The False Inspector Dew

by Peter Lovesey

'Love? I often wonder what is meant by love.'

  'It's a kind of magic, isn't it? It's a power that overwhelms one.'

  'I was never very good at magic,' Walter said.

  'I'm sure it's unmistakable when it occurs.'

  'Then I rather think that I was never in love with Lydia.'

  She could not be certain from his beaming smile whether he was being candid with her. 'She's a beautiful woman,' Alma said. 'And she has great vitality.'

  'You're extremely generous, considering that she attacked you.'

  'To be fair, she had the right to take offence. She saw the scrapbook in my bag. She thought I must have taken it home to look at it.' Alma paused. 'She was right. I thought there might be something in it about you.'

  He either missed or ignored her admission. 'Lydia has been under great strain for a long time,' he said. 'She has not been given a leading role since 1914. She attends auditions, but the parts are given to younger actresses of less experience. It makes me feel guilty.'

  'Why is that?'

  'You see, while her career has languished, mine has steadily improved. She got me started, paid for all my training, bought my equipment and set me up in Eaton Place. She still pays the rent for the surgery. It's a lot of money.'

  'You mustn't blame yourself for being a success,' Alma said impetuously. 'You justified her confidence. She must have wanted you to be successful.'

  'Yes, I'm sure she did.' His voice was generous, even tender.

  Alma remembered her determination to remain serene. 'Then why feel guilty?'

  Walter turned and looked at her. 'You're very kind. I haven't properly explained why she attacked you in the shop. The night before, we had an argument. That's not unusual. She has a lot of disappointments, and she relieves her feelings by breathing fire and fury on me. I can usually take it, but on this occasion she came out with something so astonishing that I was quite unequal to it. She said she is completely disillusioned with the English theatre, so she is going to America to become a cinema actress.'

  Alma's heart pounded. 'Is she serious?'

  'Completely, I'm afraid. She's already made enquiries at the shipping office. She once worked with Charlie Chaplin. He has a company in America called United Artists, with Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks. Lydia is confident that Chaplin will remember her and launch her on a cinema career.'

  'What an extraordinary idea! What about you? What are you expected to do?'

  He gave a shrug. 'She hasn't given it a thought. She's intoxicated by the prospect of America. For Lydia, it's the end of seven years of heartbreak. She just assumes that I'll go with her.'

  'But you have the practice.'

  'I'm supposed to sell it and start another in America.'

  'American Painless Dentistry.'

  He gave her a surprised look. 'Did I tell you about that?

  He gave her a surprised look. 'Did I tell you about that? Yes, I shudder at the prospect.'

  'Have you told her?'

  'I tried. She seems indifferent whether I go with her or remain. We were separated before, by dental school, and then the war. Ours has never been a conventional marriage. But you see, I owe everything to Lydia. In return, I've always tried to give her my support, if it's only a sympathetic ear. This time, I could only listen in amazement. Worse, I'd lost her precious book of notices. I remembered later where it was, but by this time Lydia had gone upstairs in a towering rage. I'm afraid it all crashed down on you in the morning.'

  Alma smiled. 'So you're to blame?'

  'Yes, indeed.'

  They talked of other things: the flower shops, gardens, favourite walks. The waiter cleared the table. They ate cheese and biscuits and drank coffee. Walter paid the bill and gave a generous tip. The manager came forward with a red rose for Alma. She took it graciously and exchanged a secret smile with Walter. Outside she confirmed that her shop supplied them to the restaurant.

  He escorted her for the short distance to her house. At the gate she thanked him. She said she hoped he wouldn't be leaving soon for America. He asked why, and she reminded him lightheartedly that her dental treatment wasn't finished. He gave her a warm smile. The numerous little creases round his eyes shaped into their own signal of appreciation. He said it had done him good to pass an evening without histrionics. As for America, he had not decided yet.

  While Walter had been speaking, Alma had regarded him steadily. The evening had taught her much more about him. His calm exterior was deceiving. He was in turmoil. The circumstances of his life had trapped him since he was a child, yet he had suffered them with quiet resignation. To satisfy his father, he had given his youth to the music hall, to which he was temperamentally unsuited. His marriage was devoid of love, but he had endured it for the opportunity of a new career. Now his frustrated and embittered wife proposed to destroy his livelihood, his peace of mind, his self-respect. He desperately needed help.

  Alma loved him more tenaciously than ever. Before long she would have to let him know. But this was not the time.

  For the present it had to be enough that he exercised his powers as a mind-reader to arrange to meet her again.

  'That walk that you described,' he said, '- the one to the heronry in Richmond Park. I'm rather tempted to try it on Sunday. What was the name of the plantation, Alma?'

  'Sidmouth.' She was discreet enough to hesitate before she added, 'I could show you if you like. What time will you be going?'

  He could have named any time of the day or night. Alma would be there.

  11

  At the Paris Carlton on fine days in the summer months, breakfast was served on the terrace. The warmth of the sun, the gentle movement of air and the aroma of coffee could be guaranteed to kindle romantic thoughts in Marjorie Livingstone Cordell. This morning there was an extra impulse.

  'Livy, my darling,' she announced as she joined her husband at one of the white metal tables, i have just learned something really sensational.'

  Livingstone Cordell had not come to terms with breakfasts in Paris. Fresh bread rolls gave him indigestion if he ate enough of them to satisfy his appetite. Yet when he ordered grapefruit segments and a cooked breakfast it was so slow in coming that it limited his capacity for lunch. Without looking up at his wife he said, 'While you're still on your feet, would you ask that goddamned waiter what happened to my bacon and kidneys? I gave the order all of twenty minutes ago.'

  Mrs Livingstone Cordell waved at the waiter and pointed urgently towards her husband. Livy was not the sort of man who got quick service from French waiters. He looked too comfortable in his chair. He was short and overweight and he wore a cheap linen jacket that he had bought years back in Chicago. His hair was fairish, with patches of grey that gave him a commonplace pepper-and-salt look. His eyebrows were so colourless and meagre that it was difficult for him to look anything but docile. French waiters and the world at large — with the exception of Marjorie Livingstone Cordell — remained unaware that he had the most amazing and outrageous tattoos on unseen areas of his body.

  The waiter returned a nod that could have meant anything. Mrs Livingstone Cordell sat down.

  'Don't you want to hear my news, Livy?'

  'They have a sale on at the Galeries Lafayette.'

  'Do they?' She studied his small grey eyes in case he knew something she did not. 'You incorrigible man! You're kidding, aren't you? My news is totally reliable. Listen to this. I just went to Reception to fix another massage and by sheer good fortune I happened to notice the bellhops wheeling in some luggage. Four or five enormous trunks and some smaller stuff. You know me, Livy: I just couldn't resist a little peek at the label. You're not going to believe this: they belong to Mr Paul Westerfield II!'

  'Oh, yea.' Livy went silent for a moment. 'What the hell do you suppose they are doing with my bacon and kidneys?'

  'Paul Westerfield II, honey.'

  'I never heard of the guy.'

  'He only happens to be one of the most eligible young men in New York. His fat
her is the millionaire architect who designed those beautiful frame houses just across the Hudson from us in New Jersey.' Mrs Livingstone Cordell shut her eyes and sighed. 'It must be providential, young Paul putting up here at this time, when our Barbara has finished her studies and is free to show him over Paris. She knows the city. This is her big break, Livy. If you were twenty-four years old and on your first trip to Paris, wouldn't you be glad of a sweet American girl to show you around?'

  Livy shook his head. 'Forget it. You can bet your life this guy hasn't come to Paris to see the Louvre with a special lecture on the Ancient Greeks. Besides, we're moving on to England at the end of the week. I have it on good authority that you can actually get served with a breakfast at the Savoy Hotel.'

  Mrs Livingstone Cordell pressed her lips into a pout and emitted a moan audible only to herself. Livy was so insensitive to the things that mattered to women. She could forgive him plenty when she thought of his tattoos, but she wished he would sometimes pay attention to what she was saying.

  'Looks like Barbara has been working on the problem,' Livy remarked.

  'What do you mean?'

  'Take a look to your right.'

  'Oh my God!' whispered Mrs Livingstone Cordell.

  Her daughter Barbara was crossing the terrace to their table hand in hand with a very tall, very slim, very intelligent-looking young man in a cream-coloured three-piece. Beside him in her brown hobble skirt Barbara looked positively dowdy, but her eyes were shining more brightly than her mother had ever seen. 'Mommy and Livy,' she said, ‘I want you to meet my college friend, Paul Westerfield. What do you think -1 just met Paul in the lobby. We were in the same math class at college. Isn't that incredible?'

  'You already know Mr Westerfield?'said Mrs Livingstone Cordell, barely able to voice her words.

  'Don't mind my mother,' said Barbara to Paul Westerfield. 'She thinks any guy under fifty who comes within half a mile of me is a possible husband. She doesn't know that I'd rathei drop dead than walk out with one of you monsters from the math class. This is Livy. He's my stepfather, my second actually.'

  'What are you doing in Paris, Paul?' asked Livy.

  'A little sight-seeing, I thought,' said Paul. 'I'm on my way to London to interview Dr Bertrand Russell about the book he wrote with A. N. Whitehead.'

  'Principia Mathematical said Barbara.

  'And I thought I might as well stop off in Paris to meet some of the professors of math at the Sorbonne.'

  'Barbara can introduce you to plenty of professors,' chipped in Mrs Livingstone Cordell.

  'Mommy, I was studying art, if you remember. Paul needs no introduction from me. He's known throughout the world for his papers on permutations and the binomial theorem. I was just the coed who used to sit behind him in class and tell him when he had holes in his socks.'

  Paul Westerfield laughed and cleared his throat and blushed all at the same time.

  'Well, that's it,' said Barbara. 'Those are my parents. Don't let us hold you up. It was a real nice surprise to bump into you like that.'

  'It was mutual,' said Paul. 'Goodbye, folks.' He walked rapidly away.

  'Anyone got any ideas how we should spend the day?' asked Barbara brightly.

  12

  Alma was convinced that she could persuade Walter not to go with his wife Lydia to America. She was confident that he was going to fall in love with her. She had learned from the novels of Ethel M. Dell that true love will surmount any obstacle. She was not discouraged by the difference in their ages. She had no conscience about Walter being married. He had not married Lydia for love. If Lydia abandoned him to go to America, he was entitled to accept another's love. He would turn to Alma, and to such happiness as he had never known. It would be the highest plane of love, two minds in harmony. When he kissed her, she would hear the music of the spheres.

  She conceded that it was probably too soon to expect the music of the spheres on Sunday, in their walk to the heronry in Richmond Park, but it was not impossible. As they strolled leisurely along the quiet footpaths, they would exchange more confidences about their lives. Gradually they would discover things in common, the hopes and fears and likes and dislikes that chance had given them to share.

  But the walk was disappointing. Walter made no attempt at intimate conversation. He talked about the care of teeth. He described the structure of a tooth, as if Alma's deepest wish was to know the difference between canines and incisors. He recommended brushing teeth at least twice daily. He enumerated substances to use. He explained why precipitated chalk was good and camphorated chalk was bad, because it cracked the enamel. He warned her not to use an acid mouth wash or an iron tonic, unless it was in the form of pills.

  It may have been that he intended to impress her with his expert knowledge, but he did not. Alma felt neglected. She had not come to Richmond Park for this. While he talked on, she tried to explain it to herself. Perhaps he was struggling with his conscience, drawing back from the familiarity that could lead to a liaison. Perhaps he could not trust his inner passion.

  Alma said little. It was not possible to bring him round to personal matters.

  Yet at the end of the walk when they got back to the Richmond Gate, he said in the same discursive tone of voice he had used all afternoon, 'What a boring companion I have been. Did you know that you can walk right down to the river through the Terrace Gardens? Let's hire a boat for an hour, and I promise not to mention teeth.'

  She took his arm as they walked down the steep incline.

  His manner altered. The air was cooler near the water, so he took off his jacket and put it round her shoulders.

  He was not very expert with the oars. He splashed her several times and apologised profusely. Alma laughed. She was so happy to be noticed that she said it didn't matter, and meant it.

  'The last time I was in a boat,' he explained, 'must have been six years ago, and then there were seventy others to share the rowing, so I didn't get much practice.'

  'Seventy in a rowing-boat?' said Alma, laughing. 'Whatever were you doing?'

  He smiled too. 'Trying to stay alive. Really, it was no laughing-matter. We were survivors from the Lusitania.' 1 'The ship that was torpedoed? You were on the LusitaniaV

  'With my father,' answered Walter, i had compassionate leave to help him back from America.'

  'The Great Baranov.'

  'Once Great, I'm afraid. By 1915 he was too old to be touring in vaudeville. He fell from the highwire and broke his leg. He had tremendous spirit. The night before we sank, he led a protest to the captain because the passengers weren't being told the reason for certain obvious precautions against U-boats. Poor old Dad — he was always spoiling for a fight. Not like me -1 take the line of least resistance.'

  'Was he drowned?'

  'No. He survived. He had plaster up to his hip and we were in the water over an hour. Eventually one of the lifeboats picked us up.'

  'You must have kept him afloat. You're braver than you care to say. You saved your father's life.'

  'Yes — but I sometimes wish I hadn't. He was a cripple. He could never work again. Six months after that he hanged himself. He used a length of the wire he used to walk on.'

  'Walter, what a dreadful thing!'

  'Yes.' He looked down, it was tragic'

  Neither of them spoke again for several minutes. Walter rowed slowly in the direction of Twickenham until they reached a stretch where an island divided the stream. On the narrower side an overhanging willow formed a natural arch.

  'The place to get my breath back,' said Walter as he steered the skiff towards an iron ring set into the bank. He tied up and shipped the oars. 'Is there room on the cushion for one more?'

  She felt a flutter of excitement, the more exquisite for coming after such a disappointing afternoon. She smiled shyly and said, 'Of course there is.' As she made room, she told him, 'You'd better have your jacket back. You'll soon get cold.'

  Clutching the willow branches, Walter moved along the boat and s
at beside her. 'I'm warm. Just feel my hand.'

  She was suddenly aware that the next few moments could uplift her from near-despair into ecstasy. She held his hand with both of hers, feeling its broadness, stroking her fingertips over the fine covering of hair. She did not let go. She said, 'Those people in the lifeboat must have been glad to have had you there.'

  'Why?'

  'To turn to for support and confidence. You radiate such calm, whatever you may feel inside yourself. It gives strength to others.'

  'Does it strengthen you?' he asked in mild surprise.

  She looked steadily into his eyes. 'Immensely. It makes me more confident every second.'

  He frowned slightly, as if uncertain where this was leading, but he was smiling, too. 'Confident of what?'

  She hesitated. She had not imagined in her daydreams of this moment that she would need to indicate in words that she was ready to be kissed. She said impulsively, 'Confident that if I close my eyes, I will not be disappointed.' As soon as she had said it, she shut her eyes, more from shock at her boldness than anything else. There flashed through her mind the mortifying thought that he might still draw back. It was so vivid and appalling that she tugged on his hand and swayed towards him.

  Their faces bumped. She felt the rasp of his moustache. She kept her eyes shut tight.

  She heard him say, 'Oh, dear. Have I hurt you?'

  She opened her eyes. 'No — but I feel so ridiculous.' She was on the point of tears.

  He appeared to understand. 'Don't be. There's no need. We surprised each other, that's all. Put your head back and relax. Keep still now. Keep absolutely still.'

  She obeyed as if she were in the dental chair.

  Walter moved his face close and their lips touched lightly for a second. It was the first time any man had kissed her on the mouth. She heard no music in her head and no meteors flashed across her vision, but she was exquisitely content.

  'And now,' Walter said, 'I think I had better row us back.'

  Before he left her, she said she would like to cook him a supper in return for the dinner he had given her. He accepted, but not for that evening. He promised to come on Tuesday, two days later.