by P. D. James
Jonathan, his carefully husbanded confidence rapidly draining, said: 'I'm sorry to trouble you. It's just that I'm a friend of Miss Caroline Amphlett and I'm trying to trace her.'
'Well, you won't find her here.' The voice, which he recognized, was unexpected from so frail a woman, deep and husky, and not unattractive.
He said, 'I'm sorry if I've got the wrong Amphlett. You see, Caroline did give me her address two years ago but I've lost it, so I tried the telephone directory.'
'I didn't say that you'd got the wrong Amphlett, only that you won't find her here. But as you look harmless enough and are obviously unarmed you had better come in. One cannot be too careful in these violent times, but Baggott is very reliable. Very few impostors get past Baggott. Are you an impostor, Mr . . . ?'
'Percival. Charles Percival.'
'You must excuse my deshabille, Mr Percival, but I do not normally expect afternoon visitors.'
He followed her across a square hall and through double doors into what was obviously the drawing room. She pointed imperiously to a sofa set in front of the fireplace. It was uncomfortably low and as soft-cushioned as a bed, each drop end festooned with thick tasselled cords. Moving slowly as if deliberately taking her time, she placed herself opposite to him in an elegant high-winged chair, settled the dog on her lap and gazed down on him with the fixed unsmiling intensity of an inquisitor. He knew that he must look as gauche and ungainly as he felt, his thighs enclosed in the softness of the cushion, his sharp knees almost touching his chin. The dog, as naked as if it had been skinned and shivering perpetually like a creature demented with cold, turned first on him and then up at her its pleading exophthalmic eyes. The leather collar, with its great dollops of red and blue stones, lay heavily on the animal's frail neck.
Jonathan resisted the temptation to look round at the room but it seemed that every feature had entered his consciousness; the marble fireplace with above it a full-length oil painting of a Victorian army officer, a pale arrogant face with one lock of blond hair falling almost to the cheek, which bore an uncanny resemblance to Caroline; the four carved chairs with embroidered seats set against the wall; the pale, polished floor with its wrinkled carpets; the drum-shaped table in the centre of the room and the side tables with their photographs in silver frames. There was a strong smell of paint and turpentine. Somewhere in the flat a room was being decorated.
After a moment's silent scrutiny the woman spoke. 'So you're a friend of Caroline's. You surprise me, Mr . . . Mr . . . I'm afraid I have already forgotten your name.'
He said firmly: 'Percival. Charles Percival.'
'Mine is Miss Oriole Beasley. I am the housekeeper here. As I said, you surprise me, Mr Percival. But if you say you are Caroline's friend, naturally I accept your word.'
'Perhaps I shouldn't say friend. I only met her once, in Paris in 1986. We went round the Louvre together. But I would like to see her again. She did give me her address, but I lost it.'
'How careless. So you waited two years and then decided to trace her. Why now, Mr Percival? You have managed, apparently, to control your impatience for two years.'
He knew how he must look and sound to her; unconfident, shy, ill at ease. But that, surely, was what she would expect from a man gauche enough to believe that he could revive a dead and fleeting passion. He said: 'It's just that I'm in London for a few days. I work in Nottingham. I'm a technician at the hospital there. I don't often get the chance to come south. It was an impulse really, trying to trace Caroline.'
'As you see, she's not here. She has not, in fact, lived in this house since she was seventeen, and as I am only the housekeeper it is hardly my place to hand out information about the family's whereabouts to casual inquirers. Would you describe yourself as a casual inquirer, Mr Percival?'
Jonathan said: 'Perhaps it seems like that. It's just that I found the name in the telephone directory and thought it was worth a try. Of course she might not want to see me again.'
'I should imagine that is more than likely. And, of course, you have some identification, something to confirm that you are Mr Charles Percival of Nottingham.'
Jonathan said: 'Not really, I'm afraid. I didn't think . . .'
'Not even a credit card or a driving licence? You seem to have come singularly unprepared, Mr Percival.'
Something in the deep, arrogantly upper-class voice, the mixture of insolence and contempt, stung him into defiance. He said: 'I'm not from the gas board. I don't see why I need to identify myself. It was just a simple inquiry.
I was hoping to see her, or perhaps Mrs Amphlett. I'm sorry if I've offended you.'
'You haven't offended me. If I were easily offended I wouldn't work for Mrs Amphlett. But I'm afraid you can't see her. Mrs Amphlett goes to Italy in late September and then flies to Spain for the winter. I'm surprised Caroline didn't tell you. In her absence I look after the flat. Mrs Amphlett dislikes the melancholy of autumn and the cold of winter. A wealthy woman need suffer neither. I'm sure you are perfectly well aware of that, Mr Percival.'
And here, at last, was the opening he needed. He made himself look into those terrible bleeding eyes and said: 'I thought Caroline told me that her mother was poor, that she'd lost all her money investing in Peter Robarts's plastics company.'
The effect of his words was extraordinary. She flushed scarlet, the mottled stain travelling like a rash from her neck to her forehead. It seemed a long time before she could bring herself to speak, but when she did her voice was perfectly under control.
'Either you wilfully misunderstood, Mr Percival, or your memory is as unreliable for financial facts as it is for addresses. Caroline could have told you nothing of the sort. Her mother inherited a fortune from her grandfather when she was twenty-one and has never lost a penny of it. It was my small capital - ten thousand pounds, in case you are interested - which was unwisely invested in the schemes of that plausible rogue. But Caroline would hardly confide that small personal tragedy to a stranger.'
He could think of nothing to say, could find no credible explanation, no excuse. He had the proof he wanted; Caroline had lied. He should have been filled with triumph that his suspicions had been justified, his small enterprise crowned with success. Instead, he was swept with a momentary but overwhelming depression and a conviction which seemed to him as frightening as it was irrational, that the proof of Caroline's perfidy had been bought at a terrible price.
There was a silence in which she continued to regard him, but did not speak. Then she suddenly asked: 'What did you think of Caroline? Obviously she made an impression on you or you wouldn't be wishing to renew the acquaintance. And no doubt she has been in your mind during the last two years.'
'I think - I thought she was very lovely.'
'Yes, isn't she? I'm glad you feel that. I was her nurse, her nanny, if one must use that ridiculous expression. You could say that I brought her up. Does that surprise you? I'm hardly the popular idea of a nanny. Warm lap, aproned bosom, Winnie the Pooh, The Wind in the Willows, prayers at bedtime, eat up your crusts or your hair won't curl. But I had my methods. Mrs Amphlett accompanied the Brigadier on his overseas postings and we stayed here together, just the two of us. Mrs Amphlett believed that a child should have stability provided she was not required to provide it. Of course, if Caroline had been a son it would have been different. The Amphletts have never valued daughters. Caroline did have a brother but he was killed in a friend's car when he was fifteen. Caroline was with them but survived almost without a scratch. I don't think her parents ever forgave her. They could never look at her without making it plain that the wrong child had been killed.'
Jonathan thought: I don't want to hear this, I don't want to listen. He said: 'She never told me that she had a brother. But she did mention you.'
'Did she indeed? She talked about me to you. Now you do surprise me, Mr Percival. Forgive me, but you are the last person I should have expected her to talk to about me.'
He thought: She knows; not the truth, b
ut she knows that I'm not Charles Percival from Nottingham. And it seemed to him, meeting those extraordinary eyes in which the mixture of suspicion and contempt was unmistakable that she was allied to Caroline in a female conspiracy in which he had from the first been a hapless and despised victim. The knowledge fuelled his anger and gave him strength. But he said nothing.
After a moment, she went on: 'Mrs Amphlett kept me on after Caroline left home, even after the Brigadier passed on. But passed on is hardly an appropriate euphemism for a soldier. Perhaps I should say was called to higher service, recalled to the Colours, promoted to glory. Or is that the Salvation Army? I have a feeling that it's only the Salvation Army who get promoted to glory.'
He said: 'Caroline did tell me that her father was a professional soldier.'
'She has never been a very confiding girl but you seem to have gained her confidence, Mr Percival. So now I call myself a housekeeper rather than a nanny. My employer finds plenty to keep me occupied even when she isn't here. It would never do for Maxie and me to live here on board wages and enjoy ourselves in London, would it, Maxie? No indeed. A little skilled sewing. Private letters to be posted on. Bills to be paid. Her jewels to be taken to be cleaned. The flat to be redecorated. Mrs Amphlett particularly dislikes the smell of paint. And, of course, Maxie has to be exercised daily. He never thrives in kennels, do you, my treasure? I wonder what will happen to me when Maxie is promoted to glory?'
There was nothing he could say to that, nor, apparently, did she expect him to. After a moment's silence, during which she lifted the dog's paw and rubbed it gently against her face, she said: 'Caroline's old friends seem very anxious to get in touch with her all of a sudden. Someone telephoned to ask for her only on Tuesday. Or was it Wednesday? But perhaps that was you, Mr Percival?'
'No,' he said, and was amazed at the ease with which he could lie. 'No, I didn't telephone. I thought it better just to take my chance and call.'
'But you knew who to ask for. You knew my name. You gave it to Baggott.'
But she wasn't going to catch him like that. He said: 'I remembered it. As I said, Caroline did talk about you.'
'It might have been sensible to telephone first. I could have explained that she wasn't here, saved you time. How odd that it didn't occur to you. But that other friend didn't sound like you. Quite a different voice. Scottish, I think. If you will excuse my saying so, Mr Percival, your voice is without either character or distinction.'
Jonathan said: 'If you don't feel you can give me Caroline's address, perhaps I'd better go. I'm sorry if I came at an inconvenient time.'
'Why not write a letter to her, Mr Percival? I can let you have the writing paper. I don't think it would be right to give you her address but you can be confident that I will post on any communication that you care to trust to me.'
'She isn't in London, then?'
'No, she hasn't lived in London for over three years and she hasn't lived here since she was seventeen. But I do know where she is. We keep in touch. Your letter will be safe with me.'
He thought: This is an obvious trap. But she can't make me write. There must be nothing in my handwriting. Caroline would recognize it even if I tried to disguise it. He said: 'I think I'd rather write later when I've more time to think what to say. If I post it to this address then you can send it on.'
'I will do that with pleasure, Mr Percival. And now, I expect, you will want to be on your way. Your visit may have been less productive than you hoped, but I expect you have learned what you came to learn.'
But she didn't move and for a moment he felt himself trapped, immobilized as if the disagreeably soft and yielding cushions held him in a vice. He half expected her to leap up and bar his way to the door, to denounce him as an impostor, to keep him locked in the flat while she telephoned the police or the porter. What then would he do: attempt to seize the keys by force and make his escape, wait for the police and try to bluff his way to freedom? But the momentary panic subsided. She got to her feet and led the way to the door and, without speaking, held it open. She did not close it and he was aware that she was standing there, the dog shivering in her arms, both of them watching him leave. At the head of the stairs he turned to smile a final goodbye. What he then saw made him stand for a second immobile before he almost ran down the stairs and through the hall to the open door. He had never in all his life seen such concentrated hatred on a human face.
The whole enterprise had been more of a strain than Jonathan could have believed possible, and by the time he reached Liverpool Street he was very tired. The station was in the process of being rebuilt - improved, as the large displays designed to reassure and encourage proclaimed -and had become a clanging and confusing maze of temporary walkways and direction signs in which it was difficult actually to find the trains. Taking a false turn he found himself in a glossily floored piazza and felt momentarily as disorientated as if he were in a foreign capital. His arrival that morning had been less confusing, but now even the station reinforced his sense of having ventured both physically and emotionally on to alien ground.
Once the journey had started he leaned back, his eyes closed, and tried to make sense of the day and of his conflicting emotions. But instead, and almost immediately, he fell asleep and didn't stir into consciousness until the train was drawing into Norwich station. But the sleep had done him good. He strode towards the castle car park filled with renewed energy and optimism. He knew what he would do; drive at once to the bungalow, and confront Caroline with the evidence and ask her why she had lied. He couldn't go on seeing her and pretend not to know. They were lovers; they should be able to trust each other. If she was worried or frightened he was there to reassure and comfort her. He knew that she couldn't have murdered Hilary. The very thought was profanation. But she wouldn't have lied unless she was frightened. Something was dreadfully wrong. He would persuade her to go to the police, explain why she had lied and persuaded him to lie. They would go together, confess together. He didn't ask himself whether she would want to see him or even whether, late on a Saturday, she would be at home. All he knew was that the matter between them had to be settled now. There was a rightness and inevitability about his decision and he felt, too, a small surge of power. She had thought him a gullible and ineffectual fool. Well, he would show her that she was wrong. From now on there would be a subtle change in their relationship; she would have a more confident, less malleable lover.
Forty minutes later he was driving through the darkness across flat, undistinguished country towards the bungalow. Slowing down as it came into sight on his left, he was struck afresh by how remote and unattractive it was and wondered again why, with so many villages closer to Larksoken, with the attractions of Norwich and the coast, she should have rented this forbidding, almost sinister little box of crude red brick. And the very word bungalow seemed to him ridiculous, evoking a picture of suburban ribbon development, of cosy respectability, of old people who could no longer manage stairs. Caroline should live in a tower with a wide view of the sea.
And then he saw her. The silver Golf came out from the drive very fast and accelerated eastward. She was wearing what looked like a woollen cap pulled down over her yellow hair but he knew her immediately. He didn't know whether she had recognized him or the Fiesta, but instinctively he braked and let her get almost out of sight before he followed. And, waiting in the quietness of that flat landscape, he could hear Remus barking hysterically.
He was surprised how easy it was to keep her in sight. Sometimes another car passing him would obscure his view of the silver Golf and occasionally, when she slowed for traffic lights or because they had reached a village, he had quickly to reduce speed in case she realized that he was on her tail. They passed through Lydsett village and she took the right turn across the headland. By now he feared that she must have recognized him, must know that she was being followed, but she went on apparently uncaring. When she had negotiated the gate he waited until she was out of sight over the ridge before f
ollowing, then stopped, put out the car lights and went a little way on foot. He saw that she was picking someone up; a slim girl with spiked yellow hair, orange at the tips, was briefly illuminated in the headlights. The car turned north along the coast road, inland at the power station, then north again. Forty minutes later their destination was known, the quay at Wells-next-the-Sea.
He parked the Fiesta beside the Golf and followed them, keeping Caroline's blue and white cap in sight. They walked quickly, apparently unspeaking and neither of them looked back. At the quay he momentarily lost them and then he saw that they were getting on a boat. And now was his chance; he had to speak to Caroline. He almost ran towards them. They were already on board. It was a small craft, no more than fifteen feet long with a low central cabin and an outboard motor. Both girls were standing in the cockpit. As he came up Caroline turned to him. 'What the hell do you think you're doing?'
'I want to talk to you. I've been following you since you left the bungalow.'
