The Death of Ruth (14 page)

I have looked at that photographed face many many times. I have read that article about Ralph many many times.

My admiration of Ralph grows and flourishes and I long to see him, to speak with him, tell him that I am going to give myself up and that he will be cleared of all suspicion, free to give up his protection of me. My insurmountable problem is that I must see him,
talk with him
, before I make my confession, because I have no intention of telling the entire story.

My
part in it, yes. Everything—but why should I tell of Ralph and of his part in it? He is innocent. I am guilty. Why then, should his strange actions, done only to prevent more violence, why should they ever be known? I again firmly made up my mind that his past would never be known and so I have to see, to talk with Ralph. I must find out if he is still living at that hotel.

Nothing must go wrong with these, my final plans. I have put all thoughts of John out of my mind. I know that he will not be as cruelly hurt as he would have been had the shocking information come to him a few years earlier. I not only suspect that I have become a tiresome burden to him—I know that I have …

I have made my plans and, as once before, I feel a release from my burdens and I enjoy a clarity of mind and a confidence of peace to come.

In being able to make my plans my main problem had been to get John away from his wearisome surveillance of my life. All I was wanting to do was to have the privacy of being allowed to make several telephone calls. Days went by and then—as often happens in life—a very simple incident gave me the chance I had been awaiting.

Nurse Phillips had already left the house and John sat reading in the living room. From my bedroom window I watched as a woman came into our garden. I had noticed her before and I knew that she was coming to pick some flowers.

These days, I never look at the garden. I always look beyond it, or up to the sky, but I watched that woman and I saw her trip and fall over the hose that lay carelessly unrolled. I heard her call out in pain as she attempted to rise. She has sprained her ankle, I thought, and I recalled the day I had sprained
my
ankle.

‘John,' I called urgently, ‘John, that woman—the one who likes flowers—she is in some kind of trouble …'

At once, John went outside to the garden and as he assisted and helped the woman hop and hobble down our overgrown path and back to the apartment building, I realized that my chance had come. Calling the Railway Hotel, I was told that, yes, Ralph Gorman was still registered there, and that, yes, it was customary for him to leave for his work around about nine every morning. The switch girl was casual and disinterested. I hung up, and then I called a cab company.

I already knew the cab company's telephone number. I had memorized it for this occasion. The girl on the switchboard said that the cab I was ordering would be on time in the morning. ‘Yes,' she said, ‘exactly at the corner. Yes,
exactly
at eight o'clock tomorrow morning. Are you catching a train—a plane?' she had queried.

I told the girl that I would inform the cab driver of my destination in the morning. I asked the switch girl was it
really necessary for her to know? She replied saying that the drivers like to know beforehand where they were going and how long they would be needed.

Patiently, I reiterated that I wanted the cab at the corner of the street and I told her that I would need the cab for at least two hours. The switch girl finally said it would be as I wished.

Exhausted and nervous, I went back to my room. I had confidence that my plan would work. Since giving up his job, John has developed the habit of taking early morning walks, I have only recently become aware of that and I knew that he would be away from the house when the cab picked me up.

I must be strong.
Yes, I must be strong!
Now that time is growing short, I must be clear-minded, concise, and courageous.

I am finding it difficult to stop trembling and shaking and it is difficult to keep my mind clear, but I know that this is only natural for I do have a dreadful ordeal ahead of me. A great ordeal because after I have spoken with Ralph, I will come home, I shall sit in the living room, I shall tell John that it is very important that I see Mr Grey.

Mr Grey will arrive and he will look at me with that nice expression on his face, as if he did not find me a strange, unpleasant woman. Then—at once—I shall confess that
I
caused Ruth's death. That Ralph knows nothing about the matter. I will explain to Mr Grey, and he, Mr Grey, will believe me.

Yes, it will be a dreadful ordeal, but after—yes after—I will be free …

When John returned to the house he told me that the woman had merely twisted her ankle. He then asked me if I would like to have a glass of milk in bed or if I would be getting up again.

‘I would like it in bed, please, John,' I said, but when he
brought the milk to me—together with a large piece of cake—I was unable to either eat or to drink. I thought that John would begin fussing, and that we would have to go through one of the artificial conversations we often indulged in since that ghastly evening by the rock-garden. I have always been embarrassed to meet his gaze since then because I know—that for that time, at least—I was insane and I know that John knows that too.

I wanted to get out of bed and wrap the uneaten food in a page from one of those newspapers that I keep hidden in the drawer, but my legs would not hold me up, so I stayed in bed with the tray on my lap. I was not too worried by the weakness and I remembered that this was my last day as a
person
. Tomorrow, I would be … yes, I would be an infamous woman—a woman who had killed and then had buried her victim's body and, and …

Yes, it was only natural that I could not eat, that I felt so weak and ill.

John merely smiled sympathetically as he took the tray away, saying, ‘Not feeling hungry? Not feeling too good?' I smiled up at him, and it was queer, because when I went to the bathroom, I glanced into the mirror and the smile was still branded on my face …

Mr Grey had come over to chat with John. The two men were sitting on canvas chairs in the garden just by the back door.

Getting out of bed I put on my blue robe and I went to the kitchen doorway. I stood there looking at them and they looked very nice—both of them—they were two nice men, good men. I wanted to sit with them because for the first time in years, I was frightened to be alone. I needed, I wanted the warmth of the feeling of being with people, but I also felt terribly shy, and when Mr Grey looked up suddenly, and saw me standing there, I drew back quickly, but he stood up and held out his hand to me as though I
were a child, and, like a child, I made a little run towards him. He gave me his chair and drew up another chair for himself.

John looked rather surprised, but he smiled at me and I sat back with a feeling that, for the next hour at least, I was going to be like any other woman. Just an ordinary, middle-aged woman sitting with her husband and his friend.

A gentle peace surrounded me as I listened to John telling Mr Grey that he had recently had the feeling that he could write a novel. ‘I'd like to have a shot at it,' he said, ‘I would jolly well like to take a shot at it!'

‘I'm not surprised, John,' Mr Grey smiled, ‘I think you should have a go at it.'

John seemed enthusiastic and I listened, dreamily, as they talked on. An hour went by, one of the loveliest hours of my life. I lost track of the men's conversation, then, suddenly, John laughed and I began listening again as they talked on. John's voice comforted me. I have always liked his voice; I would not be hearing it after tomorrow …

He was telling Mr Grey about the woman who had come in to pick flowers. ‘She was rather a tartar,' he laughed, ‘She warned me that if her ankle were badly injured I would be up for damages.'

Mr Grey laughed too. ‘People!' he said. ‘There's no telling how they will act—or react. John, don't you think it rather a shame that this garden is going to such rack and ruin? All those fine plants, and after all Mrs Blake's years of dedicated work.'

He lowered his voice just a little. Mr Grey was still certain that unless he spoke clearly, loudly and directly to me, I would be unable to hear him.

‘I haven't the slightest interest in this garden,' John replied, flatly. John seemed to have forgotten that I was sitting with them and his voice expressed resentment as he continued on, saying rather bitterly, ‘I worked for years on
this plot of land,' he gestured widely, ‘For years, I spent every cent I could afford, and I worked on it, and—'

‘
You
worked?' Mr Grey was astounded. ‘You're joking! It is Mrs Blake who—'

‘No,' interrupted John, ‘Molly only took the garden over, after …' he stopped speaking as though he did not care when I had taken over.

They were both silent. The subject of the garden seemed to have lost interest for them. I was relieved—very relieved. Then, John said thoughtfully, ‘I've just remembered! The last plants that I personally bought and planted in the garden were those three camellia bushes …'

His forefinger stabbed in the direction of the rock-garden. ‘I was so proud of them …' he gave a long, queer sigh. ‘Especially, I was proud of the perfect—perfectly white blooms—of the bush in the centre. The two pinks are lovely, but that white was my pride and my joy …'

The three of us sat and stared at John's camellia bushes. They were in full bloom. Flowers covering them in rich profusion. I had not even noticed that they were in bloom.

Suddenly, I shivered, remembering the many times I had nipped the buds from the bushes. I stopped shivering because I did not mind any more and seeing how really beautiful they were I felt a small pang of regret, knowing that soon the camellia bushes would be uprooted again.

‘But, John,' said Mr Grey, ‘Are you colour-blind? Take a look, man! The flowers on the bush in the centre are pink! The
white
one is on the right of it.'

‘So it is!' murmured John. ‘So it is! But …?' His voice trailed into silence, then, ‘But—this is crazy …' he whispered, ‘Grey, someone must have moved, uprooted,
replanted
them …'

John sprang to his feet and he became very excited. Mr Grey stood up too and he also became very excited. He caught at John's arm, they stared at one another, their
mouths agape, ‘John, are you sure? Are you … certain?' asked Mr Grey and his voice was as cold as my hands.

My hands were growing colder and colder with every passing second …

‘
By Christ, I am certain!
' said John, and without another word Mr Grey went into the house, and I heard the tiny ting of a bell as he lifted the telephone receiver before dialling a number.

The cold was spreading throughout my body, and as though from a great distance, I heard the mumble of Mr Grey's voice, and I heard John using words I had never heard him use before—filthy words—as he spoke about Ralph Moyston. Then—as Mr Grey came running from the house—John crossed the garden and like a madman he began to tear and tug at the proud camellia bushes which resisted his efforts with all the strength they had garnered over the years from that which lay buried beneath them.

Mr Grey ran for shovels, and like two demented children digging at the beach, John and Mr Grey dug the camellia bushes up and flung them aside.

I could not move from the old canvas chair … No one would ever believe me now, believe that tomorrow, I had been going to confess … Ralph would be heavily implicated, Ralph could be blamed entirely. Who would believe the prattling of a frozen woman?

I had failed! It was too late now … Too late … Those little mewing sounds began again, like hiccoughs, like a lost kitten's cries …

No one noticed me. Perhaps those men erupting from the police cars that had screamed up sharply in the front of our house thought of me as a kitten? Or a cat, a big cat …?

But I was not a cat! I was Molly, Molly Blake, a woman.

Somehow, I got to my feet and I limped slowly, but very steadily towards the rock-garden and I stood amidst the
group of excited men and I watched, as John and Mr Grey now watched, whilst two of the policemen began to dig deeper—deeper.

Except for the sound of the digging, the garden was silent with ugly curiosity, with wild interest, for they were not yet quite sure—not quite—and a strange odour, instead of nauseating them, as it nauseated me, seemed to add fuel to their fires of energy.

Yes, they were like ghouls, all of them. I hated them, all of them. All of them. ‘Stop …!' I said. ‘Stop digging—listen to me …'

John, who was still holding a shovel, turned and looked at me. ‘Molly,' he cried in great distress, ‘Molly—darling, go inside the house! You must not see.'

Darling! John, calling me darling …!

‘John,' I whispered, ‘You must listen to me. Please, dear John,
please
listen to me …'

Two of the uniformed men moved towards me. One of them took my arm, intending I suppose, to lead me into the house, but Mr Grey said, sharply, ‘Let Mrs Blake say what she feels she must.' He came to my side and wiping his soiled hand against his trousers he put an arm about me, saying, ‘Molly, I believe I know what you are about to say.'

He had used my name for the first time and I leant thankfully against his strength and I looked up into his eyes. They were still kind, kinder than usual.

‘Molly,' he questioned, ‘You have known all along, haven't you? You have known that Ralph Moyston killed his wife and that he …'

He gestured to the chaos at our feet as he continued, saying, ‘ …Ruth Moyston's body is buried there …' he pointed downwards. ‘You have known all along—haven't you?'

‘Yes,' I said. ‘
Yes
,' I repeated. ‘I have known—all along.'