Hy Brasil

by Margaret Elphinstone

  He guessed. It must be pitch dark in there. He was back at the door. In the beam of the torch I saw the handle turn. Had I really locked it? I held my clenched fist tight against my face, watching. The door didn’t budge. He started banging. I ran, clutching the torch and the key.

  Up the stairs. Into the cellar. Up the stairs. The kitchen desk. The phone. I picked it up. My hands were trembling so much I could hardly dial. One-one-one. The torch was still on. I switched it off.

  ‘Hy Brasil coastguards. Can I help you?’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, hearing the shake in my voice. ‘Oh, please. I’ve just caught a man. In the cellar. Oh, please, please come.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  COLOMBO LEANED BACK against the sofa and inhaled luxuriously. He breathed out very slowly and achieved one perfect smoke ring. It hovered for a moment between him and the pale light outside the window, then vanished. He closed his eyes. It had been quite a day.

  Presently he picked up his pipe again. He had bought it years ago in an antique shop in Amsterdam, and he was fond of it. It was made of blue-and-white earthenware, with a round bowl and curiously flattened stem. The contents were last year’s home-grown from his brother-in-law’s greenhouse, Hy Brasil’s best. He tapped the ashes out of the bowl, pressed down the green weed, and breathed in again. The dry leaves glowed. He held his breath for a moment, eyes half-closed.

  His story would be in Saturday’s Times, on the front page. President’s orders. He remembered his editor’s face, when he’d put the phone down after the call came through, and he laughed softly. And when Colombo had shown him the negatives, still damp from processing … All he had to do tomorrow was look over the layout. Not that design was any of his business, really, but this was his scoop.

  So that was it. He had no compunction at all about Olly West. He’d never liked the man, and since the day when at Lucy’s request he’d ordered the fellow to stop pestering her, he’d despised him as well. Olly had tried to poison Colombo’s mind against Lucy, and when Colombo had finally hauled him off the premises, Olly had accused Colombo of trying to fling him over the precipice, and had subsequently attempted to sue him for damages. Luckily, Gunn and Selkirk had persuaded him he didn’t have a case. No, Colombo wasn’t going to agonise over Olly. Olly had been in this racket up to the neck, and he must have known that Jim would dump him if things got tough. Maybe they’d arrested him by now. Ishmael had said he couldn’t be found. If that was Jim dragging his feet, Ishmael would probably know how to apply a bit more pressure. The case was in the bag now, anyway.

  The other matter was more complicated. Until he’d read Lem Hawkins’ letters, Colombo had banked on the possibility that Baskerville might not be seriously implicated. In one respect Colombo was in total agreement with his President: Jared should not see those letters. If Jared knew the truth, the country would become untenable either for Jared or for Baskerville. Hook, Colombo had no doubt, would find his own way out of it, as he always did. It was hard to see how that could be done, however, without sacrificing one man or the other. In Colombo’s view both Jared and Baskerville were irreplaceable: ironically enough, for many of the same reasons. Hook had sworn Ishmael to secrecy, but would Ishmael find a way round that? Those letters should be kept in government archives, unattainable, at least until Hook and Baskerville were dead. Twenty years? Thirty? What would Jared be like then? Or himself? Or Ishmael? Would Jared ever forgive them?

  What would he, Colombo, feel if it were him? Hard to imagine. His own father, Ewan MacAdam, had died suddenly of a heart attack, in the square near the fountain on a balmy Tuesday evening in May, on his way to a Dorrado Horticultural Society meeting three years ago. It was a brief and public way to die. His body had been brought back to his house and laid in a coffin in the front room that looked out over his prize roses to the jagged islet of Tegid Voel. On the following Saturday every man in Dorrado had followed the coffin to the churchyard. In the small house at the back of the town, which had once contained nine children, Colombo’s mother now presided alone over a determined world of grandchildren, photographs, visitors and cats. Colombo didn’t visit as often as he should, because weekends were complicated, but he retained a childlike assumption, he realised, that there was still a home to go back to.

  The Honeymans had rented their house at Ogg’s Cove from Ravnscar Estates. It was right above the beach, a stone cottage with a fuchsia hedge around the garden, standing on its own about half a mile out of the town. Colombo had probably only been in it once or twice. When he’d slept the night on Jared’s floor a couple of months ago, and had lain sleepily watching the sweep of the Despair light, two long, two short, across the walls and ceiling, he’d found himself remembering the Ogg’s Cove cottage. There was a picture on Jared’s wall that had reminded him of it. Twenty years, thirty years. Would Jared ever forgive them? How much did he think about the past anyway? There was no way of knowing. Colombo shook his head, and raised his pipe to his lips again. It couldn’t be helped. Jared would surely understand by then, if it did come out, that none of them had had a choice.

  He wasn’t feeling sleepy: the last two days had held too much for his mind to stop working over all that had happened. He was feeling mellow, however, and quite ready to put all action behind him. Just now it would be a huge effort even to stand up and draw the curtains. Anyway, there was no need. His apartment was on the fourth floor. In daylight it looked over a roofscape of tiles and chimney pots, with beyond them a small glimpse of the sea. All that was visible now, from where he lay on the floor, was the reflection of the street lights in the sky, pierced here and there by the faint pinpricks of the brightest stars. If he stretched out his right arm he could switch on the lamp, but he couldn’t be bothered to do it. If he did, the windows would blank out and the velvet-soft night sky would vanish.

  He thought about going to bed. If he fell asleep on the hearthrug it wouldn’t be for the first time. The view from the sitting room floor pleased him. His crammed bookshelves stretched up and up to the ceiling on both sides of the fireplace. There was just enough light to see the figures in the Chagall reproduction over the mantelpiece: the round white moon, the naked white-winged angel, the pale face of the tumbler, the eye of the red horse. No limpid blue, not in this light, but he could imagine it almost as well as if it were there. Above him he could see the angular pattern of the window panes cast by the street lights, at odds with the other pattern of the moulded cornice and the rose in the middle of the ceiling. 1902. They could be bothered to make ornamental ceilings in 1902, even on the fourth floor. He thought about the men who’d carefully plastered the ceiling ninety-five years ago. Ragged-trousered philanthropists, no doubt. He inhaled again.

  The bell rang. The sound had barely permeated his consciousness when it rang again, insistently, as if someone were leaning on the bell push. Then it stopped, but it was followed immediately by a banging on the door. Colombo stood up groggily, ran his hands through his hair, and went and opened the front door. ‘Lucy!’

  ‘Oh.’ She tumbled through the front door, and literally fell on his neck. ‘Colombo! Oh, thank God you’re here!’ She burst into tears.

  He shut the door with one hand, led her into the sitting room, sat her on the sofa, and took her in his arms. ‘What’s happened? M’dear, what is it?’

  ‘I came straight here.’ She was shivering so hard her teeth were chattering. ‘Colombo, this place reeks of dope.’

  ‘You shall have some. M’dear, what is it? What’s happened?’

  ‘Olly,’ Lucy said, and began to weep afresh. ‘He came to the house. Olly West!’

  ‘Oh, Jesus! Lucy, what did he do to you? What happened?’

  ‘He didn’t do anything. I ran away.’ She choked back tears. ‘I ran into the dark. Along the cliff path. The path Nicky went. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t think. I just ran, right along the top of the gorge past the stone bench. I couldn’t see. I was at the brambly bit. I slipped. I couldn’t tell where I was. I think it was tha
t bit – you know – where the path gives way, just where it turns back into the wood. Right by the edge. It was dark. I couldn’t see to climb up again. It was slippery. Wet with dew. I didn’t dare move. I thought … I thought …’ She buried her face in his shirt and wept without restraint.

  If she heard the things he murmured into her hair, she gave no sign of it. Her hands were very cold. He felt her arms up her sleeves, and they were cold too. She was frozen. ‘Lucy. Lucy, m’dear. Tell me. It’s all right now.’

  He had to bend very close to hear her. ‘It was the old path. The one that’s worn away. I couldn’t see to get up again. I didn’t dare move. There wasn’t anything to hold on to. I just waited. I thought I’d have to wait till light. But gradually it was easier to see. I was below the edge, but only just. About five feet down. It was barely a ledge I was on. It was all crumbly. I was scared I’d fall. But I knew if I didn’t move I’d just get stiffer and tireder until I fell off. I couldn’t have kept hold, not all night. So in the end I just went for it. I climbed up fast so I couldn’t think. I couldn’t see to hold on. I did slip, but by that time I’d got my arms over the edge. I grabbed hold of a bit of tree and I pulled myself up. And then I just lay there for a long time.’ She sat up, her hands against his chest, her tears still falling freely. ‘Why did I run like that? Along there, of all places? I must have been mad. But he scared me so! He scared me.’ She gave a convulsive shudder, and buried her wet face in his shirt.

  ‘But you came here.’

  ‘I went back in. Because of Sidony.’

  ‘Sidony?’ His voice was suddenly sharp. ‘Was she there too?’

  ‘She’d gone. He’d gone.’ Lucy was sobbing again. ‘Colombo, I looked all over the house. Everything was left just as it had been. And there wasn’t anybody there at all!’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘I didn’t know what to do. I got in the Land Rover and I came straight here.’

  ‘You mean when you ran away Sidony was there with Olly West? And when you came back there was no sign of either of them? How long were you out there?’

  ‘I don’t know. It felt like forever.’

  ‘Lucy, don’t cry! Wait!’ He came back a moment later with a full tumbler. ‘Drink this. You’ll feel better.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Claret. Drink it. That’s right. Now tell me from the beginning.’

  He listened, interrupting her sometimes with anxious questions. When he’d got the gist of it he pressed her hands around the glass again, and made her hold it. ‘Finish this. I won’t be a minute.’ He switched on the lamp and picked up the phone.

  ‘Ishmael? Ishmael? Thank God you’re there … Did I wake you?’

  Lucy closed her eyes and drank. She couldn’t stop shaking, and the glass clattered against her teeth. The drive was fading away into nightmare; she couldn’t remember any of it clearly. Colombo’s voice went on, sharp and urgent. He was talking about her.

  ‘Yes, she’s here. She’s all right. No, well, I don’t think she was in any state to think of that. No, she’s all right.’

  So Ishmael thought she was a fool, or worse. Lucy supposed it didn’t matter any more. Just at the moment nothing mattered. She took another gulp of wine. Colombo’s voice changed. She raised her head quickly, listening hard.

  ‘She did?’ Suddenly, amazingly, he sounded gleeful. ‘No! … Oh, brilliant! … Oh, well done Sidony! … She’s there? … Can I speak to her? … Is it really?’ He looked at his watch. ‘Good God, you’re right. So it is … No, no, that’s fine … In the morning then …’

  At last he put the phone down. ‘It’s all right. Sidony locked Olly in the wine cellar. She called the police, and then she called Ishmael. Olly’s in the cells, and Sidony’s in the spare bedroom at Ferdy’s Landing. I hope she’s sleeping better than he is.’

  ‘She did what?’ Lucy drained her glass. ‘Explain, Colombo! Tell me everything!’

  ‘I will. Are you all right? I’ll get you some more wine.’

  ‘I don’t need more.’

  ‘I do.’

  He came back with the rest of the bottle and poured another glass. While he told her what Ishmael had said, he re-filled his pipe and lit it. When it was going nicely he handed it to her, and took back the glass. Presently they swapped again.

  Lucy stopped shivering. She was beginning to feel warm again, enveloped in a drowsy sense of well-being. Colombo’s story pleased both of them, and so he told it her again. She laughed, and wriggled down against his shoulder. He passed her the pipe again. It reminded her of Nick. She was sad about Nick, but the bad parts seemed very far away, now that she was warm again. And the good was suddenly very close to her, as it had never been since the day he’d died. She’d not again lain like this, curled up against a man’s comfortable body, since that last night she’d been with Nick. She reminded herself vaguely that she had to be wary, that always, whenever a man was concerned, especially if she were betrayed into feeling fond of him, she had to be extremely wary. She had a sudden flash of memory: a too big, too white, too insistent body that had not been Nick’s, a chilly room in Kidd’s Hotel where she had never wanted to be. Having to be on her guard against men, all the time, in case one of them did reach in and get her. But everything had been too dangerous and complicated for far too long. She passed Colombo the pipe again. The glass was empty now. Lucy breathed out smoke, and shut her eyes.

  The important thing was that he should not touch her. Or was it important? Nicky had touched her in every possible way. She could remember now, as she had not done in all the years between, what that had been like. For the first time the feel of Nick’s body against hers came back to her, not as a fact dug up like a fossil from an irrevocable past, but vividly present, a flesh-and-blood human being who’d felt and responded to her touch. She could feel the warmth of Colombo through his shirt. She wanted to touch him, feel his skin under her hands. She’d forgotten what it was like to want that. She tugged at his shirt, untucking it, and slid her hands up over his chest. She heard him take in his breath. Then he was kissing her, as no one had been allowed to do in thirteen years. He was stroking her, underneath her shirt. Her fingers were at his belt, undoing it, the same as she’d undone Nick’s.

  ‘Lucy. Come to bed. Please, come to bed.’

  His bedroom was colder. On one of the plain white walls there was a photograph of a sea-green goblet merged with a glassy sea. ‘That’s Nicky’s goblet.’ It was like a dream to see it there, either a dream or something which had already happened. It was like a dream to undo the rest of his clothes and take them off him, to feel his hands moving over her bare skin. She hadn’t even let herself realise before that she’d wanted to do this.

  ‘No, that one’s its twin. Lucy, I love you. You know that, don’t you, minha querida? You believe me when I tell you that?’

  ‘Água mole em pedra dura, tanto dá até que fura. Perhaps you’ll tell me so many times that in the end I’ll believe you.’

  ‘Perhaps you believe me now.’

  Lying against him, feeling his body entwined with hers, his mouth moving over her skin: that was like a dream too, of a lost younger time which had been real. In some far away part of herself she was crying, but it didn’t matter. He licked the tears off her face. ‘Lucy, it’s all right. It’s going to be all right.’ She couldn’t remember any more the reasons why she should not believe him, or Nicky either. Pray for us now and at the hour of our death. She had not prayed for him, or anyone, since the hour of his death. Perhaps it was not too late. To let Colombo do this now, to lie with her, to be alive and moving inside her, to take Nick’s place as if there were no reason left in the world why he should not: perhaps even now it wasn’t all too late. She was waking up, her dammed-up senses brimming over, everything inside her that she’d thought had to be dead and gone, was suddenly aware. She was alive even though he was dead; she was here, now, doing this with him, even though Nicky would never come back again.

  Colom
bo was trying to file everything away before anyone came in and saw what he was doing, but the filing cabinet was stuffed full, and there were papers piling up everywhere, more and more of them. If he didn’t get rid of them they’d be found, and meanwhile the front door bell was ringing and ringing, on and on right through his head. He groaned and rolled over. It didn’t feel like morning, he was not alone in his bed, and the front door bell shrilled imperatively. The bell was not a dream. He was in bed with Lucy. That part wasn’t a dream either. He made himself open his eyes. It wasn’t quite light. The front door bell kept on ringing. He could hear her even breathing beside him. She didn’t stir. There was a steady low-pitched knocking at the front door. The bell rang again.

  He groped his way sleepily to the door, pulling on a black silk dressing-gown as he went. Outside the landing light burned dimly. He peered out.

  ‘Jed! What on earth …’

  ‘I’m sorry to wake you. They’ve let me out.’

  ‘Now? What time is it?’

  ‘Gone five. They let me out around one. A sort of final touch, I suppose, seven hours after the last bus. Not that I had any money for the fare. I’m sorry.’

  Colombo tried to gather his wits. ‘Don’t be silly. Come in. They’ve let you out, then.’ He touched Jared briefly on the shoulder, and made himself wake up a bit more. ‘It’s good to see you! Man, that’s good! Come on in.’ He led the way into the kitchen. Jared followed, bringing with him a powerful smell of disinfectant. ‘Drink? Something to eat?’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea.’

  ‘Sure.’ Colombo reached for the kettle.

  ‘Can I have it in a cup?’

  ‘A cup?’

  ‘Yes. A china cup, if you don’t mind, with a handle. And a saucer.’