The Oxford Murders

Five

As I rounded the last bend of the close and came up to the house I saw that the police were still there. An ambulance was there now too and a blue van with the logo of the Oxford Times, A lanky man with curly grey hair flopping over his forehead stopped me on my way down to my room. He was holding a small tape recorder and a notebook. Before he could introduce himself, Inspector Petersen leaned out of the hall window and asked me to come upstairs.

“I’d rather you didn’t mention this to anyone,” he said quietly. “We gave your name only to the press, as if you were on your own when you found the body.”

I nodded and went back to the top of the steps. While I was answering the reporter’s questions I saw a taxi draw up. Beth got out with her cello and went past without seeing us. She had to give her name to the policeman at the door before she was allowed inside. Her voice sounded weak and slightly strangled.

“So that’s the girl,” said the reporter glancing at his watch. “I need to talk to her too. Looks like I’m going to miss my supper. One last thing: what did Petersen just say to you, when he called you over?”

I hesitated a moment.

“That they might have to bother me with more questions tomorrow,” I said.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “you’re not a suspect.”

I laughed.

“So who is?” I asked.

“I don’t know, the girl, I suppose. It’s what you’d expect, isn’t it? She’s the one who’s going to end up with the money and the house.”

“I didn’t know Mrs Eagleton had money.”

“War Heroes’ Pension. It’s not a fortune, but for a woman on her own…”

“But wasn’t Beth already in rehearsal at the time of the murder?”

The man flicked back through his notebook.

“Let’s see: according to the pathologist’s report, time of death was between two and three. One of the neighbours saw the girl leave for the Sheldonian a little after two. I called the theatre just now: she got to the rehearsal at exactly two-thirty. But that still leaves a few minutes, before she left. Which means she was in the house, she could have done it, and she’s the only beneficiary.”

“Are you going to put that in your article?” I asked. I think I sounded a little indignant.

“Why not? It’s more interesting than blaming it on a burglar and telling housewives to keep their doors locked. I’m going to try to have a word with her now.” He smiled mischievously. “Read my article tomorrow.”

I went down to my room and, without turning on the light, took my shoes off and lay down on the bed, one arm over my eyes. I tried again to reconstruct in memory the moment when Seldom and I entered the house and the sequence of our movements, but I couldn’t find anything else there, at least not the kind of thing Seldom was looking for. All that reappeared vividly in my mind was the disjointed movement of Mrs Eagleton’s neck as her head fell to one side, eyes wide open and terrified. A car engine started up and I raised myself on my elbows to look out of the window. I saw them bring Mrs Eagleton’s corpse out on a stretcher and load it into the ambulance. The police cars switched on their headlights and, as they turned around, yellow cones of light created a succession of fleeting, phantasmagorical shadows on the walls of the houses. The Oxford Times van had already left and once the small convoy of vehicles had disappeared around the first bend, I found the silence and darkness of the close oppressive for the first time. I wondered what Beth was doing upstairs, alone in the house. I switched on the light and saw Emily Bronson’s papers, with my notes in the margins, on the desk. I made coffee and sat down, intending to continue where I’d left off. I worked for over an hour, but didn’t get much further. Nor did I attain that merciful calm, that singular mental balm-apparent order within chaos-that comes as you follow the steps of a theorem.

Suddenly I thought I heard gentle knocking at the door. I pushed the chair back and waited a moment. I heard the knocking again, more clearly this time. I opened the door and in the darkness made out Beth’s slightly embarrassed face. She was wearing a lilac dressing gown and slippers, and her hair was simply held back by a hairband, as if she had rushed from her bed. I told her to come in. She stood just inside the door, arms crossed, lips trembling slightly.

“Could I ask you a favour? Just for tonight,” she said in a faltering voice. “I can’t get to sleep up there. Can I stay here till morning?”

“Of course you can,” I said. “I’ll make up the sofa, and you can have the bed.”

She thanked me, relieved, and collapsed on to one of the chairs. She looked around, dazed, and saw my papers spread out over the desk.

“You were working,” she said. “I don’t want to disturb you.”

“No, no,” I said, “I was about to take a break anyway. I couldn’t concentrate. Shall I make coffee?”

“I’d rather have tea, if that’s OK,” she said.

We remained silent while I put the kettle on and searched for a suitable phrase of condolence. But she spoke first.

“Uncle Arthur told me you were with him when he found her. It must have been awful. I had to see her too: they made me identify the body. God,” she said, and her eyes turned watery, a liquid, trembling blue, “nobody had bothered to close her eyes.”

She looked away, tilting her head slightly, trying to hold back the tears.

“I’m so sorry,” I murmured. “I know how you must be feeling.”

“No, I don’t think you do,” she said. “I don’t think anyone can. It was what I’d been hoping for for a long time. For years. Though it may be terrible to say so, ever since I found out she had cancer. I’d always imagined it would happen almost exactly as it did-that someone would come to tell me, in the middle of a rehearsal. I prayed that it would be like that, that I wouldn’t have to see her before they took her away. But the inspector wanted me to identify her. They hadn’t closed her eyes!” she said again in an anxious whisper, as if this were an inexplicable injustice. “I stood there but I couldn’t look at her; I was afraid that she could still somehow hurt me, drag me with her, not let go. And I think she’s succeeded: I’m a suspect,” she said dejectedly. “Petersen asked me lots of questions, with that mock-considerate manner of his. And then that horrible man from the paper, he didn’t even try to hide it. I told them all I know: that when I left at two she was asleep, next to the Scrabble table. But I don’t feel I’ve got the strength to defend myself. I’m the person who most wanted to see her dead, much more, I’m sure, than whoever killed her.”

She seemed to be consumed by nervousness, her hands shaking uncontrollably. When she caught my look she crossed her arms.

“Anyway,” I said, handing her a cup of tea, “I don’t think Petersen is thinking any of this: they know something which they don’t want to make public. Didn’t Professor Seldom say anything?”

She shook her head and I was sorry I had spoken. But I saw the expectant look in her blue eyes, as if she scarcely dared hope, and decided that Latin indiscretion could be kinder than English reserve.

“This is all I can tell you, because they asked us to keep it secret. The person who killed your grandmother left Seldom a message in his pigeonhole. In the note there was your address and a time, three in the afternoon.”

“Three in the afternoon,” she repeated slowly. A huge weight seemed to be lifting from her. “I was in rehearsal by then.” She smiled weakly, as if a long, difficult battle were over. She took a sip of tea and looked at me gratefully over the cup.

“Beth,” I started. Her hand lay in her lap quite close to mine and I had to stop myself touching it. “About what you said before-if I can help in any way with the funeral arrangements, or anything else, please ask. I’m sure Professor Seldom, or Michael, must have offered already…”

“Michael?” she said, and laughed drily. “He won’t be much help, this whole business terrifies him.” And she added rather contemptuously, as if referring to a particularly cowardly species: “He’s a married man.”

She stood up and, before I could stop her, went over to the sink beside the desk and washed her cup.

“Uncle Arthur’s a mathematical genius, isn’t he?” Beth said proudly.

“One of the greatest,” I said.

She took off her hairband, placing it on the bedside table, and shook out her hair. Then she went over to the bed and pulled back the eiderdown. Her hand went to the neck of her dressing gown.

“Do you mind turning around for a moment,” she said, “I’d like to take this off.”

I carried my own cup to the sink. After turning off the tap, I stood with my back to her a moment longer. She said my name, making an endearing effort to pronounce it correctly. She was in bed, her hair spread seductively over the pillow. She had pulled the eiderdown almost up to her chin but one arm lay outside.

“Could I ask you one last favour? It’s something my mother used to do when I was little. Could you hold my hand until I fall asleep?”

“Of course,” I said. I turned off the light and sat down on the edge of the bed. Moonlight seeped weakly through the window, lighting up her bare arm. I placed my palm on top of hers and we interlaced our fingers at the same time. Her hand was warm and dry. I looked more closely at the soft skin on the back of her hand and her long fingers, with their short, neat nails, which she’d so trustingly intertwined with mine. Something called my attention. Discreetly, carefully, I turned my hand so that I could see her thumb under mine. It was oddly thin and small, as if it belonged to a different, more childish hand, the hand of a little girl. I realised that she’d opened her eyes and was looking at me. She tried to remove her hand but I gripped it and stroked her thumb with my own.

“Now you know my most shameful secret,” she said. “I still suck my thumb at night.”