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Aug. 23rd, 2006 04:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tree_and_leaf‘Tell Beauty How She Blasteth’
Warnings: AU, Post-Strong Poison. This is not a cheerful story, you have been warned. It was inspired by a discussion with![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nineveh_uk about the paucity of AU Wimsey-fic. After writing this, I can see why there aren't many of this type of AU story out there. More specifically: Contains character death; miscarriage of justice; suicidal thoughts; suicide.
Spoilers: Strong Poison, obviously, and Clouds of Witness. Reference to one detail of Have His Carcass, but I wouldn’t call it a spoiler.
Words: 3955.
Disclaimer: There are lots of things in here which I don't own. I’m sure intelligent people like you can work out what. In particular, his lordship is unspeakably relieved that he doesn't belong to me (though normally I'm nicer, honestly!)
There were white roses on the bench, and in the dim light of the Old Bailey they looked almost ashen.
The prisoner was ashen, too, but composed. She knew what was coming, but she looked ahead, almost defiantly. Only the fact that she avoided looking at the Public Gallery might have been taken as a sign of emotion.
The Judge sat, grave and impartial, and waited courteously for the Jury to return.
The trial had not gone well for the defence.
*
“Harriet Deborah Vane, the sentence of the Court upon you is that you be taken hence to the place whence you came, and thence to a place of execution, and that you be there hanged by the neck until you are dead. And that your body be buried within the precincts of the prison in which you shall have been confined. May the Lord have mercy on your soul." The Judge spoke regretfully; he was a kindly man and disliked sending anyone, not least a woman, to the gallows. The prisoner bowed her head, but gave no other sign of feeling. A few moments earlier she had said, almost numbly, “I didn’t kill him. I can see the strength of the case against me. But I didn’t.” No contrition, and no plea for mercy. Now she made no sound, and allowed herself to be led away. She still did not look at the Public Gallery.
*
His mother assured him that he had not fainted, or indeed shown any display of feeling at all, but the fact remained that Wimsey remembered absolutely nothing of what followed, and he might have been unconscious, or have done anything at all, for all he knew. Only, on the street outside the court, he heard a rough male voice saying to someone else “She was a hard-faced bitch, wasn’t she? Dunno what they needed a second trial for,” and suddenly feeling rushed back, and he was pushing through the crowd, and for an insane second he genuinely believed that if he could only get his hands round that stupid, callous bastard’s neck, somehow everything would be all right – and someone had their hands on his arm and was shouting “For God’s sake, Peter – Peter!”
It was Charles, looking agitated and slightly sick. For a moment Peter, seeing the face of a friend, felt as if some light had broken into the darkness, and then he remembered what Charles had helped to do, and the darkness closed back in on him.
Charles’s lips were moving, but somehow he couldn’t make out what he was saying. The buzz of the London street was blurred, too. Everything seemed so far away. And he was so cold.
Now his mother was taking his other arm, and saying something. That did begin to penetrate somehow “- I’ll take you home. You can phone Sir Impey and the solicitors from there. We can still appeal, you know, and how those fools in the jury, faces all like rabbits like in Alice, or was that dormice… and I’m sure the court of appeal will be more sensible.”
Wimsey said tonelessly “Yes, of course.” It seemed to be what she expected. But it wouldn’t do any good.
Somehow, whatever he looked at, all he could see was Harriet, sitting pale and composed in the dock. And now sitting, not in the remand but in the condemned cell. Still composed? He would stake his soul on it.
They would appeal against the conviction, and they would appeal against the sentence. And it would be no good.
*
Charles was saying “Damn it, I don’t like it either. But the evidence – you know I don’t want the innocent to hang, but if the evidence points in a particular way –”
“If you say you were only doing your duty, I’ll…”
“I was only doing my duty” said Charles, stubbornly, and before Peter knew quite what had happened his brother-in-law-elect was sprawling on the floor at his feet, looking up at him and rubbing his chin. Peter bent down to help him up.
“I – I’m sorry, Charles, but – why did you have to say that?”
“I thought it might help if you were angry with me.” Charles grimaced, and wiped blood off his lip. “I didn’t think you’d hit me quite that hard, though.”
Wimsey stopped. It had helped, for a moment, but only because the roaring madness had blotted out the vision of Harriet. But Charles – no, he didn’t want to hurt Charles.
“I’m sorry, old man,” he said, and then “I don’t blame you.”
Charles looked partly relieved, and partly doubtful.
“Really.” Peter met his eyes. “I wish it hadn’t been you. But – any policeman would have done it.”
“I wish it hadn’t been me” Charles muttered, but he wasn’t sure whether or not Peter had heard him.
*
He went to see her, of course. This time he was taken to the cell, and sat facing her in the little vestibule they let visitors into, looking through the glass. He felt cold, and wondered if it was the room, or himself. He could not see further into the cell, but he knew – he had been told – that behind the vestibule was a bathroom, and behind that, a room with a bed and a table and a wardrobe.
There was a door behind the wardrobe, and behind that an empty cell, and beyond that another door opened onto the gallows.
“Harriet – I’m so sorry. I’ve failed you,” he began.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, and he realised with terror that she sounded sincere. “You did your best. Thank you. I’m glad – I’m glad someone knows it wasn’t me.”
“I-”
“You know, that’s my one consolation. There are people who believe it wasn’t me. Not just one of my friends, either, but an outsider with an unprejudiced mind” she said, almost matter-of-factly. “That, and the fact that my parents didn’t live to see this. I don’t think I could have stood that. As it is – they saw me take my first, and were proud of me. They couldn’t very well be proud of me now.”
“Yes, they could” said Wimsey, fiercely. “Anyone could be. I won’t let you talk like that. You’re a fine writer. You’re brave, and honest, and –and a bonny fechter.”
“I always liked Alan Breck,” she said, with the ghost of a smile. “But I don’t think I’m brave, not really. I mean – well, it could be worse. They tell me it doesn’t hurt much… And you’re right about the books. I have done my job to the best of my ability. Whatever else, I’m proud of that. But – God, I’m so tired. If it must be, I’d rather get it over with.”
*
He didn’t visit every day; other people wanted to see her, and he hardly had any claim on her. Sylvia, and Eilunned Price, even her agent, had a better.
“Well, the proofs for Death in the Pot are done, anyway,” she told him, when next he called. She was paler than ever, thin, shadowy about the eyes and hollow about the cheekbones, but still determinedly calm. “But it’s a pity. I had a splendid idea for a new book; the murderer would establish his alibi using the town hall clock. It’s a shame it’ll go to waste.”
“Could you make a short story of it?” said Wimsey, determined to match her collectedness.
“M-m. I’m having difficulty getting the clock idea to work, though. I don’t know enough about how that sort of clock would be controlled, and it’s quite hard to do any research here. Do you happen to know anything about town hall clocks?”
“I could try to find out. I’ve been little enough use to you otherwise.”
“Don’t say that” she said gently. “Please don’t say that. You really have helped – kept my mind occupied. That’s the only thing that does help. I asked the chaplain if he knew about clocks, but I think he was shocked that I could be thinking about writing detective stories at a time like this.”
“Bloody fool.”
“Ye-es. He was working up to try to persuade me to confess, I think – oh, don’t look like that, it’s only his job – and anyway, I couldn’t work out if he meant ‘confess to murder’ or ‘confess your sins’. I mean, I may not be a murderer, but I haven’t lived a blameless life by anyone’s standards.” She paused, and frowned. “What – oh yes, the chaplain. Anyway, it turned out that he knew Mr Boyes – Philip’s father, you know – and apparently he told him he wasn’t happy about the trial and that if I was innocent, he couldn’t imagine anything more distressing than being badgered to confess something I hadn’t done. He sounds as if he’s a good man. I never met him, of course, it would have been quite impossible, and I could never quite make out what he was like from what Philip said.”
“But the chaplain doesn’t know about clocks?”
“No. Could you find out for me? Only I’d sort of like to get this to work.”
“All right, then” said Wimsey “But you’ll have to tell me a bit more about what you need…”
*
Miss Climpson, far away in Westmorland, continued to faithfully fight down an increasing sense of despair and to attempt to get into Mrs Wrayburn’s nurse’s confidence. The nurse, a bony, angular woman with a strict notion of duty and propriety, was not obliging.
Wimsey found out more about clocks than even his usually insatiable curiosity wished to know. In the intervals of research, he attempted, frantically, to find wires to pull at the Home Office, in case the appeal against the conviction failed. He did not tell Harriet what he was doing, and still tried to persuade her that the appellate court might grant leave to appeal, that it was by no means certain yet, that there was still hope. Besides, he was not sure that she would like his interference. It was unfortunate that the Permanent Secretary was known to regard Bloomsbury as a nest of Communists and pacifists and probable traitors. The Home Secretary, on the other hand, was unlikely to take interference from an Old Etonian lord well; in any case the government was weak and could hardly be expected to court unpopularity by pardoning an unrepentant poisoner, especially one of advanced ideas. There had even been letters in the Times suggesting that this should encourage parents to keep their daughters away from Oxford.
The appellate court declined to allow an appeal, on the grounds that the case had been heard twice already.
Remained only the appeal for mercy to the Home Secretary. Harriet agreed to the appeal being made, though Peter suspected her heart was not in it. A treacherous voice – his own – suggested to him that a quick death might, after all, be preferable to a lifetime in confinement, but he mentally shouted it down. If they could keep Harriet from the gallows, they might one day be able to prove her innocence.
*
“I’ve got the story finished,” she told him gravely. “Thank you for the help with the research. I thought of dedicating it to you, but I wasn’t sure if you’d like me to. It might be too much jam for the reporters, and I don’t want to cause you trouble. It wouldn’t be fair, after you tried so hard to help me.”
“Damn the reporters!” The wardress looked over disapprovingly, startled by his anger. “Harriet,” his voice was softer now, “I love you. I –“
“I thought you’d given that up” she said sadly. “It’s no good. And it never would have been any good, even if I were free. You don’t love me. You can’t possibly. You just think you do.”
Peter put his head in his hands. “I always seem to say the wrong thing, don’t I? When it matters. The apparently inexhaustible stream of piffle dries up, and there’s nothing left but ashes and broken bottles.”
“Don’t distress yourself” she said gently, and he thought, what a rotten egotist I am, expecting her to comfort me. “I’ll dedicate the story to you if you like. But don’t take it to heart, so. In two years you’ll only be sorry you didn’t stop them hanging the wrong person. And that will probably be bitter enough, so you had better forget all this stuff about love.”
She was growing steadily more remote from him, from the living world, further away at every meeting, as if the glass between them was ice thickening in a still-deepening frost. Even before the Home Secretary declined to strike down the sentence, he knew that she had made her peace with death. She no longer disturbed the Chaplain with appeals for apparently random information. She told Peter she had been reading Ralegh.
“Even such is time…?”
“Yes. Although – I think I like the Passionate Man’s Pilgrimage better, if I could only manage to believe it.”
“No forg’d accusers bought and sold, no cause deferr’d, nor vain-spent journey… ?”
“Yes. Only I fear it’s more a case of ‘Go, since I needs must die, and give the world the lie’”
“All love’s but lust? Tell wit how much it wrangles?”
“I didn’t mean that in particular. I didn’t mean you.”
“Tell beauty how she blasteth” said Wimsey, quietly, but Harriet, lost in thought and murmuring “Stab at thee he that will, no stab thy soul can kill,” did not hear him.
There was so little time left.
*
Peter called on Miss Climpson, back from the Lake country, the day before the execution. He took in very little of what was said. He remembered hearing his voice, sounding as courteous and light as ever, thank her for her efforts, assure her that he knew she had done all anyone could have done, and that he continued to value her intelligence and hard work.
It was, he thought, like hearing a not very interesting wireless announcement in the next room.
He remembered feeling cold.
One thing, however, which she said before he left, struck home to him. “My dear Lord Peter, please forgive the impertinence, but you must not give way. You have been given such a marvellous talent, and you have helped so many people. You must not throw that away. Other people will need you.”
A corner of his long mouth lifted. “Ah, but that presupposes I have something left to give. I’ve bungled this, or not been clever enough. I’m getting old, Miss Climpson, and I fear the talent may be spent.” He thought, but did not say “What good is it if I couldn’t save her.” Even he could recognise that that was egotistical and absurd – and that recognising that made it no less true. But one could hardly say it. There was no-one to say such things to.
*
The dreams had begun after the final appeal was denied. They were the old, familiar war dreams, as he had them at the end of most cases, but horribly changed, as if they had not been horrible enough before. He saw her in all of them. He saw her blown into pieces as a shell landed where he had been standing a moment before; she died slowly in his arms with her lungs burnt out by gas because he hadn’t realised there were pockets of the stuff hanging about in the shell holes; he ordered her over the top and watched her hang bleeding on the wire; she was buried in the earth and he could not find her. Sometimes they were both buried, earth pressing in upon them, damp and stifling, and he felt a moment of absolute freedom and joy when Bunter and Charles came and dug him out, but then they left her there to die in the icy rain, and however hard he fought, he couldn’t get away from them to save her.
He saw Harriet die, over and over again, and every time he knew it was his fault.
*
He did not see her die in reality. She had said to him “If you really do like me even a little, for God’s sake promise me you won’t try to get permission to see it. I don’t think I could bear it if I knew someone who cared about me would see that.” So he promised. He would have done her any service, and now all that was left to him was to let her go alone to her death.
*
Peter would have said, had he been asked beforehand, that he did not know how he could live through the night before her execution. He had laughed, in what seemed like a previous existence, at the idea that a man could die of love – even though that younger self which had loved Barbara, in his suicidal bravery, had come near to proving that one could. Or Cathcart, blowing a hole in his guts and dying in a conservatory for his Manon Lescaut – he found that he could barely recall the woman’s real name, or her face, although he knew intellectually that she had been breathtaking.
All an infernal bloody farce, though he couldn’t imagine who was laughing. “And give the world the lie.” What else could one do, when truth was defeated, and the world went on, not just indifferent but smug and pleased with its victory? But it seemed that it declined to give him satisfaction.
What a mess Cathcart had made of his death, in more than one sense, “If one kills oneself, one ought at least have the decency to leave things as tidy as possible for those who have to clear up afterwards,” Peter thought. He stared at his smooth, closed face in the glided mirror, and thought again of lifting the heavy vase and smashing it against the glass, breaking the image into a thousand fragments.
He thought “Of course, Mother would be cut up.” He stared down at the flawless glazed surface of the vase, picked it up, and hefted it idly in his hands.
He could faintly hear Bunter moving about in the kitchen. There couldn’t possibly be anything he needed to do at this hour of the night, but Peter guessed the man was suffering too, if only vicariously. He put the vase down, and found he had made a decision: he had to get out of the flat. He would go for a drive – where didn’t matter, only away, and as fast as possible.
“Bunter? I’m going out for a drive.”
Bunter appeared with what was almost indecorous haste.
“Very good, my lord.” There was a shadow of fear in his eyes. “Will your lordship be requiring me?”
“What? Oh, yes, Bunter, you might as well come. Unless you’re too tired?”
“No, my lord” said Bunter emphatically, who would sooner have died than let his lordship out alone on this night.
The dawn rose cold and pale over the Fens, and far away in London they hanged Harriet Vane.
*
Peter’s health broke down entirely, for a while. He was almost as bad as his mother had ever seen him, and she carried him off to the Dower House without meeting any opposition from him. It was like the days just after they brought him home, before Bunter had taken over. And yet she was almost comforted. He was, after all, still here, even if all he did was sit by the fire shivering. (For he was finding it impossible to make decisions again, and that meant he couldn’t – She cut the thought off, hating herself.) He had got over the war, more or less, so surely he would get over this, too, if he could only hang on long enough.
And indeed, he did improve. He went for walks in the coverts with Gerald, who had enough sense not to try and say anything, apart from the odd remark about the state of the estate, and he ate and drank more normally, although it was hard to say if he took much pleasure in it. He began to take an interest in the papers again, and even did the odd bit of detective work. Gerald, who had never understood his brother, stopped worrying about Peter and returned to fretting over Viscount St George, who always seemed to be in trouble at school. Mary and Charles pressed ahead with the plans for their wedding, which finally came off that February. Peter was Best Man, as had been agreed. He calmed Charles’ nerves, made a remarkably funny speech, teased the bridesmaids, who were an incongruous mix of County and Socialist Club, and put St George to bed to sleep off the champagne before the Duchess could see and be outraged.
Only his mother and Bunter noticed that, apart from that one occasion, he was still listless, his speech flat and dull. He spent a lot of time in the library at Denver, and almost gave up going to London. He always seemed to be cold, and for a while he talked vaguely of going to the south of France or to Italy, but nothing came of it. Although he seemed to be always tired, he could not be persuaded to go to bed early. Bunter, checking on him in the night, once found him muttering in his sleep. It sounded like one of his war dreams, but every now and then Bunter caught the desperate word ‘Harriet’.
Then one wet evening late in March, Peter went out driving alone and did not return.
In consideration of his recent ill health, the jury at the inquest had no hesitation in bringing in a verdict of accidental death. Little weight should be attached to the fact, said the coroner, that the deceased had driven off an empty, straight stretch of road into a deep ditch. The weather, cold and wet, had been unsuitable for an open car, and the deceased, though a skilful driver, was given to speeding and had received several summonses for this offence. He was recovering from a period of illness – quite possibly, the family doctor had testified, connected with his war injuries, received in the course of very meritorious service. It was a tragic accident and a sad waste of a brilliant young man who had always striven to live up to the privileged life he had been given. The jury expressed its sympathy to the Wimsey family, and especially to the Dowager Duchess.
*
There were white roses on the altar, and there had been white roses on the coffin, too, like snow that covers and softens an ugly landscape into something like beauty. The Dowager Duchess had put her foot down at Helen’s suggestion of hothouse lilies and orchids.
It was all very neat and tidy, thought Charles, gloomily, at the funeral. After the burial, he went back to the church, and sat for a long time, trying to pray and staring at the guttering flame of the altar candle as if he hoped it would warm him.
“I’m sorry,” he said aloud, though he couldn’t have said who he was addressing, and then shook himself. Whatever else, he shouldn’t leave Mary alone, particularly in her condition. He got up and went to look for his wife.
Odd, really, he thought as he left the church. Until now, he’d never have believed that having the right woman by your side could be the difference between a life that made sense and one that didn’t. But it began to seem as if it could.
Warnings: AU, Post-Strong Poison. This is not a cheerful story, you have been warned. It was inspired by a discussion with
nineveh_uk about the paucity of AU Wimsey-fic. After writing this, I can see why there aren't many of this type of AU story out there. More specifically: Contains character death; miscarriage of justice; suicidal thoughts; suicide. Spoilers: Strong Poison, obviously, and Clouds of Witness. Reference to one detail of Have His Carcass, but I wouldn’t call it a spoiler.
Words: 3955.
Disclaimer: There are lots of things in here which I don't own. I’m sure intelligent people like you can work out what. In particular, his lordship is unspeakably relieved that he doesn't belong to me (though normally I'm nicer, honestly!)
There were white roses on the bench, and in the dim light of the Old Bailey they looked almost ashen.
The prisoner was ashen, too, but composed. She knew what was coming, but she looked ahead, almost defiantly. Only the fact that she avoided looking at the Public Gallery might have been taken as a sign of emotion.
The Judge sat, grave and impartial, and waited courteously for the Jury to return.
The trial had not gone well for the defence.
*
“Harriet Deborah Vane, the sentence of the Court upon you is that you be taken hence to the place whence you came, and thence to a place of execution, and that you be there hanged by the neck until you are dead. And that your body be buried within the precincts of the prison in which you shall have been confined. May the Lord have mercy on your soul." The Judge spoke regretfully; he was a kindly man and disliked sending anyone, not least a woman, to the gallows. The prisoner bowed her head, but gave no other sign of feeling. A few moments earlier she had said, almost numbly, “I didn’t kill him. I can see the strength of the case against me. But I didn’t.” No contrition, and no plea for mercy. Now she made no sound, and allowed herself to be led away. She still did not look at the Public Gallery.
*
His mother assured him that he had not fainted, or indeed shown any display of feeling at all, but the fact remained that Wimsey remembered absolutely nothing of what followed, and he might have been unconscious, or have done anything at all, for all he knew. Only, on the street outside the court, he heard a rough male voice saying to someone else “She was a hard-faced bitch, wasn’t she? Dunno what they needed a second trial for,” and suddenly feeling rushed back, and he was pushing through the crowd, and for an insane second he genuinely believed that if he could only get his hands round that stupid, callous bastard’s neck, somehow everything would be all right – and someone had their hands on his arm and was shouting “For God’s sake, Peter – Peter!”
It was Charles, looking agitated and slightly sick. For a moment Peter, seeing the face of a friend, felt as if some light had broken into the darkness, and then he remembered what Charles had helped to do, and the darkness closed back in on him.
Charles’s lips were moving, but somehow he couldn’t make out what he was saying. The buzz of the London street was blurred, too. Everything seemed so far away. And he was so cold.
Now his mother was taking his other arm, and saying something. That did begin to penetrate somehow “- I’ll take you home. You can phone Sir Impey and the solicitors from there. We can still appeal, you know, and how those fools in the jury, faces all like rabbits like in Alice, or was that dormice… and I’m sure the court of appeal will be more sensible.”
Wimsey said tonelessly “Yes, of course.” It seemed to be what she expected. But it wouldn’t do any good.
Somehow, whatever he looked at, all he could see was Harriet, sitting pale and composed in the dock. And now sitting, not in the remand but in the condemned cell. Still composed? He would stake his soul on it.
They would appeal against the conviction, and they would appeal against the sentence. And it would be no good.
*
Charles was saying “Damn it, I don’t like it either. But the evidence – you know I don’t want the innocent to hang, but if the evidence points in a particular way –”
“If you say you were only doing your duty, I’ll…”
“I was only doing my duty” said Charles, stubbornly, and before Peter knew quite what had happened his brother-in-law-elect was sprawling on the floor at his feet, looking up at him and rubbing his chin. Peter bent down to help him up.
“I – I’m sorry, Charles, but – why did you have to say that?”
“I thought it might help if you were angry with me.” Charles grimaced, and wiped blood off his lip. “I didn’t think you’d hit me quite that hard, though.”
Wimsey stopped. It had helped, for a moment, but only because the roaring madness had blotted out the vision of Harriet. But Charles – no, he didn’t want to hurt Charles.
“I’m sorry, old man,” he said, and then “I don’t blame you.”
Charles looked partly relieved, and partly doubtful.
“Really.” Peter met his eyes. “I wish it hadn’t been you. But – any policeman would have done it.”
“I wish it hadn’t been me” Charles muttered, but he wasn’t sure whether or not Peter had heard him.
*
He went to see her, of course. This time he was taken to the cell, and sat facing her in the little vestibule they let visitors into, looking through the glass. He felt cold, and wondered if it was the room, or himself. He could not see further into the cell, but he knew – he had been told – that behind the vestibule was a bathroom, and behind that, a room with a bed and a table and a wardrobe.
There was a door behind the wardrobe, and behind that an empty cell, and beyond that another door opened onto the gallows.
“Harriet – I’m so sorry. I’ve failed you,” he began.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, and he realised with terror that she sounded sincere. “You did your best. Thank you. I’m glad – I’m glad someone knows it wasn’t me.”
“I-”
“You know, that’s my one consolation. There are people who believe it wasn’t me. Not just one of my friends, either, but an outsider with an unprejudiced mind” she said, almost matter-of-factly. “That, and the fact that my parents didn’t live to see this. I don’t think I could have stood that. As it is – they saw me take my first, and were proud of me. They couldn’t very well be proud of me now.”
“Yes, they could” said Wimsey, fiercely. “Anyone could be. I won’t let you talk like that. You’re a fine writer. You’re brave, and honest, and –and a bonny fechter.”
“I always liked Alan Breck,” she said, with the ghost of a smile. “But I don’t think I’m brave, not really. I mean – well, it could be worse. They tell me it doesn’t hurt much… And you’re right about the books. I have done my job to the best of my ability. Whatever else, I’m proud of that. But – God, I’m so tired. If it must be, I’d rather get it over with.”
*
He didn’t visit every day; other people wanted to see her, and he hardly had any claim on her. Sylvia, and Eilunned Price, even her agent, had a better.
“Well, the proofs for Death in the Pot are done, anyway,” she told him, when next he called. She was paler than ever, thin, shadowy about the eyes and hollow about the cheekbones, but still determinedly calm. “But it’s a pity. I had a splendid idea for a new book; the murderer would establish his alibi using the town hall clock. It’s a shame it’ll go to waste.”
“Could you make a short story of it?” said Wimsey, determined to match her collectedness.
“M-m. I’m having difficulty getting the clock idea to work, though. I don’t know enough about how that sort of clock would be controlled, and it’s quite hard to do any research here. Do you happen to know anything about town hall clocks?”
“I could try to find out. I’ve been little enough use to you otherwise.”
“Don’t say that” she said gently. “Please don’t say that. You really have helped – kept my mind occupied. That’s the only thing that does help. I asked the chaplain if he knew about clocks, but I think he was shocked that I could be thinking about writing detective stories at a time like this.”
“Bloody fool.”
“Ye-es. He was working up to try to persuade me to confess, I think – oh, don’t look like that, it’s only his job – and anyway, I couldn’t work out if he meant ‘confess to murder’ or ‘confess your sins’. I mean, I may not be a murderer, but I haven’t lived a blameless life by anyone’s standards.” She paused, and frowned. “What – oh yes, the chaplain. Anyway, it turned out that he knew Mr Boyes – Philip’s father, you know – and apparently he told him he wasn’t happy about the trial and that if I was innocent, he couldn’t imagine anything more distressing than being badgered to confess something I hadn’t done. He sounds as if he’s a good man. I never met him, of course, it would have been quite impossible, and I could never quite make out what he was like from what Philip said.”
“But the chaplain doesn’t know about clocks?”
“No. Could you find out for me? Only I’d sort of like to get this to work.”
“All right, then” said Wimsey “But you’ll have to tell me a bit more about what you need…”
*
Miss Climpson, far away in Westmorland, continued to faithfully fight down an increasing sense of despair and to attempt to get into Mrs Wrayburn’s nurse’s confidence. The nurse, a bony, angular woman with a strict notion of duty and propriety, was not obliging.
Wimsey found out more about clocks than even his usually insatiable curiosity wished to know. In the intervals of research, he attempted, frantically, to find wires to pull at the Home Office, in case the appeal against the conviction failed. He did not tell Harriet what he was doing, and still tried to persuade her that the appellate court might grant leave to appeal, that it was by no means certain yet, that there was still hope. Besides, he was not sure that she would like his interference. It was unfortunate that the Permanent Secretary was known to regard Bloomsbury as a nest of Communists and pacifists and probable traitors. The Home Secretary, on the other hand, was unlikely to take interference from an Old Etonian lord well; in any case the government was weak and could hardly be expected to court unpopularity by pardoning an unrepentant poisoner, especially one of advanced ideas. There had even been letters in the Times suggesting that this should encourage parents to keep their daughters away from Oxford.
The appellate court declined to allow an appeal, on the grounds that the case had been heard twice already.
Remained only the appeal for mercy to the Home Secretary. Harriet agreed to the appeal being made, though Peter suspected her heart was not in it. A treacherous voice – his own – suggested to him that a quick death might, after all, be preferable to a lifetime in confinement, but he mentally shouted it down. If they could keep Harriet from the gallows, they might one day be able to prove her innocence.
*
“I’ve got the story finished,” she told him gravely. “Thank you for the help with the research. I thought of dedicating it to you, but I wasn’t sure if you’d like me to. It might be too much jam for the reporters, and I don’t want to cause you trouble. It wouldn’t be fair, after you tried so hard to help me.”
“Damn the reporters!” The wardress looked over disapprovingly, startled by his anger. “Harriet,” his voice was softer now, “I love you. I –“
“I thought you’d given that up” she said sadly. “It’s no good. And it never would have been any good, even if I were free. You don’t love me. You can’t possibly. You just think you do.”
Peter put his head in his hands. “I always seem to say the wrong thing, don’t I? When it matters. The apparently inexhaustible stream of piffle dries up, and there’s nothing left but ashes and broken bottles.”
“Don’t distress yourself” she said gently, and he thought, what a rotten egotist I am, expecting her to comfort me. “I’ll dedicate the story to you if you like. But don’t take it to heart, so. In two years you’ll only be sorry you didn’t stop them hanging the wrong person. And that will probably be bitter enough, so you had better forget all this stuff about love.”
She was growing steadily more remote from him, from the living world, further away at every meeting, as if the glass between them was ice thickening in a still-deepening frost. Even before the Home Secretary declined to strike down the sentence, he knew that she had made her peace with death. She no longer disturbed the Chaplain with appeals for apparently random information. She told Peter she had been reading Ralegh.
“Even such is time…?”
“Yes. Although – I think I like the Passionate Man’s Pilgrimage better, if I could only manage to believe it.”
“No forg’d accusers bought and sold, no cause deferr’d, nor vain-spent journey… ?”
“Yes. Only I fear it’s more a case of ‘Go, since I needs must die, and give the world the lie’”
“All love’s but lust? Tell wit how much it wrangles?”
“I didn’t mean that in particular. I didn’t mean you.”
“Tell beauty how she blasteth” said Wimsey, quietly, but Harriet, lost in thought and murmuring “Stab at thee he that will, no stab thy soul can kill,” did not hear him.
There was so little time left.
*
Peter called on Miss Climpson, back from the Lake country, the day before the execution. He took in very little of what was said. He remembered hearing his voice, sounding as courteous and light as ever, thank her for her efforts, assure her that he knew she had done all anyone could have done, and that he continued to value her intelligence and hard work.
It was, he thought, like hearing a not very interesting wireless announcement in the next room.
He remembered feeling cold.
One thing, however, which she said before he left, struck home to him. “My dear Lord Peter, please forgive the impertinence, but you must not give way. You have been given such a marvellous talent, and you have helped so many people. You must not throw that away. Other people will need you.”
A corner of his long mouth lifted. “Ah, but that presupposes I have something left to give. I’ve bungled this, or not been clever enough. I’m getting old, Miss Climpson, and I fear the talent may be spent.” He thought, but did not say “What good is it if I couldn’t save her.” Even he could recognise that that was egotistical and absurd – and that recognising that made it no less true. But one could hardly say it. There was no-one to say such things to.
*
The dreams had begun after the final appeal was denied. They were the old, familiar war dreams, as he had them at the end of most cases, but horribly changed, as if they had not been horrible enough before. He saw her in all of them. He saw her blown into pieces as a shell landed where he had been standing a moment before; she died slowly in his arms with her lungs burnt out by gas because he hadn’t realised there were pockets of the stuff hanging about in the shell holes; he ordered her over the top and watched her hang bleeding on the wire; she was buried in the earth and he could not find her. Sometimes they were both buried, earth pressing in upon them, damp and stifling, and he felt a moment of absolute freedom and joy when Bunter and Charles came and dug him out, but then they left her there to die in the icy rain, and however hard he fought, he couldn’t get away from them to save her.
He saw Harriet die, over and over again, and every time he knew it was his fault.
*
He did not see her die in reality. She had said to him “If you really do like me even a little, for God’s sake promise me you won’t try to get permission to see it. I don’t think I could bear it if I knew someone who cared about me would see that.” So he promised. He would have done her any service, and now all that was left to him was to let her go alone to her death.
*
Peter would have said, had he been asked beforehand, that he did not know how he could live through the night before her execution. He had laughed, in what seemed like a previous existence, at the idea that a man could die of love – even though that younger self which had loved Barbara, in his suicidal bravery, had come near to proving that one could. Or Cathcart, blowing a hole in his guts and dying in a conservatory for his Manon Lescaut – he found that he could barely recall the woman’s real name, or her face, although he knew intellectually that she had been breathtaking.
All an infernal bloody farce, though he couldn’t imagine who was laughing. “And give the world the lie.” What else could one do, when truth was defeated, and the world went on, not just indifferent but smug and pleased with its victory? But it seemed that it declined to give him satisfaction.
What a mess Cathcart had made of his death, in more than one sense, “If one kills oneself, one ought at least have the decency to leave things as tidy as possible for those who have to clear up afterwards,” Peter thought. He stared at his smooth, closed face in the glided mirror, and thought again of lifting the heavy vase and smashing it against the glass, breaking the image into a thousand fragments.
He thought “Of course, Mother would be cut up.” He stared down at the flawless glazed surface of the vase, picked it up, and hefted it idly in his hands.
He could faintly hear Bunter moving about in the kitchen. There couldn’t possibly be anything he needed to do at this hour of the night, but Peter guessed the man was suffering too, if only vicariously. He put the vase down, and found he had made a decision: he had to get out of the flat. He would go for a drive – where didn’t matter, only away, and as fast as possible.
“Bunter? I’m going out for a drive.”
Bunter appeared with what was almost indecorous haste.
“Very good, my lord.” There was a shadow of fear in his eyes. “Will your lordship be requiring me?”
“What? Oh, yes, Bunter, you might as well come. Unless you’re too tired?”
“No, my lord” said Bunter emphatically, who would sooner have died than let his lordship out alone on this night.
The dawn rose cold and pale over the Fens, and far away in London they hanged Harriet Vane.
*
Peter’s health broke down entirely, for a while. He was almost as bad as his mother had ever seen him, and she carried him off to the Dower House without meeting any opposition from him. It was like the days just after they brought him home, before Bunter had taken over. And yet she was almost comforted. He was, after all, still here, even if all he did was sit by the fire shivering. (For he was finding it impossible to make decisions again, and that meant he couldn’t – She cut the thought off, hating herself.) He had got over the war, more or less, so surely he would get over this, too, if he could only hang on long enough.
And indeed, he did improve. He went for walks in the coverts with Gerald, who had enough sense not to try and say anything, apart from the odd remark about the state of the estate, and he ate and drank more normally, although it was hard to say if he took much pleasure in it. He began to take an interest in the papers again, and even did the odd bit of detective work. Gerald, who had never understood his brother, stopped worrying about Peter and returned to fretting over Viscount St George, who always seemed to be in trouble at school. Mary and Charles pressed ahead with the plans for their wedding, which finally came off that February. Peter was Best Man, as had been agreed. He calmed Charles’ nerves, made a remarkably funny speech, teased the bridesmaids, who were an incongruous mix of County and Socialist Club, and put St George to bed to sleep off the champagne before the Duchess could see and be outraged.
Only his mother and Bunter noticed that, apart from that one occasion, he was still listless, his speech flat and dull. He spent a lot of time in the library at Denver, and almost gave up going to London. He always seemed to be cold, and for a while he talked vaguely of going to the south of France or to Italy, but nothing came of it. Although he seemed to be always tired, he could not be persuaded to go to bed early. Bunter, checking on him in the night, once found him muttering in his sleep. It sounded like one of his war dreams, but every now and then Bunter caught the desperate word ‘Harriet’.
Then one wet evening late in March, Peter went out driving alone and did not return.
In consideration of his recent ill health, the jury at the inquest had no hesitation in bringing in a verdict of accidental death. Little weight should be attached to the fact, said the coroner, that the deceased had driven off an empty, straight stretch of road into a deep ditch. The weather, cold and wet, had been unsuitable for an open car, and the deceased, though a skilful driver, was given to speeding and had received several summonses for this offence. He was recovering from a period of illness – quite possibly, the family doctor had testified, connected with his war injuries, received in the course of very meritorious service. It was a tragic accident and a sad waste of a brilliant young man who had always striven to live up to the privileged life he had been given. The jury expressed its sympathy to the Wimsey family, and especially to the Dowager Duchess.
*
There were white roses on the altar, and there had been white roses on the coffin, too, like snow that covers and softens an ugly landscape into something like beauty. The Dowager Duchess had put her foot down at Helen’s suggestion of hothouse lilies and orchids.
It was all very neat and tidy, thought Charles, gloomily, at the funeral. After the burial, he went back to the church, and sat for a long time, trying to pray and staring at the guttering flame of the altar candle as if he hoped it would warm him.
“I’m sorry,” he said aloud, though he couldn’t have said who he was addressing, and then shook himself. Whatever else, he shouldn’t leave Mary alone, particularly in her condition. He got up and went to look for his wife.
Odd, really, he thought as he left the church. Until now, he’d never have believed that having the right woman by your side could be the difference between a life that made sense and one that didn’t. But it began to seem as if it could.
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Date: 2006-08-23 07:42 pm (UTC)