If I jacked it all in, I would be free of Crace and his dirty, sick little mind forever. I wouldn’t have to worry about worming out more connections between his life and work. I could forget about Lavinia Maddon and her powerful publishing connections. I needn’t concern myself about waiting for Crace to die before I could publish my book—because there would be no book.
No book? I just couldn’t imagine it. I was a writer, after all. That’s what I had always wanted to be ever since I was a child. It’s what I felt inside. It was what I was. If I stopped, it would be like I had never existed. I had to carry on. I had a duty to tell the truth about what Crace had done to those boys. And I had a responsibility to myself.
I called Lavinia after breakfast and arranged to meet her after her appointment with the headmaster. I could tell she was keen to get off the phone, but I liked the idea of stringing out the conversation a little longer.
“I still can’t get over it—you being down here at the same time as me,” I said. “I mean, it’s such an unbelievable coincidence, don’t you think?”
“Yes, it is rather—” she said.
“Fascinating, yes. I wonder what your interview with the headmaster will throw up.”
“Yes, I’ll tell you all about it when I see you later. I’d better—”
“I’m sure Mr. Crace will be impressed by your diligence.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I tell him that you’ve been doing all this background research just so you could help me. I mean, it’s rather like you’ve been doing my job for me.”
“I did want to try to be as helpful as possible.”
“Very helpful indeed. Mr. Crace will be delighted. And so kind of you to volunteer all that material for Mr. Crace as well, all those documents you’ve unearthed. When I go back, I guarantee he’ll think he’s made the right choice in you, the perfect biographer.”
“Yes, thank you, I—”
“Do you happen to have them with you?”
“Have what with me?”
“The material relating to Mr. Crace that we spoke about.”
“I do have some of the documents, a few notes. I was looking at them this morning, here in my hotel room.”
“Wonderful. Actually—just a thought—wouldn’t it be better if I met you at the hotel after your meeting with the headmaster?”
“Well, I—”
“It’s just that I thought it would be easier for you show me what you’ve got. Save you from lugging everything over to the school.”
“Oh, I see—”
I enjoyed listening to her squirm. If only I could have seen her face as she wrestled with the situation.
“I mean, if you’d rather not…if you’ve changed your mind, I can easily tell—”
“No, no. That’s fine. It’s just you caught me off guard. I didn’t realize you wanted them quite so soon. I haven’t copied any of them yet, you see.”
“Never mind. I could have a quick look at them and take some of them away for copying. There’s no reason why you should have to bear the expense. Mr. Crace would be happy to pay for it. After all, you are doing him a great favor.”
There was a pause at the end of the line.
“Yes, very well,” she said, sounding flustered. “Sorry, I really do have to go.”
“So I’ll see you at Hazelbury Manor, then, at one thirty. Perhaps we could have lunch? Mr. Crace’s treat.”
“Yes, yes. See you then. Good-bye.”
I spent the morning writing in my notebook and making myself presentable for lunch with Lavinia. I managed to persuade the landlady to lend me an iron and ironing board so that I could press my linen jacket. I polished my shoes using some paper towels I had found in the bathroom, put on a clean white shirt and ran some grease through my hair. The area at the back of my head was still tender and a scab had started to form over the cut, but in the mirror I looked presentable and respectable, the very picture of a young, up-and-coming writer.
The landlady told me it usually took half an hour for taxis to arrive, so at half past twelve I ordered one to take me to Hazelbury Manor. I stepped out of the pub into bright sunlight; it was one of those gloriously bright, crisp autumn days. Even though everything was dying back and the leaves were rotting on the ground, it seemed as though there was a prospect of a new beginning. I had a sense that I could do anything I wanted and that nothing could stand in my way. Despite all my doubts, fears and anxieties, I was certain I was doing the right thing.
The taxi took me past the school and across a stretch of open countryside that had views down into a vale. Through the enormous rhododendron bushes that lined the meandering drive, I could glimpse a white building in the distance. The taxi turned a corner onto a more direct approach, and the house—a splendid classical villa with a later, probably Victorian, addition at the back—came into view. As the car drew nearer to the hotel, I saw, through the tall front windows, a number of well-heeled guests drinking coffee in the morning room. The car park was full of BMWs, Mercedes, Saabs and Audis; I even spotted a bottle-green Bentley. It was certainly rather different from my establishment with its low ceilings, clusters of dead flies, cobwebs and doghaired towels. I had to give her credit. Lavinia certainly knew how to live in style.
How had she made all her money, I wondered. Not just from writing, surely. Was she married? Perhaps she had a rich lover? A wealthy investment banker or the head of a national museum? Had she any children? Fiercely intelligent young men and women, my age, I suppose, who after Oxbridge had easily established themselves in good jobs, or perhaps more bohemian types who had shunned material gains to develop their talents as musicians, painters, and photographers. Of course, with Lavinia’s help, they could afford to do whatever they pleased.
I realized how little I actually knew about her. That would have to change.
I paid the taxi driver and walked up the gravel path to the front door, on either side of which, in pots, stood two immaculately manicured bay trees. I opened the door into the hallway, which was paneled in wood, and walked across to the reception desk, where a pretty, fresh-faced blond girl sat reading a magazine.
“Hello, sir. Good morning,” she said, looking up. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, I’m here to meet one of your guests, but I think”—I said, looking at my watch—“I’m a little early.”
“What’s the name, please?”
“Maddon. Lavinia Maddon.”
She smiled and said she would ring the room. There was no answer. Lavinia would still be with the headmaster or perhaps driving back from the school. I wondered what Mr. Peters had said to her. Would he have mentioned me at all? Or would she? As long as Levenson kept his mouth shut and didn’t say anything to either of them, I would be safe. And it didn’t appear that he wanted to say anything more on the subject.
“I’m afraid she’s not in her room, sir. Can I leave a message for her?”
“I’d hoped we could have lunch here.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll ring through to the restaurant and book a table. For two?”
“Yes, please, for two.”
She told me I could wait in the bar. She would tell Ms. Maddon where to find me as soon as she arrived back at the hotel.
At the bar, which was quite busy with what looked like a group of sales or advertising reps, I ordered a glass of Sancerre from the barman and took a seat by the window. I was confident about my meeting with Lavinia, but a little extra help wouldn’t hurt. I took a sip of the dry, chalky tasting wine and then another before gulping down the whole glass. I asked the barman for another. I was halfway through that glass when Lavinia walked in.
“Lavinia, hello, so good to see you again,” I said, standing up and stretching out my hand.
“Yes, you too,” she said.
“Let me get you a drink. What would you like?”
“Well, it is a little early for—”
“We are here to celebrate, though, aren’t we?”
�
��What do you mean?”
“I’ll get you a drink and then I’ll tell you.”
She looked a little nervous, smiled weakly and finally relented.
“I’ll have a glass of white wine as well, please.”
At the bar I ordered a bottle of Sancerre. On the way back from the bar, I stopped and looked at Lavinia. Everything about her was so perfect. Her dark hair was shiny and neat, her gray woolen skirt and jacket obviously well cut and expensive. As I came up behind her, I saw her writing in a small, black leather notebook with a tiny gold pencil, the same notebook she had used when she had spoken to Jennifer Johnson at Crace’s old house in Bloomsbury. I squinted to see if I could make out anything, but her handwriting was so small that it was impossible.
“Drinks are on the way,” I said, sitting down and smiling. “Did you have a profitable meeting with Mr. Peters?”
“Oh yes, quite interesting,” she said, putting her notebook away in her black leather handbag. “Of course, he didn’t know Mr. Crace personally, but he gave me some good information on what the school was like back then and pointed me in the direction of some people I could talk to, people who might have known Mr. Crace.”
“Really?” I had to hide my astonishment. “Such as?”
“Former teachers, old boys and the like. But I’m sure you know just as much as I do.”
What did she mean? Had she found me out?
“Funnily enough, Mr. Crace has kept me rather in the dark. He is quite a mystery, even to me.”
“I can’t quite believe that,” she said, laughing. “You have lived with him, after all.”
“I know, but—”
Just at that moment, the waiter came over with the wine and two fresh glasses. He uncorked it and asked if I would like to taste it.
“Please, Lavinia, will you?”
The waiter handed her a glass with a little of the wine. She swirled the glass in her hand and then placed it beneath her nose, her nostrils flaring and constricting a couple of times.
“Yes, very nice, thank you,” she said, placing the glass back down on the table. “You said there was something to celebrate?”
“Of course, yes, there is,” I said. “I spoke to Gordon…to Mr. Crace this morning and filled him in on you a little more. And he’s definitely come to a decision. You’ve got the job.”
Her frostiness melted away instantly.
“Really?” she said, smiling. “Well, that is something to celebrate.”
I held out my glass.
“So here—cheers. This is to you and your book. I’m sure it will be fascinating. Cheers.”
“Cheers. And thank you for all your help. I really couldn’t have done it without your help. You’ve been absolutely invaluable.”
“No, I’m only pleased that Mr. Crace has found the right person for the job.”
Lavinia was in high spirits as we walked into lunch, telling me how relieved she was that a decision had been finally made and relating to me just how stressful the last few months had been. When she had received my initial letter, she had seriously considered giving up the book. But now her publishers would be pleased, she said. She couldn’t wait to tell them.
“I think it’s best that if you do say anything, please ask them to keep the project confidential for the time being,” I said, as we took our places in the restaurant. “As you know, Mr. Crace is not the kind of man who would like this to be greeted with a fanfare and trumpets. In fact, he could do a sudden voltafaccia if it got out or if he thought it was being talked about in the press.”
“Yes, I understand,” said Lavinia, placing the starched napkin over her lap.
The waiter refilled our glasses, another good opportunity, I thought, for another toast.
“To your secret project,” I said.
She laughed girlishly, the fine lines around her eyes crinkling like crepe paper.
“To our secret project,” she said, correcting me. “And thank you once more.”
“Have you thought of a title yet?”
“It’s in the early days yet, but I have toyed with a few.”
“Oh, really? Such as?”
She paused, hesitant.
“One I do rather like is The Silent Man, after Jonson’s Epicene, because, as you know, I am keen on exploring the idea of literary and commercial success and then subsequent silence. And also, of course, it’s a reference to Malcolm’s book on—”
“That’s wonderful,” I said. “I’m sure Mr. Crace would like that too.”
“But please don’t tell him. I wouldn’t want him to think I was running before I could walk, if you see what I mean.”
“No, of course not. I promise to keep it just between us.”
The waiter came over to take our order. Lavinia decided to have the smoked trout and horseradish sauce and then the sea bass, and I went for the wood pigeon with beetroot followed by the lamb shank with beans. We ordered another bottle of wine.
“How long have you been a writer?” I asked.
“Oh, gosh, over thirty years now, it must be. What a thought.”
“How did you start? I mean, how did you get into it?”
“After university I took a job on the literary pages of a Sunday newspaper. While I was there I wrote my first book, a biography of Constance Fenimore Woolson, which did very well and won a couple of prizes. Anyway, that enabled me to leave and write full-time.”
“That was very fortunate.”
“Yes, it was, rather. I always say it’s the only thing I’m fit for.”
“I noticed on the way back from the bar that you keep a notebook.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Is that a diary or—”
“It’s not really what you’d call a diary, nor is it a proper writer’s notebook. More just a reminder of whom I’ve met and occasionally what they’ve said. First impressions, feelings, physical descriptions, those kinds of things. Aspects of a person you cannot capture on an audiotape.”
“Yes, I see. What a good idea. Do you carry it with you everywhere?”
“Yes, I suppose I do. It’s become second-nature now. Scribbling things down here and there.”
I took another couple of gulps of wine and leaned forward toward her.
“So you’d write about meeting me, would you?”
She smiled, her gray eyes sparkling.
“I might, if I felt so inspired.”
“I see,” I said. “And what might you say?”
“I’m afraid, Mr. Woods,” she said in a mock-pompous tone, “that would be between my notebook and me. Strictly for my eyes only.”
“You mean you don’t even show your husband?”
She laughed.
“Especially not my husband!” she said as the waiter placed a plate in front of her. “The truth of the matter is that Ian and I have not really spoken since our divorce seven years ago. Silly really, after bringing up two children together, all those years, but—”
“I see. And is there anyone else? Anyone you—”
“If you’re trying to find out whether I’m single, well, the answer is yes. And resolutely, determinedly so. And happy with it. And what about you?”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“I did have a girlfriend—Eliza—at college, but that ended on a bit of a sour note.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m over her now, as they say. Got her out of my system.”
“Good. Good for you.”
Lavinia started to laugh again, forcing her to bring her napkin to her mouth.
“I’m sorry, sorry, excuse me,” she managed to say, waving her hand in the air in a gesture of apology.
“What is it?”
“No, I couldn’t, really. Just me being ridiculous.”
“No, what?”
“Oh, very well. But you promise you won’t hold it against me?”
“Yes.”
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
“Just that
I thought—I don’t know why—that you were, you know, you and Mr. Crace were—”
“What?”
“That you were…together.”
“What?”
“It was just a stupid thought, a whimsy, nothing more.”
“What on earth made you think that?”
“I don’t know. My impression is that you seem to be so close to him, that you hold him very dear. And little things, like when you talk about him, your eyes light up. I haven’t offended you, have I?”
“No, of course not. Don’t be so silly.”
“Really? You would tell me if I had, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, I would. But after what you’ve just said, I could do with another drink.”
I smiled, but I was seething inside. What had made her say that? Why did everyone seem to think that?
“If you don’t mind me asking, how did you become friendly with Gordon Crace?”
“I rather fell into the job by accident,” I said, cutting into the wood pigeon. “My original job—teaching English to the teenage son of an Italian family—fell through after he got himself in a little hot water. I wanted to stay on in Venice, because I had this mad idea of wanting to write a novel partly set there. And so when the job with Mr. Crace came up, I took it. It seemed to suit my needs at the time.”
“I see. I didn’t realize you wrote.”
“Well, the book is not going quite as planned.”
After lunch, which I insisted on paying for, we took our coffee in the elegant morning room at the front of the house. Sunlight streamed through the grand windows, casting everything in a pale, golden glow. As I ran my fingers through my hair, I caught Lavinia gazing at me with a puzzled expression, her eyes almost squinting, her brows so knotted that a very definite line seemed to split her forehead in two. Then a moment later, her eyes widened ever so slightly and her mouth dropped open.
“I don’t believe it,” she whispered.
“Sorry?”
“No, it’s just too ridiculous,” she said as she continued to stare at me in bewilderment. “It can’t be.”
The Lying Tongue Page 20
