“What?”
“The chapel up on the hill. Have you come across it?”
“No, I’ve never heard of it.”
“Mr. Crace just mentioned it in passing to me one day. There was something about its atmosphere, he said, that was conducive to creation. But…it’s out of the question.”
“What is?”
“Walking up there. It’s too far from here. But I suppose you can always go and explore it by yourself tomorrow.”
I could tell I had caught her interest.
“What a shame,” she said, maneuvering the strap of her handbag over her shoulder. “It sounds fascinating.” Her eyes, which until a few moments ago drooped with drink-induced contentedness, now burned with a new intensity. “No, we’re going.”
“How?”
“I’ll drive. It’s not far. There won’t be any police out here, will there?”
“Even so,” I said, “I really don’t think you are in any condition to drive. I haven’t had as much as you, so if you don’t mind being chauffeured—”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, of course.”
“That’s super,” she said, smiling.
As she took the keys out of her bag, I slipped a pair of gloves on, remarking how I had heard one of the guests telling the receptionist that the temperature outside had dropped by a few degrees.
“I must admit, I feel I have had one celebratory drink too many,” she said as she handed the keys to me.
We walked to the front door and out into the cold night, the purple-black sky full of stars, an expanse of crushed diamonds. Lavinia took a deep breath and exhaled.
“You know, seeing the place that inspired Mr. Crace might help us both,” she said. “Before a book, I always feel the same way—half nervous, half excited. Each time I feel I’m going to be incapable of capturing the essence of another person, getting them right. No matter how much I tell myself I’ve done it before and I’ll most probably do it again, it’s always the same. Ridiculous, isn’t it? But I suppose it must be the same with you, I mean, now that you are trying your hand at fiction.”
As we walked toward her silver-gray Audi, I pressed the key and the doors unlocked.
“Sorry, I know writing fiction is very different from biography,” she said as we climbed into the car. “Novelists often don’t want to discuss their work, especially if it’s in progress. Forgive me.”
I felt her fingers brush against my hand as I reached for the gear stick and started the engine.
“No, don’t worry. It’s just that I’m a little uncertain about it, that’s all.”
“I understand. I have to say I do admire you, though. It’s certainly a brave move.”
I guided the car slowly down the winding drive, past the tall rhododendron bushes and out onto the country lane. I tried to speak, but my words disappeared in my throat. I had to pretend that everything was normal.
“H-have you tried?” I said, coughing. “Writing novels, I mean?”
“Oh, gosh no. I’m much too admiring of my subjects’ work to even try and imitate them. But that’s not to say I don’t get a thrill out of writing. To be honest, though, the research is my favorite part. Digging around in someone’s past, trying to unearth secrets, sorting through archives in the hope of finding a piece of paper that might shed light on a particular person. I mean, I can’t tell you what pleasure it brings me to know that in a few minutes I’ll see the place that inspired Gordon Crace.”
“Yes, I’m pleased I remembered to tell you about the chapel,” I said, turning the car into the lane that led up to the church. “You never know—it might help.”
The road narrowed, and I stopped the car in a passing place off the lane. By the driver’s seat there was an empty plastic bag that I slipped into my pocket. As we got out, I realized that the canopy of trees leading up to the chapel would shield us from the moonlight. I smiled to myself.
“I’m sure I’ve got one in here,” said Lavinia, pushing forward her seat and fumbling in the back of the car. “Yes, here it is.”
A beam of light temporarily blinded me. I shielded my eyes with my hand. She was holding a torch.
“Great,” I said, my mouth forming itself into a fixed smile.
“It’s not far, just at the top of this track, but it’s a bit unsteady underfoot.”
She took a couple of steps, but I could tell she was having problems negotiating the rough terrain.
“Do you want me to help?”
“Yes, that’s kind, thank you,” she said, taking my arm and passing the torch to me.
We walked slowly up the track, the light cutting through the darkness. Occasionally I let the torch drop down to the pathway, where my eyes searched the ground. In the distance I heard the cry of an owl.
“What did Mr. Crace actually tell you about this place?”
“Oh, just that he would often come up here when the teaching was getting on top of him. He’d walk up here from the school and sit on the bench and think, sometimes write in his notebook. It also gave him quite a good view of the abbey and the school down in the valley.”
“Oh, really?” she said, her body now pressing closer to me.
“Apparently it’s Norman and built of flint. I think Mr. Crace said that there was an inscription inside that granted a 120-day indulgence to passing pilgrims.”
“Do you think that applies to us?” she said, laughing.
“I don’t see why not.”
At that moment, just as the dark outline of the chapel came into view, I switched off the torch, pretending to drop it on the ground.
“Sorry,” I said. “It slipped out of my hands.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “Can you see it?”
“Yes.” I said.
I bent down to the earth where I had already spotted a rock, a large piece of flint. I clasped it in my hand, feeling its sharp edges bite into my skin. I quickly stood up and raised my arm above me.
“What—” she said. But she didn’t have a chance to finish her sentence.
I brought the heavy rock down hard on Lavinia’s head, immediately stunning her. There was a crack and a faint cry, and I followed through with two more blows. She tried to stretch her arm out into the dark night, swayed from side to side for a moment and then slumped to the ground. The stone in my hand felt wet and sticky as I continued to pummel her skull.
Finally, I switched on the torch and shone it into her eyes. There was no reaction. If she wasn’t dead already, she would be in a matter of minutes. Blood poured down her face from several deep wounds. I pulled out the plastic supermarket bag from my pocket and placed it over her head. I didn’t want her blood staining my clothes. I crouched down and lifted Lavinia into my arms and carried her down the track, checking that there was no one around. I left her body slumped against a tree, out of sight of the road, and opened the car door. I got into the driver’s seat, made sure I had secured my seat belt, and started the engine. I took a deep breath and put the car into first gear. Although I had planned what I was going to do, I still couldn’t quite believe it. Hesitation was not an option. I slammed my foot on the accelerator and the car lurched forward. I quickly moved up a couple of gears until I was going about forty miles an hour. Then I deliberately steered the car off the road, down a track, and in the direction of a clump of trees. All my instincts told me to slam on the brakes, but I knew that I would have to resist until the very last moment. Just as a tree loomed into view, I braked, pressing down as hard as possible on the floor pedal. Two conflicting forces fought for control of the vehicle as the car crashed through the undergrowth, sounding as if it were splitting into two. I jolted forward, the shattering windscreen coming perilously close to my eyes. As my forehead slammed down hard on the steering wheel, I heard myself cry out, but the seat belt pulled me backward, tightening against my chest.
Shocked by the sudden stillness of the moment, I sat and watched the steam from the engine spiral up into the cold night air. I
felt a painful throbbing all across my forehead and soreness across my right shoulder, but apart from that I was unhurt. I undid the seat belt and tried to force open the door. It didn’t move. I tried again, but it was stuck. Something was blocking it, a branch perhaps. I eased myself over to the passenger seat. That door opened easily. The front of the car looked like it had collapsed into itself, a mass of twisted metal.
I ran down to the spot where I had left Lavinia’s body. Making sure there were no other vehicles coming toward me, I took hold of her slight frame and carried her up to the car. She did not weigh much, but even so I had to stop a couple of times to catch my breath. As I supported her by the car, I checked the pulse on her neck. I could not feel anything. I pulled the bag from her head, lifted her into the passenger seat, and gently moved her over to the driver’s seat. Then I grabbed hold of her hair and slammed her face hard into the windscreen. Shards of glass embedded themselves in her fine skin, now black with blood.
All that was left for me to do was rearrange her limbs in a grotesque tableau so that it appeared she had suffered a car accident. When the police tested her blood, they would find that she was over the limit, while the staff at the hotel restaurant would testify that she had indeed enjoyed a copious amount of alcohol. By the time the police got around to questioning the young man she had dined with, he would have fled the country. If they did ever catch up with me, I would tell them that, despite my protestations that she had had too much to drink, Lavinia had insisted on driving me to the pub. Obviously she had lost control of the vehicle as she traveled back to her hotel. The fact that she had not worn a seat belt had reduced her chances of surviving the crash. Checking that I hadn’t left anything in the vehicle, I slammed the door and said a silent good-bye.
The plane lurched to the left, tipping through the sky as we made our descent into Venice. I looked out of the window, but all I could see was an expanse of cloud. I remembered the first time I had made this journey, running onto the plane bound for Venice in a bid to escape my past. I had thought that by starting afresh, in another country, I would be able to forget about everything that had happened to me. I would lose myself in writing and escape into a magical, imaginary world. Little did I realize then that the book I would ultimately write would be rather different from the one I had intended. But don’t they say that all the best writers always create something that, despite their careful planning and preparation, ultimately develops a life of its own?
I was ready to present Crace with the truth. I would lay out all the evidence in front of him. I couldn’t see how he could possibly argue with me. I would tell him everything I knew about his past, all the details about his inspiration for The Debating Society, how he had abused those boys at Winterborne Abbey and how he had taken Chris’s life—both literally and figuratively. I would present the facts clinically, objectively, without passing judgment, but make him realize that things could not carry on as they were. Obviously I knew he wouldn’t want me to go to the police, but I was sure there was an arrangement we could come to that would be mutually beneficial.
I would tell him that I was going to write his biography, authorized by him, and in return for his cooperation I might consider erasing certain “facts” from his history, elements of his story that, if made public, would no doubt ruin him, if not land him in jail. Exactly which parts of his biography I glossed over and which ones I concentrated on was open to discussion. If he refused to cooperate, I was armed with enough material to write an unauthorized account of his life, over which he would have no control whatsoever. Of course, after his death all such verbal agreements would be null and void and I would be free to tell the story. I wondered what had happened to the manuscript copies of The Music Teacher that Chris said he had seen; perhaps Crace still had the novel in his possession.
I stepped out of the airport, feeling a light dust of fine drizzle on my face. As I waited by the motoscafi stop for the boat into Venice, together with a group of businessmen, a young couple and a smartly dressed elderly Venetian man, I had a sense that I was moving toward a future that had already been prescribed for me. I remembered that as a child I always had a sense that I was different, special somehow. I knew that one day I would make my mark. I suppose it was only a matter of time now before I would attract the kind of attention I always thought I had deserved but that had so far eluded me.
Fog had settled over the lagoon, and as we traveled through the water, it was hard to make out anything beyond the mist. But, like Crace, I had a mental image of Venice that had become a substitute for the real thing; I no longer needed to see the actual squares, bridges and canals. And as Crace said, it was best to leave the reality of the city to the unfortunates who could only see with their eyes and not their imagination.
In the middle of the lagoon, I took from my rucksack the plastic bag I had placed over Lavinia’s head. Inside was the rock I had used to kill her. I tied the ends of the bag into a secure knot and, making sure nobody was watching me, surreptitiously dropped it over the edge of the boat. As it sank, I felt a reassuring sense of satisfaction, of completeness. Lavinia was out of the way now and I would never have to think of her again.
As the launch approached the Arsenale, the fog was so thick that it was difficult to distinguish between the land and the water. I was the only person to disembark, as all the other passengers had opted for the San Marco stop. I stood on the Riva and listened as the engines of the boat faded away into the mist, the sound of bells tolling somewhere in the distance. I turned up the collar of my jacket and started to walk along the promenade, which seemed deserted, empty except for the occasional stray pigeon from St. Mark’s, until the fog finally released a couple of other figures from its grip. I considered getting my guidebook out of my bag to study the map, but I couldn’t bear to see the form of that question mark staring back at me again, so I continued in the direction of St. Mark’s. I knew, obviously, that at some point I would have to take a right turn down one of the alleys that led toward Castello. I picked one at random and followed its trail, through a campo and over a bridge by a side canal. The water seemed to be whispering to me, imparting some coded message that I failed to understand. At points I could only see three or four feet in front of me and, as the fog seemed to suffocate any sound surrounding it, I was surprised when I saw someone emerge out of the dense, opaque cloud. It was as if residents and visitors alike had been reduced to ghosts, destined to walk around the watery city for an eternity.
I crossed another smaller bridge and took a street that I was convinced would lead me to the back of San Zaccaria, from where I was confident I could find my way to Crace’s palazzo with ease. As I neared the end of the narrow alley, I began to feel the hairs on the back of my neck prick with fear. I heard the noise of a fluttering pigeon hovering above me but could not see it. I reached out into the mist but felt nothing but the damp air. I thought I heard breathing behind me, but when I turned around, no one was there. Finally, as I neared the end of the alley, I saw that there was nothing ahead of me but a brick wall, its surface mottled with moss. I had walked down a dead end. I traced my steps back up to the little bridge and down another street that did eventually bring me to the back of San Zaccaria. By the time I approached Santa Maria Formosa, the mist had started to clear a little.
Outside the palazzo, I took the key from my pocket and walked over the bridge that separated the house from the rest of the city. The dragon carved into the marble gate looked at me as if passing judgment. I turned the key in the lock and pushed open the heavy door. Wisps of fog snaked their way around the courtyard, eel-like in their movements. I called out Crace’s name, but there was no answer. I walked up the staircase, the latticework of the metal banister cold to the touch, and unlocked the door that led into the portego. I shouted for Crace again; again there was no response, and I assumed he was sleeping. It was dark inside the palazzo, so I turned on some of the lights in the grand hall.
As soon as I saw one of the frames lying fa
ce down on the floor, surrounded by splinters of glass, I knew there was something wrong. I ran to the side of the hall, feeling the glass crunch under my feet, and bent down to examine what had happened. I picked up a couple of shards, and turned over the frame to see the image from the Triomphi di Carlo by Francesco de’ Lodovici. I placed the woodcut and glass to one side and ran down the portego to the corridor that led to Crace’s bedroom.
“Gordon? Gordon? Are you all right?”
I didn’t bother to knock on his door, pushing my way in instead. He was lying fully clothed on top of the bed with his back to me, not moving.
“Gordon?”
I walked over to him and hesitated before touching him lightly on the shoulder.
“What the—?” said Gordon, turning over, his eyes opening.
For a moment, as he flapped and wrestled with an invisible enemy there on his bed, halfway between waking and dreaming, he reminded me of a trapped bird, its wings bound with wire, desperate to free itself.
“For fuck’s sake, Adam,” he said. “Thank God it’s you.”
“What’s happened? Are you all right?”
“I thought he’d come back—it was awful,” he said, easing himself up into a sitting position. He hadn’t shaved for days, and yellow-gray stubble covered his face like a rash of iron filings.
“Who? What?”
“Him. The boy who was here before you.”
“What—you mean someone you employed?”
“Yes, the one before you,” said Crace, his words spilling out. “He had had a copy of his key cut. Thought he’d been dismissed unfairly, without due reason. Reckoned he deserved something for all his trouble, so he stole in here last night. Thank God I couldn’t sleep. I was tossing and turning in my bed and on the way to the bathroom to get a sleeping pill when—”
“Gordon, slow down, slow down.”
He took a deep breath. “—When I heard a noise in the portego. I don’t mind telling you that I was scared out of my wits. I tried to tell myself it was a cat that had somehow climbed in through one of the windows, but when I heard the noise of one of the etchings being removed from the wall, I couldn’t stand there any longer. I went into my study, got the gun out of the urn and walked out into the portego, where I saw him…him…taking down the Francesco de’ Lodovici.”
The Lying Tongue Page 23
