The final card (Mark Debrest)

Sitting on the broad terrace of her home and around a round table, white and spacious, Madam Coote, an autumn-coloured lady, elegantly dressed with strawberry-blonde hair, watched her grand-daughter Lisa, a beautiful 20-year-old, blonde and slim, who suffered every so often from sudden temperamental attacks. Her eyes then moved to her grand-daughter's fiancé. His name was Jeff, a handsome young man with chestnut-coloured eyes and a strange look. He trembled a little, most likely with nerves. It was the first time they had been introduced.

"I believe I have invented a new card game, Lisa", said Madam Coote, as she sat between the young couple. "Would you like to play now?"

"Now? A game of cards?" Lisa answered, a little surprised.

"Why not?" replied Jeff.

'With you being so restless? Anyway, isn't cards more for old people?" said Lisa nervously. "Won't it be a bit boring if only three of us play? Why don't we ask Auntie Magda to play, Grandma?"

"She's very old. Let's leave her calm in the lounge. Anyway, I think she's sleeping."

"Well, only three people playing will be very boring," she repeated more nervously than before.

"That shouldn't be a problem. We'll ask Askill, the butler. He likes playing cards just as much as I do".

"I'll ask him", said a relieved Lisa.

     After a few moments, the butler introduced himself. He was a middle-aged man, with rather obvious baldness; however his face, furrowed with wrinkles, made him appear older than he actually was.

"Askill.....would you like to join us in a game of cards?"

"Madame.....I don't know if I should...."

"Oh ! Come on Askill, don't be silly. I know you'd love to play!"

"All right Madam, you are very kind."

"That's the way I like it. Sit down opposite me, Askill."

"Yes, Madam."

     Lisa, who was sat to the left of her grandmother, could see the clock on the lounge wall. At that time, it showed four o'clock.

"Let's play with a Spanish deck. I'll deal five cards each", said Madam Coote.

"Five? , exclaimed Lisa.

"Yes, Lisa, five, although each game willonly be made up of four hands. Now don't interrupt me, dear, or I could get distracted. Well, the game is made up of the following rules: the first player throws the lowest card; the second player must then throw a higher card, the third player higher still; and the fourth player the highest card possible. ln this way, the last player will win. The numbers on each card willthen be added up and the winner will have so many points. If, for example, the second player throws the same number as the first and shows it, his number will not count when all the points are added up. And that is all. Understood?"

"I think so, grandmother."

"And you, Jeff?"

"Perfectly, madam."

"Askill?"

"Yes, Madam."

"Then let's begin."

     Madam Coote dealed out five cards to each player. Her aunt, Magda Peters, observed the reaction of each player from her armchair. Her niece, of disgust; her great niece, of satisfaction; Askill displayed no emotion; Jeff was scared.

"Anyway," sighed Madam Coote, "let's start round one. Take a good look at your cards. Carefully, very carefully.....I'll go first, ok? Then Lisa, Askill and Jeff. ln that order, although whoever wins goes first. Remember that the cards must be placed face up on the table, except the last one."

     The first round went as follows: Madam Coote played the two of clubs; Lisa, the four of diamonds; Askill, the seven of hearts; and Jeff, the eight diamonds. Jeff won with twenty-one points.

     In the second round, Jeff played the six of diamonds, Madam Coote the six of clubs, Lisa the eight of hearts and Askill the nine of diamonds. Askill won with twenty-three points.

     The third round was the shortest. Askill showed the nine of spades, Madam Coote the three of hearts, Lisa the king of diamonds and Jeff the jack of spades. Lisa won with twenty-four points.

     Round four was the most thrilling.

"Now I should win, as you have all won one hand each," said Madam Coote jokingly.

"What a peculiar game," commented Lisa. "When did you invent it?"

     Madam Coote looked at her for a few moments, and then responded in a slow and exaggeratedly theatrical way.

"A very short time ago...on one of those spring afternoons where one finds oneself
alone and doesn't know what to do...."

     Madam Coote returned to normality.

"So, should we continue?"

"Yes, grandmother. This time, I'll start"

     Lisa threw the king of spades, Madam Coote the four of spades, Askill the jack of hearts, and Jeff the queen of clubs. Lisa won once again with thirty-seven points.

     Surprised, she said:

"I've won two hands and I can't believe it. This game isn't as easy as it looks, grandmother. But it's very short. Can we not play again?"

"No, Lisa. Maybe another time. You still have to tell me about your journey to Paris," she said with a worried gesture as she looked at her cards.

"You'll have more luck another day, Madam Coote," said Jeff in an attempt to console her.

"And to think the game is a fruit of my intellect. Next time, I'll beat you all."

     The three of them smiled at what she had said. They didn't show the last card, and between the laughs and the conversation no-one asked why there was no final round. Later on, Askill left the table. Madam Coote spoke animatedly with the two young ones. At about seven o'clock, they said their goodbyes.


                                          *                            *                                  *

     When she returned to the terrace, she found her aunt, Magda Peters, who observed with certain curiosity both the cards which were played and those which weren't. The octogenarian woman was tall, or rather corpulent, with white hair and dressed severely in grey.

"Aunt, later you can explain to me the strange game you invented."

"It isn't strange, Patricia. It is a very practical game for certain observations. It confirms them."

"I don't understand."

"Listen and you will understand. From the lounge I saw how you ate and then played. I like observing people. . . . .ever since I was a girl. And now we'll turn over the cards and I'll tell you what they "say"."

"You don't believe in these things, do you?" she said, worried.

"No, no, dear. I find them dangerous and unnatural. I refer to other much more simple things. You don't have to be visionary as such. ln addition, the spanish deck is inoffensive. The deck you played with was given to me as a present by Michael, your grandson, shortly before Prince Andrew was divorced.....Anyway," - continued Madam Peters, who saw her niece a little impatient - "would you like me to start with you, dear?"

"As you wish, aunt."

     And she turned the first card over.

"The ace of hearts," she said, and immediately pondered. "You gave it your all, eh? Well...hmm...I believe you were setting a trap, although I understand why. All your cards were low."

"I was correct. I should have played it in the first round, but I didn't."

"What I don't understand is why you had to go second. lt would have been more logical that the player to the left of the winner had played next, wouldn't it?" Then, lowering her voice, Madam Peters said, "Don't be offended, but you always have been a little selfish, Patricia."

"That is true, aunt, but you must understand. With the numbers I had, you didn't expect me to make a fool of myself, did you?"

"But it's only a game. You shouldn't take it like that."

"Yes, I know, but I can't help it."

"At the end of the day, what could you do? You really did have a terrible hand. Now let's take a look at Lisa's card - I'm very intrigued."

     She didn't like what she saw.

"I was afraid of that. She left the seven of spades. She could have played it in the second round, you know, but I know why she didn't."

"Why?"

"She has an obsessive phobia for odd numbers. When the three of you were eating, did you not see how nervous she was? I almost stood up to come and join you."

"Aunt, are you trying to make me believe it was just for that....."

"Not only for that, but for many other reasons, dear, for many other reasons. I saw her face today and also during the lunch her Aunt Violet gave a month ago - we were eight, and it was much more relaxed. When the second course arrived and I saw the turkey thighs, I was worried. As you know, she doesn't like them very much, but in order not to upset Violet, she asked for two small thighs and not one, which would have been the most natural thing to do. She wears two medallions around her neck. She doesn't wear a wristwatch. She always eats at even hours, and today was no exception."

"That's true, we ate at two o'clock."

"That's why I didn't eat with you and I apologise. Too late for me."

"But aunt, she must be ill".

"Yes, very ill. I spoke to her mother a week ago. She will soon be going to London to undergo treatment."

"I don't believe it," she said, astonished.

"It is hard, but she is young. I believe . . . . I believe she will be cured."

     Madam Coote thought for a moment about her granddaughter. The truth is she had noticed something strange about her, but couldn't quite put her finger on it. Now she remembered that Lisa had once suddenly taken off one of her necklaces, with pearls, and begun to count them. She was furious when she discovered that there were thirty-nine. She never wore the necklace again and bought another one instead.

"Now it's Askill's turn, aunt," she said, a little sad.

"Yes," said Madam Peters, who saw the caid and went quiet for a few seconds. 'The jack of clubs.... he could've played tha tcard aswell, in place of the jack of hearts in the final round. How he suffered, poor Askill. He told me that he had a very poor, sad and wretched childhood. His mother, who he adored, committed suicide. He has had a very hard life. Poor man."

     There was an agonising silence. The game had started to turn into a nightmare.

"I don't believe Jeff has anything tragic," said Madam Coote, anxiously.

     Madam Peters looked at her sadly. Then, she turned over the final card.

"I should've imagined it. Hearts. The four of hearts. How strange."

"I don't understand anything."

"Maybe you didn't look at his face when you served the drinks with dessert. You served him three glasses of brandy, without realising. He accepted them. Then, almost mechanically, the young man went to serve himself a fourth glass. I think he has drink problems, dear. His hands were shaking, his eyes make him seem ill, he hardly ate a thing."

     She paused, as if she was a judge about to pass sentence.

"The last card is the card which indicates what we are like and how we feel."

"I don't believe in such monstruous things, aunt," said Madam Coote, a little irritated.

"Time will prove me to be right."

"What a strange game. Are you sure you invented it yourself?"

"Yes. . . ." she said with a mysterious voice.

     Madam Peters noticed that her niece had a defiant look on her face. That was what she commented on.

"I ask myself which card you would have left. You are not selfish, nor dishonest. You are not fussy, nor have you suffered much in life, neither do you have a drink problem. You must have some defect!"

"Obviously, as does everyone."

     Madam Coote then asked slowly:

"And which card would it be, aunt?"

"When we play another game maybe you'll find out. But it's obvious. Such a deduction should be easy for you."

"Easy?" said Madam Coote. "Maybe the ace of spades, for a cousin of Aunt Magda was stabbed and killed during some disturbances in lndia. Or maybe the two of diamonds, which could remind you of those two gold coins you had as a bracelet and which you lost a long time ago, provoking such disappointment." The truth is that she didn't know. Nor would she ever know, she was convinced of that.

"And, for example . . . . . what do the diamonds mean, if they mean anything at all?" Madam Coote asked, intrigued.

"Of course they have a meaning," she began to say slowly. "For you, wealth and power. For Lisa, it's just a colour. For Askill, on the other hand, warmth. Did you not see his face when he played the nine of diamonds? For him, they were like nine scorching suns. For Jeff, however, they mean adventure, the search for the impossible. His struggle."

     Madam Coote was taken over by an anxious shivering.

"No, stop. What you are saying is very hard, Aunt."

     Then, in a serious and annoyed tone, she added, "I would prefer not to know what they mean for you."

                                             *                            *                                *



     The following morning, Madam Peters went out onto the terrace as usual and found her niece, who was having breakfast. The sky was a little cloudy, as it had been the day before.

"Good morning, Patricia."

"Good morning, Aunt Magda. Would you like something to drink?"

"No, thank you. I had a bad night."

     Madam Coote was worried.

"Are you feeling better now?"

"Much better, thank you. Do you know? I was thinking about what you said to me yesterday, about the card I didn't play. I believe you are a little upset with me, Patricia."

"No, that's not true."

"Yes, yes you are. I've known you for a long time and maybe, without realising it, I hurt people sometimes. The truth is we don't have much in common."

     Then, on purpose, she added:

"I get the feeling you are a little jealous of me."

"And now it turns out l'm jealous!" said Madam Coote, very offended. "And what about you, do you have no defects?"

"See? Do you realise what has happened to us? We've started to argue again. There is a battle between us. I know that sometimes I'm a bit of a smarty-pants, and that irritates you. As a result, you attack me, and I try to defend myself."

     Madam Peters looked her niece straight in the eye.

"Can you guess which card we are dealing with?"

"No, aunt."

     There was a long silence, a tense and mysterious silence.

"We are dealing with. . . . .the two of spades," said Madam Peters.

     She then added:

"I hate arguments, Patricia. I can't bear them. I'm old, I don't have many years ahead of me now. Sometimes, my clever demeanour has caused me more than a few unwanted problems. In addition, I have upset the person I love the most in this world without realising. And that person is you, dear."

     Madam Coote looked at her for a moment and smiled. Then she said emotionally:

" I hope that neither of us ever keep this card, aunt. In relation to that," she said all of a sudden, "next week my nephew Derek and his wife are coming. We could play again, couldn't we? I'm very intrigued to find out which card they don't play."

"Well. . . .you'll see....," stammered Madam Peters.

"Is there something wrong?"

"Yes. Just last night I had an idea for another game, but using the French deck."

"And can you tell me its significance?" she said with curiosity.

"No, dear," she said sweetly. "Wait for them to come, and when we have finished the game and they have gone home, you will know."



                                                                  THE END

Thank you Mrs Cooper (Mark Debrest)

Some days ago, whilst out strolling with my partner, I headed for a bookshop in the old quarter of the city for two reasons; the first, because I knew that they were going to tear it down, to my great sadness, and the second, because it was one of the best in the city, or so I had been told. Upon entering that extravagant, beautiful hall of high ceilings and antique woods, I immnediately recalled, as if it were a flashback, an old bookshop and stationers which could be found in the coastal town where I would spend my summer holidays some forty years ago (San Martin Desvalles). Above all, it was that pleasant smell of wood which pleased and moved me. I immediately thought of the distinguished figure of Mrs Cooper, the owner of the establishment and former teacher at the village school, a slender woman of medium stature, whose voice and demeanour were unhurried and who almost always wore white, grey, and blue. She was some sixty years old.

     When I used to go in with my parents, for some bizarre unknown reason, just after time, I would always head to the area where the adventure stories were. At the age of eight I liked reading them, though I was not a compulsive reader, and deep down I always yearned for some pictures in them. I remember that around that time, a great collection of stories and novels with bothhad just come out and I shot over there like an arrow to examine the collection with great interest. After a while, I would tell my mum which adventure story I wanted and on the occasions that I spent too long browsing or re-reading the titles because I couldn't decide which one to buy, my patient parents would speak to Mrs Cooper's husband and then she would corre over to me with a cheeky smile.

"Any book that takes your fancy, Thomas?" She would almost always ask me the same question in the same words.

"Not yet, Mrs Cooper, although this time I think that the book "Journey to the Centre oh the Eart will be to my liking."

"I didn't know you were so adventurous."

"I'm not. I like to go for a wander to distract myself and observe things, but not foradventures. Maybe that's the reason why I have chosen this book." he answered, pleased.

"Most probably", she agreed whilst heading towards the right side of the shop. "Remernber that in this section we have other books about different things, especially biographies."

"Yes. I've already seen a few. I like biographies about important figures, especially great inventors and discoverers."

"Well, look," she said, content, "the latest one we've just received is a biography about the inventor of the lightning rod, Benjamin Franklyn. What a strange coincidence, now that they have just finished fixing the lightning rod on the church".

"Mrs Cooper" my mum said, "has Thomas found his book yet? It's just that we're in a bit of a hurry."

"l think so" she said, seeing that I was pointing to a.Julio Verne book.

"Is vour grandson Johnathan here?" I then asked her hopefully, lowering my voice.

"He'll colne next week. He also asked after you."

"He's my best friend in the village".

'He's very fond of you also. And you have similar tastes".

"Yes" I answered, "with him I never get bored in the afternoons.,,

"But your brothers and cousins are here" she said with an affectionate smile.

"It's not the same. They're older than me."

"Your neighbours are also here, the Necker brothers".

"The Necher brothers are unbearable" I said seriously. "bad mannered and very inconsiderate,
although their mother is very nice."

"That's true" said my mum, who knew her quite well".

"The other day they told me they knew a shameful secret about the village."

"Shameful?" My parents exclaimed".

"Yes" but I don't want to know it, although l know they'll end up telling me sooner or later. That's how considerate they are."

"And what could it be?" said Mr Cooper.

"Wouldn't you like to know, Thomas? Now you have a month of holidays. Maybe it's important" said Mrs Cooper.

"Maybe" I answered shortly.

"Every village has secrets and mysteries. . . " said Mr Cooper.

"...which are easier'to find out as there are less people than in cities" added Mrs Cooper.

"It would be fun to discover a huge secret" I said to all of them with a somewhat triumphant air. "But I don't see myself as Sherlock Holmes", and then I added. "who would be my
faithful sidekick, Watson?"

Everyone laughed at that. I did too. Then I looked over at the intelligent, observant and seusitive Mrs Cooper. She understood me well. I wasn't like other children, I felt different. She got it straight away and helped me during my childhood and teenage years in San Martin. She tried to make me happier in the little village. And she managed it.


Thank you, Mrs Cooper.

                                                                    THE END

The death of Mrs Parminter (Mark Debrest)

The letter that was addressed to inspector Carmichael was received one cold morning in the month of March. Anita, the young maid who worked for inspector Carmichael, received the letter from Ben, the postman. She immediately delivered it to the inspector who was in his office revising some papers he had to put in order.  The letter that was addressed to inspector Carmichael was received one cold morning in the month of March. Anita, the young maid who worked for inspector Carmichael, received the letter from Ben, the postman. She immediately delivered it to the inspector who was in his office revising some papers he had to put in order.
“Letter for you, sir,” Anita saidin an almost muted tone.
“Thank you, Anita,” he replied, taking it.
The truth is he did not know who it was from as it did not have a sender address. He opened it right away. He could have never imagined what was written inside it.

“March, 1961:

            Dear inspector Carmichael…that is how letters start, is it not? You do not know me, but I know you. I know you are a good detective, one of the best. An acquaintance of mine is a police officer and so he told me.

My name is Scott Gale and I suppose that my name will not tell you anything, but before you tear up this letter, I must tell you not to do so, for in it lies the solution to the death of my first wife, more than twenty years ago. It was thought to be suicide, but I was the one who killed her… Only now that I am terminally ill do I need this confession. I suppose the good Lord will forgive me, as he forgives everyone who repents with profound sincerity, does he not? And I regret what I did every day of my life.

Do not try to check my whereabouts because it will be futile. In fact, by the time my letter reaches you I will already be dead. Strange, right? You can see my obituary in The Times if you do not believe me, a well-written obituary at that, I wrote it myself.

I ordered my wife to post my letter once I died. You must forgive me, inspector, but I did some research and quickly found out your address. The motive of my letter is to prove that I caused the death of my wife, though at times I am not sure about it. Murder?Perhaps. I still do not know. I never was totally sure. It is strange, is it not? One is either sure about a murder or not. But in my case it is neither.

My story starts a little before the Second World War. I was the eldest of five brothers from a very humble family. My parents had to work very hard to give the family a chance. And as if our misfortunes were not great enough, one of my brothers caught polio and became paralysed. Given that my mother could not leave her job, my grandmother came to live with us to care for him. I am sure that you can imagine for yourself, eight people living in a modest home with two insufficient salaries…

Things went from bad to worse. My father was taken ill and passed away very suddenly. That was terrible, inspector, terrible. It destroyed us. My life changed then, given that, as the eldest son I had to abandon my studies and begin working immediately.

The only consolation I had was my girlfriend. She was the prettiest, sweetest girl one could imagine. We lived in the same neighbourhood and fell in love the first time we saw each other. I knew her parents and her family and they were all very pleasant. The only problem we had in our relationship was our poverty, with an uncertain future that seemed very bleak every time we thought about getting married. Because of our situation it was inconceivable and unfortunately improbable. We were both just twenty years old.

Thanks to a recommendation from some friends of my mother’s, I went to work as a bellboy in a big textiles company, at the offices. For me, obtaining that job was very important for I found myself extremely at ease there, the people were very agreeable and I earned my wage, whichincreased steadily with the passing of the years, and shortly after I moved to the service of one of the deputy managers.

It happened a year later, I still remember it perfectly. I took the elevator in the offices and I was going up to the second floor when a very beautiful young woman entered, slightly plump with bronzed skin and black hair. She smiled amicably at me. From her attire and the way she was done up I deduced that she was rich. In fact, many people of high social standing used to go there. When the two of us were alone in the elevator it suddenly broke down and we became stuck between the second and third floor. I maintained my composure but she got nervous, slightly hysterical. I calmed her down, telling her that it would be fixed right away. Without realising, I wrapped my arms around her and she felt more relaxed. We started to talk. She was the daughter of an important businessman, a young woman a little older than I, three years, but back then she did not seem it, rather quite the opposite; a scared and teary young girl who only wished to exit the elevator as soon as she could. Obviously, in the end we managed to get out of there. She was so warm towards me that she told me, imploringly, to go to her home the next day. I did not want to but her insistence was such that I accepted. She told me she was called Eve Parminter and she gave me the calling card of her building.

I had always believed in social equality. I did not imagine that there could be people so poor and people so rich. The house, in which the young woman lived, in the elegant neighbourhood of Mayfair, seemed like something out of a daydream. Although I had worn my best suit (in reality it was the only one I had for such an occasion) and I seemed like one of them, I felt uncomfortable in front of such a luxurious house. After a few seconds I approached the front door and pressed the bell. Almost instantaneously a tall and portly butler appeared. I asked for her and the man led me to an extensive terrace where the young woman was with her mother.

She was not as beautiful as her daughter and came across somewhat distant. She was dressed elegantly and wore a lot of jewellery. I found it strange that my presence would have obliged her to dress in such a way, but I was mistaken as she was expecting her sister. The three of us spoke for a few moments. Eve explained that I had been very brave and caring towards her. The woman was not in the least bit fazed. It was clear that she either already knew or did not care. But what the woman did say to me, which was actually almost the only thing she said as she was sparing with words, was that her husband needed a trustworthy man in his office. I did not know how to respond. Only Eve’s words encouraged me. I would receive twice the salary as in my office. I thought about it long and hard. In the end I accepted.

Eve’s father was very rich and owned a business in the wood industry. I was in the office in charge of all the orders, but I also had to arrange files, check the accounts, and do other jobs. I was happy, as was Eve’s father. I earned a good salary, part of which I sent home to my family. I almost could not believe it. How well everything was going for me! That year ended in a pleasing way.

Not entirely, though, Mr Carmichael. The relationship with my girlfriend changed. I loved her, but I also loved wealth. You may think that I could have married her but you are mistaken. What you are unaware of is that Eve had fallen in love with me and I did not find her displeasing, though I was not in love with her (a grave error). I found those luxurious surroundings so magnificent, that enormous house with the swimming pool, tennis court, butler, maids, the luxury car, trips, and so on. My mind was too absorbed in that world of wealth. I hated poverty every time I saw my girlfriend and went to her house. The ghosts of hunger came back to mind and it was unbearable for me. Furthermore, my salary was stillnot high enough to form a family. I did not know if I would be promoted to a higher position and earn more money. Whatever it was, the relationship with my girlfriend changed, and although I desired her, I did not want to see her. I would go increasingly more often to Eve’s house. She would invite me to parties and to swim in the pool. She was very friendly towards me, affectionate. She told me that she found me very agreeable, fun and handsome. I practically said the same to her. After six months we got engaged and, after the winter, we were married. Now, with hindsight, I see my grave error. I married too young and I scarcely knew her.

I must confess- it seems that I am already doing so, does it not? I was very happy in my marriage during the first year, but everything changed once we realised we could not have children. For my wife it was traumatic and even more so once the doctors informed us that it was she who could not bear children. She felt so wretched that she started to get annoyed with me for no reason. She would make a fuss if I came home late and the worst thing was that she started to believe that I did not desire her anymoreand would leave her. Because of that false assumption she became sick with jealousy. She started to drink and eat in excess until she put on weight. Her figure no longer resembled the one of that attractive young woman.

I became seriously worried. My in-laws helped very little and the few pieces of advice they gave turned out disastrously in the long term. They told me that Eve had always loved parties, why not hold one every week? Who knows, I thought. Perhaps she would change and everything would go back to how it was before. But no. She abused alcohol and would get drunk on many occasions. She began to insult me and say that I was having relationships with other women, that I was an adulterer, in front of our friends (or rather, her friends). Somebody suggested that we all took a trip, but I was not prepared to do so given the circumstances. Then Eve would tell them that I actually did not want to because I did not love her anymore. I felt so low and alone, inspector! My family were the ones who always supported me throughout. They told me to hold on. Why not adopt a child, one of my sisters once suggested. I told her that I had already talked about it with my wife but that she did not want to. She wanted a child of her own; our own. I also became disillusioned as I thought I would never become a father, something which I yearnedforgreatly.

Our conversation was almost non-existent. If I spoke to her, she would either ignore me or reply rudely, swearing or cursing at me. I began to get sick from nerves. We started sleeping in separate rooms. Just a “good morning” from me or a “see you later”, that was all we said to one another. It was unbearable. It could not last much longer. As you might expect, I would increasingly do my own things and Eve hers. One afternoon, I said that if she did not love me anymore the best thing to do would be to separate. She would not hear of it, she said she loved me. “Well show it then and behave that way”, I would say. It was futile. She would harangue me saying that she had raised me up from nothing (which was not true) and that it was I who needed to behave myself. That she was not going to separate, or divorce me, ever. That she would not give me the satisfaction of abandoning her for another woman. She was paranoid. Later on I discovered that it was she who had suffered from nerves, ever since she was a child. A nervous, angry, possessive child. She must have made an effort once she became a teenager. She broke up with two boys to whom she nearly got engaged. I did not know that until much later. Her parents must have been desperate thinking that she would never marry. Until she met me. Then her character changed for the better, though only for a short time.

Are you losing interest, inspector? That is not my intention. I will explain now how and where my wife died.

I had already resolved to leave her, I could not bear any more and I was concerned very little with the consequences. I spoke to the manager at the textiles factory where I had first worked and I offered my services as an administrator. Thank God that they accepted because they had a vacancy, though they must have found it strange. It was obvious what I had to do, do you not agree? After leaving Eve I could never have worked at the same company.

But the unexpected happened. My wife and I went to spend the weekend at our house near the Cornish coast. I still wonder how we decided to go, but that day she had been particularly happy and pleasant. Furthermore, she insisted so much on going and I stupidly tried to please her. We went just the two of us and, upon arriving, as was customary, the middle aged couple who looked after the house were waiting for us.

During the journey I had started to feel unwell and once we arrived I felt worse. I was shivering all over and I checked my temperature to find it was because I had a fever, only slight at that time. I immediately got into bed. My wife did not accompany me and she went to the village. I think she gave some excuse, for Eve could not bear the sight of sick people, especially not me.

On Saturday afternoon she told me she was heading towards the cliff top, around seven o’clock, after going to visit some acquaintances. She took the car. There was a splendid view which spanned the whole coast. My wife had always loved that place. From where we lived, it took about ten minutes to get there on foot. I was getting very bored in bed and, thinking that I felt better, I decided to go and meet her. She did not seem happy to see me, rather quite the opposite. She told me that she felt so desperate that the best thing she could do would be to throw herself over the edge and for me to witness it. I did not pay attention to her ludicrous contestation, but, to my astonishment she jumped over the fence which was there to mark the precipice. I told her to get out of there quickly but she did not pay any attention. She started to laugh. I was sick of it all so I approached her, also jumping over the safety fence. We argued. I grabbed her arm but she resisted. She started to pummel my arms and legs. Unintentionally, we got closer to the edge, closer and closer. Then, when she was about to strike me again, she fell to the floor, slipped, and to my horror, I saw how her body swung, dangling over the precipicelike a heavy pendulum. Her hands clung strongly and desperately to the ground. Down below one could make out a rocky cove against which the water crashed violently. I reacted quickly. I grabbed my wife by the arms, first one, then the other, but she was flailing so violently that my hands slipped down her arms, shockingly, until they reached her hands. I held on as hard as I could, but my wife had put on weight and I believed I could not hold on to her for much longer.

I will never forget her terrorised face as she realised it was the end. That horrible moment came. My hands could no longer hold on and they separated from hers. She fell with a spine-chilling cry. I felt paralysed. Her body had crashed against the rocks and remained there, motionless, one hundred metres up. She was dead. My only consolation was thinking that her death had been instantaneous. It was impossible, impossible, it could not be. But it had happened.

I left the place as best I could, in a terrible state of shock. And what do I do now? Tell the police, go to the village? What would I say? That we had gone there together to see the panoramic views and that she had fallen? Nobody would have believed it. I would be blamed for her death, I would have pushed her; without doubt, I would have murdered her. And that terrified me more than her death. I decided that the most sensible thing to do would be to go back to the house and get into bed straight away, as if I had never left it. There was nobody at the cliff top and I was convinced that we had not been seen (as was the case.)

The wind was blowing strongly at the time. The ten minute distance which separated me from my house seemed eternal; I had to get there quicker, but how? Then I remembered that my wife kept our bicycles in the boot of the car because we would sometimes ride them through the woods. I opened it. There was only one, my one; even better. So I took it. I shut the boot and I headed speedily for the house down a tarmacked road. Do you know what? Along the way, I started to laugh. You might think it was a result of the shock and the nerves- that is true. But it was also because the wind was pushing me so powerfully and, as the path was downhill, it only took me five minutes to get there.

I left the bicycle in the garage right away. The couple who were in the house (she was the cook and he was the butler and driver) were listening to a radio programme in the kitchen, as they usually did almost every afternoon at that time. When I reached my room, I undressed hurriedly and got into the bed. I felt worse. I started to shake uncontrollably. My head hurt. My whole body hurt. I checked my temperature again. The thermometer read thirty eight and a half degrees.

Around eight o’clock, the cook came to see me again and, upon seeing me in such a bad way, she called the doctor who recommended best rest for a few days and said I had flu. At ten o’clock, it was the butler who came in, puzzled, to inform me that my wife still had not returned. I could not sleep. The combination of my physical state and the anguish of what had happened left me a ruin of a man. I was sweating and, at one point, I think I even lost consciousness.

The next morning the police appeared at my house. They informed me that the body of a woman named Eve Parminter had been found in a cove (my wife always carried her ID on her person). They were questioning all of the neighbours closest to the scene. I said that she was my wife. I started to cry, inspector, to cry like a child. My anguish flowed out of my sick body. They questioned me and asked me what I had been doing on the afternoon of the previous day. I told them that I was unwell, that I had gotten into bed when we arrived and that I had not gotten up again, I had the flu. The butler and the cook also assured them of this, as did the doctor. Given my state, it was inconceivable that I had gone out. They believed them.

Later I thought about my bicycle. Maybe it had remains of mud or earth on it, but I was mistaken, for as I mentioned before, the road was tarmacked. Nobody doubted me. When they asked how my wife had been when we arrived, I told them that she had been very nervous, strange. The butler and the cook also confirmed that she often argued with me, that she suffered from nerves and that she had fits of rage. When they questioned her parents, who came immediately, they said almost the same thing.

In the end, the verdict over the death of my wife was accidental death. But, in reality, what was it? My head would not stop thinking and thinking. What if my hands had held on more tightly?

And what if I had not thought so much about my future in those terrible moments? Would I have saved her? I do not know. Perhaps. Now I think that, as her husband, she would have ruined my life. Maybe my hands relaxed a touch more than they should have thinking of such an uncertain future. Yes, there are moments when I think that that is what happened. But on the other hand, I was ill, perhaps I did not have strength enough.

What do you think, inspector Carmichael? I know I will never be able to hear your reply, though I am very intrigued to know what you think.

After the Second World War I married my first girlfriend. Can you believe it? She had not married. It seemed incredible; though I think that deep down she had never forgiven me for leaving her for another woman. We had a beautiful baby girl. I had prospered financially after many years of work. I bought a beautiful, simple house fairly close to my mother’s. And I was happy, inspector, very happy. Until one year ago.

I was diagnosed with some incurable illness and I saw everything from a different point of view. I am not a believer, you know, but suddenly I had the urge to tell someone about it. And why not to the police? Are they not always boasting about having solved dark murders and found the culprits? Well this time it was going to be the other way around, but with no pride on my part, rather sadness. That is why I have written to you. Did I by any chance commit the perfect crime? Sometimes I think so. And it was neither planned nor calculated nor anything of the sort, rather quite the contrary.

Burn this letter once you have read it. Will you do that? I would not like somebody to unknowingly find it and start reading it. It would probably upset my family, who do not know anything about what happened. This would destroy them. It must not happen, do you understand? I beg you. It is a secret I have kept alone, without telling it to anybody.

They say that after life there is a heaven for those who have been good. And I have been a good person, Mr Carmichael, I always have. I have been good to everybody. What happened was so fleeting and complicated that I sometimes wonder how it could have happened. There are so many questions I still ask myself. What would have happened if I had never gone to look for my wife at the cliff top? What would have happened if I had not crossed the fence? I do not know. I will never know. Sometimes I think the best thing is not to analyse things so much and leave them be.

I conclude my letter, Mr Carmichael. Please, forgive the nuisance I have caused you, it was not my intention, but for me it was necessary to make this tardy confession.

Bidding you farewell,

Scott Gale.

Inspector Carmichael was deeply affected after reading the letter and he meditated it for around half an hour. His face became serious, very serious. Then he rose from his armchair and headed to the crackling fireplace to burn the letter as per the last wish of the deceased. “Was it a perfect crime?” he asked himself aloud. “Perhaps it was. But he did not intend to kill her, but to save her, that is why he crossed the fence. Perhaps for a few moments he thought about…” The inspector did not continue with his line of thought. He stopped talking and his blue eyes enlarged in a tragic way. But then his countenance started to relax until it regained its normal appearance.

THE END

“Letter for you, sir,” Anita saidin an almost muted tone.
“Thank you, Anita,” he replied, taking it.
The truth is he did not know who it was from as it did not have a sender address. He opened it right away. He could have never imagined what was written inside it.

“March, 1961:

            Dear inspector Carmichael…that is how letters start, is it not? You do not know me, but I know you. I know you are a good detective, one of the best. An acquaintance of mine is a police officer and so he told me.

My name is Scott Gale and I suppose that my name will not tell you anything, but before you tear up this letter, I must tell you not to do so, for in it lies the solution to the death of my first wife, more than twenty years ago. It was thought to be suicide, but I was the one who killed her… Only now that I am terminally ill do I need this confession. I suppose the good Lord will forgive me, as he forgives everyone who repents with profound sincerity, does he not? And I regret what I did every day of my life.

Do not try to check my whereabouts because it will be futile. In fact, by the time my letter reaches you I will already be dead. Strange, right? You can see my obituary in The Times if you do not believe me, a well-written obituary at that, I wrote it myself.

I ordered my wife to post my letter once I died. You must forgive me, inspector, but I did some research and quickly found out your address. The motive of my letter is to prove that I caused the death of my wife, though at times I am not sure about it. Murder?Perhaps. I still do not know. I never was totally sure. It is strange, is it not? One is either sure about a murder or not. But in my case it is neither.

My story starts a little before the Second World War. I was the eldest of five brothers from a very humble family. My parents had to work very hard to give the family a chance. And as if our misfortunes were not great enough, one of my brothers caught polio and became paralysed. Given that my mother could not leave her job, my grandmother came to live with us to care for him. I am sure that you can imagine for yourself, eight people living in a modest home with two insufficient salaries…

Things went from bad to worse. My father was taken ill and passed away very suddenly. That was terrible, inspector, terrible. It destroyed us. My life changed then, given that, as the eldest son I had to abandon my studies and begin working immediately.

The only consolation I had was my girlfriend. She was the prettiest, sweetest girl one could imagine. We lived in the same neighbourhood and fell in love the first time we saw each other. I knew her parents and her family and they were all very pleasant. The only problem we had in our relationship was our poverty, with an uncertain future that seemed very bleak every time we thought about getting married. Because of our situation it was inconceivable and unfortunately improbable. We were both just twenty years old.

Thanks to a recommendation from some friends of my mother’s, I went to work as a bellboy in a big textiles company, at the offices. For me, obtaining that job was very important for I found myself extremely at ease there, the people were very agreeable and I earned my wage, whichincreased steadily with the passing of the years, and shortly after I moved to the service of one of the deputy managers.

It happened a year later, I still remember it perfectly. I took the elevator in the offices and I was going up to the second floor when a very beautiful young woman entered, slightly plump with bronzed skin and black hair. She smiled amicably at me. From her attire and the way she was done up I deduced that she was rich. In fact, many people of high social standing used to go there. When the two of us were alone in the elevator it suddenly broke down and we became stuck between the second and third floor. I maintained my composure but she got nervous, slightly hysterical. I calmed her down, telling her that it would be fixed right away. Without realising, I wrapped my arms around her and she felt more relaxed. We started to talk. She was the daughter of an important businessman, a young woman a little older than I, three years, but back then she did not seem it, rather quite the opposite; a scared and teary young girl who only wished to exit the elevator as soon as she could. Obviously, in the end we managed to get out of there. She was so warm towards me that she told me, imploringly, to go to her home the next day. I did not want to but her insistence was such that I accepted. She told me she was called Eve Parminter and she gave me the calling card of her building.

I had always believed in social equality. I did not imagine that there could be people so poor and people so rich. The house, in which the young woman lived, in the elegant neighbourhood of Mayfair, seemed like something out of a daydream. Although I had worn my best suit (in reality it was the only one I had for such an occasion) and I seemed like one of them, I felt uncomfortable in front of such a luxurious house. After a few seconds I approached the front door and pressed the bell. Almost instantaneously a tall and portly butler appeared. I asked for her and the man led me to an extensive terrace where the young woman was with her mother.

She was not as beautiful as her daughter and came across somewhat distant. She was dressed elegantly and wore a lot of jewellery. I found it strange that my presence would have obliged her to dress in such a way, but I was mistaken as she was expecting her sister. The three of us spoke for a few moments. Eve explained that I had been very brave and caring towards her. The woman was not in the least bit fazed. It was clear that she either already knew or did not care. But what the woman did say to me, which was actually almost the only thing she said as she was sparing with words, was that her husband needed a trustworthy man in his office. I did not know how to respond. Only Eve’s words encouraged me. I would receive twice the salary as in my office. I thought about it long and hard. In the end I accepted.

Eve’s father was very rich and owned a business in the wood industry. I was in the office in charge of all the orders, but I also had to arrange files, check the accounts, and do other jobs. I was happy, as was Eve’s father. I earned a good salary, part of which I sent home to my family. I almost could not believe it. How well everything was going for me! That year ended in a pleasing way.

Not entirely, though, Mr Carmichael. The relationship with my girlfriend changed. I loved her, but I also loved wealth. You may think that I could have married her but you are mistaken. What you are unaware of is that Eve had fallen in love with me and I did not find her displeasing, though I was not in love with her (a grave error). I found those luxurious surroundings so magnificent, that enormous house with the swimming pool, tennis court, butler, maids, the luxury car, trips, and so on. My mind was too absorbed in that world of wealth. I hated poverty every time I saw my girlfriend and went to her house. The ghosts of hunger came back to mind and it was unbearable for me. Furthermore, my salary was stillnot high enough to form a family. I did not know if I would be promoted to a higher position and earn more money. Whatever it was, the relationship with my girlfriend changed, and although I desired her, I did not want to see her. I would go increasingly more often to Eve’s house. She would invite me to parties and to swim in the pool. She was very friendly towards me, affectionate. She told me that she found me very agreeable, fun and handsome. I practically said the same to her. After six months we got engaged and, after the winter, we were married. Now, with hindsight, I see my grave error. I married too young and I scarcely knew her.

I must confess- it seems that I am already doing so, does it not? I was very happy in my marriage during the first year, but everything changed once we realised we could not have children. For my wife it was traumatic and even more so once the doctors informed us that it was she who could not bear children. She felt so wretched that she started to get annoyed with me for no reason. She would make a fuss if I came home late and the worst thing was that she started to believe that I did not desire her anymoreand would leave her. Because of that false assumption she became sick with jealousy. She started to drink and eat in excess until she put on weight. Her figure no longer resembled the one of that attractive young woman.

I became seriously worried. My in-laws helped very little and the few pieces of advice they gave turned out disastrously in the long term. They told me that Eve had always loved parties, why not hold one every week? Who knows, I thought. Perhaps she would change and everything would go back to how it was before. But no. She abused alcohol and would get drunk on many occasions. She began to insult me and say that I was having relationships with other women, that I was an adulterer, in front of our friends (or rather, her friends). Somebody suggested that we all took a trip, but I was not prepared to do so given the circumstances. Then Eve would tell them that I actually did not want to because I did not love her anymore. I felt so low and alone, inspector! My family were the ones who always supported me throughout. They told me to hold on. Why not adopt a child, one of my sisters once suggested. I told her that I had already talked about it with my wife but that she did not want to. She wanted a child of her own; our own. I also became disillusioned as I thought I would never become a father, something which I yearnedforgreatly.

Our conversation was almost non-existent. If I spoke to her, she would either ignore me or reply rudely, swearing or cursing at me. I began to get sick from nerves. We started sleeping in separate rooms. Just a “good morning” from me or a “see you later”, that was all we said to one another. It was unbearable. It could not last much longer. As you might expect, I would increasingly do my own things and Eve hers. One afternoon, I said that if she did not love me anymore the best thing to do would be to separate. She would not hear of it, she said she loved me. “Well show it then and behave that way”, I would say. It was futile. She would harangue me saying that she had raised me up from nothing (which was not true) and that it was I who needed to behave myself. That she was not going to separate, or divorce me, ever. That she would not give me the satisfaction of abandoning her for another woman. She was paranoid. Later on I discovered that it was she who had suffered from nerves, ever since she was a child. A nervous, angry, possessive child. She must have made an effort once she became a teenager. She broke up with two boys to whom she nearly got engaged. I did not know that until much later. Her parents must have been desperate thinking that she would never marry. Until she met me. Then her character changed for the better, though only for a short time.

Are you losing interest, inspector? That is not my intention. I will explain now how and where my wife died.

I had already resolved to leave her, I could not bear any more and I was concerned very little with the consequences. I spoke to the manager at the textiles factory where I had first worked and I offered my services as an administrator. Thank God that they accepted because they had a vacancy, though they must have found it strange. It was obvious what I had to do, do you not agree? After leaving Eve I could never have worked at the same company.

But the unexpected happened. My wife and I went to spend the weekend at our house near the Cornish coast. I still wonder how we decided to go, but that day she had been particularly happy and pleasant. Furthermore, she insisted so much on going and I stupidly tried to please her. We went just the two of us and, upon arriving, as was customary, the middle aged couple who looked after the house were waiting for us.

During the journey I had started to feel unwell and once we arrived I felt worse. I was shivering all over and I checked my temperature to find it was because I had a fever, only slight at that time. I immediately got into bed. My wife did not accompany me and she went to the village. I think she gave some excuse, for Eve could not bear the sight of sick people, especially not me.

On Saturday afternoon she told me she was heading towards the cliff top, around seven o’clock, after going to visit some acquaintances. She took the car. There was a splendid view which spanned the whole coast. My wife had always loved that place. From where we lived, it took about ten minutes to get there on foot. I was getting very bored in bed and, thinking that I felt better, I decided to go and meet her. She did not seem happy to see me, rather quite the opposite. She told me that she felt so desperate that the best thing she could do would be to throw herself over the edge and for me to witness it. I did not pay attention to her ludicrous contestation, but, to my astonishment she jumped over the fence which was there to mark the precipice. I told her to get out of there quickly but she did not pay any attention. She started to laugh. I was sick of it all so I approached her, also jumping over the safety fence. We argued. I grabbed her arm but she resisted. She started to pummel my arms and legs. Unintentionally, we got closer to the edge, closer and closer. Then, when she was about to strike me again, she fell to the floor, slipped, and to my horror, I saw how her body swung, dangling over the precipicelike a heavy pendulum. Her hands clung strongly and desperately to the ground. Down below one could make out a rocky cove against which the water crashed violently. I reacted quickly. I grabbed my wife by the arms, first one, then the other, but she was flailing so violently that my hands slipped down her arms, shockingly, until they reached her hands. I held on as hard as I could, but my wife had put on weight and I believed I could not hold on to her for much longer.

I will never forget her terrorised face as she realised it was the end. That horrible moment came. My hands could no longer hold on and they separated from hers. She fell with a spine-chilling cry. I felt paralysed. Her body had crashed against the rocks and remained there, motionless, one hundred metres up. She was dead. My only consolation was thinking that her death had been instantaneous. It was impossible, impossible, it could not be. But it had happened.

I left the place as best I could, in a terrible state of shock. And what do I do now? Tell the police, go to the village? What would I say? That we had gone there together to see the panoramic views and that she had fallen? Nobody would have believed it. I would be blamed for her death, I would have pushed her; without doubt, I would have murdered her. And that terrified me more than her death. I decided that the most sensible thing to do would be to go back to the house and get into bed straight away, as if I had never left it. There was nobody at the cliff top and I was convinced that we had not been seen (as was the case.)

The wind was blowing strongly at the time. The ten minute distance which separated me from my house seemed eternal; I had to get there quicker, but how? Then I remembered that my wife kept our bicycles in the boot of the car because we would sometimes ride them through the woods. I opened it. There was only one, my one; even better. So I took it. I shut the boot and I headed speedily for the house down a tarmacked road. Do you know what? Along the way, I started to laugh. You might think it was a result of the shock and the nerves- that is true. But it was also because the wind was pushing me so powerfully and, as the path was downhill, it only took me five minutes to get there.

I left the bicycle in the garage right away. The couple who were in the house (she was the cook and he was the butler and driver) were listening to a radio programme in the kitchen, as they usually did almost every afternoon at that time. When I reached my room, I undressed hurriedly and got into the bed. I felt worse. I started to shake uncontrollably. My head hurt. My whole body hurt. I checked my temperature again. The thermometer read thirty eight and a half degrees.

Around eight o’clock, the cook came to see me again and, upon seeing me in such a bad way, she called the doctor who recommended best rest for a few days and said I had flu. At ten o’clock, it was the butler who came in, puzzled, to inform me that my wife still had not returned. I could not sleep. The combination of my physical state and the anguish of what had happened left me a ruin of a man. I was sweating and, at one point, I think I even lost consciousness.

The next morning the police appeared at my house. They informed me that the body of a woman named Eve Parminter had been found in a cove (my wife always carried her ID on her person). They were questioning all of the neighbours closest to the scene. I said that she was my wife. I started to cry, inspector, to cry like a child. My anguish flowed out of my sick body. They questioned me and asked me what I had been doing on the afternoon of the previous day. I told them that I was unwell, that I had gotten into bed when we arrived and that I had not gotten up again, I had the flu. The butler and the cook also assured them of this, as did the doctor. Given my state, it was inconceivable that I had gone out. They believed them.

Later I thought about my bicycle. Maybe it had remains of mud or earth on it, but I was mistaken, for as I mentioned before, the road was tarmacked. Nobody doubted me. When they asked how my wife had been when we arrived, I told them that she had been very nervous, strange. The butler and the cook also confirmed that she often argued with me, that she suffered from nerves and that she had fits of rage. When they questioned her parents, who came immediately, they said almost the same thing.

In the end, the verdict over the death of my wife was accidental death. But, in reality, what was it? My head would not stop thinking and thinking. What if my hands had held on more tightly?

And what if I had not thought so much about my future in those terrible moments? Would I have saved her? I do not know. Perhaps. Now I think that, as her husband, she would have ruined my life. Maybe my hands relaxed a touch more than they should have thinking of such an uncertain future. Yes, there are moments when I think that that is what happened. But on the other hand, I was ill, perhaps I did not have strength enough.

What do you think, inspector Carmichael? I know I will never be able to hear your reply, though I am very intrigued to know what you think.

After the Second World War I married my first girlfriend. Can you believe it? She had not married. It seemed incredible; though I think that deep down she had never forgiven me for leaving her for another woman. We had a beautiful baby girl. I had prospered financially after many years of work. I bought a beautiful, simple house fairly close to my mother’s. And I was happy, inspector, very happy. Until one year ago.

I was diagnosed with some incurable illness and I saw everything from a different point of view. I am not a believer, you know, but suddenly I had the urge to tell someone about it. And why not to the police? Are they not always boasting about having solved dark murders and found the culprits? Well this time it was going to be the other way around, but with no pride on my part, rather sadness. That is why I have written to you. Did I by any chance commit the perfect crime? Sometimes I think so. And it was neither planned nor calculated nor anything of the sort, rather quite the contrary.

Burn this letter once you have read it. Will you do that? I would not like somebody to unknowingly find it and start reading it. It would probably upset my family, who do not know anything about what happened. This would destroy them. It must not happen, do you understand? I beg you. It is a secret I have kept alone, without telling it to anybody.

They say that after life there is a heaven for those who have been good. And I have been a good person, Mr Carmichael, I always have. I have been good to everybody. What happened was so fleeting and complicated that I sometimes wonder how it could have happened. There are so many questions I still ask myself. What would have happened if I had never gone to look for my wife at the cliff top? What would have happened if I had not crossed the fence? I do not know. I will never know. Sometimes I think the best thing is not to analyse things so much and leave them be.

I conclude my letter, Mr Carmichael. Please, forgive the nuisance I have caused you, it was not my intention, but for me it was necessary to make this tardy confession.

Bidding you farewell,

Scott Gale.

Inspector Carmichael was deeply affected after reading the letter and he meditated it for around half an hour. His face became serious, very serious. Then he rose from his armchair and headed to the crackling fireplace to burn the letter as per the last wish of the deceased. “Was it a perfect crime?” he asked himself aloud. “Perhaps it was. But he did not intend to kill her, but to save her, that is why he crossed the fence. Perhaps for a few moments he thought about…” The inspector did not continue with his line of thought. He stopped talking and his blue eyes enlarged in a tragic way. But then his countenance started to relax until it regained its normal appearance.

THE END