“I know.”
I looked at Robbie. He was shaking.
“I know all about Paul’s family. I made it my business to find out all about them when...”
“When what?” I didn’t wait for the answer. “I’ve just read in the paper that Sebastian Sitwall’s been killed. It said he must have disturbed some robbers at his home in Harrogate.” I pushed the paper towards Robbie so he could read it for himself.
But he brushed it away. “I know. I saw it earlier. In fact, that’s why I’m here.” He took a long drink and I refilled his glass. “Sebastian was a murderer, Jack. Sebastian killed Paul. I saw him do it.”
I felt confused. Robbie’s words didn’t make sense. But then I thought about it for a while and there did seem to be a horrible logic to it. Paul had gone striding ahead into the mist on that fateful day and he could easily have caught up with Robbie and Sebastian. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
Robbie shook his head. “It was misty and it all happened so quickly. I could have been mistaken. Sebastian swore it was an accident.”
“So what happened to Paul’s body?”
“Sebastian dealt with it. I don’t know what he did with him.”
I was speechless for a while, staring at my old friend who had nursed this dreadful secret all those years.
“I had to tell someone. I couldn’t keep it to myself any longer.”
He was on the verge of tears and I gave him a hug. He was my oldest friend, after all.
I heard about Robbie’s accident on the same day the police came to inform me that Paul Nebworth’s younger brother, Neil, had been arrested for the murder of Elizabeth Uriel. As well as my testimony, there was a lot of evidence against him: DNA, fingerprints, the statements of neighbours and Liz’s work colleagues that her short-lived relationship with the violent and unstable Neil Nebworth had been tempestuous to say the least. One of Liz’s friends reckoned he’d never got over losing his big brother in some freak accident. Liz had told her that he’d gone on about it a lot.
As soon as the police had left, I had the call from Robbie’s ex-wife. She wanted to meet me. She had some news.
Fiona and Robbie had been married eighteen years before she told Robbie that there was someone else... someone at work who made her feel alive in the way poor Robbie never could. And Robbie was so bad with money. In spite of his good job, they always seemed to be living hand to mouth. In the end, Fiona had had enough.
I met her in the Hole in the Wall on High Petergate, because it was convenient for both of us. I ordered a pint of bitter for myself and a dry white wine for Fiona. She looked pale and she drank thirstily, as though she needed it.
She put down her glass and came straight to the point. “Robbie’s dead. He drove his car into a wall. They’re assuming the brakes failed and the stupid man wasn’t wearing a seat belt.” She shook her head. “I’ve been to his flat and I found this envelope addressed to you.”
She handed me a large brown envelope and I began to tear it open. Then I stopped. I was being insensitive. “Are you okay, Fiona? It must be a shock even though...”
“Even though I ran off with another man?” She gave a bitter little laugh. “Yes, Jack, you’re right. It is a shock. I hadn’t realised how much...”
She let the sentence hang in the air between us. At one time, I’d thought Fiona was greedy and heartless. But the expression on her face told me otherwise.
I didn’t open the envelope there and then. Something made me take it home to deal with over a drink — a toast to Robbie. As I tore at the envelope I felt warm tears streaming down my face. I saw Robbie as he’d been when we’d first met as two callow first-years in over-large blazers. Then as we grew to adolescence, and finally on that trip to the Lakes. The day that had cast a shadow over our lives.
There were several sheets of paper inside the envelope. Typewritten. And when I’d finished reading, blinking away my tears, I realised that I would never divulge the contents to a living soul. It was the least I could do for my old friend.
“My dear Jack,” it began. “By the time you read this, I’ll be dead. It’s for the best. All these years I’ve been living with secrets so dreadful that I could never share them with anybody — even you, my friend. I’m a murderer — the lowest of the low. The truth is that when Paul Nebworth caught us up that day, he started messing about — if he’d carried on, he would have messed up the whole project, and I needed good marks to get into university. I was serious-minded back then, as you know. Paul and I starting rowing and we came to blows. I thought Sebastian hadn’t seen what happened, but it turned out that he was lurking behind some rocks and witnessed the whole thing. He said it would be best if we tried to hide the body and he said he’d seen an old shaft or cave nearby so we both put Paul down there and covered it up with turf. I was numb with panic at what I’d done, but Sebastian was so calm... as though he did that sort of thing every day. It was an accident, Jack — I just lost my temper and hit out and he fell and hit his head.
“Sebastian never spoke about it again... until it was in the paper that I’d been made a partner in the firm. Then he called and asked to meet me. That was when he started demanding money to keep quiet... bleeding me white. It cost me my marriage, I’m sure of that. I killed him, Jack. I’d had enough. I called to see him, and when he wouldn’t listen to reason I picked up a heavy ashtray and smashed his skull. When he fell he just lay there, blood gushing from his head, staring at me with those dead eyes... just like Paul. I made it look like a robbery, but I just couldn’t keep up the pretence. Believe me, Jack. It’s better this way.”
That night I remembered my old friend and drank to his memory. And the next day I went on the old boys’ Web site of Semchester High because I thought some kind of tribute might be appropriate.
The Web site had been updated to feature pictures of the reunion. There was Sebastian Sitwall, who was posing for the camera wearing the smile of a satisfied snake. I could just spot Neil Nebworth in the background, avoiding the lens. And me. Jack Jenkins. Jack the innocent, who had no idea that his best friend was a killer. No wonder my ex had said I went round in a dream.
When I’d finished posting a carefully worded tribute to Robbie, I noticed the words there in large letters with a trio of exclamation marks. Fantastic Reunion. Let’s do it again next year!!!
Somehow I don’t think I’ll be there.
Copyright © 2010 Kate Ellis
The Adventure of the Scarlet Thorn
by Paul W. Nash
Pastiches are a common way for new writers to launch their fiction careers. (Think of the Ellery Queen pastiches by Dale Andrews, one of which was a finalist for a Readers Award in 2007.) Englishman Paul Nash is a bibliographer, typographer, librarian, letterpress printer, and small-press publisher, and though he’s had a few pieces in nonpaying publications, this is his paid fiction debut. His subject is a perfect fit for this special issue: a case for Holmes and Watson.
When the premises of Lloyd’s Bank Ltd., at 16 Charing Cross, London, were damaged by bombing in 1941, it was believed that all Dr. John H. Watson’s unpublished case notes had been destroyed, along with the commonplace books and papers of Sherlock Holmes. Watson had deposited his notes there around 1920, when the building was owned by Cox and Company, regimental agents, and added Holmes’s papers following the reported death of the detective in 1929. However, in December 1930, an iron deed box, painted black and with the initials “J.H.W.” in white on the lid, was deposited in the vaults of the London and Westminster Bank (now part of the National Westminster Bank) in Marylebone High Street, under the strict condition that it should not be opened for seventy years. When, on 1 December 2000, the manager of the Marylebone branch opened the box, it was found to contain numerous manuscripts, well preserved and easily legible. This material was quickly identified as a sequence of memoirs of the cases of Sherlock Holmes, fully formed and complete, written in Watson’s characteristic neat hand between 1890 and 1930. The story which follows was among these previously unknown cases. The text has been edited very slightly, and certain inconsistencies removed, but it is presented almost exactly as Watson wrote it around 1890.