“If you don’t mind my saying so, Chairman,” said Albany, sounding decidedly peevish, “it’s a pity you didn’t feel able to tell us before we left London which target you had in mind. We’d have found it helpful to check what we had on file about it — at least, I know I would.”
“Ah well,” said Bolton, in his pronounced Lancashire accent, “I dare say we’ve looked at this one often enough to know pretty well what’s what.”
“It’s a question of security,” said Sir Robert. “Once you start mentioning names on the telephone, you might as well make a public broadcast and have done with it.”
Still, it must have been a little disconcerting for them, like being at school and having an unexpected exam — particularly for Albany, who evidently remembered almost nothing about the company under discussion. His rival, on the other hand, despite the lack of preparation, seemed to have all the relevant details at his fingertips.
Becoming, as a result of this, increasingly illhumoured, Albany rather forgot himself. He began making remarks to Bolton which were close to being openly offensive, most inadequately disguised as the kind of jovial banter acceptable between friends and colleagues. For example, after Bolton had asked some question about the meaning of something on the menu: “I say, Bolton, old chap, don’t you find it a bit of a bore not knowing any French? Why don’t you go on one of those courses?
“Nowt wrong with plain, old-fashioned English, in my opinion. It were good enough for old Bill Shakespeare, weren’t it? And he were a great writer — or so they tell me.”
“So most educated people seem to think. But I suppose they didn’t go in for literature much at that college of yours at — where was it? Sorry, I always forget — Birmingham, was it?”
“It were Worcester — bit southwest of Birmingham. Oh aye, there were a few lads there that studied poetry and such, but I wanted summat that would help me make a bit of brass.”
Even without the possibility of anyone being poisoned, I could hardly imagine, in such an atmosphere, that any of them was having a very agreeable evening. It must have been rather a relief to them when the lights, already low, were dimmed still further, the pianist took his place at the piano and the patron stepped forward to tell us that we were to have the inestimable privilege of hearing la belle Zingara, who had just returned to Cannes after her acclaimed tour of European capitals.
Whether Madame Zingara had any just claim to be described as beautiful it was impossible to tell: one had an impression merely of a tall, slim woman with a mass of dark hair and wearing more than enough makeup to conceal any defects of complexion. She was swathed in some kind of white, gauzy material, draped round her in the manner of a sari or toga. Inasmuch as it completely covered her from neck to ankle, one might have considered it a rather decorous garment; but the undulating movement of her hips and shoulders somehow made it look as if it were continuously in the process of slithering to the ground, so that the actual effect was rather the reverse.
When she began to sing, however, her voice was unexpectedly attractive: a husky contralto with a touch of harshness, not of course in the class of Lenya or Mercouri but more than acceptable for delivering the same songs. So we had “Surabaya Johnny” and “Banal” and several others of that sort, mainly on the theme of overtrusting women deserted by heartless lovers. These were interspersed with songs of a rather different type, all unfamiliar to me and in the highest degree improper: from what I understood of them, which was rather less than half, I was extremely glad of my inability to understand the rest. The audience, however, seemed to find them amusing: they were greeted with much laughter and enthusiastic applause.
I felt a certain uneasiness, while all this was going on, about those in the adjoining alcove. The conditions were rather worryingly suitable, if one really believed Albany or Bolton to be capable of such a thing, for putting something unwholesome in someone’s coffee cup. Still, there was nothing I could do about it. So far as I could tell, nothing untoward occurred save for Bolton suffering a fit of coughing and Albany, with manifestly insincere solicitude, thumping him on the back.
Madame Zingara concluded her performance with “Pirate Jenny” from The Threepenny Opera. She moved round the restaurant as she sang it, hips and shoulders still undulating, white muslin still apparently precarious, pausing at each table to hold out a large copper bowl. Having not quite expected this, I wondered anxiously what sort of sum it would be proper to contribute.
By chance, or so I imagined, my table was the last in her circuit, so that I had ample time to reflect on this question and to curse Terry for staying gossiping in the kitchen — I assumed that as an habitué he would have known how much was expected.
I finally settled on fifty francs as an amount which could be neither insultingly small nor ludicrously generous and by the time she reached my table had a note of that value ready to place in the copper bowl. She waved it away, however, saying, “Ah, on ne prend pas de l’argent d’un joli garçon comme vous.”
I looked at her in surprise and considerable embarrassment. She smiled and fluttered her long, mascaraed eyelashes. Under the heavy makeup I now recognised the features of our truant carpenter.
I was speechless. Fortunately, because anything I said would have been profane; it would also have been in English and audible at the next table.
“Mais comment ça arrive que vous trouvez tout seul?” the shameless creature continued.
I collected myself sufficiently to reply in the same language that I was with a friend: and that if he did not shortly rejoin me I should be extremely cross.
By the time he returned to our table, dressed in the rather more conventional garments he had arrived in, Sir Robert’s party had left, apparently without mishap.
My intention had been, once we were back at the flat, to speak to him severely about his disgraceful conduct and then to retire early to bed. Somehow or other, this was not at all what happened. I had scarcely begun my lecture when he said, “Don’t scold me, Desmond, I only did it to cheer myself up a bit. I’m feeling so miserable,” and I could not bring myself to go on.
He has a broken heart, poor boy, having formed a deep attachment which he believed reciprocal and found was not. “Cast aside,” he said, “like the proverbial soiled glove. Too banal for words, isn’t it?”
We sat up until nearly three in the morning, drinking Benjamin’s brandy and playing Marlene Dietrich songs while I tried, unsuccessfully, to persuade him that from time to time in human history the same thing has happened to other people and they have sometimes managed to get over it. I even suggested the possibility of a reconciliation with the object of his attachment; but I was given to understand that things had been said which made this out of the question. If the object were to walk barefoot across France to beg for Terry’s forgiveness and present him with a train of forty snow-white camels, laden with gold and diamonds and boxes of marrons glacés, such forgiveness would not now be forthcoming. I am not feeling optimistic about our bookcases.
The noises from the flat next door are becoming quite alarming — I can hardly imagine an ailment worth such an agonising cure as Natasha seems to provide.
So far I have not seen anyone on the roof terrace this morning, nor much expected to, having gathered last night that the morning’s work at the villa would consist mainly of Geoffrey Bolton making telephone calls. There has been, however, a certain amount of interesting activity in the place.
Shortly before ten o’clock, just as I was beginning my breakfast, Edgar Albany came into the place and walked across in the direction of the slightly disreputable bar I mentioned. Unfortunately, the bar itself is out of view from here, being on the same side of the place as this building: I am thus unable to tell you for certain whether he actually went into it and if so whether he stayed there.
My guess, though, is that he did, because almost immediately afterwards Miss Tavistock also came into the place and sat down in the café on the opposite side, from which she would cer
tainly be able to see all the comings and goings through the door of the slightly disreputable bar.
Miss Tavistock does not strike me as the sort of woman who would normally fritter her time away in a café on a morning when there is work to be done. I am now as certain as can be that Sir Robert is repeating the experiment he tried when Selena was here: Miss Tavistock is acting on instructions to keep Albany under surveillance while he is outside the villa.
But if I am right about that, I also think that he has somehow eluded her — perhaps inadvertently, with no idea that she was keeping watch on him. A few minutes ago, after she had been in the café for about half an hour, she made a telephone call. After that she paid her bill and left, presumably to return to the villa. I think that Albany must have come out of the bar and done something, such as hailing a taxi, which prevented her from following. The telephone call would have been to Sir Robert to report and ask further instructions.
I am becoming quite seriously concerned about what is happening next door. I have just seen Natasha driving away in her car, and yet the cries of pain continue unabated — indeed, they almost sound like cries for help. I do not wish to do anything to offend her after she has been so kind, but it does seem irresponsible of her to have left her patient on his own in such a condition as he appears to be in.
I have decided to run down to the postbox, so that this catches the eleven o’clock post and has some chance of reaching you before Christmas Day, and on my way back to knock discreetly at her door. If there is no answer and the cries are still continuing, I shall climb across onto her balcony, which adjoins this one, and find out what is going on.
In haste, therefore, and hoping that you and your aunt both have a splendid Christmas and an excellent New Year,
Yours,
Desmond
13
24 High Street
Parsons Haver
West Sussex
Christmas Eve
Dear Ragwort,
At least, I suppose that by now one should say it is Christmas Eve — the time is about two o’clock in the morning. A few minutes ago I was woken up by Daphne, tapping at my window and calling out to me to let her in. Since my window is about twenty feet above ground level, I found this disconcerting.
Having turned on my bedside lamp, I have decided that it was only the rowan tree that was tapping and only the wind in its branches that was wailing to be let in; but I see no immediate prospect of going back to sleep.
My room is at the back of the house and the window accordingly looks onto the graveyard; but I have slept here many times and never felt the slightest uneasiness about it. If I do now, it must be on account of the thought that Isabella is buried there: there was no one there before that I actually knew. Not, of course, that I actually knew Isabella. And not, of course, that I do feel any uneasiness about it: I am a rational, educated woman, brought up in the second half of the twentieth century — I do not imagine that the dead can climb up out of their graves.
I find myself becoming increasingly anxious about Maurice. This is partly because of something he said to me on the day that I last wrote to you. We met at the letter box, where he too was posting a letter, and he thanked me for the advice I had given him earlier in the day. He had found it, he said, most helpful and had acted on it. Since then I have spent many hours trying to work out what advice he thinks I have given him and what he may have done or not done in supposed pursuance of it.
But the real reason, I suppose, for my anxiety is that Daphne keeps saying that something terrible is going to happen to him: she says that in the Book his name still has a shadow over it. I do not for a moment believe, of course, in any of this superstitious nonsense — at least, not by daylight; but in the small hours of a winter night, with the wind howling and the rowan tree tapping so persistently against the window, one seems to see things rather differently.
I should explain — in view of my last letter, you may find it slightly surprising — that Daphne and I are now bosom friends. That is to say, she seems to think we are; and I do not feel that I know her well enough to dispute it.
Once more, I am at a loss to explain how this state of affairs has come about. Two days after our previous encounter, that is to say at lunchtime on Monday, I was again sitting in the Newt and Ninepence, assisting my aunt in the manner previously indicated and reflecting on the advice given me that morning by Madame Louisa: she had recommended the day as one for decisive action and I was trying to decide what to be decisive about. I observed the approach of Daphne too late to make my escape; but her motives proved to be peaceable.
“Look,” she said, “I’m sorry if I went over the top a bit the other day, but I just felt I had to tell you how I felt. It’s terribly important not to keep things bottled up, isn’t it? Aunt Isabella always said you couldn’t be friends with someone unless you were completely honest with each other.”
It occurred to me that this might explain why her aunt had had few friends; but it was somehow the kind of sentiment with which it is difficult to express disagreement. I said that I was sure she was right, and offered to buy her a drink. After some urging, she accepted, and conversation ensued.
Chiefly concerned with Maurice: his saintly character, his towering intellect, his kindness to Daphne, Daphne’s corresponding devotion and concern. He was now, she said, her only source of spiritual guidance.
“And the wonderful thing is, you see, that he’s never tried to make me do anything I wasn’t sure was right. He’s never tried to persuade me to come to church or take communion or anything like that. Because he understands how terrible it would be for me if he wanted me to do that when I couldn’t be sure it was right. I don’t know if it would be a breach of faith. I’m the Custodian, you see — I’m the Custodian of the Book.”
She spoke as of a position too eminent to require further explanation, as one might say “I am the Lord Chief Justice” or “I am the Governor of the Bank of England” if one happened to be either of those things. When I enquired what it entailed, however, she became wide-eyed and anxious.
“Oh,” she said, “I can’t tell you about that. People are always wanting me to explain it, and I can’t — I can’t tell anyone. Something terrible would happen — the Custodian must keep faith with the Book.”
I assured her that I wished to know nothing which she thought it improper to tell me.
“Anyway, that’s why sometimes I–I know things. About what’s going to happen to people. And that’s why I get so frightened of something terrible happening to Maurice.”
It was at this stage that she told me about the shadow over his name in the Book, obviously portending some disaster. As to the nature of the catastrophe which threatens him, however — whether it is illness, or accident, or some act of human malice — she seemed to have no clear idea, and spoke as if envisaging sometimes one possibility, sometimes another.
“He doesn’t take proper care of himself, you see. He’s old and ill and needs looking after, and he just won’t accept it. When I try to take care of him properly he gets cross with me, so I have to find ways of doing it without him knowing. And he trusts everyone — he doesn’t realise that people can be evil and dangerous.”
I said that I could imagine no reason for anyone to do him any deliberate harm.
“Oh, you don’t know either, in spite of being such a clever lawyer and all that, you’ve no idea how wicked and horrible people can be. There was a horrible person who used to come down here in the summer, and I knew he was treacherous and dangerous, but Maurice just wouldn’t believe me. And then he did something terrible that hurt Maurice very much, but he didn’t come here anymore and I thought the shadow would go away. But it hasn’t, and I don’t know what to do.”
I could do no more than murmur sympathetically and buy her another drink. Our conversation concluded with her saying how glad she was we were friends and could be completely honest with each other.
The tapping on my window is more insiste
nt than ever, and the wailing outside more pitiful, as if the rowan tree were trying to come in out of the cold to share the comfort of my bedroom. If it really is the rowan tree. Which it obviously is. If there were any doubt, I could go to the window and open it to make sure, but I somehow feel disinclined to do that. And since there can be no doubt, there is no point.
I know very well what’s wrong with me — it’s all because of what happened yesterday.
Yesterday was the day appointed by my aunt’s investment syndicate, in token of their gratitude for my advice on capital gains tax, to take me out for lunch. The syndicate consists, as you may recall, of Maurice, Griselda and Reg herself; Ricky Farnham, having given the advice which led to the capital gains, was also considered entitled to be one of the party. The restaurant chosen for the honour of our patronage was in Bramber, some twenty minutes’ drive away, reputed to be the most haunted village in England.
In the Middle Ages, I am told, Bramber was a place of some importance. It now consists chiefly of a single street of knapped flint cottages, with low doorways and diamond-paned windows, and the ruins of a mediaeval castle, whose one remaining wall rises into the sky above the village like a huge black tombstone.
Most notable among its ghosts are the two children of Walter de Braose, the lord of the manor in the thirteenth century, who were taken away by King John as hostages for their father’s loyalty and never seen again. Having died, according to legend, of starvation, every St. Thomas’s Eve they go through the village, tapping on windows to ask for food. This was the account of events given to us by Maurice, who is a noted authority on Sussex folklore, and its truth is therefore beyond question.
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