The Pursued Page 4

  ‘Please may I get down?’ went on Derrick.

  Marjorie looked at her mother, who nodded agreement, and Marjorie gave permission.

  ‘Come and look at this, Anne,’ said Derrick, squatting down beside the solitaire board. Mrs Claire and Marjorie, alone now at the table, had leisure and opportunity for an exchange of glances.

  ‘He’ll forget all about it soon,’ said Mrs Clair. Her gesture indicated that she was referring to Derrick, conversing clamourously on the carpet with Anne.

  Marjorie nodded.

  ‘I don’t expect he’ll ever speak about it again,’ went on Mrs Clair. ‘And you know what children are like. No one will ever be able to get him to talk about it.’

  So Mother had drawn the same conclusions from what Derrick had said as Marjorie had. And she had gone farther than that, too, as far as to wonder whether Derrick might have to give evidence. Marjorie clenched her hands. No one would ever, if she could prevent it, drag her Derrick into a police court and stand him up and allow lawyers to ask him questions.

  With a sudden revulsion of feeling it dawned upon her that her thoughts and imaginings had brought her up against terrible realities. It was a shock to realize all the implications, that Ted was a murderer; that he was in some danger of being arrested, hanged; that Derrick and Anne might have to go through life bearing the stigma of being the children of a murderer. It was too horrible, too fantastic, too dreadful to be true. Her mind refused to tolerate the thought any longer. She could not bring herself to face it; her mind shied away from it like a restive horse from a gate. She was suddenly conscious of the fluttering of her heart in her breast, and she knew she had changed colour. She stared at her mother across the table, and her mother was as placid and as immobile as before.

  ‘Are you feeling all right, dear?’ asked her mother, gently.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ gasped Marjorie.

  In search of any avenue of escape from reality her eyes sought out the clock on the mantelpiece.

  ‘It’s time to go home now,’ she said. ‘It’s nearly Derrick’s bedtime.’

  It was like relief from the startling agony of childbirth to allow herself to forget the grim horrors which had loomed up before her and to lapse into the little ordinary things of life again. To coax Derrick into replacing the marbles tidily in the bag, to tilt Anne’s hat to the correct angle on the back of her head, to start for home along the ordinary streets facing the problem of what to cook for Ted’s supper; all this was bliss, a soft bed after a couch of flints. An hour before, the grimmest realities she had had to face had been Ted’s tiresomeness and Derrick’s tendency to tell lies. She could not believe now that they had ever worried her; she clung to them, fondled them in her mind, would not let them go lest the other things should come back into her thoughts.

  It never occurred to her at all that she was doing something at which an unsympathetic world might look askance, walking back home quietly to rejoin there a husband whom she had just discovered to be an adulterer and the murderer of her sister. To her mind she was going back home, back to the ordinary things for a space. There was a definitive dissociation at present between the Ted with whom she had lived for ten years, the Ted with a tendency to be tiresome, the Ted for whom she was going to cook supper, between him and the Ted whose guilt had just been made plain to her. Some time must necessarily elapse before the two figures should merge together.

  A puritan or a moralist might maintain that Marjorie had no business to go back to Ted that afternoon, that she should have cut herself off from him, drastically, on the instant, and never set eyes on him again. Such an argument makes no allowance for the human factor; it would have been impossible for Marjorie to have done that, unaccustomed as she was to making quick decisions on matters of supreme importance, and unfitted by nature as she was for dealing with crises. Perhaps – certainly – it was weak of her, and the weakness was of the quality which leads to tragedy, but it was a weakness that calls for no apology and small explanation. There is no need to stress the next argument, which actually only occurred to Marjorie some time later, that to separate from Ted would be to start gossip, to direct suspicion upon him, and to involve them all in his ruin.

  5

  In the warm evening Sergeant Hale was wheeling his bicycle up the steep slope of Simon Street when he met Mrs Clair walking down – in fact Mrs Clair crossed the road just before the encounter so that they passed on the same side of the road instead of on opposite ones. Sergeant Hale knew her at once; he had that royal gift of memory for names and faces without which no constable can hope to rise to sergeant’s rank.

  ‘Good evening, madam,’ said Sergeant Hale.

  ‘Good evening,’ said Mrs Clair, and the sergeant was a little surprised when she lingered, as if to enter into conversation with him. Most people connected with a tragedy, even remotely, were inclined to shun those members of the police force with whom the tragedy had brought them into contact, presumably because the sombre blue uniform recalled to their memory too forcibly what they desired to forget. Sergeant Hale halted on the kerb, his hands resting on the handlebars; Mrs Clair as he looked at her was a charming old lady, so neat and cool that even her mourning did not look greatly out of place in the summer streets.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ said Mrs Clair, ‘that I never thanked you properly for the kind way in which you carried out your duties at my daughter’s house. You treated her very nicely, and it’s thanks to you that she was not more upset. I am very grateful to you, sergeant.’

  ‘Don’t mention it, madam,’ said the sergeant, stroking his black moustache. ‘We all have our duty to do, and it’s up to us to do it properly. That was a very sad business, though, madam.’

  ‘Yes,’ sighed Mrs Clair. ‘And yet, thinking about it now, it might have been worse. Suppose the children had been involved!’

  ‘Yes, that would have been nasty,’ said the sergeant.

  ‘If they had seen anything, it would have been dreadful. They might even have had to come and give evidence!’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about that, madam. How old are they?’

  ‘One’s seven and one’s four.’

  ‘The law says that a child has to know the nature of an oath before it can give evidence. When they’re seven it’s possible – I’ve known it once. But not at four, madam. Not even in a coroner’s court, and certainly not in a police court.’

  Sergeant Hale smiled with amused tolerance at recollections of the easygoing procedure of a coroner’s court, so oddly in contrast with the strict rules of evidence laid down by English law.

  ‘Well, it’s a relief to know that, even if it didn’t happen,’ said Mrs Clair. ‘But I’m glad the children knew nothing about it. It would have been a shock that they wouldn’t have forgotten all their lives.’

  ‘That’s so, madam.’

  ‘Well, thank you again, sergeant,’ said Mrs Clair, smiling prettily upon him. ‘Good evening.’

  ‘Good evening, madam.’

  Sergeant Hale emptied his mind of the incident as he went on pushing his bicycle up Simon Street, but Mrs Clair dwelt upon it as she went on walking down. She had spent all her spare time for the last three days walking about the streets in the hope of just that encounter. Now she had the information she needed, confirming what she had believed all along. There was no possibility of Derrick being called upon to give evidence against his father. As far as her clear-thinking but inexperienced mind could decide, Ted was in no danger at all of being hanged for the murder of her daughter. There was no evidence whatever which could bring that about. He had been clever enough, cunning enough, to arrange it so.

  Mrs Clair’s shoe-heels tapped to a brisk rhythm as she walked quickly along to Dewsbury Road. Nobody would turn and look at her as she went by; she was just a little elderly widow, neat and trim but nothing striking, walking along a suburban road. Her unwrinkled face and her pink and white complexion gave no sign of th
e volcano of deadly hatred that seemed to her to be tearing her heart in two. There were words and phrases coming up into her mind which she would never have dreamed of using before – she had hardly thought of them twenty years ago in connection with the Kaiser when the telegram came telling her that her husband had been killed in France.

  She would have liked to have the filthy villain hanged, the dirty beast who had defiled both her daughters, who had killed Dot, dear, sweet little Dot. She would have liked him to suffer the three weeks’ torment of the condemned cell, to be dragged out, fainting with fright, by hard-faced warders to the scaffold where the hangman awaited him. That would serve the devil right. But there was no chance of it, and in another way she was glad. It would never do for Marjorie to be known to the world as a murderer’s widow, and Derrick and Anne as a murderer’s children.

  Yet come what might, the beast must be punished, must be made to suffer, must be killed so that he died in agony, so long as Marjorie and Derrick and Anne did not suffer. She could imagine quite easily the sort of death she would like him to die, and as she thought about it her step quickened and she clenched her little hands tighter and tighter until with a little ‘pop’ the black kid glove on her right hand split over the knuckle.

  She clucked her tongue with annoyance as she looked at the damage done. But it was a warning to her. She had been hurrying carelessly along the street, up to that moment, at a speed which would call attention to herself. She had burst her glove through sheer thoughtlessness. She must be very much more careful than that in future, if she were going to lay plans to destroy beastly Ted. She must remain unobtrusive, unnoticed. She must walk along quietly – so; she must keep her expression calm and neutral – so; she must carry her hands and her sunshade without calling attention to herself – so. People seeing Mrs Clair arrive at the gate of 16, Dewsbury Road, and walk up to her front door would have thought that she had just returned from a quiet evening service at St Jude’s.

  In her bedroom she took off her hat and gloves, and saw that her grey hair was as neat as ever; she washed her hands and face in the bathroom (she neither powdered nor needed to) and went quietly downstairs in time to greet George Ely, flannelled and with tennis racket in hand, as he returned from the club.

  ‘Did you have a good game, Mr Ely?’ she asked.

  ‘Fine, thanks.’

  ‘I’ll put your glass of milk and some bread and butter in the dining-room, ready for when you’ve washed your hands. Now please don’t forget it tonight. I think I’d better see that you have it.’

  George Ely was blonde and good looking, twenty-four years old, and with a hint of good-natured weakness about his mouth and chin. He came down obediently to drink his milk and eat his bread and butter while Mrs Clair fluttered about him, brushing aside his polite protests.

  ‘It was only a little supper that you had before you went out,’ she said. ‘You need something after playing tennis all the evening. And milk is so good for you. Wouldn’t you like another glass? I’ve got some more in the kitchen.’

  All the hatred in the world might afflict Mrs Clair’s bosom, but she was still capable of kindliness towards someone inoffensive and young; she was still able to feel a secret pleasure at having to look after a man after twenty years of exclusively feminine society. And Dot used to drink milk in the evening, too, while her mother fluttered about her– George Ely was some sort of substitute for Dot.

  In the drawing room George looked listlessly through his evening paper again for half an hour while the evening wireless programme continued and while Mrs Clair, sitting primly in a stiff armchair, knitted away industriously at Derrick’s new jersey. Then he yawned a little and got to his feet.

  ‘Good night, Mrs Clair.’

  ‘Goodnight, Mr Ely. I hope you sleep well. You’re looking tired.’

  When the sound of his footsteps overhead had ceased, Mrs Clair put her knitting tidily away in its bag, went out and shut the drawing-room door, saw that everything was well in the kitchen and the back door locked, and slowly climbed the stairs to her bedroom. She drew the blinds and made her simple preparations for bed. That grey hair of hers was a tiny bit sparser than its tidy appearance would have led one to suspect – the thin plait reached hardly to her shoulders. The corset which she laid neatly on a chair was old-fashioned, with bones in it; Mrs Clair always thought that it was lucky that Tomlin’s in the High Street continued to stock that type of corset, for she would have disliked to be forced into wearing one of the new-fangled rubber ones. The white underclothes were of good artificial silk – a concession to modern fashion – but severely plain. When Mrs Clair was newly married it was only for gala occasions that a woman threaded coloured ribbons through slots in her underclothing. She slipped her plain nightdress over her head as soon as she had taken off her corset, and contrived the rest of the undressing beneath it, before putting her arms out through the armholes. Then she knelt with her face in her hands and her hands on the edge of the bed.

  ‘Our father,’ she prayed. ‘Bless Marjorie and Anne and Derrick.’

  She had to be a little careful with that list now, lest other names which she had grown habituated to including should slip in again. Dot’s name had to be omitted, for she had heard vaguely that it was sinful and impious to pray for the dead. And Ted’s name had to be omitted, of course. She continued –

  ‘And Mr Ely. And please see that Ted is punished, Father. Damn him, Father. Kill him, Father. Make him pay for what he did to Dot.’

  Mrs Clair stopped for a moment while a tumult of anger and indignation eddied within her. Then at last she was able to finish her prayer, with the words she had used every night for nearly sixty years.

  ‘And make me a good girl. Amen.’

  She turned out the light and slipped into bed, curled like a child on her side with one hand under her pillow, the thin grey pigtail peeping over the sheet. She was still unsophisticated enough to be surprised that her tangled feelings did not allow her to go to sleep at once as she had been accustomed to do before the tragedy occurred. Later she turned restlessly on her back, with the warm night around her, looking up into the darkness, thinking.

  Ted must not be tried for murder; that was definite. Yet he must be punished. She and Marjorie must do it, then. But Marjorie was so weak, and after what she had been through that was nothing to wonder at. No, that was not true. Mrs Clair spurned herself for having tried to find excuses for Marjorie. Marjorie would never make up her mind to take any decisive action unless some superior force compelled her to. Of course, she was hampered by having young children, and she had no money, but besides that she was a creature of habit, and ready to go on treading the daily round simply because it was the daily round. It would not be easy to screw Marjorie into action, but she must try.

  And just what was it she was going to do to Ted? Kill him! That was absolutely sure. Rat poison which would burn out his bowels, the way the advertisements said, would be what he deserved. Mrs Clair dallied pleasurably with the notion for a space, before she put it regretfully aside and chided herself for being foolish. Good though it might be to poison Ted, it was far too dangerous. Mrs Clair’s mind ran back through vague memories of newspaper readings about Crippen and Armstrong and Seddon. Poisoners were always discovered, and she must not risk discovery – not for any fear of what the law might do to her, but because of the affect on the children’s lives. Yet it was nice to think of Ted being poisoned, thought Mrs Clair, harking back regretfully again, and then shaking off the insidious temptation angrily, cross with herself for being so weak.

  It must happen some other way. Ted had thought of a good way, the devil that he was. He was absolutely safe except from his mother-in-law’s vengeance. That idea of making it look as if Dot had killed herself was a good one. She must think of something as good as that, or better. If a stupid man like Ted could make a plan like that, surely she could think of a better one. She must.

  Mrs C
lair pressed her lips together in the darkness and tried to compel herself to solve the problem. But inspiration would not come just for the asking. She was too conscious of her handicaps, of the weakness of her position, of her lack of strength. Whichever way her mind turned she found herself up against hard practical difficulties. She wanted help, an instrument, a tool – she could, and would, make one out of Marjorie, if that would suffice, but she doubted if it would. Somewhere, surely, she could find something more effective.

  Then she broke off this train of thought again, as being too vague and theoretical at a time when she had to be definite and practical. Instantly the thought of poisoning leapt up again into her thoughts, to be welcomed while she was off her guard and then to be stamped fiercely down once more. Oh, she must think, think, think.

  The night went on, with dull misery alternating with a strange elation. Sometimes she slept, in little ten-minute snatches, only to awaken again and go on thinking – a night typical of many more to come. Yet she did not feel unduly weary when morning came. When the clock hands had crept round to half-past seven she stripped back the bedclothes from the bed and knelt to say the morning prayer which dated from a year or two later than the evening one.

  ‘Almighty God, direct my footsteps aright during this new day, and make me a good girl. For Christ’s sake – Amen.’

  Then she dressed ready to go downstairs to prepare Mr Ely’s breakfast tea and bacon.

  6

  There were nearly enough ordinary domestic matters to keep Marjorie from brooding over the present situation. The butcher, baker and greengrocer demanded nearly as much of her attention as could be spared from the clamourous needs of Derrick and the equally urgent but not so vocal demands of Anne. It was only with difficulty that Marjorie could find time and strength enough to think about her husband, and to wonder, with despairing ineffectiveness, about what she should do. And a new domestic crisis of any magnitude could be sufficient to occupy her thoughts to the exclusion of the strange and terrible business which she did not want to think about. This letter from the seaside, for instance.