“Go away, darling.”
When she came in Nicholas was at the bureau, writing a letter over which he seemed to be taking great care. After five minutes she asked: “Your will, Nick? It seems awfully serious!”
“It is. Don’t tell the police!”
“What...” She laughed. “Don’t tell me you’re writing that letter to yourself. I’d forgotten about it!”
“So had I—but Saluby and myself got talking about it while you were up changing, and that reminded me. I told him I was taking it very seriously, and that Miss Coleman had marked it in my diary for tomorrow. If I don’t write it myself now, I’ll have to dictate it to her. No escape from Miss Coleman once she’s got it down, even if it’s outside banking.”
“Miss Coleman sounds grim. I can see her looking at me through enormous spectacles.” She paused. “Sometimes it feels rather funny that I know nobody at the bank and that I must have my account somewhere else. The place sounds as grim as a monastery. One day I went in to make some imaginary inquiry, and it was funny that nobody knew who I was.”
She was surprised to realize a slight fear of him as his face clouded and he put his hands behind the bureau.
“You went in!”
“I’m sorry, Nick, but—well, I’m just human, and I couldn’t resist having a look at the inside of the Bude Bank.”
“Well, don’t do it again!”
“Nick, is all this strictness—necessary?”
“Listen, Muriel, when my father took over the ruins of the Elder Bank, he found out that it had gone bust because it was run as a family tea party and a social club. And if no employee in the Bude Bank can take a private telephone call or keep an account there, and if no relatives are allowed inside the building, it is because it was—and is—necessary.”
“I suppose so. But it sounds awful. I wonder anybody stays on there!”
“The point is—nobody leaves.”
“Well, I suppose that’s the answer!”
“It is. I find it pays to keep banking apart from the rest of my life.”
He picked up his pen again and was startled to hear her question.
“Nick, what is the rest of your life?”
He dropped the pen and put down his hands. He was on guard. “What do you mean?”
“What I said.”
“Well, dammit, the rest of my life is—here.”
She lighted a cigarette, and he felt that it took an hour.
“That’s what I was thinking.” She paused. “It is a funny feeling to stand stock-still for ten years, just in the same place, like a bank.”
“I don’t quite see what you mean.”
“Well, I mean, I always thought of life as something moving or growing.”
His hands flexed and unflexed. “Do you mean—children?”
She started. “Well, I suppose I did, though I had never thought of it until you said it. Yes, I suppose they are the growing and moving I meant. I thought I was thinking of something in ourselves. Yes, perhaps it was children I meant.”
‘“Well, we can’t help that. That’s nobody’s fault. We’ve had everybody in Harley Street.” He paused. “I’m not very fond of talking about that.”
“I know.” She changed the subject with a gay laugh. “Nick, you rather surprised Dr. Saluby when you said that—well, that sex was the whole of life. I couldn’t help laughing.” She paused. “You didn’t mean it, of course?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh...I’m just thinking, Nick, if sex was the whole of life, then life would be empty without it?”
“Ah—yes, I suppose so.”
She moved across the light, and he noticed the silhouette of well-shaped legs inside her frock. There was a slight tingling in the air about her that he hadn’t noticed since their honeymoon.
“Well, Nick, is it a very horrible letter?”
“Very. I don’t think you ought to see it!”
“Oh—I think I’m going to bed.”
He got up. “Good night.”
“Good night, Nick.”
She went through his dressing room, that lay between their rooms, as she went to bed. Then she closed her door. Their love-making was getting more and more seldom, and it never happened on Saturday or Sunday night. Perhaps love-making was a kind of business, like banking, that one rested from at the week end. She did not worry much about it as she selected the undies for Dorminster tomorrow.
Nick had a curious feeling as he addressed the envelope to himself. He had a feeling that he had made rather a novelettish job of the letter threatening himself with death, and he did not read it again. He sniffed gently at the air. Muriel had changed her perfume. This was somehow like brine on a tropical shore.
SEVEN
Nicholas was opening his personal case that he brought in with him when Miss Coleman came in with the mail. She put two letters marked Personal beside him and took up the diary.
“Much today, Miss Coleman?”
“I don’t think so.”
She began to read over the day’s diary and when she came to the note, Letter on Self, Nicholas smiled and held up the letter he was taking out of his case.
“You can strike that out. I did it last night.” He smiled. “I was damned if I was going to watch your face while I dictated that. Besides, it’s outside banking.” He took up the envelope. “It’s funny, writing your own address on an envelope.” He put it down. “Go on, Miss Coleman.” When she had read it over he said: “Ring up Symes and tell him I want him half an hour later. Then we’ll take the letters.”
“Yes, Mr. Bude.”
He watched every slight movement of her body as she went to the door. When she had gone he opened the shutter of the direct cabinet telephone to her desk outside so that he could hear her talking to Symes and correct it if the conversation was going wrong. Then he picked up the letters marked Personal. The first contained an anonymous donation of nine hundred and fifty pounds for the credit of the Crampton account. Nicholas smiled. Mr. Elder had added ten pounds of his own to the Chinese conscience money. Probably a hint to him. Nicholas smiled as he decided to make it up to a thousand himself. The second personal letter caused Nicholas to put his hands down below the desk. It was typed and short:
YOU HAVE A WILL TO DEATH IN YOUR HANDS.
WHOSE DEATH?
Nicholas felt a slight alarm. He had never before got an anonymous letter. He looked at his hands. He did not like this letter. Then he considered the matter and smiled. It was a leg-pull from somebody who knew that he intended to write to himself. Four people knew—Muriel, Saluby, Elder, Sidonie. As he read it again the smile left his face. There was something about the wording that did not suggest a joke. He heard Miss Coleman end the talk with Symes and put the letter into his pocket before she came in. He also took up the envelope. His own letter to himself he laid on the desk. When Miss Coleman came in with her pad he was quite normal. But he watched her face with some care.
During the day, Nicholas found that he was somewhat short in temper with Symes and other people, and he was fatigued by the time Miss Coleman brought in the late-afternoon mail.
When they had done, she indicated his own letter to himself and asked: “Do you want that posted, Mr. Bude?”
“No. I’ll post it myself.”
There did not seem much point in posting it now, Nicholas thought. He looked at Miss Coleman and thought she seemed pale and tired. He said:
“I come tonight?”
“Yes.” She paused. “If you want to. We can sit and talk.”
“Very well. Send Mr. Elder.”
When she went out he swore. He wished that she was not in mourning this week end. He wanted something to calm his nerves. He took the envelope of the anonymous letter out of his pocket. It bore a postmark in upper Scotland.
“Yes, Mr. Bude?”
“Oh, Mr. Elder!” Nicholas took up the notes. “I see you’ve added ten pounds of your own, Mr. Elder. I took the hint and made it a thousand.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bude.”
“Get it put to Crampton’s account. I hope it makes things easy for him. Rather like to see him. Does he come to the bank?”
“Professor Crampton is a cripple, Mr. Bude.”
“Oh Lord!” Nicholas paused. “Mr. Elder, you might in future keep me informed about special accounts.”
“Yes, Mr. Bude. Thank you.” Mr. Elder dropped an eye on the letter on the desk. “I see you are making the experiment on yourself, Mr. Bude?”
“Ahm, yes. Starting today.”
“Well, good evening, Mr. Bude.”
Nicholas had watched him sharply. When he went out the door Nicholas grunted aloud to himself: “What the hell could you get out of a face like that!”
“Yes, Mr. Bude?”
Nicholas started at Miss Coleman’s voice in the speaking cabinet. He had left the shutter open.
“Oh, nothing, Miss Coleman.”
Nicholas took up the letter he had written to himself and put it into his case and locked the case. He looked out at the sunlight. It seemed a damn silly evening to dine in a stuffy club. Damn this woman thing that Sidonie had. He wished he were in the country. On the white blotting pad he was rather surprised to see the silhouette of Muriel’s legs inside her frock in the evening light.
EIGHT
Muriel walked along under the arcade of trees by the cathedral and thought that even in the sunshine there was something sepulchral about Dorminster. The cold slabs of stone in the graveyard looked as if no sunlight could make them warm, and even the green square of grass seemed cold, although the soil was probably warm. Muriel was almost tempted to feel it with her hand. The whole place was a Methuselah bearded with ivy. She turned down from the close into a cul-de-sac road and saw Saluby’s car backed into an alley at the end. Anyway, it was a discreet place to meet, and as Saluby got out of the car she felt it was a good omen that they had arrived at the same time. Saluby raised his dark hat that reminded one of the phrase “gents’ headgear” and smiled at her.
‘ “Just in time,” she said.
“Timing is everything,” said Saluby.
Muriel got a slight shock. There was something unpleasant in that remark. She followed him through a narrow gate into a decrepit garden where the last few cultivated flowers were lost within the promiscuous ferns and laurels. He opened a weather-worn door, and they went into a hall that got scant fretted light through the fretted window. Muriel felt it somehow sinister, like the house of an abortion doctor.
Saluby seemed to gather the thought in her mind when he said: “Place is not exactly a sun porch.”
“No.”
They went into the consulting room that was somehow like the antechamber of death. Books, instruments, furniture, all seemed to sulk in the twilight. Saluby pulled the curtain somewhat wider, and she saw that a large alcove or second room lay within. She walked in and saw a couch for examinations in one corner, a washstand, and, by the window standing upright, set in plaster and wire, the skeleton of a man.
“Hum, we have company!” Her laugh was somewhat uneasy.
“He won’t mind us. MacGregor calls him his alter ego. Great bony fellow himself, MacGregor.”
“Would he mind—us using this place?”
“No. I’ve known him a long time.”
“Is he—a regular doctor?”
“Good God, yes! One of the most brilliant in England. God knows why he buries himself in Dorminster. Why did you ask?”
“I don’t know. This place makes me—uncomfortable.”
“Well, it won’t talk. And a hotel bedroom might.”
“I know. I am sorry.”
“You get used to it. I did a month here for MacGregor. I rather missed the old boy when I left.” Saluby walked over and ran his hand in a rather diagnostic way over the skeleton. She noticed the way his fingers lingered, as if they somehow clung to death. She knew that it was going to be difficult to begin anything here and she sat down on the couch and said: “It’s cold in here.”
“Yes. I’ll put the fire on.”
He switched on the electric fire, and somehow it was unexpected in this room. She wished steadily that they had gone out into a field somewhere in the hot sunlight. But she saw the drab, over-neat dark suit on Saluby and felt that somehow he was wrong for love-making in the warm, lusty sunlight.
Saluby lighted a cigarette for her and did not seem too easy himself. “What age are you?”
“Thirty-one.”
“Hum. I’m twenty-nine. Why am I older than you?” He had gone back again to the skeleton.
“I don’t know. Perhaps because you are nearer to death.”
“What a damn funny thing to say.” She knew that he did not like it. He had to say something. “What age is your husband?”
“Forty-six.”
“Good God! He doesn’t look it.”
“No. I don’t suppose he does.” She paused. “Must we talk about him?”
Suddenly she took off her wedding ring.
“Why don’t you take off your stocking? That might be more interesting.”
Suddenly something like anger chilled her. “Are you trying to make me feel awkward?”
“Good God, no.” He paused. “I wanted you to take off a stocking.” He paused. “I have a reason.”
She looked at him for a moment in a puzzled way.
When she stooped to undo her stocking, he turned his back and looked out the window. When she had got it off she asked with an edge to her voice: “Well?” She gave a little uneasy laugh. “What is it for—a medical examination?”
He ashed his cigarette and came over and picked up her foot and looked at the sole.
“Ah...”
“What?”
“Oh, nothing. Just a whim of mine. I couldn’t have borne it if I found the geologic wrinkles on the palm of your foot.”
She drew away her foot. “Is that why I had to take my stocking off?”
“Yes.” He looked at her feet. “They look a bit uneven now. Perhaps...”
He began to take off the other stocking. She did not like it very much, but she had come for this. He was a long time getting it off, and her body began to tingle. Then he kissed the sole of her foot and touched it with his tongue. A pang shot through her, and her foot jumped away.
She did not notice the room was cold any more, and everything he was doing seemed careful and methodical and silent and out of tune with the loud pulsing of her heart. She felt a little sweat on her face and finally she stiffened and said: “Oh, for God’s sake don’t nibble. I can’t stand it.”
“I see you have been spoiled.”
Furious blood came into her face as she felt herself treated like a child, but now she knew there was no escape from her desire. At last she broke from him. “I will not have you torturing me like this.”
“My dear, don’t be impatient. You are like a child that wants to open a money-box before it is half filled.” In the end she got peace and she supposed that he was right and that the longer one held the fuse, the more fearful the explosion. But she felt exhausted and wished he didn’t use his hands on her in the same way that he had on the skeleton, like a cat’s diagnosing paw. She said to herself that she would not come here again, but she knew she would. Anyway, she was discovering in herself the animal hunger of the woman and anything was better than being dormant and having one’s love-life pigeonholed in Barrington with Nick. She knew that whatever was awaking in her was a healthy thing, but she felt somehow that it belonged to the earth and the hot sunlight and was being interred in the mortuary of this room.
“My God! You are a marvelous woman,” he said. She felt somehow like a prostitute. “Are you always as—surgical as this?”
He smiled in a superior way. “Love is just a dissection of the nervous system, a sensory exploration of the...”
He talked on, and she knew that there was not going to be a second dissection today. But his tongue never got tired. The superior smile that had
been on his face now began to show on hers as she listened in silence, while he did a post-mortem. She knew the bed was now a slab in a morgue. She made no comment but she thought: “If that’s all you think love, or sex, is, you are a bloody fool.”
But her body was quite happy now, and she had a curious feeling that it was laughing.
NINE
Nicholas sat with his back to the window and looked at the two letters on his bureau. Then he heard Muriel call to the dogs outside on the lawn and looked at her in the evening sunlight. She walked in a buoyant way along the grass and had the air and carriage of a girl of nineteen. In some way she was resuming her youth, and her skin was all honeyed by the summer and there was a kind of anticipation in that long elastic stride from the loins, as if she were going forward into a delightful world. Nicholas looked at her for a moment and then turned back to the letters. He compared them with care. They were identical in wording.
THERE IS A WILL TO DEATH IN YOUR
HANDS. WHOSE DEATH?
Nicholas looked with a curious sense of memory at the notepaper. Somewhere, he felt, he had seen that paper before. It was heavy, a kind of mellow white, with a vellum quality. The top of the page had been cut off with a knife or blade in such an exact way that it had been some time before Nicholas realized that he had not got the whole page. Some address or letterhead had obviously been removed. The setting and position of the typescript were exactly the same in the letter he had received yesterday morning as in the first one a week before. He put down the letters again and decided that he was probably imagining that he knew the paper. It was no different from many brands of good notepaper. But in some way he felt it was old paper. It contained no watermark, and he wondered if that indicated something special. Now he picked up the envelopes, looked at the postmarks, and opened the atlas he had got down, at the map of Scotland. Both were posted from large country towns, the second one about a hundred miles nearer than the first. Nicholas read the wording again and wished that he could feel the letters were a joke. He looked at his hands and then put them into his pockets. Then he heard Muriel coming in and put the letters away.
The Chinese Room Page 4
