Sarah asked me today how I was, and I answered with a line from King Lear: ‘I grow; I prosper. Now, gods, stand up for bastards.’ She quite naturally assumed I was referring to myself, laughed good-naturedly and said: ‘A bitch, possibly, Mathilda, but never a bastard. There’s only one bastard I know, and that’s Jack.’ I asked her what he had done to deserve such an appellation. ‘He takes my love for granted,’ she said, ‘and offers his to anyone who’s foolish enough to flatter him.’
How very flawed are human relationships. This is not a Jack I recognize. He guards his love as jealously as he guards his art. The truth, I think, is that Sarah perceives both herself and him ‘through a glass darkly’. She believes he strays, but only, I suspect, because she insists on using his effect on women as a criterion by which to judge him. His passions frighten her because they exist outside her control, and she is less adept than she thinks she is at seeing where he directs them.
I adore the man. He encourages me to ‘dare damnation’, for what is life if it is not a rebellion against death . . .
Six
VIOLET ORLOFF stood motionless in the kitchen of Wing Cottage, listening to the row that had broken out in the hall of Cedar House. She had the guilty look of an eavesdropper, torn between going and staying, but, unlike most eavesdroppers, she was free of the fear of discovery, and curiosity won out. She took a glass from the dishwasher, placed the rim against the wall, then pressed her ear to the base. The voices drew closer immediately. Perhaps it was a mercy she couldn’t see herself. There was something indecent and furtive about the way she bent to listen, and her face wore the same expression that a Peeping Tom might wear as he peers through a window to see a woman in the nude. Excited. Leering. Expectant.
‘. . . think I don’t know what you do in London? You’re a fucking whore, and Granny knew it, too. It’s your bloody fault all this, and now you’re planning to whore him, I suppose, to cut me out.’
‘Don’t you dare speak to me like that. I’ve a damn good mind to wash my hands of you. Do you think I care tuppence whether you get to university or not?’
‘That’s you every time. Jealousy, jealousy, fucking JEALOUSY! You can’t stand me doing anything you didn’t do.’
‘I’m warning you, Ruth, I won’t listen to this.’
‘Why not? Because it’s true, and the truth hurts?’ The girl’s voice was tearful. ‘Why can’t you behave like a mother sometimes? Granny was more of a mother than you are. All you’ve ever done is hate me. I didn’t ask to be born, did I?’
‘That’s childish.’
‘You hate me because my father loved me.’
‘Don’t be absurd.’
‘It’s true. Granny told me. She said Steven used to moon over me, calling me his angel, and you used to fly into a temper. She said if you and Steven had got a divorce, then Steven wouldn’t be dead.’
Joanna’s voice was icy. ‘And you believed her, of course, because it’s what you wanted to hear. You’re your grandmother all over again, Ruth. I thought there’d be an end of it once she was dead but I couldn’t have been more wrong, could I? You’ve inherited every drop of poison that was in her.’
‘Oh, that’s great! Walk away, just like you always do. When are you going to face up to a problem, Mother, instead of pretending it doesn’t exist? Granny always said that was your one true accomplishment, to brush every unpleasantness under the carpet, and then carry on as if nothing had happened. For Christ’s SAKE’ – her voice rose to a shout – ‘YOU HEARD THE DETECTIVE.’ She must have caught her mother’s attention because her tone dropped again. ‘The police think Granny was murdered. So what am I supposed to tell them?
‘The truth.’
Ruth gave a wild laugh. ‘Fine. So I tell them what you spend your money on, do I? I tell them Granny and Dr Hendry thought you were so bloody mad they were thinking of having you committed? Jesus’ – her voice broke – ‘I suppose I might just as well be really honest and tell them how you tried to kill me. Or do I keep quiet because if I don’t we won’t have a hope in hell’s chance of putting in a counter-claim for the money? You’re not allowed to benefit from the murder of your mother, you know.’
The silence went on for so long that Violet Orloff began to wonder if they had moved to another part of the house.
‘It’s entirely up to you, Ruth. I’ve no compunction at all about saying you were here the day your grandmother died. You shouldn’t have stolen her earrings, you stupid little bitch. Or, for that matter, every other damn thing your sticky little fingers couldn’t resist. You knew her as well as I did. Did you really think she wouldn’t notice?’ Joanna’s voice grated with sarcasm. ‘She made a list and left it in her bedside drawer. If I hadn’t destroyed it you’d be under arrest by now. You’re making no secret of your panic over this idiotic will, so the police will have no trouble believing that if you were desperate enough to steal from your grandmother, you were probably desperate enough to murder her as well. So I suggest we both keep our mouths shut, don’t you?’
A door was slammed so forcefully that Violet felt the vibrations in her kitchen.
Jack perched on his stool and rubbed his unshaven jaw, squinting at the policeman through half-closed lids. Satanic, thought DS Cooper, suited him well. He was very dark with glittering eyes in a hawklike face, but there were too many laughter-lines for a Dracula. If this man was a devil, he was a merry one. He reminded Cooper of an unrepentant Irish recidivist he had arrested on innumerable occasions over a period of twenty years. There was the same ‘take-me-as-I-am’ expression, a look of such startling challenge that people who had it were impossible to ignore. He wondered with sudden curiosity if the same expression had looked out of Mathilda Gillespie’s eyes. He hadn’t noticed it on the video, but then the camera invariably lied. If it didn’t, no one would tolerate having their picture taken.
‘I’ll do it,’ said Jack abruptly.
The policeman frowned. ‘Do what, Mr Blakeney?’
‘Paint you and your wife for two thousand pounds, but I’ll string you up from a lamp-post if you tell anyone what you’re paying.’ He stretched his arms towards the ceiling, easing the muscles of his back. ‘I’d say two thousand from you is worth ten thousand any day from the likes of Mathilda. Perhaps a sliding scale isn’t such a bad idea, after all. It should be the dent in the sitter’s pocket that sets the value on the painting, not my arbitrary pricing of my worth.’ He raised sardonic eyebrows. ‘What right have I to deprive impoverished vicars and policemen of things of beauty? You’d agree with that, wouldn’t you, Sarah?’
She shook her head at him. ‘Why do you always have to be so offensive?’
‘The man likes my work, so I’m offering him a subsidized portrait of himself and the wife in blues, purples, greens and golds. What’s offensive about that? I’d call it a compliment.’ He eyed Cooper with amusement. ‘Purples represent your libido, by the way. The deeper they are, the randier you are, but it’s how I see you, remember, not how you see yourself. Your wife might have her illusions shattered if I paint you in deep purple and her in pale lilac.’
Sergeant Cooper chuckled. ‘Or vice versa.’
Jack’s eyes gleamed. ‘Precisely. I don’t set out to flatter anyone. As long as you understand that, we can probably do business.’
‘And presumably, sir, you need the money at the moment. Would your terms be cash in advance, by any chance?’
Jack bared his teeth in a grin. ‘Of course. At that price you could hardly expect anything else.’
‘And what guarantee would I have that the portrait would ever be finished?’
‘My word. As a man of honour.’
‘I’m a policeman, Mr Blakeney. I never take anyone’s word for anything.’ He turned to Sarah. ‘You’re a truthful woman, Doctor. Is your husband a man of honour?’
She looked at Jack. ‘That’s a very unfair question.’
‘Sounds fair to me,’ said Jack. ‘We’re talking two thousand pounds here. The Sergean
t’s entitled to cover himself. Give him an answer.’
Sarah shrugged. ‘All right. If you’re asking me: will he take your money and run? Then, no, he won’t. He’ll paint your picture for you, and he’ll do it well.’
‘But?’ prompted Jack.
‘You’re not a man of honour. You’re far too thoughtless and inconsiderate. You respect no one’s opinion but your own, you’re disloyal, and you’re insensitive. In fact,’ she gave him a twisted smile, ‘you’re a shit about everything but your art.’
Jack tipped a finger to the policeman. ‘So, do I have a commission, Sergeant, or were you simply working on my wife’s susceptibilities to get her to spill the beans about me?’
Cooper pulled forward a chair and offered it to Sarah. She shook her head so he sat in it himself with a faint sigh of relief. He was getting too old to stand when there was a seat available. ‘I’ll be honest with you, sir, I can’t commission anything from you at the moment.’
‘I knew it,’ said Jack contemptuously. ‘You’re just like that slime-ball Matthews.’ He aped the vicar’s sing-song Welsh accent. ‘I do love your work, Jack, and no mistake, but I’m a poor man as you know.’ He slammed his fist into his palm. ‘So I offered him one of my early ones for a couple of thousand, and the bastard tried to negotiate me down to three miserable hundred. Jesus wept!’ he growled. ‘He gets paid more than that for a few lousy sermons.’ He glared at the Sergeant. ‘Why do you all expect something for nothing? I don’t see you taking a pay cut,’ he flicked a glance at Sarah, ‘or my wife either for that matter. But then the state pays you while I have to graft for myself.’
It was on the tip of Cooper’s tongue to point out that Blakeney had chosen the path he was following, and had not been forced down it. But he refrained. He had had too many bruising arguments with his children on the very same subject to want to repeat them with a stranger. In any case, the man had misunderstood him. Deliberately, he suspected. ‘I am not in a position to commission anything from you at the moment, sir,’ he said with careful emphasis, ‘because you were closely connected with a woman who may or may not have been murdered. Were I to give you money, for whatever reason, it would be extremely prejudicial to your chances in court if you were unfortunate enough to appear there. It will be a different matter entirely when our investigations are concluded.’
Jack eyed him with sudden fondness. ‘If I paid you two thousand, you might have a point, but not the other way round. It’s your position you’re safeguarding, not mine.’
Cooper chuckled again. ‘Do you blame me? It’s probably empty optimism, but I haven’t quite given up on promotion, and back-handers to murder suspects would go down like a lead balloon with my governor. The future looks a lot brighter if you make Inspector.’
Jack studied him intently for several seconds, then crossed his arms over his tatty jumper. He found himself warming to this rotund, rather untypical detective with his jolly smile. ‘So what was your question? Why did Mathilda sit for me with the scold’s bridle on her head?’ He looked at the portrait. ‘Because she said it represented the essence of her personality. She was right, too.’ His eyes narrowed in recollection. ‘I suppose the easy way to describe her is to say she was repressed, but the repression worked both ways.’ He smiled faintly. ‘Perhaps it always does. She was abused as a child and grew up incapable of feeling or expressing love, so became an abuser herself. And the symbol of her abuse, both active and passive, was the bridle. It was strapped to her and she strapped it to her daughter.’ His eyes flickered towards his wife. ‘The irony is that it was also a symbol of her love, I think, or those cessations from hostility that passed for love in Mathilda’s life. She called Sarah her scold’s bridle and she meant it as a compliment. She said Sarah was the only person she had ever met who came to her without prejudice and took her as she was.’ He grinned amiably. ‘I tried to explain that that was hardly something to applaud – Sarah has many weaknesses, but the worst in my view is her naïve willingness to accept everyone at his or her own valuation – but Mathilda wouldn’t have a word spoken against her. And that’s all I know,’ he finished ingenuously.
DS Cooper decided privately that Jack Blakeney was probably one of the least ingenuous men he had ever met, but he played along with him for disingenuous reasons of his own. ‘That’s very helpful, sir. I never knew Mrs Gillespie myself, and it’s important for me to understand her character. Would you say she was the type to commit suicide?’
‘Without a doubt. And she’d do it with a Stanley knife, too. She found as much enjoyment in making an exit as she did in making an entrance. Possibly more. If she’s looking at the three of us now, picking over the bones of her demise, she’ll be hugging herself with delight. She was talked about in life because she was a bitch, but that’s nothing to the way she’s being talked about in death. She’d love every cliff-hanging moment of it.’
Cooper frowned at Sarah. ‘Do you agree, Dr Blakeney?’
‘It has an absurd sort of logic, you know. She was like that.’ She thought for a moment or two. ‘But she didn’t believe in an afterlife, or only the maggot variety which means we’re all cannibals.’ She smiled at Cooper’s expression of distaste. ‘A man dies and is eaten by maggots, the maggots are eaten by birds, the birds are eaten by cats, the cats defecate on the vegetables and we eat the vegetables. Or any permutation you like.’ She smiled again. ‘I’m sorry, but that was Mathilda’s view of death. Why would she waste her last, great exit? I honestly believe she would have prolonged it for all it was worth and, in the process, made as many people wriggle as she could. Take that video, for example. Why did she want music and credits added if it was only to be shown after she was dead? She was going to watch it herself, and if someone walked in while she was doing it, then so much the better. She meant to use it as a stick to beat Joanna and Ruth with. I’m right, aren’t I, Jack?’
‘Probably. You usually are.’ He spoke without irony. ‘Which video are we talking about?’
She had forgotten he hadn’t seen it. ‘Mathilda’s posthumous message to her family,’ she said, with a shake of her head. ‘You’d have loved it, by the way. She looked rather like Cruella De Vil out of The Hundred and One Dalmatians. Dyed black wings on either side of a white streak, nose like a beak, and mouth a thin line. Very paintable.’ She frowned. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you knew her?’
‘You’d have interfered.’
‘How?’
‘You’d have found a way,’ he said. ‘I can’t paint them when you bleat your interpretations of them into my ear.’ He spoke in a mocking falsetto. ‘But I like her, Jack. She’s really very nice. She’s not half as bad as everyone says. She’s a softy at heart.’
‘I never talk like that,’ said Sarah dismissively.
‘You should listen to yourself once in a while. The dark side of people scares you, so you close your eyes to it.’
‘Is that a bad thing?’
He shrugged. ‘Not if you want existence without passion.’
She studied him thoughtfully for a moment. ‘If passion means confrontation, then yes, I prefer existence without passion. I lived through the disintegration of my parents’ marriage, remember. I’d go a long way to avoid repeating that experience.’
His eyes sparkled in his tired face. ‘Then perhaps it’s your own dark side that scares you. Is there a fire in there waiting to blaze out of control? A scream of frustration that will topple your precarious house of cards? You’d better pray for gentle breezes and no strong winds, my angel, or you’ll find you’ve been living in a fool’s paradise.’
She didn’t respond and the room fell silent, its three occupants curiously abstracted like the portraits round the walls. It occurred to DS Cooper, fixed in fascinated immobility upon his chair, that Jack Blakeney was a terrible man. Did he devour everyone in the way he was devouring his wife? A scream of frustration that will topple your precarious house of cards. Cooper had held his own scream in check for years, the scream of a man c
aught in the toils of rectitude and responsibility. Why couldn’t Jack Blakeney do the same?
He cleared his throat. ‘Did Mrs Gillespie ever tell you, sir, what her intentions were with regard to her will?’
Jack had been watching Sarah intently. He glanced now towards the policeman. ‘Not in so many words. She asked me once what I would do if I had her money.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said I’d spend it.’
‘Your wife told me you despise materialism.’
‘Quite right, so I’d use it to enhance my spirituality.’
‘How?’
‘I’d blow the lot on drugs, alcohol and sex.’
‘Sounds very materialistic to me, sir. There’s nothing spiritual about surrendering to the senses.’
‘It depends who you follow. If you’re a Stoic like Sarah, your spiritual development comes through duty and responsibility. If you’re an Epicurean like me, though I hasten to say poor old Epicurus probably wouldn’t recognize me as an adherent, it comes through the gratification of desire.’ He arched an amused eyebrow. ‘Unfortunately, we modern Epicureans are frowned upon. There’s something infinitely despicable about a man who refuses to acknowledge his responsibilities but prefers to fill his cup at the fountain of pleasure.’ He was watching Cooper closely. ‘But that’s only because society is composed of sheep and sheep are easily brainwashed by advertisers’ propaganda. They may not believe that the whiteness of a woman’s wash is a symbol of her success, but they sure as hell believe that their kitchens should be as germ-free, their smiles as white, their children as well-mannered, their husbands as hardworking, and their moral decency as obvious. With men it’s lager. It’s supposed to persuade them they have balls, but all it really persuades them to do is wear a clean jumper, shave regularly, have at least three friends, never get drunk and talk amusingly in the pub.’ His grim face cracked into a smile. ‘My problem is, I’d rather be stoned out of my mind and rogering a sixteen-year-old virgin any day, particularly if I have to take off her gym slip slowly to do it.’
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