The Skull Beneath the Skin

by P. D. James

  There was a kind of grotto above them cut out of the cliff, with a mosaic terrace, now fractured and almost overgrown, and a curved marble seat. She helped pull him up the slope, watching as his feet found convenient clumps of grass and half-hidden stone steps. The back of the seat, warmed by the sun, still struck a little chill through her thin shirt. They sat side by side, untouching, and lifted their faces to the sun. Above them hung a beech tree. Its trunk and boughs had the tender luminosity of a girl’s arm, its leaves, just beginning to burn with their autumn gold, were veined marvels of reflected light. The air was very still and quiet, the silence pierced only by the occasional cry of a gull, while below them the sea hissed and withdrew in its everlasting restlessness.

  After a few minutes, his eyes still closed he said: “I suppose a mortal sin has to be something special, something more original and momentous than the expedients, the meannesses, the small delinquencies which make up everyday living for most of us?”

  Cordelia said: “It’s a grievous offence against the law of God, which puts the soul at risk of eternal damnation. There has to be full knowledge and consent. It’s all laid down. Any R.C. will explain it to you.”

  He said: “Something evil, if the word means anything to you, if you believe in the existence of evil.”

  Cordelia thought of the Convent chapel, altar candles flickering fitfully, her own bowed lace-covered head among the ranks of muttering conformists. “And deliver us from evil.” For six years she had repeated these words at least twice a day long before she had ever asked herself what it was from which she craved deliverance. It had taken her first case, after Bernie’s death, to teach her that. She could still recall, in sleeping and waking dreams, the horror which she had not in fact actually seen; a white elongated neck, a boy’s disfigured face drooping from the noose, the twisting feet pointing to the floor. It was when she had finally stared into the face of his murderer that she had known about evil. She said: “Yes, I believe in the existence of evil.”

  “Then Clarissa once did something which you might dignify as evil. I don’t know whether the good sisters would designate it as mortal sin. But there was knowledge and consent. And I’ve a feeling that, for Clarissa, it could prove mortal.”

  She didn’t speak. She wouldn’t make it easy for him. But there was no self-control in her silence. She knew he would go on.

  “It happened during the run of Macbeth in July 1980. Tolly—Miss Tolgarth—had had an illegitimate daughter four years earlier. There was no particular secret about it, most of us in Clarissa’s set knew about Viccy. She was a sweet child. Grave-faced, rather silent, intelligent I think, as far as one can judge at that age. Sometimes, but only rarely, Tolly would bring her to the theatre, but most of the time she kept her private and working lives separate. She paid a child-minder to look after Viccy while she was working and it must have been convenient having mainly an evening job. She wouldn’t take any money from the father. I think she was too possessive about Viccy to want to share even the cost of her food. Then two days before Clarissa opened in Macbeth it happened. Clarissa was at the theatre—there was a final rehearsal—and the minder was in charge of Viccy. The child had slipped out into the street and was playing with something in the gutter behind a parked lorry. It was the usual tragedy. The driver didn’t see her and reversed. She was horribly injured. They rushed her to hospital and operated and she stood that very well. We thought that she’d make it. But on the first night of Macbeth the hospital telephoned at nine forty-five to say that there had been a relapse and to ask Tolly to go at once. Clarissa took the call. She had just come offstage for her costume change before the Third Act. She was appalled at the thought of losing her dresser at that moment. She took the message and put down the receiver. Then she told Tolly that the hospital wanted her to visit but that there was no hurry, after the performance would be all right. When Tolly wanted to ring back she wouldn’t let her. And shortly after the performance ended, the hospital rang again to say that the child was dead.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Because I took the trouble to get in touch with the hospital and ask about that first message. And because I was there in Clarissa’s dressing room when it came. You could say I was in something of a privileged position at the time. I wasn’t with them when Clarissa finally told Tolly that she couldn’t leave. I’d have stopped that; at least I hope I would. But I was there when the call came through. Then I went back to my seat. When the play ended and I went backstage to take Clarissa out to supper, Tolly was still there. And fifteen minutes later the hospital telephoned to say the child was dead.”

  “And when you learned what had happened, was that when you stopped being a privileged person?”

  “I should like to be able to tell you that it was. The truth is less flattering. She became my mistress for two reasons; firstly because I’d gained some reputation and Clarissa has always found power an aphrodisiac, and secondly because she imagined that a fuck a week would ensure her good notices. When she discovered her mistake—like most men I’m capable of betrayal but not of that particular betrayal—the privileges ceased. There are some favours it is unwise to pay for in advance.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because I like you. Because I don’t want to have this weekend spoilt by watching yet another person I respect being seduced by her charm. She has charm even if she hasn’t bothered yet to exercise it on you. I don’t want to see you behaving like all the others. I suspect that you may be possessed of that divine common sense which is impervious to the blandishments of egotism, whether sexual or otherwise, but who can be sure? So I am committing one more small act of betrayal to strengthen you against temptation.”

  “Who was the child’s father?”

  “No one knows, except presumably Tolly, and she isn’t saying. The question is, who did Clarissa think he was?”

  Cordelia glanced at him.

  “Not her husband?”

  “Poor besotted Lessing? Possible I suppose, but hardly probable. He and Clarissa had only been married a year. Admittedly, she was already giving him hell, but I can’t see him choosing that way of revenge. My guess is that it was De Ville. His only requirements are that the woman is comely and willing and not an actress. He’s reputed to be impotent with anyone who holds an Equity card, but that may be only his device for keeping his professional and private lives separate.”

  “The man who is directing the Webster? The one who’s here now? Do you think that Clarissa was in love with him?”

  “I don’t know what Clarissa means by that word. She may have wanted him if only to prove that she could get him. One thing’s certain; if he wouldn’t play then she wouldn’t easily forget an affair with her own dresser.”

  “Why do you think he’s here? He’s famous, he doesn’t have to bother with an amateur production, particularly out of London.”

  “Why are any of us here? He may see the island as a future dramatic Glyndebourne, a world-famous centre for experimental drama. This may just be a way of getting his foot in the door. After all, he’s not exactly sought after now. His tricks were much admired in their day, but there are some clever young dogs coming along now. And Ambrose, if he’s prepared to spend money, could make something of his Courcy Festival. Not commercially, of course; a theatre which only seats a hundred comfortably can hardly be that, particularly when it could always be cut off by a storm on the first night. But he could have some fun with it once he’s got rid of Clarissa.”

  “And does he want to get rid of Clarissa?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Ivo easily. “Hadn’t you noticed that? She’s trying to take him over, him and his theatre and his island. He likes his private kingdom. Clarissa is a particularly persistent invader.”

  Cordelia thought of the child, lying alone on her high, aseptic hospital bed behind the drawn curtains. Had she been conscious? Had she known that she was dying? Had she perhaps cried out for her mother? Had she gone frightened
and alone into that last goodnight? She said: “I don’t see how Clarissa can live with that memory.”

  “I’m not sure that she can. When a person is terrified of dying it could be because with one part of their minds they feel that they deserve it.”

  “How do you know she’s terrified?”

  “Because there are some emotions which even an actress as experienced as Clarissa can’t altogether hide.”

  He turned to her, saw the expression of her face, upturned to the glitter of shuddering green and gold and said quietly: “There are, perhaps, excuses one should make for her. And if not excuses, explanations. She was about to make an important costume change. She couldn’t have managed it herself, and there wasn’t another dresser available.”

  “Did she even try to find one?”

  “I don’t suppose so. You see, from her point of view, she wasn’t in the world of hospitals and sick children. She was Lady Macbeth. She was at Dunsinane Castle. I doubt whether she would have left the theatre to go to her own dying child, not at that moment. It didn’t occur to her that someone else might want to.”

  Cordelia cried: “But you can’t excuse it! You can’t explain it. You don’t really believe that a play, any play, any performance is more important than a dying child!”

  “I don’t suppose for one moment that she really believed the child to be dying, assuming that she gave the matter thought.”

  “But is that what you believe? That a performance, any performance, could be more important?”

  He smiled: “Now we’re edging towards that old philosophical minefield. If the building’s on fire and you can only rescue a syphilitic old tramp or a Velasquez which, or who, gets incinerated?”

  “No, we aren’t. We’re talking about a dying child wanting her mother, balancing that need against a performance of Macbeth. And I get tired of that old burning building analogy. I should throw the Velasquez out of the window and start lugging the tramp to safety. The real moral choice is when you find that he’s too heavy. Do you escape alone or keep trying and risk getting incinerated with him?”

  “Oh, that’s easy. Obviously you escape alone and without leaving the decision too conscientiously to the last possible moment. About the child; no, I don’t believe that any performance could be more important, certainly none that Clarissa is capable of giving. Does that satisfy you?”

  “I don’t understand how Miss Tolgarth can go on working for her. I couldn’t.”

  “But you will? I confess I’m intrigued about your precise function here. But presumably you won’t throw in your hand?”

  “But that’s different; at least I shall persuade myself that it is. I’m just a temporary employee. But Tolly believed Clarissa when she was told that there was no immediate danger; she trusted her. How can she stay with her now?”

  “They’ve been together almost all their lives. Tolly’s mother was Clarissa’s nurse. The family with a small ‘f’ served the Family with a large ‘F’ for three generations. They’re born to be served, she was born to serve them. Perhaps, given the habit of subservience, a dead child here or there doesn’t make any difference.”

  “But that’s horrible! It’s ridiculous, and degrading. It’s Victorian!”

  “Don’t you believe it! The instinct for worship is remarkably persistent. What else is religious belief? Tolly’s lucky to have her God walking the earth with shoes that need cleaning, clothes that need folding, hair that needs brushing.”

  “But she can’t want to go on serving. She can’t like Clarissa.”

  “What has liking to do with it? Though she slay me yet shall I trust her. It’s a perfectly common phenomenon. But I admit I do sometimes wonder what would happen if she faced the truth about her own feelings. If any of us did, come to that. It’s getting colder, isn’t it? Don’t you feel it? Perhaps it’s time we were getting back.”

  7

  They hardly spoke on the way back to the castle. For Cordelia, the sunlight had drained out of the day. The beauty of sea and shore passed unregarded by her desolated heart. Ivo was obviously very tired by the time they reached the terrace and said that he would rest in his room; he wouldn’t bother with tea. Cordelia told herself that it was her job to stay close to Clarissa however unwelcome that might be to both of them. But it took an effort of will before she could make her way back to the theatre, and it was a relief to find that the rehearsal still wasn’t over. She stood for a minute at the back of the auditorium, then made her way to her own room. The communicating door was open and she could see Tolly moving from bathroom to bedroom. But the thought of having to speak to her was intolerable and Cordelia made her escape.

  Almost on impulse she opened the door next to her own which gave access to the tower. A circular staircase of elaborately decorated wrought iron curved upwards into semi-darkness lit only by occasional slit windows less than a brick in width. She could see there was a light switch, but preferred to climb steadily upwards in the gloom in what seemed an endless spiral. But at last she reached the top and found herself in a small, light-filled circular room with six tall windows. The room was unfurnished except for one cane armchair with a curved back and was obviously used to store acquisitions for which Ambrose hadn’t yet found a place or which he had inherited from the previous owner; chiefly a collection of Victorian toys. There was a wooden horse on wheels, a Noah’s ark with carved animals, three china dolls with bland faces and stuffed limbs, a table of mechanical toys including an organ-grinder with his monkey, a set of cat musicians on a revolving platform, gaudily dressed in satin and each with his instrument, a grenadier toy soldier with his drum, a wooden music box.

  The view was spectacular. The whole island, seen as if from an aircraft, was a neatly patterned coloured map precisely placed in a crinkled sea. To the east was a smudge which must be the Isle of Wight. To the north the Dorset coast looked surprisingly close; she could almost make out the stunted pier and the coloured terraces. She gazed down over the island, at the northern marshes fringed with white gulls, the central uplands, the fields, small patches of green amid the manyhued curdle of autumnal trees, the brown cliffs sliding down to the shore, the spire of the Church rising amid the beeches, the roof of the arcade leading to a toy theatre. From his cottage in the stable block the foreshortened figure of Oldfield crept, a bucket in either hand and, as she watched, Roma emerged from the copse of beech trees which lined the lawn and made her way, hands hunched in her pockets, towards the castle. Across the grass a peacock stalked, dragging his tattered tail.

  Here, slung between earth and sky in a brick-enclosed eyrie, the sound of the sea was a low moan almost indistinguishable from the sighing of the wind. Suddenly Cordelia felt immensely lonely. The job which had promised so much seemed now a humiliating waste of time and effort. She no longer cared who was sending the messages or why. She felt that she hardly cared whether Clarissa lived or died. She wondered what was happening at Kingly Street, how Miss Maudsley was coping, whether Mr. Morgan had come to see to the name-plate. And thinking of him reminded her of Sir George. He had paid her to do a job. She was here to protect Clarissa, not to judge her. And there were only two more days to be got through. By Sunday it would all be over and she would be free to get back to London and need never hear Clarissa’s name again. She recalled Bernie’s words when he had once rebuked her for being over-fastidious: “You can’t make moral judgements about your clients in this job, mate. Start that and you may as well shut up shop.”

  She turned from the window and, on impulse, opened the music box. The cylinder slowly revolved and the delicate metal filaments plucked out the tune “Greensleeves.” Then one by one she set the other mechanical toys in motion. The grenadier thumped his drum; the cats revolved, mouths grinning, jerking their satined arms; cymbals clashed; the plaintive “Greensleeves” was lost in the discordant din. And thus, in a gentle cacophony of childish sounds, which couldn’t entirely shut out from her mind the image of a dying child but which helped to release some te
nsion in her, Cordelia stared down over Ambrose’s coloured kingdom.

  8

  Ivo had been wrong. Clarissa didn’t apologize for her behaviour at the rehearsal but she did exert herself to be particularly charming to Cordelia over tea. It was a boisterous and protracted feast of sandwiches and over-rich cake, and it was after six before the launch bearing De Ville and the other principals back to Speymouth finally drew away from the quay. Clarissa spent the hour before it was time to dress for dinner playing Scrabble in the library with Ambrose. She played noisily and badly, constantly calling out to Cordelia to look up challenged words in the dictionary or to support her against Ambrose’s allegations that she was cheating. Cordelia, happily engrossed with old copies of the Illustrated London News and the Strand Magazine, in which she could read the Sherlock Holmes stories as they had originally appeared, wished that she could have been left in peace. Simon was apparently to entertain them with music after dinner and the distant sound of Chopin from the drawing room where he was practising was pleasantly restful and evocative of her schooldays. Ivo was still in his room and Roma sat in silence with the weekly journals and Private Eye.

  The library, with its barrel roof and carved brass-fronted bookcases set between the four tall windows, was one of the most beautifully proportioned in the castle. The whole of the southern wall was taken up with one immense window decorated with round panes of coloured glass. In the daytime the window framed nothing but a view of sea and sky. But now the library was in darkness except for the three pools of light from the desk lamps, and the great window rose like a sheet of rain-washed marble, blue-black and smudged with a few high stars. It was a pity, thought Cordelia, that, even here, Clarissa was incapable of occupying herself in peaceable silence.