dinner partner, no matter who actually proposed having dinner together.’
‘No!’ I exclaimed suddenly. ‘Perhaps I see what it means – maybe they are not so much thinking about you, but about Mr Crawford! Is that conceivable? Could Mr Crawford have done it on purpose?’
‘Poor C-Crawford – I suppose he could replace me as a suspect,’ he smiled, ‘but it seems just as ridiculous.’
‘Well, perhaps it does to you. But that must be what the police are thinking. I expect they will go to see him – and if they don’t, I shall! I should like to know what he meant by it, sending you into such a disaster of trouble!’
‘Oh, come, he didn’t do it on purpose,’ he said.
‘Visiting time is up,’ intervened the officer in the doorway abruptly. ‘The van is here! Come along, sir!’
‘They don’t have the right to hold me for more than two days without sending me in front of a magistrate,’ Arthur told me. ‘That’s to happen the day after tomorrow, and the prosecutor shall present his evidence then. I can’t think he’ll have much to present, so I am not too worried; one can only be sent to trial if there is some presumption of guilt.’
‘Come along!’ reiterated the officer.
There was a sharp, rather military echo to his behaviour; I suppose it must be a little awkward to give nasty orders to prisoners who may all the time be perfectly innocent. We are, after all, supposed to presume people innocent until proven guilty (and even that word ‘proven’ is a doubtful one; no mathematician could ever be satisfied with ‘proof beyond a reasonable doubt’!)
Arthur arose and bid me goodbye with a little twinkle in his brown eyes.
‘I really cannot take this seriously,’ he said. ‘It shall all be chalked up to experience; nights on prison beds for me, visits to prison cells for you. Let’s just hope it does not go on until the charm of originality is entirely lost!’
‘Oh, Arthur,’ I began, but did not continue. His words had suddenly awakened a little pang of fear inside me. Surely it would soon be over – yet the very word ‘surely’ meant there was some doubt. And what if the magistrate should send him to trial? And then?
No – it can’t happen!
Still, I feel I simply
must
speak with Mr Crawford. I shall ask him what he meant by it; he ought to know all the trouble he has caused. And for that matter, he may well be the next person upon whom that very same trouble descends!
Well, I do hope I can send you better news in my next letter!
Till then, your loving
Vanessa
Cambridge, Thursday, May 3rd, 1888
My dear Dora,
This morning was the funeral of poor Mr Beddoes; I saw it in yesterday’s evening paper, and decided to attend. I arrived at the cemetery carrying a modest bunch of flowers whose very colours, all to be devoted to the ceremonious celebration of death, seemed sorrowful.
Mr Beddoes was certainly a man of many friends, for the knot of people who stood around his freshly dug grave as the coffin was lowered was dense and compact. I recognised most of the members of his circle that have become familiar to me over the past month, closely surrounding Mrs Beddoes, who kept her gentle face hidden under a black veil.
The service ended, and slowly, respectfully, the peoplebegan to drift away. I walked near Mrs Beddoes; a sob escaped her as she turned away.
‘My dear Mrs Beddoes,’ said the man nearest her, whom I identified as the snappish Mr Withers of the garden party, ‘the loss of your husband is a terrible blow for all of us; how much greater must it be for yourself. I wish I could find words to comfort you.’
His words were kind, but something about the way he said them was not: he was unctuous, and seemed to be striving to make an impression. He handed Mrs Beddoes into her carriage as though he took it upon himself to show that he, at least, was filled with noble feelings. Perhaps Mrs Beddoes felt something of the kind, for she answered him with no more than an
‘No!’ I exclaimed suddenly. ‘Perhaps I see what it means – maybe they are not so much thinking about you, but about Mr Crawford! Is that conceivable? Could Mr Crawford have done it on purpose?’
‘Poor C-Crawford – I suppose he could replace me as a suspect,’ he smiled, ‘but it seems just as ridiculous.’
‘Well, perhaps it does to you. But that must be what the police are thinking. I expect they will go to see him – and if they don’t, I shall! I should like to know what he meant by it, sending you into such a disaster of trouble!’
‘Oh, come, he didn’t do it on purpose,’ he said.
‘Visiting time is up,’ intervened the officer in the doorway abruptly. ‘The van is here! Come along, sir!’
‘They don’t have the right to hold me for more than two days without sending me in front of a magistrate,’ Arthur told me. ‘That’s to happen the day after tomorrow, and the prosecutor shall present his evidence then. I can’t think he’ll have much to present, so I am not too worried; one can only be sent to trial if there is some presumption of guilt.’
‘Come along!’ reiterated the officer.
There was a sharp, rather military echo to his behaviour; I suppose it must be a little awkward to give nasty orders to prisoners who may all the time be perfectly innocent. We are, after all, supposed to presume people innocent until proven guilty (and even that word ‘proven’ is a doubtful one; no mathematician could ever be satisfied with ‘proof beyond a reasonable doubt’!)
Arthur arose and bid me goodbye with a little twinkle in his brown eyes.
‘I really cannot take this seriously,’ he said. ‘It shall all be chalked up to experience; nights on prison beds for me, visits to prison cells for you. Let’s just hope it does not go on until the charm of originality is entirely lost!’
‘Oh, Arthur,’ I began, but did not continue. His words had suddenly awakened a little pang of fear inside me. Surely it would soon be over – yet the very word ‘surely’ meant there was some doubt. And what if the magistrate should send him to trial? And then?
No – it can’t happen!
Still, I feel I simply
must
speak with Mr Crawford. I shall ask him what he meant by it; he ought to know all the trouble he has caused. And for that matter, he may well be the next person upon whom that very same trouble descends!
Well, I do hope I can send you better news in my next letter!
Till then, your loving
Vanessa
Cambridge, Thursday, May 3rd, 1888
My dear Dora,
This morning was the funeral of poor Mr Beddoes; I saw it in yesterday’s evening paper, and decided to attend. I arrived at the cemetery carrying a modest bunch of flowers whose very colours, all to be devoted to the ceremonious celebration of death, seemed sorrowful.
Mr Beddoes was certainly a man of many friends, for the knot of people who stood around his freshly dug grave as the coffin was lowered was dense and compact. I recognised most of the members of his circle that have become familiar to me over the past month, closely surrounding Mrs Beddoes, who kept her gentle face hidden under a black veil.
The service ended, and slowly, respectfully, the peoplebegan to drift away. I walked near Mrs Beddoes; a sob escaped her as she turned away.
‘My dear Mrs Beddoes,’ said the man nearest her, whom I identified as the snappish Mr Withers of the garden party, ‘the loss of your husband is a terrible blow for all of us; how much greater must it be for yourself. I wish I could find words to comfort you.’
His words were kind, but something about the way he said them was not: he was unctuous, and seemed to be striving to make an impression. He handed Mrs Beddoes into her carriage as though he took it upon himself to show that he, at least, was filled with noble feelings. Perhaps Mrs Beddoes felt something of the kind, for she answered him with no more than an
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