«You mean it's no good not telling the truth?»
«No good-«
«But you must tell them it was an accident-that he hit you first-that it was self-defence-Rachel, shall I telephone the police? Oh do please try to think-'
She murmured something.
«What?»
«Dobbin. Dobbin. My darling-«
I realized, as she now turned away, that this must be her pet name for Arnold which in all the years I had known them I had never heard her utter. Arnold's secret name. She turned away from me and went into the dining- room, where I heard her fall, onto the floor or perhaps into a chair. I heard her begin to lament once more, a short cry, then a shuddering «fa-fa-fa-« then the cry again. I went back into the drawing-room to see if Arnold had moved. I almost feared to see him opening accusing eyes, wriggling with the pain which Rachel had found so unendurable. He had not moved.
His position seemed now as inevitable as that of a statue. Already he did not look like himself any more, his grimacing expression that of a complete stranger, expressing, like a Chinaman, some quite strange and unrecognizable emotion. His sharp nose was red with blood, and there was a little puddle of blood in his ear. The white eye glinted, the pained mouth snarled. As I turned from him I noticed his small feet, which I had always found so characteristic and so annoying, clad in immaculately polished brown shoes, lying neatly together as if comforting each other. And as I moved to the door I now saw little smears of blood everywhere, on the chairs, on the wall, on the tiles of the fireplace, where in some unimaginable scene in some quite other region of the world he had reeled about; and saw upon the carpet the shadowy marks of bloody footprints, his, Rachel's, mine.
I got to the telephone in the hall. Rachel's cries were softening into little almost dreamy wails. I dialled 999 and got a hospital and said there had been a bad accident and asked for an ambulance. «A man has hurt his head. His skull cracked I think. Yes.» Then after a moment's hesitation I rang the police and said the same things. My own fear of the police made any other course unthinkable. Rachel was right, concealment was not possible, better to reveal all at once, anything was better than the horror of being «found out.» It was no good saying Arnold had fallen downstairs. Rachel was in no condition to be taught a cover story. She would blurt out the truth in any case.
I went into the dining-room and looked at her. She was sitting on the floor with her mouth wide open and her two hands squeezing either side of her face. I saw her mouth as a round O, she looked subhuman and damned, her face without features, her flesh drained and blue, like those who live underground. «Rachel. Don't worry. They're coming.»
«Dobbin. Dobbin. Dobbin.»
I went out and sat on the stairs and found that I was saying, «Oh-oh-oh-oh-« and could not stop.
The police arrived first. I let them in and pointed to the back room. Through the open front door I saw the sunny street and cars coming, an ambulance. I heard somebody say, «He's dead.»
«What happened?»
«Ask Mrs. Baffin. In there.»
«Who are you?»
Men in dark clothes were coming in, then men in white clothes.
The dining-room door was shut. I was explaining who Arnold was, who I was, how I came to be there.
«Cracked his skull like an egg shell.»
Rachel screamed behind a closed door.
«Come with us, please.»
I sat in a police car between two men. I started explaining again. I said, «He hit her, I think. It was an accident. It wasn't murder.»
At the police station I told them all over again who I was. I sat with several men in a small room.
«Why did you do it?»
«Do what?»
«Why did you kill Arnold Baffin?»
«I didn't kill Arnold Baffin.»
«What did you hit him with?»
«I didn't hit him.»
«Why did you do it? Why did you do it? Why did you kill him?»
«I didn't kill him.»
«Why did you do it?»
Postscript By Bradley Pearson
How little in fact any human being understands about anything the practice of the arts soon teaches one. An inch away from the world one is accustomed to there are other worlds in which one is a complete stranger. Nature normally heals with oblivious forgetfulness those who are rudely hustled by circumstance from one into another. But if after reflection and with deliberation one attempts with words to create bridges and to open vistas one soon finds out how puny is one's power to describe or to connect. Art is a kind of artificial memory and the pain which attends all serious art is a sense of that factitiousness. Most artists are the minor poets of their little world, who have only one voice and can sing only one song.
The first days were a maelstrom of confusion, misunderstandings, incredulity. Not only could I not believe what had happened, I could not conceptualize it. However I am not going to tell anything more of this as a story. The story is over. And what it is the story of I shall attempt in a little while to say. As the time went on I tried various attitudes, said various things, changed my mind, told the truth, then lied, then broke down, was impassive, then devious, then abject. None of this helped at the trial. Rachel in black was a touching figure. Everyone deferred and was sympathetic. The judge had a special inclination of the shoulders and a special grave smile. I do not think anything was planned in cold blood. It occurred to me later that of course the police themselves had decided what had happened, they suggested it to Rachel, they told her what it was all about. She may even have tried to be, at the start, incoherently truthful. But the story was so impossible. The poker, wiped clean of her fingerprints and liberally covered with my own, was soon found. The whole thing was obvious. All Rachel had to do was scream. I for my part acted as guiltily as any man could. Perhaps at moments I almost believed that I had killed him, just as at moments perhaps she almost believed that she had not.
I was about to write down, «I do not blame her,» but this would be misleading. It is not exactly, on the other hand, that I blame her. What she did was terrible, both her actions were wicked, the murder and the lie. And I suppose I owe it to her as a kind of duty to see what she did, to look at it and to try to understand it. «Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.» In a way I might have been flattered. In a way there was something almost to admire, a great spirit, a great will. For of course I did not envisage her as moved by any mere petty pusillanimous desire to preserve herself. What did she feel during the trial and afterwards? Perhaps she thought that I would somehow get off. Perhaps she only settled very gradually with many self-preserving vaguenesses into her final dreadful role.
There was even a sort of perfection about it. She had taken such a perfect revenge upon the two men in her life. Some women never forgive. «I would not give him my hair for a bowstring at the end. I would not raise a finger to save him dying.» Christian had joined Arnold in France, as I learnt much later. But no doubt the will that powered that hammerblow had been forged much earlier. When I glimpsed it at the start of my narration it was already steely strong. There was, almost, no surprise here. What did surprise me was the strength of Rachel's feeling for myself. There must have been, to create such a great hate, a very considerable degree of love. I had simply not noticed that Rachel loved me. She must have cared deeply to be able, in order to destroy me, to lie so hugely and so consistently. I ought to have been moved to reverence. Later perhaps I was. No, I do not exactly «blame,» though neither do I «condone.» I am not sure what «forgiveness» means. I have cut attachments, I have «let her off,» I feel no thrilling connection of resentment between us. In some blank way I even wish her well. Forgiveness
