by Susan Moody
To the one and only Sabine …
Once more I read the inscription, while my brain tried to compute how the book had ended up in Gavin’s flat. Had he seen it in a second-hand bookshop – he liked to browse through such places – and bought it for sentimental reasons, long before he met me? But if that were the case, how could it have ended up in this putative shop in the first place? Why hadn’t it been returned to us in California after Sabine’s death, along with most of her other possessions?
Or – and this seemed the least likely possibility – had Gavin himself taken it from under the tree? But how could he have done that? And when? My first thought was to ask Gavin next time he telephoned from Port Moresby. Then, I don’t know why, it occurred to me that it might be a good idea to keep my knowledge to myself. It could have been a desire to find out a little more before confronting him; it could have been fear of what he might do if he found out that I knew he had my sister’s book. But on the other hand – my more rational side entered the debate – there could be some perfectly logical reason for it, and it was not fair to find him guilty (but of what?) without giving him the chance to answer the charges (which were?).
I replaced the book on the shelf and scanned the other titles for ones which I knew Sabine had taken to England with her. I couldn’t find any. There was a book on Howard Hodgkin which I had been meaning to buy for myself; it would be useful if my library and Gavin’s complemented each other. I would have looked at it but time was moving on and I had arranged to meet Lorna and Nat somewhere for lunch. I popped the book into my bag and went to Gavin’s front door, then stopped. He had a charming little bureau in his hall, all brass handles and piecrust edging, which he used as a place to store his more important papers.
I defy any woman who has just learned that her partner once had a wife to ignore a desk which might be full of helpful information. Letters. Photographs. Would I really read someone else’s private mail? I’m afraid to say that in certain circumstances, I would. I think I would. So far, the opportunity had never come up, but … yes, I might.
I opened the bureau’s drawers one by one, starting with the three along the bottom. In all three drawers, rectangular see-through button-down folders lay in ordered piles. I pulled them out. Stickers on each one told me they held cancelled bills, bank statements, advisements from Gavin’s accountant, papers pertaining to the purchase of his flat, work reports. Everything seemed of the utmost boringness and not worth any kind of a search. The left-hand drawer above them contained some more see-through folders in different colours: one contained letters, another held a jumble of loose photographs.
Aha! Since they did not appear to be in any particular order, I emptied them out on to Gavin’s dining room table and sifted through them. I don’t know what I was looking for, or what I expected. Probably nothing. There was a number of photographs of school plays with Gavin in the centre, obviously in the lead part. There were many team photographs, again with Gavin sitting in the centre and holding a rugby ball on his knee, sometimes with the year painted on it in white. There were photographs of Gavin with his parents, on holiday in foreign- looking places, and standing outside a house which looked distinctly Antipodean, painted white with palms and banana trees all round and glimpses of red hills in the distance. There was Gavin in a swimming pool, grinning up at the photographer with his arms hooked over the edge. A sweaty Gavin in a red rugby shirt. And Gavin – this must have been what I was hoping to find – at his wedding.
On the back, someone had written Gavin and Miki. Miki was a small Japanese girl dressed up for the occasion in a white silk kimono, her doll-like features also painted white, with gold coins and silk ribbons decorating her elaborately coiffed hair. Gavin loomed tenderly over her. She was beautiful, with dark almond-shaped eyes and a rosebud mouth, and hardly taller than I was. He was obviously drawn to small women, perhaps because he was so large himself. There were many other photographs of them both: the two of them in evening dress getting into a car, Miki in a tiny red bikini, Miki and Gavin and a third guy jogging along beside the sea. Dozens more, showing the kind of life they had lived in Singapore. I wondered what could possibly have made Miki jump off a cliff to her death. Unless it really had been a tragic accident. She looked so happy, so proud of her husband.
I bundled the photographs up together and put them all back in the drawer.
I was late for Lorna and Nat, but they didn’t mind, being too busy smiling at each other, holding hands and drinking an aperitif. We ordered, chatted of this and that, exchanged our news, not that any of us had much news to impart. We tended to live ordered lives, we did not crave excitement. Perhaps that was why I loved Lorna, who, despite her often melodramatic delivery, was at heart a homebody.
‘I’ve got a question for you,’ I said. Lorna was an enthusiastic fashionista, sometimes spending a month’s wages on a must-have handbag or pair of shoes. ‘Ever heard of a fashion designer called Miki?’ I spelled it out for her.
‘Heavens, yes. Lived in Japan, I think. I did once try to buy a skirt from them but decided that even for me it was too over the top, price-wise. Miki Masshi, she was called.’
‘How come I never heard of her?’
‘Because, sweetie, fashion isn’t your thing.’
‘Though you always look really nice,’ blundered kind Nat, making Lorna’s veiled insult worse.
‘And why do you use the past tense?’
‘Because that’s precisely what she is: past.’
‘Fashion-wise, or life-wise?’ I asked, although I knew the answer.
‘She jumped off a cliff, I think. Or slipped. Or fell. You must have read about it; there was a husband, far as I remember, who was arrested for pushing her off, but there were witnesses who claimed he was nowhere near her when she fell. Very sad.’
‘I wonder who they were.’
Later, over coffee, Lorna pursed her mouth and looked serious.
‘What’s up? I asked.
‘We’re just not sure,’ she said suddenly. She looked at Nat, who nodded encouragement. ‘You know me, sweetie, always absolutely certain about everything, normally see the world in black and white. But …’
I looked from one to another in alarm. ‘You’re not having second thoughts, are you?’
‘What, about us?’ said Nat. He roared with laughter. ‘Heavens, no.’
‘It’s not us, silly. It’s you.’ Lorna swallowed nervously. ‘Look, it’s none of our business and we have no right to say anything and feel free to tell us to butt out, but we feel – we both feel – that we just had to tell you that we … well, basically we don’t really think that … um … that Gavin is quite … um … quite the right person for you.’
‘I couldn’t have put it better myself,’ said Nat.
‘Can you explain why not?’ I said.
‘It’s just a feeling. Nothing concrete. But we both felt that there’s something kinda … well, weird about him.’ Lorna reached for Nat’s hand and squeezed it.
‘People have a right to be weird.’
‘I know. But not weird weird, if you know what I mean.’
‘Not really.’ Why was I suddenly being warned off Gavin? What had he done to anyone?
‘Thing is,’ said Nat. ‘After we met the other day, I rang some of the people that he and I had in common out in Singapore and Hong Kong and frankly, quite honestly … oh God, this is so difficult …’
‘It’s OK. I get the picture.’ I tried to sound neutral, but in fact I was steaming mad. What right did people have to criticize my boyfriend, lover, future husband? ‘There’s no law that says all your friends have to like the person you choose.’
‘But, honestly, Chantal, we felt that, as your good friends, we would be failing in our duty if we didn’t say something,’ said Nat. ‘You’re free to ignore us. You’re free to hate us.’
‘You’re not free never to speak to us again,’ Lorna said, her eyes wide with trepidation. ‘And I can promise we didn’t decide to tell y
ou how we feel without discussing it endlessly with each other beforehand. It was not a lightly taken decision.’
‘But the money-market guys overseas weren’t exactly complimentary,’ said Nat. ‘I won’t go into details – at least, not unless you want me to – but trust me …’ The two of them stared at each other and then at me, both of them biting their lips.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I really mean it. And don’t worry, I shan’t hold it against you.’ But all three of us knew that I would. That we were unlikely to be friends again for a very long time.
Yet sadly, despite the anger I felt, I was beginning to realize that the ringing noise in my head was alarm-bells. And that they had been ringing for some time. The breaking of my Limoges dish was the first real sign I’d had that Gavin was considerably less than I had thought him to be. In my heart, I knew he had deliberately dropped the dish to punish me for attending the Chauncey’s party when he’d suddenly decided he wanted to do something else. My throat was seizing up.
‘Ouf!’ I puffed out my cheeks and touched my napkin to my eyes, which had filled with tears. Love was fading; what hurt most was that I’d really thought that Gavin and I … We had so much in common. We laughed at the same things. And uniquely, we shared the same nightmare from the past. I had truly believed that I had found a replacement soulmate. Now, I was very far from sure.
‘Chantal. Sweetie.’ Lorna was at my side, trying to put an arm round me. ‘I’m sorry. We shouldn’t have said anything.’
‘You should. You were quite right to tell me.’ I tried for a laugh but didn’t quite make it. ‘All the agony aunts would say that you should, rather than keeping your feelings bottled up.’ Those same agony aunts would add, But only if you’re prepared to risk losing your friend.
Which didn’t stop me from feeling forlorn and bereft and all those other lonely things.
We tried to resurrect the easiness that had been between us, but it was difficult. I was already envisaging having to change jobs, since after this bombshell, I didn’t see how I would be able to face seeing Lorna every day. And wondering if I could still bear to be her bridesmaid on January the eighteenth.
After a while, I checked my watch and made oh-goodness! types of noises. ‘Hey, I’ve got to get back,’ I said, fooling no one, and left them sitting dejectedly together, their faces dismal.
What was happening to me? I had thought that my life was at last knitting together. Instead, it appeared to be unravelling at a rate of knots. And I seemed powerless to do anything about it.
Seventeen
I made a phone call on my return to my flat that Saturday afternoon. ‘Brian? It’s Chantal Frazer.’
‘Hello, Chantal. How can I help?’
‘Will you come and have lunch at my flat tomorrow?’
‘That would be very nice.’ He waited a heartbeat. Then, ‘I’m assuming it’s more than my blue eyes that you’re anxious to see.’
‘Quite right. But of course it’s a pleasure anyway.’
‘Should I bring anything?’
‘Only your files on Weston Lodge.’
‘How did I know that?’ He chuckled. ‘What time?’
I’d arranged to go to the cinema that evening with Malcolm. He seemed quieter than usual, anxious about something. Although I tried to draw him out, he didn’t want to talk about whatever was bothering him. At least, until we were sitting across from each other in his new flat, on his new sofas. The place smelled of fresh paint and coffee; his sitting room was still full of packing cases waiting for their contents to be stowed away, though he’d managed to get his favourite coffee-maker out and a few pieces of crockery. He’d spent heedlessly, buying up half the contents of the household departments at John Lewis’s, recklessly purchasing duvets, towels, bedlinen, glassware, a dinner service. It had been fun. But tiring, as we both agreed.
‘There’s nothing more exhausting than spending a lot of money,’ I said.
‘Especially when it’s someone else’s cash.’
Now we sat drinking coffee, our feet up on the new coffee-table. ‘Malcolm,’ I said. ‘What’s wrong?’
He grimaced. ‘Nothing, really.’
‘It’s getting late, and I’ll have to go soon. But not until you tell me what you’re worried about.’
‘You could stay the night here, if you wanted to,’ he said diffidently. ‘You could christen one of the new duvets, the as-yet-untouched-by-human-hands sheets and so on.’ He didn’t look at me, and I saw how very much he wished I would. Not just that night, but all the nights of our future.
‘Not tonight.’ I was well aware that the phrase implied that there might be other nights when I would stay.
‘All right. Look, Chantal, I hate to do this, I have no right at all, but …’ He pushed his glasses up his nose, a gesture I had learned meant that he was unsure of himself. ‘Sabine would have wanted me to.’
‘Wanted you to do what?’
‘Give you these.’ He got up and went over to one of the as-yet-empty bookcases. On one shelf was a large Manila envelope. ‘Take them home with you.’ He took my hand and held it against his heart. ‘Don’t read them until you get home.’
Sunday, two fifteen. Brian and I were sitting on either side of my dining table. I’d roasted a chicken with potatoes and three other vegetables, made plenty of wine-flavoured gravy. I’d even made bread sauce – admittedly out of a packet – since I figured Brian would welcome a traditional home-made English Sunday lunch, followed by apple pie and a piece of really good Cheddar.
‘Delicious,’ he said, wiping his mouth. ‘Haven’t had a feast like that since my wife died.’
We cleared the table together, I made him a pot of tea and we sat down again. ‘All right, Brian, let’s get going. First of all, has your niggle become any clearer?’
He shook his head. ‘It’s stronger now. I’m completely convinced that I know the answer, if I could only work it out.’
‘I have several niggles myself. And I also know that between us we ought to be able to identify what they are. So what I want you to do is go through the whole thing again, as you told me before. But this time I’m going to ask you questions.’
‘Two heads are better than one,’ he said, never a man to shy away from a cliché.
‘Start from where you came through the front door. What did you see?’
‘I’ve told you before, what I remember most clearly from first impressions is a man with twitching hands, a woman covered in blood, a fire burning, a Christmas tree.’
‘Was the man bloodied as well?’
‘No more than you might expect from a cursory inspection of his stepsons and your sister. He must have turned them over, checked a pulse, that sort of thing.’
‘No funny smells, as though something had been thrown on the fire?’
‘No. Anyway, we raked through the ashes the next day. There was nothing but wood and a few typewritten pages.’
‘But didn’t the police say that her manuscript had been shoved on the fire and been partially burned?’
‘That’s right.’
‘OK: here’s one of my niggles. How did the boys get hold of her manuscript in the first place?’
‘Sneaked into her study and took it, I presume.’
‘But she was in there, Brian. Working. She didn’t come out until much later. So how could anyone have snuck in without her noticing?’
‘Hmmm. I never thought of that.’
Frankly, in my opinion, the investigating officers at the time didn’t seem to have thought of much. ‘Did you actually see the manuscript, charred or not?’
‘There were papers on her desk. I don’t remember them being burned.’ He riffled through his files and studied the report. ‘Nope. Doesn’t say anything here.’
‘Where did the description of a burned manuscript come from in the first place?’
‘Just a minute … The inspector mentions it here: several pages of typescript were found on or in the hearth. Upon examination, these
proved to be part of Mrs Clio Redmayne’s work-in-progress.’
‘Did Gavin Vaughn mention the manuscript?’
‘Not as far as I’m aware.’
‘It’s perfectly possible she burned them herself. Academic writers do chuck stuff out if they’re revising their work; I know that from my father. And what handier than a nice big log fire outside her room in the hall? It’s perfectly possible that she came out with a sheaf of papers and threw them into the fire, then looked up and saw the deliberate damage to the Balthus painting.’
‘Which wasn’t even hers. No wonder she was furious.’
‘All right, Brian. You’ve briefly emerged from your study, carrying pages which you’re going to burn. You wait to make sure they don’t fall out of the grate, and while waiting, you look over at the Balthus. Someone’s written FUCK YOU on it, clearly visible. You are absolutely livid, since the picture doesn’t even belong to you but to a friend. You know that the culprit has to be one or both of the boys. You race up the stairs and start shouting at them.’
‘Do I?’
‘Of course you do. You certainly don’t go through the baize door to the kitchen, search around for a knife – it’s your own kitchen, but you don’t know where things are kept, since you don’t spend much time there – and then go upstairs to begin indiscriminately slaughtering your sons.’
‘I suppose I don’t.’
‘You scream at them. You threaten to stop their television privileges, you ground them. As a person who knows quite a lot about art, with a husband in the business, you’re fully aware that the words can be cleaned off the canvas, so although you’re furious, you know it’s not the end of the world.’
‘Then what do I do?’
‘Brian, I’m perfectly prepared to believe that she never went upstairs at all. Not until several hours after the killings had taken place.’
