The Unburied (40 page)

I glanced at Mrs Locard who was arranging something with the servant. ‘I think I understand whom it was that Burgoyne was about to denounce.’

He nodded. At that moment his wife turned back to us and said: ‘I beg your pardon, Dr Courtine. You were saying that the poor canon was murdered by the Mason. But in that case, who killed
him
?’

‘A very good question,’ I said.

‘Limbrick,’ Dr Locard said. ‘The Mason’s deputy.’ Seeing my sceptical expression he demanded: ‘If there was no second man with him, how did Gambrill lift the slab into place that sealed Burgoyne into his living tomb?’

I shrugged my shoulders: ‘Could even two men have done that?’

‘With the aid of the pulley that was waiting on the scaffolding for that purpose, it was perfectly possible. The slab was balanced by lead weights so that they could let it slowly descend while guiding it into the right position.’

‘Even two men would have had difficulty,’ I murmured.

‘Have you a better explanation, Dr Courtine?’ he said with a thin smile.

‘I can do no more than venture a hypothesis. I believe I can imagine what happened that night ...’

‘We should invent nothing beyond the given facts,’ the Librarian interrupted. ‘On the evidence we have it must have happened like this: when Burgoyne collected the key and went into the Cathedral that night, Gambrill and Limbrick followed him. They attacked him, knocked him unconscious and perhaps thought they had killed him. They then lifted him up onto the scaffold, pushed him into the memorial, and sealed it with the slab.’

‘A task which five or six men would have found difficult,’ I interpolated. His hypothesis seemed far more fanciful than my own.

Dr Locard nodded to acknowledge that he had heard, but was paying no attention to, my objection. ‘Limbrick then murdered Gambrill by bringing the scaffold down on top of him.’

‘Why did they remove Burgoyne’s outer garments and why did Gambrill put them on?’

‘That is a minor detail.’

‘A truly convincing account would explain everything.’

As he rose to carve the roast beef which the servant had laid on the table, my host said: ‘That is an unrealistic hope and, if I may say so, a strange one to be expressed by a historian.’

I smarted at the remark but reflected that my revenge would lie in finding evidence that he was wrong. His logic-chopping failed to take account of the element of the unknown and for that one needed imagination.

I managed a smile. ‘There we have two quite opposite approaches. In my view, the true test of a hypothesis is that it explains even the anomalies. It’s not difficult to produce one that roughly accounts for the main features of any given mystery. But if that is at the expense of ignoring the recalcitrant elements, then such a hypothesis cannot be regarded as a sufficient explanation.’

‘Then what would satisfy your requirements, Dr Courtine?’

‘A narrative which though bizarre in some of its elements – accounts for every anomaly. And the creation of such a narrative often requires the exercise of the imagination.’

Dr Locard pursed his lips in distaste. ‘That is not the role of a historian.’

‘But the alternative is an act of destruction which is just as crucial. Where there are conflicts or absurdities they are dismissed as the products of misunderstanding or dishonesty. But it must frequently be the case that there is some circumstance or motive which is missing from the historical record and which would account for the apparent inconsistencies. All I am arguing is that the historian should try to find the missing piece of the puzzle.’

‘I can’t agree. The historian has an obligation to stay with the known facts rather than dream up phantasms from his own imagination. In the case we are discussing, we know that Limbrick had a reason to hate Gambrill and that he later married his widow. That is enough to accept the simple and obvious explanation that the two men killed Burgoyne and then Limbrick murdered his employer. It would be illogical – if not absolutely perverse – not to accept it.’

I turned to Mrs Locard. ‘I am in a minority on this point. The Coroner said virtually the same thing this afternoon when he warned the jury against giving credence to a theory of my own.’

The servant handed me the plate of beef that her master had just carved. ‘While I concede that there are some trivial anomalies’, Dr Locard said, ‘in the explanation of the old gentleman’s murder that the Coroner recommended to the jury ...’

I could not forbear interrupting: ‘The time of death? The fiendlike destruction of the victim’s face? Trivial?’

The Librarian continued as if I had not spoken: ‘The essential truth is very simple. Perkins was put up to the murder. He was paid to kill the old gentleman and secure his will.’

‘You don’t accept that, Dr Courtine?’ Mrs Locard asked.

‘I am convinced the young man is innocent.’

‘I’m frankly astonished that you should say that,’ her husband said. ‘However, I am in hopes that by the time of his trial a link will have been proven between him and the sister.’

‘Then the will has not come to light?’ his wife asked. ‘And she will inherit?’

‘Perkins must have received money as payment for the murder,’ Dr Locard said. ‘I expect proof of that to be discovered.’

‘No,’ I answered Mrs Locard. ‘The will has not been found.’ I was surprised that her husband had not told her.

‘It never will be now,’ Dr Locard said. ‘Perkins took it when he ransacked the house. That fact must emerge. And that’s why, Courtine, when you are in the witness-box at his trial it would be advisable not to blur the issue by saying that the house had already been searched. It will only confuse the jury.’

‘It’s an unimportant anomaly?’ I suggested.

He glanced at me sharply. ‘Precisely. And try to avoid other matters which will muddy the waters like the old man rubbing out the message on the slate which you suddenly brought up, although you had not mentioned it to the police.’

‘My memory was jogged and I literally recalled it only at that moment.’

Dr Locard said very carefully: ‘You’ve remembered so much that I am hopeful you might remember more.’

‘It’s perfectly conceivable,’ I said. ‘The memory is a strange thing.’

We had just begun to eat, but now he laid down his knife and fork and said: ‘Very little would be required. Thorrold assures me that a sworn affidavit from yourself would be sufficient to allow Mr Stonex’s will to be probated. He has reconstructed it from the draft.’

‘Thorrold? The executor of the Stonex estate?’

‘He also acts for the Dean and Chapter.’ I was astonished. Was I absurdly fastidious to think that the lawyer had an obvious conflict of interest? ‘Such a move would, of course, be contested by the sister but Thorrold believes it has a fair chance of being upheld. Especially if Perkins is convicted.’

‘What would I need to remember?’

‘Nothing more than Mr Stonex mentioning that he had found the will in the clockcase and saying that he intended to lodge it somewhere for safekeeping – perhaps with his solicitor or at the Bank.’

‘Fickling would contest that. He would accuse me of lying.’

He pushed his plate away. ‘Let me speak with complete frankness. This affair has ramifications involving Fickling, Slattery, at least one of my fellow canons and other individuals, of which I am sure you, as an outsider, are unaware. If Thorrold’s reconstruction of the will is accepted and probated, nothing of these larger complications need become public, for the sister of the deceased – or whoever it was who hired Perkins – would have nothing to gain from either his conviction or his acquittal. The estate would be disposed of in accordance with the terms of the will, regardless of who Mr Stonex’s heir is. If, on the other hand, the reconstructed will is not accepted, then certain facts will inevitably emerge during the trial of Perkins. I dearly hope that can be avoided because it will be enormously damaging to many people, but if that is the price that has to be paid, then so be it.’

There was a silence. I glanced from the face of my host to that of his wife who crimsoned slightly and looked away. I carefully phrased my next remark: ‘I’m reluctant to swear such an affidavit given that a man is on trial for his life.’

Dr Locard said in a low, intense voice: ‘If you swear this affidavit and allow the will to be executed, you can say what you like at the trial. It would then be a matter of complete indifference whether Perkins was convicted or not.’

‘But if I don’t swear it, then the trial would turn out to be a very disagreeable experience?’

‘Inescapably. For Fickling would have to be discredited by letting certain circumstances become known and that would be most unpleasant for you.’

I made no response. It occurred to me that by delivering to the Dean the package of photographic plates stolen from Sheldrick, I had put into his hands a weapon which could, under certain circumstances, effectively bring about the death of Perkins. And I regretted my impulsive naivety in having done so.

Dr Locard went on: ‘Cruel rumour would spare nobody. Do you understand me, Dr Courtine?’ I gazed back at him without making any response. ‘One consequence would be that I would be unable to persuade my fellow canons to entrust publication of the manuscript to you, for every past acquaintance of Fickling would be under suspicion. You are unmarried, I believe?’

‘I have no wife.’

He glanced at his wife and then turned back to me: ‘An unmarried friend of Fickling would, to speak quite bluntly, be peculiarly vulnerable to gossip of the most malicious kind.’

Mrs Locard lowered her gaze.

‘I have nothing to hide.’

‘I have no doubt of that, Dr Courtine. You may be prepared to accept the risk for yourself, but can you inflict this on your family and friends?’

‘I have no family.’

‘None at all!’ Mrs Locard exclaimed, trying to turn the conversation. ‘How very sad. No brothers and sisters?’

Dr Locard turned away with an expression of irritation.

‘I had one sibling only – a sister who died four years ago. My only living relative is her daughter. I am on my way to stay with her and her husband for the festive season.’

‘Do they have children?’

‘Two little girls. My bag is filled with gifts for them.’

‘I can see you are a devoted uncle – and great-uncle. But you have no children yourself?’

‘As I just said, I have no wife.’

I had spoken more abruptly than I had intended and I saw that she was dismayed.

At that moment the servant came in and handed a note to her employer. With an apology to me, he opened and read it. ‘I am terribly sorry, but I am summoned to the Deanery.’

‘At this hour?’ his wife exclaimed.

‘Something has occurred which the Dean wishes to discuss with me.’

‘And, Robert, you’ve hardly eaten a thing.’

‘I do beg you to forgive me,’ Dr Locard said to me. ‘Please continue with your dessert and I hope to rejoin you very soon in the drawing-room.’

As soon as he had left us, I said: ‘I must request your pardon for my rudeness just now. I don’t know why I spoke so curtly.’

‘I should not have asked you such a question,’ she said.

‘Not at all. It is I who was in the wrong. I’m still upset because of everything that has occurred in the last two days.’

‘I’m so sorry you were involved in the dreadful business with poor Mr Stonex. It must have been deeply upsetting for you.’

‘And in addition to that, I’ve just had one of the most disagreeable experiences of my life. To discover that an old friend ... is not a friend.’

I glanced up and found her grey eyes upon me. ‘I had the most terrifying nightmare last night. This morning, I should say. I woke with a black sense of despair that has stayed with me all day. How strange that the thing that has shaken me most is not something that actually happened.’

‘I’m not surprised you should have a nightmare. You’ve been so close to death – to violent death – in the last two days.’

‘And yet the dream seemed to have nothing to do with that. I believe it was occasioned by the memory of a story I recently read – a foolish thing that upset me, though I can’t imagine why. I believe it’s not death that frightens me for when I looked at the body of Burgoyne this morning I found it merely sad and moving. Even Mr Stonex. He died hideously but he is at peace. What has disturbed me is the sense of evil.’

‘Because both of them were murdered?’

‘Murder is part of it. But evil does not manifest itself merely in murder. And, heaven knows, not all murder results from evil.’ Seeing that she looked puzzled, I said: ‘For example, if Perkins had killed Mr Stonex it would have been the result of greed and stupidity rather than evil.’

‘But you don’t believe he did?’

‘No. I’m sure that he was killed from real malevolence and that’s what has upset me.’ I had no intention of describing to her the brutally battered face of the old man. ‘The conviction that I have been in the presence of evil.’

‘People mean such different things by that word.’

‘For me it means pleasure in inflicting pain on others or seeing others suffer.’

‘Are any of us entirely innocent of that?’ Coming from her those words astonished me.

Perhaps because I was taken by surprise I found myself saying: ‘I’ve certainly had to acknowledge it in myself today and I think that is what has frightened me most.’

Apparently unperturbed by my admission, she said: ‘If we are honest, we will all recognize it in ourselves. Our religion teaches us to return good for evil. But that is hard.’

I had no desire to tell her that her religion was not mine. And had I cast off Christian superstition if I could still talk of evil?

‘It’s particularly hard when the person who is being cruel has been a friend,’ I said, ‘and therefore knows how best to wound.’

‘And yet, don’t you think that only people who are themselves very unhappy want to inflict pain on others?’

‘I suppose so. But I’m shocked by the malevolence he showed towards me, his anger and the strength of his desire to hurt me. And that was what had terrified me in my nightmare – the feeling of evil.’

‘Would you like to tell me about it? I find that it often helps to dispel the effect of a nightmare if you narrate it to someone.’