Deep Damnation

The Dean smiled. "I'm not surprised, Mr Lennox. Not surprised you tried, and not surprised you failed. Dr King is a genius, and like all geniuses he is a law unto himself."

Lennox moved closer and said, "Dean, I have got a proposition I want to put to you. Suppose my corporation were to endow a new professorial chair and department in Applied Computer Graphics here. Say five million dollars the first year, to get it started, and two million per annum for the next five years, renewable. What would you say to that?"

"My dear chap, I'm sure the University would be delighted to receive a proposal of that sort."

"There would be conditions, of course," Lennox added. "First, that Dr King be appointed to the chair, and second that Bobbisoft would have the sole rights to the commercial application of his department's research results."

"Naturally, naturally," the Dean assured him. "I assumed that that was what you had in mind. Why don't you come to my office some time soon? I'll introduce you to our Bursar, and the two of you can arrange to get our respective legal eagles to draw up the particulars. How about Monday afternoon?"

"Monday afternoon it is, Dean. Now I must go and find Mrs Lennox. She went to the Ladies' Room, and won't be pleased if I'm not waiting when she comes out."

* * *

Gladys spotted Mrs Lennox emerging from the ladies' room and swooped upon her. "Myra, darling!" she effused. "How lovely to see a familiar face. Just imagine, crossing thousands of miles of ocean, and running into a dear friend from the other side of the Atlantic. What a small world it is, I do declare."

"Good evening, Mrs Betcham," Mrs Lennox replied with icy politeness.

At that moment Lennox approached. "There you are, my love. I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long."

"You remember Mrs Betcham, dear," Mrs Lennox said evenly. "She has just been telling me that it is a small world."

Politely Lennox said, "Good evening, Mrs Betcham."

"Gladys, please, Al!" Gladys gushed. "Surely it hasn't been so long that we need revert to formalities? You are the last people I expected to meet in this backwater. What are you doing here?"

"Just a business trip, Mrs Betcham," Lennox replied. "Meeting contacts, talent hunting, that sort of thing."

"You'll not have had much success here, then," Gladys said, scornfully. "They're so provincial and small-minded. I do declare, Peter and I are very disappointed. I fear we made a mistake in moving here. We would return to the States in a flash if a suitable opportunity was offered. You must speak to Peter about it. He's around here somewhere. He's so frightfully keen to get back to the cut and thrust of the business world."

"You promised me a dance, Alvin," Mrs Lennox said to her husband.

"Did I?" Lennox said in surprise. His wife gave him a look. "Oh, yes, that's right, so I did. Will you excuse us, Mrs Betcham?"

As the Lennoxes began to move away, Gladys called after them plaintively, "I'll find Peter for you. He's had lots of new ideas since we came here. I'm sure you'd be interested to hear . . ." but by then they had moved inexorably out of earshot.

* * *

Peter had found the bar and was standing with his back to the company, steadily drinking. Duncan came up behind him and laid a hand on his shoulder, saying, "Pete, old man, there you are."

Peter turned and saw the Ghost of Banquo, who was also inexplicably the Ghost of Duncan. He shrank away, saying, "No, no!"

"Pete, what's the matter, my dear chap?" Duncan asked in concern. "Are you all right?"

Peter retreated backwards, away from Duncan, holding his arms out in front as if to ward him off, crying, "Leave me alone! Don't touch me!"

"Pete, it's me, Duncan. Don't you recognise me?"

Peter looked about him, seeking a way of escape. People scattered from in front of him as he stumbled towards the exit, waving his arms and shouting, "Get away, get away!" Seeing a clear path to the doors, he broke into a run, shrieking, "I didn't do it. I didn't do it. It wasn't me. It was an accident."

* * *

On the Wednesday morning after the Burns Night party, the Dean's secretary informed him, "Mrs Betcham wants to see you, Dean. She is very insistent."

"Oh dear, I half expected this," the Dean sighed. "I suppose I'd better get it over with. Show her in, and ask Mrs King to join us as soon as she can."

When Gladys entered the room, she advanced to the desk and slammed a letter down on it. "What is the meaning of this, Dean? You can't treat my husband like this."

"It is surely self-explanatory, Mrs Betcham. Professor Betcham has been suspended without pay pending an investigation into the accuracy of the information he gave in support of his application for the post."

"My husband is a sick man, Dean," Gladys protested, "driven to the edge of reason by the stress he has been subjected to in your college. He was admitted to hospital Saturday night. Is it the custom here to fire people for being sick, even when their sickness is due to harassment in the job?"

Patiently the Dean replied, "You must have patience, madam. I am sorry for your husband's condition, dear lady, but that was not the reason for his suspension. He gave false details in his CV."

There was a knock at the door. Peggy entered carrying a folder and took a seat.

Gladys bridled at the sight of her. "Oh, and I suppose no other members of the faculty ever told little white lies in their applications? What about her husband? What about Duncan King?"

Surprised, the Dean asked, "Are you making an allegation against Dr King, Mrs Betcham?"

"I certainly am. Her husband did not get the degree he claims to hold. That degree was awarded to my first husband, who died twenty years ago."

"But my dear lady," the Dean expostulated, "Dr King obtained his doctorate while working at this very university."

"I'm talking about his first degree, his BSc, taken in the nineteen-eighties," Gladys retorted.

Despite his resolution to remain calm, the Dean was beginning to lose patience. "If his post graduate qualifications are genuine, I see little point in questioning his first degree."

"Not even when he is assuming a false identity?" Gladys persisted. "He claims to be a Duncan King who was born in 1960, but that Duncan King died in infancy." She turned a spiteful face upon Peggy. "Oh, yes, my lady, I've worked out the dodge that you pulled." Addressing the Dean once more, she said, "Really he is the Duncan King born in 1961, my first husband."

Puzzled by this new turn in Gladys' complaint, the Dean asked, "Then who is the Duncan King who took the BSc?"

Gladys replied, "He is. Dr King is."

"But you just said he wasn't," the Dean complained. "You said that he is another Duncan King."

"They're the same man," Gladys insisted. "There's only one Duncan King."

Exasperation overwhelmed the Dean. "Only one? So far you have referred to three: a Duncan King who died in infancy more than forty years ago, a Duncan King who married you and died twenty years ago, and a Dr King who is still very much alive and is my Senior Lecturer. Mrs Betcham, I do not wish to be unkind, but If you will take a homely man's advice, do you think that perhaps it is not only your husband who is suffering from stress?"

In desperation, Gladys pointed to Peggy. "Ask her," she demanded. "She knows. She knows that my husband did not die. She married him, using the birth certificate of his deceased brother."

"Dean, I think I can resolve this matter," Peggy said. "Because they both had the same name, a rumour arose - I don't know who started it - that my husband and Mrs Betcham's first husband were one and the same. Now it happens that I have a daughter, Melissa, by my husband, and Mrs Betcham has a son, Ross, by her first husband."

Gladys interrupted. "I do, but that's got nothing to do . . ."

Peggy held up a hand to silence her and continued. "Melissa and Ross became romantically inclined towards each other, so the suggestion that they had the same father was of serious consequence to them. Ross is a practical lad. He obtained DNA samples of the relevant parties, and had them tested. The results proved conclusively that my husband is the father of Melissa, and is not the father of Ross. It follows that neither is he Mrs Betcham's first husband. Of course, these DNA samples were informally taken and informally tested, but if necessary the tests could easily be repeated with formal forensic samples, and I am confident that they would yield the same results."

Peggy opened her folder and laid it on the desk in front of the Dean. The Dean started to examine it. While he was thus occupied, out of his earshot Peggy hissed at Gladys, "Hoist by your own promiscuity, madam!"

Gladys was annoyed at this turn of events. She had fired herself up for an unholy row with the Dean, and now this unexpected obstacle rose up in her path. It was all Duncan's fault really, she thought. When he went off pursuing his silly hobby, leaving her home alone, what the hell had he expected her to do, read the sodding Sunday supplements? She wondered who Ross' father was. Probably that cheeky curly haired window cleaner. He was amusing as well as satisfying, with his wicked allusions to potholing as they made love. What would he have been like, she wondered, if he had known that in America it was called spelunking?

She was startled out of her reverie by the Dean. He had finished his perusal of the lab report Peggy had given him. Having worked out who was 'Specimen A,' 'Specimen B' and so on, he had now reached a conclusion. "This seems to be conclusive, Mrs Betcham. Are you satisfied now?" he asked.

Gladys snapped, "No, I am not." She turned to Peggy. "I'll settle with you, you scheming cat, if I have to sift through every birth certificate and every death certificate in Somerset House."

Peggy smiled sweetly. "I'll save you a wasted journey. They're in the National Archives at Kew now."

As she left, Gladys snarled, "You've not heard the last of this. I'll get my lawyers onto it."

When she had gone, the Dean sighed, "Oh, dear. I do so hate it when people are unreasonable. Will she soon be back again, do you think?"

"I don't think so, Dean," Peggy assured him. "Leave all the rest to me. I'll speak to her and see that her complaints are laid to rest."

* * *

On Sunday afternoon Peggy drew into a parking bay in a quiet residential side street around the corner from the house the Betchams were renting. She looked in the rear view mirror and checked that her hair was all tucked up into the workman's cap that matched the boiler suit she was wearing.

She dialled a number on her mobile phone, and heard, "Hello. Gladys Betcham here. Hello. Hello, is there anyone there?" She switched the phone off without responding. She got out of the car and took a canvas tool bag from the boot. She locked the car, crossed the road, and walked into a back service road, carrying the bag.

Three quarters of the way along the service road she came to the back gate of the Betchams' house. She went through and knocked at the back door. When Gladys opened it, Peggy pushed her inside, followed her in, and closed the door behind them.

*

Ten minutes later Peggy emerged from the side door and closed it behind her. Still carrying the tool bag, which now appeared less full, she went out through the back gate, and returned to her car. She removed her boiler suit and cap, stuffed them into the tool bag and put it into the boot. She got into the car and drove round the block to the front of the Betchams' house. She parked the car, walked up the drive, and knocked on the front door.

Receiving no answer, she knocked and knocked again with increasing force. She shouted through the letter box, "Gladys! Gladys! Are you there?"

A middle aged lady came out of the house next door to see what the noise was about, and Peggy asked her, "I say! Excuse me, have you seen Mrs Betcham?"

The lady replied, "Yes, I saw her come home just before lunch time. I think she had been visiting her husband in hospital. He was taken ill a week ago, poor man."

"I can't get an answer," Peggy explained. "I don't understand it. I rang only ten minutes ago to tell her I was coming. She didn't say anything about going out again. Her car's here, so she should be in."

Peggy resumed her knocking on the front door. Still receiving no answer, she peered through the front window. "There's no sign of her. I don't know what can have happened," she said.

Gladys' neighbour said, a little shamefacedly, "As it happens, I've got a key to this house. I was very friendly with Mrs Porter, the previous tenant, and we exchanged keys in case of emergencies. I forgot to give it back when the Porters moved away. Do you think it would be all right to use it?"

Concern showing in her voice, Peggy replied, "I think so, under the circumstances. I'd like to be sure Gladys hasn't come to any harm."

The neighbour went back next door and returned with the key. She opened the front door and stepped inside, calling, "Mrs Betcham? Are you there?" Her voice suddenly died in her throat and she screamed.

Gladys was hanging by the neck on a rope fastened to the upstairs banister rail. Her body was dangling upright, her feet a dozen inches from the floor. Her blue eyes were popping, and her tongue protruded through her red-glossed lips. Her head was tilted coquettishly on one side, like an idle marionette. Around her body she was wearing a safety harness to which was shackled a length of rope, the other end of which, clean cut, was unattached. An overturned chair lay nearby.

Addressing herself to the distraught neighbour, Peggy said, "I'll try to get her down. You ring for an ambulance."

* * *

Outside the door to a day ward, a nurse was briefing Peggy and Duncan. "He's very deeply withdrawn. You probably won't get any sort of response from him. He hasn't spoken since he was admitted, but he's not in a coma. He's fully conscious. He can hear and understand everything that's said to him. So just try and chat normally to him, as if there's nothing wrong. Only one of you at a time, though. We don't want to overtax him."

"We understand," Peggy assured her. "I'll go in first, then." To Duncan she said, "You wait here, dear. I'll just stay a few minutes, then you can speak to him."

The nurse led Peggy into the ward, and Duncan waited on a chair in the corridor.

The day ward was furnished with chairs and tables. Two French windows gave onto a shallow balcony. An orderly sat against one wall, reading. Peter was sitting in a chair on the other side of the room, staring fixedly at a window cleaner who was outside cleaning the windows, wearing a safety harness hooked to the wall.

The nurse led Peggy to the orderly, and said to him, "He has two visitors. When this lady is finished, her husband can see him."

The orderly nodded and went back to his reading. As the nurse left, Peggy took a chair facing Peter and spoke quietly, her back to the orderly. "Hello, Peter. How are you feeling? I won't stay long, just popped in to see you for a minute. Ross has told you that Gladys is dead, hasn't he? I don't suppose he gave you the full details, though. It was very strange. She was found hanging from the banisters."

The blank expression on Peter's face was replaced by one of alarm. Peggy continued, "The odd thing was, she was wearing a harness around her waist just like the ones you and Duncan used to wear when you went potholing. Do you remember? It was very odd. Symbolic even, you might say. It had a piece of rope attached to it - just a short piece, with a cut end. You can always tell when a rope's been cut, can't you?"

Peggy put her hand into the handbag on her lap, and, keeping her hand in the bag, she exposed the cut end of a piece of rope. She slowly moved it to and fro, Peter's eyes following it, mesmerised.

Peggy continued, "The police aren't saying whether her death was an accident, suicide, or murder. They might think it was an accident. But some accidents are really murder, aren't they? Of course, if they find out that when she died she was already unconscious from a blow to the back of the head, that would make it murder for sure, wouldn't it? It's lucky someone was with me when I found the body, otherwise they might suspect me."

She withdrew the rope back into the hand bag and closed the bag. "Duncan's waiting to see you. You'd like to see Duncan, wouldn't you? It's always good to see old friends again, isn't it? It must be awful to leave someone and think that you will never ever see them alive again. Just awful. I'll leave you now. Goodbye, Peter."

Peggy left the ward. The window cleaner had finished cleaning the window. He unlocked the French window from the outside, opened it, and passed his bucket and tools through into the room. He stepped into the room and unclipped his harness.

Duncan entered the ward. The orderly gave him a quick glance and resumed his reading. Duncan stood in front of Peter and said, "Hello, Peter."

Peter looked at Duncan, and his vision clouded and swirled. In the shifting mists, images came and went. He saw Duncan as he truly was, then as Banquo's Ghost. A veil lifted and he saw him as he was as a young man in the cave twenty years before. Suddenly the rehearsed memory of that occasion was replaced by a true memory of what had actually occurred.

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

Duncan had shackled the rope to his harness and tied the other end to a rock. "Come on, lower me down," he had said.

Peter remembered telling him, "You must be mad," but he had obediently paid out the rope as Duncan descended down the shaft.

He had heard Duncan calling, "It's not too bad. I've touched bottom. The water's only chest deep."

"Are there any clear exits?" he had asked Duncan.

He recalled Duncan's reply: "No. We'll have to dive and hope for an early clearance."

"Not me, chum. Count me out," he had objected, but Duncan had insisted.

"Come on, Pete. Lower yourself down my rope. We'll need yours down here."

It wasn't his fault, was it? He had tried to dissuade Duncan, hadn't he? "Not me. You come up," he had urged.

Duncan had then sealed his own fate by saying, "I'm not giving up after coming this far."

"Then stay down then," he'd muttered, and with the knife from his belt had cut through Duncan's rope. The lower portion fell into the shaft. Duncan had continued calling while he unfastened the upper portion of the rope, and frayed the cut end by rubbing it against a rock.

He had been almost finished and ready to leave when it started to go all wrong. Torchlight beamed out of the tunnel, and a voice had called, "Hello! Hello! Anybody here?"

A stranger had emerged from the tunnel, and announced, "Hi there! My name's Banks, Angus Banks. I saw you two enter Colmekill Cave. I came in by the flank adit. I hoped our paths might cross. Where's your mate then?"

Duncan had chosen that moment to call up, "Pete, what are you doing? I need you down here. This is a two-man job."

"Good grief!" the stranger had exclaimed. "He's not gone down there unroped, has he? There's no way out without scuba gear. I know, I've tried that route more than once."

Too late, Duncan decided to give up. "All right, Pete. Let the rope down, then, and I'll come up."

"He sounds as if he needs a hand," the stranger had said, and he had crawled to the edge of the shaft to peer down. "Here, hold onto my ankles, will you? I don't want to fall in."

Peter could remember taking hold of the stranger's ankles as requested, and he remembered Duncan's voice, insistently calling, "Pete, answer me! Answer me, Pete! Will you answer me!"

That was when he had tipped the stranger into the shaft.

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

The orderly looked up when he heard Duncan trying to get a response from Peter. "Pete, answer me! Answer me, Pete! Will you answer me!"