Personal animosity? Nothing so simple, they were not even acquainted — not that that mattered too much, there were women who hated the sight of each other, for life, without ever having exchanged a word. But Lydia was not unreasonable, spiteful or petty, she would have her reasons ...
He remembered the first morning in Marchstearn, the first walk together, the first sight of the house amongst the rowans, Lydia’s voice when she spoke of Augustus Wynter: intense, reluctant,he’s an evil man. She had some cause to believe that, and he was disinclined to search for it.Who lives there?he had asked.Some people ...
Some people. Cass, for one.
*
The following weekend he set out at dawn, arriving in Marchstearn in the diffuse sunlight of early morning, while the cold breath of mist still clung about the trees.
When he opened his kitchen door he heard Lydia calling rather distractedly to Wanda. On an impulse, he switched off the kettle he had put on and went round to her, the back way, through her garden, wonderful with the brilliant havoc of chrysanthemums and michaelmas daisies.
She was in a tremor of activity, wearing her grey tweed suit, her bag half packed, writing notes for the milkman and the window cleaner. ‘My old aunt, Henry, my very old aunt — the only one I’ve got left. She’s been taken ill, her neighbour phoned me yesterday evening — of course, I couldn’t go then. Oh, I picked some raspberries. I’ll take some, you have the others, they’re delicious with cream. Where was I? Yes. Heavens, it would be Saturday and no bus, I must telephone Mr Anthony for his taxi. What’s the time? What time’s my train?’ She smiled at him with her old friendliness; the awkward incident of the previous week — if it had meant anything to her at all — swept from her mind by her present preoccupation.
Henry said, ‘You’re all of a dither, like the white rabbit inAlice. I’ll drive you to town, don’t worry about Mr Anthony. That’ll give you more time.’
‘Henry, you are a dear. I am grateful. But you can only just have arrived yourself, you haven’t even had time for coffee after that long drive. Make yourself some while I dither.’
‘No, I can wait.’ Her kitchen was spotlessly purged for temporary abandonment, he would not risk even the minor disorder of boiling a kettle; and thinking of the state of his own kitchen, he winced. He followed Lydia about, helping her to organise herself. Her house — like her garden and in contrast to herself — was exquisite; among the porcelain and delicate antique furniture he always felt booby-trapped, as if he was twice his size and wearing diving boots. Wanda got in the way excitedly, watching the packing of her bowl and bedtime coat.
‘Yournightie,’ Henry said to her, picking her up as she tried to nose it out of Lydia’s bag. ‘Is it all right to take her? I could look after her, you know.’
‘You are kind. But I suppose I’ll be away for a few days and you’ll be going back to Lancashire tomorrow, won’t you? Then there’d be the problem of what to do with her.’
‘Yes, of course,’ he agreed, with secret regret. He wondered if Cass liked dogs, he had never asked her.
They drove into town for the train; the branch line to Marchstearn had long been closed, the station converted, the track picturesquely overgrown. As he waited at the traffic lights to take the turning into the station, Henry noticed a car parked off the road to his left. What drew his attention were the three women standing by it, about to get out or in; one of them was Cass. The surge of pleasure he felt at seeing her so unexpectedly he instinctively kept to himself; he watched her for a moment as she talked, absorbed, making the quick, skimming gestures of her hands that were so much a part of her conversation.
The woman she addressed he had seen once or twice about the village; a woman of statuesque build, difficult to overlook, dressed with classic country elegance, her dark hair drawn smoothly back from a heavily but handsomely featured face. As his gaze left her to go to the other woman, something streaked to the surface of his mind, flickered, caught and held; his happiness congealed, ludicrously betrayed in the sudden glare of recognition. He handled the car automatically; automatically responded to Lydia’s worrying commentary as she fussed with her handbag, her watch, and Wanda. Inside, he began to seethe.
*
He decided to insulate the loft. It was a dirty, difficult undertaking, he’d had the material ready for some time, all he had needed was an aggressive impetus; having been provided with that he got on with the job.
Cass, when she arrived, tracked him by means of the ladder standing beneath the loft. Her light, eager voice sifted up to him through drifts of dust. ‘Henry ... What a lousy way to spend a Saturday. Can’t you play nicely when I’m not here? I have missed you ... Darling, you’refilthy.’
As he let himself down out of the loft she chattered on, laughing and welcoming, holding out her hands to him. He sat down on the platform of the ladder, making no move towards her. Her voice faltered and her smile faded into uncertainty. ‘Henry?’
‘Cass, when you first came here, what did you come for?’
The question disconcerted her, she fidgeted with it, ‘What ...? Well ...’ Finally looking at him coaxingly, with a shade of reproach. ‘Henry, I told you — No, I didn’t tell you, I lost my nerve. You said it didn’t matter, and it hasn’t mattered, has it? You said we could pretend — that I’d come here for no special reason, didn’t we?’
‘No. The time before that. The first time.’
She was at a loss. ‘But there wasn’t a time before. You know. Oh, I said —’ and her voice took on a tone of self justification; the reproach, this time, a little more emphatic. ‘Oh, I said ... about coming here to see your aunt. But I admitted that wasn’t true — just panic. And you didn’t seem to mind terribly. In fact, you didn’t really mind at all. If you’re honest, you’ll admit it.’
‘Oh, I do.’
‘Well, then.’ She gazed at him with innocent satisfaction, the matter disposed of. She was a good actress, but she could not quite disguise her uneasiness as she gave a little shrug, making to turn away.
‘What I’m talking about is the night you got yourself up in that ridiculous disguise and came and asked me to give a talk at the village institute.’
She paused, her body suddenly tense; her voice was crisp and quick, ‘You’ve gone mad.’
‘I’ve been a fool — not to see it before. And if you’d been a little cleverer you’d have disguised your talent for playacting.’
She said crossly, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Mrs Enderby-Smythe and her demented colleague with the non-existent car. I saw her this morning with you, looking very different, naturally, but it was her all right.’
She hesitated a fraction before answering, ‘Potty.’
‘I admit I still don’t know why you wanted to get into my house.’
‘I’m in it now, aren’t I?’
‘Oh, yes. It’s much easier this way. Better for — whatever it is you want.’
‘Thank you.’ Her anger was betrayed by a touch of panic; but her face was suddenly vulnerable in spite of herself, and he had to ignore this until she told him the truth. ‘You mean there’s been nothing genuine in the way I’ve behaved to you. You don’t believe that when I’ve said — when I’ve — Oh, hell. There are slightly more gentlemanly ways of ending an affair, Henry. I’ll go now, before matters get worse.’
He followed her without haste, walking just one step behind her on the wide staircase and along the hall to the kitchen; he talked all the time, provoking her to answer. ‘The odd feeling, right from the start, that I’d seen you before. On the surface there was no resemblance between you as you really are and that overpowering harpy — but she was still in my mind — I haven’t forgotten a detail of her.’
‘It must be the policeman in you.’
‘And you did the details very well. What was needed was something to — make the connection. That woman this morning — she did it. The little tarted-up one with all the jewellery. Not the ta
ll woman ... one tweed suit looks pretty much the same as the other, so I couldn’t swear to that; but you probably borrowed hers and padded yourself out to fit it. No, the small, plump woman. Your accomplice. Who is she, by the way?’
‘Accomplice. Really — this is pure farce.’
‘It was, only I’m not in the laughing business today. Who is she? A friend? A relative? Please don’t try and tell me I didn’t see her, Cass, I’ve got eyes in my head.’
‘Someone I know. Ihappen to know a small plump woman — if that’s the basis of your accusation you really are mad —’
‘Oh, no. I have proof.’
‘Proof?’ They were between the hall and the kitchen. She paused and looked at him, her face set. ‘Proof of what?’
‘That you were here with her that night.’
She made an impatient sound.
‘It’s strange — you haven’t asked me what happened.’
‘I don’t want to know. I’m just part of a bad dream you’re having and you’re not going to give me a chance to convince you I’m not.’
‘You can have a go at convincing me of anything once we’ve established the truth.’
‘Stop talking as if you’re about to arrest me,’ she shouted, going quickly across the kitchen. On the table were her handbag and a straw basket filled with shopping; she made no effort to pick anything up, she simply stood by the table, looking down. Henry, standing close beside her, sensed the brittle awareness that held her motionless. She muttered, ‘I can’t get through to you, can I? I never knew you could be like this — so hard. Is it how you terrorise your suspects?’
‘You can’t imagine that after a strange woman had got in here by a ruse — and locked me out — I wouldn’t do anything.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ she said, with an effort at patience, ‘that you reported it to the uxorious Constable Crowther.’
‘No. I’d have looked a bit of an arse, wouldn’t I? Simpler than that. A precaution — taken immediately I got back here that night. Fingerprints. Then it was just a matter of patience, elimination, matching up with any others, people who came in here afterwards.’
She had begun distractedly to turn over the shopping in the basket. She stopped abruptly and spoke in a wary, defensive voice, ‘What?’
‘Mrs Enderby-Smythe was taken ill. Remember?’
‘How could I?’
‘And I gave her — you — a glass of water. Remember?’
‘Stop sayingremember —’
‘Your prints — her prints — the same’
‘Never.’
‘A perfect set.’
‘You’re lying. Theycouldn’t —’
‘Match? Oh, yes, they did.’
‘They couldn’t!’
‘So all I had to do —’
‘I never took my gloves off.’
After a silence, without looking at him, she said, ‘Oh, bugger,’ with the bleakly irrational relief of people who at last fall into a trap they know has been prepared. ‘Now I’ll have to explain.’
‘It’s about time.’
She exclaimed, ‘Oh —’ in a burst of vehement exasperation, shaking her head. Then she touched his arm, a timid gesture all the more effective for the appeal in her voice. He could not tell how well — if at all — she was still acting. ‘Henry, I didn’t want to deceive you. Oh, at the time, I didn’t even know you, and it was something ... I had no choice about it, really. But since then I’ve hated myself for it. Please believe me. I’ve wondered how I could tell you, but ...’
‘Well?’
‘I didn’t want to spoil things between us. They’ve been so — so nice.’
‘On the surface, yes. But how do I know how things have really been, with half your life deliberately hidden away from me. And now this.’
With an air of apologetic helplessness she said quietly, ‘Yes, I understand how you feel, being deceived, it’s very unpleasant. I suppose you’ll find it hard to trust me again.’
‘Try telling me the truth, just for once.’
‘No, that’s not fair. I haven’t lied to you — except about your aunt and — just now. That was because, I told you, I wanted everything to stay the same. And because, I’m ashamed.’ She sat down, clasped her hands on the table and looked at him with determination. Her face was open, it would have taken a harsh nature and a mean spirit to doubt that she was prepared now to tell the truth. He thought what a stranger she was, this woman whose body, whose warmth, whose laughter he knew, who slipped away from him into her charades and evasions.
She spoke slowly, thinking matters over to herself. ‘You see, Henry, you’re so well-balanced, so sensible.’ He wondered if she had hovered on the wordstolidand substituted the slightly less criticalsensible. He had a moment to recall, unwillingly, that once in his life someone had used his stolidity as an accusation against him, implying that by the very quality that should have made him dependable he had failed a woman he loved.
‘... you see life in plain, practical terms; but there are — um — aberrations. I’m not talking about anything criminal, I know you understand things like that. I mean imaginative, emotional aberrations that would be outrageous to you, and you would probably despise.’
Oh, I know about those, too, more than you’ll ever guess, he thought, and with impatience pushed aside the uneasy past that by stealthy and unexpected means had begun to intrude upon the present. ‘Just tell me what it’s all about, Cass.’
At the patience in his voice she gave a wry laugh, her hands broke open and moved in swift distress. ‘I will. It’s not easy. I don’t know where to start.’
She continued to sit, unhappily silent, until he said, ‘Well, the advice the King of Hearts gave inAlice has yet to be beaten.’
‘Yes. Begin at the beginning, go on until you reach the end and then stop. But, Henry, the beginning didn’t include me, not really, I’ve just inherited the leftovers. And the end — there isn’t an end yet. There won’t be until he dies.’
He. ‘Augustus Wynter.’
‘You know I live in his house.’
‘Of course I know, Cass.’
‘Yes. I just didn’t want to talk about it — it would have meant talking about — everything. He’s always been an object of curiosity.’
‘I could have resisted the temptation to ask you a lot of vulgar questions.’
The edge to his voice was not lost on her, she was at once contrite. ‘I’m sorry, of course you could, that wasn’t fair of me. But you wouldn’t believe — even after all this time — the total strangers who pounce on me and say, “Tell me thedetails.” And you know, when it all happened, here, there was the most glaring publicity — scandal, disgrace, sensation-mongering. There are people in the village who’ve never forgotten, never forgiven him, or anyone connected with him. They still hate him. Please don’t say the public memory is short — it’s not allthat short. And it doesn’t take much to revive; a word here, a piece of gossip there, and people start nudging each other and whispering about you.’
He could see this genuinely troubled her, which was natural enough. He remembered how he had reacted to the dreadful woman at the party whose curiosity about his house and his aunt had an avidity that was indecent, taking no account of his feelings. That, in a different measure, was the attitude Cass would frequently encounter, he was not surprised she wished to shield herself from it.
But he wondered — ‘Perhaps you’ve rather got things out of proportion —’ because, with a woman of temperament, once things did that they could lead anywhere.
She was uneasy, fidgeting her hands on the table. ‘There you go — being sensible. Don’t tell me, gregarious creature that you arc, you haven’t heard some highly coloured things about Augustus, or that you could miss the curiosity, the censure, the moral indignation.’
‘You saidhate. I haven’t come across that. The other things, in some degree, maybe. But people do seem to regard him more as someone who’s faded away into a bizarre legend.’
/>
‘Some people, yes, and it’s better that way. But what about, for instance —’ she moved her head expressively ‘— Mrs Next-Door.’
‘Lydia. Well, she mentioned him once, when I first came here, with obvious reluctance and dislike. And never since. O.K., I’ll grant you that one.’ He sat down opposite, offering her a cigarette. ‘You haven’t told me a blind thing yet, my girl.’
She took the cigarette carefully and let him light it for her; when she had done that she began to talk hurriedly.
‘Over twenty years ago Augustus was making a film, part of it was shot here. It was to be his last film — only, of course, he couldn’t know. He was immensely successful, at the peak of his career, famous, influential — then two things happened, and I suppose it would be true to say that afterwards he was a broken man. First of all his star, Jessica Rayle, killed herself, whether accidentally or deliberately no one can be certain. The feeling at the time — amongst the people who knew them — was that he had driven her to it. He was ruthless, egocentric ... genius often is. I rather think he looked on Jessica’s death as defection, he certainly forfeited a great deal of sympathy by his attitude — his personal attitude, not his professional one. After all, his business was to make films, and there were other actresses ... not like her, it’s true, but others. She was everything to his self-esteem, not exactly dispensable but certainly replaceable. Helen wasn’t. His niece. He’d adopted her after her parents were killed in an air raid during the war, they were his only relatives, distant ones; she was scarcely more than a baby. He never knew what it was tocare about anyone in the world except her. That’s what made it so terrible, that’s what finished him. Immediately after Jessica’s death, Helen disappeared. She just vanished, completely.’ Her eyes had a faraway look. She was merely reciting facts; whatever thoughts and feelings engaged her, whatever it was she saw, gazing back over the years, her voice gave no clue.
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