sister, do not let him remain uncaged. I am willing— indeed, I should be happy— to pay for the cost of psychoanalytic treatment and for the cost of care for Mama if necessary during that time.
I will ask a friend to be in touch with you with some names of good doctors. I hope you will at least go to see one, for my sake, if only to obtain a clean bill of health and prove me wrong.
Speaking of health, we are in the midst of an outbreak of dysentery here, as it seems that in my absence no one bothered to educate the new cook on basic sanitation issues. I am writing this in Jerusalem, where I have come to buy the necessary medications.
Please know that I write this letter out of affection and concern for you and that I remain, as always,
Your loving sister,
Dorothy
SIXTEEN
I did not go down to supper that night, though Billy later brought me up a piece of apple tart and some cheese and coffee. I stood at the window and watched the London night fall. The rain stopped abruptly just before dusk, and I thought of Patrick on the farm, praying for some dry days to finish the late harvest.
For a few hours this afternoon, I was so sure of myself, I thought. Where there were clear motive and opportunity, could firm evidence be far behind? And now Holmes tells me the trail lies elsewhere. My efforts since Tuesday have been in vain. Thank God I don't have to go there tomorrow— I don't know how long I can keep it up, knowing there is a good chance that it is futile. But, why the sister and the sister's grandson? The murder was calculated, not merely an act of insane rage. Money, then, that most ubiquitous of motives?
I stood unseeing and rubbed at the dull ache in my right shoulder, my mind an undisciplined welter of unconnected images and phrases. A thin memory wafted up, evoked no doubt by the reference to wall climbing in the letter I had just received. A memory of salt air, and a strong, young body, and the wonder of life opening up. A memory of a girl, not yet a young woman, sitting at the edge of a cliff, tossing pebbles at the rocky beach far below. Her blond hair is tugged out of the long plaits by the wind, and wisps blow into her mouth and across her steel- rimmed glasses. The lean grey-haired man next to her sits quietly, one knee up under his chin, the other dangling carelessly into space.
'Holmes?'
'Yes, Russell.'
'What do you think makes a person kill?'
'Self-defence.'
'No, I mean murder, not just defending oneself.'
'I know what you meant. My answer is, self-defence, always.'
The young face squints out across the Channel haze.
'You are saying that all murders are committed because the killer feels that he is being threatened by the other person.'
'I should qualify that, I suppose, to admit the occasional unhuman who kills for pleasure or payment, but for the rest, yes. The injunction against the taking of human life is so strong, the only way most people can break it is to convince themselves that their life, their welfare, or the life of their family is menaced by their enemy and that, therefore, the enemy must be removed.'
'But, revenge? And money?'
'Subdivisions of self-defence. Revenge returns the killer to a position of self-respect and reestablishes his sense of worth and power in his own eyes. The cousin of revenge is jealousy, anticipating the need for revenge. The other subdivisions are all forms of power— money being the most obvious and the most common.' And, his voice added, the least interesting.
'What about the fear of being caught?'
'It acts as a balance to the urge for self-defence. Most people know at least one person whom they could be tempted to do away with, were it not too unpleasantly messy, but for the fear of being caught and having freedom, honour, and perhaps even life itself taken away by the judicial system. Be honest, Russell. If you found yourself in a position where you could rid yourself of another person, and you were absolutely certain that no one would ever even suspect you, would you not be sorely tempted?'
'Oh yes,' I said with feeling.
Holmes laughed dryly. 'I am glad your aunt could not see your face just then, Russell. I promise you that I won't mention this conversation to the local constable if her body is found one of these days.' Holmes, who had never been formally introduced to my aunt, was no fonder of her manipulative ways than I, her orphaned ward.
'I'll remember that. But, Holmes, if all murderers— most murderers— are only acting in self-defence, then how can you condemn them? Any animal has the right to defend itself, doesn't it?'
His response was as unexpected as it was electrifying. My friend, my mentor, turned on me, with a look of such absolute disgust and loathing that I could not breathe, and had I not been frozen to the spot, my body would probably have fallen forward off the cliff just to be free of that awful gaze. His voice was tight with scorn, and it shattered my fragile adolescent attempts at self-assurance.
'For God's sake, Russell, human beings are not animals. For thousands of years, we've fought our way up from being animals, and the veneer is a fragile one at best. Some people forget this, but don't you, Russell, you of all people. Never forget it.'
He stood up swiftly and stalked away, and I began to breathe again. After a while, I took myself home, shaken, confused, angry, and feeling about four inches tall.
That night after dinner, I went upstairs early to avoid my aunt's eyes and to think. My room was small, had no view to speak of, and was located on the cold north side of the house, but it had one invaluable feature: The stones of the main chimney stepped up along the outside wall just under my window, so that with the aid of a fine, nearly invisible rope, I could leave the house unseen. I used the escape route rarely, but knowing it was available transformed the room from a prison into a safe haven. I had even mounted a bolt on the door, which I threw now, and I stood with my forehead against the cool painted wood as the confusion and the emptiness welled up in me. Holmes was my only friend, all the family I possessed, and the thought of his disapproval devastated me.
A slight noise came from behind me. I whirled around, my heart in my throat, to see the man himself in the armchair next to the window, leaning forward to replace a book on the bookshelf, his unlit pipe between his teeth. I stared at him. He took the pipe out of his mouth, smiled at me, and spoke in a low voice.
'Good evening, Russell. If you do not wish to have uninvited visitors, you ought to pull the cord up after you.'
I found my voice.
'Most people use the front door, for some reason.'
'How odd. Would you prefer I went around ...'
'It would seem somewhat anticlimactic. What are you doing here? I'm afraid I can't offer you any refreshment, if you are here because Mrs Hudson has decided to go out on strike.'
'What a terrifying thought. No, I am not in need of refreshment. I came to apologise, Russell. My words this afternoon were unnecessarily harsh, and I did not wish you to be disturbed by them.'
I turned to tidy an already-neat stack of papers on my desk.
'It is not necessary to apologise,' I said. 'It was a stupid thing to say, and I deserved your response. I am relieved that you aren't angry with me,' I added.
'My dear child, it was not stupid. The question of human responsibility is one that every adolescent must ask, or grow up never knowing the answer. The problem is that I forgot you are only sixteen. I often do, you know. It was a valid question, and I treated it as if it were a moral flaw. Please forgive me, and I beg you, do not let it stop you from asking questions in the future. You say what you like, and I shall attempt to avoid acting like an old lion with a toothache. Agreed?'
Embarrassed and relieved, I grinned and stuck out my hand. He stood up and took it.
'Agreed.'
'I'll be off, then, before Mrs Hudson sends out the hounds for me. There may be something in your macabre joke after all— this will be the third time in a week I have made her serve me a cold supper. Ah well. Until tomorrow, Russell.'
