The Yeare's Midnight (32 page)

‘The world is dry and lifeless, having drunk the life-giving balm that supports it. Life itself is shrunken, dead and buried.’ Stussman’s pen scratched against the paper.

‘I am every dead thing in whom love transformed ugliness into spiritual purity. Love, the great alchemist, extracted a quintessential life-force from me even though I am a nothingness.’

‘Destroyed by love, I am now reborn of things that are nothing: absence, darkness, death.’ Did the killer think he was some sort of alchemist? Stussman was annoyed the thought hadn’t occurred to her already.

‘All other living things have a form and a soul, but through love’s limbecke …’ Stussman paused for a second. What was a limbecke? She opened a reference book and sought a definition. There it was: a limbecke was the vessel in which the actual process of alchemy – the transformation of base things into gold – supposedly took place.

Did the killer think that the murdered women were the limbecke for his own terrible alchemy? Were they the vessels in which his basest thoughts were converted into something pure and valuable?

‘Whenever Donne or his lover thought of anything except each other, they cried a flood that drowned the world. They resembled the chaos that preceded the birth of the universe. Separation from each other turned them both into carcasses.’

Stussman noted the latest appearance of the notion of a flood drowning the world: there were similar references in each of the four poems that the killer had cited.

‘Donne distinguishes between an “ordinary nothing”, meaning the mere absence of something and the “first nothing”, the quintessential nothing that existed before the birth of the universe.’

‘He outlines the order of nature below man: animals, plants and stones, claiming that even these lesser creatures are invested with properties such as emotion. If the author were an ordinary nothing he too would possess these characteristics.’

‘Donne says he has become a quintessential nothing: the absolute nothingness of pre-creation. He will not be renewed. So on the festival of St Lucy, the longest and darkest night of the year, he prepares to join the dead woman.’

When
is
the
world
a
carkasse?
When had death and grief sucked the very life from the soil itself? Now she knew. As far as Donne was concerned it was St Lucy’s Day, the year’s midnight: the night he mourned the death of his wife during childbirth. The very substance of the poem, its central conceit and argumentative logic, drew their strength from the day on which the piece had been conceived.

Timing.

Stussman checked her calendar: the longest night of the year was in December. She ran her finger along each of the days. There it was: 21 December. The beginning of winter.

‘Eight days from today,’ she said aloud, scaring herself.

She paused. 21 December. It didn’t seem right. She had written critiques of the poem before and the date didn’t sound familiar.

‘Shit!’ She suddenly remembered and, cursing her stupidity, turned to the back of the
Songs
and
Sonnets.
Stussman found the footnotes that accompanied ‘A Nocturnall Upon St Lucies Day’:

‘Note 2. Saint Lucy’s Day was regarded by Donne and his
contemporaries as the first day of winter and the shortest day of the year. Prior to the reform of the calendar in 1752, St Lucy’s Day was 13 December, the day on which the sun entered Capricorn, the sign of the goat.’

13
December.
Today.
The
world
is
a
carkasse
on
St
Lucy’s
Day.
Today
is
St
Lucy’s
Day.

Stussman felt a hot stab of excitement. She stood and pulled down her copy of
Brewer’s
Dictionary
of
Phrase
and
Fable
from a high shelf. On page 376 she found the entry she was looking for:

‘St
Lucy,
the
patron
saint
of
people
with
eye
afflictions.’

Stussman read on and the story came back to her. Lucy of Syracuse had been blessed with beautiful eyes. She had plucked them out to deter an eager suitor rather than break her vow of chastity. God had rewarded her with a place in paradise.

Stussman sat back in her chair, shaking with nervous excitement. She felt sure that the murderer of Elizabeth Drury and Lucy Harrington was going to kill himself.

He was not awake but he was cognizant. Spinning in his own head. There were noises around him. People speaking, clattering metal on metal, electronic humming. He couldn’t open his eyes. A sheet of light lay across his eyelids. He was conscious; flailing his arms and legs. Voices. People holding him down. Fragments of memory nibbling at him: the cottage, the clifftop, Lucy Harrington. Disjointed thoughts and folded logic. Where was he?

Pain. He was aware of pain. So at least he wasn’t dead. His head throbbed. There was a kind of bruised tightness in his chest. A needle in his wrist spread dull pain up the length of his arm. He was exhausted, swimming at the bottom of a bright white ocean. Creatures gnawing at him, eating him from the inside out. So much pain. Was he dying? Flailing now in
impotent waking panic. People all around him again. A prick of pain on his arm. Injection. He relaxed slowly, thoughts swirling, eyes staring at him.

He could not move. He could not see. He could smell. There were different smells. Perfume, soap, antiseptic. Was he floating in a bath? Was he being reborn in this agony? Perhaps he had never lived at all and had merely dreamed his life from the womb. Perhaps his mistakes were merely flickerings of the foetal imagination. Perhaps he had been given another chance to start from scratch.

He knew the idea was absurd. New life could never be so lifeless. Every atom of his being felt jaded and polluted.

He couldn’t open his eyes. Had they been torn from their sockets? No. There were changes in shade, flickers of bright and dark. Cooking. He could smell cooking: a distant, insistent greasy smell. And coffee. He could smell coffee.

Coffee
in
the
kitchen.
Coffee
and
flowers:
yellows
and
reds,
washes
of
colour.
Wind
noisy
at
the
glass.
Darkness,
violence.
Julia
crying.
Heyer’s
blood
on
his
hands.
Had
he
killed
him?
He
had
left
him
on
the
clifftop.
Julia
crying,
beautiful
even
in
her
pain.
An
ambulance,
people
running
around
him.
Machines
beeping
at
him.

Hospital.
He
was
in
hospital.
And
Dexter.
Dexter
was
in
danger
–
he
had
to
call
her.
Had
to
tell
her.

Something
over
his
mouth.
He
cannot
speak.
There
is
pain
again.
Torture
in
his
chest,
like
a
butcher
chopping
meat
from
the
inside
out.
Chop.
Chop.
Make
it
stop.
Make
it
stop.

Activity:
people
running,
shouting.
Machine
beeping
louder.
Was
he
dying?
Don’t
accept
it.
Fight
it.
Must
speak
to
Alison.
Danger.

John Underwood grunted something into his oxygen mask. Another needle pierced the skin of his arm. Darkness.

February 1945
Tottenham, London

Rose had laid on an impressive spread, considering the meagre resources. Violet Frayne crunched her third cucumber sandwich of the morning and washed it down with a gulp of sugary tea. It was a comfortable room. Neatly presented, without the clutter of ornaments that Violet always found so distasteful in the homes of others. Rose had bought a couple of prints since Violet’s last visit: both were of composers, Mozart and Bach. They had been strategically placed above the piano. Perhaps Rose found inspiration in their black-eyed gaze.

Elizabeth had finally fallen asleep in her crib after squawking and yowling for over an hour. Violet found her baby exhausting sometimes and was grateful when her sister had the idea of placing a drop of brandy in the baby’s milk. It had worked like a dream and Violet made a mental note to intoxicate Elizabeth whenever she played up in future.

Violet scanned Rose’s book collection. It covered an entire wall and contained many first editions and beautifully bound collections of poetry and drama. Her own collection back in Bolden seemed rather threadbare in comparison. She chanced upon a copy of
Macbeth,
superbly presented in black leather binding and delicate gold-leaf lettering. It was her favourite play. She returned to her chair and began, with considerable care, to turn the pages. She jumped slightly as Rose returned to the room bearing a freshly baked Dundee cake.

‘There we are, Violet, I know it’s your favourite.’ Rose placed the cake on the small table in front of her sister and cut off two generous slices.

‘You shouldn’t have, Rose.’ Violet felt guilty. ‘You must have wasted a week’s rations on me.’

‘Nonsense. I always have more than I need. And I’ve no one
else to cook for.’ Rose winced as the words came out. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Vi, I wasn’t thinking.’

‘It’s been nearly a year now,’ Violet said. They left it at that.

‘I see my little trick worked on Madam,’ said Rose, looking over at the sleeping baby.

‘She’s dead to the world.’

‘Oh! You found one of my Burlington Shakespeares.’ Rose nodded at the book in Violet’s hand.

‘It’s beautiful, Rose. Wherever did you get them all?’

‘There’s a shop, Forbes Books, in Charing Cross Road. They have a wonderful selection. Very reasonable, too.’ She took a sip of tea. ‘They bought all the stock of Burlington Publishing when the company went broke a year or two ago. You can pick up some real bargains. Nobody wants quality books any more. I think they make the room.’

‘They do, Rose. I’m frightfully jealous.’

‘Why don’t you pop in there before you head home? You can pick up a bus on Seven Sisters Road. It would only take half an hour.’

‘I might do that.’ Violet turned back to the book. ‘
Hamlet
is masterly but I think I prefer
Macbeth
to all the other tragedies. The language is so compelling.’ She read aloud from the text:

Rose finished the quotation from memory:

Violet closed the book softly and smiled at her sister. ‘Only two schoolteachers would meet for lunch and end up quoting Shakespeare at each other.’

‘At least we put the emphasis in the right places.’

‘You have to know your iambs from your trochees!’

Rose laughed. ‘“Iambic pentameter is the building block of modern culture.” Sound familiar?’

‘Father.’ Violet smiled too. ‘I always thought that his monologues
on classical literature were his revenge on us for being girls.’

‘You may well be right.’ Rose paused for a moment. ‘Are you all right, Vi? I hope you don’t mind me asking but sometimes I can’t sleep for worrying about you and the baby.’

‘We’re fine.’ Violet’s eyes misted slightly but she wouldn’t cry, she would be strong. As she had always been. ‘We have the house and money’s not really a problem.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘I know what you meant.’

‘Losing someone like that. It must be a terrible thing.’

Violet swallowed hard. The tears were brimming up inside her. She fought them all back except one. She looked her sister directly in the eye.

‘Talking about it doesn’t help me, Rose. I have to get there by myself.’

‘I understand. But I didn’t want you to think that I didn’t care, or that you can’t speak to me if you have to.’ Rose floundered for the right words. ‘I just feel so helpless.’

Elizabeth suddenly started crying.

‘She’s hungry,’ said Violet. ‘Could you give me the milk bottle?’

‘Shall I give her a drop more brandy?’ Rose asked.

‘No. But you can pour me one,’ Violet joked despite herself.

‘We’ll both have one.’ Rose hurried out to the kitchen to find some glasses.

Violet picked up her baby and cradled it in her arms. Elizabeth had her eyes: round and blue. She had her father’s smile, though, when she chose to. Violet hushed the baby softly and stared out of the living-room window. It was a sunny afternoon, warm for February. Seven Sisters Road bustled with activity beyond the glass: men in uniforms, women with babies. Violet Frayne suddenly felt very small and very alone. ‘Pull yourself together,’ she remonstrated with herself as she started to cry again. ‘Must be strong. Have to be strong.’

Rose walked them to the bus stop about an hour later. They kissed each other goodbye and promised to meet more regularly. Rose slipped Violet a small bottle of brandy as the bus trundled
up. ‘For whoever needs it,’ she whispered. The conductor helped Violet to carry the pram onto the bus. She had originally planned to get off at Finsbury Park and then take the Tube to Liverpool Street via King’s Cross. However, her mind wandered back to the bookshop that Rose had mentioned. Violet felt like she deserved a treat and she loved books. She decided to stay on the bus all the way to the West End and then walk down Charing Cross Road.

Central London was a friendly chaos. Violet Frayne pushed her pram against a seemingly endless tide of people. A group of American servicemen smirked at the shop girls in a Woolworth’s store. One pressed his lips tightly against the window. A couple of them caught Violet’s eye, then saw the pram and quickly looked away. She found their attention shaming.

Strange faces and accents milled around her. There were policemen, boiler-suited ARP wardens, couples holding hands, and children. Lots of children, running and shouting. Most of the evacuated children had returned to the capital over the previous few months as the threat of air raids receded. Violet enjoyed the distractions but she didn’t like London any more: compared to Bolden it seemed dirty and noisy.

Bumped and jostled, she turned along Charing Cross Road and made her way south towards Leicester Square. The crowd gradually thinned and she began to pass the various second-hand bookshops. Finally she found Forbes Books. It had a smart dark blue awning and a small table of books outside the window. on the pavement. She ran her hand across a few of them.
Treasure
Island,
Oscar Wilde, Thomas Hardy. None of them particularly inspired her and, in fact, many of them looked rather tatty. Perhaps exposure to the air had damaged them. She went inside.

The shop bell tinkled as she pushed her pram through the narrow doorway. A young man stood behind the counter. He wore severe-looking half-glasses over a thin, angular face. He watched her struggle for a moment before his expression
softened and he helped her guide the pram into the centre of the shop.

‘There we are,’ he said. ‘Plenty of room.’

‘Thank you,’ said Violet, her gaze drifting around the shop. It was an impressive sight. Row upon row of new and used books, some beautifully presented as Rose’s had been, others worn and dusty with age. The room smelled of leather. Violet felt a sudden hunger for knowledge that had been absent from her for some time.

‘Was there anything in particular, madam?’ the assistant asked. ‘We have a number of books on special offer.’

‘My sister has some leather-bound editions of Shakespeare that she bought from you. I think they were published by Burlington’s.’

‘Indeed.’ The assistant guided her to the back of the shop. ‘We bought them as a lot. They’re rather well put together. Burlington produced a whole series like that. English classics, you know: Shakespeare, Dickens, Hardy and so forth. Sadly, there’re only a few remaining. They’ve proved rather popular.’

Violet looked at the shelf: there were six books bound in the same attractive black covers as Rose’s copy of
Macbeth.
She scanned the titles:
Titus
Andronicus
and
A
Winter’s
Tale.
She didn’t like either of those.
The
Mayor
of
Casterbridge
and
Joseph
Andrews.
She already owned a copy of the former and despised the latter. The last two books were more promising:
Great
Expectations
and
Donne:
Complete
Works.
She took them both off the shelf as the shop assistant padded back to his chair at the counter.

Both were in excellent condition. She smelled the leather on them before opening each in turn and delicately turning the pages.
Great
Expectations
was her favourite novel and Donne her favourite poet. She resolved to buy them both and handed over the seven shillings and sixpence for each with a warm glow of satisfaction. The assistant wrapped them carefully in paper and wished her a good afternoon before returning to his own copy of
An
Ideal
Husband.

Violet tried to get her bearings as she stepped into the light.
The Underground was probably the quickest way to get to Liverpool Street but negotiating the stairs with a pram would be exhausting. Better to get a bus. She turned right and headed up towards Tottenham Court Road where she hoped to find a bus stop. She eventually found the correct stop and stood at the end of a queue. Boredom quickly overcame her and she turned to look into a shop window: the shop sold antiques and Violet gazed at a beautiful bracket clock.

It had been made by Frodsham of Gracechurch Street and was fixed in a highly polished mahogany case with a bright brass inlay and matching brass hands. It was in excellent condition. She guessed it had been made around 1820. It seemed a fair price. Had she been intending to buy it, Violet would have insisted on seeing the mechanism: the hands were frozen at half-past six.

The explosion came from behind her and to her right. There was no warning. The noise was vast and sudden, a terrible dull metallic crash. There was a tremendous rush of air and as Violet half-turned in shock she was blown against the shop window, which imploded and shattered in her face. The air was thick with flying glass. Splinters spat at Violet Frayne’s legs and arms, and then, horribly, tore into an eye. She was aware of a terrible pain in the side of her face. Lying on a carpet of debris, she raised her hand to her face and felt a shard of glass jutting from her left eye. Her hands were warm with blood. She could hear people screaming, sirens beginning to wail. She reached out blindly for Elizabeth. The pram had been blown onto its side. Violet could hear Elizabeth crying.

It took an hour for her to be moved. She was taken by stretcher-bearers to the Middlesex Hospital and placed under heavy sedation. Her left eye was removed the following morning after it became obvious that it could not be saved. Two days later, Violet was moved to Moorfields Eye Hospital on the City Road. Here, specialist eye doctors cleaned her wounded socket and tidied up the emergency operation that had been performed at the Middlesex.

She had lost a lot of blood and was exhausted and traumatized. Violet lay for a week, half-asleep and dreaming morphine
dreams. She was vaguely aware of Rose at her bedside, of her sister crying, of someone saying that Elizabeth was fine. Rose talked about books and read her poems: Donne and Shakespeare’s sonnets. She talked about the V-2 attack. That people had been killed. That Violet was fortunate to be alive. Clarity gradually returned to her mind and Violet came to realize that she had been desecrated.

Alison Dexter drove to New Bolden Infirmary in a state of shock. Chief Superintendent Chalmers had called her to his office at 7.30 a.m. Accompanied by a senior officer from Huntingdon whom Dexter didn’t recognize and Chalmers didn’t identify, the chief superintendent told her that Inspector Underwood was in hospital recovering from a heart attack. He also told her that there were ‘extenuating circumstances’ and that, with immediate effect, Underwood would no longer be heading the investigation into the New Bolden killings. She would be in temporary charge until a new detective inspector from the AMIP office at Huntingdon could be brought in.

Dexter eventually found a parking space in the hospital car park and, on entering the main building, headed for Ward S6, the cardiac recovery ward. The lift was hot and crowded: Dexter felt a snake of sweat slither down her back. At reception on the sixth floor, a staff nurse directed her along a noisy corridor to a bay at the far end. John Underwood was asleep, surrounded by machines that monitored his pulse and blood pressure. Dexter checked the digital read-outs of the machines: pulse 68 b.p.m., blood pressure 180 over 90. That seemed high. She walked over to the bed and sat down. Underwood stirred, his head moved slightly and he half-opened his eyes.

‘Dex.’ It was no more than a croak, dry and rasping.

‘Look at you, guv.’ Dexter tried to be light-hearted. ‘A right two and eight.’

‘Been better.’ His eyes closed again as exhaustion clamped them shut.

‘You’ve been stupid,’ she corrected him. ‘You’ve been ill for weeks. It’s too much for …’