by P. D. James
‘Well, where is he? Where’s Gerard Etienne?’
Blackie, attempting dignity, flipped open her desk diary. ‘I don’t think you have an appointment, Mrs Carling.’
‘Of course I haven’t a bloody appointment! After thirty years with the firm I don’t need an appointment to see my publisher. I’m not a rep trying to sell him advertising space. Where is he?’
‘He’s in the partners’ meeting, Mrs Carling.’
‘I thought that was only on the first Thursday.’
‘Mr Gerard moved it to today.’
‘Then they’ll have to interrupt it. They’re in the boardroom I suppose.’
She made for the door, but Blackie was quicker and, slipping past her, stood with her back against it.
‘You can’t go up, Mrs Carling. Partners’ meetings are never interrupted. I have instructions that even urgent telephone calls have to be held.’
‘In that case I’ll wait until they’re through.’
Blackie, still standing, found her typing chair firmly occupied, but remained calm.
‘I don’t know when that will be. They could send down for sandwiches. And haven’t you a signing in Cambridge this lunch-hour? I’ll let Mr Gerard know that you called and no doubt he’ll get in touch with you when he has a free moment.’
The recent contretemps, the need to re-establish her status before Mandy, made her voice more authoritative than was tactful, but even so the ferocity of the response surprised them. Mrs Carling rose from the chair at a speed which set it spinning and stood so that her face was almost touching Blackie’s. She was three inches shorter but it seemed to Mandy that this difference made her more, not less, terrifying. The muscles of the stretched neck stood out like cords, the eyes blazed upwards and beneath the slightly hooked nose the mean little mouth, like a red gash, spat out its venom.
‘When he has a free moment! You stupid bitch! You arrogant, conceited little fool! Who do you think you’re talking to? It’s my talent which has paid your wages for the last twenty-odd years and don’t you forget it. It’s time you realized just how unimportant you are in this firm. Just because you worked for Mr Peverell, and he indulged you and tolerated you and made you feel wanted, you think you can queen it over people who were part of Peverell Press when you were still a snotty-nosed school kid. Old Henry spoiled you, of course, but I can tell you what he really thought of you. And why? Because he told me, that’s why. He was sick of you hanging about and gazing at him like a moonstruck cow. He was sick and tired of your devotion. He wanted you out, but he hadn’t the guts to sack you. He never did have any guts, poor sod. If he’d had guts Gerard Etienne wouldn’t be in charge now. Tell him I want to see him, and it had better be at my convenience, not his.’
Blackie spoke through lips so white and stiff that it seemed to Mandy that they could hardly move. ‘It isn’t true. You’re lying. It isn’t true.’
And now Mandy was frightened. She was used to office rows. In over three years of temping she had witnessed some impressive squalls of temperament and like a stalwart little boat had bobbed happily among the strewn wreckage of tumultuous seas. Mandy rather enjoyed a good office row. There was no better antidote to boredom. But this was different. Here, she recognized, was genuine suffering, real adult pain, an adult malice welling out of a hatred which was terrifying. This was grief which could not be assuaged by fresh coffee and a couple of biscuits from the tin Mrs Demery reserved for the partners only. She thought for a terrifying second that Blackie was going to throw back her head and howl with anguish. She wanted to hold out a hand in comfort but instinctively knew that there was no comfort she could give and that the attempt would later be resented.
The door banged. Mrs Carling had swept out.
Blackie said again: ‘It’s a lie. It’s all lies. She doesn’t know anything about it.’
‘Of course she doesn’t,’ said Mandy sturdily. ‘Of course she’s lying, anyone could see that. She’s just a jealous bitch. I shouldn’t take any notice of her.’
‘I’m just going to the bathroom.’
It was apparent that Blackie was about to be sick. Again Mandy wondered whether she could go with her but decided against it. Blackie walked out as stiff as an automaton, almost colliding with Mrs Demery as she came in carrying a couple of parcels.
Mrs Demery said: ‘These came in the second post so I thought I’d bring them in. What’s wrong with her?’
‘She’s upset. The partners didn’t want her at the meeting and then Mrs Carling arrived demanding to see Mr Gerard and Blackie stopped her.’
Mrs Demery folded her arms and leaned against Blackie’s desk. ‘I expect she got the letter this morning telling her that they don’t want her new novel.’
‘How on earth do you know that, Mrs Demery?’
‘There’s not much happens around here I don’t get to know about. There’ll be trouble about this, mark my words.’
‘If it’s not good enough why doesn’t she revise it or write another?’
‘Because she doesn’t think she can, that’s why. That’s what happens to authors when they get rejected. That’s what they’re terrified about all the time, losing their talent, writers’ block. That’s what makes them so tricky to deal with. Tricky, that’s what writers are. You have to keep on telling them how wonderful they are or they go to pieces. I’ve seen it happen before more than once. Now old Mr Peverell knew how to deal with them. He had the right touch with authors had Mr Peverell. With Mr Gerard it’s difficult. He’s different. He doesn’t see why they can’t get on with the job and stop whining.’
It was a view with which Mandy had considerable sympathy. She might tell Blackie – and indeed believe it – that Mr Gerard was a sod, but she found him difficult to dislike. She felt that, given the chance, she could cope with Mr Gerard. But further confidences were interrupted by the return of Blackie much sooner than Mandy had expected. Mrs Demery slipped away and Blackie, without a word, sat again at her keyboard.
For the next hour they worked in an oppressive silence broken only when Blackie issued orders. Mandy was sent to the copy room to make three copies of a recently arrived manuscript which, judging by the first three paragraphs, she thought was unlikely to appear in print, was handed a pile of extremely dull copy-typing and then told to weed out any papers more than two years old from the ‘Keep a Little While’ drawer. This useful compendium was used by the whole office as a depository for papers for which no one could find an appropriate place but which they were reluctant to throw away. There was little in it under twelve years old and weeding the ‘Keep a Little While’ drawer was a deeply unpopular chore. Mandy felt that she was being unjustly punished for Blackie’s burst of confidence.
The partners’ meeting ended earlier than usual and it was only half past eleven when Gerard Etienne, followed by his sister and Gabriel Dauntsey, came briskly through the office and into his own room. Claudia Etienne was pausing to speak to Blackie when the inner door was flung open and he reappeared. Mandy saw that he was containing his temper with difficulty. He said to Blackie: ‘Have you taken my private diary?’
‘Of course not, Mr Gerard. Isn’t it in your right-hand desk drawer?’
‘If it were I should hardly be asking for it.’
‘I made it up to date on Monday afternoon and put it back in the drawer. I haven’t seen it since.’
‘It was there yesterday morning. If you haven’t taken it you had better discover who has. I presume you accept that looking after my diaries is part of your responsibility. If you can’t find the diary I should be glad to have the pencil returned. It’s gold and I’m rather attached to it.’ Blackie’s face was scarlet. Claudia Etienne looked on with an amused sardonic lift of her eyebrow. Mandy, scenting battle, studied the outlines in the shorthand notebook as if they had suddenly become incomprehensible.
Blackie’s voice was hovering on the edge of hysteria. ‘Are you accusing me of theft, Mr Gerard? I’ve worked in this office for twenty-seven ye
ars but –’ Her voice broke off.
He said impatiently, ‘Don’t be a little fool. No one’s accusing you of anything.’ His eye hit on the snake curled over the handle of the filing cabinet. ‘And for God’s sake get rid of that bloody snake. Chuck it in the river. It makes this office look like a kindergarten.’
He went into his office and his sister followed. Without a word Blackie took the snake and shut it in her desk drawer.
She said to Mandy, ‘What are you staring at? If you haven’t any typing to do I can soon find you some. In the meantime you can make me some coffee.’
Mandy, armed with this new gossip for the delectation of Mrs Demery, was happy to oblige.
14
Declan was to arrive for the river trip at half past six, and it was 6.15 when Claudia went into her brother’s office. They were the last two people in the building. Gerard invariably worked late on Thursdays, but it was the night when most of the staff planned to leave early and take advantage of Thursday late-night shopping. He was sitting at his desk in the pool of light from his lamp, but stood up as she entered. His manners to her were always formal, always impeccable. She used to wonder if this was one small ploy to discourage intimacy.
She seated herself opposite him and said without preamble: ‘Look, I’ll support you about selling Innocent House. I’ll go along with all your other plans, come to that. With my support you can easily outvote the others. But I need cash: £350,000. I want you to buy half of my shares, all of them if you like.’
‘I can’t afford to.’
‘You can when Innocent House is sold. Once the contracts are exchanged you can raise a million or so. With my shares you’ll have a permanent overall majority. That will give you absolute power. It’s worth paying for. I’ll stay on in the firm but with fewer shares, or none.’
He said quietly: ‘It’s certainly worth thinking about, but not now. And I can’t use the money from the sale. That belongs to the partnership. I’ll need it anyway for the relocation and my other plans. But you could raise it. You could raise £350,000. If I can, so can you.’
‘Not as easily. Not without a great deal of trouble and delay. And I need it urgently. I need it by the end of the month.’
‘What for? What are you going to do?’
‘Invest in the antique business with Declan Cartwright. He’s got the chance of buying the business From old Simon: £350,000 for the four-storey freehold property and all stock. It’s a very good price. The old man’s devoted to him and would prefer him to have the business, but he can’t wait to sell. He’s old, he’s sick and he’s in a hurry.’
‘Cartwright’s a pretty boy, but at £350,000, isn’t he pricing himself rather high?’
‘I’m not a fool. The money isn’t going to be handed over. It will still be my money invested in a joint business. Declan isn’t a fool either. He knows what he’s doing.’
‘You’re thinking of marrying him, are you?’
‘I may do. Does it surprise you?’
‘It does rather.’ He added: ‘I think you’re fonder of him than he is of you. That’s always dangerous.’
‘Oh, it’s more equal than you think. He feels as much for me as he’s capable of feeling, and I feel as much for him as I’m capable of feeling. Our capacities for feeling are unequal, that’s all. We both give the other what we have to give.’
‘So you propose to buy him?’
‘Isn’t that how you and I have always got what we wanted, by buying it? And what about you and Lucinda? Are you so sure you’re doing the right thing – for you I mean? I’m not worried about her. I’m not deceived by that air of virtuous fragility. She can take care of herself all right. Anyway, her class always do.’
‘I mean to marry her.’
‘Well you needn’t sound so belligerent over it. No one’s trying to stop you. Incidentally, are you proposing to tell her the truth about yourself – about us? More to the point, are you going to tell her family?’
‘I shall answer reasonable questions. So far they haven’t asked any, reasonable or unreasonable. We aren’t in the age, thank God, when fathers are asked for their consent and fiancés have to produce some evidence of moral fitness and financial probity. Anyway, there’s only her brother. He seems to assume I have a house for her to live in and enough money to keep her in reasonable comfort.’
‘But you haven’t a house, have you? I can’t see her living in the Barbican flat. Nothing like enough room.’
‘I think she rather fancies Hampshire. Anyway, we can discuss that nearer the date of the wedding. I shall keep on the Barbican flat. It’s handy for the office.’
‘Well, I hope it works out. Frankly I give Declan and me the better chance of the two. We don’t confuse sex with love. And you may not find this marriage easy to get out of. She’ll probably develop religious scruples about divorce. Anyway divorce is vulgar, messy and expensive. OK, she couldn’t prevent it after two years of separation but they’d be very uncomfortable years. You wouldn’t enjoy public failure.’
‘I’m not even married. It’s a bit early to start deciding how I’m going to cope with failure. It won’t fail.’
‘Frankly, Gerard, I don’t see what you expect to get out of it, except a beautiful wife eighteen years younger than you.’
‘Most people would think that was enough.’
‘Only the naïve. It’s a recipe for disaster. You aren’t royal, you don’t have to marry a totally unsuitable virgin just to continue a dynasty. Or is that what this is all about, founding a family? Yes, I believe it is. You’ve turned conventional in middle age. You want a settled life, children.’
‘That seems the most sensible reason for marriage. Some might say the only sensible reason.’
‘You’ve had enough of playing the field so now you’re looking for a young, beautiful and preferably well-born virgin. Frankly, I think you’d have been better off with Frances.’
‘That was never a possibility.’
‘It was for her. I can see how it happened, of course. Here’s a virgin of nearly thirty obviously wanting sexual experience and who better to provide it than my clever little brother. But it was a mistake. You’ve made an enemy of James de Witt and you can’t afford that.’
‘He’s never spoken to me about it.’
‘Of course he hasn’t. That isn’t how James operates. He’s a doer not a talker. A word of advice. Don’t stand too near the balcony of the upper storeys of Innocent House. One violent death in this house is enough.’
He said calmly: ‘Thank you for the warning, but I’m not sure James de Witt would be the chief suspect. After all, if anything happens to me before I marry and make a new will, you’ll get my shares, my flat and my life assurance money. You can buy quite a lot of antiques for the best part of two and a half million.’
Claudia was at the door when he spoke again, coolly and without looking up from his paper.
‘By the way, the office menace has struck again.’
Claudia turned and said sharply: ‘What do you mean? How? When?’
‘This afternoon, at twelve-thirty to be precise. Someone sent a fax from here to Better Books in Cambridge cancelling Carling’s signing. She arrived to find the advertisements taken down, the table and chair removed, the hopefuls turned away and most of the books relegated to the back office. Apparently she was incandescent with rage. I rather wish I’d been there to see it.’
‘Christ! When did you learn this?’
‘Her agent, Velma Pitt-Cowley, rang me at 2.45 when I got back from lunch. She’d been trying to reach me since 1.30. Carling telephoned her from the shop.’
‘And you’ve kept quiet about it until now?’
‘I’ve had more important things to do this afternoon than swan round the office asking people for alibis. Anyway, that’s your job, but I shouldn’t make too much of it. I’ve a good idea this time who was responsible. It’s of small importance anyway.’
Claudia said grimly: ‘Not to Esmé Carling. Y
ou can dislike her, despise her or pity her but don’t underestimate her. She could prove a more dangerous enemy than you imagine.’
15
The upstairs room at the Connaught Arms off Waterloo Road was crowded. Matt Bayliss, the licensee, had no doubt about the success of the poetry reading. Already by nine o’clock the bar takings were well up for a Thursday night. The small upstairs room was normally used for lunches – there was little demand for hot dinners at the Connaught Arms – but was also available for the occasional function and it was his brother, who worked for an arts organization, who had persuaded him to cater for the Thursday night event. The plan was for a number of published poets to read their works interposed with readings by any amateurs who cared to take part. A fee of £1 a head had been charged and Matt had set up a cash wine bar at the back of the room. He had no idea that poetry was so popular or that so many of his regulars had ambitions to express themselves in verse. The initial sale of tickets had been satisfactory but there was a steady stream of late arrivals and people from the bar, hearing of the entertainment overhead, were making their way up the narrow staircase, tankards in hand.
Colin’s enthusiasms were varied and fashionable: Black Art, Women’s Art, Gay Art, Commonwealth Art, Accessible Art, Innovative Art, Art for the People. This event was billed as Poetry for the People. Matt’s personal interest was in beer for the people, but he had seen no reason why the two enthusiasms should not be profitably combined. Colin’s ambition was to make the Connaught Arms a recognized centre for contemporary verse speaking and a public platform for new poets. Matt, watching his relief barman busily opening bottles of Californian red, discovered in himself an unexpected interest in contemporary culture. He came up from the saloon bar from time to time to sample the entertainment. The verses were to him largely incomprehensible; certainly very few either rhymed or had a discernible metre, which was his definition of poetry; but all were enthusiastically applauded. As most of the amateur poets and the audience smoked, the stagnant air was heavy with the fumes of beer and tobacco.
