The Death of Ruth (15 page)

Amid the sudden hum and the buzz of voices about me, I heard another voice, unearthly and deep with sorrow.
Only
I
heard that voice, I think that it was the voice of, I think that it was the voice of my God, for it told me that from now on there was no hope of redemption for me.

Too late, too late …

I had laid the blame of Ruth's murder on Ralph. I had not meant to—just as I had not meant to kill Ruth.

The figure of John appeared to change into a smaller, weaker figure, into that of Ralph Moyston, as he had stood on the same spot John now stood on, holding the same shovel. Suddenly, I sprang at John and I struggled with him, attempting to drag the shovel away from him.

After an instant, he let me hold the shovel, saying, ‘I'll take her inside. She is quite unstrung!
Quite unstrung
.'

‘Yes,' I cried, ‘Yes, take me into the house, take me into the house, John, I am—as you say—unstrung …'

I noticed that people were leaning from the windows of the apartments next door, and that strangers were crowding into the back yard of John's home. John, everyone, felt pity, felt sympathy towards me.

But—how about Ralph? Yes, how about Ralph?

‘John,' I said—loudly, clearly—‘Before you take me inside, I must tell you that
I
dug this hole, four years ago. That
I
dug it myself. That
I
killed Ruth. That
I
dragged her across the gardens. That
I
buried her and her clothes and the photograph of Jodie and Rob. And her handbag.
I
took the money from Ruth's handbag, and weeks later
I
gave it to Ralph, telling him that I had found it on the path the day that Ruth disappeared. John,
I
did
everything
all by myself and
I
will tell you now—tell you all—before you dig any further and come upon Ruth. I will tell you exactly what you will find. You will find Ralph's old brown suitcase that
I
took from the top of the wardrobe. In it, you will find Ruth's jewel case, her … You will find her toothbrush, her smashed broken glass. Her medicine bottle … her medicine bottle … her medicine bottle. Her …'

Would no one stop me? Had they not heard enough? No.
They wanted more! Like an audience at a good performance, they wanted more. On and on, on and on and I, like a stuck recording, went on and on. ‘Her medicine bottle … her med …'

Still no one spoke or moved, but a bird flew over the garden, a great blackbird. I fell silent. My eyes followed the bird's flight. Then I looked at John, I loved John—so much. I loved him.

‘John,' I whispered, and I held out my hands to him, ‘John—help me …'

John turned his back on me.

I think it was Mr Grey who carried me into the house. Yes, it was Mr Grey. I sat watching him dial a number on the telephone.

For an instant, one part of my mind became vividly alive. I had confessed. Ralph has been cleared.

That, at least, I had done …

I am never absolutely certain that truth is stranger than fiction, but as a police officer, and as an avid reader, I am certain that one work of fiction, Dostoyevsky's immortal novel
Crime and Punishment,
continues to have enormous influence on those studying the psychology of the criminal mind. His humanitarian ideology has always tempered my thought processes towards understanding the characters and the motives of those who have been caught up into the sordid realms of brutality and crime. However, not even the genius of Dostoyevsky has helped me to puzzle out the Moyston affair to my complete and personal satisfaction
.

Mrs Blake died on the day of the inquest into the death of Ruth Moyston. I was glad when Molly died, glad that she was finally at peace. Nevertheless, I am overcome by a sense of uneasiness whenever I think of her
.

Her frenzied but coherent documentary of the crime she had committed left me in no doubt that she had been deeply involved in the murder of the Moyston woman, yet, I am consistently being niggled by the thought that somewhere along the line the whole truth has not been told. There are times when I am oppressed by certain memories of Molly, memories which are clear and sharp and always she appears to me as a decent, likeable woman incapable of violence
.

I become irritated, feel that I have lost my touch, failed in my chosen field of work and I thrust the memories away but they recur, pricking my conscience. I feel that I should have paid more attention to her as she went her way, sloggingly, hefting heavy loads, creating a garden of fantastic beauty, not, as it had
appeared to me, for her own pleasure, but in fact as a terrified woman covering up evidence of a heinous crime
.

She had never had any actual reasons to fear me for I had little professional interest in the fate of Ruth Moyston, but did she, Molly, always believe that I had been on her trail? Out to catch and accuse her of murder?

In a strange, quite painful way, I hope she did not feel like that. But, if so, I feel a real right bastard, knowing that if I had been more on the ball I could, in all probability have gained her confidence, shortened her agonized time of waiting for the inevitable axe to fall. Nothing else, of course, but at least that would have been much better for her
.

It would suit me down to the ground if I could simply file my memories away, out of sight and out of mind, but even after two years the Moyston case keeps cropping up, filling my mind with perplexities. I have never understood why John Blake took so many years before noticing that those three camellia shrubs had been interfered with. And why had Molly, herself, not realized the fact and done something about it? Had she left them as they were, waiting, even hoping, to have the bright harvest of flowers shout her guilt and set her free from the life of incredible strain and terror she must have been living under?

There is no chance of solving my speculations, no use in attempting to delve into the actions and the mind of a person who is dead and buried. During all the years I had known Molly, I am able to recall only one time when I know that she had a moment of pure happiness before she was struck down. It was during that gruesome episode in the Blakes' garden, when the men were digging down, deep, into the rock-garden. Molly had risen from her chair and walked to stand by John, who, on suddenly becoming aware of her, cried out, protectively, ‘Molly
—darling!
Go inside the house! You must not see …'

As he spoke, her expression flowered into a fleeting show of passionate, tender love, together with one of gratitude. For a reason I could not understand, I was deeply moved. Was it because John had spoken so lovingly and shown his concern for her?
Perhaps I am being fanciful! It lasted but a moment, to be completely overshadowed by the grisly, appalling events which followed and left her broken and devastated
.

In the ensuing chaos it was I, not John Blake, who carried Molly's thistle-light body from the garden into the house; placing her on a chair whilst I telephoned to Headquarters. She had sat watching me, silent, as still as death itself, then all at once she astonished me by saying, clearly, succinctly, and as though with a great content
, ‘That—
at least—I have done!'

Try as I may, I am unable to fathom out her meaning. She made no further utterance and I could see that she was fast becoming lost to the reality of the world about her, and I did not trouble her for explanations, knowing that she was in a state of shock. I was shocked myself, more shocked and flabbergasted than ever before in my long career
.

I stood by, watching as she was escorted from her home by two uniformed policemen, and I watched as she was driven away in a car with its siren blaring. I resented the crowd of curious, murmuring strangers looking on
.

The shattering blow John Blake received that afternoon when his wife, a seemingly demented woman, caught at his arm for support, then spewed out her detailed story of horror left him a broken, stunned man. However, now, two years later, he has recovered. Quite recovered I must admit, and he has married again. Married a delightful woman, a librarian, who helps him run the book shop that he purchased from part of the proceeds he received from the sale of his property
.

There could be a jinx on that land adjoining the apartment house I live in. Blake and Moyston made a packet when their properties were purchased, but so far all the real estate developer has done is to have bulldozed the two houses down, removed the rubble and then let Nature take its course. From my windows I look down and see a few bright-flowering shrubs amidst the weeds and tangles of vines that have flourished and taken over the beautiful garden that Molly Blake created
.

I visit John and Lorraine occasionally. Molly's name is never
mentioned, which is understandable, but there are times when I am with the Blakes that I have an eerie feeling that Molly is also present. Again, I admit to being fanciful but the feeling persists
.

Ralph Moyston has also remarried. Yes, to the ‘nice lady' whom Maisie, my barmaid pal, told me about that day in the disreputable pub
.

I have been forced to eat crow where Ralph Moyston is concerned. On one occasion, whilst speaking with John Blake, John expressed admiration in that Moyston in no way felt any malice towards me. He also stressed the point that Moyston's behaviour in having lived under a false name to escape from memories of the harrowing life he had endured with his virago of a wife, was not a crime and that under similar circumstances, many a man would have acted as Moyston had. In all honesty, I had to agree
.

I still find Moyston an unpleasant character, although I know that he is considered to be a gentle, peace-loving man. Certainly, Jodie loves him and her children adore their grandfather. I should find it a pleasing sight to watch young John at play and to see Jodie's baby girl snuggling, smiling and confident in Moyston's arms. They named the child Ruth, and she is said to be accident prone, or, as her young mother says, ‘A child who bruises easily.'

Moyston has been completely exonerated. For myself, I wish that I could once and for all put out of my mind the expression that I believe I saw on his face—just for an instant—during the Coroner's Inquest
.

John Blake, of course, along with Jodie, her husband and her brother, and with ghoulish members of the public who never miss out on a sensation—if they can get one for free—were present that day in the dim gloom of the Court House
.

Although I had been no longer professionally involved in any capacity with the case, and was deeply involved with my own work, I took time out during the period before the Inquest to visit Molly in the prison hospital, and she seemed quite lost to reality. Indeed, I was amazed that she was considered sane and well enough to attend the Court. However, there she was, neatly
dressed, sitting erect, between a policewoman and a prison hospital nurse
.

During the proceedings, I noticed that Molly scarcely ever took her gaze away from John Blake's face, and I noticed that he, John, kept his own gaze averted, never looking in her direction. I suppose that he was acting as many people would act under such unhappy circumstances. He had been put through the wringer in no mean fashion, as the husband of a seemingly run-of-the-mill housewife who had turned out to be a monster of iniquity
.

The murder of Ruth Moyston and, even more than that, the burying of her corpse and the beautification of the garden above and around the hidden grave, caught the public's imagination. The press and television camera crews had a bonanza and I believe that a paperback novel on the story is about to hit the market
.

Only once, in that courtroom, did I see Molly's gaze move away from John's face. The report was being read about the cause of Ruth Moyston's death
.

The body—
ran the report
—was in a bad state of decomposition … There was no evidence of any injury to the skull or elsewhere to indicate the cause of death … A medicine bottle containing potassium cyanide mixed with a stomach medicine had been found in the grave, and …

Stunned at the mention of cyanide, my eyes went to Molly Blake and on her face I saw an expression—all encompassing—of …? Of what? I have never been able to find words to describe that look, that expression. Was it shame? Guilt? Shock? Innocence? I shall never know
.

Interrupting Court proceedings, she had struggled to her feet, crying out as though in an agony of remorse, ‘Oh, dear God! What a fool
, what a fool I was …'
Then, obviously in great pain and clutching at her chest, she had collapsed, falling to the floor
.

Pandemonium followed and as the Coroner called for order, the prison nurse who had been kneeling, attending to Molly, stood up, saying, starkly, ‘Mrs Blake is dead!'

It was then—at that precise moment—I noticed that Ralph Moyston had risen to his feet and I firmly believe that I saw the expression of extreme trepidation on his face give way fleetingly to one of utter triumph and complacency. That momentary change of Moyston's expression created an explosion of suspicion in my mind
.

I have been a policeman for more than twenty years and during those years I have been closely connected with many cases of homicide, but of all those I have dealt with, only one—Molly Blake's—haunts me
.

I have an uneasy, an uncanny feeling that she is always trying to contact me, with a ghostly anguish, wanting to inform me of something I should know
.

Elizabeth Kata (1912–1998) was born in Australia and lived for many years in Japan. Married in Tokyo in 1937, she spent the last two years of the Second World War in internment. Her son was born just three weeks before the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima. On being released she returned to Australia in 1947 with her infant son, where she embarked on a long and illustrious writing career.