(1958) Robinson Page 14

  I said, ‘What do you think happened to Robinson?’

  ‘Someone killed him,’ he said.

  ‘Who do you think killed him?’

  ‘The Parroveevil,’ he said.

  ‘Say it again.’

  He repeated it twice, and presently I discerned the influence of Tom Wells and his Power of Evil.

  ‘Suppose someone said that Robinson fell down, alone by himself on the mountain, and was killed?’

  ‘Who said it?’

  ‘Suppose someone said it, what would that be?’

  He said, ‘A mistake.’

  I said, ‘Do you remember the things we found when we were looking for Robinson?’

  He said, ‘All the clothes.’

  ‘That’s right. What did they look like?’

  ‘They were all over blood,’ he said.

  ‘Suppose,’ I continued, ‘that one of us said we didn’t find any clothes at all, and that there wasn’t any blood?’

  ‘That would be silly,’ he said.

  ‘Would it be true?’

  ‘No, they must be making a mistake.’

  I thought, what odds if he doesn’t know what a lie is, so long as he speaks the truth? And by his puzzled look I was satisfied that the present conversation would stick in his mind. It would be difficult, now, to persuade him that he had dreamt the evidence of Robinson’s death.

  The swimming suit was slightly too big for me, but it was the best I could find among the salvage. I regretted not availing myself of it earlier, when I had been obliged to sit enviously on the shore of the lake and watch Jimmie and Robinson splashing about in bathing trunks and Miguel swimming naked, diving like a rocket. There had been no garment for me to bathe in. ‘Bathe in nothing at all,’ Jimmie had advised, ‘and we avert our gaze.’

  ‘There’s a woman’s swimming suit amongst the salvage,’ Robinson had said.

  I had come to the lake to cool off after a violent encounter with Tom Wells and Jimmie. I had told them both at breakfast that I would not sign the statement, and I deliberately spoke in front of Miguel, hoping that he would take in something of the meaning rather than the mere vibrations.

  ‘Better to sign,’ said Jimmie.

  ‘Look, let’s all get together and discuss it in private,’ said Wells, looking at Miguel.

  ‘There’s nothing to discuss.’

  ‘We meet at 2 p.m.,’ said Wells. ‘That’s final.’

  ‘Better to sign,’ said Jimmie.

  I said to Jimmie, ‘You make me sick.’

  He sprang up and banged the table. ‘Is on your behalf that I make you sick.’

  I had not seen Jimmie lose his temper before. I was taken aback and must have shown it, for Tom Wells was quick to follow this advantage with a loud-voiced, ‘You’ll sign, if it’s the last thing you do. Robinson died of an accident — get it?’

  Jimmie turned on him and said, ‘Get it — is not nice to address a lady like the thunder, get it.’

  ‘Come away, Miguel,’ I said loftily. ‘Come with me.’

  He came hesitantly. Tom Wells called after me. ‘Two p.m.’

  At two o’clock I was cooling myself in the lake. I had avoided the house all day and had brought food to eat by the lake. I was regretting that I had not availed myself of the salvaged bathing dress in our early days on the island. I would have preferred the sea, but Robinson had warned us of the sharks. Apart from the streams which scored the island, and which were often only ankle-deep, the lake was the only bathing place.

  It was wonderfully soothing and the blue-green effect was only slightly diminished when one was actually in the water. I think the colour was caused by some mineral in the lake water rather than reflection from the sky; when I sent a splash into the air, it looked like a shower of transparent blue gems. Making big splashes to some extent alleviated the apprehensive pain above my stomach, a physical pain which I had been going about with for the last two weeks, and which I realised had been nibbling inside me since Robinson’s disappearance.

  It had been a favourite game of Bluebell, when Robinson was swimming in the lake, to race along the bank trying to catch the glittering blue beads of water which he threw in her direction. I caught sight of the cat on the bank as I dabbled around, saw it was trying to egg me on to play. It did this by planting its forepaws together on the very verge of the lake and waggling its hindquarters ready to spring. The technique of the game, on the swimmer’s part, was to send a shower of spray a little above and in front of the cat, and then she would leap, almost fly in the air after the elusive drops. Bluebell did not seem to mind when it occasionally drenched her, but would shake the blue water off her head and crouch for the next spring. I swam in to the edge and obliged her with a high-thrown handful of lake water. She gave a beautiful leap, her slate-blue coat looking far more blue beside the lake. I swam farther round, churning out Bluebell’s shower with the back of my hand. ‘Come on, Bluebell,’ I called to her, ‘water’s good for the nerves.’ I wondered how soon the cat would tire, and decided to see if she would follow me all round the lake, trotting, crouching, leaping, in her wonderful rhythm. We were more than half-way round when she got bored, and browsed off among the ferns towards the cliff edge. I drifted for a small while, then decided to set off again towards the bank where I had left my clothes. I did not intend to return to the house just yet; I had it in mind to walk down the cliffpath and through the copse of blue-gum trees to the Pomegranate beach, there to let the white sand trickle through my toes and fingers. I started cutting across the lake, and when I had almost reached the middle I caught sight of Tom Wells disappearing behind some shrubbery near the spot where I had left my clothes.

  At first I thought he was lying in wait for me behind the shrubbery, but as I came up to the bank I saw him retreating farther off, shuffling up to the house.

  The key of the gun-room, which I usually kept on a string round my neck, was missing from among my clothes, where I had left it. The pain above my stomach returned.

  I dressed quickly and went in search of Jimmie. He was drinking brandy in Robinson’s study. When he saw me he said,

  ‘Alas, I am abased to the servile floor.’

  I shivered, for in my haste I had not dried myself properly. I said, ‘I’d like a drink.’

  He poured some brandy for me. ‘I lose my nerves. ‘I said, ‘Wells has stolen the key of the gun-room from me.

  He jumped up. ‘He has assaulted you to obtain this key?’

  ‘No, I left it lying about.’

  Jimmie filled his glass and said, ‘Is my key — lo, all is mine.’

  I said, ‘Take care what you do. He has probably armed himself.’

  ‘He is angered in the extreme, that you do not sign the statement today,’ Jimmie said. ‘Thus mayhaps he shall insist by pointing the pistol. Is not humorous.’

  ‘Have you signed his statement?’

  ‘No, no. Is fruitless if all do not agree.’

  ‘Have you signed any agreement to pay him the money?’

  ‘No, is fruitless if all do not agree to Robinson’s accident.’

  I said, ‘I have a sort of weapon against Tom Wells.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Jimmie. ‘I do recall the pistol.’

  ‘I don’t mean the pistol,’ I said. ‘I mean my journal. It is a sort of evidence, a dossier. People would find it difficult to reconcile Tom Wells’ story with the journal.’

  Jimmie was only half-listening. ‘If you please,’ he said, ‘is best to place the little gun into my charge. Is necessary, in the event that I am obliged to protect you.’

  I kept the baby Browning in the pocket of my coat. I am always rather afraid of firearms; and without actually believing they can go off by themselves, I have one of those shadowy fears that they will. Every morning I had checked the Browning to see if the safety catch was still on, and sometimes in the night I would get up to have another look; that was the relationship between myself and the automatic.

  I said to Jimmie, �
��I may need the automatic myself. In fact, I think I need it now more than you do.’

  ‘Is like this,’ Jimmie said. ‘Is not nice to have a gun except in the event that you understand it. Many ladies do not understand what is a gun. In the event that words should occur, pouff — the lady will shoot and the gentleman is killed.’

  ‘I ought to keep it for security. I don’t like the thought of Tom Wells having the key of the gun-room.‘

  ‘Is my intention to arrange that he should render up that key.’

  ‘My God!' I said. ‘If I give you the pistol there will be another murder.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Jimmie. ‘Is to go too far. Never in my life do I shoot to kill. I understand what is a gun. Is best for you to give to me my gun, then is no killing in the event that you make mistakes.’

  I did not miss the words ‘my gun’. The automatic was undoubtedly Jimmie’s property, and I felt, if it came to that, he could easily force his gun from me. But I was more impressed by the idea that I might kill Tom Wells, should I be provoked to wield the automatic against him. In fact, I thought, this would be very likely, since I was on edge with fear of him, and the possibility of what he might do in the days ahead. Seven or eight days, I thought, is a long time when you can kill a man in less than a second, and so complicate your life. Self-defence is all very well, but two murders on the island …

  ‘Is best,’ said Jimmie, ‘not to have a gun if you are not experienced with shooting. In the course of the hostilities I have had the occasion …’

  Like a fool, I went and fetched the Browning. Even as I handed it over I regretted it; I was insecure, and overcome with a feeling of distrust for Jimmie.

  I left him immediately, resolved to make a record in my journal of my having given him the gun, and the reasons why I had done so.

  The journal was gone from its drawer. It was nowhere in my room. I had been altogether counting on it to counteract Tom Wells’ accusation against me. Of course, it contained no direct proof, but it had struck me, on reading it through, that it was not at all the sort of journal that anyone would write who was gradually meditating murder. And also it contained the ‘dossier‘ of the murder itself, the notes of my suspicions and reflections which I had intended to hand over to the Portuguese. I set particular store by my theory that Robinson had discovered some blackmailing activity of Wells, and so been silenced.

  For some reason, when I was satisfied that the blue exercise book was not in my room, I felt light-headed.

  I felt carefree and reckless. I went to Robinson’s apartments and put a recording of Mozart on the gramophone, poured myself a drink, lit a cigarette, sat back and closed my eyes. Bluebell, who had sidled into the room with me, leapt on to my lap and, purring loudly, started to pummel me with her paws, prior to nestling down. When the record came to an end I turned it over and had some more Mozart. I had another drink. When I felt I was bored with music, I cast round for a novel and found that Robinson’s few novels had apparently been chosen for their bibliographical charms. I pulled out of the case a leather-bound volume of a novel, and opened it in the middle of a chapter. The eighteenth-century typography, with its s’s like f’s, irritated me. I threw it on to a nearby sofa. I put on another record, poured myself another drink. I took up the book again:

  Now the agonies which affected the mind of Sophia rather augmented than impaired her beauty: for her tears added brightnefs to her eyes, and her breafts rofe higher with her fighs. Indeed, no one hath feen beauty in its highest luftre, who hath never feen it in diftrefs….

  I put it by, and settled down to the interesting thought of how like I was at this moment to my sister Julia. There is something about too much worry that brings out Julia in me, a temporary reaction which is typical of her constant behaviour. Julia spends her life putting discs on and off her electric gramophone, switching on the television, switching it off, pouring herself a drink, taking up a book, throwing it on a nearby sofa, lifting the telephone, then changing her mind. And I mused on other occasions of special stress when, on the other hand, I was Agnes to the life. That was when I had been over-excited by some event, such as a play, or a letter with a surprise cheque, or a party where I had chattered all night very successfully and been much talked to. My hangover, perhaps a kind of protection against excitability, took the form of a fat-headed domestic triviality, and I would make it a big issue to consider how long, to the very month, the curtains had been in use, resolving to clean out cupboards that had not been touched for fifteen years, writing out timetables to follow, writing out my expenditure in one column, my income in another, adding up and glumly comparing them. This would last but a few hours, but Agnes did it all her life.

  While I pondered the genetic question involved in these self-observations, the irrelevant idea flashed upon me that Tom Wells was the sort of person likely to hide my journal under his mattress.

  I was almost right. The blue exercise book was under the counterpane at the foot of his bed. I examined it and found it intact, loose pages and all. I had ascertained his presence on the patio before entering his room. He had been sitting out there, looking suddenly quite horrible with a hand on each knee, and the key of the gun-room hanging conspicuously round his neck. Now, from his window, I saw the back of his head above the chair where he was seated, and I thought how utterly stupid he was.

  It was about five o’clock. I had just time to reach my destination and return before the mists should fall. I quickly cut a square piece out of Robinson’s waterproof— the handiest thing I could find for the purpose —and, wrapping my notebook in this to protect it from dampness, I set off for the secret tunnel which led from the cliffs at the Pomegranate Bay to the South Arm. It was my plan to conceal my journal near the South Arm end of the tunnel, so that there should be no chance of Wells coming upon it by accident. He had never been to the caves, and seldom walked far beyond the vicinity of the house. A visit to the scene of the accident had been his longest venture, and he had gone there only to assure himself that his missing papers were not among the debris at the spot where he had been found. He had returned from this visit, complaining of exhaustion and clutching his ribs.

  I chose the Pomegranate Bay tunnel because it was sufficiently near at hand to enable me to reach it and return before the fall of the mist, and yet not too near. The tunnel whose entrance led from the cliff just behind the house to the Furnace was, I felt, too nearby to be safe from anyone really on the hunt. And of course the cave on the North Arm was too far away, although I would gladly have hidden my book that distance from Tom Wells.

  I had only got as far as the beach when I realised I had forgotten to bring a light, without which it was impossible to penetrate the tunnel. I returned as quickly as possible up the mountain path. I stopped only to stuff my package out of sight for the time being in a hollow at the bole of a tree, covering it up with whim, and placing some small black pebbles on the path in the form of a cross, to mark the place. I saw that a light mist had begun to curl round the mountain.

  There was a powerful flashlamp about nine inches long in Robinson’s study; all the others were weak, the batteries running out. It usually lay on the wide window ledge.

  In Robinson’s study I found Tom Wells sitting at the desk.

  ‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘So I murdered Robinson to keep him quiet?’

  ‘You know best,’ I said.

  ‘I’m a blackmailer, you say?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I say.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘naturally you’ll be disappointed to hear that I’ve destroyed your little notebook.’

  ‘You haven’t stolen my journal?’ I said, making frightened eyes.

  ‘I’ve burnt it.’

  ‘Burnt it! When? I’ve always thought blackmailers never destroy papers.’

  ‘I burnt it a few hours ago. It made interesting reading. Do you know what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re going to sign my statement.’ He opened a drawer of the
desk and taking out a fair-sized revolver placed it before him.

  I said, ‘You won’t get away with two murders.’

  He said, ‘There’s ways of going about a job like that, and there’s ways of putting the remains out of sight.’

  ‘A gun makes a lot of noise on this island,’ I said. ‘It echoes all over the place.’

  ‘O.K., it makes a lot of noise. Who’s going to hear it?’

  ‘Jimmie is not deaf.’

  ‘No, but he’s dumb. I’ll see to it that he’s dumb for the rest of his life. No-one squeals once Tom Wells says they’re dumb. And as for the boy — well, I’ll settle with anyone that tries to make evidence of what that half-wit says.’

  I started to retreat. He stood up. ‘Listen, honey. I don’t want to do you any harm. There’s no need to get alarmed. You’ll sign my statement, it’s for your own good. And I just want to warn you, if there’s any retraction when you get back home, I’ve got my boys in London. They can pay you a visit. I just want you to know, honey, that you’d better see my way of things.’

  ‘I must find Jimmie,’ I said, backing slowly out of the door.

  ‘Naturally,’ he said, ‘of course. By all means talk it over with the boy-friend. He’s got the right slant, he’ll tell you the same as I’ve done.’

  I was half-way out of the doorway when he said, ‘You’ll find him in the cellar. I’ve put him to crating the wines and liquor ready to take away. No use leaving that good stuff on the island.’

  ‘Then I’ll need the torch,’ I said.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said. He lifted the flashlamp off the window ledge and handed it to me. ‘Don’t break your neck down the steps, we don’t want two corpses. Go and talk to Jimmie, dear.’

  I slipped out by way of the storehouse, and made my way through the film of blue rising vapour down the mountain path again and, retrieving my parcel, continued my way along the beach to the aperture in the cliff which concealed the mouth of the tunnel.

  I coughed my way through the sulphurous dust, my cough echoing on the walls of the cave, as if there were three or four people ahead of me, three or four behind. Twice I slipped on the slimy weeds, once scraping my elbow badly, but hardly noticing it in my efforts to make progress. My flashlamp cast a red glare in the volcanic dust. I came to that part of the tunnel where it dwindled to a hole, and I was obliged to crawl along the muddy floor with the parcel between my teeth. At last the cave widened, but it was low; I was forced to stoop and clutch the jutting shelves to assist my advance. It was here I looked for a suitable hiding-place for the. journal, feeling with my hand the top surfaces of the protruding shelves, hoping to come across a flat rest. None of them had sufficient surface to retain my flat parcel, but running my hand over the upper face of a ledge I found that it fell back into a hole in the rock. I had to bend the parcel to squeeze it in.