Ev'n Beasts
By andrew_pack
- 723 reads
"Ev'n beasts"
In retrospect, it seems very odd, but I think I really was more puzzled
and shocked by the letter I opened a year after my mother killed my
father than by the murder itself.
The trial was a surreal experience. I'd already been through the whole
torn between parents thing when they'd divorced in my late teens, only
to remarry just as I'd adjusted; but to sit and watch my mother give
evidence about how she'd been provoked into murdering him, that really
was a mixture of emotions. If I had been born American, this would have
resulted in a lifetime of therapy - in fact, I just had a lot of
hangovers and ran up a lot of debts.
The letter though, was polite to the point of being archaic. A
gentleman named Eustace Calthrop writing to say that he had followed
the trial with interest, that he was sorry for my twin losses, that he
was something of a collector and would be interested in purchasing the
murder weapon, which he understood was now in my possession, the
forensic work having been completed long ago. The paper was thick and
cream in colour, the writing crablike, yet legible. It was exactly the
sort of letter that deserves to be opened with a proper letter-opening
knife and read over buttered crumpets.
Sadly, I actually read it while trying to squeeze my right foot into an
already laced shoe, to save time, and with flecks of shaving foam still
on my face. It made me later for work than I already would have
been.
I read the letter twice more in the day, trying to work out exactly
what Mr Eustace Calthrop was all about. And more precisely, what his
delicate phrase, 'without wishing to descend into vulgarities, I would
be prepared to pay substantially above the market value for the item in
question' actually meant, in terms of vulgar money.
The other thing that was odd was the snippet of poetry that curled
beneath the address of Mr Eustace Calthrop - 'And nothing may we use in
vain, Ev'n beasts must be with justice slain, Else men are made their
deodands; though they should wash their guilty hands'
I wrote back, in terms as grave and elaborate as I could muster, but
essentially saying, "sounds interesting, but how much?"
Whatever else I could say about Eustace, he was keen. His reply came at
the earliest opportunity and this time, I did have some moments spare
for opening the letter and reading it with more panache; although I was
also reading the football speculation on Ceefax, I was at least fully
dressed.
Going rate for an I-Mac computer, circa ?800 - less for second-hand,
substantially less for second-hand, keyboard used in a murder. Mr
Eustace Calthrop's offer, two thousand four hundred pounds. Deal.
I drove down to the address given, with the I-Mac computer boxed up and
the Pixies loud on the stereo. The Rectory. It was an old building - I
don't know how old, that sort of thing doesn't interest me - with thick
rolls of moss on the outside walls. It took almost two minutes to drive
from the main gate to the house itself. There were far too many windows
for my tastes.
Mr Calthrop came out, a man in his late fifties. He seemed very jolly,
quite exciteable, but wearing clothes that clearly didn't fit him. He
had on a navy jumper that was too big and a pair of trousers that were
too long and almost tripped him. I wasn't entirely convinced that his
shoes were an accurate pair. I warmed to him immediately, he had Father
Christmas eyes. His hair was white and thinning and almost dancing on
the top of his head in the wind.
"Hello, hello, " he said, with great enthusiasm, "I'm very glad that
you're here. I've been waiting for a long time to lay my hands on
something like this. It has access to the internet-thing, doesn't it ?
"
I told him that indeed it did, which had been the problem between my
father and my mother. That was exactly why she had picked up the
keyboard and struck (I think the Prosecution barrister actually used
the word 'smote') my father hard across the head with it. I'll never
know if she meant to kill him, or if it was an accident, but she hit
him more than once. Somewhere between twelve and seventeen separate
assaults, the pathologist said. For the life of me, I couldn't fathom
why Mr Calthrop hadn't just gone out and spent some of his cash on a
computer, if he was so desperate to have one.
"Will you be alright to carry it into the house for me ? " he asked,
"I'm not as spry as I used to be. "
He led the way and I gritted my teeth and carried the box inside. It
wasn't really that bad an ordeal, but I made more of it than it really
was, to make the old boy feel bad about making me do it.
The house was a wreck. I mean, it was tidy and everything, but nothing
seemed right. There was no sofa, just wooden chairs that were elegant
and splendid, but none of them went with each other, some were cherry,
some light oak, some darkwood, some modern, some very traditional;
there was also a long wooden table that was obviously antique and a
desk that was likewise. The carpet was old and musty and had a large
dark stain that was all-too visible - it was fitted snug to only three
of the four walls and finished a good three feet short of the south
wall.
He was obviously one of those chaps who had come from a rich family but
tax and death duties had swallowed almost all of it up, leaving him no
doubt dining on dog biscuits and shivering in the winter. Poor old
sod.
Under direction, I placed the computer on the table and began to unpack
it.
"Would you like some tea ? " he asked.
After I'd set up the computer and plugged it in, I followed him through
to the kitchen. The kitchen was huge, with a quarry-tiled floor, huge
Aga stove and a wonderful view of the garden.
Once again, the contents of the kitchen seemed utterly random. There
were about fifteen plates set out on the worktop, but all of different
sizes, colours and patterns. Why hadn't he just bought a proper dinner
set ? Maybe he was very clumsy. The wine glasses confirmed that - all
of varying sizes and types, not a match amongst them. The same was true
of the other glasses and tumblers.
While Eustace Calthrop rummaged about in the cutlery drawer, I stole a
glance inside to see if the cutlery was as mismatched. If anything, it
was worse. No spoons, no forks, no proper dinner knives. Just a
hotchpotch of carving knives, breadknives, choppers and skewers. He
ended up stirring my tea with a skewer.
I felt sorry for poor Eustace, stuck in this big house but with no idea
of how to furnish and equip it. Not bad enough to not take his money,
obviously.
"Nice stove, " I said to him, by way of conversation.
"Thank you, " he said, "It belonged to Elizabeth Ryder, you know.
"
I'd never heard of her, but I nodded knowingly anyway. He handed me a
mug, which seemed brand new, blue with a picture of the sun on one side
and I sipped at the tea, which was over-sugared, hot and weak.
"I suppose you must think me frightfully odd, " he said and I feigned
disagreement, not terribly well.
"There's more to me than meets the eye, " he said, with a huge air of
cheeriness, he was manifesting more like a kindly gardener than an
eccentric landowner, "I don't just pay three times the asking price for
just any computer you know. "
Oh, so this was it.
"I collect deodands, " he said, and beamed at me with the air of
someone pulling a checkmate out of a hopeless position.
I knew that I was going to have to learn something and having spent my
whole life attempting to go to bed each day as ignorant as when I woke
up, it was with more than a little dread that I asked, "What are
deodands? "
We wandered through into the lounge, him standing on the bare
floorboards near to the south window, me standing on the horrible
carpet.
"Deodands - literally given to God. It is a term meaning any object or
beast of the field which caused the death of a human being. In the
nineteenth century and earlier, Coroners would rule on whether an
object was a deodand and if it were, it would be forfeited to the
Crown. The idea being that the object was somehow culpable, tainted and
that only by using the deodand to do good deeds could the dead soul
rest in peace"
"But they don't anymore ? The Coroners, I mean. " I asked in a voice as
weak as the tea.
"Sadly not, " he said and shook his head with such pity I almost
gulped, "Some coroners began to take things a bit far and began seizing
railway locomotives that had run people over. Eventually Parliament
ended the practice, in 1846. "
He was so mournful, about something that had happened at least a
hundred years before he was born. I struggle to care about the early
Eighties. How wonderful it must feel to be so passionate about
something, even something fairly macabre.
"My great-grandfather was one such Coroner and he set to his work with
great relish. Much of my collection comes from him. In fact, the fine
desk that I have which now hosts my computer is the one he hit my
Great-Uncle Henry's head against, killing him instantly. "
This time I did gulp, "Oh. I see. "
Eustace swept his right arm about expansively, "Everything you see here
is a deodand, collected by my family over generations, with much hard
work. My fortune was made before my birth, so it has been my life's
work. I am very particular. There is nothing in this house which has
not been an instrument of death. The chairs have all been murder
weapons, the knives in the kitchen have all slit throats or plunged
into ribcages. "
He was so amiable, yet spoke of such grisly matters, "My oddment
glasses and plates, they all served up something which disagreed with
someone or other. The carpet is not quite right, to my shame. "
I looked at it again and knew what the dark stain was.
"No matter how I tried, I could never find a carpet used as a murder
weapon. This one was used to wrap the body of Louisa Talbot, and is
probably the closest I shall ever get. It really is a ghastly carpet
though, history aside. "
"Doesn't it ever ? You know, give you the horrors ? "
"Why no ! " he said, with a small laugh, "I grew up in this sort of
environment. I would be lost without it. Why, these trousers choked a
woman to death, this jumper was used to smother an abusive drunk
husband in his sleep. All of my meals are cooked in the same oven
Elizabeth Ryder cooked her infant in. Every day, everything I touch or
do, I am a hairs-breadth from someone's last moments on this earth. It
makes me feel so alive. "
His shoes didn't match. I looked and they were from different decades.
Different crimes.
"The principle has been around forever, " he said, "We banished beyone
our borders sticks and stones and steel, voiceless and mindless things,
if they chance to kill a man; and if a man commits suicide, bury the
hand that struck the blow afar from the body... Aeschines the Greek.
"
"You really should see inside the garage. That's where I keep the
tools. That really is the real cream of the collection. Human ingenuity
and viciousness never ceases to amaze me. Any object, no matter what
it's primary purpose can be turned to murderous intent, and probably
has been. "
"About the money, " I said, beginning to get a bit creeped-out by this
hall of murder weapons.
"Ah yes, " he said, "I have it here. Do you know, even this house
itself is in some sense a deodand. Not properly, but in the vaguest
sense. In November 1913, some twelve people committed suicide here in
one night. All guests at a dinner party. And to this day, nobody has
any idea why. "
He produced the money and then scuttled away. I finished my tea and put
the mug down. It wasn't long before he came back with a sheaf of paper
and a pen.
"Just certification, " he said, "To demonstrate the authenticity of the
item. You brought the letters with you, I trust ? "
I began to read the certification, which was a photograph of the
computer and a description taken from the trial of how my mother had
killed my father with it. I could read things like this without feeling
any horror at all now. I was immune. The certification had space at the
end for me to sign to confirm that this was indeed the same computer
and that it was a genuine deodand.
He handed me the fountain pen, "Bones Juliano stabbed a man in the
throat with that pen, in an argument about a five dollar hooker.
"
I supressed a shudder and signed the certificate. There was another
page and I looked at that. It was a photograph of a mug, blue with a
yellow sun and a description of how it had been used to poison a young
man.
"If you'll just sign that one as well, " said Eustace apologetically,
"I saw the mug in a shop window as I was posting your letter, and I
just had to have it, genuine or not... "
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