Murther & Walking Spirits by Robertson Davies

“My father never did. Varium et mutabile semper, he used to say. He’d had a good Scots education, you see. He’d put it in the vernacular —

A windvane changeable — huff puff

Always is a wooman.

I suppose you’ve never been the least bit huff puff yourself, Mr. Going?”

“She was using me!”

“Had you no suspicion of that?”

The Sniffer is looking very down in the mouth.”That’s what we were talking about,” he says, at last.

“On the fatal night? You had quarrelled?”

“Not quite, but a quarrel was coming up fast. That was when Gil burst in.”

“After you’d been what you call lovers, you were dis­agreeing?”

“We hadn’t been lovers — not that time — in the way you mean. She told me she thought the time had come to break it off between us.”

“And you didn’t want that?”

“I’d better be frank.”

“Yes, I think so.”

“I’d meant to say that myself. In such situations, I’d always been the one who said it. After a lot of — well, tender­ness and protestations of this, that and the other.”

“And you were angry because she got in ahead of you? Liberated times, Mr. Going. Liberated times.”

“That was when Gil came charging in and laughed at me.”

“And you conked him?”

“Yes.”

“Killed him?”

“I suppose so.”

“No, you don’t suppose so. You bloody well know you did. Now look here at my picture, there on the wall. Degrés des ges. Belonged to my father, the Edinburgh policeman; he valued it as a guide in crimes like yours. Mankind, male and female, walking over the great Bridge of Life. Which of those men is Gil, would you say?”

“Need we go into this?”

“Yes, or I wouldn’t be doing it. Look at the picture, man. Where’s Gil?”

“That one, I suppose.”

“Stop your silly supposing. Of course it’s Gil. L’ge de maturité. And it was just when he’d reached his maturity that you killed him. What did you kill? What possibilities? Gil was an able fellow, let me tell you. He might have done some very good things, as a journalist or whatever. But you put a stop to that, didn’t you? Not really meaning it, which is a fool’s excuse, when the fool’s bloody well gone and done it. Poor Gil! To be murdered is bad enough, but to be murdered by a posturing ninny –! He’d have laughed, I expect. May be laughing now, for whatever I know. He had a powerful sense of irony. So –?”

“So what?”

“So what comes next? I know what my father would have done, of course. He’d have booked you.”

“You’d better get on with it and book me yourself. Phone the police. I’m ready.”

“Oh, but I’m not. Not yet. You’re not alone in this. There’s Esme, isn’t there?”

“You seem to know a lot about Esme. Have you been talking to her?”

“I’d say she’s been talking to me. Came to see me earlier this evening. Sat right where you’re sitting now.”

“She told you about the whole thing?”

“No. She wanted to ask me about Gil’s interest in the occult, as she called it.”

“The occult?”

“A foolish term. Gil used to come to talk with me about metaphysics. He tried to play the hard-headed newspaper man, but he had quite a turn for metaphysics.”

“Religion, you mean?”

“Don’t try to tell me what I mean, Mr. Going. When I say metaphysics, I mean metaphysics. The Queen of Pas­times, the sport of the intellect, the high romance of specula­tive thought; infinite in scope, relying on the treacherous subtlety and learning of the player; and yet, in its daring and refusal to heed mundane considerations, capable of splendid flights into the darkness that surrounds our visible world. Metaphysics, the mother of psychology and the laughing father of psychoanalysis. A wondrous game, Mr. Going, in which the players cannot decide what the relative values of the pieces are, or how big a board they are playing on. A wondrous, wondrous diversion for a really adventurous mind.”

“Gil was into that?”

“He’s into it now. You put him there yourself. With your pretty magic wand, that you are playing with. I wish you’d put it down.”

“Listen — don’t imagine I put any belief in this moon­shine you are talking about — but just tell me where you, as a metaphysician, might suppose that Gil was now?”

“That’s a very big question and, as a metaphysician, I can’t give you a straight reply. But suppose, for instance, that those kundalini fellows have the right of it. At the moment, Gil may be having a bad time with the Lord of Death. He’s a very bad character, you know. He would put a rope around Gil’s neck and drag him about, and cut off his head, tear out his heart, pull out his guts, lick up his brains, eat his flesh and gnaw on his bones — and yet Gil wouldn’t be able to die; he’d feel every outrage, and revive again, and go through the same anguish, until the Furious Lord of Death thought he needed a wee respite, to get ready to be reborn.”

“Reborn?”

“Yes. And who might it be? Esme is going to have a child, she tells me, with a maternal satisfaction that surprised me in her. Maybe it’ll be a wee Gil. More likely not. But there’s always the outside chance. Metaphysics is a world of chances.”

“How absolutely frightful! This is preposterous!”

“I’m teasing you, Mr. Going. It’s irresistible.”

“Why not just say Gil’s gone, and done with, and nowhere?”

“That’s what you’d like me to say, is it?”

“It’s the general opinion.”

“You’re a drama critic. Surely you remember Ibsen? ‘The solid majority is always wrong.’ ”

“Oh God — my nerves are absolutely shot to hell. Listen, McWearie, I’m sorry I called you a shit.”

“Not the first and won’t be the last, I’m sure.”

“This whole thing is killing me. Esme — I trusted her. Of course I knew we were coming to the end, but I trusted her. And — I can hardly tell you — but I’m beginning to have delu­sions. Would you believe it? This evening, as I walked through the streets, I’d swear I had two shadows!”

“Oh? That’s because you’re beside yourself.”

The Sniffer leaps up and grabs his stick, but Hugh is too quick for him, and snatches it out of his hand.”You’re better off without that thing. I’ll just put it up here on top of the bookcase, along with my skull — I call him Poor Yorick, and that’s a joke a drama critic ought to understand — and I’ll give you a drink. Rye? You’d better like it because it’s all I have. Now look here. It’s not at all unusual for a man in your situation to think he has two shadows. I’ll give you a meta­physical tip; there are a lot of mischievous things that are likely to happen when we step a little aside from the straight path of life. Nobody really knows who is talking, or why, or casting the shadow, or making the racket in the cupboard, or breaking the bread knife or getting up to all sorts of pranks. Even Freud was at a loss to explain them, and he was a ready man with an explanation, as you know. Maybe it’s the Devil. He’s a very handy explanation for anything we can’t figure out. Drink your drink and get a grip on yourself.”

“Yes. Let’s get it over.”

“Get what over?”

“Phoning the police.”

“I haven’t the slightest intention of phoning the police.”

“You’re not going to turn me in?”

“Why should I do your dirty work?”

“My dirty work?”

“Yes. You wanted Father Boyle to wipe your soul clean for you, and he wouldn’t. Now you want me to turn you in, and I won’t. Vengeance? I don’t want vengeance. Turn your­self in, man.”

“Yes, but that would be doing the dirty on Esme. She’d be dragged in.”

“And her fine book on bereavement would have to take a different tack. There isn’t a huge public for books about how to deal with life after your lover has murdered your husband, and it would be hard for that baby, when he — or she, we must say — was twelve or so. Ah, you’re very gallant, Mr. Going. But you wouldn’t mind if I did the dirty on Esme. You’d rather be dragged away to prison than just walk there on your own two feet.”

“You’re not going to say anything?”

“Not a word.”

“Never?”

“I never say Never, but in so far as in me lies — and that’s a lot farther than you probably suppose — Never.”

“I suppose I have to thank you.”

“You won’t when you’ve given it a little thought. Sup­pose I turn you in: you’d probably be charged with man­slaughter, because your act was not premeditated; you’d get something like three years, and you’d be out long before that, because these days the dice are heavily loaded in favour of the murderer. It’s a hot dinner for the wrongdoer, and cold pota­toes for the wronged person. And after prison I suppose you’d think of yourself as a man who’d paid his debt. So I’m not doing you a great favour in letting you walk out of this room a free man, because a free man is precisely what you’ll never be. You must carry that stick, or who will know you’re the celebrated Mr. Going. You must live with Gil’s ghost –“

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