Killing By The Clock Page 3

  Her mother hugged her and poured out two mugs of tea. “What made him change his mind?”

  “I used the only words that would penetrate his delusions.” She smiled. “Not my words. The Bard, as he called him, came riding to my assistance.”

  In a pure, awed voice she repeated the lines:

  “That death’s unnatural that kills for loving.

  Alas, why gnaw you so your nether lip?

  Some bloody passion shakes your very frame:

  These are portents; but yet I hope, I hope,

  They do not point on me.”

  “Good Lord! That’s Desdemona pleading for her life minutes before Othello kills her! And you’re saying he heard you? Did he understand? What did he say?”

  “He understood, all right! He was never one to miss a cue! He gave me Othello’s response: Down, strumpet!

  “And all I had in reserve was the very next line: Kill me tomorrow; let me live tonight!”

  “It didn’t work for Desdemona, poor chick.”

  “The train hooted its half-mile signal. He burst out laughing, unlocked the doors, and pushed me out into the lane. He gave one of those Shakespearean bows, you know, all fluttering hands, gleaming teeth, and tossing curls, and barged through the crossing bars. End. Finis.”

  “But why the hell…? I don’t understand! At least I can see why he’d want to do away with himself… but… why put you through all that?”

  “Well, this is why, Mum! Here I am, here we are, talking about his final flourish. If he’d had a lonely death, unobserved by anyone, they might have thought he’d made a silly mistake, lost concentration, been blinded by the sun… Idiots drive through level crossings every month, don’t they? Who would know that Julius Jameson had died with panache, handsome as the devil, laughing at Death?”

  Chris’s calm finally broke, her voice stricken and angry: “He’s left me forever with that image branded onto my mind. He made sure that there was someone here below who’ll never forget his last performance.”

  But her mother was having none of it.

  “Bollocks!” she said. And, surprisingly:

  “All the world’s a stage

  And all the men and women merely players,

  They have their exits and their entrances.

  “Fine, Chris love. The bugger’s had his exit, as far as you’re concerned! Got that? Offstage… through a trap door… up in smoke… whatever you can picture. And now what you’ve got to do is look forward to an entrance. Prince Charming, for choice. Surely time for him to show himself?”

  Barbara Cleverly

  Barbara Cleverly is very familiar with the east of England. The Latin Hall of "An Old Magic" was inspired by the medieval Suffolk house she used to live in.

  A crime novelist, her first three books have been enthusiastically received and The Last Kashmiri Rose, was named one of the best crime thrillers of 2002 by the New York Times.

  ***

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