Joy Sanderling
James Fraser was shocked. There was a side to his nature, something woven in by his years in the English private school system, that was easily offended by any public display of emotion. Even two people holding hands in the street seemed to him to be unnecessary and this declamation – for it seemed to him no less – went far beyond the pale. ‘What was she thinking of?’ he exclaimed as they moved away.
‘Was it the contents of the announcement that most struck you?’ Pünd replied. ‘You did not notice something else?’
‘What?’
‘The threat that was sent to Sir Magnus Pye and this confession of Joy Sanderling, they were produced by the same typewriter.’
‘Good lord!’ Fraser blinked. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I am certain. The tail of the e has faded and the t slants a little to the left. It is not just the same model. It is the same machine.’
‘Do you think she wrote the letter to Sir Magnus?’
‘It is possible.’
They took a few steps in silence, then Pünd began again. ‘Miss Sanderling has been forced to take this action because I would not help her,’ he said. ‘She is willing to sacrifice her good reputation, knowing full well that news of this may well reach her parents who will, as she made clear to us, be upset by her behaviour. This is my responsibility.’ He paused. ‘There is something about the village of Saxby-on-Avon that concerns me,’ he went on. ‘I have spoken to you before of the nature of human wickedness, my friend. How it is the small lies and evasions which nobody sees or detects but which can come together and smother you like the fumes in a house fire.’ He turned and surveyed the surrounding buildings, the shaded square. ‘They are all around us. Already there have been two deaths: three, if you include the child who died in the lake all those years ago. They are all connected. We must move quickly before there is a fourth.’
He crossed the square and went into the hotel. Behind him, the villagers were still muttering quietly, shaking their heads.
FOUR
A Boy
1
Atticus Pünd awoke with a headache.
He became aware of it before he opened his eyes and the moment he did open them, it intensified as if it had been waiting for him, lying in ambush. The force of it quite took his breath away and it was as much as he could do to reach out for the pills that Dr Benson had given him and which he had left, the night before, beside the bed. Somehow his hand found them and swept them up but he was unable to find the glass of water, which he had also prepared. It didn’t matter. He slid the pills into his mouth and swallowed them dry, feeling their harsh passage down his throat. Only a few minutes later, when they were safely lodged in his system, already dissolving and sending their antipyretics through his bloodstream and into his brain did he find the glass and drink, washing the bitter taste from his mouth.
For a long time he lay where he was, his shoulders pressed against the pillows, gazing at the shadows on the walls. Piece by piece, the room came back into focus: the oak wardrobe, slightly too big for the space in which it stood, the mirror with its mottled glass, the framed print – a view of the Royal Crescent in Bath – the sagging curtains which would draw back to reveal a view of the cemetery. Well, that was appropriate. Waiting for the pain to subside, Atticus Pünd reflected on his fast approaching mortality.
There would be no funeral. He had seen too much of death in his lifetime to want to adorn it with ritual, to dignify it as if it was anything more than what it was … a passage. Nor did he believe in God. There were those who had come out of the camps with their faith intact and he admired them for it. His own experience had led him to believe in nothing. Man was a complicated animal capable of extraordinary good and great evil – but he was definitely on his own. At the same time, he was not afraid of being proved wrong. If, after a lifetime of considered reason he found himself being called to judgment in some sort of starry chamber, he was sure he would be forgiven. From what he understood, God was the forgiving sort.
It did occur to him though that Dr Benson had been a little too optimistic. There would be more of these attacks and they would incapacitate him more seriously as the thing in his head made its irredeemable progress. How long would it be before he was no longer able to function? That was the most frightening thought – that thought itself might become no longer possible. Lying alone in his room at the Queen’s Arms, Pünd made two promises to himself: the first was that he would solve the murder of Sir Magnus Pye and make good the debt that he owed to Joy Sanderling.
The second he refused to articulate.
An hour later, when he came down to the dining room dressed as ever in a neatly pressed suit, white shirt and tie, it would have been impossible to tell how his day had begun and certainly James Fraser was quite unaware that anything was wrong but then, the young man was remarkably unobservant. Pünd remembered their first case together when Fraser had failed to notice that his travelling companion, on the three-fifty train from Paddington, was actually dead. There were many who were surprised that he managed to hold down his job as a detective’s assistant. In fact, Pünd found him useful precisely because he was so obtuse. Fraser was a blank page on which he could scribble his theories, a plain sheet of glass in which he might see his own thought processes reflected. And he was efficient. He had already ordered the black coffee and single boiled egg that Pünd liked for his breakfast.
They ate in silence. Fraser had ordered the full English for himself, an amount of food that Pünd always found bewildering. Only when they had finished did he lay out the day ahead. ‘We must visit Miss Sanderling once again,’ he announced.
‘Absolutely. I thought you’d want to start with her. I still can’t believe she would put up a notice like that. And writing to Sir Magnus—’
‘I think it is unlikely that she made the threats herself. But it was the same machine. Of that there is no doubt.’
‘Maybe someone else had access to it.’
‘She works at the doctor’s surgery. That is where we will find her. You must find out at what time it opens.’
‘Of course. Do you want me to let her know we’re coming?’
‘No. I think it will be better if we turn up by surprise.’ Pünd poured himself another inch of coffee. ‘I am interested, also, to find out more about the death of the housekeeper, Mary Blakiston.’
‘Do you think it’s connected?’
‘There can be no doubt of it. Her death, the burglary, the murder of Sir Magnus, these are surely three steps in the same journey.’