John Bingham - Five Roundabouts to Heaven

“Well, sir, he seemed a little upset about something.”

“And why do you think that, Miss Latimer?”

“He kind of snapped at me.”

“And that was unusual?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How unusual?”

“Well, very unusual. He was such a good-tempered man. I’ve never known him get cross before. Not like that. Snappish, so to speak.”

“Was there anything which made you think he was-not quite himself, shall we say?”

“Well, he looked a bit pale one moment, and hot and red the next. And he put his head in his hands.”

“And how did he explain that away?”

“He said he thought he might have a cold coming. So I gave him some red and green pills.”

“And did the cold develop?”

“No, sir.”

“But that might have been due to the remarkable efficacy of your-ah-little red and green pills?”

Laughter in court, of course. Ha-ha-ha, very funny. Swiftly silenced by the officials.

Bartels moved over to a chair by the wall. He took out the tube of pills, extracted a few, threw them in the fire. You couldn’t be too careful. Miss Latimer, and the barman, one mistake and one near-mistake, in a couple of hours. And the fingerprints. So much to think of, so many of the foreseeables and the unforeseeables.

He took ten minutes to drink his second whisky, and then, while the barman was serving somebody, he went quietly out.

He arrived at Lorna’s house in the lane near Thatchley at about seven o’clock. The light was switched on in the porch, offering warmth and shelter from the snow, and from the darkness of the night, and from the black shafts of his thoughts.

Lorna heard the car arrive, and before he could reach the door she had opened it and stood in the porch light to welcome him.

“You must be frozen, Barty.” She smiled affectionately at him, and he took her eagerly in his arms, in the doorway, and kissed her.

“I’m not exactly perspiring in every pore.”

“Come in, I’ve got a fine blaze of a fire in the sitting room.”

He took off his coat and hat, and put them on a chair in the hall, and followed her into the sitting room.

“A drink to warm you up, Barty?” She moved over to the table by the side of the wall.

“Gin and mixed?”

“I’d rather have a whisky and soda, if you can spare it.”

“Of course I can spare it. It’s yours, anyway. You bought it.”

Bartels, standing in front of the fire fondling the corgi’s ear, said: “Don’t keep telling me that such few little things as I give you are mine really. They aren’t. They’re yours, or at the most ours, darling.”

She mixed a gin and Italian for herself and a whisky and soda for Bartels, and brought them over to the fireplace. She gave him his glass and raised her own, and said:

“Well, cheers. God bless us, my dear.”

One cried “God bless us” and “Amen” the other. I could not say “Amen” when they did cry “God bless us.” Wherefore could I not pronounce “Amen”? I had most need of blessing. Wherefore must I always think of the guards in Macbeth thought Bartels. Murdered in their sleep, like Duncan. Beatrice would be murdered just before she would have gone to sleep. He glanced at his watch. 7.15.8.15. 9.15. 10.15. 11.15. Four hours. Hours and days and years, and what are a few years more or less?

Ten million light-years for the light of a star to cross the empty spaces of the night. Ten million more for the light of some star beyond the star to reach that star. The fault, dear Brutus, lies in ourselves not in our stars. The dog, Brutus, he was dead, too. Beatrice would be all right, but would he, Philip Bartels?

Beatrice, barefooted, twanging a harp? Not likely!

Beatrice the competent, her red hair aflame in the light of a thousand suns, armed with Delegated Authority, sorting out the Milky Way! That was more like it. Could it be that the slayer was more affected than the slain, the murderer than his victim?

“Are you feeling all right, Barty?”

He wanted to snap back that he was certainly feeling all right, why shouldn’t he be feeling all right, what made her think he wasn’t feeling all right? But he had learnt his lesson.

“I feel all right thank you,” he replied gently. “Why?”

“You look a bit pale, that’s all.”

“I think I may have caught a little chill. It’s nothing.”

He put his arm around her shoulders, and tilted her face up and kissed her.

“You shouldn’t have come, if you have got a chill,” said Lorna. “Not on a night like this.”

“What should I have done?”

“Stayed at home.”

“And not be with you? No, thank you.”

“Well, you’d better take a couple of aspirins before you go to bed.”

What time would he be going to bed? One o’clock? Two o’clock? It all depended. Perhaps three o’clock or four; in that case he would be taking his aspirins with the cup of tea which the sergeant and constable would bring him while they “looked round the flat” as they’d call it. He didn’t know what time he would be going to bed.

“One of the secretaries at the office gave me some red and green pills to take. She says they’re very good.”

“Have you taken any?”

He nodded. Even Lorna had to be deceived in a small way. Even for Lorna it was as well to provide a reason why his cold did not develop. Then he realized that this was unnecessary: he would not be seeing Lorna again for a month or so. So he needn’t have lied to Lorna. He would never lie to Lorna again, nor to anybody else, once this business was over. He was tired of subterfuge, fed up with intrigue.

He placed his arm round her shoulder and held her more tightly, not kissing her, however, but gazing silently at the carpet, as though trying to draw strength from the tranquillity which for him was one of her most wonderful characteristics.

“Darling Lorna, I do love you so.”

He slid his hand from her shoulders to the side of her head, and pulled her head down so that it lay on his shoulder, and bent down and put his cheek against her brow. Lorna reached up and put her hand on his, and caressed it.

Her hand was soft, her movements gentle, and little by little he felt the agitation within him dying down. Suddenly, she removed his arm, and said:

“Now, young man. I’m going to get the supper.”

“I’ll help you.”

He started to follow her to the door, and the corgi, instinctively guessing that food was being discussed, rose to his feet and pattered after her, too.

“Go and sit by the fire, Barty,” said Lorna. “Get thoroughly warm. Most of the supper is ready.”

“I’d rather help you, darling.”

“There’s nothing you can do, Barty. Really there isn’t. The trolley is laid-I thought we’d eat in here, as it’s so cold-the soup just needs heating up, and all I’ve got to do is to throw a little liver and bacon into the pan. The potatoes are cooked. So go and sit down.”

“I’d rather be with you. I would much rather be with you.”

But she pushed him gently from the door, towards the table where the drinks were standing.

“Don’t be obstinate. Pour yourself another whisky, a good stiff one, and go and sit by the fire. I won’t be ten minutes.”

He watched her go out, and did not dare to insist upon being with her, because that might have seemed unnatural. Tonight he could not afford to appear anything other than composed and normal. He poured out the whisky, sat by the fire, glad that he had not insisted. Tonight was the test of willpower. Once again he felt a curious little thrill which was entirely unconnected with Lorna.

He, Philip Bartels, was in conflict with all the forces of society. That took some doing. That required organization, forethought, nerve, courage. Admittedly, he had hesitated, had had qualms, even some personal fears.