Writ in Water

by Natasha Mostert

  OK. Time to regroup. He took a deep breath. When he got home, he would disinfect the wounds. But for now, ignore the cat. Focus on the task at hand. He just needed to remember to kick the damn thing out of here before he left. The door had probably been closed on purpose especially to keep the dratted animal out of the room.

  And a charming room it was too. Now that his heart had stopped racing, he could give it his full attention. The colour scheme was peach and pink but whereas such a palette could easily be cloying, this room was anything but twee. The giant whale skull sitting on top of a dresser, one eye socket stuffed with daisies, was already a sign that the person who slept in this room had a taste for whimsy. Not to mention humour. The bedside lamp was purple and plastic and in the shape of Michelangelo’s David. David minus his head, that is.

  On the bed was an open box of chocolates, and a tissue with an imprint of bright red lipstick. He couldn’t help smiling. It was all delightfully feminine. A book with a fraying spine was lying open but face-down on the counterpane next to the box of chocolates. He glanced at the title: Mind to Hermes. Obviously a page-turner.

  As he picked it up he took care to keep it open at the original page. The book looked as though it had been read and reread from cover to cover several times. The coated paper was soft from use, the print was smudged. A passage, heavily underlined in pencil, drew his attention: if you embrace in thought all things at once, time, place, substance… you will comprehend God. In the margin someone had written in a cramped but looping feminine hand:

  The divine has been banished from the universe we live in. We are creating the ultimate mind machine but we have lost the alchemical impulse and the desire to transform ourselves into divine man. Instead of allowing us to embrace the riches of the universe, the mind machine has left our brains empty as a paper cup, a thing of no value, a lump of tissue only able to reflect the knowledge of the universe, not absorb it!!!

  He grimaced. Mind machine… a computer? And what alchemical impulse? The words themselves were pretty obscure, but the passionate conviction behind the words was hard to miss. The liberal use of exclamation marks was proof enough.

  Well, whatever rubs your Buddha, as Isidore would say. Transforming himself into divine man was not exactly high on his own list of priorities. He subscribed to the motto, ‘Living well is the best revenge’.

  He was just about to replace the book when the mobile clipped to his belt went off. The sudden noise made him jerk.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Gabriel.’ One word only, but Frankie sounded tired.

  ‘Frankie, hi. What’s up?’ He glanced at his watch as he spoke. He had been inside the house for sixty minutes. Over at Casa Whittington they probably hadn’t started on the caviar appetiser yet.

  ‘They’re on their way back. Actually they left just over a quarter of an hour ago.’

  ‘What? Why didn’t you call me?’ Fifteen minutes. Hell. They were probably about to walk through the front door.

  ‘I’m sorry. But William took ill. That’s why the party broke up.’ A deep breath. Her voice tight. ‘As you can imagine, calling you was not exactly my first priority.’

  ‘OK. I must get out of here.’ A thought occurred to him. ‘How is he?’

  ‘He’ll be fine. This happens quite often these days. But thank you for asking. Now go!’

  He clipped the phone onto his belt again. Time to split. He turned to look at the cat which was still giving him the evil eye from the top of the wardrobe. He was going to have to forget about shooing the animal out of the room and just hope the sisters would think they had neglected to close the door themselves. The book was back on the bed where he had found it, so that was taken care of. What else? The light. He should switch off the light.

  As he walked out onto the landing, his eye fell on the door on the other side of the tallboy, which was still closed. Maybe he had time for a quick peek? Cautiously he opened the door and poked his head inside. Another bedroom, this one in shades of lilac and yellow. He was able to see without trouble because a lamp had been left on. Shell-pink opera gloves were draped over a tilted mirror, which reflected a four-poster bed with a swathe of gauze netting. But what drew his attention was the wall on the far side of the room. He had been looking for photographs and here they were, a veritable gallery. Snapshots, studio photographs, black and white, colour. Dozens of pictures: many tacked up casually against a pinboard—the edges overlapping—others elegantly framed.

  Frankie had told him the sisters were attractive and the glimpse he had of them when they left the house earlier this evening had seemed to confirm her judgement. But as he looked at these faces, encapsulated in silence, he realised ‘attractive’ was far too anaemic a word. These women were not merely conventionally pretty. They were startlingly—throat-catchingly—beautiful.

  Minnaloushe—the redhead—was the softer of the two. Her cheekbones were as high as her sister’s but the planes of her face were more rounded, less sharp. Her mouth was full and blurred, her eyes pale green, their expression unfocused as though she had just tumbled out of bed and was looking at the world with dreamy eyes. Her figure bordered on the voluptuous: tiny waist, but quite heavy breasts.

  Morrighan, in contrast, had the muscle definition of an athlete. Her arms were slim and corded, her long legs elegant but strong. She had blue eyes, the colour so intense it looked almost fake. In one picture she was riding a horse, looking Andalucian in a severe black riding jacket and Spanish hat, at her throat a swirl of lace. It was an arresting picture, taken in profile. You could see the head of the horse, the black arch of its neck and one mad staring eye. The rider’s gloved hands held the reins in a steely grip. The overriding impression was of strength, concentration, grace.

  There was very little family likeness between the two women, he thought, except that both had heart-shaped faces. As children, however, they had looked almost like twins. There were several pictures of them as little girls—gaps in their teeth, hair scraped back into tight little pigtails—and their mother had preferred to dress them in identical clothes: all sashed dresses, frilly socks and round-toed baby doll shoes. Rather old-fashioned, actually. No pictures of them in jeans and T-shirts. As he looked at the photographs, he was reminded of a line by John Galsworthy, ‘One’s eyes are what one is, one’s mouth what one becomes.’ The faces of the little girls bore scant resemblance to their grown-up selves, but even at that early age there was a surprisingly mature humour and intelligence in their gaze.

  As his eyes continued to travel over the pictures on the wall in front of him, his heart skipped a beat. He had been searching for Robert Whittington tonight and suddenly, without warning, he had found him. There he was: thin, ascetic face, vulnerable eyes, a smile brimming over with delight. He was standing side by side with the sisters and the picture was taken against the backdrop of what looked like a public park. Hampstead Heath? In the background were green grass, flowerbeds and a number of colourful kites flying against a washed-out sky.

  Whittington looked happy. He was staring straight at the camera. On his right side was Minnaloushe, one hand trying to keep her hair from blowing in the wind. Standing to his left and slightly behind him was Morrighan. Her slender fingers rested on his shoulder, her gaze focused on a spot somewhere behind the photographer.

  There were other pictures as well. In most of them Whittington was alone. In one he was in the garden, lying in a hammock, one long leg dangling over the side. In another he was sitting with his back propped against a tree trunk. It was the tree that grew next to the swimming pool—no mistaking those flame-red flowers. There was a photograph of him pulling a funny face, eyes crossed comically, wearing a T-shirt stamped with the words Hugs not Drugs. Gabriel recognised the room. It was the living room at Monk House: those African masks on the wall were unmistakable. And peeping from behind Whittington’s shoulder, the distinct design of the Monas.

  There was also a framed 8 × 10 black-and-white photograph, which for some reason h
e found disturbing. It showed Robert Whittington and the two sisters at what looked like the opening of an exhibition in some trendy art gallery. Whittington was peering earnestly at an oil painting. In the background were Minnaloushe and Morrighan, each with a champagne flute in her hand. They were not looking at the painting, but at Whittington. And it was the expression on their faces which made him pause. Alert, eager, curious. There it was again: curiosity. Just like the woman at the swimming pool. They were watching Robert Whittington with a curiosity bordering on greediness. They seemed excited, fascinated, turned on. As though all their senses were quivering. Why?

  He would have liked to take the picture with him but it was framed and might be missed. He hesitated. Then he reached out and removed the snapshot of Robert and the two women on Hampstead Heath. There were so many pictures jostling for space here, it was probably safe to take this one.

  Time to go. Time to go. Slipping the picture into the inner pocket of his jacket, he left the room, closing the door behind him. Quickly he descended the staircase, now black with shadows. As he reached the bottom stair, a sound made him pause. It was the sound of a key in a lock and it came from the front door—a door which, even as he glanced over at it, was starting to open.

  He made a beeline for the living room door but the entrance hall with its army of potted plants was a bloody minefield. For one heart-stopping moment he almost kicked over a drooping aspidistra. But then he was in the living room and there, on the other side of the room, were the French doors. His route to escape.

  Behind him in the entrance hall a light was switched on, the yellow stain stretching all the way from the hall to the living room door and spilling onto his feet. The sound of a woman’s voice, the words indistinct, but the voice itself low-pitched and pleasant. Another female voice, this one light and breathy, saying, ‘You have to admit, though, he’s pretty cute!’

  Swiftly he traversed the room, making sure to give the wobbly wicker screen a wide berth. The French door opened under his hand, and he was in the garden. The sultry air and the sound of traffic was a shock after the hermetically sealed atmosphere of the house. He pushed the door softly shut, and ran down the length of the darkened garden. When he reached the door in the wall which would give him access to the alley, he stopped to look back.

  The French doors were brightly lit, the stained-glass insets glowing with colour, and as he watched, someone pulled the shutters away from one of the windows and opened it wide. He could hear music playing. The garden was redolent with the scent of roses, the night air soaked with perfume.

  Two figures were silhouetted against the bright light within. They were facing each other, their heads close together. There was something surreptitious in their posture, secretive even. Gabriel shivered though the night air was blood-warm. The scent of roses seemed sickly all of a sudden, making him feel drugged and passive.

  As he watched the two women, he felt as though the moment was frozen. A house with two figures in furtive conversation, an intruder looking in from the darkness, a garden awash with fragrance: this was an enchanted world with its own rules, remote from the city of London which stretched around them in all directions like a pulsing organism. Time in here had stopped, even as it still flowed evenly outside the perimeters of these garden walls.

  A car honked loudly, shaking him out of his stupor. What was he still doing here? He felt tired and his hand throbbed where the cat had scratched him. He suddenly had one overriding emotion—to get away from this house. He looked back at the lighted window. The figures were gone.

  He sighed, relieved now, eager to be on his way. But as he turned to leave he thought he heard—faintly—the sound of a woman’s laughter.

  Entry Date: 23 June

  We still haven’t found someone to play with. M. thought she had a candidate but what a disappointment he turned out to be. He has no curiosity. No sense of adventure. He is definitely not a candidate for the game.

  So M. will now use him as a lover only. But I rather doubt he’ll satisfy her. Very handsome, but he knows it, and no woman wants to feel that the man she’s with thinks he’s prettier than she is. He won’t be around for long.

  Thinking of which: the ideal lover, who would he be?

  A man who is passionate. A man with a militant mind. A man with skilled fingers, who knows how to touch. He will seduce me with gentleness and know me in roughness.

  Subtlety. Mastery. Danger.

  Where to find such a man? What will be his name?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘So who did you say he was, exactly?’ Frankie turned her head towards him and squinted against the sun. She had insisted on an outside table even though Gabriel hated sitting outside. In the country, dining al fresco had a certain bucolic charm, but in the city you were far too close to pedestrians spitting and sneezing all over your food. Not to mention the belching exhaust fumes.

  ‘Isidore? He’s an associate of mine. A computer specialist and very good at tracking things down. I asked him to look into Minnaloushe and Morrighan Monk and see if he can come up with anything interesting.’ Gabriel glanced at his watch. ‘Punctuality is not his strong suit, I’m afraid. But he’ll be here.’ He lifted his arm and beckoned to the waitress. ‘More coffee?’

  Frankie crumbled the croissant on her plate. ‘No thanks. I had enough coffee last night to last me a lifetime.’

  ‘How’s William doing?’

  ‘Better,’ she said briefly.

  He nodded. She obviously did not feel like talking. And she looked tired. The red dress she was wearing merely accentuated her fatigue, the joyous colour at odds with the pallor of her skin, the dryness of her lips. There was a great sadness in her eyes.

  So she really did care for the guy. He felt a sudden—and unwelcome—pang of jealousy. Frankie belonged to the past. Why did he care about her relationship with her husband?

  ‘You really love him, don’t you?’

  ‘There’s no need to sound quite so surprised.’

  ‘But I mean, honest now, Frankie. When you first met him… are we talking head-over-heels?’

  She leaned forward. ‘We’re talking butterflies in the stomach, clammy hands and midnight fantasising. I have never been more in love with any man.’

  ‘Oh.’

  She smiled sardonically. ‘You think that after having you in my life, no other man would measure up, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course not.’ But come on, he thought silently, what did Whittington have that he didn’t? Only a few hundred million pounds.

  She shook her head, gave a short laugh. ‘You’re amazing. You’ve always thought you were “the cutest thing in shoe leather”. That obviously hasn’t changed.’

  He looked at her coldly.

  ‘Oh, Gabriel. Stop sulking. Tell me about your visit to Monk House. You said apart from the photographs, there were no other signs of Robert?’

  He sighed. ‘No. And I couldn’t sense his presence in the house. No imprint.’

  ‘What about the woman in your ride, the masked one with the crow? Were you able to pick up an imprint from her?’

  ‘Afraid not.’

  ‘Nothing at all?’

  He shrugged. ‘Nothing definite, although I still think we’re on the right track. The question is, of course, who was the woman in my ride? Minnaloushe or Morrighan? I’ve now seen pictures of both of them, but as the woman was masked and her hair covered with a hood, I still don’t know which one it was.’

  She frowned. ‘Those two are very close. Who’s to say it wasn’t both of them?’

  He shook his head. ‘I sensed only one woman in my ride. Not two. If a murder took place, only one woman was responsible. Only one woman physically placed her hand on Robert Whittington’s head and pushed him down into the water. The other sister may be aware of what happened and she may even be an accessory after the fact, but only one of them actually committed the deed.’

  ‘The deed. God.’ She shivered. ‘It sounds so cold. You do realise you
’ll have to slam another ride? Try to go back, see if you can make more sense of it this time?’

  ‘Yes, I know. I’ve been thinking about it.’

  ‘So, when?’

  ‘Soon.’ But he was starting to feel ambivalent about the whole thing. On the one hand, he was deeply intrigued—how could he not be?—by what he had accessed during his ride. It had been a killer surge. So the urge to explore, which had always fuelled his RV adventures, was very much present.

  On the other hand, he had not exactly enjoyed the experience of going insane. And if he could give the drowning bit a miss as well, that would be fine with him too. Even more to the point: after this particular ride, when he finally got back to reality, his brain had continued to feel mauled—like a rugby ball after a hard season. This had never happened to him before and it was scary. He couldn’t help feeling that if he slammed the ride again, he would be like a mad scientist injecting himself with his own untested and possibly lethal formula in order to see if it worked.

  ‘By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you…’ Frankie was gesturing at his bandaged wrist. ‘What happened there?’

  ‘I had a run-in with a rabid cat last night. At Monk House.’

  ‘Oh, I remember that cat. Black, was it?’

  ‘Nice pet. It almost took my hand off.’

  She smiled. ‘I’m sure you must have teased it.’

  ‘Teased it?’

  ‘Well, when I visited the house it was purring and rubbing itself against my legs. A real sweetie.’

  He opened his mouth to reply but at that moment a shadow fell across the table and he felt a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Sorry I’m late.’ Isidore, dressed in a pink tank top, his hairy thin white legs sticking out from a pair of lavishly printed swimming trunks, was grinning down at him. In his hand he held a sleek tan-coloured briefcase. Briefcase and swimming trunks made for a rather interesting sartorial statement.