Kenneth Cameron - The Bohemian Girl

As they rode, he went through it all. ‘Finally,’ he said when he had told her everything, ‘I felt sorry for her. Not sorry, perhaps, but — sorrow.’

‘And then you could walk.’

‘It was going up the roof. I had to and I did. I’ve been letting it rule me, giving in to it. Being an invalid meant I’d never have to risk killing her.’

‘Is that what it was about — not killing her?’

‘Being afraid to kill her? No, more like being afraid I’d get to the moment and find I wanted to kill her.’

‘Because I told you all men hate women.’

He was silent.

‘And you found you didn’t.’ Janet held his good hand. ‘Does it make a difference that he wasn’t a woman?’

‘She was a woman when she went off that roof. I know in my soul I didn’t want her to go off, and I’m satisfied.’

They were silent for a long way, and then they talked of trivial things like the cancelled coronation. He said, ‘Atkins, at least, is delighted. The pneumatic truss wasn’t ready, and now they’ve got at least a couple of months to get it right.’ Just before they reached his house, he said, ‘You had it figured. I wouldn’t accept that the woman and the brother were the same.’

‘Well, the evidence was thin.’

He remembered the dreams. ‘It was the rags. I couldn’t-’

She put a finger on his lips. ‘It doesn’t matter. You did what you set out to do — you found the woman who asked for your help.’

‘And found that I was the one who was going to hurt her.’ He shook his head. ‘She didn’t really ask for my help at all, but-I wonder if she was thinking about her letter when we were up on that roof.’

She came behind him up the stairs as if she might need to push, but he made it well enough, light-headed, weak. Atkins appeared with a bottle of the Army and Navy Stores’ Extract of Meat and Malt Wine. That, and more tea, and a chop from the Lamb, gave Denton the illusion of feeling normal. A false euphoria came over him; he didn’t recognize it as the giddiness of blood loss. As they ate, he talked about the future, an idea for a new book that had leapt into his head while he was on the roof, some sort of travel they could do together. He was opening his mail at the same time, over-excited, hands trembling. He hooted.

‘Jarrold’s sainted ma has instructed her lawyers to offer me seven thousand pounds and medical expenses!’ He cackled happily. ‘Sergeant!’ When an answer came up the dumb-waiter shaft, he shouted, ‘We’re getting electric in the house! And heat! And a proper modern ice-box!’ He turned back to Janet Striker. ‘I’m going to buy a motor car. Where would you like to go?’

‘University College.’

‘Ah, I’d hoped Constantinople by way of Athens.’

She laughed, shook her head.

He shouted, ‘Sergeant! Want to motor to-?’

‘No,’ came the hollow answer, ‘and neither does Rupert.’

He put the letter down. He looked at her. ‘Well, I’ll pretend that your house is Constantinople. Your bed, most certainly.’

‘Some of the time, anyway.’

‘There’ll always be the door in the garden wall, you mean.’

‘But with a lock.’

‘And you’ll have the key.’

‘I’ll have the key.’

‘Oh — well-’ He leaned back, then suddenly sat up and said, ‘Dammit! I left my boat tied up by the river!’ He jumped up too quickly, felt the room start to go black and collapsed back into his cushions. He grinned at her foolishly. ‘Maybe I’ll leave that for tomorrow.’