Deep Damnation

"And good morning to you too, Gladys," Peggy replied smoothly. "How nice of you to call. Was it university business you wanted to talk about? Because I'm busy, and don't have time for social chit-chat."

"Don't give me that malarkey," Gladys retorted. "You know very well what I've come about. What's Duncan doing here masquerading as your husband?"

"Masquerading?" Peggy asked in a surprised tone. "There's no masquerade. He is my husband."

Gladys glared at her. "No he isn't. If he's still alive, he's still my husband. We were never divorced."

"Oh, I see," Peggy said with a smile. "You think that my husband Duncan is the same man as your late husband Duncan. But how can he be? Your husband died, didn't he? You identified the body yourself. Remember?"

Gladys recalled the inquest on Duncan. She could remember her evidence even now, twenty years later. Of course she remembered. It was an excellent performance, one of her best.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

She had taken a great deal of trouble over her costume, a complete new mourning outfit. Even her underwear was black; she didn't want to deceive the suppositions of the male eyes that would be upon her. And she had bought a dainty white handkerchief with a black border to dab her eyes with.

Surveying herself in the mirror beforehand, she had been satisfied with what she saw. A beautiful blue-eyed black-clad blonde could be a very appealing image. She had practised making her lip tremble and her eyes brim with tears. No problem, unless she had the bad luck to come up against a female coroner.

Her luck had held. The male coroner had turned a consoling look upon her, his face full of fatherly concern. She had responded with her vulnerable look, relying on his unfatherly thoughts to protect her from any hard questions or cross-examination.

"I know that this must be distressing for you, Mrs King, so we shall keep it as brief as possible. Will you please tell us when you last saw your husband alive?"

She had replied, "On the morning of Sunday, April the third. He was going potholing with his friend Peter - Mr Betcham." She took care to give the word 'his' a slight emphasis. "I saw him off just before eight o'clock that morning."

Seeing Duncan off had consisted of replying to his "Cheerio!" with a bad-tempered grunt from a warm bed she had no intention of leaving for at least two hours, but there was no need to confuse the coroner with irrelevant details of that sort.

"You expected him to return the same day?" the coroner had asked.

"Yes. He usually got back about tea-time from his trips, or nine o'clock at the latest."

"And on this occasion he did not?"

"No. (sob) Mr Betcham rang about four o'clock (sniff) and said there had been an accident (dab), and Duncan was . . . was. . ." (sob, sniff, dab).

"That's all right, Mrs King. We have heard from Mr Betcham what happened. Now a body was found on Annunside two days later. Were you sent for to see that body and identify it?"

"Yes. It was the body of my husband, Duncan." (sob, sniff, dab, brave smile).

"Thank you, Mrs King. That will be all. You have been very brave."

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Peggy broke in on her reminiscences with, "Of course, I didn't see the body myself, but as far as I recall, apart from some bruises and contusions it was not disfigured or mutilated in any way. You could not have mistaken a stranger for your own husband, surely?"

Gladys mentally kicked herself. She had been so wrapped up in recalling her past triumph that she had lost track of the present and allowed this suburban hausfrau to upstage her. "Well, I was very upset," she said lamely.

"I'm sure you were. So upset that you married Peter a few weeks later. My fiancé Peter."

Peggy's barb switched Gladys into retaliatory mode. If it was going to be claws out time, well, two could play at that game. "I see," she said. "So now you've got your revenge by marrying my husband Duncan."

"Don't be silly. He's not the same man. Your Duncan was born on 12th November 1961, my Duncan was born on 5th May 1960. Two different birth certificates, two different people."

"You expect me to believe that?" Gladys asked scornfully. "Two different people could not be so alike."

"Oh, I don't know," Peggy replied. "I once knew a man who was often mistaken for his own brother."

"But brothers don't have the same Christian names, do they?" Gladys replied triumphantly.

"That would be unusual," Peggy acknowledged. "But now I really must get on with my work, so if you don't mind?"

At the door, Gladys turned. "You've not heard the last of this, my girl. I'll find out what your game is."

"I don't play games, Gladys," Peggy assured her. "I play for real. And I play for keeps. Goodbye."

Gladys slammed the door behind her as she left.

* * *

There was a good attendance at Peter's first lecture, though his students were more curious to observe the new professor imported from the United States, than eager to imbibe what new knowledge he might bring.

Peter entered the lecture hall and mounted the platform. On the lectern was a folded sheet of paper, an official notice of some sort, he supposed. He picked it up and replaced it with his own lecture notes. He looked around the room to command attention, unfolding the paper as he did so and laying it on top of his notes.

"Good morning. Today I intend to . . ."

Words died in his throat as he looked down at the lectern. The now unfolded paper showed a picture of a short piece of rope, with one cut end and one frayed end. The ends were labelled "End cut by knife" and "End frayed on rock."

With an effort, he tried to continue. "I intend to . . . I intend . . . I . . . " It was in vain. His mouth dried up, his throat closed, and his voice became hoarse and incomprehensible. He turned and left the hall, his forehead damp with sweat.

The students looked at each other and shrugged, pulling comic faces.

* * *

Peter stumbled out to the car park. He was thankful to see that Gladys must have phoned a taxi, and his car was still there. He had difficulty opening the car door; his hand was shaking and sweat was dripping from his forehead into his eyes. He drove home blindly.

On arrival he left the car on the drive, not bothering to garage it. He let himself into the house, entered the sitting room, staggered to the sideboard, and poured himself a strong drink. He turned and saw Gladys sitting in an armchair, reading a magazine and dipping into a box of chocolates.

"Oh, it's you," she said. "You're back early. I thought you were lecturing today."

He dropped into a chair. "He's sending me messages. Threatening messages."

"Who is? What are you talking about?"

"Duncan. It must be him. Only he could know."

"Know what? What's in the messages?"

"Nothing. Just a picture."

"A picture? What of?"

"For God's sake, what does it matter, what of?" Peter spat out in exasperation. "It's a warning. That's all that matters. He knows, I tell you, and he's threatening me. Duncan King is threatening me."

Gladys spoke reassuringly. "The Kings aren't a threat, they're just a nuisance. I spoke to Peggy today. She says her husband isn't Duncan but his brother of the same name. Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous?"

"You might find it ridiculous, but you're not the one who has to face him."

Gladys looked at him in alarm. "Face him? Have you faced him?"

"No, not yet, but I'm going to have to, sooner or later, aren't I?"

"No, you aren't," Gladys said firmly. "For Heaven's sake, talk about inviting trouble. All you have to do is get on with your job and not upset anybody. They can't do anything."

"But they already have. That's what I'm telling you. They're sending me messages."

"Messages which don't say anything. You're not making any sense. You'd better pull yourself together, or you'll be losing this job. Get yourself something for lunch. I'm going shopping." Gladys rose and left the room, throwing her abandoned magazine into the chair in exasperation.

* * *

The following day Peter felt well enough to go to work. He was still troubled in his mind, but physically he felt stronger. In his office he hung up his coat and hat, and sat at his desk. His computer screen was displaying a message: "Peter. See notice board opposite computer labs."

He pressed a key on the intercom. Susan's voice replied, "Yes, Professor?"

"Susan, did you leave a message for me on my computer?"

"No, Professor."

"Do you know who did?"

"No, Professor. I didn't even know that any message had been left."

He switched the intercom off without replying. Not for the first time he wished he was still with Bobbisoft. He was happy there. Oh sure, his career had ground to a halt, but he was content to draw a generous salary and let his assistants make all the decisions. It was an easy life, and he had been satisfied with that.

But Gladys had not been satisfied with that. As soon as she realised that he was never going to make vice-president, she had conceived the plan of returning to Britain "to impress the yokels," as she put it. But he did not feel impressive. He felt lonely and insecure.

Bemused, he made his way to the notice board mentioned in the computer message. A few students were reading the various notices on display. Tacked on top of all the others, as if it were a recent addition, was an A3 sheet with hand writing in marker pen. It read:

"Students! Are you tired of scissors, paper, stone - scissors cut paper, paper wraps stone, stone blunts scissors? Try the new improved version - knife, rock, rope - knife cuts rope, rock frays rope, rope hangs murderer."

For a moment he felt that he had been turned to stone, then he snatched the notice from the board and looked around anxiously. Students were watching him curiously. Angrily he demanded of them, "Which of you have done this? Why do you make such faces?" The students looked at each other in a mixture of amazement and amusement. He hurried away up the corridor, trying not to run, crumpling the notice in his hands as he went.

* * *

Gladys heard Peter's car returning early from the college for the second day running. "Oh, for heaven's sake!" she exclaimed to herself in exasperation as she "What now?"

Peter entered the room, and slumped into a chair, putting his head in his hands.

"What's wrong now?" she asked crossly. Peter looked at her blindly and made no reply. "No, don't tell me. You've had more threatening letters that don't say anything."

Peter nodded.

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

Peter shook his head.

"Look here, Peter, this must stop. It's all in your mind. The only thing threatening you is your own imagination. You will end up in a psycho ward if you're not careful. I'm going to make an appointment for you to see a doctor so you can get some tranquillisers. Mind you don't say anything to him, just that you feel stressed and anxious all the time. For God's sake don't tell him about threatening messages, or you'll be taken away by men in white suits."

She moved to the telephone and opened the Yellow Pages.

* * *

The following day Peter steeled himself to be calm as he entered the college and walked to his office. He was holding himself upright and breathing deeply. In his pocket was a bottle of pills. The doctor had assured him that if he felt an anxiety attack coming on, a couple of these would put him right immediately. He had already swallowed four with his breakfast.

His route took him past a notice board. He thought it might be as well to erase the memory of yesterday's humiliation by demonstrating that notice boards held no peril for him. He paused in front of it and scanned the miscellany of notices, mostly about forthcoming meetings of college societies. He was aware that a few students were eying him, perhaps expecting some untoward behaviour again. He smiled benignly at them as if to say, "Sorry to disappoint you."

As he was about to resume his journey his eye caught a film placard. The film society was announcing the next movie in its Hitchcock season. James Stewart stared out at him accusingly, holding a short length of rope. As if to leave no doubt, the word "ROPE" was printed across the evidence in flaming red letters.

He ripped the poster from the board and tore it into pieces. Rounding upon the astonished students, he shouted, "It's a lie, I tell you! A damned lie! I didn't do it! I didn't do it!"

* * *

Later that day in the Dean's office, after they had disposed of various administrative matters, the Dean asked Peggy, "About Professor Betcham, Mrs King. Is it true that he walked out of his own lecture?"

"Yes, that's right," Peggy replied. "Dr King had to cover for him."

"I've heard too that some of his actions have been, what shall we say, somewhat eccentric?" the Dean suggested tentatively.

"There has been a complaint today that he shouted at students in the corridor without any provocation."

"Oh dear. Is the poor fellow ill?"

"He hasn't reported sick or submitted a doctor's certificate."

"Well, he can't go on like this," the Dean commented. "What can we do? Can we require him to attend a medical board, or something like that?"

"Let's wait a few days, Dean," Peggy suggested. "As you know, I make routine checks on references and credentials of all appointees. Professor Betcham cited the Bobbisoft Corporation of America as a referee. I have now had a reply from them. Their senior Vice President, Mr Lennox, is in England at present and wants to speak to us. Let's wait and hear what he has to say. It may throw some light on the situation."

The Dean concurred. "That's a good idea. Fix up an appointment with Mr Lennox as soon as possible, will you?"

"I'll see it done," Peggy replied.

* * *

Gladys was unpacking groceries in her kitchen when her son Ross entered through the back door. He came up behind her and pecked her on the cheek with a "Hi, Mom."

She smiled warmly at him. At least there's one man in the family, she thought. A girl might achieve something with a partner like him, instead of the broken reed she had to work with. She wondered if there was some way Ross could be used to reinforce Peter.

She pondered how to raise the subject as they chatted. Ross gave her the opportunity she was seeking by asking, "Is Pop home? I want to ask him if he'll spring me for a new laptop."

"I'd rather you didn't, dear. I'll get you one for your birthday. I don't want you to bother your father. He's not himself lately."

"What's the matter with him? Is he ill?"

"I don't know. I'm worried about him; he's so out of sorts. He grows worse and worse. I think something at the university is stressing him. You haven't heard of anything that might be causing it, have you? Is there any talk about your father?"

Ross was uncomfortable with this line of questioning. He was aware that the new professor was a subject of gossip among some students, but he tried to distance himself from that, not wishing it to be known that he was related to a member of the faculty.

It disturbed him to think that his mother seemed to be asking him to spy for her, so he answered, "I don't know, Mom. None of my subjects are in his department. I tell you what, I'll ask Melissa. She studies under him."

"Melissa? Who's Melissa? This is the first I've heard of her. You don't waste much time, do you, you young heart breaker?"

She smiled kindly upon him. She liked the idea of her handsome son cutting a swathe through hordes of pretty young co-eds. She wished she could be one of them.

Ross was pleased with the change of subject. "She's just a nice girl, Mom, who took pity on a lonely visitor from a foreign land, and invited him to tea."

"And does she also just happen to be a leggy blue-eyed blonde cheer leader in a rah-rah skirt, shaking her pom-poms at you?" Gladys asked roguishly.

"Well, no, actually. I don't think they grow that species over here. I think you'll like her. And she'll know the scuttle-butt about Pop if there is any, because her father is Pop's number two."

"His number two? What do you mean?"

"Melissa's father is Doctor King, the Senior Lecturer in Pop's department."

Ross was shocked by the violent transformation that this apparently innocuous information produced in his mother. Her face contorted with hate as she almost shrieked, "She's Duncan King's daughter? Ross, I want you to keep away from her."

Ross could not understand the sudden change in his mother's mood. "Keep away from her? Whatever for? Mom, you haven't even met her. In fact, you've hardly met anyone over here yet. Don't say you're making enemies already." He was well aware that in America his mother had been tolerated rather than welcomed by his father's colleagues and their wives.

"I'm telling you, Ross, it would be better if you had as little to do with her as possible."

"Mom, you can't just say that without any reason," Ross protested.

"I have my reasons."

"Such as?" Ross demanded.

Gladys cudgelled her brain for an excuse. "Well, for one thing, it might make it awkward for your father. Suppose he had to discipline Dr King for some reason. He might feel constrained if his own son was friendly with Dr King's daughter."

"That's tommy-rot, Mother. As if two academics would let their professional relationship be influenced by what their children felt about each other."

"I don't want to fall out with you over this, Ross. Just remember, I would prefer that you kept your distance from that family."

"Okay, I'll remember that, but what I do about it is another matter. I've already arranged to have tea with Melissa today, and I'm not going to call it off now." Ross had no intention of allowing his mother to rule him as she did his father.

* * *

Melissa opened the front door and ushered Ross inside, shouting, "Hi, Mum! I've brought a visitor with me." She led him through to the kitchen. "Mum, this is Ross. Can he stay for tea? We can find a stale crust or two for him, can't we?"

Peggy recognised the bantering tone that Melissa always adopted when introducing boys whom she particularly liked. This one looked clean cut and presentable. "Pay no attention to her, Ross," she said. "Her mother must have neglected to teach her manners." She wiped her floury hands on her apron and extended one to Ross. "I'm pleased to meet you, Ross. Of course you're welcome to stay for tea. There's plenty to go round."

"Thank you, Mrs King. I'm pleased to meet you. It's good of you to receive me in your home." Handing her a brown paper bag, he added, "I thought you might like to try some genuine American Girl Scout Cookies, but now that I see that you do your own baking, perhaps they are coals to Newcastle."

"Why, thank you Ross. That's very thoughtful of you. I'm delighted to find that Melissa has at last met a young man who has been properly brought up."

"Actually, Mum, you know Ross's parents," Melissa chipped in. "He's Professor Betcham's son."

"Professor Betcham's son? Why, I knew your parents way back when, Ross, but we lost touch. I didn't even know that they had any children."

"Just me. I'm their only child."

Peggy looked him up and down curiously. "Well, well. Gladys and Peter's son. Who'd have thought it?"

"Well, technically Pop is my step-father. When Mom married Pop she was already pregnant with me by her first husband."

Peggy reacted as if stricken by a blow to the head. The smile fled from her face, and she collapsed into a kitchen chair, staring blankly at Ross as if he had suddenly sprouted horns. After a while she intoned in a hollow voice, "Oh, my God. Oh, my God."

Ross was astounded. Within the last couple of hours, innocent words uttered by him had produced an extraordinary effect upon his audience. He did not fail to notice the connection between the remarks which had caused these similar results. His mother had become angry when he had mentioned Melissa's parentage, and now Melissa's mother had become distraught when he had mentioned his own. He began to put two and two together.