John Bingham - Five Roundabouts to Heaven

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.

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.

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.

“Tell her, try to explain to her, that I only acted out of pity. Didn’t want her to suffer, you know.” He sighed and added: “Pity. Bad thing, pity. Much better to be normal, like you, Pete.”

“I’ll tell her,” I answered. “I’ll tell her, Barty. She’ll understand. She’s a very intelligent girl.”

He nodded, almost imperceptibly. “Very intelligent girl, Pete. Tell her what I said.”

He remained quiet for fully half a minute, then sighed again, and added: “But I doubt if she will understand. It’s a bit too much to ask.”

I saw the police officer scribbling in his notebook.

A nurse put her head round the door, and made signs that I would have to leave. I put my hand on his again.

“I must go now, Barty. You’ve got to have plenty of rest.”

He suddenly opened his eyes, then, and stared at me.

To my horror I realized that they were filled with fear, and his pallor had been transformed by a sudden rush of blood to his face. I had seen him look like that before.

There was the same wild look as I had seen when they threw the rug over his head at the picnic at the chateau; the same terrified look which Mary, the American girl, must have seen the evening when we had locked them both into a bedroom; and the same piteous, frightened expression as I had seen, in those almost forgotten schooldays, when we had pushed him under the vaulting horse in the gymnasium during the singing lessons.

But I didn’t think of all that then. I only saw the terror. I didn’t know what was the matter. I didn’t think he was afraid of dying, and I was right, but I couldn’t guess what was in his mind. I increased my pressure on his hand.

“What’s up, Barty?” I asked, softly.

“Locked doors,” he whispered.

I looked round. There were no locked doors, as far as I could see. There was only a screen round the bed, and even then there was a wide gap between the screen and the wall.

“They won’t understand,” he murmured.

“Who won’t?”

He shook his head, while the fear burned and blazed in his eyes, and I felt his hand grow damp and hot in mine.

“They’ll put me in prison, Pete.”

I saw the police officer begin to scribble again in his notebook. “Locked doors, and pitch darkness at night. I can’t stand it, Pete. I’d rather die than that.”

I saw the police officer bending nearer, anxious not to miss a word. I felt Bartels’ hand beneath my own begin to clench and twist and pull at the bedclothes. I gripped it harder still, and stared at him groping for something to say.

As I searched in my mind for some words of comfort, I heard him murmur to me to bend closer. I put my head down, and he said:

“Put your ear against my lips, Pete.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the police officer draw as close as he could. But Bartels only said five words: “Altrapeine-please, Pete. Please, Pete.”

I raised my head, and caught the police officer’s eye, and saw the question forming on his lips.

“All right,” I said in a normal, loud voice. “All right, I’ll see what I can do.”

The fear slowly seeped from Bartels’ face. Now there was only a mute, sad appeal in his eyes. I got up, and picked up my hat.

“Tomorrow?” murmured Bartels.

“I’ll come and see you tomorrow, if you’re well enough,” I replied in the soothing tones one uses to sick people. “Now get some rest, Barty.”

I went out, round the screen, and had begun to walk down the ward, when I heard footsteps behind me, and felt a hand on my arm. I looked round and saw it was the police officer.