The Book And The Brotherhood

Then, hearing it distantly as in a dream, Duncan heard the odd, the amazing, sound of someone's feet on the stairs outside. The sound of approaching feet and then a voice that cried out, 'David! David!' The door was flying open and instead of the blue rectangle Jenkin Riderhood stood there, emerged from the darkness of the stairs. Duncan, in the very moment of firing, adjusted his aim. The report, echoing in the enclosed room, was deafening. Another sound, a heavy thudding noise, was almost instantaneous. Duncan dropped the gun and put his hand to his head. Jenkin was not there, there was only the open doorway. Duncan walked slowly down the room. Jenkin was lying on the floor on his back. There was a neat red hole in the centre of his forehead in exactly the place at which Duncan had aimed when he was aiming at Crimond. Jenkin was clearly dead. His eyes were open and his face expressed surprise. Duncan closed the door.

Looking back later on what happened next Duncan was amazed at his own cold-blooded coolness. It was clear to him at once that, out of an unimaginable terrible, horrible catastrophe some things at least could be salvaged by swift intelligent action. A strange, weird, uncanny aspect of the situation – and Duncan recalled that lie had felt it like that at a time when there were so many things to feel – was that Crimond began instantly, silently, to weep, and continued to shed streaming tears throughout the scene that followed.

Duncan thought, he reflected. He said to Crimond, 'We must explain this as an accident. Of course it is an accident. But how? What's the best story? Let's say we were shooting at the target and he got in the way. That's the best I can think of now, at least it's simple. Look, help me, we'll pull him down to the far end, near the target. Just as well there's so little blood.'

Duncan began to pull Jenkin's body by the legs. Crimond did not help, but walked beside him, weeping, as Duncan dragged the thing into position near the target. Crimond then went back to the bed and sat down on it and gave himself up to silent crying, his hands in front of his face.

Duncan pushed the two tables up against the wall. He even picked up some books and put them on the tables.

He said to Crimond, 'Shall I ring the police or will you?'

Crimond did not reply, continuing to shed tears. Duncan saw his tears, from his bent head, falling to the floor.

It was only at that moment that it occurred to Duncan that he didn't have to stay there. He could simply vanish.

Duncan picked up his jacket and his tie and put them on. He put on his overcoat, stuffing the gloves well down into the pockets. It took him a moment to realise what the hammer was when he touched it. He said to Crimond, 'You must telephone the police. I don't have to be involved. You understand? I wasn't here. You're the one who's got to explain. Just stick to the story, it was an accident, he got in the way. Do you hear, do you understand? I'm going, I was never here at all.'

Crimond did not respond. Duncan stood still, trying to think. What else must he do? Something about guns, fingerprints. He took out his gloves and put them on, then picked up the gun which he had fired, broke it, and poured out the contents of the cylinder onto the table. One spent cartridge and five duds. He replaced the spent cartridge in the blackrned chamber, then carefull^y cleaned the handle of the gun with his handkerchief. He took the gun to Crimond and held it out to him, holding it by the barrel. Crimond automatically took it and laid it down on the floor. Duncan repeated the process. Crimond took the gun, held it a moment in his palm, then put it down. He paid no attention to Duncan, did not look up. Duncan decided to leave the gun on the floor near Crimond's feet. He turned his attention to the other gun, broke it and up-ended the cylinder. He shook it. Nothing came out. He looked at the gun. The chambers were all empty. He 'said to himself, I'll think about that later. He put the gun away in the cupboard, which also contained an automatic pistol. He thought, is that everything? No. The five dud cartridges were lying on the table. Crimond had made them carefully, cuttill the lead and pressing it in, so that the contest would be fair. Duncan thought, he won't be able to explain those, I'd better take them with me. He put them in his pocket.

He went to Crimond and shook him, seizing him by the shoulders and pulling him violently to and fro. Crimom raised his head and put out a weak hand to push Duncan grip away. Duncan shouted at him, 'I'm going now. I wasn't here. You shot him by accident, he got in the way. Just think what happened, picture it. Then ring the police, ring twill soon. Do you understand me?'

Crimond nodded his head, not looking at Duncan, still trying feebly to push him away with a hand wet with tears.

Duncan went out, closing the door of the playroom, went up the stairs and quietly let himself out into the icy cold street. Cars were passing, people were walking. No one, evidently had paid attention to a revolver shot. Duncan setoff to walk to the Underground station, a taxi was too risky, anyway he would be unlikely to meet one. He turned up his coat collar and hunched his head down inside it and walked fast but not too fast. When he reached the station he heard the sound of a police car in the distance. Perhaps Crimond had pulled himself together and got his story ready and made the telephone call.

Duncan returned as quickly as possible to the office amazed to find that he was able to arrive there before lunch time. No one seemed to have remarked his absence. Duncan rang Jean on some vague pretext. She sounded very glad to lit-of his voice. She said she had rung earlier, he said he was at meeting. Duncan had lunch in the office canteen and chatted conspicuously with a number of people. He ate his lunch. On the way home he bought the evening paper as usual. Throp was a small confused item about an accident with a gun. The reporter had not even taken in who Crimond was. So brief is mortal fame, Duncan reflected, as he sat in the train going home.

PART THREE

SPRING

Rose was standing at the window of her bedroom looking out at the sun shining upon the long wide lawn and the Italian fountain and the huge handsome chestnut trees and some fields full of black and white cows and some sloping woodlands and a receding horizon of hills. The funeral was over, the visiting mourners were gone. This was not the loneral of Jenkin Riderhood, now in the past, but the Funeral of Reeve's wife, Laura Curtland. Rose was not at Boyars but at the house in Yorkshire. At Boyars the snowdrops were over, but here in the north a few clumps lingered in sheltered corners under still leafless trees and bushes. In the birch copse beyond the lawn the early double daffodils were coming into flower.

Laura Curtland, so long a malade imaginaire, had vindicated her status by suddenly dying. After maintaining for years that she had cancer when she had not, she developed a quick operable tumour and passed away. Perhaps, everyone said hater, she had in some sense been right all the time. Laura's sodden departure caused a good deal of surprise, some disway, and a certain amount of terrible grief. At Fettiston (this wits the name of the house) grief, shared by the servants, prevailed. A few village people shed tears too. The relations, with the exception of Laura's husband and children, were calm. Rose, who had never particularly got on with Laura, found herself wishing that she had made more effort to get to know someone of whose good qualities she was now suddenly aware. Rose had felt that Laura was hostile, anxious to keep hose at a distance. Perhaps, Rose now reflected, Laura had witsonably felt that Rose neglected them, found them dull, spent minimal time in Yorkshire, had made a rival 'family' for herself in London. Rose was moved, and deeply moved, by the evident, even frantic, anguish of Reeve and Neville and Gillian. The flowing tears of cook and maids, the bowed heads of sorrowing gardeners, also counted as evidence. From her chaise longue Laura had presumably not only organised that large house and garden, but aroused affection in those whom she directed as well as enjoying the absolute love of her nearest and dearest. Rose had been aware that Laura was not a fool, but in some way she had never taken her seriously, and no doubt Laura sensed this. Of course all these sensible reflections came too late.