Last Nocturne

by Marjorie Eccles

  ‘Are we sure there was no suicide note, Sergeant?’

  ‘Not unless Constable Smithers missed it amongst all this.’ Cogan indicated the masses of paper strewn on the rough centre table, unlikely as it was that a suicide note would have been hidden amongst them.

  ‘Be a good chap and go through it again, will you?’

  Cogan pulled up a stool to the trestle table in the centre of the room and, after perching a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles on his nose, began on what appeared to be mostly rough sketches, torn from notebooks or scribbled on odd pieces of paper – there was even one on the cover of his rent-book, fortunately not the caricature he had drawn of his landlady…that had been made on the back of an eating-house menu card. There was little else of interest. Theo had not lived a life in which bills or correspondence featured very much. There was no money in the room, and when he’d been found, fully dressed down to his boots, in a rubbed and frayed corduroy suit, a soft-collared shirt and tie, only a few coins had been found in his pocket. His rent was paid up, however. How had he supported himself? He was unlikely to have made enough money to live on through his art. If he’d been a pupil assistant to Sickert, he might not even have been paid at all. Had his father, in the end, come round and supported him?

  Lamb looked around for a seat while Cogan finished his task but saw only the unappetising bed and a rickety basket chair which seemed in imminent danger of collapse. He leant on his umbrella instead, contemplated Miss Tilly Tremayne once more, and wondered why Benton should have excluded this from the works now hanging in the Pontifex Gallery. Not for the first time, the timing of the suicide struck him as unnatural.

  It was setting up resonances in his mind, the death of this young man, and then suddenly, chasing the connection, there it was. The Pontifex Gallery, of course. Benton, exhibiting there, taking his own life, reminding him of the art dealer, Eliot Martagon, late owner of the gallery, who had also taken his life in unexplained circumstances. Coincidence, of course, the only link being the question of motive – why had either man needed to kill himself? Theo by jumping out of the window, and Martagon by blowing his brains out?

  Lamb had known Martagon slightly, having met him first in connection with some thefts which had taken place at his gallery some time since, but what he had seen of the man, he had liked. They’d met once or twice afterwards and had had several interesting conversations. He’d formed the opinion of a man eminently sensible and well-balanced, an agreeable and apparently well-liked person and, like the young unfortunate Theo, seemingly one with everything to live for.

  ‘Nothing here, sir,’ said Cogan at last, slipping the papers into a large envelope and labelling it.

  Lamb was looking at the empty brandy bottle still lying on the floor beside the bed, reading its label. ‘I’d have to think twice,’ he remarked thoughtfully, ‘about whether I could afford a fine old cognac like that, myself, and yet here he was, a struggling young artist with scarcely enough money to keep body and soul together, one would think. Committing the sacrilege of drinking it straight from the bottle, what’s more,’ he added, his eyes searching round for a glass, and finding nothing except the stained mugs.

  ‘I don’t suppose such niceties were much on his mind at the time, sir,’ said Cogan sensibly. ‘Money neither.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Guy Martagon dined that evening at his club in Pall Mall, and afterwards stayed on, hoping to catch sight of Julian Carrington, who was an old and trusted friend of his father’s and one of the executors of his will. As a retired banker, he had been of great help to Guy in tidying up his father’s financial arrangements, and in particular the vexed question of how – or indeed if – the Pontifex could continue after Eliot’s untimely death. Guy now hoped to gain advice – or at the very least, another point of view – on a more delicate matter which had been uppermost in his mind ever since a meeting some few weeks ago with Ambrose Hardisty, the family solicitor.

  Carrington was always in and out of the gallery, but there had been little chance that day of any private and uninterrupted conversation amid all confusion over the suicide of Theo Benton, one of the exhibitors, and discussions as to whether or not the exhibition should be postponed, and if so, for how long. Guy abandoned the attempt for a private word. He was by no means sure that the banker would be able to tell him what he wanted to know, and not wanting to embarrass either of them by arranging a formal meeting if this wasn’t the case, he had decided it might be better to contrive an apparently chance encounter with him at the club.

  He knew that Carrington was in the habit of dining alone there several times a week and when he arrived he was told that the gentleman usually dined at a fairly late hour. So, when several acquaintances of Guy’s, already in high spirits, saw him and insisted on his joining them for dinner in a private room, he reluctantly allowed himself to be persuaded, after asking to be informed immediately when Mr Carrington arrived. He was really in no mood for this crowd of so-called gay bachelors, dandies and would-be sophisticates who thought themselves men of the world, whose only aim in life seemed to be to get rid of as much money as they could in the shortest possible time, with pleasure seeking in one form or another as the centre of their existence. But he’d once been on the fringes of this set, had been at school with most of them, and they continued to press him until it would have been boorish to insist on dining alone. When they had finished eating – a noisy affair, accompanied by a good deal more drinking on their part – the suggestion was put forward to repair to a notorious gambling club – and perhaps afterwards…a little diversion, what? Guy declined, as gracefully as he could. They told him he was a damned killjoy. What the devil had he been up to, out there in India, to change him so? He smiled and shrugged and gave non-committal answers. These men, once friends of a sort, now induced in Guy nothing more than a sense of ennui. He saw them depart with relief.

  There was no sign of Carrington even then in the dining room, but he was assured that the gentleman might well still turn up within the next hour. They were used to his late arrival. Resigning himself to a further wait, he passed the time pretending to read the newspaper, half dozing in the deep leather chair in the quiet reading room over a glass of port, interrupted only by friends of his father who had not seen him since Eliot had died, offering expressions of sympathy. He finally gave up his vigil when it became apparent that it was going to be futile, suddenly aware that perhaps the problems over the exhibition at the gallery had exhausted Carrington more than they had Guy himself. He was, after all, no longer a young man.

  One way and another, he had drunk rather more than was usual with him during the course of the evening, and rather than take a cab, he walked home to clear his head and stretch his legs. It was a beautiful night, the sky dark, and thick with stars. It reminded him of Tibet. Sometimes, lately, he would stop in the middle of what he was doing, wondering where he was, what he was doing here, why he was not back in that heartbreakingly beautiful country, rich in mysteries, with its perilous snow-capped peaks and icy green watercourses tearing along the chasms and gorges, its simple people.

  When the conflict with the Boers had broken out, like so many other patriotic young Englishmen, Guy had immediately enlisted in the army and sailed to South Africa to join in the fighting. He had come through unscathed, but the adventure had developed not only a cynical suspicion of his own country’s motives in this South African war but disillusioned him with the army and its stiff protocol. Not inclined to return to England immediately, he had joined a Swedish geographical expedition in the last stages of attempting to map the as yet unknown regions between the Gobi desert and the Tibetan plateau, dedicated to finding the sources of the great rivers of Asia, perhaps the last of the world’s great mysteries. Well, all this had now drawn to a triumphant close. Left behind, he had wondered what he was going to do with himself. And then his father had died, and the decision for his return had been made.

  In the simple life, with its unstressful pace,
there had been time for thought and reflection, a temporary hiatus in his real life, a preparation for what was to come. But the thought of returning to London and passing his time in vapid and meaningless activities, in a life devoted to the pursuit of pleasure, was repugnant. He was not, like his father, artistic or even appreciative of art, in the sense that he had no instinctive or acquired knowledge; he was not pressed for money, yet Eliot’s example had shown him it was possible to lead a useful and interesting life without the need for it as an incentive. The thought had entered and lodged in his mind that he might enter Parliament.

  But tonight was no time for such thoughts; tonight he was preoccupied with his still unresolved problem. And as he walked the quiet, gas-lit streets, his quick impatient stride matching his preoccupations, his dark face was brooding, his brows drawn together in the concentrated frown that was rapidly becoming habitual. Thoughts rushed through his mind, the ones which always seemed to be there nowadays, mostly about whether he would ever manage to clear up the mystery of his father’s death, which was still confounding him. He had thrown himself into solving the problem as if it were an enemy to be attacked, but it was no nearer resolution.

  Arriving at Embury Square, he let himself in with his key, as his father had always done when returning late, in consideration for the servants. As soon as he entered the echoing hall, dimly lit by the one all-night lamp shooting grotesque shadows into the empty darkness above, he noticed a sharper line of light coming from under the drawing room door. It was unheard of for the servants to be so careless as to leave unnecessary lights burning all night. When he opened the door, there was his mother, sitting in a chair, under a single lamp, staring into a dying fire, doing nothing.

  She was dressed all in black, as if only recently widowed, but it was of course splendidly elegant black, and relieved by the hard glitter of the diamond choker round her neck and the matching drops in her ears. Her sable-lined evening cloak and her embroidered and beaded evening bag were thrown over a sofa. The lamp silhouetted her haughty profile like a Greek cameo against the black lacquered Japanese screen behind her. She turned as he came in, and he was shocked, as much by her face, drained of colour, as by a droop in her shoulders he had never seen before, the unusual stillness of those expressive hands of hers, now clasped tightly in her lap. But then she automatically drew herself up, a lifetime’s discipline asserting itself against a slovenly posture, pinning on her habitual social smile. Her shoulders straightened, her chin lifted, but the smile was a travesty.

  ‘Mother, what are you doing here, all alone? Is anything wrong?’

  ‘It’s been an exhausting evening, nothing more, and I was so very tired.’

  ‘Then should you not be in bed? I’ll get Manners—’

  ‘No.’ She held up a hand to stop him as he reached for the bell. ‘I’m not ready for sleep yet. I’ll go up presently, when I am.’

  ‘Mother?’

  ‘Yes?’ She barely turned, but the soft light of the silk-shaded lamp fell on her rigid face. He was shocked, and then absolutely astonished when he caught the glint of a tear in her eye corner. Never in his life had he seen his mother cry – and nor did he now. She blinked angrily and the treacherous betrayal disappeared. But when he pulled up a stool, sat by her knee and took her hand in his, she, who never welcomed personal contact, even from her children, left it there for the moment, unresisting. It was cold as ice.

  ‘Tell me. What is the matter?’

  ‘I’ve told you, nothing. It’s simply been such a very long day and I’m desperately tired.’

  ‘As an explanation, that leaves something to be desired, you know,’ he said with a half smile. ‘Wait a moment.’

  He left the room and returned with two fat-bellied crystal glasses and a cognac decanter. He poured out two measures and sat by her while she lifted her glass and sipped. ‘Now, what’s all this? Something’s evidently wrong and I warn you, I don’t intend to leave you until you tell me what it is.’ Gradually a little colour came back into her face, but she still sat as if turned to stone. ‘Come, tell me.’

  The Martagons were not a demonstrative family. She had certainly never exchanged confidences with either of her children, given or asked for understanding. Perhaps she suddenly realised this; perhaps it was simply the cognac which loosened her tongue. ‘Oh, very well. I see no harm in telling you. It’s only a small problem regarding some letters which I – which I found in your father’s desk after he died…and which I kept, God knows why, and hid away. And that is all there is to it, so there is no need to look so fierce, Guy.’

  ‘What kind of problem?’

  ‘Nothing that need concern you, I assure you.’

  ‘My dear mother, seeing you like this is every reason for my concern. Doesn’t it occur to you that I might be of some assistance?’ Never had she asked him for help, and he couldn’t keep the edge of bitterness from his voice, but it did nothing to move her. ‘Why should these letters only now cause you so much distress? What kind of letters? Hmm? Were they love letters?’ he asked bluntly when she didn’t answer.

  She turned angrily away. ‘I suppose you might call them that. At any rate, they were from a woman.’

  ‘To my father?’

  ‘It would appear so.’ Two spots of colour appeared on her cheeks.

  ‘What do you mean – appear so?’

  ‘They began only with an endearment – and were unsigned. Oh, really – it quite demeans me even to think of them. I should never have mentioned them to you. Please, forget what I’ve said, and leave me now.’

  With a smothered exclamation, he rose and fed the fire with a few small pieces of coal, then tossed the tongs back into the scuttle, dusted his hands together and rested his elbow on the mantel, thinking. Finally, as flames curled around the coal, and the room began to come to rich life in the firelight, he turned round. ‘How can you expect me to forget what is obviously causing you so much distress? There’s something you haven’t yet told me and’, he added in a low voice, having now begun to see where this conversation was leading, ‘I can’t help feeling it must concern me, too.’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘You’ve had those letters all this time, and only now are they upsetting you like this. I wonder why?’

  ‘You’re asking too many questions. I’ve told you all you need to know.’

  ‘I think not, Mother. But very well, if you won’t answer, let me guess. There was mention in these letters, was there not, of a child?’

  The effect on her was electric. ‘You’ve known all the time! You, too!’

  ‘On the contrary. It was only recently that I came across the copy of a letter Father had sent to Hardisty, instructing him to invest a substantial sum for the support of some child or other.’ He paused. ‘Mother, I’m so sorry, I know how much this must pain you.’

  She sprang to her feet, knocking over the empty cognac glass which she had placed on the small table beside her chair. The expensive cut glass fell onto the polished steel fender, splintered on the hearth and lay there, disregarded. She began to pace the room, driving one fist into the palm of the other hand. ‘I knew it!’ she cried. ‘He was deceiving me! All the time, he pretended to be so – so upright! All the time he was abroad, he was leading a double life!’

  And that had shocked her, he saw – and understood why. He, too, had felt an almost physical pain when he’d discovered the arrangement his father had made. ‘Do nothing, my boy,’ the solicitor had advised, urbane and worldly, hands beneath the tails of his frock coat. ‘Your father didn’t want anything to be known of this – that was why the provision was made before he died. He was a prudent, far-seeing man who wished to leave no loose ends if he were to die suddenly – think what it would do to your mother if she were to learn of it now.’

  Well, she did know now. She had found out in a way that Eliot Martagon, for all his caution, hadn’t been astute enough to prevent. Or was the situation as obvious as it appeared?

  Ambrose Hardi
sty had looked after the Martagon family affairs for years. He was a man of probity whose judgement Guy felt he could trust, but he was not so sure the old man was right in his assumptions – the same natural assumptions in fact that his mother was making now: that the child Eliot had made such careful arrangements for was one he had fathered. Admittedly, this was a more than likely possibility, in fact almost a certainty, but in what must have been an initial letter of instruction there had been no mention of the child’s mother. Guy had decided that perhaps she was dead, or at least, in no need of financial assistance. Had she been one of those wealthy women in his mother’s set to whose indiscretions society was more than willing to look away?

  Guy’s strong sense of filial duty and affection didn’t blind him to the faults of either of his parents. He was well aware of the sort of marriage they had had. A pained acceptance on his father’s part, perhaps; indifference on his mother’s, certainly. Surely they had once loved each other, but for as long as Guy had been of an age to notice such things, it had seemed to him they had settled into a laissez-faire relationship while outwardly putting up a united front when the occasion demanded it. It was not an unusual situation, but when Guy had faced the unbelievable possibility that Eliot might have taken his own life, he had briefly wondered, in the absence of any other credible reason, whether the disillusionment of an unsatisfactory marriage had caused him to do so. Almost at once he had rejected the idea. A man like his father, even if he had known the importance of Bernard Aubrey in his wife’s life, would have found a more satisfactory way of dealing with the circumstances.

  Edwina was still pacing the carpet. ‘Mother, it isn’t the end of the world, you know.’

  ‘Not the end of the world? No, perhaps not for you,’ she said through tight lips.

  ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that, but please do try not to upset yourself so.’

  ‘Upset? Upset? If you think I am upset then you don’t recognise anger when you see it!’