‘Not at all,’ said the sculptor, vaguely, as if it were a phrase learnt by rote as the appropriate response to an apology, but repeated without confidence that it was right. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘My name, by the way, is Hilary Tamar. Professor Hilary Tamar, of St George’s College, Oxford. This is my friend Desmond Ragwort, of Lincoln’s Inn.’
‘You’d better come in,’ said Kenneth. It sounded less grudging than the words might suggest: he knew, it seemed, that there was something he was supposed to do about people standing on the doorstep, but could not with certainty remember what it was.
We followed him through a little entrance hall and into his studio. Running the width of the house, it had windows at the back as well as the front; but those at the back were also shuttered. It was lit by fluorescent tubes, which hung by chains from the ceiling. The walls, never papered and for some years not whitewashed, had darkened to the colour of putty, the ceiling and woodwork to a similar but deeper shade. The floorboards were unpolished and uncarpeted.
The film of whitish dust which lay over everything and the diversity of the objects which the room contained – stacks of clay, coils of copper wire, bottles of turpentine – obscured, at first impression, its extraordinary tidiness; but after a moment or two one perceived that the tools and materials of the sculptor’s craft had been arranged in meticulous order on the rows of metal shelving which covered most of the wall space – he would not be delayed in his work by any difficulty in finding the right chisel.
There was no decoration. Even the photographs which covered one section of wall – some close-up studies of the hand, a series of still shots of a young man diving – seemed intended rather as aides-mémoires to the structure of the human body. There was a set of landscape photographs – views from various angles of a place surrounded by olive trees – which served, at first sight, no utilitarian purpose. Looking, however, at the trestle table in the middle of the room, I saw laid out on it a model of the same scene, but with the addition of a fountain, its waters represented by blue polystyrene. I concluded that the landscapes also were intended to assist work in progress.
At least there was somewhere to sit – the studio couch near the front window had presumably been provided for the benefit of any live model whom the sculptor might have to employ. Upholstered in dark red velvet, it had been covered over with an old blanket – perhaps to protect it from the dust, but more probably, I thought, because Kenneth was irked by the intrusion of the splash of colour. Suspecting that it might be some time before he thought of inviting me to sit down, I did so without invitation. Ragwort followed my example. The sculptor, despite his evident weariness, remained standing.
‘Do you,’ he asked, ‘want anything?’ He seemed to find the words with great effort, as if the language of human discourse were one foreign to him, in which he had laboriously acquired a small vocabulary.
‘Yes,’ I said, with a smile which I hoped was disarming, ‘and having intruded on you in this appalling way, the least I can do is to come to the point as quickly as possible. The position is, you see, that my college has conceived the notion of erecting a work of sculpture in the quadrangle. Something in harmony with our existing buildings, but a distinguished piece of work unmistakably of our own time. The idea, I must emphasize, is in its infancy, I might almost say its gestation period. We are, I fear, a sadly dilatory lot. But people have suggested that I should explore the possibilities.’
‘I don’t think – ’ said the sculptor, and stopped without my having interrupted him, but making a downward movement of his large hand which seemed to signify rejection of this and any other offer that the world might make to him.
‘My dear Mr Dunfermline, I am not for a moment suggesting that you should commit yourself at this stage. As I have indicated, we ourselves are by no means in a position to do so. We are simply trying, at present, to discover what would be involved in such a project – we are as children in such matters. We have very little idea, for example, of what it might cost.’
The massive shoulders rose slightly in a gesture of indifference and bewilderment.
‘Depends what you want.’
‘Yes, naturally. Much, no doubt, would depend on the material selected. We ourselves do not know what material an artist would consider suitable.’
‘Stone,’ said Kenneth, as if it were a credo that he would not, in the utmost weariness, forget. ‘Stone’s best.’
‘A work in stone would, of course, harmonize admirably with our existing buildings. The design we would wish to leave very much to the judgement of the artist.’ I looked towards the trestle table and received inspiration. ‘Some of my colleagues, however, have suggested that it might be agreeable to have a fountain. I perceive that you have been working on something of that kind. It looks, if it is not impertinent of me to say so, as if it would be a most impressive piece.’
The heavy shoulders rose again in the same gesture of indifference: he had wearied, it seemed, of the effort to find words. I looked rather desperately at Ragwort, sitting demurely beside me like a well-behaved schoolboy.
‘Yes, it is most impressive,’ said Ragwort. ‘But rather sombre, if you don’t mind my saying so.’ It was true that there was something mournful about it. The central figure seemed to be that of a woman, whose flowing hair, however, covered her face and melted into the folds of the garment which enveloped her, so that one could not be certain which way she might be facing; round her, a dozen or so smaller figures, of children, girls and young men, were represented as lying, as if asleep on the parapet round the fountain. I could see no particular reason for finding it a sorrowful scene; but Ragwort was right in saying that it was. ‘In the final version, I suppose,’ continued Ragwort, ‘the figures would be lifesize?’
‘Yes. A little over.’
‘And is it intended,’ said Ragwort, ‘for a particular client?’
‘It was. I shan’t make it. He’s leaving the place I was going to make it for.’ I felt that I had been right to draw Ragwort into the conversation: three consecutive sentences was a considerable achievement.
‘What a shame,’ said Ragwort. ‘I hope you hadn’t spent a great deal of time on the preliminary work?’
‘About a year,’ said Kenneth, without resentment. ‘I’d done all the drawings and models. That on the table, that’s how it would have been. You’ve got to get it right, before you start cutting the stone. You can’t change your mind after that.’
Reluctant as I was to interrupt the flow of conversation, I felt able to delay no longer the question I wished to ask.
‘I suppose,’ I said, off-handedly, ‘that your client was Richard Tiverton?’
Ragwort made no exclamation, but he could not restrain a look of surprise. The possibility that Timothy and Kenneth might have a mutual client had plainly not occurred to him.
‘Yes,’ said the sculptor, his heavy eyebrows gathering in slow perplexity. ‘How did you know?’
‘As I mentioned,’ I said, ‘Desmond and I were at Frostfield’s the other day. Mrs Frostfield was talking about the Tiverton Collection and she mentioned that you had been helping to sort it out – so I knew that Richard Tiverton was a client of yours. And she also said something, I think, about him having to leave Cyprus. For tax reasons, I gather.’
Ragwort now looked both surprised and severe – no doubt at my untruthfulness.
‘Eleanor does talk,’ said the sculptor, as if, had he had energy for such an emotion, the fact would have irritated him.
‘Oh dear,’ I said, ‘perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned it. If it’s confidential, you may rely on my discretion.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Kenneth.
‘I had no idea,’ I went on, ‘that there was any secret about it. I would rather have imagined, it there had been, that Mrs Frostfield herself would be as anxious as anyone to keep it. It must be rather an advantage to have information on such a matter not known to one’s competitors, and she did not
strike me as the kind of woman who would readily forgo an advantage. Indeed, she gave me the impression of being rather ruthless. One would not put it past her, for example, to have suggested that you should sell her some of the more valuable items at a favourable price and share the profit.’
‘She did,’ said Kenneth. ‘Stupid – I wouldn’t do down Richard to please Eleanor. She’s quite stupid, really.’ He spoke without indignation – though I remembered, from Julia’s account of the conversation on the terrace, that the proposition, when first made, had roused him to considerable anger.
‘How ridiculous of her,’ said Ragwort. ‘She must have known you were doing it as an office of friendship. One can hardly suppose, if I may say so, that an artist of your standing would undertake such a task on a purely professional basis.’
‘An office of friendship,’ repeated Kenneth, turning the phrase over like a piece of stone that pleased him. ‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘It must be a great responsibility,’ I said, ‘to have in one’s care a collection of such value. I gather from Mrs Frostfield that it attracted interest from some rather unscrupulous characters. What was the name she mentioned? Bruce something – I can’t remember the rest of it, but you know who I mean, Mr Dunfermline.’
‘No,’ answered Kenneth, with blank indifference, ‘I haven’t heard of anyone called Bruce.’
Neither Ragwort nor myself venturing to touch more closely on the subject of his grief, nothing further was said of any significance. I urged him, before we left, if he should receive an invitation to come to Oxford and consider the artistic possibilities of our quadrangle, not to reject it out of hand.
‘Are you,’ asked Ragwort, in the kind but severe tone in which he sometimes reminds Julia to buy enough food for the weekend, ‘going to be all right?’
‘Yes,’ said the sculptor, ‘I’ll be all right,’ and smiled – whether at the absurdity of Ragwort’s question or the conventional untruthfulness of his own answer – a surprisingly beautiful smile.
The interview had left me feeling dispirited, for I perceived now that the sculptor’s attachment to Ned had been one of great intensity and passion, such as one rarely sees. One could not wish, for oneself or for one’s friends, any first-hand experience of such extremity of feeling – it is not conducive to comfortable living. And yet there is about it, when observed, something curiously touching and attractive, so that one almost, absurdly, regrets one’s own inability to entertain it.
Ragwort could not be persuaded that our expedition had been a success. Kenneth, he said, was plainly too dazed to remember anything not of great importance to him. We had told a great many lies and learnt nothing.
‘We have learnt,’ I said, ‘that Kenneth was the person in charge of the Tiverton Collection last week.’
‘It’s an interesting coincidence,’ said Ragwort, ‘but it can’t have anything to do with the murder.’
‘Don’t you think so? You are surely forgetting, my dear Ragwort, that it is a very valuable collection and that Eleanor, in particular, is most anxious to acquire certain items in it. We know she is not unduly scrupulous. When Kenneth refused to cooperate, do you think it impossible that she employed her friend Bruce to acquire them by more direct methods? And if Ned found out about it and threatened to tell his friend, would that be an insufficient motive for murder? Using the same accomplice, and ensuring that it was committed while she herself was safely elsewhere?’
Ragwort looked sceptical; but agreed to stop at the first post office we passed and telephone Selena to tell her that all was well and that Marylou should proceed with her journey. In the meantime I took the opportunity to send those telegrams which I thought necessary to ensure that on the following day everyone would be in the right place at the right time.
‘This idea of yours about Bruce and Eleanor,’ said Ragwort afterwards, ‘is it what you really believe, Hilary?’
‘I would suggest,’ I answered, ‘that it is not unworthy of your consideration.’
It is very wrong to tease Ragwort; but one cannot always help it. My readers will not have doubted for a moment that the theory was pure moonshine; I mentioned at the beginning of Chapter 6 that the designs of Eleanor and the Major on the personal effects of the late Miss Tiverton had not caused or contributed in any way to the murder, and my readers will not suppose that I would deceive them in such a matter.
‘I take it,’ said Ragwort, as he left me at Islington, ‘that we shall be seeing you in Chambers tomorrow?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But not unduly early. Nothing can happen before eleven o’clock.’
18
Nothing could happen before eleven o’clock. The instructions in my telegram to Timothy had been clear: whatever time Marylou arrived at the café beside the Accademia, he was not to approach her until eleven-thirty – it would then, by English time, be half past ten. After that, it could scarcely take less than half an hour for people and events to move towards the point of resolution; and if things fell out as I expected, there would be some further delay before Timothy was able to telephone with news of them. Timothy does not always show that unquestioning acceptance of my judgement which one would hope to see in a former pupil; but I had relied on him to think it prudent, presented with a fait accompli, to abide to the letter by my instructions. Nothing, therefore, could happen before eleven o’clock. All the same –
At half past nine on Friday morning I found myself climbing the stone stairs which lead to the second floor of 62 New Square. The members of the Nursery were already gathered in the largest of its three rooms, Ragwort and Cantrip at their desks, Selena in the large leather armchair. Ragwort had been explaining, it seemed, the theory I had suggested to him on the previous afternoon. It was not going down well – they all looked despondent.
‘If I was advising a client,’ said Cantrip, ‘I’d say that if that’s our case we jolly well ought to settle.’
‘I understand,’ said Ragwort, ‘that one cannot dispose of a criminal charge by way of compromise. I suppose one can offer to plead guilty to manslaughter if they’ll drop the more serious charge.’
‘I dare say,’ said Selena, ‘that one would so advise a client. But this is not a matter where we should allow our professional judgement to interfere with our personal feelings.’
I assured them that there was no need for anxiety and that matters were proceeding satisfactorily.
‘Well, I’m glad you think so, Hilary,’ said Cantrip. ‘As far as I can see, they’re proceeding with total loopiness. Even if there’s anything in this idea that Eleanor’s in cahoots with the Bruce chap – and personally I think it’s a dead loss – it still wouldn’t get us anywhere, because we don’t know who the Bruce chap is. And why on earth you think he’s still in Venice— ’
‘And even if he is,’ said Ragwort, ‘why you think Marylou’s going to recognize him – ’
‘I don’t,’ I said.
‘But Hilary,’ said Selena, with something less than her customary composure, ‘you have led Marylou to believe— ’
‘Nonsense,’ I said. ‘I have done nothing of the kind.’
‘But we were discussing,’ said Selena, ‘how we could find out who Bruce was and you asked Marylou if she could go to Venice.’
‘Ah yes,’ I said. ‘I remember now that you were discussing something of that kind. It was, however, mere coincidence; I was paying but little attention. No, I don’t expect her to recognize Bruce. My dear children, it is surely clear to you by now that Bruce does not exist?’
They were rather cross with me, on two alternative grounds, apparently; that Bruce did exist and I was wantonly deceiving them; or, if he did not, that by some remarkable alchemy I had mischievously caused his nonexistence. Such expressions as ‘frivolous dilettante’ and ‘irresponsible academic’ were freely used. They quietened at last, however, to the point of demanding an explanation.
‘I suppose,’ I said, ‘that none of you have ever studied the science of textual criti
cism and that you are all, therefore, unfamiliar with the principle of the lectum difficillimum?’
‘You suppose,’ said Selena, ‘correctly.’
‘Very well. I shall begin accordingly with a brief exposition of that principle.’
‘I say, Hilary,’ said Cantrip, ‘do you absolutely have to?’
‘Yes. I must begin by reminding you that a great part of Scholarship consists of the study of ancient or medieval documents. It is but rarely, however, that we are fortunate enough to have available the original manuscript in the hand of the author. The older the document, the more probable it is that we shall have to rely on a copy. Or a copy of a copy. So multiplies the possibility of error, through the carelessness or ignorance of the copyist. The reconstruction in such cases of the original – the discovery of the correct reading – that is the art of textual criticism.’
‘A moment ago,’ said Ragwort, ‘you called it a science.’
‘It is both an art and a science. It demands the exercise, to the highest degree, of every aspect of human genius. It requires the most rigorous logic, the most diligent application of experience, the most heroic flights of creative imagination.’
‘Yes, Hilary,’ said Selena. ‘I’m sure it does. Could we return to the point?’
‘Certainly. As I would by now have explained, if Ragwort had abstained from captious interruption, there have been developed by scholars versed in the art or science of textual criticism certain principles. Among the most important of these is that of the rectum difficillimum – that is to say, that the most difficult reading is to be preferred. Suppose, to take a simple case, that you have variant readings between two copies of the same manuscript, one using a very common word and the other an unusual one. You may conclude without hesitation that the version using the rarer word is correct. The mistake in the other can be explained by a copyist misreading an unfamiliar word for one which is known to him – that is the most natural thing in the world. The reverse, on the other hand, is inconceivable.’
Thus Was Adonis Murdered Page 21
