today.’
‘He certainly did know I would be here. This is the day when I should tell you that Chaster and I were in love for many years, although we only ever met once, years ago. He is the only person I ever allowed to use my given name.’
‘He always called you Esla.’
‘Indeed, but now no one ever will again.’
I noticed then that her right hand, which I had tried to take, had a reddish-brown smear across the fingers and palm and that she was holding it slightly away from her body. Hisar had noticed it too.
‘Have you cut yourself, Madame Caurer?’ she said. ‘Let me have a look. We have a trained nurse here, so we could have it cleaned and dressed for you.’
‘No, it’s not a cut, but thank you.’ She moved her hand back, further away from us. ‘I hurt myself, that’s all.’
Then she left, stepping across the gravel drive to the car that had brought her, which drove away slowly towards the town.
Wolter Kammeston died thirteen months after his brother. He was survived by his wife of fifty-two years, Hisar, and two adult sons. His funeral was a private ceremony at the local crematorium, the only guests being family and close friends.
Chaster Kammeston’s grave may be visited in the church burial ground, close to the crematorium, where
