“found” his sister’s body, it is clear that he did not contact the police for at least three hours. In the interim, he evidently went on a bloody rampage, in which he bludgeoned a cat to death, beheaded it, and incinerated its body in the garden. He is now in custody.
3: The academic whose obituary Roger had removed from the Daily Telegraph was a Professor Peplow. He was eighty-two, and he appeared to have killed himself, using hemlock. In the 1960s he had co-authored a major work on the place of animals in ancient death cults with a Dr G. L. Winterton. Neighbours reported his agitation about repeatedly spotting a large black cat in the area. He left a note saying (these exact words) ‘ I have lost the will to live .’
End of interpolation
PART TWO
HOME
It was to a sad and comfortless house that I returned after cutting short my wintry sojourn by the sea. A film of dust had settled on everything during my absence; the windows looked smeary; Mary’s favourite fern beside the front door had bent and cracked from thirst; meanwhile various damp items of unimportant post, many of them tactlessly addressed to my dead wife, littered the tiles for quite some distance along the musty hall, as if they had exploded through the letter-box. On what appeared to be a happier note, the dog seemed glad to be home. He scratched at the garden gate, and panted excitedly. This I found rather gratifying, until, as he was straining at the lead coming up the garden path, it dawned on me: was he expecting to see Mary? It was soon distressingly clear that such was indeed the case. Once inside, I’m afraid I grew quite impatient with him as he stupidly ran round and round, romping upstairs and down, barking and wagging his tail, pawing at closed doors.
“Stop it!” I said. “Come here, Watson! Watson, stop it. Come here! ”
I could not catch him. He raced in circles, scattering rugs,madly knocking against the furniture. It was only when he had searched the entire house three or four times that he was prepared to admit defeat. He crawled under a chair and glared at me with an accusing expression that was all the more tragic because, in happier times, Mary and I had often imitated it, for each other’s amusement. “Oh, Bear ,” she would say to me (we had pet names for each other, I’m afraid). “Bear, how could you?” And then she would pull the accusing doggie face, and we would both laugh. No wonder I couldn’t bring myself to look at him right now. I deeply envied him, though, in a way. All this time, had he simply forgotten that Mary had gone? What a blessing such oblivion would be. Imagine if I could have forgotten all about the last couple of months, myself – cheerfully bursting back into this house, calling for Mary, “We’re back! You were right not to come, it was freezing!” But imagine, also, the unbearable pain of remembering the truth; of having that happy oblivion freshly shattered. To re-experience the devastating news, overcome the disbelief once more, and crumple yet again under the blow, would be beyond endurance. It would be like dying twice.
I filled the kettle, adjusted the thermostat for the central heating, and considered the unpacking. Mary, of course, had perfected a very efficient system for unpacking, which rendered it quite painless, at least as far as her husband was concerned. The house, with all our possessions restored to it, would be back to normal within just an hour or so. I very much approved of Mary’s system, because what it required of me, principally, was that I just keep out of the way. I would retire to my study with the accumulated letters and bills, and re-emerge at dinner time to discover that the emptied bags and suitcases were already stowed in the back bedroom, the washing machine was half-way through a cycle, all the toiletries were back in their normal places, even the books were ready (in piles) to go backon to the shelves. Could I face the unpacking by myself? Could I
3: The academic whose obituary Roger had removed from the Daily Telegraph was a Professor Peplow. He was eighty-two, and he appeared to have killed himself, using hemlock. In the 1960s he had co-authored a major work on the place of animals in ancient death cults with a Dr G. L. Winterton. Neighbours reported his agitation about repeatedly spotting a large black cat in the area. He left a note saying (these exact words) ‘ I have lost the will to live .’
End of interpolation
PART TWO
HOME
It was to a sad and comfortless house that I returned after cutting short my wintry sojourn by the sea. A film of dust had settled on everything during my absence; the windows looked smeary; Mary’s favourite fern beside the front door had bent and cracked from thirst; meanwhile various damp items of unimportant post, many of them tactlessly addressed to my dead wife, littered the tiles for quite some distance along the musty hall, as if they had exploded through the letter-box. On what appeared to be a happier note, the dog seemed glad to be home. He scratched at the garden gate, and panted excitedly. This I found rather gratifying, until, as he was straining at the lead coming up the garden path, it dawned on me: was he expecting to see Mary? It was soon distressingly clear that such was indeed the case. Once inside, I’m afraid I grew quite impatient with him as he stupidly ran round and round, romping upstairs and down, barking and wagging his tail, pawing at closed doors.
“Stop it!” I said. “Come here, Watson! Watson, stop it. Come here! ”
I could not catch him. He raced in circles, scattering rugs,madly knocking against the furniture. It was only when he had searched the entire house three or four times that he was prepared to admit defeat. He crawled under a chair and glared at me with an accusing expression that was all the more tragic because, in happier times, Mary and I had often imitated it, for each other’s amusement. “Oh, Bear ,” she would say to me (we had pet names for each other, I’m afraid). “Bear, how could you?” And then she would pull the accusing doggie face, and we would both laugh. No wonder I couldn’t bring myself to look at him right now. I deeply envied him, though, in a way. All this time, had he simply forgotten that Mary had gone? What a blessing such oblivion would be. Imagine if I could have forgotten all about the last couple of months, myself – cheerfully bursting back into this house, calling for Mary, “We’re back! You were right not to come, it was freezing!” But imagine, also, the unbearable pain of remembering the truth; of having that happy oblivion freshly shattered. To re-experience the devastating news, overcome the disbelief once more, and crumple yet again under the blow, would be beyond endurance. It would be like dying twice.
I filled the kettle, adjusted the thermostat for the central heating, and considered the unpacking. Mary, of course, had perfected a very efficient system for unpacking, which rendered it quite painless, at least as far as her husband was concerned. The house, with all our possessions restored to it, would be back to normal within just an hour or so. I very much approved of Mary’s system, because what it required of me, principally, was that I just keep out of the way. I would retire to my study with the accumulated letters and bills, and re-emerge at dinner time to discover that the emptied bags and suitcases were already stowed in the back bedroom, the washing machine was half-way through a cycle, all the toiletries were back in their normal places, even the books were ready (in piles) to go backon to the shelves. Could I face the unpacking by myself? Could I
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