The Bohemian Girl Part 29

He laughed. 'You should talk to Dr Gallichan. You're as crazy as I am.'

He wrote a letter to Heseltine's father. The handwriting didn't look like his own. He apologized for its being so late and explained that he'd been ill. He said that Heseltine had been a fine man. A few days later, the father wrote to thank him and to say that Heseltine had spoken of him and seemed to take strength from knowing him; was there anything of his son's that Denton would like to have as a memento? Denton wrote back and said that he'd like to buy the little Dutch painting of the lion that had hung on his son's wall. The father replied that no such painting had been found among his son's effects. Would Denton like something else?

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE.

Munro and Sergeant Markson came and were solicitous and gentle, but he knew that Munro thought he was behaving badly. Munro, at least, should have been allowed to see him.

'I've said I'm sorry. At first they wouldn't let me see you, and then I didn't want to see you. Why didn't you insist? You're the coppers.'

'Well, no harm done, I suppose.'

'I still feel like h.e.l.l.'

'Two .450s, I'm not surprised.' Munro sat in the metal chair, Markson in a Thonet that had been dragged in from the corridor. Outside his door, sounds that Denton had become used to - the clink of gla.s.s and metal, the clack of feet, voices - were distorted and funnelled by the tile-walled corridor. Every day now, he was pushed up and down this corridor in a wheelchair, then made to try to walk on his new crutches.

Markson cleared his throat. 'We'd like to ask you a few questions, if we might, sir.'

Munro grunted. 'Just get on with it, Fred, he knows where we stand.' He frowned at Denton. 'And we know where he stands.'

Denton frowned back. He felt as if he were going to jump out of himself somehow. He didn't sleep at night now without chemicals, and the days were like this.

'Well, sir-' Markson cleared his throat again. 'We'd like to ask you a few questions about the shooting.'

'All right.'

'What do you remember, sir?'

'I don't remember actually being shot. I have a kind of picture of looking up and seeing Jarrold. He looked beside himself with joy.'

'He had a gun, sir?'

'Of course he did. That old Galland.'

'You recognized it, sir?'

'You couldn't mistake that contraption under the barrel.'

'Could you swear it was your gun, sir?'

'Well, of course it was-It looked like my gun, all right?'

'But you can't swear-'

'It didn't have my name on it, if that's what you mean.'

'Something like that, yes, sir.'

Munro leaned forward. Like everybody else who came, he had put his hat on the bed next to Denton's dead leg. 'Do you remember anything that Jarrold said?'

'He said, "I did it, I did it, Astoreth."'

'You're sure of that.'

'I am now. I wasn't at first. He sounded like a kid who'd caught his first trout. I can't tell you how - pleased pleased - he looked. What's happened to him?' - he looked. What's happened to him?'

Munro s.h.i.+fted his bulk, glanced at Markson, said, 'He's in a prison for the criminally insane.'

'There's been a trial?'

'Not yet. Maybe never. Prosecutor wanted to hear what you'd have to say, and then he may not go to trial. Charge of attempted murder was laid, of course, but in fact Jarrold's been committed on the earlier business with Mrs Striker's rooms, and violation of the terms of house arrest. Either road, he isn't coming out again.'

Denton, sitting up on a pile of pillows, his emaciated chest partly revealed by an unb.u.t.toned nights.h.i.+rt, stared at Munro. His interest in Jarrold now was rather theoretical, not at all a desire for justice or revenge. 'Before he shot me, you told Janet Striker he was getting better.'

'I didn't; his bleeding doctors did. Any doctor who pretends to know what's going on in another man's mind is a bleeding quack. They had him on chloral, so he breaks out and when we arrest him he's been drinking, and now the doctors tell us the combination of chloral and alcohol's the sure way to lunacy. Well, they're right.' didn't; his bleeding doctors did. Any doctor who pretends to know what's going on in another man's mind is a bleeding quack. They had him on chloral, so he breaks out and when we arrest him he's been drinking, and now the doctors tell us the combination of chloral and alcohol's the sure way to lunacy. Well, they're right.'

Denton stared at him some more. Not fully aware of his own state, his own motives, Denton sensed he was coming out of the anger and melancholy of the past weeks. He knew that he wanted to show himself to Munro - the gaunt face, the apparently haunted eyes - because he knew that his body was an accusation. Finally, when he could see that Munro was embarra.s.sed and annoyed, he said, 'Tell me what happened to Heseltine.'

'Oh, that poor sod.'

'Yes, that poor sod.'

'Wasn't our case; Division handled it. Still, Fred followed it once he found you'd had some connection with him.'

'How did you find that?'

'His man. Said Heseltine had been travelling with you.'

Markson was going through a notebook, licking a finger every two or three pages to turn them. 'Man named Jenks,' he said when he found the page.

'I know Jenks.'

'He found the body. Coroner's jury ruled suicide, that was it.' Markson looked up. 'He was despondent.'

'Like h.e.l.l he was.'

Both detectives jerked; Munro looked offended. Markson said, 'Division reported the man Jenks said his employer had been despondent. Just got chucked out of the army. Confirmed by interview with the victim's father conducted by - mmm, local constabulary in-'

'Jenks is a drunkard.'

'Well, still-'

'Heseltine wasn't despondent!'

'Leave it, Denton. It's history now.'

'He wasn't despondent! I'd just spent three days with him. He was talking about going to Jamaica to take a job. When I left him at Waterloo, he was happy happy.'

Munro picked up his hat and leaned his forearms on his knees. 'Leave it.'

'How did he kill himself?'

Munro looked at Markson. The young detective looked at his notes, clearly marking time, and then said, 'Slashed his wrists with his razor.'

'It's done,' Munro said. He stood. 'The coroner's jury got the evidence, Denton; there was no doubt in anybody's mind. He got in the bath with his razor and did it. I'm sorry, especially as you have to hear it in your condition, but it's what happened.'

Denton tried to picture Heseltine's cutting his veins with a razor. Lying in his own blood? He said, 'Dressed or naked?'

'Unh - I don't have that, sir.'

'With the water running? A man like Heseltine doesn't make messes. He'd have known he'd be found by Jenks, who was incompetent; he'd have done everything to avoid leaving a mess. Find out.'

Munro shook his head. 'It's over. Don't tell us how to do our job.' He fanned a fly away with his hat. 'Your job is to get well. It hurts me to look at you. I mean it - I want you to focus on getting your old self back; forget all this business. The young man who killed himself-' He shrugged. 'These things happen.'

Denton held his eyes and then, feeling the pain in his back, the discomfort of the sheet under his b.u.t.tocks, used both hands to s.h.i.+ft the position of his right leg. He said, 'Sit down, Munro.'

'Got a job to do.'

'Not yet. I want to talk to you.'

Munro looked at Markson as if to ask if Markson should stay, too; Denton nodded. Munro lowered his backside into the chair as if he feared sitting on something. He made a demonstration of taking out his watch and looking at it.

Denton said, 'I don't remember everything that happened when I was shot. More of it comes back to me, but I'm still blank where the shooting itself is concerned. Also just before that. I think I was coming to see you-'

'You'd been at Mrs Castle's.'

Denton raised his head. 'How do you know that?'

'Somebody grabbed Jarrold before he could put another bullet into you. Happened to be a private detective.' Munro glanced at Markson, who seemed engrossed in his notebook, slowly turning the pages from back to front. 'He was following you.'

Denton frowned, bewildered. 'I'd just got back from France.'

Munro laid his hat on the bed again. His hair was pressed against his scalp where the hat had rested; he stroked the sides with his palms. 'This is an embarra.s.sment for the Metropolitan Police, Denton. I was going to tell you in good time. It's, mmm, not something we're proud of.'

'I remember now - I thought somebody was following me. I think I'd thought so before, but there was never anybody.'

'Lady Emmeline - Jarrold's mother - was having you followed. She sent copies of their reports to Georgie Guillam.'

Denton's brain seemed slow. He had to remind himself who Guillam was. When he remembered, he was enraged. 'Why?'

'I told you that Georgie'd pulled Jarrold over into his bailiwick. I thought it was just to make the connection - get himself some credit with the upper crust. Maybe that was all there was, to start with. He told the super he'd gone to Lady Emmeline's house and offered her his help. Because Jarrold was now his responsibility. That could have been just Georgie's sucking up. But getting the private detectives' reports from her-He wanted to get something on you. So did Lady Emmeline. She really hates you, you know - a lot worse than Georgie. So they scratched each other's back.'

Denton felt out of breath. 'That's how Jarrold knew where I'd be when he decided to shoot me.'

'His mother wrote to him at least once a day. Sent him telegrams - one the night before you came back from France.' Munro rubbed his forehead and blew out his cheeks. 'One of the detectives had tailed you to the Channel ferry and told Guillam. Guillam cabled the French demanding they tell him when you started back. When he heard from them-' Munro shook his head. 'He did what no copper should ever do. He notified Lady Emmeline. After, he said he did it just so's her detectives could pick you up again. But she telegraphed Jarrold, so what Guillam did meant that Jarrold could find you, too. Jarrold's mother - and therefore Jarrold - knew where you'd be twelve hours before your boat landed that morning. The d.i.c.ks picked you up again at Waterloo.'

'And so did Jarrold.'

'That's my reading of it.'

'But-' Denton was thinking of the logistics of getting from Lady Emmeline's Suss.e.x house to London, then to Waterloo. Twelve hours would be plenty of time. Still-'But why?'

'Why Georgie, or why Jarrold?'

'Jarrold.'

'Loony.'

'Not good enough, Munro. He's insane, but he's sane enough to get from Suss.e.x to Waterloo, avoid the detective following me and wait for the opportunity to shoot me.'

'Well, he knew about the detective, so avoiding him wouldn't take a genius. Anyway, the detectives didn't know him. The rest-' Munro shook his ma.s.sive head. 'He's a loony.'

'With all respect, sir-' Markson had put his notebook away. 'It's true it's never been established why why he shot Mr Denton.' he shot Mr Denton.'

Munro waved the comment away. 'He shot him because he was a loony that had been pestering Denton for a long time. He couldn't get what he wanted from him, so he took his revenge.'

Denton had put his head back. He wasn't listening to them. He looked at the ceiling and tried to remember what had happened. The shooting was a gap, but the rest was there: Mrs Castle, his returning home, the parting from Heseltine at Waterloo. Before that, the night crossing, the journey down from Caen. The farm. The barn. The hay. He said, 'Heseltine and I go to France. We come back. Jarrold is waiting for me in London. He shoots me.' He sat up. 'How soon after I was shot did Heseltine die?'

Munro groaned. 'Oh, Judas-'

Markson got the notebook out again, wet his finger, went through the pages. 'Um - hmm.' He went to another part of the notebook, licked a finger. 'Mmm. Looks like the Heseltine suicide was the next morning.'

Denton pushed himself up and leaned his weight on his right arm. He pushed his face out as close to Munro's as he could get it. 'Two men travel together and come home and within twenty-four hours one's shot and one's dead! What does that tell you, Munro?'

'Aw, G.o.d, Denton-Don't do this to me, man.'

'It's just coincidence?'

'Look-Give us some credit for brains, will you? Heseltine was in a bad way. He went away with you because you'd befriended him; isn't that the way it was? His dad said something like that. He comes back to London, the next morning he reads in the paper you've been shot and are near death. It's the last straw. Don't you get get it?' it?'

Denton did get it. He wavered: he hadn't seen it that way. It could have happened like that. Maybe Heseltine's cheerfulness had been the rise before an inevitable drop, the shooting the immediate cause. And yet-'Why did Jarrold shoot me that day that day?'

'Because it's the day he slipped his nurses and headed for London. D'you think we didn't interview them? His mother had two male nurses watching him, or so she said; well, what they were was two local ploughboys that could have been diddled by a ten-year-old. Turns out they let Sonny roam the grounds while they had their tea in the kitchen every day and played peeky-boo with the housemaids. He could have slipped them any time he wanted.'

'Then why that day?'

Munro pounded the arm of the chair. 'Because he's a bleeding loony!'

Denton lay back again. He felt exhausted, jangled; his blood seemed to be pounding in his head. 'Why did we go to France?'

'How the h.e.l.l should I know?'

'Then why didn't you ask me?'