A Fragment of Fear by John Bingham Read Free Book Online

Gray this afternoon in hotel garden, on bench. After wet morning, warm and sunny. Dahlias, some tall some dwarf, made fine colour in borders….
    Mrs. Gray is a dumpy woman in late sixties. Round podgy face, heavily powdered, muffin-like. Small brown eyes almost hidden by fat cheeks. Small slit for mouth. Lipstick. Sometimes seems to be sucking imaginary sweet in front of mouth. Has odd habit of repeating parts of sentences.
    Myself: The manageress tells me you were her closest friend in the hotel.
    Mrs. G.: I was, indeed I was. It is a great shock to me, a very great shock. She was a very remarkable woman. I said she was a very remarkable woman.
    Myself: Why was she remarkable?
    Mrs. G.: She just was. Everybody agreed about that.
    What are you writing in that notebook?
    Myself: Just a few shorthand notes.
    Mrs. G.: Why?
    Myself: I have a bad memory.
    Mrs. G.: The ways of the Lord are strange.
    Myself: I beg your pardon?
    Mrs. G.: Her father lost a great deal of money to a crook. Her husband was in the Army. He was killed a couple of years after they were married.
    Myself: In what war?
    Mrs. G.: In no war. He was killed by a burglar. I said he was killed by a burglar.
    Myself: By a burglar?
    Mrs. G.: He went down and disturbed a burglar, and was killed. And now this awful tragedy. Strange, the ways of the Lord. Some families seem to attract trouble. I said they seem to attract trouble, some families.
    Myself: It sometimes looks like it. Who were these people called the Stepping Stones?
    Mrs. G.: What people called the Stepping Stones?
    Myself: Well, I don’t know. That’s why I am asking you.
    Mrs. G.: I don’t wish to go on talking to you, if you are going to be rude.
    (N.B. It was certainly a rude remark. But she had begun to irritate me. She was twittery and nervous, her little currant eyes were fixed on my face to note the impression she was making. Her voice took on a tone like a schoolmistress or a prison wardress. Some of these cosy-looking, muffiny-faced old ladies can be proper Tartars.)
    Myself: I apologise, if I sounded rude. I did not mean to.
    Mrs. G.: Very well, then. Everybody can be misunderstood. I said everybody can be misunderstood.
    Myself: Quite.
    (N.B. A fairly long silence. Decided to try again.)
    About this Stepping Stones business, Mrs.
    Gray, you were her best friend, surely you—?
    Mrs. G.: I didn’t say I was her best friend. I was her best friend in the hotel. That’s different, isn’t it?
    Myself: Well, do you know of any other close friends not in the hotel?
    Mrs. G.: No. No, I don’t.
    Myself: Had your friend Mrs. Dawson any eccentric habits?
    Mrs. G.: No, of course she hadn’t! She was a perfectly normal woman, perfectly normal.
    Myself: You said she was a very remarkable woman. So she was normal but remarkable, is that it?
    (N.B. She was chewing imaginary sweet rapidly.)
    Mrs. G.: Why are you trying to trip me up? Like a lawyer or a detective or something?
    Myself: That’s what I am—a detective or something, as you call it. I am a writer. I am going to record her case. I need to know about her. I can’t just write, “Mrs. Dawson was murdered at Pompeii on September 11th and the Italian police have so far made no noticeable headway.” Presumably the Stepping Stones, whoever they are, knew her well, since they sent a wreath—the only wreath, incidentally “in memory of happier times,” as they put it.
    Mrs. G.: Well, I cannot help you further, I must go indoors, I said I must go indoors now.>
    Myself: You have helped me already, thank you. You have told me she suffered twice at the hands of criminals. Now she had suffered a third time. It is a remarkable story.
    Mrs. G.: No good is served by recalling tragedy. Why not let poor Mrs. Dawson rest in peace? I said, why not—
    Myself: I know what you said. Two people have said the same thing already.
    Mrs. G.: Then why not have the decency to heed them, Mr. Compton?
    Myself: I am not convinced that she is resting in peace. On the