Iris Murdoch - The Book And The Brotherhood

What, as time passed, they more and more discussed, and made themselves more wretched thereby, was the extraordinary nature of that death, the circumstances, the accident. Here, after a while, they found themselves asking and saying the same things over and over again. Well, it was an accident, wasn't it, and accidents are bizarre. To the police and at the inquest Crimond had explained in the utmost detail what had happened, how he and Jenkin had been discussing Crimond's marksmanship, and had had a bet on his ability, how Jenkin had gone down near the target, how Crimond had told him to keep clear, and, concentrating upon his aim, had fired just as Jenkin turned and moved to say something to him, not realising he was in the line of fire. It was a simple, awful accident. The verdict was death by misadventure. Crimond's evident grief impressed the police and the coroner. Many reliable people were ready to testify that Crimond and Jenkin were friends, no one suggested they were dangerously close friends. Jenkin's golden character was attested by all. There was no suggestion of a sordid homosexual feud, nothing about jealousy, or about money, no shadow of any motive for foul play. If there was carelessness, it was on both parts. Crimond did get into trouble for possessing firearms without a licence, and was heavily fined. The police searched his flat but found nothing incriminating. He had never, in fact, even in his days of fame, been a terrorist suspect. He was now, so long had he been a recluse, scarcely news at all. No keen young reporter, apt to find out some hidden infamy, was sent to pursue the case. It did not seem to occur to anybody that there might have been a quarrel about politics. There was at that moment a great deal of 'news' around and plenty of far more scandalous and violent and sickening goings-on involving far more famous and important people. This odd little accident attracted small attention. Gerard did not expect, or receive, any communication from Crimond after the event, and of course neither Jean nor Duncan heard anything. The only person Crimond was known to have communicated with was Jenkin's schoolmaster friend Marchment who mentioned in the course of his testimony that Crimond had telephoned him from a call box just after Jenkin's death and immediately after he had rung the police, and told him briefly what had happened; and that Crimond had later told him the whole story in much greater detail. Gerard telephoned Marchment, then went to see him, and received the same account. So it was an accident. It was not possible, was it, that Crimond had murdered Jenkin? No, it was not possible. There was no conceivable motive. Surely it was not possible?

In all these rather horrible discussions Rose took part with a rather important reservation. She had, now, her own rather special view of Crimond, 'her Crimond', which must be henceforth and forever her darkest secret. Rose had, even before Jenkin's death, recovered from what now looked like the amazing, unique, inexplicable fit of insanity wherein she had felt herself to be madly in love with Crimond, during which Crimond from being nothing had become everything, Rose, who had at once told herself to 'return to reality', had managed reasonably well to do so within a few days of het `seizure'. Gradually the lurid glow faded, her usual attach- ments regained their power, above all the agonising, tormenting sense of a possibility, a possible move, began to leave her; and she was able to be thankful that she had not found Crimond in the street when she ran down after him, had not written him a compromising letter whose existence would have disturbed her ever after. Of course she couldn't love Crimond! She loved Gerard, and could not, for thousands of reasons, love both of them. Moreover, she absolutely could not, for Jean's sake, have anything to do with Crimond Crimond was a person she disapproved of, was perhaps even a mad person-what could have been madder than that sudden proposal? He was not someone with whom she could envisage spending time, let alone developing any close relation. One of her best comforts, in the early days of her recovery, was the thought that Crimond was actually a bit deranged and would have repented of his rash idea soon enough if Rose had showii any interest in it! All the same, and she realised this as soon a4 she was able to tell herself that it was over, something remained, and perhaps, Rose told herself with an odd mixture of sadness and pleasure, would always remain. There was sonar bond between her andthat man, which was there even if, as was likely, he regretted his move and saw it as an aberration; and even if he now consoled himself by hating her for her graceless reception of him. Rose could not perceive exactly what this residuum was. No doubt it was something which would wear and change with time. It was partly that she was, in retrospect, so flattered, and so touched, by his suggestion. It is hard for a woman not to feel some kindness for a man who adores her. He, strange Crimond, whom people feared and hated, had been for a moment at her feet. How surprised everyone would be – but of course no one would ever know. But there was also another, and better, she felt, component. Vor a short time she had loved Crimond, her love, like a laser beam, had reached right into him, finding, however blindly, die real Crimond, the lovable Crimond, who therefore must exist. She did not allow herself to imagine that she would ever tell Crimond that she had loved him; and she could scarcely, even much later, apologise suitably for her rudeness without in some way hinting at those very different feelings. In that direction, there was no road. But her wish that somehow he could know remained as a point of pain, and she guarded her curious knowledge of him like the emblem of a forbidden religion.

This was her state before the news of Jenkin's death and its mrange circumstances. The shock of this frightful blankly inexplicable disaster brought back to Rose her view of Crimond as something black and lethal. Rose and Gerard agreed that they could not and must not entertain the notion that their friend had been murdered. It was too incredible and too awful a charge to set up without a shred of evidence. 'We mustn't formulate this hypothesis, even to ourselves,' said Gerard. But they had formulated it, and were upset and sickened to find it being freely uttered by others, based simply upon malicious speculation. Here again Rose had her own private torment: it came into her mind that Crimond had indeed killed Jenkin, as an act of revenge against her, and sigainst Gerard whom he might blame for Rose's rejection of lilin. This idea, when it suddenly appeared, caused her such agony that she felt she might go mad, even be mad enough to blurt out the whole thing to Gerard simply so that he could share her misery. She thought, so I am really responsible fol Jenkin's death, if only I had been kinder to Crimond, it' I hadn't been so cruel and scornful… Here however Rose's deep base of sanity eventually prevailed, her strong moral sense joined with her sense of self-preservation, and shr judged this picture of the matter to be not only a crazy, but an evil fantasy.

Within a short space of time Rose had attended two burial services, both of them Anglican. Gerard, who had instantly taken it on himself to organise Jenkin's funeral, had decided that since Jenkin had latterly appeared to be something of a fellow traveller of the Christian faith, the solemn words of the Prayer Book, so sober and so beautiful, should bid hole farewell. Jenkin had no family; but at the funeral a surprisingly large number of people whom Rose and Gerard had never seen before appeared and manifested their grief. Gerard de creed cremation, because he vaguely recalled Jenkin having approved of it, but chiefly because he could not bear the idea of his friend's body continuing to exist, rotting away in the earth. Better not to be. Laura of course was buried in the churchyard of the parish church in a place reserved for Curtlands. An argument about her tombstone was already going on. The two services were similar, except that the body of the departed was committed, in one case 'to the earth', in the other case 'to the fire'. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.