A Gun for Sale (26 page)

It almost seemed as if Raven’s act had had no consequences: as if to kill was just as much an illusion as to dream. Here was Mr Davis all over again; they were turned out of a mould, and you couldn’t break the mould, and suddenly over Mr Montague Phelps’s shoulder Saunders saw the photograph of the Grand Master of the Lodge, above the platform: an old face and a crooked nose and a tuft of beard, Sir Marcus.

3

Major Calkin was very white when he left Midland Steel. He had seen for the first time the effect of violent death. That was war. He made his way as quickly as he could to the police station and was glad to find the superintendent in. He asked quite humbly for a spot of whisky. He said, ‘It shakes you up. Only last night he had dinner at my house. Mrs Piker was there with her dog. What a time we had stopping him knowing the dog was there.’

‘That dog,’ the superintendent said, ‘gives us more trouble than any man in Nottwich. Did I ever tell you the time it got in the women’s lavatory in Higham Street? That dog isn’t much to look at, but every once in a while it goes crazy. If it wasn’t Mrs Piker’s we’d have had it destroyed many a time.’

Major Calkin said, ‘He wanted me to give orders to your men to shoot this fellow on sight. I told him I couldn’t. Now I can’t help thinking we might have saved two lives.’

‘Don’t you worry, sir,’ the superintendent said, ‘we couldn’t have taken orders like that. Not from the Home Secretary himself.’

‘He was an odd fellow,’ Major Calkin said. ‘He seemed to think I’d be certain to have a hold over some of you. He promised me all kinds of things. I suppose he was what you’d call a genius. We shan’t see his like again. What a waste.’ He poured himself out some more whisky. ‘Just at a time, too, when we need men like him. War –’ Major Calkin paused with his hand on his glass. He stared into the whisky, seeing things, the remount depot, his uniform in the cupboard. He
would
never be a colonel now, but on the other hand Sir Marcus could not prevent … but curiously he felt no elation at the thought of once more presiding over the tribunal. He said, ‘The gas practice seems to have gone off well. But I don’t know that it was wise to leave so much to the medical students. They don’t know where to stop.’

‘There was a pack of them,’ the superintendent said, ‘went howling past here looking for the Mayor. I don’t know how it is Mr Piker seems to be like catmint to those students.’

‘Good old Piker,’ Major Calkin said mechanically.

‘They go too far,’ the superintendent said. ‘I had a ring from Higginbotham, the cashier at the Westminster. He said his daughter went into the garage and found one of the students there without his trousers.’

Life began to come back to Major Calkin. He said, ‘That’ll be Rose Higginbotham, I suppose. Trust Rose. What did she do?’

‘He said she gave him a dressing down.’

‘Dressing down’s good,’ Major Calkin said. He twisted his glass and drained his whisky. ‘I must tell that to old Piker. What did you say?’

‘I told him his daughter was lucky not to find a murdered man in the garage. You see that’s where Raven must have got his clothes and his mask.’

‘What was the boy doing at the Higginbothams’ anyway?’ Major Calkin said. ‘I think I’ll go and cash a cheque and ask old Higginbotham that.’ He began to laugh; the air was clear again; life was going on quite in the old way: a little scandal, a drink with the super., a story to tell old Piker. On his way to the Westminster he nearly ran into Mrs Piker. He had to dive hastily into a shop to avoid her, and for a horrible moment he thought Chinky, who was some way ahead of her, was going to follow him inside. He made motions of throwing a ball down the street, but Chinky was not a sporting dog and anyway he was trailing a gas-mask in his teeth. Major Calkin had to turn his back abruptly and lean over a counter. He found it was a small haberdasher’s. He had never been in the shop before. ‘What can I get you, sir?’

‘Suspenders,’ Major Calkin said desperately. ‘A pair of suspenders.’

‘What colour, sir?’ Out of the corner of his eye Major Calkin saw Chinky trot on past the shop door followed by Mrs Piker. ‘Mauve,’ he said with relief.

4

The old woman shut the front door softly and trod on tiptoe down the little dark hall. A stranger could not have seen his way, but she knew exactly the position of the hat rack, of the what-not table, and the staircase. She was carrying an evening paper, and when she opened the kitchen door with the very minimum of noise so as not to disturb Acky, her face was alight with exhilaration and excitement. But she held it in, carrying her basket over to the draining board and unloading there her burden of potatoes, a tin of pineapple chunks, two eggs and a slab of cod.

Acky was writing a long letter on the kitchen table. He had pushed his wife’s mauve ink to one side and was using the best blue-black and a fountain pen which had long ceased to hold ink. He wrote slowly and painfully, sometimes making a rough copy of a sentence on another slip of paper. The old woman stood beside the sink watching him, waiting for him to speak, holding her breath in, so that sometimes it escaped in little whistles. At last Acky laid down his pen. ‘Well, my dear?’ he said.

‘Oh, Acky,’ the old woman said with glee, ‘what do you think? Mr Cholmondeley’s dead. Killed.’ She added, ‘It’s in the paper. And that Raven too.’

Acky looked at the paper. ‘Quite horrible,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘Another death as well. A holocaust.’ He read the account slowly.

‘Fancy a thing like that ’appening ’ere in Nottwich.’

‘He was a bad man,’ Acky said, ‘though I wouldn’t speak ill of him now that he’s dead. He involved us in something of which I was ashamed. I think perhaps now it will be safe for us to stay in Nottwich.’ A look of great weariness passed over
his
face as he looked down at the three pages of small neat classical handwriting.

‘Oh, Acky, you’ve been tiring yourself.’

‘I think,’ Acky said, ‘this will make everything clear.’

‘Read it to me, love,’ the old woman said. Her little old vicious face was heavily creased with tenderness as she leant back against the sink in an attitude of infinite patience. Acky began to read. He spoke at first in a low hesitating way, but he gained confidence from the sound of his own voice, his hand went up to the lapel of his coat. ‘“My lord bishop” …’ He said, ‘I thought it best to begin formally, not to trespass at all on my former acquaintanceship.’

‘That’s right, Acky, you are worth the whole bunch.’

‘“I am writing to you for the fourth time … after an interval of some eighteen months.”’

‘Is it so long, love? It was after we took the trip to Clacton.’

‘“Sixteen months … I am quite aware what your previous answers have been, that my case has been tried already in the proper Church Court, but I cannot believe, my lord bishop, that your sense of justice, if once I convince you of what a deeply injured man I am, will not lead you to do all that is in your power to have my case reheard. I have been condemned to suffer all my life for what in the case of other men is regarded as a peccadillo, a peccadillo of which I am not even guilty.’”

‘It’s written lovely, love.’

‘At this point, my dear, I come down to particulars. “How, my lord bishop, could the hotel domestic swear to the identity of a man seen once, a year before the trial, in a darkened chamber, for in her evidence she agreed that he had not allowed her to draw up the blind? As for the evidence of the porter, my lord bishop, I asked in court whether it was not true that money had passed from Colonel and Mrs Mark Egerton into his hands, and my question was disallowed. Is this justice, founded on scandal, misapprehension, and perjury?”’

The old woman smiled with tenderness and pride. ‘This is the best letter you’ve written, Acky, so far.’

‘“My lord bishop, it was well known in the parish that Colonel Mark Egerton was my bitterest enemy on the church council, and it was at his instigation that the inquiry was held. As for Mrs Mark Egerton she was a bitch.”’

‘Is that wise, Acky?’

‘Sometimes, dear, one reaches an impasse, when there is nothing to be done but to speak out. At this point I take the evidence in detail as I have done before, but I think I have sharpened my arguments more than a little. And at the end, my dear, I address the worldly man in the only way he can understand.’ He knew this passage off by heart; he reeled it fierily off at her, raising his crazy sunken flawed saint’s eyes. ‘“But even assuming, my lord bishop, that this perjured and bribed evidence were accurate, what then? Have I committed the unforgivable sin that I must suffer all my life long, be deprived of my livelihood, depend on ignoble methods to raise enough money to keep myself and my wife alive? Man, my lord bishop, and no one knows it better than yourself – I have seen you among the flesh-pots at the palace – is made up of body as well as soul. A little carnality may be forgiven even to a man of my cloth. Even you, my lord bishop, have in your time no doubt sported among the haycocks.”’ He stopped, he was a little out of breath; they stared back at each other with awe and affection.

Acky said, ‘I want to write a little piece, dear, now about you.’ He took in with what could only have been the deepest and purest love the black sagging skirt, the soiled blouse, the yellow wrinkled face. ‘My dear,’ he said, ‘what I should have done without –’ He began to make a rough draft of yet another paragraph, speaking the phrases aloud as he wrote them. ‘“What I should have done during this long trial – no, martyrdom – I do not know – I cannot conceive – if I had not been supported by the trust and the unswerving fidelity – no, fidelity and unswerving trust of my dear wife, a wife whom Mrs Mark Egerton considered herself in a position to despise. As if Our Lord had chosen the rich and well-born to serve him. At least this trial – has taught me to distinguish between my friends and enemies. And yet at my trial
her
word, the
word
of the woman who loved and believed in me, counted – for nought beside the word – of that – that – trumpery and deceitful scandalmonger.”’

The old woman leant forward with tears of pride and importance in her eyes. She said, ‘That’s lovely. Do you think the bishop’s wife will read it? Oh, dear, I know I ought to go and tidy the room upstairs (we might be getting some young people in), but some’ow, Acky dear, I’d just like to stay right ’ere with you awhile. What you write makes me feel kind of ’oly.’ She slumped down on the kitchen chair beside the sink and watched his hand move on, as if she were watching some unbelievably lovely vision passing through the room, something which she had never hoped to see and now was hers. ‘And finally, my dear,’ Acky said, ‘I propose to write: “In a world of perjury and all manner of uncharitableness one woman remains my sheet anchor, one woman I can trust until death and beyond.”’

‘They ought to be ashamed of themselves. Oh, Acky, my dear,’ she wept, ‘to think they’ve treated you that way. But you’ve said true. I won’t ever leave you. I won’t leave you, not even when I’m dead. Never, never, never,’ and the two old vicious faces regarded each other with the complete belief, the awe and mutual suffering of a great love, while they affirmed their eternal union.

5

Anne cautiously felt the door of the compartment in which she had been left alone. It was locked, as she had thought it would be in spite of Saunders’s tact and his attempt to hide what he was doing. She stared out at the dingy Midland station with dismay. It seemed to her that everything which made her life worth the effort of living was lost; she hadn’t even got a job, and she watched, past an advertisement of Horlick’s for night starvation and a bright blue-and-yellow picture of the Yorkshire coast, the weary pilgrimage which lay before her from agent to agent. The train began to move by the waiting-rooms, the lavatories, the sloping concrete into a waste of rails.

What a fool, she thought, I have been, thinking I could save us from a war. Three men are dead, that’s all. Now that she was herself responsible for so many deaths, she could no longer feel the same repulsion towards Raven. In this waste through which she travelled, between the stacks of coal, the tumbledown sheds, abandoned trucks in sidings where a little grass had poked up and died between the cinders, she thought of him again with pity and distress. They had been on the same side, he had trusted her, she had given her word to him, and then she had broken it without even the grace of hesitation. He must have known of her treachery before he died: in that dead mind she was preserved for ever with the chaplain who had tried to frame him, with the doctor who had telephoned to the police.

Well, she had lost the only man she cared a damn about: it was always regarded as some kind of atonement, she thought, to suffer too: lost him for no reason at all. For
she
couldn’t stop a war. Men were fighting beasts, they needed war; in the paper that Saunders had left for her on the opposite seat she could read how the mobilization in four countries was complete, how the ultimatum expired at midnight; it was no longer on the front page, but that was only because to Nottwich readers there was a war nearer at hand, fought out to a finish in the Tanneries. How they love it, she thought bitterly, as the dusk came up from the dark wounded ground and the glow of furnaces became visible beyond the long black ridge of slag-heaps. This was war too: this chaos through which the train moved slowly, grinding over point after point like a dying creature dragging itself painfully away through No-Man’s Land from the scene of battle.

She pressed her face against the window to keep her tears away: the cold pressure of the frosting pane stiffened her resistance. The train gathered speed by a small neo-Gothic church, a row of villas, and then the country, the fields, a few cows making for an open gate, a hard broken lane and a cyclist lighting his lamp. She began to hum to keep her spirits up, but the only tunes she could remember were ‘Aladdin’ and ‘It’s only Kew’. She thought of the long bus-ride home, the
voice
on the telephone, and how she couldn’t get to the window to wave to him and he had stood there with his back to her while the train went by. It was Mr Davis even then who had ruined everything.