Blackground

by Joan Aiken

  “Of course, my dear.”

  She escorted me back home. The front door was unlocked. “That’s odd,” I said. “I could have sworn I locked it.”

  Miss Morgan was mildly concerned. “Better check around. Does anything seem to be missing? Though everybody is perfectly honest in the village,” she added. “We leave ours open all the time as you know.”

  Nothing was missing, so far as I could see. Most of my belongings were still packed in suitcases. Some papers, I thought, might have been taken out of a folder, my extra lines for Rosy and Dodo. “Why would anyone be interested in them? Nobody would keep money in a folder?” But I was in such a disorganized state that I wasn’t certain I’d left them in it. I am not orderly. And Odd Tom had turned up just before I left the house, so I hadn’t tidied it. — What a long time ago that seemed. A notebook, perhaps, might be missing?

  “What was in it?” asked Miss Morgan. “Lists of things you mean to do? Diary?”

  “Good heavens, no. I don’t respect my life enough to keep lists in a notebook. On the backs of envelopes . . . What was in it? Ideas for plays, I think. But it may not even have been here. I’m in a terrible muddle.”

  She looked dissatisfied. “It’s not a good idea for you to be on your own in this house,” she muttered. “Perhaps you should come to us again —”

  “But — good heavens — I’m much, much better than I was. Tom gave me another going-over this morning — he’s a marvellous little man —”

  “Yes. He is.” But at the mention of his name she looked, if anything, more bothered. “Well. Give us a shout if you need anything. Or wave a scarf on your terrace — we can see it from our back window. It’s just across the road really. Have you plenty of food?”

  “Yes, the freezer’s packed, thanks to Miss Limbourne.”

  “Pat,” she said absently. “Do call us Pat and Elspeth. I know! The dog whistle!”

  “Dog whistle?”

  “The sound carries for miles. — We used to have a Jack Russell with a very wandering disposition,” she added obscurely. “I’ll send Shuna with it. Goodbye. Do lock up.”

  And went off at a brisk pace.

  I sat brooding about Ty. Abandoning me on the artillery range, I now realized, was only the last of a series: almost certainly it could be assumed that his had been the intention behind the fire in the house; Parkson could have arranged that, or, possibly, Ty himself (at this point I remembered something Odd Tom had said about seeing my husband which, at the time, I had written off as fantasy); and then, in Venice, my fall — had that been accidental or contrived? Ty had grabbed me, but had he in the first place twitched me off balance, right by the Grand Canal? Then . . . I went on slowly remembering . . . back at the hotel he gave me a whole saucerful of pills — which I, straightway, flushed down the lavatory; what would have become of me if I had swallowed those?

  In five minutes Shuna ran up, carrying a large brass article with a ring at one end.

  “You twist here —” she demonstrated. “That makes the sound louder. This way it makes it so that only dogs can hear; but that’s not what you want, is it?”

  “I certainly don’t want all the dogs in Glifonis to come running.”

  “I don’t think there are any,” she said seriously. “The Lord won’t have them here. And I doubt if Arkwright would come . . . Do you think there are sounds that we can hear and dogs can’t?”

  “Very likely. And there may be sounds that you can hear and I can’t.”

  She thought about that. “The voice of God, you mean?”

  “Certainly; if you can hear that, it’s more than I can.”

  “Well,” she explained, frowning, “Aunt Elspeth says that when I get a mathematical idea, it’s a message from the Holy Ghost. Because, otherwise, where do they come from?”

  “I know exactly what she means.”

  “Like Kubla Khan.”

  “That came from opium,” I suggested.

  “Not only from opium. After all, lots of people take opium and they don’t write Kubla Khan. Sometimes — do you know? — it’s as if you were pulling on the end of a piece of string, or cottonwool, and if only you could pull hard enough, the whole reel would unwind, and you’d know everything!”

  She gave me a look of triumph.

  “Well,” I said, “I hope you’ll be able to give a really powerful pull of that kind by and by.”

  “Oh, I think I shall. Now I’d better get back to my piano practice.”

  Off she ran. And, I thought, the Ladies are doing a good job on little Shuna.

  The day crept on. Through the mist, which thickened perceptibly in the afternoon, I observed a great deal of unusual come-and-go. Cars pulled into the parking area above my house, dark figures of men in uniform tramped down the stepped causeway. Some of them presently returned at a slow pace, carrying what I presumed was a stretcher; but the scene was wavering and vague, like a procession of ghosts, I thought, glimpsed through a steamed-up window . . . I supposed I ought to feel some pity for Olga, but all I did feel was a kind of horror. I could imagine her sallow, haggard face staring upwards as the slab of muddy cliff face toppled outwards above her — her attempt, too late, to run; but was that really what had happened?

  About tea-time a Police-Sergeant Bridger knocked at my door and came in to ask when was the last time I had seen Miss Laszlo? Last night at Miss Pitt’s party, I told him, and he nodded; evidently this was what everybody had said.

  “You had known the lady for some time, I understand?”

  “Oh yes, for nine or ten years. Though we weren’t close friends.”

  He nodded and wrote.

  “Would you say she was a keen fossil collector?”

  “To be honest, I never knew before that she was interested in them. But she did say something about fossils at the party last night — and she had dozens of interests, she was always starting off in new directions —”

  He nodded and wrote. “I understand she had lunch with your husband yesterday?”

  “So I’ve been told. They were old friends too.”

  “Do you own a shotgun, Lady Fortuneswell?”

  “A shotgun?” I stared at him, startled to death. “Good heavens, no! But — but Olga wasn’t shot, was she? I thought she was killed by a landslide?”

  “I couldn’t tell you that,” he replied, shutting his notebook and snapping the elastic band round it. “We’ll have to wait for the coroner’s report,” and he went out, closing the door carefully behind him, and leaving me filled to the brim with worry. I lay on my bed and tried to rest, got up, sat shivering, and presently brewed myself a cup of instant coffee with brandy in it.

  If I were in a thriller, I thought, at this juncture I would be in a frantic state of mind. Ty has had several goes at killing me. Until I know he has received my message, I have every reason to suppose that he will try again. Perhaps, even after he gets the message, he’ll go on trying? As long as I am alive, I represent a threat to him. But why? I promised not to tell about the scene with the old man. So — either Ty doesn’t trust me, or that isn’t his only reason for wanting to get rid of me.

  I suppose he’s incapable of trusting me, really. Or anybody else. Not being a signal example of trustworthiness himself, how could he believe in anybody else’s promise?

  I suppose I have to bear that in mind.

  What other reason might he have for wanting to dispose of me?

  I went on reflecting intently and sadly about Ty. Our lovemaking had been a kind of peak, I supposed. From that point there would be nowhere to go but down. Ty could never put up with that; only the best was good enough for him. A descent from perfection would count as failure, and failure was intolerable. So any reminder of failure must be tidied away out of existence.

  A certain indignation began to grow inside me.

  On the whole I am rea
dy to take what comes. I inherit that from Masha. “That thee is sent, receive in buxomnesse,” she read me once from a poem by Chaucer, and at the time I found it puzzling. Buxomnesse? What did Chaucer mean? But the word, with its cheerful acceptance, gradually began to make sense. It absolutely defined Masha, and her way of deriving nourishment and joy from the most unpromising circumstances.

  Chaucer wasn’t preaching morality, so much as pointing out that you may as well make the very best of what you are sent, because, sure as hell, you aren’t going to be sent anything else. One life is the ration. Nobody gets two Wednesdays.

  Now, that whole verse rouses me like a trumpet.

  So back to Ty. I didn’t plan to sit and wait for him to despatch me. I wanted to make the best of my life so far as it went.

  Ty had no right to deprive me of it, even if I was due to die next year of leukaemia, gangrene and toxic waste. In fact, I thought crossly, it would be a lesson to him if I struggled on for another forty years in his despite.

  How to stop him killing me? One of those elaborate chains of precaution, write a letter to my lawyer (except that I didn’t have a lawyer) informing him that in the event of my death etc., etc. Then write another letter to Ty, telling him what I had done?

  All this would take time.

  Another knock at the door made me start, but it was only Sophie Pitt, carrying a large envelope.

  “Hi, dearie. The postman left this with me earlier; said you were out when he called. Taking your walk with Zoë, I suppose. Wasn’t that a bit premature?”

  She glanced at my ankle.

  “Yes it was, but I came off lucky.” Sophie nodded vaguely.

  “The whole place is upheaved because of this wretched business of Olga Laszlo,” she went on, and I blessed Zoë for her discretion. “Stupid fool of a woman, it’s just the sort of thing that would happen to her.”

  Poor Olga, that will be her general epitaph, I thought, and said, “I’m having Ness with brandy, would you like some?”

  Sophie accepted the coffee but wistfully declined the brandy. “The Pools are in a terrible state too,” she remarked, “because your husband has given them notice.”

  “What?”

  She looked at me rather severely.

  “You didn’t know?”

  I shook my head. “He doesn’t speak to me about professional affairs. And — and since we got back from Venice I’ve only seen him once —”

  “Well,” said Sophie, “I suppose, in a way, you can’t blame him. Everyone knows that Fortuneswell has a complete down on any kind of drug abuse, and there was that boy, visibly on something — your husband had made it perfectly plain he wouldn’t have anything of the kind going on here. So, it seems, he’s given them a day to clear out —”

  “A day! That’s pretty drastic.”

  “Your husband appears to be a fairly drastic man, my dear. He was down below just now giving Pat and Elspeth the rough side of his tongue for having let the Pools come here.” She drained her coffee and rose.

  “Ty was here?” I said stupidly. “You mean today? Just now?” One of those figures that I had seen passing in the mist?

  “At your friends’ house,” she said, nodding.

  I found it almost impossible to believe her, but she went on, “I’d planned to phone my sister on the way up here. However, when I put my head round the door I saw that it wouldn’t be a tactful moment, so I came on up to you. I’ll get Dot tonight, she’ll be at work by now.” And Sophie left, with her majestic gait, drifting away through the mist like a ship in full sail.

  If I had been worried after the departure of PS Bridger, I was a thousand times more worried now. Ty was here, at this moment, in the village? Had he ever been back to the Close Hotel? Or had he phoned it and received my message? Almost certainly not. Had he discovered that I was still alive? Had the Ladies told him that piece of news? What would he do next?

  I felt as if a hand-grenade had been tossed down somewhere quite close to me, and I was not certain, either where it lay, or if the pin had been removed.

  Unthinking, I stared down at the envelope that Sophie had delivered. It was large, brown, dirty, crumpled; had been used before, refastened with plastic tape, and a new label stuck crookedly over the previous address. A printed logo, Tagus, in the top left-hand corner, had been crossed out in ink, and my name, Cat Conwil, Number 1, Glifonis, Dorset, was written on the label in a slapdash, messy, vaguely familiar handwriting.

  I opened the envelope with the usual difficulty, dragging away the various wrinkled layers of plastic tape, and found inside a worn stained bunch of old newspaper clippings held together by a safety-pin and accompanied by a grubby postcard.

  “Dear Catherine: since you do not appear to have been told the Lilias story I am passing these on to you. Then your dear husband can’t have any more reason to try and put pressure on me, can he? Olga.” Signed with a grandiloquent flourish.

  The cuttings were yellow with age. I had time to read the first headline: HANDS HORROR and the second: MUTILATED HEIRESS BLEEDS TO DEATH — then looked up to see Ty standing outside the back door.

  Peremptorily, Ty rapped on the glass door, then rattled the handle. The door was locked. I had the key in my pocket.

  My mouth went dry as the Sahara. The pain in my back was like a volcano just about to erupt. A fierce pang of toothache shot through my jaw. Foolishly, like a nodding toy, I wagged my head at Ty. His face was formidable, his eyes blazed. Again he banged on the door and rattled it. Then, as I still remained seated at the kitchen counter, petrified, with mad thoughts running through my head — Blow the whistle? Run out of the front door? Lock myself in the bathroom? — Ty briskly pulled a key from his own pocket and began to insert it in the outer keyhole.

  Still I remained in a state of suspension. I remembered a Kipling story about Kaa the python hypnotizing a whole row of monkeys before he proceeds to swallow them. I felt just like those monkeys, while I waited for the scratching click of Ty’s key turning in the lock.

  But it never came. To my total astonishment, Ty began slowly to stoop, as if he intended to take a closer look through the glass at the faded sections of newsprint spread out along the counter. Then he slowly crumpled, his knees bent, his head came forward and rested against the glass of the door. After a moment he slumped forward entirely, coming to rest in a foetal position, with his knees under him and his head sunk between his shoulders. The whole process had been so silent, so strange, that I thought: Is he doing this simply to terrify me? Or has he suffered some kind of fit? Or is it a mad act of penance? Though that seemed the most unlikely of the three possibilities.

  Then I saw the prong sticking out of his back, between his shoulders.

  After a long, frozen time I did hobble to the front door, throw it open and blow the whistle as hard as I could.

  XII

  “Well!”

  The two friends stared at each other across the door which had just slammed behind their visitor, and Miss Morgan drew a hand shakily across her brow.

  “My dear, what a distressing scene. I am too old for such rodomontades. They affect my heart in a most unpleasant way.” She had indeed gone very pale. “I always had some reservations about that man, as you know —”

  “He’s taken leave of his wits if you ask me,” said Pat gruffly. She was the more profoundly disturbed of the two. Fortuneswell had, after all, been her friend in the first place. “The man must obviously have had some kind of brainstorm. Carrying on in such a way — all that rubbish about conspiracy and betrayal of trust —”

  “Very disagreeable,” repeated Miss Morgan, nodding. “Unbalanced, I’d say.”

  “Just because we’d adopted old Ossie’s granddaughter — and chose not to advertise the fact — I can’t see what business it was —”

  “Of his,” agreed Elspeth. “To give us notice on such a flimsy pretext
was perfectly outrageous —”

  “Well, he did say it was because of the Pools as well. Whether he has any legal ground —”

  “One would not wish to fight it in any legal way, however,” said Miss Morgan distastefully. “Besides, to have the whole thing opened up would be disastrous for the child —”

  Pat rubbed her forehead distressedly. “And then there’s the question of his influence, now he knows who she is. Most undesirable — in his present state. That’s what really bothers me. I can see his case against the Pools; now I’ve met them I’m sorry they came; Llewellyn’s a decent chap, and he swore up and down that Alexander was clear, but she —”

  “Is a little trollop. Well, no use fretting,” said Elspeth, who had recovered her colour. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”

  The piano practice ceased and steps pattered down the stairs.

  Shuna came in. “I’ve finished! Can I go down to the harbour?”

  “Yes, all right,” said Elspeth after a moment’s thought. “But put on your jacket. It’s chilly.”

  “What was all that shouting about? He kept shouting Lilias, Lilias. Who’s Lilias?”

  “Nobody you know. And you aren’t supposed to listen to other people’s conversations. You were supposed to be practising.”

  “I was practising, but he shouted so loud I couldn’t help hearing,” said Shuna, pulling on her windbreaker. “I never stopped playing.”

  Elspeth stumped off into the garden, her face crumpled in perplexity.

  “I don’t like Lord Fortuneswell. He’s worse than Black Marby,” observed Shuna, tugging on a boot.

  “Oh? Why, pray?” asked Pat after a slight pause.

  “First he made a terrible mess of my battle arrangements and never even said that he was sorry. And now, do you know what he’s done? Sacked Jannis and Dmitri without any notice. Just because they left a pile of rubble in the path so he couldn’t get by. And they were supposed to have their tickets paid back to Greece, but he wouldn’t, so the others are having to club together to help them. I think he’s a bad man,” pronounced Shuna, and she stamped on the other boot and walked towards the door.