"I was in disbelief of what I had done. Halfway to Heraklion, I was almost convinced it had not happened, or that he hadn’t ingested enough, that he would survive. I felt relief, truly I did. But then …"
"Then he died," Daniels says flatly.
"He died." Paul concedes, pressing his lips together in a pale line before looking up and asking, "What will happen now?" His tone suggests he already knows, and from his slumped shoulders and weary expression I presume he has resigned himself to his fate.
"You will be formally arrested and tried and …" even Daniel can hardly bring himself to speak the words aloud.
"And hanged." Paul finishes the morbid thought.
"It is a possibility," I somehow hope it will not come to this. Paul did something ghastly and irreperable, yet … Oh, I should not think it, but I am sad for him. Sad for what he has lost, what he has become. He is not a monster, though his action was monstrous indeed. I find myself wanting to separate the man from the deed, which cannot, of course, be done.
"What will happen to Rosie?"
Daniel and I look at one another, unease written across our features.
Rosie.
Rosie, who is at this moment so close at hand; Rosie, who will be parted from the person who most believes in her, who most loves her.
"Is there family? Is there anybody who can take care of her?" I ask cautiously.
"She has a brother. He lives in Amsterdam."
"He will be contacted. For now, Rosie will have her nurse to take care of her needs."
From the stricken expression on Paul’s face, I believe this gives him little comfort. Indeed, for the first time this evening, he looks consumed with pain, closing his eyes tightly as if a wave of agony is passing through him.
"Paul," Daniel slowly gets to his feet, "You must come with us now. It is early enough.
We will take you to the police station in Miklos where you will confess."
Paul hovers for another moment in his chair, and a shiver of anxiety that he may try to resist runs through me. To my relief, he pulls himself up with great effort and nods. He is such a large figure of a man, taller even than Dymas and Daniel. He could probably fight his way past us and attempt escape. Somehow though, I know he will not. He and Daniel walk beside one another, both in their own way broken tonight. As we near the stairway across the door, the stern-faced nurse appears from a small sitting room facing the street.
"What is the matter? Mr. Vanderheyden? Are you leaving?"
Before Paul can reply, Rosie appears at the woman’s shoulder, confused but not alarmed.
Infinite sadness flashes across Paul’s face. He is quick to replace it with a pained smile. "I have to go with my friends, Rosie, you will be all right. I promise." He reaches out and takes hold of her hand. She looks at him with such innocence, it is enough to cause tears to pool in my eyes. Rosie does not speak. Paul releases her and without another word, walks through the open door into the pink and purple onset of night.
CHAPTER 41
It takes no effort to guide him into the backseat of the motorcar where Daniel sits beside him and I, shaken though I am, reassume my place behind the wheel. The drive passes in utter silence. I focus resolutely on the road, on driving, getting us to Miklos, bringing an end to all of this. With a heavy heart I realize, whatever happens tonight, it is far from over; not for Paul, with his uncertain fate, or Rosie and her loss of protection and love, or even for Daniel, who despite of what has been said about the man’s character, loved Caspar as a brother and will have to do without him for the rest of his life. So much finality caused by one angry impassioned deed. But it will happen again and again; it is happening right now somewhere at the hand of someone else. Another person who has forgotten we are all meant to be brothers and sisters of a kind, connected by the very species we are part of. All of us, flawed, foolish, wonderful, and intricate human beings. All of us temporary possessors of the fragile gift that is life.
Within moments, we roll down the hill, negotiate the trecherous bends in the unlit road, and arrive in Miklos. The gaslight outside the police station is burning bright, and I bring the Delage to a stop in front of it. Without the hum of the motor, it is suddently very quiet. From somewhere nearby, we hear the faint cry of a child. It fades quickly, soothed away by a gentle voice, a soft touch.
"Come." Daniel says, and we climb out of the car and ascend the steps to the station door.
The desk clerk yawns, observing our little group and raises a wary eyebrow.
"We need to see Inspector Dymas." Daniel’s tone will broke no argument.
The man frowns, grudgingly getting to his feet, a sign, I hope, that Dymas is on the premises.
"Wait here." He points to a shabby bench leaning against a wall on the far side of the room.
None of us make a move. We will be sitting for some time when Paul makes his official confession, and my nerves are too overwrought to suffer immobility a moment sooner. Will Dymas allow us to remain while he listens to Paul’s story? Part of me wants to get away, never to set foot in this wretched place again. Another, understands we must stay. Only knowing Paul has told Dymas exactly what he told us will allow me to believe it is real. If we are leave, Paul may deny everything and make a run for it. No, Dymas will be suspicious. He will understand. He—
"Miss Carlisle!"
He
is coming down the narrow hallway, spotting me first, the others hidden from the inspector’s view for a moment. His face falls slightly and the familiar lines on his forehead appear as he takes in our dismal troupe.
"Inspector," I manage a brittle smile, "Paul has come to make a confession."
The lines on his brow deepen as he raises an eyebrow. "Am I to understand …"
"Yes," Paul nods and swallows with a bob of his Adam’s apple. "It was me. I am guilty."
Dymas runs a hand across his mouth and stubbly chin. "Then you better follow me."
Without asking permission, Daniel and I tag along towards the inspector’s office. The hallway is dimly lit, and the large bodies of Paul and Dymas cast enormous shadows, like werewolves or giants rambling alongside me. Werewolves and giants are not real, but monsters are. They are not confined to the pages of children’s books. They roam among us, live inside of us or, in some dreadful cases, devour us entirely, until man and monster are one and the same.
The office is well lit by a large lamp beside the desk. There are only three chairs for "guests". Dymas drags in another from an office next door for the desk sergent who must write everything down and act as witness. We are packed closely into the small space, and it is with tight-chested relief that I watch Dymas opening the window. We shall not suffocate from close proximity at least.
Dymas takes his seat and leans his elbows on the desk, hands in a contemplative steeple.
Paul swallows as though the words are obstructing his throat. Finally he begins. "I am responsible for the death of Caspar Ballantine."
Dymas does not interrupt nor change his expression throughout Paul’s long narrative. Hearing it again, spoken clearly without denials, without tears or raised voices, it chills me to the bone. I shrink farther away from Paul, though we are already separated by Daniel, who, without question, has taken the seat beside him.
"And that is all." Paul ends his confession with a resigned lowering of his head.
Dymas lets out a slow breath and nods. "I see. You know what must happen now?"
Paul only nods.
Dymas straightens in his seat and stands up. "Paul Vanderheyden, I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Caspar Ballantine. You may have legal council and can make a telephone call in the morning. Please," he turns to the desk sergeant, who is sitting rigidly in a wooden chair, "Sergeant, take Mr. Vanderheyden to the holding cell."
With a nervous twitch of his left eye, the young man gets to his feet, pulling a set of slim metal shackles from his jacket. Paul, who dwarfs the sergeant by at least a head and a half, holds out his hands. The smaller man, relieved to find compliance, claps the shackles onto his wrists.
As he is being led from the room, Paul turns his head and focuses his gaze on Daniel. "I am sorry. I never wanted to be a cause for pain. I am sorry, Daniel."
Those are the last words we hear from him. Then, there is only the heavy shuffling of feet on the worn floor, moving away from us.
Dymas clears his throat and sits down again, slumping in his chair, tension drawn out of him. "So it was Paul. I must confess he was very low on my list of possible suspects."
I cannot think what to say in response.
"We are free to leave now?" Daniel asks, already getting to his feet.
"Of course," the inspector replies, "and thank you for your assistance."
On our short walk out of the station, Daniel remains silent. The desk sergeant has not yet returned to his post, and the hallway is entirely unattended. We climb into the car. The leather seats are cool in the night air, a relief after the stuffy warmth of the inspector’s office.
I start the motor. The engine howls to life, and we begin our short drive back to the villa.
When the silence becomes too much, I finally say, "Are you all right, Daniel?" Regretting my words almost instantly.
Are you all right, indeed!
These are the helpless words we use time and time again in situations so utterly out of the ordinary.
"I don’t know." He sounds surprised, turning the phrase almost into a question.
Concentrating on the road, I try to maneuver the large vehicle along the baked dirt path, fainly illuminated by the car’s lights. I see, from the corner of my eye, Daniel turning toward me.
"Are you all right?"
"I don’t know either."
We chuckle in confused and overwhelmed unison. This eases the tension ever so slightly. and Daniel goes on in a tone more akin to normalcy.
"Jeffrey will be miserable on two counts. He will have lost a friend and another collegue."
"Heavens, you are right. Both of them worked at the museum. Perhaps it is a bad influence? Or a bad omen?"
"Best not mention such speculation to Briony."
"No," I agree, catching a glimpse of the villa at the end of the road. "Best not. She will be distraught enough."
"I dread having to go over the story once more, but we must of course tell them."
I turn into the drive, letting the Delage come to a rest in front of the pillared entry.
"Daniel," I hesitate a moment to gather my thoughts, "how far do you think Niobe’s involvement in this matter went?"
"From the way Paul described the situation, she had no knowledge of his plans. Yet she knew he had come to the house before Caspar died. So she must have suspected Paul at the very least. She is no fool, after all."
The thought of her crying to me while having a notion of who had murdered the man whose body I found is highly disturbing. "We will have to tell Briony and Jeffrey about the child. Under these circumstance, I must say, I do not feel a great deal of guilt breaking Niobe’s confidence."
"Nor should you."
We sit silently for another moment, until, as if by spoken agreement, we climb out of the car and walk to the door.
CHAPTER 42
It turns into a very long night. Jeffrey and Briony are shocked and appalled, constantly interjecting, "This cannot be!" or "He seemed such a kind man". Needless to say, it takes a fair amount of time to fully enlighten them of our adventures, or misadventures, however one might interpret the events of this fateful night.
When we reach the part about Niobe’s pregancy, Briony pales noticeably, and Daniel and I quickly move on as though this fact is very minor indeed.
"First Darius and now Paul," Jeffrey shakes his head. "How will I explain it all?"
"It is hardly for you to explain, Jeffrey, the police will do that."
"That may well be. But what a scandal it will cause. I need something strong for the shock." Jeffrey gets to his feet and walks to the cabinet with crystal decanters. "Anyone else?"
"A drop of sherry might not go amiss," Briony leans heavily against the cushions in her back.
"Whatever you’re having," Daniel adds and I agree. "Make that two, please."
"Here we are," Jeffrey hands out drinks. I take a fortifying sip.
"What shall be done about Niobe?" Briony wonders aloud after nearly draining her glass. She sounds bewildered, and I slide closer to her on the sofa.
"What shall be done? We will have to dismiss her, if Dymas won’t arrest her, that is."
"Jeffrey! She is pregnant, we can’t—"
"We can and we must." Jeffrey states firmly, setting his crystal tumbler on the low coffeetable with a clank. "I will not have some plotting Jezebel—"
"Come now," Daniel stops Jeffrey, aware of Briony’s distress. "We are all exhausted, and angry threats will do one one any good. Let us get some rest. You had a difficult day at work and now this."