The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 9 Part 38

And then Jackie was screaming, and even now I can recall exactly the words that came from her mouth: "My G.o.d, what are they doing? My G.o.d, they've killed Jack, they've killed my husband ... Jack, Jack!"

I could see her sprawled across the back of the car, and for some reason I had the idea she was trying to gather my head together, gather it all together and put it back where it came from ... and I could feel myself smiling, and the feeling I had was one of peace, peace and quiet, because somehow I knew I would never have to sit up late into the night worrying about what was happening with the world, and what the Russians might be doing in Cuba, and whether Connally and Yarborough would bury the hatchet so we could take Texas with something more than an eyelash margin in the fall ... all these things ...

Police Chief Curry's Ford couldn't keep up with SS 100 X and Halfback. I could see him shouting at a motorcyclist.

"Anybody hurt?" he asked, and the motorcyclist shouted, "Yes", and then Curry radioed his HQ dispatcher and told them to call Parkland Hospital and have them stand by. The dispatcher's microphone b.u.t.ton was stuck, and it was three minutes before Parkland was notified. Three minutes before they got the message "601 coming in on Code 3, stand by". Then the motorcade arrived at 12.36, and they weren't ready. The Chief Surgeon was in Houston, the Senior Nurse at a conference fifteen miles away ...

I was dead by the time we got there. Jackie was holding on to my body, and though Dr Burkley was there, there was nothing he or anyone else could have done. Six minutes it had taken to get to Parkland, and I had been dead for all of those six. Clint was there, Ralph Yarborough and Dave Powers. They had to get John Connally out in order to reach me, and once they had him Clint tried to tell Jackie to let me go, but she wouldn't. She held on to me for dear life, and when he asked again she said, "I'm not going to let him go, Mr Hill," and then Clint said "We've got to take him in, Mrs Kennedy", and she said, "No, Mr Hill. You know he's dead. Let me alone." Clint took his coat off then, and he handed it to Jackie, and she wrapped it around my head. She didn't want the world to see me like that. And then they took my body out and laid it on the stretcher, and Jackie was moving alongside it and holding the coat together so the world wouldn't see what had become of me.

I remember the corridor inside, the tan-coloured tiling, and red-brown linoleum on the floor, and we were travelling down this corridor past O. B., Triage, Gynaecology, X-Ray, Admittance. Someone said that Connally was in Trauma Two, and I figured maybe he was dead too, and the first thought that came to mind was how this really was the end of the feud between him and Ralph Yarborough. Yarborough was the first one the reporters got to, and he said something which I will never forget. He said, "Gentlemen, this has been a deed of horror. Excalibur has sunk beneath the waves ..."

24740, Gunshot Wounds. That's who I was at Parkland, and then at 2 p.m. I was p.r.o.nounced dead by Kemp Clark, and apparently there were already seventy-five million Americans aware of what had happened, but not until five minutes later did Bobby find out, and it wasn't until 2.14 that Lyndon knew. He left Parkland twelve minutes later, and half an hour after that he called three Dallas lawyers in an attempt to locate a copy of the Oath of Office. He knew the thing had been done. He knew he was President, and it scared the living Jesus out of him.

McNamara summoned a meeting of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Was.h.i.+ngton's phone system broke down, and then at 3.20 Katzenbach dictated the Oath of Office to the crew aboard AF1. Eighteen minutes later Lyndon was sworn in as the thirty-sixth President of the United States of America. They took off for Andrews Field, and then at eight in the evening they started my autopsy.

The country kind of fell to pieces for a while, you know? November twenty-third they questioned this Oswald guy for less than three hours, and then on Sunday Jack Ruby shot him on NBC, and by the time Sunday evening rolled around there were 200,000 people around the Capitol. The following day, Monday, was the funeral. Jackie lit the Eternal Flame. Broken Taps were played.

But you know, the hardest thing of all, the thing that cuts me up even now, is that Monday was John Junior's birthday party. You imagine that? Three days after his dad is killed little John Junior has his birthday party, his third birthday party. Jackie did that. Jackie went ahead and did that, despite everything. And it was in that moment I realized how much I loved that woman, how much I cherished everything she did, everything she'd done to help me get where I was, and it was then, maybe for the first time, that I understood how much I had hurt her with the other women ...

And now you're gonna ask me whether I know who it was who killed me.

I'm sorry, I cannot put you out of your misery on that one. We know, we all know, that it could never have been this Oswald character. Impossible feat two shots, perhaps even three, from the sixth-floor window of the Texas School Book Depository? I understand that the FBI and the Army have tried this numerous times with a succession of brilliant marksmen, and none have accomplished it. They won't ever accomplish it, because it can't be done. The Warren Report was what it was: a whitewash. No one will ever really know, because the people who know are very likely dead themselves, and anyone who might be left will take it to their graves. But h.e.l.l, they won't get an Eternal Flame like I did.

Always has to be a fall guy ... always has to be someone who takes the rap for these things, and more often than not they're no more guilty than Oswald.

"We do this, it'll set a precedent."

"There's a pun there somewhere."

"There's always a pun with you."

"So once we have this one taken care of we'll talk about Bobby."

"We'll talk about Bobby if he campaigns."

"He will, believe me. I know the kid as well as anyone."

"Then we'll nominate you for that project."

"Well, this'll shut him up for a little while, that's for sure."

"This will shut everyone up for a little while."

"It'll change everything-"

"That's what it's supposed to do."

And you know something? Perhaps it would have been so much worse had it not been for Bobby. Bobby was always there, always back and to the left of me. I knew he was right behind me, knew he would just pick up the torch and keep carrying it.

He would make it.

I knew that in my heart.

That's what Dad would have wanted.

That one of us just one of us would make it all the way.

"So we're done then."

"Seems that way. It'll roll forward just the way we've discussed. We'll have that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Jack Kennedy out of the White House, the whole world blindsided by some bulls.h.i.+t Communist plot, and the country back in safe hands."

"Couldn't agree more. Here's to Texas in the fall."

"Sure as d.a.m.n it, my friend ... Texas in the fall."

THE FEATHER.

Kate Ellis.

THE PIANO IN the corner of the parlour hadn't been used for over three years ... not since Jack first left for France. n.o.body had had the heart to lift the lid since we received the dreadful news because the very sight of those black and white keys brought back memories of how he used to sit there and play.

Jack had known all the latest tunes and I can see him now, turning his head round and telling us to join in. "Come on," he'd say. "I'm not singing a solo." And when he sang, unlike me, he'd always be in perfect tune. Our Aunty Vi used to say he should be on the stage.

I stood in the parlour doorway and stared into the room with its big dark fireplace and its heavy oak furniture. It looked as it always had done, polished and spotless. The best room that we only used on Sundays. Sometimes I wondered what was the use of having a room you only used one day a week, but that was the way things were done in all the houses round here. Except when Jack had played the piano and sent a ray of suns.h.i.+ne into the solemn, polish-scented gloom.

"Ivy, what are you doing?"

My mother's voice made me jump and I swung round, feeling guilty. I'd been daydreaming again and in our house daydreaming was regarded as a major sin.

"I was just on my way to the washhouse."

"Well, go on then. Don't leave your sister to do all the work while you stand around thinking of higher things."

I knew from the way she snapped the words that she wasn't having a good day. Perhaps Mondays were the worst. We'd had the telegram from the War Office on a Monday when our hands were wet and red from the was.h.i.+ng.

"I'm going next door to take Mrs Bevan some soup," she said, nodding towards the jug she was holding; our best jug covered with a clean white cloth.

She'd been taking soup to Mrs Bevan for the past week, even though our neighbour had a daughter to nurse her in her time of sickness. In my opinion Mrs Bevan didn't deserve our kindness but Mother was like that to anyone who was ill or had fallen on hard times. When Dad was alive he'd called her a saint.

As she adjusted the cloth, I caught the salty aroma of the soup and I suddenly felt hungry. But it was washday and there was work to be done.

I spent the rest of the morning helping Rose in the washhouse and when Mother didn't appear to supervise our efforts like she usually did, I began to worry. My sister, however, didn't seem at all concerned and I guessed she was relieved that Mother wasn't there to scold her for her clumsiness. But when an hour pa.s.sed and Mother still hadn't returned, even Rose began to feel uneasy.

"Perhaps Mrs Bevan's taken a turn for the worse," Rose said. "Betty Bevan wouldn't be much help in the sickroom. She's never liked getting her hands dirty."

I shared Rose's opinion of our neighbour's daughter, who had obtained employment as a lady typist and considered herself above the menial work necessary to run a household if one could not afford servants. Betty Bevan had always been an impractical girl with ideas above her station and I knew she wouldn't be able to cope on her own if Mrs Bevan was really poorly. But the thought of Mother pandering to her whims made my blood boil with anger.

As I put a sheet through the mangle, I noticed a feather on the cobbled floor, wet and curled. A white feather, probably from a pillow or eiderdown. I stared at it for a few moments then I kicked at it and the dirt from my boot stained it the same dirty grey as the stone floor. I was about to pick it up when Mother appeared in the doorway. She was wiping her hands on her ap.r.o.n and, from the look of distress on her face I knew something had happened.

Rose and I waited for her to speak.

"She's dead," she said after a few moments, speaking in a whisper as though she didn't want to be overheard. "Mrs Bevan's dead."

I bowed my head. Another death. Our world was full of death.

Mother laid Mrs Bevan out. Betty hadn't known what to do and, besides, she hadn't stopped bursting into tears since it happened, twisting her silly sc.r.a.p of a lace handkerchief in her soft, well-manicured fingers.

I gathered that Betty was planning a rather grand funeral, Mrs Bevan having paid into an insurance policy to ensure that she had a good send off, and she told Mother proudly that the hea.r.s.e was to be the undertaker's best, pulled by four black horses with black glossy plumes. Normally Mother would have relished the prospect of seeing such a spectacle outside our terraced house, but when she returned home she seemed quiet and preoccupied. I knew for certain that it wasn't grief that had subdued her spirits, for she had never regarded Mrs Bevan as a close friend. Something else was preying on her mind and I longed to know what it was.

I was to find out later that day when a police constable arrived along with the doctor. Mother had summoned them and they were making enquiries into the cause of Mrs Bevan's unexpected death.

Rose told me in a whisper that Mrs Bevan's body had been taken to the mortuary to be cut up. The intrusion seemed to me obscene and I shuddered in horror at the very thought. Even Jack hadn't had to suffer that indignity. He had been trundled off on a cart and buried near the battlefield. A soldier known unto G.o.d. It was said that poppies grew where he fell, taking their scarlet colour from his innocent blood. Perhaps one day I would see those grim flowers for myself.

Mother would not tell my sister why she had alerted the police. She set her lips in a stubborn line and resisted all Rose's attempts to wheedle the truth out of her. But when she had first returned from the Bevan house she had asked my advice so I knew exactly why she had acted as she did.

I recalled her words, spoken in a whisper so that Rose would not hear.

"There's something amiss, Ivy," she said. "And that Betty was acting as if she didn't give a cuss until she saw me watching her then the waterworks started."

"What do you mean, amiss?" I asked.

"That was no chill on the stomach. She couldn't keep my good soup down and she was retching and soiling herself as though ... as though she'd been poisoned."

I remember gasping with disbelief. "You think Betty poisoned her mother?"

"She always was a nasty spoiled child. And she's turned into a nasty spoiled woman. That's what I'll tell the police."

"But you can't just accuse ..."

"That woman was poisoned. I'm as sure of that as I am of my own name."

Once Mother set her mind to something she could never be dissuaded. Therefore, when Mrs Bevan was lying in the big front bedroom next door, washed and laid out neatly in her best nightgown, it came as no surprise when Mother walked down to the police station and told the desk sergeant that she wished to report a murder.

The police searched the house next door, of course, and I heard later that they'd found a quant.i.ty of a.r.s.enic hidden in the washhouse. At first Betty swore that she had no idea how it came to be there. Then later she changed her story and said that her mother was probably keeping it there to kill mice.

The story didn't convince Mother or myself. And it certainly didn't convince the police because a few days later two constables called next door to arrest Betty Bevan.

Rose and I watched from the window as the younger constable led her away, holding her arm gently like a bridegroom leading his bride from the altar. Betty's head was bowed and I knew she was crying. But I could feel no pity for her.

It was three days after Betty's arrest and even the most inquisitive of our neighbours had failed to discover what was happening. Mother talked little about the tragedy next door; Rose, however, chattered on about it with unseemly enthusiasm and I had to do my best to curtail her curiosity. Terrible murder is one of those things that should not be treated as entertainment for wagging tongues but I confess that I too wished to know what had become of Betty Bevan.

At number sixteen we tried our best to carry on as normal but on Thursday afternoon something occurred that made this impossible, for me at least.

I was peeling vegetables for the evening meal in our tiny scullery when I heard a sc.r.a.ping noise coming from next door. Our scullery was attached to the Bevans' and the walls were thin so we could often hear their voices, sometimes raised in dispute. However, I knew the Bevans' house was supposed to be empty so I stopped what I was doing and listened.

I could hear things being moved around next door; a furtive sound as though somebody was s.h.i.+fting the contents of the scullery shelves to conduct a clandestine search. I put down my knife and wiped my rough hands on my ap.r.o.n, telling myself that it was probably the police but then the police have no need for secrecy. I had been no friend of the Bevans but if robbers were violating their empty house, I felt it was my duty as a neighbour to raise the alarm.

I crept out of the back door into our yard. The wall between the back yards was too high for me to see into next door so I let myself out into the back alley and pushed the Bevans' wooden gate open, trying not to make a sound. Once inside their yard, I crept past the privy and caught a whiff of something unpleasant. It had not been cleaned and scrubbed like our privy next door, but then I could hardly imagine Betty Bevan, or her mother for that matter, getting down on her hands and knees to wipe away the worst kind of filth.

When I reached the back door, I tried the latch and, to my surprise, it yielded and the door swung open. I do not know who was more surprised, myself or the young man standing there with a tea caddy in his hand. He was dressed in a dark, ill-fitting suit and his ginger hair was short and slicked back. With his sharp nose and small moustache, he reminded me a little of a rodent ... a rat perhaps. As soon as he saw me his lips tilted upwards in an ingratiating smile and I saw that one of his front teeth was missing.

"You didn't half give me a shock," he said with forced jocularity. His accent was local but I didn't think I had ever seen him before.

"Who are you?"

"Friend of Betty's. The name's Winslow ... Albert Winslow. Here's my card."

He produced a card from his pocket and handed it to me with a flourish. I studied it and learned that Albert Winslow was an insurance man. The local accent I'd detected in his unguarded greeting had vanished and now he spoke as if he was a person of the better sort, like the officers I'd overheard talking when Jack's regiment had marched through town. I had no doubt he wished to impress me and I felt myself blush.

I handed the card back to him. "You haven't said what you're doing here?"

"Neither have you, Miss." There was impertinence in his statement but I knew he had a point.

"I live next door. I heard a noise and I knew the house was empty so ..."

"You thought I was a burglar. I'm sorry to disappoint you. I've just come to retrieve something I left here on my last visit so you've nothing to worry your head over. And what a pretty head it is, if I may say so."

I felt myself blus.h.i.+ng again but I tried my best to ignore the remark. "I take it you know that Betty's ..."

He nodded, suddenly solemn. "It's a bad business. She's innocent, of course. Devoted to her mama, she was."

"Are you and Betty courting?"

He hesitated for a moment before nodding. "We were hoping to get engaged this summer."