I walked over to one window, wrenched the curtains back and drew up the blind. Then I looked again in the full light.
She was lying in a bath of water, wearing a white shift. The water seemed stained with blood. The shift was unbuttoned and I could see her small breasts. Instinctively, I leant forward and buttoned it.
I knelt by the bath. ‘Oh, Laure, Laure, what have you done?’ I could see that she had cut her wrists to the bone and then let her life-blood drain out in the warm water. I could see the knife on my right as I knelt facing her. She had let it drop on a towel. ‘Why did you do it?’
The strangely posed and artificial death scene gave me an answer of a sort: it said that life had been to her such an ennui that she must end it the best way she could.
I picked up the knife and held it in my hand; it was an ordinary pen-knife, such as any woman might have in her writing-desk, but its blade was wickedly sharp and pointed. When she had wanted it, Laure would have had her weapon ready to hand. On the table by the bed was a dark blue medicine glass. I got up from where I was crouching and looked into it. A little sediment remained; I supposed she might have taken some sedative to see that she became sleepy and died easily. Or perhaps she wanted to make sure she was too tranquil to draw back. I supposed I must have been the last person to speak to her, except for the servants who had brought the bath and water.
There was the end of a dream in this room. I could feel it: Laure’s dream which had kept her, sad and secretive, in Russia. You could sense it in the shut-in and cloistered atmosphere of the room, full of brooding, and the stale scent of clothes and papers; but I couldn’t tell what the dream had been about. ‘I feel free now,’ she had said. I could only suppose that she had woken up to find that freedom meant emptiness. Poor Laure, Russia had been too much for her in the end.
I stood at the door, no longer able to bear looking at Laure, and almost at the same moment Madame Denisov, accompanied by the housekeeper and another maid, came hurrying up.
Dolly took a long look, then closed the door. ‘Go downstairs now, please, Rose, and stay with Ariadne. On no account is she to come up.’
‘But can’t I help?’ I began.
‘No. Go downstairs. Leave me. I shall arrange everything that has to be arranged.’
I went down to the big drawing-room to face Ariadne. She was sitting at a table with an open book before her, which she was making no attempt to read. She turned to look at me as I came into the room. ‘Well?’
‘Yes.’ I sat down facing her. ‘She is dead.’
‘How? What happened?’
I hesitated.
‘Yes, tell us, please, Miss Rose.’ Peter’s long length uncoiled itself from the big chair where he had been sitting. I too am listening.’
‘I didn’t know you were here,’ I said mechanically, my thoughts far away. I glanced again at Ariadne; I was unsure how much to say in front of her. ‘Mademoiselle Laure died in her bath,’ I began. ‘I know – that is, she told me – that she was in the habit of taking a prolonged warm bath after an attack of migraine. I suppose it was soothing and helped recovery. She must have been taking such a bath when she died.’
‘But how did she die?’ asked Ariadne. ‘Come now, Rose, I shall find out, you know.’
‘Yes, you must tell us, Miss Rose,’ said Peter gently.
‘She did not die from her bath, that is certain,’ said Ariadne.
‘In a way she did,’ I said sadly. ‘That is, I think it must have given her the idea. Wasn’t it Marat who was stabbed in a bath?’
Ariadne gave a little hiss of alarm. ‘Stabbed?’
‘Yes. You asked for the truth, and this is it: Mademoiselle Laure severed the arteries in both wrists with her pen-knife and then sat in the warm bath to die.’
My news was received with shocked silence. Then Peter said: ‘The Roman way to die.’
‘Yes, I had the same thought.’
‘It’s terrible,’ said Ariadne. She was very white, her cheerful ebullience dowsed. ‘Much worse than I thought. Poor Mademoiselle.’ She stood up. ‘I grieve for her.’
‘Had you any idea this was likely to happen, Miss Rose?’ asked Peter Alexandrov.
‘No. How could I have? I hardly knew her.’ I was even startled that he should ask me.
‘But you were with her last night.’
‘I didn’t think she was going to kill herself,’ I said sadly. ‘No, I got a totally different idea. She did say that at last she felt free.’
‘Ah,’ said Peter.
‘But I did not interpret freedom as death.’
‘To the sick mind it may seem so.’
‘I suppose it couldn’t be – no,’ I stopped short.
‘What? What couldn’t it be?’ he asked sharply.
‘I was wondering if it couldn’t be an accident. But no, I see it couldn’t have been. It’s just impossible.’
‘What will happen now, Uncle Peter?’ asked Ariadne nervously.
He shrugged. ‘We will leave the arrangements to your mother. She will know how to smooth things over.’
‘Here she is,’ said Ariadne. ‘Oh, Mother, tell us what you have been doing.’
Dolly Denisov came into the room. She sank into a chair with a sigh. For her, she looked dishevelled, even untidy, with flushed cheeks and a shiny nose. ‘Oh, the sadness of it, the utter, utter sadness. Give me a cigarette, please, Peter.’ Her hand trembled slightly. ‘Do you know, I could have sworn that I had not a tear in me for Laure Le Brun, but I have been crying for her: Dolly Denisov has been crying.’ Ariadne went across and took her hand and kissed her cheek.
‘Yes, that poor, poor woman. But she was out of her mind.’ She got up and started to walk round the room, gesturing with her cigarette so that the band of diamonds around the holder glittered in the sunlight. ‘Mad, mad of self-love, poor thing, and I never knew. That was it, was it not, Peter?’
He nodded gravely. ‘I think so.’
‘Yes, yes, we must not blame ourselves. Ariadne, it was not your fault, never think so. Nor was it mine. Still, I am sad, atrociously sad.’ She took a few deep puffs at her cigarette. ‘Oh, by the by, Peter, Doctor Burman has been most kind and says he will arrange everything. All the formalities, you know. He feels sorry for us, says it has been extremely unfortunate for me. So kind of him, because, really, I was feeling a little ruined by this morning.’
Peter stood up, and after a look at him Ariadne stood up too. ‘I think we owe Mademoiselle Laure a little more than that,’ he said with determination. ‘I shall go myself.’
‘Not Ariadne,’ said Dolly at once.
‘No, certainly not Ariadne.’ The girl sat down again. ‘I shall arrange the funeral service – her own church, of course. Fortunately, I know Monsignor LaRoche. I will order flowers, and choose a headstone with a suitable inscription. You may leave all that to me. And I will have a word with the servants – see they don’t gossip too much. Nothing can stop their mouths altogether, as we know, but we owe it to Mademoiselle that they say the right things.’ Dolly nodded. ‘You and Ariadne will both of you have letters to write to Mademoiselle’s family. She has one?’
‘Yes,’ said Dolly, who plainly had forgotten about letters. ‘A brother, I believe, in France.’ As Peter prepared to leave the room, she said: ‘Are you still staying with us, Peter?’
He paused at the door. ‘No, I am back at my apartment round the corner on Kinsky Street; my old servant is over his illness and back on the job. But I shall be here to luncheon, if you will have me.’
‘Delighted,’ said Dolly mechanically.
Dolly caused an especially fine wine to be served with our lunch because, she said, ‘We needed bucking up.’ She herself drank it with enjoyment, but very quietly, as if she was an invalid. Dolly was distressed by Mademoiselle’s death and did mourn her, but she was rendering the emotion bearable by making herself the chief victim, a victim who could be comforted by fine wines, cigarettes and soothing talk from her friends.
After lunch,
Ariadne brought me her letter. ‘Will this do, Miss Rose?’ She laid her letter on the table before me. ‘I addressed it to her brother. Have I said the right sort of thing? And is my grammar correct?’
‘Your French is better than my own, I suspect.’ I was scanning the letter: she had done her task beautifully, in a few lucid and sympathetic sentences. ‘It will do admirably.’
Ariadne gave a sigh of relief, and put down her pen.
The luxury and ease of life in the great house was already closing the hole over Mademoiselle’s head. The letters had been written, the funeral arranged, soon she would be buried, then forgotten. A terrible tragedy, but of not much consequence to anyone. The police would have notes of it in their records, I supposed, and the French Consul would have made a note of it, and that would be that.
Yes, the Denisovs – and particularly the Denisov house – would swallow Mademoiselle up as if she had never been. It was a beautiful house, full of elegance and luxury, and I felt the charm of it to the full. But it was also a house of secrets. A house in which a woman had died tragically, a house in which unknown voices spoke to you out of a tube from the depths of the basements, and where an old woman waited at the top of a red staircase for the mysterious gift of eternal life.
Russia was more than living up to any expectations I might have formed for it.
CHAPTER FIVE
All the rest of that day I waited to see if any more mention was made of Mademoiselle Laure’s death, but nothing was said. Dolly and Ariadne, and even Peter Alexandrov, who was still there, seemed satisfied that they knew all the answers and that, sad though the event was, it must be considered over and done with.
But I could not feel the same. Was it my arrival here that had driven her to suicide? Did she feel so strongly that I had displaced her in the Denisov household? ‘I feel guilty,’ I said to myself. ‘But it’s not my fault.’
I kept remembering what I had seen of Laure Le Brun’s death scene: the knife on the floor beside the tub, the body slumped in the red-stained water, the linen shift falling open across the breasts. Mademoiselle was a prudish lady. It was therefore entirely in character that she had dressed herself before committing suicide, so that even in death she would be decently covered. It made it all the more poignant to me that the buttons had come undone and left her exposed. How defenceless she had been.
I did not mention it in my letters home; it was my first act of censorship to the family, for normally I told them everything. I had told them all about the Princess Irene, my godfather, and my meeting with the Tsarevitch in the bookshop where he was choosing toys. That came in the realm of events of public interest, in which they had a right to be amused. But the story of Laure belonged to a dark underside of life in the Denisov household.
Nor did I tell them of the strange sensation I had sometimes of there being a little nexus of events and people here in Russia, into which I had fallen as if I was expected and almost waited for. This I dismissed as self-consciousness on my part.
The next day, definite signs of our departure for the country became apparent. Great leather trunks were carried up the stairs into Madame Denisov’s rooms. Perhaps Laure’s death had hurried our departure forward. In the stables, the motor-car, which had pushed the splendid horses into second place, was being overhauled. The butler began to mutter about packing up the silver. Meanwhile, the routine of the house went on as usual.
‘I’m so glad you met Madame Titov the other day,’ said Dolly, sailing into the room where Ariadne and I were reading aloud, taking page and page about from Pride and Prejudice. ‘A darling, is she not? Oh, don’t let me stop you. Let me listen. I shall enjoy it.’
And for a minute or two she did sit there listening, smoking her cigarette in its long holder, and admiring the flash of the diamonds on her hand. Then she started up again. ‘How beautifully you read, Miss Gowrie. And Ariadne too. What life you put into it, dear. You really should be an actress. In fact, you are an actress.’
Ariadne laughed. ‘Thank you for the compliment, Mamma. If it is a compliment.’
‘It’s a compliment to Miss Gowrie, you always used to read so woodenly with Mademoiselle Laure.’ Ariadne pulled a face and murmured something critical about French. ‘How her English has come on, Miss Gowrie. I congratulate you.’
‘Her English has always been excellent,’ I said. I didn’t think I had added much to it.
‘And your Russian, too,’ went on Dolly admiringly. ‘So good.’
‘Yes, I understand it pretty well now, and I can make myself understood. Most of the time, anyway. Except that yesterday I caught myself asking for only a little “cat” at lunch when I meant to ask for a little fish.’
Dolly laughed. ‘Soon you will be able to try your hand with our peasants. I came in to tell you that we leave for the country in three days’ time. After the recent sadness of Mademoiselle Laure’s death it seems better to be off.’
‘How long shall we stay?’ asked Ariadne, playing with a pencil.
‘We shall be in the country in all the hot weather,’ said Dolly. ‘It depends. And of course for you,’ she looked at me, ‘there will be a lot to do. I am very serious about what I want done there.’
‘I am longing to get to work.’ This was the good side of Dolly Denisov which I must dwell upon, and not think about her casualness towards poor Laure Le Brun. Shyly, I said: ‘I’ve been thinking things over and studying that list you gave me, and it seems to me that there are any number of supplies I ought to buy in St Petersburg and take out with me.’
The list was a sort of pamphlet, nicely printed on dark grey paper, cataloguing all the peasant families living on the estate at Shereshevo, and giving a brief account of their circumstances, ages, number of children – even down to their estimated weight. Not very pleasant, I thought it, but Dolly obviously felt nothing of its heartlessness, and had produced it for me with a great air of triumph; and certainly it had given me some idea of the kind of task that lay before me.
I added hastily: ‘Nothing elaborate or expensive. Quite simple things, in fact, but necessary if I am to make a proper job. A few drugs, bandages, that sort of thing.’
‘They have some supplies, of course,’ said Dolly. ‘But I agree you should go prepared. A certain amount could be procured in Vyksa, I dare say, but it’s a poor little town and St Petersburg will be better. But I have no idea where you could go.’
‘If I could have the carriage I could go to the doctor at the hospital and ask him,’ I said. ‘He could put me in touch with the right sources.’ I knew even then that at the back of my mind I had another reason for setting off to the hospital.
‘I’m not coming,’ said Ariadne decisively. ‘Once was enough for me.’
‘And I can’t.’ Dolly looked worried. ‘So much to do now for the removal to Shereshevo.’
‘I can manage on my own. I’d like to.’ I didn’t say that in furtherance of my own aim I would prefer to be alone. Another time Dolly, who was nothing if not quick to pick up nuances of emotion when she wanted, would have noticed, but she was absorbed by her own arrangements which involved, it seemed, her hairdresser.
‘Yes, you can certainly manage on your own, why not? You shall have old Joseph to drive you. He’s the steadiest old thing imaginable with the horses.’
‘And the deafest,’ put in Ariadne. ‘But I agree he does not drink as much as the others.’
Old Joseph was not drunk when we set off in due course, but he was in a cheerful, good humour and not noticeably deaf. He heard what I wanted to tell him; he listened and grunted assent.
‘I’m to stop on the way back from the hospital? It shall be done, old Joseph will do it, but mind not to keep the horses waiting for more than ten minutes.’
‘Five minutes will serve me.’ And I scrambled into the carriage.
At the hospital my business was soon achieved, and I departed with the addresses of suppliers of medicines and good advice to go with it. Then, with the connivance of old Joseph
, I drove to my godfather’s factory, where the carriage stopped and I got out.
The factory was a formidable block of building. I walked the length of one wall which looked big and strong enough to have defended Troy. In faded white paint, large letters in Russian script declared that it was the St Petersburg Chemical Works – so there was some justification for Dolly’s description, after all; but upon the intimidating gate a shining brass plate, albeit old and worn with much rubbing, read: Erskine Gowrie and Son. ‘Son’ was my Erskine Gowrie, and I supposed he was a little boy when this plate was put up.
The double gates were drawn back as a line of heavy-laden drays went rumbling through. I went and stood at the entrance and stared in. Most of the inner courtyard was filled with the bustle of the drays being unloaded, but looking beyond them I could see another range of buildings, and yet another gateway. Some twenty or thirty people were at work removing barrels and crates from the drays and on to carts, which were then trundled off through the inner gate; but so intent were they on their work that no one noticed me. Or not at first. Then a man came walking across the courtyard, and from the air of authority with which he walked, and from the hasty manner in which all the workers got out of his way, I guessed he was my godfather’s manager of the St Petersburg Works.
He came over to the gate where I was standing and looked at me. Close to, I saw he was a tall, burly man, still young, and with clear blue eyes under heavy brows. He was wearing a workman-like, dark grey alpaca suit.
‘No visitors, miss. None are permitted.’ His tone was perfectly polite but absolutely unyielding. Not a man to be softened by a woman’s smile, I thought.
‘I was just looking,’ I said.
‘Nothing to look at. Just men going about their work. Best be off on yours, miss.’ He was dismissive. Probably despises women as the weaker sex, I thought.
I hated being set down in such a manner. I can be stubborn myself; but there was nothing whatever I could do about it. His appearance had completely done away with the plan I had formed of taking a quiet look around my godfather’s property. Probably it had been a mad idea. True, I had seen a little, a very little, of the St Petersburg Works – so with as good a grace as possible I turned away. But I was more annoyed than I would have thought possible to see that he did not look triumphant or conscious that he had scored a victory. No doubt he had a dutiful little wife at home and. was accustomed to keeping women in their place.
The Red Staircase Page 11
