by Jesse Ball
Grieve was sitting in the window seat. James was dressed. She was not.
She smiled weakly and took his hand with both of hers. Her hands were very thin but warm. He could feel her through her hands. She wanted him to be with her, and that meant being with the others.
—He's a hypnotist, she said. The men believe mostly in what they're doing. But men are weak. At the last moment they turn against themselves, no matter how brave. His work helps them to do what they themselves want to do.
—But no one can be hypnotized to kill himself. It's not possible.
—Do you really believe that? asked Grieve. Why? Did you read it in a book somewhere?
The pattern in the carpet was very complicated. Whorls and lines, leaves and vines.
—I'm sorry, she said. I'm just . . . I woke badly. Do you know when that happens, when you wake up and your sleep has gained you nothing? You've lost the time in which you slept, but you aren't rested, you didn't dream. You return to yourself with none of the customary gifts.
James nodded. He kissed her on the neck.
—Well, sleep some more, he said. I've got to go meet your father. It's ten minutes to seven.
—You'd better go, she said. Come back to me when you're done.
Her face was completely expressionless, but he felt a thorough affection surrounding him. He was moved by it. He touched her face with his hand.
As he went away, he thought, If they are in a conspiracy, how is it that they spend so much time just sitting around this house, doing nothing? But if they are conspirators, and everything has been set in motion, then there would be nothing to do but wait. Where better to wait than a wealthy man's country house? It did make sense after all. And furthermore, if they were not conspirators, then how were they employed, all the members of the little group? Did they all just live off Stark's wealth working in sinecure positions in the hospital? It would be the perfect cover.
He shut the door, looking through it as it closed at Grieve's pretty face smiling after him.
It was the second time he had gone to her father's chambers. He knew the way very well, and was soon on the stairs, and then before the door.
No one was there. He had expected to see Torquin.
He knocked. No answer. He tried the knob. The door was locked.
What could this mean? he asked himself. He knocked again, louder. Then he noticed a piece of paper taped to the wall beside the door.
* * *
james,
please do not knock or make any noise. i am considering certain matters, and can't afford to be disturbed. i'll be ready for your visit at nine. until then, please breakfast, or amuse yourself as you like.
my apologies
stark
* * *
James wished that he had seen the note before knocking. But there was nothing to be done about it. He hurried back down the stairs.
Where to go? How to pass these two hours? He did not want to go back to his bedroom. Grieve would be sleeping, and he did not feel like sleeping, or like disturbing her. The poor girl had been confused enough by her sister's return.
He turned down a hall that he hadn't been down before. After a while he emerged into an atrium garden, similar to the one in which he had first seen Stark. Two patients were sitting quietly on a bench while an orderly looked on. They did not start at his arrival.
He continued past. There was an archway and beneath it a passage to the outdoors. He followed it and, going through a set of doors, found himself behind the main house and hospital at the foot of a wooded hill.
I'll go to the top of the hill, he thought, and sit there awhile. That'll clear my head. I have to be clear when I speak to Stark. I have to find out what I can.
He reached the top of the hill in very little time. The woods were mostly pine, and had about them the silence of pines, the flat bed of needles prohibiting undergrowth, and the thick boughs shielding the ground from the sun. He found a place beneath one massive tree, and lay down.
When James woke, an hour had passed. He got to his feet, brushed the needles from his back and legs, and proceeded on down the hill. The day was glorious, and from the hilltop he could see the many houses and enclosures stretching away towards the city.
He wended his way through branches and trees, and came at last to the bottom, and then to the door through which he had come.
How I hate, he thought, to return the same way I came.
He walked around the outside of the house. As he did, he passed window after window, and was afforded many glimpses through, as the light pouring in from behind him suffused the rooms and their inhabitants. A small half porch had begun, and the ground-floor rooms all had French windows. Most were closed, but a pair ahead were open. As he approached he could hear moaning sounds and a sort of thrashing and thumping. He walked quietly closer.
As he passed the open French window, the noise increased.
—Oh, oh, OOOOH.
He could not help but look.
To his horror, there was Grieve, his Grieve, his Lily Violet, naked, her arms and legs wrapped around a man whose face he could not see.
—Grieve! he shouted.
She jumped up. The man stood up, naked, and came towards him. He was quite large and muscular. I'll kill him, thought James. I don't care.
But the man only gave him a reproving look and shut the French windows. James could hear a lock click into place. The man went back over to the bed and climbed on top of Grieve. The moaning began again.
James leaped onto the porch and started banging on the window, but it had no effect. The window wasn't even glass, he realized. It was some sort of plastic. He couldn't even break it. He could see Grieve's head laid back on the bed, her mouth open, her hands on the man's shoulders. They were ignoring him!
Ah, it was too much! In a blind rage, he ran around the back of the house to the back entrance and through. He would find the door. He would find the door and then he would kick it down.
As he rounded the atrium, he heard a voice calling out to him.
—James, James.
He turned.
It was Carlyle.
—James, what's wrong?
James's face was red. He was breathing hard.
—Grieve, he said. I left her this morning asleep in my room, and now I just saw her in bed with some man. I tried to get into the room, but they locked the windows.
Carlyle was smiling.
—That wasn't Grieve, you know.
—What are you talking about? asked James.
—No, it wasn't, said Carlyle. She's crazy about you. She wouldn't sleep with anyone else. It was her sister. Her twin sister.
There was a sinking feeling in James's stomach. Her twin sister. He hadn't been able to see her face in the darkness, but she had seemed like Grieve the night before. Hadn't he spoken to her as if she were? Oh, he had made a fool out of himself.
—I've been a fool, he said to Carlyle.
Carlyle put his arm around James and walked him over to the bench. They both sat.
—Don't worry about it, said Carlyle. Your feelings do you credit. In fact, Grieve will think it is all quite funny, although I doubt Grieve's sister will share in that. What did the man look like?
James described the man.
—Oh, him, said Carlyle. Very bad. He's one of the orderlies. Lara knows she's not supposed to be doing that. Well.
He had a quiet laugh that James liked very much. All in the air about the atrium there was a grand relief. It had not been Grieve; it had not been Grieve at all. But she had looked so much like Grieve. Exactly. It was a bit hard to believe. But he had met her, after all. He knew she existed.
—What time is it? asked James.
—Half past nine.
—Good lord, I'm late, I have to go. I've got to see Stark.
—I thought that was at seven.
Carlyle's face looked a little worried. Apparently it was not acceptable to miss one's appointments with Stark.
&n
bsp; —No, it changed to nine. God damn it. I've got to go.
—I'll see you a bit later on, said Carlyle.
James rushed off down the hall.
—It's quite all right, Stark was saying. I was busy anyway. It's better that you came now.
—That's kind of you, said James, walking past him into the room.
He wondered if he should tell him about what had just happened. He decided it was better not to. What father wants to hear about a man having sex with his daughter?
Stark's office was quite lovely. The ceilings were high and plated with colored glass through which the sun shone. There was a ladder to a balcony with chairs and a table. The walls were lined with books. A gramophone stood in one corner.
Stark himself wore a long Chinese dressing gown embroidered with flowers that resembled dragons. It was a purplish blue and gleamed pleasingly in the light.
—I wanted you to come here because I think you have had a great misunderstanding. Also, certain people, I won't mention their names, think that it's funny to confuse you and lead you astray. They've actually been making a concerted effort to do so since you arrived.
He turned and looked off across the room.
—What can I say? They're my children. They cause me joy; they cause me some grief. There have been times when I have told them what to do. But now they're grown, and must be permitted, must be given their head. Isn't that what people say about horses? That sometimes they must be given their head?
James said he did not often ride horses.
—You came here, said Stark, confused in the first place by what Tommy, by what my son Tommy, had told you. He in turn had been confused and led astray by a man who used to be in treatment here, a man you know, or at least have heard of: Estrainger. Estrainger told Tommy that he was involved in a conspiracy against the government. The two spent a lot of time together. We don't know exactly what Estrainger told him, but we think he explained much of the scheme that he was a part of, without naming the other key players. Then, of course, Estrainger's treatment ended, and he went back to live in the city. Tommy's mind, not knowing who the other people in the conspiracy were, took to thinking that those of us in this house were a part of it. Imagine? It's insane.
His large face took on a look of profound sadness.
—Yes, Tommy had gone somewhat insane near the end. We had to keep him here and make sure he did not hurt himself. Our restraining of him only seemed like further proof that his theories were correct. He was sure that our family was the conspiracy Estrainger had spoken of. Even bringing Estrainger back, which we did, and having him tell Tommy that it wasn't true, that was no good.
He took a deep breath.
—Of course, at that time we didn't know that Estrainger was actually involved in a serious conspiracy. If only we had known then, we might have been able to stop whatever is happening in Washington.
He sat down in a leather chair by a massive window that overlooked the front lawn. He motioned for James to sit as well.
James sat.
—As time passed, his mania grew. He finally broke out, injuring an orderly, jumping the wall, and making off. We could do nothing but send out private investigators and such to search for him. I myself drove the streets in a car day and night looking for him. Oh, Tommy. Why did it happen?
Stark's hands covered his face a moment. James could see that his grief was a fresh thing, newly made, and not yet mediated by time or distance.
—It is a terrible thing, Stark said, to lose a son. A terrible, terrible thing. Words have little meaning in the midst of tragedy. I say terrible, but what does it mean? It means nothing, sheds no light on the expanse of Tommy's life, of all the things he did, the people he loved, the mornings when he would come into the room, into our bed, the bed where I and my wife slept. She has been dead five years now; Tommy has gone to her.
James felt a little embarrassed. He tried to think of something to say.
—I'm sorry, he said. I'm sorry about Tommy.
Stark's posture changed. He sat up.
—The killers were found, you know. Yesterday. That's why I couldn't see you. Two men. Apparently they robbed him, and when he resisted, they stabbed him to death.
His voice was full of anger.
—The men had been to prison before. Both had been released in the last month. What a terrible system it is. It makes men less able to live in the world. It changes nothing for the better. Ah, me.
He came to in a way and realized James was sitting there.
—But the main thing is, some people, McHale, Torquin, the others, their grief was allayed a bit by having you here and playing on your misunderstanding of the situation. Of course, I had you brought here so that we could learn of McHale's final hour. But when it was learned how Tommy's silly conspiracy ideas had gone into your head, well, they decided to confuse you still more. Also, my young friend, I have to tell you another thing, and you won't like it. Grieve was in on the whole thing as well. I'm sorry to tell you, but you would do well not to trust her too much. She is younger than the others, and spent much of her early life alone. Her imagination has a force that . . . well, she often forgets that people can be hurt.
—She spent her early life alone? asked James. But her twin sister, didn't they play together?
—Her twin sister?
Stark's face looked confused.
—What do you mean? he asked. She has no twin sister. Her sister is six years her senior, and is far from being her twin.
James sat back in his chair. He felt like he couldn't draw breath. He'd been fooled twice. It had been Grieve. Good lord, she had been in bed with that man. He felt his heart beating fast, and a panic raced through him. What was he to do? And Carlyle . . . Carlyle had deceived him. Carlyle must have been laughing at him all along.
—I have to go, he said.
—But we have more to talk about, said Stark. I wanted to offer you work here with us. You mustn't forget the trouble you're in, after all, that business with Mayne. Unfortunately, even if you didn't throw him out the window—which, by the way, can't be proved, as both Mayne's wife and his son say that you did—you would at least get manslaughter. After all, you were in the room holding a gun.
It was too much for James. His arms felt stiff against the leather. He was stuck here. What was he to do?
—I have to go, he said. I'm sorry. There's something . . . there's something I need to see about. Can we talk at a different time? Tomorrow? Or later?
There was an odd glint in Stark's eye.
—Later, then. Later is better than tomorrow. Return at four.
—Thank you, said James. Thank you for telling me all this, and for shielding me from the police. You're very kind.
Stark nodded. He leaned back in the chair, closed his eyes, and drew his dressing gown tight about himself.
Grieve, thought James in anger. I have to find Grieve.
He walked slowly to the door of Stark's suite and went through it. Torquin was on the other side. He said nothing to the man, but walked quietly to the stair. As he began down the stair, however, his pace grew faster, and he was soon running. He reached the bottom and ran towards his room. Somehow he thought he would find her there. If she was as duplicitous as it seemed, she would be there. Yes, he thought. She had known he was going to be stuck with her father for an hour or so, and as soon as he had left, she had gone to meet that other man. Pure chance had delayed his meeting with Stark and made it possible for him to know her real nature.
He burst through the door into his room. Grieve was lying on the bed. She looked up at him.
—How could you? he said. How could you have done it?
—What are you talking about?
Her face wore an expression of complete surprise.
—I saw you downstairs. I'd have gone for you both if the window wasn't locked.
—What? You just left. I've been here, sleeping.
—You goddamned . . . you . . . aaaagh, aaaaagh!
James yelled and yelled at the top of his voice. He picked up the coffee table and threw it. It smashed into the wall and one of the legs broke off.
Then the room was quiet. Grieve was hyperventilating, curled against the wall.
—I should never have trusted you, he said. But I did, and you go off with somebody else.
At this Grieve began to shake violently and cry.
—You're crazy. I hate you.
—I saw you, he shouted. I was behind the house. I saw you.
Grieve rubbed her eyes. She stopped crying.
—You fool, she said coldly. That was my sister. My identical twin.
—Carlyle said that already. And I believed it.
James shook his head.
—What? Then why did you come here like this?
She started to cry again.
—Because of your father. Yeah, your father. I talked to him. He told me it was all a lie. You don't have a twin sister. Your little game is over, by the way. He told me the truth about the whole scheme, you goddamned rat. I can't believe I ever liked you at all.
He got up and went to the door.
—I never should have, he said again.
—James, she said, and her words came in gasps: He's lying. I don't know why. He's lying. You . . . you've got to believe me.
James slammed the door and went off down the hall.
That was when he saw Grieve, dusting a table. He came up beside her and pretended to be looking at a painting on the wall.
—They've been tricking me, he whispered. You were right. They can't be trusted.
—We shouldn't talk here, she said. Too many people are around.
—All right, he whispered. If I need to tell you something, how do I contact you?
—You remember the maids' room? she asked. Where you came that time? In front of the door, there's a part where the carpet peels up. Put a note there for me.
She hurried away.
James stood now, actually looking at the painting. It was a portrait of a man holding a fowling piece, standing in the foreground of what looked like an Italian landscape. His face was very shrewd.
