Peter Dickinson - Some Deaths Before Dying

Nobody moves for a while. Then the tall man goes to the fallen body and inspects it. He picks up the pistol, puts it in the box and takes it to the other duellist. Blood covers the lower half of the duel-list’s left cheek. He stares at the box, takes it and closes it, then hands the pistol he has used to the tall man, speaks briefly and turns away. Rachel hears no words, but knows what he has said. He never wants to see it again.

Why? Because it is the weapon he has used to kill a man to whom his life has been bound for almost thirty years, whom he had thought his closest friend but found to be his secret enemy?

In that case, why the absurdity of the duel? (Forget the apparent frivolity of using the Laduries. Fish was a reasonable shot, and had often played with them on visits to Forde Place. What other pair of fairly matched weapons was available?)

Honour gone finally mad?

Not in that way, no. But it was a final, despairing attempt at the recovery of lost honour, an acknowledgement that Jocelyn’s own shame was in some ways equal to Fish’s, or greater, and that he couldn’t therefore kill the man as an executioner. Each must be given an equal chance. (And no doubt he had plans laid out for what was to happen if he was the one who died.)

And only when it was done had he discovered that honour was still unsatisfied, could never now be satisfied, because it was dead. Long dead on Cambi Road.

Poor darling.

Rachel fell asleep to the imagined yelping of the gulls.

3

She slept peacefully, a huge stint, and woke in the middle of the afternoon. Dilys cleaned her up, made her a delectable cup of Oolong, fed her, and put on the new talking book, about traumatised soldiers during the First World War. Worth listening to, but Rachel barely did so.

All that, fact or fiction, was over and done with, past. There was only a scrap of future left for her. She thought about that. First, today, while her voice still worked…

Flora came, cheerfully fussed about one of her dozen godchildren.

“Hello, Ma. Do you remember Zelda Warkley? The one with the pointy ears, and her kids have got them too—it must be one of these gene things. Of course you remember, they came here when they were small and we had to fish Donald out of the river—he’d actually got through the netting—and he’s still like that. Zelda was just the same, but it doesn’t stop her worrying about Donald. I got a letter from her this morning. Apparently he’s in Brisbane—is that Australia or New Zealand?—not that it matters, provided he’s on the other side of the world. He went out there to sell this new sheep dip, and I do think somebody might have asked first, but they’d already made it illegal—it’s terrific for the wool, but the shearers started getting Gulf War syndrome—so Zelda’s writing round all her friends asking if they know anyone who could give Donald a job—anything to get him out of England, really. I don’t suppose you can think of anyone who might have a job for a totally charming layabout with pointy ears? What’s up, Ma? You’ve got one of your teases brewing—I can always tell, you know.”

“Bureau. Bottom drawer. Brown envelope. Big.”

“Told you so! Like wrapping our Christmas presents up to look like they weren’t, remember?”

She disappeared out of Rachel’s line of sight. The drawer scraped. Papers rustled.

“This what you mean?…Oh, good heavens! You remembered where you’d put them? No, you didn’t. You’d known all along, you wicked old thing! That’s wonderful. I’d better take them straight along to the bank tomorrow, don’t you think?”

“Wait. You don’t…need…money?”

“Lord, no. I don’t know how Jack does it, but we seem to get more disgustingly well off every year. I’m really ashamed to think about it.”

“Anne?”

“She’s all right. It’s those quarter horses she breeds, tough as old boots but such sweeties, and they keep winning championships so everybody wants one now. And anyway, I’m not at all sure she’d accept…Oh, Ma! You’re not going to give them to Dick after all! I couldn’t stand that! I’d make a really shameful fuss! Please, Ma…Oh you are an old tease! It isn’t fair at your age!”

“Send Dick…something…My…trust.”

“Well, I suppose, if you must. I’ll ask Jack. How much? It was five thousand last time, and a darned sight too generous, to my mind, though he didn’t seem to think so.”

“Same?”

“Oh, all right. What about the pistols?”

“Grisholm…Ebury Street…Ask him…sell…Money…to Sergeant…Fred…Trust…You and…Mrs….Pil…cher…”

“Don’t try and talk anymore, Ma. You’re wearing yourself out. I think it’s a terrific idea. I’d been wondering if we oughtn’t to do something about Sergeant Fred. And you want me and Mrs. Pilcher to be trustees, is that right? No, don’t try and talk. She’s a funny little thing but I rather took to her, she was so sweet about the house—I mean it’s not everybody’s cup of tea. And apparently both their jobs are a bit iffy at the moment, and they’ve been subsidising Sergeant Fred at this home he’s at, and they don’t know how long they can go on doing that—you remember you asked me to find out if he was all right that way? Oh, good heavens, wasn’t Grisholm that funny little man on the antiques programme? You think he’d be interested? Oh, Ma, don’t tease! You’ve been up to something, going behind my back again. And I bet Dilys is in it too. What a pair you are! Thick as thieves.”

JENNY

Mrs. Matson died in August. Flora Thomas telephoned next day with the news. Though she seemed to have elected Jenny as a kind of honorary chum during the process of arranging the trust for Uncle Albert, it still for a moment seemed surprising that she should have found the time to do so.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Jenny.

“Best thing that could have happened, really. She was absolutely longing to go.”

“That doesn’t stop it being hard on you.”

“No, it doesn’t. Still…I try not to think about it. Look, I was talking to Ma about the funeral—she couldn’t talk any more, poor thing, just blink her eyes for yes or no while you asked questions, like one of those nursery games—she actually managed to make it rather fun, dear old thing—she was a great tease…oh yes—Sergeant Fred. She wanted him to come to the funeral. Do you think that’s on? We could send a car this time—at least I hope we can. I think you know Eileen Cowan, don’t you? She’s a parson not far from you, and she’s the niece of an old friend of my father’s—Ma wanted her too, but she’s got a wedding—did I say it was Saturday week, the funeral?—but she’s going to see if she can get somebody else to take it—I must say I thought that was a bit much to ask—I mean she didn’t even know Ma but she said Ma was the only person who visited her uncle when he was in prison, except herself—so if she can come, Sergeant Fred knows her apparently so he’ll be all right if we send a car for the two of them, and you don’t have to worry about it.”

“No, I’ll bring him,” said Jenny. “Then it won’t matter whether Nell Cowan can come or not.”

“Oh. Are you sure?”

“I’d like to, if that’s all right. I won’t come to the service, if you don’t mind—I don’t suppose there’ll be much room, anyway.”

“Just as you like, but there won’t be a lot of us there, if you change your mind—just us family, and the servants, and a few locals. All Ma’s proper friends are dead—goodness I hope I don’t live that long—I can’t think of anything drearier—being the last leaf on the bough, you know…well, that’s splendid, if you really want to, but don’t forget, if Miss Cowan can come…Is that right? It doesn’t feel right—but Mrs. doesn’t feel right either—not that it matters with everyone using Christian names straight off—who was it tried to call me Flo the other day? Oh, yes, the Deputy Mayor, but you never know where you are with Liberal Democrats—they’re such a rag-bag, don’t you think?…And don’t forget, we could easily send a car, and if you want to come you could just hop in and save all that driving…”