My Name is Michael Sibley (5 page)

It was the custom of the school that those boys who lived in Ireland should leave for the holidays a day before the others. Doubtless it was an attempt to ensure that they should have an equal amount of time at home. So the day before the rest of us went home, I watched the House porter carrying Prosset’s trunk out to the old horse cab which was to take him to the station. Then I watched Prosset carrying his tuck box, and even helped him by carrying his overcoat for him.

Old Buckley the Housemaster was there to see him off; beaming, with the spring breeze ruffling his scanty white hair, tugging at the lapels of his grey tweed jacket in the way he used to do, and obviously longing to get back into the warmth of his study. Prosset and I had already agreed, of course, to see a lot of each other in the holidays. I could hardly refuse.

Now he turned to old Buckley and shook hands.

“Goodbye, sir,” he said. “Expect I’ll see you again before long.”

“That’s right; come and see us,” mumbled old Buckley.

“Probably be down for Speech Day, or to watch one of the rugger matches.”

“That’s right; always welcome,” muttered Buckley. “Come and see us, come and see us.”

Prosset shook hands with Smith, the porter, and slipped him some money.

“Goodbye, Smith.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Prosset. We shall miss you,” said Smith, the old hypocrite, holding the cab door open. Prosset turned to me.

“Cheerio, old man. Be seeing you in London.”

“Cheerio,” I said. “See you in London.”

He got into the cab, and Smith slammed the door. The driver touched the horse with his whip, and the vehicle rattled off.

The three of us, Buckley, Smith and myself, stood by the gate watching as it rattled down the road. I have a notion that at the actual moment when it started, as it was gathering way, I experienced a funny little feeling almost of regret. Even a dog is sad when its master goes away. Maybe it was a form of nostalgia, a sensation that a portion of my life was over which could never now be relived. But as the cab rolled down the road this gave way to an upsurge of relief.

He was gone. Prosset was gone and I was free again. I watched without moving, without saying a word, until the cab turned the corner. Then I felt old Buckley linking his arm in mine and leading me back to the House. I heard him speaking in his gruff way.

“Expect you’ll feel a bit lonely without young Prosset. Never mind. Cheer up. Holidays tomorrow.”

The silly old fool, I thought, the stupid old imbecile! He thought I was standing there watching the cab to the corner because I wanted a last glimpse of my friend. He thought I was silent and still because I was sad. It was laughable.

I went back to the studies. I strolled along to Prosset’s old study. He had decorated it with fawn curtains, and with brown cushions on the makeshift divan. There was a dark green patch of carpet on the floor, and two or three cheap prints, and one or two coloured drawings of ladies in scanty attire such as one found in the glossy society magazines. All the contents of the study had been sold by auction to other boys, and would be dispersed next term.

It was funny to stand there looking at the empty study, and think that Prosset would never again inhabit it. No doubt he would come back wearing an old school tie and glance in for a few seconds, but in effect he was gone for good now and the little room was curiously silent.

Crane saw me standing in the doorway.

“Going to be a bit lost without old Prosset, aren’t you?” he asked in his good-natured way. I smiled and shrugged, and he passed on.

I stood looking at it all, at the scraps of paper and bits of string on the floor, at the old textbooks flung into the corner, the writing table with its ink stains, its sheet of blotting paper, and old nibs, and dirty, broken inkwell. I looked at all the debris which is always left behind by one who departs, at the air of desolation which hung over the whole place. Already it seemed to be gathering dust.

It was one of the finest sights I have ever seen in my life.

I revelled in the sight of all the litter and disorder. I could hardly tear myself away from it.

I
was not telling the truth, therefore, when I told the Chief Detective Inspector and the Detective Sergeant that Prosset was my friend. But Prosset was now dead, and it did not seem to me that any useful purpose would be served by dragging up the past, even supposing that I could have brought myself to do so.

After all, I had not killed him.

They would do better to concentrate their energies elsewhere. Indeed, I persuaded myself into thinking that I had really acted in the public interest by ensuring that the police were not diverted along a false trail, however briefly, at a time when every hour might be of importance. For I had no doubt in my own mind that, since the Sussex police had already enlisted the aid of Scotland Yard, this was a case of murder.

I could feel no sorrow; in fact, grim though it is to record it, I rejoiced from the bottom of my heart that he was no more. Without him, the world was a better place for me. I had planned, and in great detail, to kill him myself, but it had fallen to another to carry out the deed. For all I knew, this unknown assassin had an equally compelling reason to put an end to Prosset’s life.

Yet I disapproved. Instinctively I felt drawn to the side of society in the search for his murderer.

It was not hypocrisy which made me feel thus, but, I think, the instinct of self-preservation. Had I killed him, the identity of the killer being to me no mystery, I should have felt no uneasiness; but with an unknown assassin at large, I felt united with the community, for who could tell whether he might not strike again, and who could say whom he might kill next time?

Thus, though I applauded the result, I deplored the method; and I only deplored the method because I myself had not been the one to do the action. Into such strange paths does instinct lead one.

The talk with the Inspector and the Sergeant had been comparatively brief. I had expected it would last longer. When they had gone, I found the mood for work had also departed. I sat in my armchair smoking, and sipping another whisky and soda.

I felt vaguely uneasy, though as I had a clear conscience as far as the actual crime was concerned, there was little reason why I should. True, I had told them lies, but at a pinch that could be put right. I wondered why the interview had been so short. On thinking it over, I had the impression that they knew almost everything I had told them, and that they were primarily interested in me and my manner. I recalled how they had pulled me up once or twice, and that I had not talked fluently. I never talk fluently, but they would not know that.

They had not tried to help me out much. They had listened in blank silence a good deal of the time, the Inspector with his hard eyes on my face, the Sergeant quietly taking his notes.

I went over again in my mind all that I had said about Prosset being my friend; I felt no apprehension on that score, for I had let the world in general go on believing that there were no better friends to be found than Prosset and I. Even Kate did not know the real extent of my hatred. Then I reviewed my drive down to Ockleton and back, the weekend he was killed.

I was certain nobody had seen my car turn off to take the side road to his cottage, or been about when I drove back to London. What is more, if they had seen the car they could not have identified it, for on previous occasions I had travelled down in Prosset’s car. Our local correspondent’s report had confirmed my belief that everybody thought Prosset had been alone.

Anyway, I could always prove that I was with Kate at the time of the murder. But at this thought I sat up and impatiently threw my cigarette end into the empty grate: what on earth was I doing to start thinking about alibis? It was damned silly.

I considered it likely that they would go round and question Kate. Indeed, they might be on their way now. Time is invaluable in a murder case; every day makes a case more difficult because every day people’s recollections of important details grow fainter. You have to act fast. Yes, I thought, they are probably going round there now. I finished the whisky and got up. I would ring Kate and tell her not to be surprised if they called. It would give her a chance to prepare her mind in advance.

In my digs there was always a chance that somebody would overhear what was said, because the telephone stood at the foot of the stairs, in the hall. I did not particularly wish to let other people know of this affair, and as there was a telephone booth at the end of the road, I decided to use that. I walked quickly down the road, fortunately found the booth was empty, and went inside and dialled her number.

The block in which Kate had her room was more modern than the converted house in which I lived, and the telephone on her landing was built into a recess and had a reasonably soundproof door. I heard the telephone ringing, and then old Tom the handyman answered. I asked for Kate, and he told me to hang on while he put me through; they had a sort of code system in the building, and I waited while he buzzed twice for Kate. In a moment or two she came on the line.

“Look, darling,” I said, “I’ve just had a visit from a couple of dicks from Scotland Yard in connection with Prosset’s death. It was only a routine call, but I had to let them know I was engaged to you, and they asked for your address. I thought I would let you know because they may call on you.”

I heard her laugh.

“What are you laughing at?”

“Well, you’re a bit late. They’ve arrived.”

“How long have they been there?”

“They’ve only just arrived.”

“Listen, Kate. This is strictly between you and me. There are one or two odd circumstances in connection with Prosset’s death.”

“Good God! Darling!”

“Look, Katie, don’t read more into it than I’ve said. It will probably all be cleared up soon. Anyway, as far as we are concerned, it is only routine business, see?”

“Yes, I see.”

“There is nothing to be worried about. Understand?”

“Of course not.”

“One other thing. I didn’t tell them I was with Prosset last weekend. I didn’t think it was necessary.”

There was a funny long silence. “Hello,” I said. “Katie? Still there?”

“Yes. But why didn’t you tell them?”

“It would only have led to complications. There was no purpose in doing so. I’ll explain when I see you. I know these police boys.”

“All right, darling.”

“And Katie?”

“Yes.”

“They’ll ask you what you know about John Prosset, what friends or acquaintances he had. You don’t know any that I don’t know, do you? Or do you?”

“No, darling, I don’t.”

“Sure?”

“Absolutely sure.”

I felt relieved. I recoiled from the thought that she might be subjected to a close interrogation, and even more from the idea that she might be called as a witness at the inquest. Some people would not have minded, but Kate was so sensitive and still so shy.

“Kate,” I said suddenly, “do you think it is necessary to tell them you were with Prosset the last evening before he left London?”

“I don’t know. What do you think?”

“It doesn’t seem really necessary to me. It won’t add anything to their information.” I hesitated for a couple of seconds, thinking quickly. “No. Don’t tell them, Kate. They might call you as a witness at the inquest, and it is all quite pointless.”

“Well, I’ll do as you say,” she answered uncertainly. “Supposing they ask me?”

“Why should they ask you? Did anybody see you arrive or leave Prosset’s place?”

She thought for a moment. “I doubt it. We went through the basement door. If they saw me they could hardly have recognized me. It was dark.”

“Good. And one other thing, Kate.”

“What?”

“I don’t see much point in telling them I’ve just telephoned you. Just apologize and say it was some office friend. I’m not really supposed to have mentioned the inquiries to anybody.”

“All right, then. I’ll say that.”

“Bye-bye, sweetheart. And don’t worry.”

“Of course I won’t. There’s nothing to worry about.”

She said goodbye and rang off.

I stood in the telephone booth staring blankly at the official notices on the wall. She was right. There was nothing to worry about. I left the booth and began to walk slowly back along Harrington Gardens.

As I did so, I began to have doubts again. Yet I knew there was nothing seriously wrong. How could there be? I was a perfectly innocent man and could prove it. If the worst came to the worst, I could explain the little subterfuge I had adopted to protect Kate. I might be reprimanded—indeed, I would be—but that was all, and it might not come to that. The odds were against it.

That night, as I lay in bed thinking about the police visit, I heard two cats screaming outside. Beyond keeping me awake a little while, the noise did not worry me, but there had been a time, as a boy, when such sounds would cause me to lie rigid in bed, listening, afraid. It was during the school holidays, and I had learnt for the first time that the dreary house in Earl’s Court was supposed by my Aunt Edith to be haunted by an elderly recluse who had once lived there.

My aunt admitted she had never seen him, but she said she sometimes “felt his presence,” and alleged that on one or two occasions she had heard shuffling footsteps descending the creaking stairs.

There were many cats which frequented my aunt’s colourless garden at night. You could sometimes see them sneaking along the walls in the moonlight, or observe them, crouched down, watching each other with endless patience.

Their calls would wake me up, and the eerie sound would cause me to think of ghosts. I would lie awake, staring into the darkness, listening for the shuffling feet of the old recluse.

Each time the cats screamed and I lay listening, heart beating faster, I thought of what Prosset would have said, and the way he would have looked at me; he would have been genuinely astonished that anybody could be even momentarily frightened by a cat in a garden at night, or that I should listen for the sound of an elderly gentleman’s ghostly steps. I suppose he would have been quite right, too, but Prosset was an exceptional character. He never knew any fear, and I doubt if he knew any in those last moments in the cottage at Ockleton; he would have looked on death with surprise, maybe, but that is about all. I was never in a position to test his nerve in the presence of anything supernatural, but I don’t think it would have failed. He would have reacted as usual, magnificently, chin up, his eyes calculating and cool, facing the direction whence the threat would come.

I wasn’t made like that. I wished I had had a loaded gun by my bed, but my little single-barrel hammer gun was down in Somerset in Aunt Nell’s gunroom. I wished I had had some means of defence; even if it were only a cudgel, and even though I realized you could hardly defend yourself against a spirit with a charge of gunshot or a club.

I remember that those holidays I went off for my week’s stay with my Aunt Nell, as always, in high spirits. Aunt Nell was as different from gentle Aunt Edith as anybody could be.

She was the wife of my father’s uncle, a sort of great-aunt by marriage. She, too, had lost her husband and she lived alone in a large Georgian mansion with about eight hundred acres of farmland and woodland. She was a remarkable old girl, beak-nosed, imperious and short-tempered, and in her youth she had been a great rider to hounds. Now she bred polo ponies, and knew as much about farming as any man in the neighbourhood. She did not make the place show a profit, but she at least made it pay its way. When I stayed with her, I saw comparatively little of her.

I would be out with my gun all day. At mealtimes we sat at opposite ends of a vast mahogany table, waited on by a butler and footman in livery. In the evenings she attended to her correspondence and I read a book. I was not much interested in her, and I had the impression that she was not much interested in me, at any rate while I was very young; and that she had me to stay because I was one of the family, and she thought I ought to be brought up with some vague idea of how the English gentry lived on their estates. But, in view of later events, I think I did her an injustice, and that in her rough way she tried to put some backbone into me.

Apart from being in the country, I enjoyed the luxury of the great house, the choice of food, and having my clothes laid out for me at the beginning of each day by the footman, while I still lay in bed, drowsy and warm. It was so different from the house in Earl’s Court, with its smell of mice, the dank garden, the horrid little leaded windows on the landings, each with a design in red and blue glass.

I have been down there recently. Aunt Nell is long since dead. Death duties made havoc of the property, so that her nephew, who inherited it, was unable to keep it up. It was occupied for a time during the war, but now it is empty. Nobody wants it. It is too big, too isolated. The long drive is covered with weeds, and where the cars used to sweep proudly round with a swish of tyres to deposit their passengers by the great porch there is now a sea of dandelions.

On the south side, velvety lawns and flower beds led down to a big artificial lake, with an island in the middle joined to each bank by two little trellis-work bridges; and in the mornings, when the dew was still on the grass and a faint mist hung in the air, you could see two or three cock pheasants and half a dozen waterhens on the lawns.