Nursery Crimes Part 26

It would be a kindness, Father Donovan thought, either way. He had arranged with the prison authorities to hear Murphy's last confession when the time came. And the time was coming rapidly. His own courage had never been put to the test in this way before. He had visions of pa.s.sing out on the floor at Murphy's feet. Man's inhumanity to man had never ceased to appal him. Had he been told to witness the crucifixion of Christ he would have rushed howling off into the wilderness.

Murphy was no Christ.

But neither was he Barabbas.

Of that he was sure.

On his return to the convent he went to see Mother Benedicta to report on his visit. Murphy wasn't looking too bad, he told her. He had made a complaint about the dinner he'd had that day - braised hearts. Though he wasn't a fastidious eater, Murphy drew the line at hearts. He had given him some books. They had talked. He had insisted on his innocence. The prison authorities had sliced through the middle of the cake the nuns had baked him in case there was anything in it.

"Such as what?" asked Mother Benedicta acidly, "a gun - a file - ?"

"Such as a wee small bottle of plum brandy which had pa.s.sed through on another occasion," Father Donovan said, without apology.

Mother Benedicta in an attempt not to smile sucked in her lips sharply. Father Donovan's kindness wasn't always selective. If the devil himself had been committed to the flames in front of him, the old priest, as like as not, would extend his hand into the furnace and try to haul him out.

"Come with me to the art room," she said. "There's something I must show you."

The art room was on the top floor. It was north facing and was lit by a wide window and a skylight. The art teacher, Sister Elizabeth, had once had a picture in the Royal Academy and knew what she was about. As well as the more usual work on easels she liked her pupils to use the large expanse of white walls for a mural. The present mural, depicting the story of King Arthur, was the painstaking work of two terms. All that was left of it was a clenched fist holding Excalibur. The sword pointed to a black rectangle of paint in the middle of the blue lake. In the rectangle painted in red were the words: "I killed Bridget, signed Zanny Moncrief". And underneath in even larger letters of yellow; "NONSENSE, I DID! signed AGATHA SHELDON-SMYTHE".

"Miss Sheldon-Smythe is now on her way to a rest home in Bournemouth," Mother Benedicta said, "I suppose you could call this her final parting gesture."

"And the child?" asked Father Donovan.

Zanny Moncrief's lunacy was of a more temporary nature, Mother Benedicta believed. "She's not academically gifted." she said, "at anything. When I saw this, I reprimanded her, naturally, and ..."

'And?"

"Arranged for her to have music lessons, in addition to the extra lessons in mathematics. Her parents recently bought her a piano. Music could be an emotional outlet -- mathematics, apart from being necessary, will instil discipline."

It was all typical of Mother Benedicta's good sense, Father Donovan thought. There was a pot of green paint on a nearby table. He couldn't resist it. He picked up a paintbrush, dipped it in the paint, and wrote Mea Culpa carefully underneath.

"And now," Mother Benedicta suggested crisply, "you can paint the whole lot out." The acknowledgment of personal sin was all very well, but there was a limit to everything. She'd had enough.

On the night before the morning on which Murphy was due to die she would send Zanny Moncrief home. Already hysteria was beginning to rise again -just as it had on the day of the fair. Some might even begin to believe that what the child was saying was true. She shuddered to think what might happen to her. Luckily none of the girls had seen this piece of graffiti. She stood with arms folded as Father Donovan energetically sloshed green paint over the lot.

"I intend to have a very serious talk with her parents," she told him.

Music therapy included listening to records. Zanny, listening in utter boredom to Handel's Water Music, wondered how she was going to break through the crust of disbelief that had grown around her. She felt like a wreck at the bottom of the ocean encrusted with barnacles. n.o.body - except Dolly - believed a word she said. Dolly had asked her with a degree of respect how she had got rid of the judge. She had told her. She had kept on believing her even after the inquest. It had been Dolly's suggestion that she should paint a confession on the art room wall. Both girls remained unaware of Miss Sheldon-Smythe's nullifying confession painted under it.

Dolly, who had been dragooned into having extra music lessons with her (she could say clever things about symphonic form), had just suggested, sotto voce, that she might try writing a confession to the local weekly. As the Home Secretary had totally ignored her it was unlikely that a letter to a small local newspaper would do any good, but anything was worth trying. Dolly, pretending to write notes on musical appreciation, drafted it for her. Later that evening, after a blindingly boring and incomprehensible period trying to learn something called the binary system, Zanny copied it out. Obeying instructions from Mother Benedicta who had become very vigilant, the nun in charge of posting letters removed it from the pile and gave it to her. Mother Benedicta tore it up. She had relied on the Home Secretary's good sense - justifiably. As from now she decided not to rely on anyone's but her own.

The summons to the convent came as no surprise to Graham and Clare. The two inquests into the deaths for which Zanny was responsible had gone in her favour. Willie and Sir Clifford Ponsonby were nine years apart, but Zanny's hand was evident in both. They didn't say this to each other. During these last few days of Murphy's life they were saying very little at all.

If he dies, Clare was thinking, I'm as guilty as if I hanged him myself.

If he doesn't die, Graham thought, Zanny will -- in one way or another. Words from the marriage ceremony floated into his mind. For ever hold your peace. One day, Zanny, when this is over, you'll undergo a miraculous change and become normal. You won't kill another living soul. You'll marry with a crown of orange blossom in your hair. And not a stain of blood on you anywhere. Except perhaps the ending of your virginity on your wedding night. That's your future, Zanny, if I keep my mouth shut. Which I will.

Anyway, we don't know for sure. We never have. And probably never will.

"Mother Benedicta thinks we should drug her," Clare said wanly.

"What?"

"When she phoned the other evening she suggested a sleeping pill on Murphy's last night. When she wakes up it will be all over."

"Oh, G.o.d!" said Graham.

He went out to clean the car. All the horrible jobs were being done. The lawns and flower-beds had never looked so neat. Clare had cleaned all the bra.s.s like a maniac. Music and mathematics for Zanny. Work exhaustion for him and Clare. Nothing worked. Sleeping tablets would be a good idea for all of them.

And for Murphy?

Christ!

Peter Tolliston had long since departed to a more lucrative medical practice in Yorks.h.i.+re. His successor, Caradoc Davis, known familiarly as Doctor Caradoc to distinguish him from another Doctor Davis in the area,, had been born in the Rhondda. In the more rarefied atmosphere of mid-Wales his pit language wasn't always appreciated. On the whole he had learned to tame it when conversing with women. But he wasn't pliable. He didn't believe in drugs. He spent a lot of his time, he told Clare, curing cures. Anyway, he said, looking at her intently, both she and Graham had been disgustingly healthy for years, so what was supposed to be the matter with her now?

She had come to see him without Graham. They were both in a highly emotional state, but of the two she was the calmer.

"I haven't come about myself," she told him. "It's about Zanny. She's desperately worried about the execution of the Irish gardener. You've read about the case?"

Caradoc had. The death penalty, he thought, was unusually severe. It had seemed like an impulse killing. The poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d had been unlucky with his judge and jury.

"One day," he said, "the judicial system will become more civilised."

Clare, sensing a grain of sympathy, went on to tell him her edited version. She used the word hallucinating a lot -also sensitivity and empathy, just to be on the safe side. "She thinks if she says she did it, then Murphy will go free. An elderly member of the staff has been emotionally affected in the same way. If you could give Zanny something to make her sleep the night before he dies . . ."

Caradoc had heard of his predecessor's liaison with Mrs. Moncrief. She was still a pretty woman. He didn't know the daughter. The convent doctor saw to her during term-time and she seemed to have been remarkably free of illnesses during the holidays. Emotional upsets sometimes came on with the onset of menstruation. He asked if she were menstruating.

Clare, wis.h.i.+ng it were that simple, said that she was. "There's nothing wrong with her physically. She just needs a pill to calm her."

"Sleeping pills," Caradoc said, "are for geriatrics waiting for the Big Sleep. How old is Zanny?"

"Fifteen."

"You want me to pump pills into a kid of fifteen?"

"Just this once - please. Honestly, she needs them." (So do I.) The unspoken plea made telepathic contact. He didn't understand. It was his nature to need to understand. He never did anything without considerable thought.

"Bring her to me," he said, "and I'll try to talk some b.l.o.o.d.y sense into her. Make it the end of the surgery -about seven-thirty."

"She's hysterical," Clare said alarmed. "She's likely to tell you the most appalling things."

"I am never appalled," Caradoc said. "If she needs the pills, I'll give them. If she doesn't, I won't. Satisfied?"

Clare wasn't, but she tried to be.

The last two days of Murphy's life were for him an artificial period in which he sat around brooding - or marched around the yard, brooding. As if time went full circle he was back in his childhood, snotty-nosed, scratched-kneed. He could smell the bark of the trees he climbed. His naked feet squelched through warm mud. His first s.e.xual experience had been with the sister of his best pal. He had been afraid of her enormous b.r.e.a.s.t.s -- they had kept getting in the way, pus.h.i.+ng him up off her. She had giggled like a donkey braying. Bridget's b.r.e.a.s.t.s had been very nice.

Old Father Donovan, looking rather ill and every year his age, didn't seem to know how to talk to him. It was embarra.s.sing having him here. It's not my fault, Murphy thought, that I'm here. And it's not my fault that you're here. What do you want me to confess to you1? That I liked Bridget's b.o.o.bs?