Питер Ловси - On the Edge

He backed away as if he couldn’t wait to escape, for all his professions of concern. In seconds he was pedalling his bike so fast up the street that his dynamo lamp put out a beam like a searchlight.

Several more times in the next few days Rose’s nerves were tested by unexpected callers. Each time she expected to be arrested. The vicar called on Friday and recommended talking to God as a remedy for grief. On Saturday morning two men in raincoats looked so like detectives that she actually did send up a prayer. They turned out to be colleagues of Barry’s from the Stationery Office, calling to express their condolences. She made some coffee and they all said that Barry was a fine man struck down in his prime. The same morning one of the neighbours called and asked her to sign a petition to have the hoarding across the street removed. When she saw the sheet of paper in his hand she thought it was a summons.

By degrees she started to believe that her arrest was not, after all, imminent. She busied herself writing to everyone who needed to know about Barry’s passing. He hadn’t made a will, so she asked the bank for legal advice and they offered the services of their legal department. She phoned her parents after Evensong on Sunday. They wanted her to leave everything and come to the Rectory, but she said she preferred to stay busy, and there was plenty to occupy her in Pimlico.

Daddy asked if she had some friend she could rely on to help her through this ordeal. She answered yes and thought of Antonia. She couldn’t have faced it without.

Hector was listening to the Brains Trust . He habitually tuned in on Sunday afternoons at four. He didn’t listen much to the wireless, except for the news, preferring to spend his evenings working upstairs in his office. He found comedy programmes like ITMA , which always had Antonia shrieking with laughter, impossible to follow. But Professor Joad and the others talked good sense at a speed he could understand.

To his surprise, Antonia had joined him in the drawing room beside the set. She’d arrived midway through with tea on a tray, which he was afraid would bring his listening to a premature end, but she sat in silence until he switched off at the end.

She asked, ‘Was it as riveting as usual?’

‘Better than last week. Better questions.’

‘Let’s have a Brains Trust of our own. I’ve got a question for you.’

‘Yes?’

‘What would you do if I was dead?’ He sniffed. ‘Funny question.’

‘On the contrary, my swain, it’s serious. I can hardly wait to hear your answer. Suppose I hopped the twig. Would you be able to manage without me?’

He gave her a pained stare. ‘Why do you ask me such a ghastly thing?’

‘Be honest, Hec. You’d be a free man again. No one to tear strips off you when you came in late. No enormous bills from Harrods and Fortnums at the end of each month. You could live the life of Riley.’

Hector’s logical mind hadn’t got past her first proposition. ‘You are not ill?’

‘God, no.’

‘You wouldn’t kill yourself? That time we talked about the tube, it was a joke?’

She felt the colour rise to her face. ‘The tube? A joke, yes — forget about that. Dismiss it from your mind. I already have.’

‘Then I don’t understand the question.’

‘It’s hypothetical.’

‘Sometimes, Antonia, I find you impossible to understand.’

Rose’s thoughts couldn’t stretch beyond the inquest. She dreaded having to appear in public, trying to seem convincing as the devoted widow in front of all those experts and professionals. The letter arrived on Monday, a stiffly worded notice from the coroner’s office asking her to attend the court on Thursday at 11 a.m. It terrified her. On Wednesday night she had the worst nightmares of her life.

Mr Burden, one of the senior people from the depot where Barry had worked, decently arranged to collect her in a taxi and accompany her to the court. He was an overbearing man who talked nonstop about Barry and what marvellous company he’d been with his saucy stories and witty remarks. Rose looked out of the window.

It turned out to be unlike anything she had expected. Barry’s was only one of a series of deaths that were up for consideration. The case wasn’t called until nearly noon. Inside there were no wigs or robes to be seen and the coroner looked and sounded like a variety turn. He could easily have passed for one of the Western brothers, such was his air of suave, world-weary irony.

Rose was more alarmed than reassured. When the main witness, Albert Abbot, a street vendor, was called there was a question about the goods he sold. Abbot insisted on using the term ‘haberdashery’ and the coroner said he presumed the witness meant nylons on the black market. The comment was mean considering that there were police witnesses present. Abbot was obviously used to looking after himself and he wouldn’t be drawn, but Rose knew that when her turn came she was most unlikely to get away with any evasions.

Abbot’s evidence was crucial. He had been on Knightsbridge Station standing close to Barry on the evening he was killed.

‘I was taking the tube to Earl’s Court like I always do round about that time.’

‘What time, Mr Abbot — or is that something else you wish to conceal?’

‘Quarter to six, and I’ve got nothing to conceal. I seen him regular down there. Handlebars out to here. Couldn’t miss him, could I? Always got himself a seat in the end carriage. When the train come in he was through them doors like a jackrabbit.’

‘But not on the evening in question.’

‘That’s obvious, isn’t it?’

‘I am endeavouring to establish what you saw on that occasion, Mr Abbot.’

‘Right. When I come along, he was in his usual spot, nicely placed for the doors. He’d worked out the right place to stand, right opposite the Sandeman poster. As a matter of fact, I always made a point of getting as close to him as I could.’

‘Because you assumed he was likely to be one of the first aboard the train?’

‘Didn’t I say that? I like to get into the train quick, so I can stand my suitcase containing my haberdashery just inside the doors where people won’t fall over it. It’s a fair size, that case. All right, your honour, I’m coming to it. Upon the evening in question, to use your words, I wasn’t quick enough to get right behind him. Some doll steps in first.’

Rose twisted two fingers in the strap of her handbag and tightened them. She was beside Mr Burden, three rows from the front. She’d borrowed a black coat for the inquest and found a small matching hat to which she had sewn stiffened net to veil the upper part of her face. It made her conspicuous, but she couldn’t risk giving the impression that she was anything but griefstricken.

‘If this is the young lady who featured in the fatal incident, you will need to furnish a better description than “some doll”, Mr Abbot.’

‘Right you are, your honour. She was quite tall, dark coat, brown, I think, with a belt. She was wearing a scarf on her head, so I don’t know what colour hair she had. I didn’t see much of her face either, but you can take it from me she was twenty-five or thereabouts. Nine times out of ten you can tell from the back.’

There was some subdued amusement at this.

‘What I or anyone else can tell from the back is of no consequence, Mr Abbot. It is your assessment that matters, and if you tell us that the young lady was twenty-five, so be it. At this point I should inform the members of the jury that despite extensive enquiries by the police, they have been unable as yet to trace the person just described.’

Rose swallowed and looked straight ahead.