Pandora drowned. Lucilla thought of Pandora somewhere in France, skinny-dipping in a deep and fast-flowing river, swimming against the current, calling to Jeff and Lucilla that it was lovely, the water was lovely, why didn’t they come in?
Pandora drowned. Bolting the heavy gates behind her. Surely that in itself was proof that she had not taken her own life? Surely no one, under such circumstances, would painstakingly trouble to close the deer-gates.
No.
“It must have been an accident. She would never, never have killed herself. Oh, Mum, not Pandora…”
“It wasn’t an accident. We hoped it was. That she’d come home from the dance, and taken it into her head to go for a swim. It was just the sort of dotty decision that she was quite capable of taking. An impulsive whim. But by the loch they found her mink coat and her sandals; and an empty sleeping-pill jar, and the last of a bottle of champagne.”
And the last of a bottle of champagne. The last of the wine. Like a final, terrible celebration.
“…and when we went to her room, there was a letter for Dad.”
Lucilla knew then that it was true. She was dead. Pandora had drowned herself. She shivered. An old cardigan lay on a chair beside her bed. She sat up, reached for it, wrapped it around her shoulders. She said, “Tell me what happened.”
Isobel took Lucilla’s hands in her own. “Willy Snoddy was up at the loch early, all set to lift a few trout out with the first rise. He’d walked up from the village with his dog. He saw the Land-Rover parked by the boathouse. And then her coat, lying on the bank. He thought, like us, that perhaps someone had just gone for a midnight swim. And then he saw her body, washed up against the sluice-gates.”
“I can’t bear it for him. Poor old man.”
“Yes. Poor Willy. But for once in his life he did the right thing, and came straight to Croy to find Archie. By then it was seven o’clock, and Dad was out with the dogs. He never went to bed after the dance. Just took a bath and dressed again. And he was out with the dogs, and he saw Willy coming, and Willy told him what he’d found.”
Only too clearly, Lucilla could imagine the scene. She thought about her father, and then could not think about him, because Pandora was his sister, and he had loved her, and longed for her to come home to Croy. And she had come, and now she was gone for ever.
She said, “What did Dad do?”
“I was still sleeping. He woke me. We went along to Pandora’s room, and she’d broken her bottle of scent in the bathroom basin. She must have knocked it over. The basin was filled with broken glass, and the smell filled the room, overpowering, like a sort of drug. So we drew back the curtains and threw open all the windows, and then we thought we must look for some sort of clue. We didn’t have to look very far because she’d left an envelope on the desk, and there was a letter for Dad inside.”
“What did it say?”
“Not very much. Just that she was sorry. And…something about money. Her house in Majorca. She said she was tired and she couldn’t go on fighting any longer. But she didn’t give any reason. She must have been so unhappy, and none of us knew. None of us had the slightest suspicion, the least idea of what was going on in her mind. If only I’d known. I should have been more perceptive, more sympathetic. I might have been able to talk to her…to help…”
“How could you? You mustn’t for a moment blame yourself. Of course you didn’t know what Pandora was thinking. Nobody could ever know what she was thinking.”
“I thought we were close. I thought that I was close to her…”
“And you were. Just as close as any woman could be to Pandora. She loved you, I know. But I don’t think she ever wanted to get too near to people. I think that was her defence.”
“I don’t know.” Isobel, clearly, was distraught and bewildered. “I suppose so.” Her grip on Lucilla’s hands tightened. “I have to tell you the rest.” She took a deep and steadying breath. “After we found the letter, Dad rang the police in Relkirk. He explained what had happened, and the difficulties of the location, the road to the loch. They sent, not an ambulance, but a police Land-Rover, with a four-wheel drive. And the police doctor came with it. Then they drove on up to the loch…”
“Who went?”
“Willy. And Dad. And Conrad Tucker. Conrad went with them. He was up and about by then, and he offered to go with Dad. So kind of him, such a kind man, because Archie didn’t want me to go, and I couldn’t bear the thought of his being on his own.”
“So where are they now?”
“They’re not yet back from Relkirk. They were going to take her — the body — there, to the Relkirk General. I suppose to the mortuary.”
“Will there have to be an inquest?”
“Yes. A fatal-accident inquiry.”
A fatal accident. The words had the chilling ring of officialdom about them. Lucilla imagined the courtroom, the cold and objective words of evidence and conclusion. Then newspapers, with accounts of the incident. Some old, blurred photograph of Pandora’s lovely face. The headlines. “Death of Lord Balmerino’s Sister.”
The inevitable publicity, she knew, would be the final horror. “Oh, poor Dad.”
Isobel said, “People always tell you, ‘This will pass. Time will heal.’ But at times like this one doesn’t seem to be able to think more than a moment ahead. This is now. And it feels insupportable. There are no words of comfort.”
“I can’t take it in. It’s all so pointless.”
“I know, my darling. I know.”
Isobel’s voice was soothing, but Lucilla was not soothed. Instead, her distress blew up in an outburst of indignation. “It’s all such a waste. Why did she have to? What on earth drove her to take such a step?”
“We don’t know. We have no idea.”
The little explosion of anger flickered and then died. Lucilla sighed. She said, “Does anybody else know? Has anybody been told?”
“There’s really nobody to tell. Except Edmund. And Vi. I expect Dad will ring Edmund when he gets back from Relkirk. But Vi mustn’t be told over the telephone. Somebody will have to go and see her and break the news. Too great a shock for an old lady…”
“What about Jeff?”
“Jeff’s downstairs in the kitchen. He appeared about five minutes ago. I’m afraid I’d forgotten all about him, and the poor man didn’t get much of a welcome. Coming down to breakfast and being faced with such news. And there wasn’t even any breakfast, because I hadn’t got around to cooking anything. I think he’s frying something up for himself right now.”
“I must go and be with him.”
“Yes. I think he could do with a little company.”
“When will Dad and Conrad be back?”
“I suppose about half past ten or eleven. They’ll be ravenous too, because there wasn’t time to feed them before they left. I’ll make them something when they come. And meantime…” She got to her feet. “I’m going to start clearing the dining room. The table’s still laden with all the remains of dinner last night.”
“It seems a lifetime ago, doesn’t it? Why don’t you leave it? Jeff and I will do it later, or we’ll get Agnes back from the village…”
“No, I want something to do. Women are so much luckier than men. At ghastly times like this, they can always find something to occupy their hands, even if it’s only scrubbing the kitchen floor. Washing glasses and polishing silver will fit the bill very nicely…”
Lucilla was alone. She got out of bed and dressed, pulling on jeans and a sweater. Brushed her hair, went to the bathroom to clean her teeth and wash her face. A flannel soaked in scalding water, pressed to her eyes and cheeks. The heat cleansed, refreshed, cleared her head. She ran downstairs.
Jeff sat at one end of the kitchen table, with a mug of coffee and a plateful of bacon and sausages. He looked up as she came in, swallowed his mouthful, laid down his knife and fork, and got to his feet. She went to him, and he took her in his arms, and for a little while they just stood there. It
felt warm and safe in his strong embrace, and the thick sheepy wool of his sweater smelled friendly and familiar. From the pantry came the sound of running water, the clink of glass. Isobel was already hard at work.
He didn’t say anything. After a little they drew apart. She smiled her gratitude for his comfort, and reached for a chair and sat, leaning her elbows on the scrubbed table.
“Do you want something to eat?” he asked.
“No.”
“You’d feel better with something inside you.”
“I couldn’t eat.”
“A cup of coffee then.” He went to the Aga and filled a mug, and brought it over and set it down before her. Then he sat down again and went on with his sausages.
She drank a little coffee. She said, “I’m glad we had that time with her.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m glad she came home with us.”
“It was good.” He reached over and took her hand. He said, “Lucilla, I think I should go.”
“Go?” She stared at him in some dismay. “Go where?”
“Well, this isn’t a very good time for your mother and father to have a stranger around the place…”
“But you’re not a stranger…”
“You know what I mean. I think I should pack my bag and take myself off…”
“Oh, but you can’t…” The very suggestion filled Lucilla with panic. “You can’t leave us all…” Her voice rose, and he shushed her gently, aware of Isobel’s presence beyond the open door, and not wishing his hostess to overhear the conversation. Lucilla dropped her voice to a furious whisper. “You can’t leave me. Not now. I need you, Jeff. I can’t cope with everything being so utterly awful. Not on my own.”
“I feel I’m intruding.”
“You’re not. You’re not. Oh, please, don’t go.”
He looked into her beseeching face and relented.
“Okay. If I can be any help, I’ll certainly stay around. But whatever happens, I can’t stay for long, because the beginning of October I have to go back to Australia.”
“Yes. I know. But don’t talk about leaving us just yet.”
He said, “If you like, you could come with me.”
“Sorry?”
“I said, if you like you could come with me. To Australia, I mean.”
Lucilla’s fingers closed around her coffee-mug. “What would I do there?”
“We could be together. Go on being together. There’s plenty of room in my parents’ house. And I know they’d make you very welcome.”
“Why are you asking me now?”
“Seems a good idea.”
“And what would I do in Australia?”
“Whatever you wanted. Get a job. Paint. Be with me. We could find some place of our own.”
“Jeff…I don’t quite know what you’re asking of me.”
“I’m not asking anything. Just extending an invitation.”
“But…it…it isn’t like that, is it? You and me. Not for ever.”
“I thought we could maybe find out.”
“Oh, Jeff.” A lump grew in her throat, and she felt her eyes swim with tears, which was ridiculous because she hadn’t cried for Pandora, but now she was in floods just because Jeff was being so sweet, and asking her to go back to Australia with him, and because she wasn’t going to go, because she wasn’t in love with him, and knew that he was not in love with her.
“Come on, now, don’t cry.”
She reached for a tea-towel and unhygienically blew her nose on it.
“It’s just that you’re being so dear. And I would love to come. But not just now. Just now I have to stay here. Besides, I don’t think you really want me hanging around when you go home. You’re going to have enough to think about without me under your feet. Going back to work, getting on with your life, settling down…” She blew her nose again and managed a watery smile. “…and, somehow, I don’t think I’m quite the right person for you. When you do settle down, and you will, it will be with some lovely Australian girl. A suntanned sheila with a fat bum and big tits…”
He cuffed her gently over the ear. He said, “That’s not funny.” But he was smiling.
She said, “It was the nicest invitation I’ve ever had in my life. And you are the dearest man I’ve ever met. And we’ve had just the best time ever since that day we met in Paris. And one day I will come to Australia, and I shall expect a huge welcome from you, red carpets, ticker tapes, the full treatment. But right now…and for ever…I can’t come.”
“Well, if you change your mind, the offer’s open…”
He had finished his breakfast, laid the knife and fork together on the plate, and carried it over to the sink. From the dining room now could be heard the sounds of hoovering. Jeff crossed the kitchen and closed the pantry door. He returned to the table and sat facing Lucilla.
He said, “I don’t like to ask this and it’s none of my business, but did Pandora leave any sort of letter?”
“Yes, she did. For Dad. On the desk in her room.”
“Did she say why she was going to kill herself?”
“No. Apparently not.”
“What does your mother think?”
“At the moment she’s too distressed even to try to think.”
“So there’s no obvious reason?”
“None.”
“How about you?”
“I have no opinion, Jeff.” His silence caught her attention. “Why? Have you?”
“I just thought. I was thinking. Remember that guy we met our first day at the villa? Carlos Macaya?”
“Carlos?” That suave and handsome man with his charming manners and his notable wristwatch. “But of course.” She could not imagine why she had not thought of him before. “Jeff. Do you think he might know something?”
“Probably not. But he was obviously very close to Pandora. Perhaps she confided. Told him something that we don’t know…”
Lucilla remembered. Recalled that puzzling remark that Carlos had made to Pandora as he drove away from the villa…Let me know if you change your mind, he had said. And she had replied, I shan’t change my mind. And Lucilla and Jeff had discussed the exchange, and decided that Carlos and Pandora had probably been referring to something quite trivial — a cancelled tennis match, or a rejected invitation.
“Yes. You’re right. I think they were very close. Lovers, probably. Maybe he does know something…”
“Even if he doesn’t, if they were so close, perhaps he should be told what’s happened.”
“Yes.” It was a perfectly viable suggestion. “But how can we tell him?”
“Ring him up.”
“We don’t know his number.”
“Pandora must have had an address book…what’s the betting we’ll find Carlos Macaya’s number in it?”
“Yes. You’re right. Of course.”
“If we’re going to put a call through, we’d better do it now, before your father and Conrad get back, and while your mother’s occupied. Is there a telephone where we won’t be disturbed…?”
“Nowhere. Except, perhaps, Mum’s bedroom. We’ll use the phone by her bed…”
“Come on then.” He got to his feet. “We’ll do it now.”
Isobel was still hoovering. They went out of the kitchen and soft-footed up the carpeted stairs. Lucilla led the way along the passage to Pandora’s bedroom. They went inside and she closed the door behind them.
The room, with its unmade bed and litter of feminine possessions, was cold. Every window was open, and the curtains ballooned in the breeze. And yet that perfume still hung like a pall; the smell of Poison.
Lucilla said, “I never knew, I could never make up my mind if I loved that scent or if I hated it.”
“Why is it so strong?”
“She broke the bottle in her basin.” She looked around her, saw the filmy dressing-gown tossed on the bed, Pandora’s evening bag, the wardrobe full of her clothes, the brimming wastepaper basket, the crowded dressing-tab
le, the odd shoes that lay about on the carpet.
The shoes, expensive Spanish leather, high-heeled, impractical, were somehow the most personal and poignant of reminders, because they could never have belonged to anybody but Pandora.
Lucilla closed her mind to them.
She said, “Her address book. Where would we find her address book?”
They found it on the desk, alongside the blotter. It was large and leather-bound, with Pandora’s initials in gold, and endpapers of Florentine paper. Lucilla sat, ran her finger down the index, and opened it at the letter M.
Mademoiselle, Dress Shop.
Maitland, Lady Letitia.
Mendoza, Philip and Lucia.
Macaya…
Carlos Macaya. She sat very still, staring at the page. She did not speak.
After a bit, Jeff said, “Have you found it?”
“Yes.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Jeff.” She looked up at him. “Jeff, he’s a doctor.”
“A doctor?” He frowned. “Let’s see.”
She pointed. “Here, ‘Macaya, Dr Carlos and Lisa.’ Lisa must be his wife. Jeff, do you think he was Pandora’s doctor?”
“Most probably. We’ll find out.” He looked at his watch. “It’s ten-thirty. It’ll be about eleven-thirty in Majorca. We’ll call him at home. It’s a Saturday morning. Most likely we’ll get him at home.”
With the address book in her hand, Lucilla got to her feet. They went out of Pandora’s room and along to her parents’ bedroom where, on this unreal and disorientated morning, yet another bed had not been made. The telephone sat on the bedside table. Jeff found the phone book and looked up the international code for Spain, and carefully, digit by digit, Lucilla dialled the long and complicated number.
A wait. Various clickings and buzzings. And then the ringing sound. She thought about the Majorca morning, the Mediterranean sunlight already warm, the sky clear with the promise of yet another hot and cloudless day.
“Hola?” A woman’s voice.
“Mrs…” Something had gone wrong with Lucilla’s throat. She cleared it and started again. “Mrs Macaya? Señora Macaya?”
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