It would have been useless, he knew, to have attempted more before daylight, yet he had gone to bed uneasy. He had not done a tenth of what was needed. There would be much he had missed. Now he could bring some thoroughness to the task.
In the low October sun, the grounds were harshly lit. Every blade of grass was finely etched, every leaf underscored with shadow. If anything had been dropped or flung from the cars, he would pick it out. He did not look his age, he was told, but he was slower on his feet than twenty years before; he would emerge sorrier from a brawl, if he were to enter it at all.
Of all his faculties, his sight had aged least. Even at twenty or thirty feet, he could tell a mistle thrush apart from its more common cousin. He did not hunt now, since Mr Crowe had lost his taste for it, but he could still take down a buck from a quarter of a mile, if he were pressed to it. His scouring of the lawns, then, yielded items that even a diligent sergeant might have overlooked. He was further rewarded when he inspected the great lime trees that lined the avenue.
Gathering the spent cartridges gave him rather less satisfaction. Of all the chores that would fall to him from the antics of the night before, he was least enamoured of this one. His post had its vexations; he was long enough accustomed to them, and it was not his habit to hold himself aloof from his work. It gave him no pleasure, however, to find himself bagging and counting buckled casings like the lackey of a common murderer. If he accommodated himself to such things, it was not that he did so always without discomfort; it was not that he never grew weary.
Tiresome as it was, accounting for the cartridges gave him an occupation that blunted his unease. When it was done, there was little else for his attention to fasten upon. The woman had left two white cigarette ends, each mint-scented and lightly fretted with carmine gloss. Mr Crowe had let fall a scarf, a fine thing in black and dove-grey silk. It had been ground under a heel, most likely his own, and was no longer serviceable. In agitation, Eustace tapped at his palate with his tongue.
What else? What else was there?
He could see or think of nothing. It gnawed at him, making him doubt his own subtlety. For lack of any less obvious occupation, he turned his attention again to the car and its contents. He had moved it to the stable yard only until it could be put beyond recovery. He would see to that later. What he wanted, for now, was what it might reveal to him. Who and what was he, this man? Where had he come from? How soon would he be missed, and by whom?
The woman, Arabella; she might have answers to give them. Mr Crowe might have gleaned something from her himself as they became acquainted, but he could not now be depended upon to approach the matter with rigour. He had never been diligent, except in a handful of cherished pursuits, and he had begun to neglect even those. In any case, there was no telling what cause she might have to keep things from them.
Even if she were to reveal nothing, Eustace was inclined already towards certain inferences. She was an entertainer, that much he knew, and Mr Crowe had encountered her at one of the dives he now frequented. But what had he been to her, this young man? A lover? A husband? He had been ardent in his feelings, but what of hers? The unfaithful, he had observed, were apt to renew their old attachments when they were finally freed of them.
He set about rummaging through the car’s cramped and dismal interior. It was upholstered in a cheap, grey fabric and had been indifferently cared for. The bearded man had often been content, it appeared, to take his meals in the vehicle, even to pass the occasional night there. On the back seat, there were remnants of sliced bread and a half-eaten jar of fish paste. Under a bundle of thin and stale-smelling blankets, Eustace found an empty bottle – some inferior gin – and a magazine of lurid photographs.
On the front passenger seat were five or six gramophone records with pictures of performers on their sleeves. In music, their visitor had favoured the work of those whose beards and leather coats most closely resembled his own. His literary tastes, on the evidence of the three flimsy paperbacks in the glove compartment, tended towards poetry. There was something in this that Eustace found both unsurprising and indistinctly loathsome.
Aside from these items, there was little else that revealed much. If he had possessed a driving licence, he had not been punctilious enough to keep it in the pocket of the windscreen visor, or in any other obvious place. There were receipts and other such ephemeral things, but nothing that put a name to the face Eustace had seen. He might have been a vagrant, but he might just as easily have been the wayward middle child of a cabinet minister.
Eustace reclined in the driver’s seat and let out a slow breath. Idly, he picked up one of the volumes of poetry and began to leaf through it. Mr Crowe, of course, was steeped in verse, as he was in all forms of writing. Clara, he had long since realised, was made in the same way. Words, in their minds, were not fixed to things as a tendon is to a muscle. Every particle of creation, to them, was submerged in a flux of words. Everything was contiguous with everything else, the touching of one word or object setting up currents and mutations that seemed never to stop. They described the world by ceaselessly unsettling it, never letting anything rest. He saw the enticements of all this, or he did sometimes, but it exhausted him too. And he distrusted it.
He made a desultory survey of the poems, scanning titles and first lines. His eye snagged here and there on a form of words that had been twisted, like a fishing lure, into an arresting brightness. The rest was merely wearying. He turned the book over, glancing idly over the back cover. Here, the poet’s handful of achievements was made much of. He had put out a few others like this one. He had won this or that prize.
Eustace tossed the book back onto the seat. His breath had formed a mist on the windscreen, obscuring the familiar bulk of the house, and he found that he could no longer tolerate the sour air of the car’s interior. He would wash again, when he went back inside; he would put on a fresh suit and shirt. But it would stay with him for hours, he knew. He would find its taint at the edges of his breath, clinging with faint insistence to his skin.
He found them in the orangery. They had contrived to sleep there somehow, gathering up what soft furnishings there were and piling them beneath the piano. From the depths of some closet, Mr Crowe had procured a fur coat and this now covered the woman. Even with this improvised bedding, they could hardly have passed a restful night. Though it retained some of its grandeur, the domed chamber of glass was frigid and comfortless after sunset. He surveyed the bottles and decanters that had been abandoned on various surfaces about the room. They had put themselves, he supposed, beyond the need for comfort.
He set the breakfast tray on a wicker table and stood for a moment, listening to the magniloquent blare of Mr Crowe’s snoring. Eustace rarely woke him under any circumstances, and rousing him in this condition was particularly unappealing. Still, there was some urgency in today’s business. There was much to discuss.
He circled the piano, glancing at the sheets of Chopin that had spilled from the music stand. Mr Crowe had taken a run at a nocturne, it seemed, before thinking better of it. The lid had been closed over the keyboard, and on it rested a heavy crystal ashtray containing several cigar ends and a scrap of cloth. An intimate garment, Eustace realised as he cleared the items away.
Though he opened the piano lid with no particular object in mind, he found himself measuring out the familiar intervals. He had no particular aptitude for music, but had been fascinated enough by this unsettling clutch of notes to observe how the chord was played, to practise it at odd moments of leisure. With his left hand, he stroked the white keys. With two fingers of his right, he clawed the pair of sharps. It was satisfying, somehow, simply to form the shape. The gesture felt appropriately large, even before a note sounded. He raised his splayed fingers and held them, allowing himself a moment or two of relish. He brought them down like a landslide.
The chord clanged immensely, resounding in the chilly vault of marble and glass, and its effect was immediate. An incredulous whimper
rose from beneath the piano, followed by the scuffing of agitated movement and a sequence of resonant thuds, each attended by an anguished moan. The noises culminated in a colossal roar.
‘What in the name of the living and writhing Christ?’
‘I believe it is known as the Tristan chord,’ Eustace said, barely raising his own voice. ‘I may be wrong, of course. I am not a lover of music, as you know.’
Still supine, Mr Crowe worked his head and shoulders clear of the piano. He was in considerable disarray. To the grease and smut of the night before, he had added wine stains and a small quantity of some kind of sauce. His hair, entirely flattened on one side, was arranged on the other in a violent outward spray. He did not have command over his right eye.
‘Eustace, you intolerable scourge! What are you thinking of, hammering at the piano like that? You have ruptured something in my heart, I think. I almost vomited with fright.’
‘That does sound alarming. Stand up, sir, and let me examine you.’
‘I will let you examine the toe of my boot, Eustace. Can a man and his guest not couch themselves in comfort without suffering a deranged musical assault? Look at this poor girl. She is trembling.’
‘I apologise, of course. Had I realised that you were servicing the instrument—’
‘Oh, you are a rare wit, Eustace. The instrument requires no servicing, I assure you. It is in fine temper. Is it not, Arabella? We banged out a tune or two before Morpheus claimed us. Hup, hup! Bestir yourself, girl. Breakfast is served.’
Arabella emerged, pulling the fur coat about herself and regarding Eustace with blurred hostility. When Mr Crowe had availed himself of a kipper, they arranged themselves with some labour on a sofa.
‘What time is it?’ Arabella asked him. Her manner suggested that the onset of morning had been brought about by some unnatural means.
‘A little after eight,’ he said. ‘You do not care for breakfast?’
‘Isn’t it considered uncivilised to be waited on at breakfast?’
‘It is generally considered uncivilised,’ Mr Crowe put in, ‘to pass out in the orangery. Our disgrace, I fear, is already complete.’
Arabella glanced at the tray and shuddered. ‘Just coffee.’
She lit a cigarette as Eustace set out her cup, watching him through her hair with unabated resentment. He returned her gaze, studying her for as long as decorum allowed, looking for signs of what lay beneath her composure.
‘I was still eating,’ said Mr Crowe.
Arabella gave him a level and unrepentant look. ‘I was still sleeping.’
Mr Crowe’s indignation dissolved then into a look of fond indulgence. Arabella, spooning partially melted sugar from her coffee cup to her lips, answered this with a pantomime of contrition. Even with his long habituation to such things, Eustace could take only half a minute or so of this exchange before interrupting.
‘If you will forgive me, sir.’
Mr Crowe looked up.
‘It is inopportune, I realise, but you will recall that there were matters arising from last night’s proceedings.’
‘For the love of God, Eustace. You are like a senile terrier. I am at breakfast with a noted soprano.’
Arabella snorted. ‘You noted that first, did you?’
Eustace gathered and dispersed his fingertips in a gesture of regret. ‘It grieves me, Mr Crowe. If it were within my power, I would attend to these matters without troubling you.’
‘How is it not within your power, Eustace?’
‘The young man—’
‘Christ, Eustace. You will not be told.’
‘It is distressing for you, sir. And, of course, for Miss Arabella.’ She doused her cigarette in her coffee. Her distress, if she suffered any, was for the moment held in check. ‘However, it is no longer simply a matter of the gentleman’s unfortunate—’
‘There was nothing unfortunate about it,’ Mr Crowe said. ‘This, now—’ he gestured towards Eustace. ‘This is unfortunate.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Eustace. ‘Nonetheless, it cannot be avoided. The matter is now more pressing than we first apprehended. There is something we must discuss, when you are at leisure.’
Mr Crowe reclined and belched. ‘I am always at leisure, Eustace. Particularly so this morning. And surely you would not have me forsake Arabella when she is at her most desolate?’ She slid towards him, the fur coat slipping lower about her shoulders.
‘Very well,’ Eustace said. ‘But if we are to pursue this here, I am afraid we must be frank. I can no longer be delicate, even for the lady’s sake.’
Mr Crowe pushed out the chair on which he had been resting a boot. ‘Sit down, Eustace, for the love of Jesus. Sit down and have at it. I did not spring Arabella from a convent. She is well enough inured, I think, to what passes between men of the world.’
Eustace took his seat. He loosened his cuffs and set aside the starched cloth that had been draped over his forearm. The view from the orangery was over the formal gardens to the south. His gaze wandered over the neglected hedges, seeking out what remained of their order and symmetry.
‘I am sure,’ he said at last, ‘that we all feel great regret at what has occurred. And Miss Arabella, of course, must be assured that she has our utmost sympathy.’
She looked at him warily, pulling the fur more closely about her shoulders.
‘I will not pry, of course, into a quarrel whose nature may have been intimate. The grievance, real or imagined, that brought the young man here; that is not my concern. These afflictions are common enough in the world. As for what passes between you and Mr Crowe, well – for all that it is an exalted thing, I’m sure, it did not drag me from my bed.’
Mr Crowe sucked at his teeth. ‘I trust, Eustace, that there is some object to this disquisition.’
‘The deceased, sir. The young man—’
‘His name was David,’ Arabella said. ‘David Landor.’
‘Indeed?’ Eustace paused. He bowed his head fractionally. ‘I had discovered Mr Landor’s name, then, without realising that I had. You will understand that I was obliged, under the circumstances, to examine his personal effects and – forgive me, miss – his person. I was obliged to discover what little I could about him, and about last night’s unfortunate events.’
‘Suffering Christ, Eustace,’ said Mr Crowe. ‘It is like being trapped in a tea room with a lady detective. Tell us what this investigation of yours has revealed. What did this Landor do with himself when he wasn’t battering young girls and getting in the way of bullets.’
Mr Crowe had dispensed, it seemed, with all tenderness and circumspection. Eustace studied Arabella for her response, but she seemed troubled only by the chill.
‘As to his occupation, I had discovered only that he was perhaps somewhat irregular in his habits, and that he had a liking for poetry. But it was more than a liking, it now seems: one of the volumes I found was by a man of that name.’
Arabella looked away, as if in distaste. ‘The poems – yes, of course. He used to read them to me sometimes. It was all terribly solemn, as if he were the prime minister announcing that we were at war. They were about seagulls, and feeling sad on buses, that sort of thing. He didn’t do much of anything else, apart from spending my money. I don’t suppose you found any of that?’
‘What may be of more concern,’ Eustace continued, ‘is the deceased himself; the state of his person.’
‘What about it?’ Mr Crowe said. ‘I trust it has not changed? He did not get up in the night and ask if he might ring for a cab?’
Eustace plucked at his sleeve. ‘I mean only that it bore no signs of grave injury. Some bruising, nothing more.’
Mr Crowe said nothing. He massaged his scalp, retrieving some items of detritus from the roots of his hair and depositing them upon his saucer. From the floor behind the sofa he retrieved a decanter of Armagnac, half-filling his cup before adding a splash of coffee.
‘That’s ridiculous,’ Arabella said. ‘I saw it all myse
lf. I heard the shots, and he – he went down. I heard the shots. There must have been half a dozen.’
Eustace drew the bundled handkerchief from his pocket, unwrapping it carefully to reveal the bullets. Some were blunted and misshapen, others merely discoloured. ‘I dug two from the bark of a lime tree,’ he said. ‘And you intended, no doubt, to clip one of the stone dragons. It will survive, I daresay, as will the lawn. I believe I have accounted for all of them. Mr Landor’s death, it seems, had some other cause.’
Mr Crowe remained silent. When he had drained his coffee and liqueur, he lit a cigar and moved to an armchair facing the gardens. He stared, as Eustace had, at the elaborate enclosures of box, disfigured by weeds and unchecked growth.
Eustace addressed him directly now. ‘You asked me what I had concluded, and I will admit that I was far from certain of any conclusion. You know, however, what it is that I suspect, and it seems you will say nothing to persuade me otherwise.’
‘I don’t understand.’ Arabella looked from Eustace to Mr Crowe, who gave no sign that he was listening. ‘What does he suspect? What happened to David? What did you do?’
‘It is something I myself do not pretend to understand,’ Eustace said. ‘Mr Crowe, I am sure, will offer a more satisfactory explanation.’
Arabella crossed the room to Mr Crowe’s armchair. When he did not look up, she crouched beside him, taking his wrist and caressing it with her thumb. ‘What is he saying? What haven’t you told me?’
He glanced at her but said nothing. Freeing his hand from hers, he reached out absently to stroke her hair, then turned his attention back to the garden. She stared a moment longer at his face then shook her head in resignation. Lowering herself to the floor, she rested her head on his thigh.
Eustace got to his feet. ‘I know what this will bring, even if I do not understand it. They will come to know of it. Is that not so? They will find out, and they will come.’
The Maker of Swans Page 3
