Michael White - The Art of Murder

I reached the end of the corridor. The walls were sliding away. I knew I was still intoxicated, but I felt drawn onward. There was another door, with a large brass handle. I clutched it in my hand, turned it clockwise, pushed the door open and fell forward.

I lay sprawled on the floor for what seemed an age. Then, slowly, I pulled myself to my feet. I felt a stabbing pain in my side and did my best to ignore it. I looked around. Light seeped in at a window in the far wall. In front of this I could make out the shape of a chair and a man sitting in it, straight-backed. I took a step forward, and then another. I saw Oglebee. He was facing me in a large, throne-like chair. He was wearing a white robe smeared with red. The head of a young woman lay in his lap, her long blonde hair draped to the floor. He was stroking her hair. Her eyes stared at me, sightless. Utterly dead, of course.

I would be lying if I said I was not shocked. I was, but it did not last long and it was rapidly replaced by an intense ripple of excitement, a thrill I had only rarely experienced in my life up to that point. I smiled at Oglebee.

‘I thought you would enjoy it, William,’ he said. ‘I understood what you were the moment I set eyes on you.’

‘You did?’ I said, genuinely puzzled. I kept being drawn to the dead girl’s sightless eyes. After a moment, Oglebee lifted the head, still dripping blood and gore, and laid it carefully on the floor beside his chair.

‘Of course, young man. You are not the first and you will not be the last.’

‘Oh, I rather supposed I was unique,’ I said quietly, staring into his small black eyes.

He chuckled. ‘What is it that drives you?’

‘I could ask the same of you, Mr Oglebee.’

‘Yes, you could. But I asked first. Humour me .’

I said nothing for a moment, staring at the man, trying to read his face and failing utterly. ‘I realised some time ago that I’m searching,’ I began. ‘Searching for something very difficult to find.’

‘In a way we are all searching, are we not? Even the brainless masses are searching. It’s just that they don’t actually realise it.’

‘Does that mean you are searching too?’

He chortled again. ‘Oh! Believe me, William, I searched assiduously. But then I realised the thing I sought did not exist.’

‘So you stopped?’

Oglebee glanced down at the head resting on the floor. He nodded towards it. ‘I stopped searching, if that is what you mean. Now I’m happy to entertain myself. You see, you are a very fortunate young man.’

‘I am?’

‘Yes, because you have great talent. Your friends praise you very highly.’

I stared at him, expressionless.

‘You don’t really understand what I’m talking about, do you?’

I did my best to call his bluff, but it was useless. Employing all the skills I had learned proved of little value to me at that moment. Oglebee knew me, he really knew me. He seemed to know everything.

‘It is time, William, for you to move on. What you seek is not there. It’s time for you to have some fun instead … to deploy your talents fully. I cannot tell you what to do. I can only guide and advise you. Think about combining your natural instincts with your natural talents.’

I was still confused, but realised I should at least make a pretence of understanding, in the hope that, later, I really would comprehend. I realised that Oglebee would miss nothing, that I would not be fooling him in this way, but I could think of nothing else to say or do.

‘How do …’ I began, but Oglebee raised a hand to stop me.

‘I cannot tell you what to do. I’ve said that already, William. It is for you to work out what I am trying to explain to you. However, I will give you one small piece of advice to help you on your way.’ He fell silent for a moment. The room was utterly silent, unnaturally so. It felt as though we were floating in space. ‘To move on,’ he said, ‘you must eradicate your past. You must begin again. Shed your skin. Become someone new.’

I was still not entirely convinced. After all, I had been searching for a long time and I had dwelt on the matter of the soul since childhood. But I knew Oglebee was right about two things at least. It was time I had some fun, and it was time to expunge the past.

I took some time away from my studies using the excuse that my father was ill and that I needed to return home for a few days. No one seemed to care. I caught an early-afternoon train and had the carriage all to myself for the entire journey. I changed trains in London and arrived in Hemel Hempstead just as it was getting dark. I was travelling light, with just an overnight bag, and so I walked the mile or so from the station to Fellwick Manor. It was a clear night, unusually warm, the stars out in all their chaotic profusion. I’ve never liked the stars.

There was a light on in my father’s study at the front of the house. I could see it through a small gap in the curtains. My shoes crunched on the gravel. I pulled the bell and waited, listening to the sounds of my father hauling himself up from his chair in the study and walking across the floor. I had chosen the servants’ half-day for this return home. Then came the familiar creak of the loose floorboard near the front door. Another pool of light appeared as Father lit a second lamp. Through the stained-glass panels of the front door, I watched the distorted sphere of yellow pass along the hallway.

‘Who is it at this hour?’ my father called.

‘It is I, Father. William.’

‘William? What the devil …’

I heard him place the lamp on a table near the door and then came the rasp and scrape as he undid the locks and slid the bolts. Finally, the door opened and we stood face to face.

I had been back here only rarely since going up to Oxford. I hated this place and I did not wish to refresh my memories of the years I was forced to live in Fellwick Manor. I wrote to my father only very occasionally, and when I did filled the letters with the sort of utter tosh and lies I knew he would want to read, so as not to deter him from paying me my allowance. I had known for as long as I could remember that the man detested me. Always had done. Always would. Furthermore, he had no glimmer of understanding as to why I should wish to waste three years studying Fine Art. But that said, Father was civil enough upon my arrival. He did not send me back to town to find a lodging house, at least. He offered me some food. Cook had left a plate of cold meats in the pantry. What I wanted most was a stiff whisky, but I knew that that would be entirely out of the question, and so I settled for cocoa, which I insisted I made, while Father sat nearby and asked me inane questions about life at Oxford.

The drug took only a few minutes to work. The first sign was that he started to slur his speech, as though he were drunk. Then he began to stare at me with a slightly glazed expression. ‘Good Lord,’ he said, running his fingers over his bald pate. ‘I feel most odd.’

‘That would be the morphine, Father.’

He stared at me unsteadily, his eyes wandering off target, then he looked puzzled.

‘I put morphine in your drink.’

He did not have the energy to move or even to alter his facial expression. It was really very amusing, dear lady. I did not waste a moment. I knew I had to move fast because I had only used a tiny quantity, so it would soon wear off. I wanted its effects to evaporate, but not until I was entirely ready.

I walked around the back of Father’s chair and pulled him to his feet. He could barely walk, but I managed to half-carry him to his study. As we reached the room, I could tell he was already beginning to shake off the effects of the drug, but I had a firm grip on him. I pulled two short lengths of rope from my pockets and swiftly bound his wrists and ankles. Then I positioned a chair in front of the desk, spun my father round and pushed him so that he fell face forward across the desk, with his knees on the chair.