Five Roundabouts to Heaven

He saw it looming over him, and heard the crash, and felt the pain, and hazily noted the strange stillness which followed for a brief moment the noise of the impact.

Before he lost consciousness he heard himself murmur: “Beatrice,” and was faintly surprised.

Extract from a police report prepared by Inspector Macdonald, of the Metropolitan Police Force, and shown to me, Peter Harding, in confidence, at a later date:

On 26 February, at about 10.40 p.m., as a result of a telephone message to the effect that Beatrice Bartels, a married woman, of 34 Alvington Court, W8, was in danger of unknowingly taking a draught of medicine containing some poisonous substance, namely altrapeine, or that she may already have taken such medicine, I proceeded to the address in question, accompanied by Sergeant Wellings of this station, where I observed through a glass panel in the front door that a light appeared to be burning in the flat.

I rang the bell and knocked, but received no answer.

In view of the nature of the message which had been received, I instructed Sergeant Wellings to force an entry. This was effected by breaking a portion of the glass panel, and releasing the latch from inside.

An inspection of the flat showed that it was empty.

At 10.55 p.m. a woman who subsequently proved to be Mrs Bartels entered the flat, stating that she had been to the cinema and had left the light burning to discourage burglars.

I said to her: “A man called Philip Bartels, who states that he is your husband, has been involved in a motor- car accident and is lying seriously injured in Richmond Hospital. This man has caused a message to be sent to the police to the effect that a poisonous substance, namely altrapeine, has been introduced into some medicine which he anticipated you would take before retiring to bed this evening.”

Mrs Bartels replied: “There must be some mistake. I do not understand.”

I then said to her: “Did you, in fact, intend to take some medicine before retiring this evening?”

She replied: “Yes.”

I asked her where this medicine was to be found, and she replied: “It is beside my bed.”

I went with her into a bedroom, and on a table by the side of the bed I saw a bottle containing a small amount of white powder. I informed Mrs Bartels that it would be necessary for me to remove the bottle and contents for examination, and she replied: “Is that really necessary?”

I informed her again that it was necessary, and she made no reply. I then asked Mrs Bartels if she wanted to visit her husband in hospital, in view of his condition, and she replied: “Later, perhaps. Not just now.” She was in a distressed state.

I left Sergeant Wellings with Mrs Bartels, and returned to this station, where, in view of the verbal statement already made by the husband, Philip Bartels, I made arrangements for police officers to attend Richmond Hospital with a view to taking any further statement from Bartels which he might care to make, and should he be in a position to make one.

Bartels lapsed into unconsciousness again during the night, but at 6.30 a.m., approximately, he recovered consciousness and made the statement which is attached to this report, but which he was not in a fit enough condition to sign.

Thus far, the police report was accurate. But the rest of it was inaccurate, on one particular, at least, which is why I said, at the beginning of this record of the affair, that one other person thought he knew all about the case, whereas in fact he didn’t. Inspector Macdonald thought he had it all tidied up in his file, in view of Bartels’ statement.

He was wrong.

Chapter 18

There was no daylight left now, but beyond the chateau a round harvest moon hung above the horizon, immense and golden, its rays dappling the path in the wood, the silent wood, where I had walked and laughed and loved in my youth.

I no longer wished to be alone.

I wanted company now, and lights, and talk, and maybe some hard liquor; not wine, with its gentle, mellowing effect, but something that worked fast, that would remove the gooseflesh that races over a man’s skin when he is alone in a wood with thoughts like mine, when the shadows and the trees merge into shapes that are not the shapes of men but of things to which one cannot easily put a name.

The fact is, I did not wish to look again at the end of the affair. I wished that I did not have to amend the end of the Inspector’s report. I would have liked the end of that report to have been the whole truth, instead of only part of the truth.

So far, I could raise arguments to prove that I had acted no worse than Bartels. Bartels had betrayed Beatrice, and I, in my turn, had betrayed Bartels. I had succeeded, and Bartels had failed, as he did all his life.

I could at least argue that, but for me, Lorna would not have changed her mind, Beatrice would have died and Bartels might have been hanged.

Chapter 19

Had Bartels been a normally strong-looking fellow, I do not think I would have acted as I did, but he looked pathetic in that hospital bed, with the big, healthy detective sitting by the bedside. They had pulled the bed somewhat away from the wall, so that the detective sat discreetly behind the line of Bartels’ vision.

They had put a screen round his bed, too, and he lay there with his head and chest and left arm swathed in bandages.

He had, they told me, a fractured base of the skull, together with two broken ribs and considerable bruising and laceration of the head and right side.

There was a risk of haemorrhage of blood to the brain with fatal results, and he would be in danger for some days.

“He would not normally be allowed visitors,” said the ward sister, in a cool, tinny voice. “However, he seemed to be unable to settle down until he had seen you.” She looked at me disapprovingly and added: “You mustn’t stay more than a few minutes.”

I nodded, and walked down the ward to the bed where he lay.

He opened his eyes when I placed my hand on his, and smiled his wide, thin-lipped smile.

“This is a pretty pickle,” he whispered, and I saw the police officer lean forward, notebook in hand, to catch his words.

“Get better,” I said. “Then we’ll sort things out.”

“It’ll take some sorting out.”

His spectacles had been smashed in the accident, and he gazed up at me short-sightedly. For lack of anything better to say, I repeated: “Get better, first, Barty.”

He closed his eyes for a few seconds, and I wondered if he had fallen asleep. But he opened them after a while and said:

“I wonder if Beatrice will ever understand. I don’t suppose so. Poor Beatrice.”

I sought round desperately for something to say to distract his thoughts from Beatrice.

“I’m afraid your car’s a bit of a mess,” I said inanely.

He smiled faintly. “So am I.”

“You’ll be all right,” I said.

He closed his eyes again, and his mind reverted to Beatrice, and when he spoke his voice was so low that I joined the police officer in bending down to catch his words.