I was not so maudlin or melodramatic as to consider that this letter might be the last word Touie would ever receive from me. Yet the thought that she might treasure it beneath her pillow for the rest of her days caused a great depression to enfold me. I had to rise from the escritoire and step out onto the balcony for some fresh air. There, I contemplated the beauty of the created world that was the mountains and the sun and the sky and the trees. As if for the first time.
Silly old fool.
I decided to shake off my solemnity, that I would have a smoke. I fumbled among my pockets for my smoker’s implements and realized that they were in my jacket upon the ladder-back chair. I had hung it there to compose my letter. I returned to it and went through the ritual of searching the pockets. As I drew out my tobacco pouch, something small, buff and rectangular fell out with it. I recognized it at once as the note that Francesca had slipped to me at the café.
With a curious mixture of both cool detachment and a thrill of anticipation, I opened it.
Please meet me at four o’clock.
Please come to my house. F
Of course, it was curious. But what was more remarkable, and indeed disturbing, was my reaction to it. My heart leapt and my spirit surged with excitement at the thought of seeing her again. Naturally, it was not a billet-doux. I did not imagine for one moment that it was a tryst. Something much more mundane (and platonic) I was sure lay behind the hastily written note. Yet I was concerned at my reaction. I had barely blotted the letter to my dear, beloved Touie. I had just wandered out upon my balcony to wrestle with my loneliness, painfully separated, as I was, from her. Yet, within an instant, my emotions had been transformed. My excitement at the prospect of seeing Francesca again had carried all other sentiment before it.
I was disgusted with myself and, out loud, I told myself as much. This was unadulterated nonsense. There was absolutely no reason on earth why I should, in any way, seek to alter my life and become more closely associated with this Italian… siren. I knew it. Touie, if she were privy to this information, would also know it. Yet here I was, buffoon, as excited as an adolescent at the prospect of meeting this member of the female sex. Had she bewitched me, I conjectured? No. I closed my foolish imagination to all prospect of an encounter with the woman that would be anything other than decorous and appropriate.
But then I wondered whether, perhaps, she had bewitched Brown…?
Had her undoubted exotic and sensual feminine allure captivated the poor fellow? Had he succumbed where I now, I reassured myself, had every intention of resisting?
I had discussed this possibility with Holloway at the fall. It could have been Francesca. Of course, it could also have been her husband, who struck me as a surly and violent cove. Characteristics A plus B, as van Engels would say, leaving us to extrapolate characteristic C: jealousy. Quod Erat Demonstrandum. This was perhaps more likely, if the studded boot marks I had found up at the fall were indeed directly related to the tragedy.
However, this train of thought needed to chug readily along in my mind a little further. Brown: lonely, a stranger, susceptible, vulnerable. It did not need to be Francesca, though, did it? Any woman offering her warmth, comfort and companionship would suffice. That is, if he were sufficiently receptive to those particular charms. Should my theory of a tryst hold water.
Who else then?
Marie.
Why?
Because… because… Plantin was very angry with Brown.
Why?
Because… maybe Marie had become attracted to the Englishman.
Why?
Because… because Plantin and his wife’s… understanding… had been put under severe strain. While the romance was unfulfilled prior to marriage, perhaps it remained unfulfilled, in its entirety, post-nuptials. Or perhaps, despite her belief that Plantin was enough, indeed everything, for her, she was still very young and impressionable. And would she want children? Would Plantin even be able to provide for her in this way? It was distasteful in the extreme that I felt obliged to even begin considering such matters. Not the subject for stories. But this was real life, and I a doctor.
This theory would certainly explain why Plantin was so evidently exercised about my having had, in his view, intimate discussions with his wife about certain aspects of their relationship.
I filed these thoughts and began to explore other possibilities.
Eva?
No. She was someone who would consider using her femininity in quite that way beneath her dignity.
Yet… she and Holloway had found common ground and unity of purpose swiftly enough.
Then again, since she had been the first to find Brown when he was being brought down from the mountain, I could recall no emotion that betrayed any such purported intimacy. Could she have disguised it so well? Did she disguise it even further by immediately setting up a companionship with Holloway? Was she a cool, calculating seductress and murderess…?
Impossible.
Well, then, another tack. Had Brown offended her, perhaps? Had he made unwelcome advances towards her? She knew the countryside. She was a guide. She was positively charming and amenable. She could have – quite easily, I imagined – encouraged a fellow up into the mountains in his town shoes and without his alpenstock. Yet she could do this in all innocence, not realizing the intoxication of her wonderful open charms. Brown could have made advances, she could have fended him off increasingly violently, they could have tottered perilously at the chasm’s edge and then… a slip and there he was, gone.
And Anna Pivcevic…?
I did not know enough about her yet. There would be opportunities to explore this avenue further.
And mevrouw van Engels? Who knew what secrets lay suppressed beneath that seemingly respectable and detached Dutch tweed-bound breast?
And then there were the men. Could they all be prone to fits of jealous rage, which might lead to acts of violence? Perhaps it was more than one of them? Perhaps Brown had been manhandled out of the hotel, in his town shoes and without his alpenstock, and forced to walk up the hill to his unique scaffold.
I sat down.
The permutations were virtually endless, and I had not even started considering the other villagers yet, let alone those scores of folk who passed through a district like this on a daily basis. That meant that no scientific benefit could profitably be obtained from the existing evidence. I would have to gather further intimations before I might narrow the field further. That is, I reminded myself, always supposing that there was a murder, that the murderer was still around, and that more evidence was in any position to be gathered.
Which brought me back to the question of Brown’s room. How might I gain access to it? Holloway had access to Eva, but he and I were currently experiencing a cooling of relations. Perhaps he might be kind enough to involve me, all the same? I would ask him when I had the opportunity.
My pipe was cold; I had exhausted all the opportunities for exploration in this brumous case for the time being. I had an assignation at four o’clock. How might I usefully pass my time until then?
The answer came in the form of a brisk rap at the door.
ELEVEN
“Father Vernon, do please come in.”
I stood aside and let the priest enter. He shuffled past, the skirts of his plain brown habit rustling. He was calm and reflective. We exchanged greetings and then I gestured to my armchair. He chose the ladder-back, and gestured for me to take the other. I dutifully sat. After all, I was brought up by Jesuits.
“How are you, doctor?”
“I am well. And how are you?”
“Passable. Although with middle-age comes a number of leathery creaks in the limbs and wintry aches to the joints, but I do not complain.”
He smiled and waited patiently for me to speak. He seemed entirely content to pass the time in this way. I began to understand that the silence was leading somewhere, which left me with a sense of foreboding. For my part, I found the quiet disquieting
. Being direct, I chose neither to humour him, nor to engage him in further pleasantries.
“I am delighted to extend my hospitality to you, Father, and I shall always be glad to do so. Regrettably, I do not have anything by way of a drink to offer you… Unless you would care for a glass of water from the jug over there?”
The priest politely declined, wordlessly.
“In which case, if I am not being too forthright, perhaps you would care to reveal what it is that has brought you to this unexpected but nonetheless pleasing visit?”
He smiled again. “I am glad, doctor, that you are candid, and that says to me that you are a scrupulously honest man. A characteristic I had observed that you possessed in abundance from the moment I met you.”
I dipped my head in modest acknowledgment of his kind words. Privately, however, I was struck by the remembrance of how I had chosen not to be entirely frank with him on our first meeting, in the matter of getting in to see Brown’s body.
“Of course, you were not entirely straight with me when last we met. But we both knew what it was that you had really come for. So, to all intents and purposes, that does not count.”
I looked at him with quiet amusement; he had read my thoughts.
“So, you will not mind me saying, I can be sure, that I was wondering – indeed questioning – why such an honest man should seek, in effect, to prowl around my church and endeavour to set light to it.”
I continued looking at him steadily, displaying, I hoped, not a flicker of emotion. He returned the gaze equally steadily. He was darkly serious, but not angry; challenging, but not confrontational. I resolved to offer no response. He had no proof, I was sure of it.
“Come along, doctor, I did not expect silence. You are an honest man and I am not accusing you of anything that I would choose to pursue any further. I am only puzzled and seek enlightenment. It was you. Only you, the decent, upright, English gentleman…”
“Scots-Irish.”
“British gentleman… would, after having accidentally set a fire, attempt to put it out and then, before departing, replace the offending oil lamp. Only you, of all the people I might have considered having sought access to Mr Brown, would have had the courtesy to damp down the fire with the sheet. And then neatly place the sheet back on Brown’s body. Only you, doctor. Only you.”
“Only me? Father Vernon… I…”
“No actual harm was done. Plus, I have had worse in my time. I was a priest in the Rio shanties. This is merely for my own information. It is something also, I might say, I should care to commit to prayer.”
I continued looking at him. He was in earnest, as far as I could ascertain. I relented and decided to tell him everything. Perhaps unwisely, I did not know. However, in my silence I had been thinking rapidly. I suppose Holloway might have styled it a “How do you mean?” moment. Now, my thoughts marshalled, I realized that, in fact, I had an ace up my sleeve. To my shame, I deployed it.
“Father?”
“Yes?”
“You should be aware that my family are staunch Catholics.”
“They are? I am pleased to hear it.”
“And that I was schooled by Jesuits.”
“Not always the best way to bring up a child, if you will permit me my personal opinion? I have met many fine young men who have benefited greatly, of course, but it is not for everybody. We are all different and cannot always conform to either the discipline or the doctrine, or both, if you understand my meaning…? Nevertheless, commendable.”
“I have never renounced the faith, but I must admit that through my adolescent and young adult years, other thoughts and considerations crowded in upon me.”
“You illustrate my last point admirably.”
“This, coupled with a scientific career and observance of great suffering, has led me to a certain amount of… how shall I say…? Falling away.”
“Neither unusual nor reprehensible. We are put upon this earth to use our minds and explore creation. The Lord knows what is deep in our hearts, even if we do not.”
“So,” I refused to be diverted by his extempore homilies, “would it be fair to say that I am still under the authority of Holy Mother Church?”
“Then forgive me, Father, for this trick I am about to play on you…”
“Forgiveness? Now there is a long evening’s discussion. But yes, I forgive you unreservedly, even if you are about to deceive me. However…” He had been sitting forward with his forearms resting on his thighs and his hands clasped lightly together. Now he sat back and folded his arms, as a kindly uncle about to receive a request of tuppence for sweets from a favourite nephew. “… I daresay that you are about to ask me if what you are about to tell me could be revealed as though it were under the conventions of the confessional? In which case, you would like your comments to be sealed between us and us alone, through the spirit of confidentiality and trust that exists between priest and confessor?”
I reverted to my original policy of silence. This time, however, it was not voluntary. He had anticipated and consequently nonplussed me.
“My son, I am afraid that I have sufficient respect for the holy institution of the confessional not to abuse it, nor to allow others to do so in such a manner. Further, if I were to take your confession, it would be with the intention of hearing all of your hopes and fears. We would also touch upon at least some of your behaviour, both good and ill, since last you confessed which, I surmise, is quite some substantial time ago. No. I will not allow this to be heard in that spirit.”
My bearing was, I am sure, registering both perplexity and dismay. I was unsure how to proceed. Father Vernon resolved my confusion for me.
“However, I will, of course, treat our conversation as entirely confidential; between you and me. No others shall hear of it, unless you give me permission to speak of it. I should say, though, that if I thought you had committed a serious crime, I could not, in all conscience, give you such an assurance. Before we proceed, may I have your word that nothing more serious has occurred than the matter to which I alluded when first I arrived?”
“You have my word.”
He chewed his lower lip for a moment and surveyed me from beneath a furrowed brow. Then he spoke. “I am pleased that you gave me your word without need to refer to anyone or anything else. You did not give your word on God, the Scripture, anyone’s life, nor on your standing as a gentleman. You gave it purely and simply as if, indeed, your word alone was sufficient. As such, I accept it. So,” he unfolded his arms and, arms rigid, splayed his fingers on his knees, “we understand one another. When you are ready, pray, proceed.”
I told him of our encountering the body as it was being brought down from the slopes; of my theory of the pipe knife and the alpenstock and the town shoes. I told him of the scent of anise-seed and the inspection of the cliff top by the waterfall. I did not tell him of the stray bullet, nor did I tell him about the slits in my telegrams. The former I believed to be immaterial, the latter needed, as I had reasoned earlier, to remain entirely secret. I also did not tell him of my proposed rendezvous with Francesca, since its purpose was as yet unclear.
“And now, tell me about your friend.”
“Holloway?”
“Holloway.”
“He is not my friend.” This elicited no reaction from the priest. “I appear to have… collected… him at Zürich station. He has clung to me like goose grease ever since. It was he who encouraged me into pursuing this investigation in the first place.” I felt disloyal. Like a schoolboy snitching on a fellow pupil to our house master. Although astounded at how guilty I felt, I was also relieved to get that weight off my shoulders. A burden that I had not rea
lized I was bearing.
“It is quite understandable that you should speak of Holloway like this if he has imposed his personality upon you without recognizing your inalienable right to privacy. But I would also say that you do have responsibilities in your own right and, despite whatever moral pressures you felt that you were under, you also had the moral right to refuse and ask him to leave you alone. Your breeding and your kindness, perhaps, were your downfall in this respect. Admirable qualities that they are, they must not dominate your every action.”
I nodded and tried to look as though I was absorbing this well-meant advice.
“Which brings us to the matter of the séance…”
I was not surprised that he knew of this event. In fact, where this apparently omniscient, some might say meddlesome, man was concerned, nothing seemed to be surprising about him. I told him of the manner in which the séance was decided upon, the reasons for its creation and the subsequent violent outcome of the evening. Again, it was good to be able to talk to someone, anyone, in this way about it. Even if he was a priest and a stranger; or, perhaps, because he was.
“I cannot, of course, condone such behaviour. You know that the village is crackling with gossip and rumour about all of this…?”
I did not know.
“I do not believe that you are quite aware of the implications of undertaking such a provocative practice in a place like this.” He was calm, quiet, but the underlying tone was of disappointment. “Superstitions long buried are reignited and the flames fanned by idle chatter. Already the event has grown from a simple gathering of a few worthies around a table, through claims of witchcraft and the invocation of unsettled spirits, to suspicions of full-blown devil worship and animal sacrifice.”