Bruce Alexander - The Price of Murder

She stood and, with a forced smile, she marched away and up the stairs. I watched her go.

After the first few minutes of sitting and waiting for her to return, my eyes fastened upon Clarissa’s journal-book. Now, ordinarily, I would not think of invading her privacy by reading such a document. Nevertheless, there were other factors involved. First of all, when I face a period of waiting, I become quite desperate for something-anything! — to read. I recall having said something about this some months before. In any case, she knew of this; she had been forewarned. Secondly, she had left the journal-book out upon the kitchen table within my easy grasp. It was there before me as a temptation-nay, more, as a provocation. It was almost as though she wanted me to open it up and read. What was I to do? My eyes played over the book for some minutes (well, two or three, anyway), and, at last, I found that there was naught to do to solve the problem, but to reach out for it and open it up.

What greeted me, at first, surprised me, for I found pictures-an abundance of them in nearly every corner and margin of every page. Pictures of what? Oh, flowers of one kind or another, buildings and trees. And faces-faces of all sorts, men, women, and children, some of them quite skillfully done. She was not without talent, certainly-yet she had quite successfully hidden it from all of us-or so I supposed.

As for what she had written therein, the text wound about her drawings, in some instances taking on the shape of the object with which it shared the page. A number of them seemed to be books in synopsis, mere ideas for books, or the beginnings of books. And some of the faces that surrounded these entries might well have been the faces of the characters as she visualized them. Could the faces have come first? An interesting supposition, that.

Thus entranced, I paged through more than half the journal-book, which is to say, near all that she had written in it. Yet ’twas not her text that stopped me and held me there: again, it was the drawings, the sketches, the pictures. One of them, that one of a bearded man, that could be none other than Black Jack Bilbo-and the face beside his, a woman, there was something about it-Marie-Helene? Of course! Then did I find on the overleaf a rather good sketch of Tom Durham, and below it, another male face, which I could not quite recognize. There was something familiar about it, yet. .

I turned back to the beginning of this section and began to read:

“Why not [she wrote] a book about Jeremy and me? It would be great fun and a considerable relief to write of events just as they happened. I would be relieved of the need to plot, which I find so difficult. And after all, the events of our lives, arranged in order, and perhaps tightened up a bit are just as exciting as any can be read in a romance, and the sentiments presented in it would be real as can be. I could include, perhaps even begin with, the capture of Marie-Helene by Black Jack Bilbo and their eventual escape. In a sense, that happened to Jeremy and to me as well as to them. But no, to begin there would be to lose too much of our story, Jeremy’s and mine-individually and in concert. Ah, how romantic it will be to trace our early history-the squabbles and the wrangles that persisted intolerably long until they end-as they will-in wedded bliss. Should I use real names? I’m not sure. In a way, it matters little what names I give them if they are well-described. To speak of a certain blind magistrate would surely bring only one man to mind. And if I were to describe another as a lexicographer from Lichfield, he would-

There did her projections end, for at that point I must have appeared with the invitation from Sir John that she come and join him for a talk. And by a strange coincidence of events, I did hear her step upon the stairs at just that moment. Hurriedly I replaced her journal-book, making every effort to fix it in the exact angle in relation to the ink bottle. Afterward, I wondered why I was so careful to put the book back in place just as it had been, for I would have words with her about it, or know the reason why I should not.

She appeared, stepping sprightly with a smile upon her face.“Well,” said she, “that was not so bad. No, not bad at all.”

“I thought it would not be,” said I rather coolly.

’Twas not what I said, but the manner in which I said it that seemed to disturb her. She looked at me closely as if to find the reason for the slightly sullen expression written upon my face.

“What ails you?” said she.

I said naught but looked her straight in the eye.

She settled down in the chair at the table wherein she sat before her interview with Sir John. Looking about her, she suddenly understood and started to laugh.

“You’ve been looking at my journal-book, have you not?”

“Well … I …”

“Admit it,” said she with a proper chuckle. “I was half-hoping you would read through it in any case. What did you think of it?”

“Well. . I. . that is. . I thought your drawings were very good,” said I, thinking it better to begin upon a positive note. “I’m amazed that you’ve kept your light under a bushel for so long. Have you no wish to study? To learn to paint?”

“No, not a bit of it. Women publish books. They don’t paint portraits. I draw pictures to amuse myself and to help me in my writing.” With that, she leaned back and looked upon me with curiosity. “But that’s not what has set you going, now is it?”

“Well, no,” I admitted.

“What then? It was what I’d written, of course.”

“I suppose it was.”

“Were you surprised to find that I’d not made a diary of it-the kind all girls keep when they’re eleven or twelve?”

“Perhaps a little.”

“Disappointed?”

“No!”

“But what was it upset you so to find I’d made of it a repository for all my ideas for writing?” (But the question was rhetorical and not truly directed at me.) “I know! It was the last thing in the book, was it not? That upon which I was working when you brought to me Sir John’s summons. You object to having our life put before the world, do you? Well, does it mean naught to you that I hold our lives to be as truly exciting and adventurous as any in a romance-or a book of any sort? Real life is grand, Jeremy. Don’t you-”

“Still, Clarissa,” I said, interrupting her, “‘a certain blind magistrate,’ ‘a noted lexicographer from Lichfield?’ How could you?”

“Oh pish-posh,” said she, “I was but having a bit of fun there.”

“Well, your fun may be another’s misery.”

“None of that now. Sir John and Samuel Johnson can defend themselves.”

I was about to reply to that when she spoke up once more and uttered words that proved prophetic.

“Sometime in the future, Jeremy, you yourself may write books about Sir John. And why not? What better memorial could he have? Until then, let us consider that he can and should be written about by one of us. Does that not seem reasonable?”

I had to admit that it did. Perhaps, reader, I had already, at that early date, begun to think about writing this series of books. There we left the matter. I, for one, was quite exhausted by our quarrel-if quarrel it was. But, as Clarissa gathered up her things, I added what, for a while, I later came to regret.

“It’s been decided,” said I to her, “that I shall be going up to Newmarket for the big race, as we discussed.”

“I know,” said she. “Sir John told me.”

What I later came to regret for a little while was that Clarissa had not given up that daft idea of hers of combining our savings and betting all upon the longest shot on the boards. She made that plain when, just as I was waiting to leave with Mr. Patley next day, she suddenly appeared and, from her large apron pocket, drew a great, jingling pile of coins tied up neatly in a kerchief.