The Slow Death of Maxwell Carrick

by Jan Harvey

  ‘So, why did you all leave so suddenly and why was it sold to Madame Roussell?’

  I thought, for one awful moment, he was going to die. His skin literally turned white in front of me. He withdrew his hand and leaned back into his chair as if his belly was giving him pain. I glanced across at the red cord dangling by his bed, wondering if I should pull it, but he rallied with a huge sigh.

  ‘It was her, everything was fine until she came,’ he said quietly. The colour was returning to his face, pink rising in his cheeks. ‘It was her, she was the one who destroyed our lives, smashed everything to pieces. I found it all out, I went there, to Paris, you know. I uncovered the whole story bit by bit. Evil, evil woman, she nearly finished me.’ He turned to regard me, his eyes earnest in a face edged with pain. ‘She made me think about doing myself in.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, straightening up. ‘I shouldn’t have disturbed you, Mr Carrick. It’s clearly bringing back awful memories for you.’ I made to go, standing up and reaching for my bag, I’d put it on the end of his bed.

  ‘Open that cupboard,’ he said, indicating with a crooked index finger to a wardrobe on the other side of the room. ‘In there.’ I did as I was bid and, on the shelf, following his directions I found two thick notebooks. ‘Pass me the top one,’ he instructed. The cover and spine were held together with aged Sellotape, dark brown and barely doing its job.

  ‘Read that first line to me please,’ he said.

  I opened the book and saw that each page showed the most beautiful handwriting, his, he had written his name on the inside front cover. It was in faded blue ink, line after line with hardly any amendments or breaks in the format. I read it to him. “Inevitably, the subject turned to Cécile Roussell as I knew it must. There was intrigue in his voice something quite unfamiliar to me.”

  ‘That’s the one,’ he said. ‘Take it home with you and read it, then, if you have the heart for it, come back and I’ll give you the next one to read. I always swore that I’d give that to somebody one day and it would be someone who needed to read it, for one reason or another, and here you are.’

  I felt the most tremendous rush of gratitude. I sat back down and squeezed his hand. ‘Thank you, Mr Carrick, I am indebted to you for trusting me.’

  He looked suitably pleased. ‘I want you to know that sometimes the answers lie elsewhere.’ Having rallied and been quite loquacious, he suddenly looked very tired and I knew I had outstayed my welcome. I would be better prepared next time. With his eyes beginning to close, he said, ‘Just one more thing before you go.’

  ‘Yes, anything.’

  His eyes closed and yawning, he said, ‘Bring that dog of yours next time.’

  57

  As the door slammed closed on the following Monday morning, the sense of relief was enormous. Steve was still being cold with me. I have become used to the sullen silences over the year, those tortuous hours of non-communication, but I felt this one was unreasonable.

  I called Rory’s number, but it went to answerphone so I rung off. I just wanted to talk to him and tell him what had happened so he would stay clear but the thought that he wasn’t there was unbearable and I felt completely numb. Then I imagined him meeting someone in Spain and sipping cocktails in some beach bar without a thought for me. I could see them there, she’d be Sarah’s age, long swinging blonde hair, perfect skin, honey-kissed with bright white teeth. I despised her.

  The landline rang and everything in me willed it to be him.

  ‘Hi Mum, it’s Sarah.’

  There was a fraction of hesitation before I replied. ‘Oh, hi love,’

  ‘Sorry, is it a bad time?’

  ‘No, no I’m fine, sorry,’

  ‘Is everything okay, you sound a bit flat?’

  I resolved to tell her nothing, but I found myself saying, ‘Dad and I have had a fall out.’

  ‘What about?’

  The room was growing cold around me and I shivered involuntarily. I checked myself. ‘Something and nothing, it doesn’t matter. Anyway, how are you? That’s the main thing.’

  ‘I’m fine. I was just checking in about coming over to you for the weekend, perhaps the seventeenth?

  ‘Yes, that’s fine, we’ll do something nice. Do you fancy going to Gifford’s Circus?’

  I could hear the childish delight in her; ‘Oh yes, I’d love to, but, Mum, I’ll be bringing my new man, Garry.’

  ‘And how old is this one?’

  ‘Oh Mum, for God’s sake, I just knew that would be the first thing you asked.’ I sighed heavily, hoping she’d hear it. I knew this would make Steve even more angry. ‘He’s sixty,’ she said resolutely. I could picture her lips pressed tightly together, holding back because she was speaking to her mother.

  ‘Oh Sarah, your Dad will go mad. Another sixty year old, really?’

  ‘He’s my boyfriend, please don’t pigeon-hole him until you’ve met him.’ I listened as she told me about him: handsome, clever, hardworking, wealthy, everything a girl could want.

  As I replaced the receiver, I could only speculate on what I was going to tell Steve. How on earth was I going to tell Steve?

  I looked over at Mr Carrick’s book, sitting by my armchair, its cover a smooth blue leather, the edges of the pages a faded gold, an expensive notebook. I wrapped my shawl around me and tucked up my knees and then I began to read his words and the next thing I knew it was one o’clock and my stomach was rumbling.

  I had reached the end when Steve came home to find me sitting in the still blue twilight, the book closed on my knee. I had a crumpled tissue in my hand and my eyes felt raw. He and I were lost, Carrick and me. He had recognised it in me too.

  Steve took off his jacket and was beside me in two strides when he saw me sitting in the half dark.

  ‘Martha, darling, what’s wrong?’ He threw his arms round me. ‘I’m so sorry, I’ve been horrible, I shouldn’t have been so nasty. I am really sorry. I’ve upset you, haven’t I?

  ‘No, honestly, it’s not you, well it is a bit, and Sarah.’

  He leant over and switched on a table lamp. ‘Sarah?’

  ‘She’s bringing an older man home to meet us.’

  ‘Oh good God, no.’

  ‘Yes, she rang this morning.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘That’s what I thought, but she says we have to be reasonable and not pre-judge.’

  ‘I’m going to be responsible for my own judging,’ he said sitting back on the edge of the chair, his arm still round my shoulders. ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘Perhaps we should just hold back, meet him, do the nice parents bit and–’

  ‘And then I’ll take him in the back garden and punch his lights out,’ he said.

  ‘I think we must put Sarah first, it’s her life after all, perhaps reserve the punching bit for when she gets hurt?’

  ‘And that she will, an old man like that, it’s not right, it’s just not right.’

  ‘Let’s not rush to judgment,’ I said with a sniff.

  ‘No wonder you were upset,’ he said, his voice softening.

  ‘It wasn’t that so much, it was this book.’ I showed it to him, he opened it staring blankly at the first page.

  ‘What is it, some sort of diary?’

  ‘A memoir. That old chap I told you about, Maxwell Carrick, he let me read it, it’s about Lapston.’

  ‘That bloody house again.’ Steve shoved the book back at me, then stood up and stalked off to the kitchen. I took a deep breath and followed him, I wasn’t looking for another argument and I should have kept quiet about the book, but I so wanted to share what I was doing with him and, ultimately, to be open about it.

  ‘It’s fascinating, a real insight into the people who lived there. There was this French woman who–’

  ‘Not interested, Martha, not anymore, if it has to do wi
th that house it has to do with him and I’m just not going there.’ He grabbed the dog’s lead from where it was lying on the work surface. ‘I’m going out for a walk.’

  I watched as he slipped on his walking shoes and Barbour jacket. Inca’s tail was thumping against the Aga, her eyes bright and alert. This was a highly unusual thing, an early evening walk with her master and she was over the moon.

  ‘Come on, girl, let’s get out of here,’ he said as they left by the back door and disappeared.

  58

  I was outside Rory’s house watching the river rushing beneath me as I perched on the low wall. The swirl of grey and blue water was churning up white foam. The stones that were once the millrace were slick with wet spray. It was June, but it was damp and cold.

  I had thought about going to Lapston. I wanted to see it again and picture them all sitting in the lounge or having dinner in the panelled dining room, to see their ghosts; Alice and Henry. They had died in France, did ghosts travel across water?

  I pulled my coat around me, the spray in the air all about me cold.

  No, that wasn’t it. Was it vampires who couldn’t cross water? Then I told myself to stop being so silly, I didn’t believe in ghosts or vampires, in fact nothing supernatural. I was being stupid but I couldn’t resist the draw of the old house, it was calling to me, wanting me to hear its secrets. Would I be trespassing if I went up to see it? I wished Rory were home, but his house was in darkness with the curtains drawn.

  ‘Hello Martha!’ The voice was so loud in my ear, I jumped out of my skin. It was Norman Fry, his eyes smiling at me from under his flat cap. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Norman, I’m fine, thank you. I’m afraid I was daydreaming.’

  ‘Was it about our Mr McBride?’ Norman pushed my arm playfully. ‘I bet you’re missing him something chronic. What a shame you couldn’t go with him, but a business trip is a business trip I suppose, though what would I know, eh?’

  ‘Norman,’ I said evenly, ‘there’s something I should tell you–’

  ‘Oh no, is he dead?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That’s what I was dreading, that you’d get to Mr Carrick’s place and he’d have passed on. He’s a ripe old age, must be on his way to his telegram, makes me feel very young.’

  ‘No, no, he’s actually very well, I saw him on Saturday. I had a lovely visit with him. He’s a very nice man though he was disappointed that I couldn’t take my dog.’

  ‘Oh, he would be. He loves dogs, does Mr Carrick.’

  ‘He was very helpful indeed and I learned a lot of stuff about Lapston.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Norman shook his head. ‘Though it was all so sad, my mum told me it broke her heart how everything fell apart.’

  ‘Yes, you said. Do you have any idea at all what happened to George, or Madame Roussell?’

  ‘Russell,’ he corrected me. I let it go.

  ‘Or even Grant?’

  ‘No, Mr Carrick’s the one for that sort of thing, but I doubt you’ll get a lot out of him, he’s a very private man if you ask me, keeps it buttoned up in that old fashioned way, respectful like, not like today when it’s all over magazines and those red tops.’

  ‘He’s actually let me have quite a lot of information, things he wrote about, in a book.’

  ‘Really? Well I never, would you like a cup of tea and you can tell me all about it?’

  ‘Thank you, Norman. I would have loved to but I must get back, I have a lunch appointment.’ I was lying but I suddenly found I didn’t want to share Carrick with anyone, not Norman and not even Rory. I wanted to hear Mr Carrick’s story, the conclusion of it and I was going to go and see him, before the end of the week, whether it upset Steve or not.

  59

  He was gazing out of the window, a blanket wrapped around him, tucked in under his arms. He looked serene, as if a peace had come upon him. Inca barged through the door wagging her tail, and he was reaching out for her instantly, feeling for her head. His eyes watered up immediately.

  ‘Ah now, this is a fine lady you’ve brought to see me,’ he said with a big grin. ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Inca.’

  ‘Lovely,’ he said as he ran his hand over her back. ‘Lovely girl, nice ears.’

  Inca, for once, behaved immaculately as if she could sense that he could not move very easily. Instead she pressed against his thigh, looking up at him with soulful eyes.

  ‘You’ll have to remind me of your name,’ he said, finally looking towards me. ‘I’m terrible for names now.’

  ‘Martha Nelson,’ I replied, perching on the edge of his bed. ‘I came a week ago and you very kindly gave me your memoirs.’

  ‘Did I? Yes, I remember, you were the lost lady. I’ve waited a long time to meet you.’ He held my gaze for a second and I his. I could see in his eyes the Carrick I had read about; the damaged man, the hurt man, the forlorn man. I have no idea what he saw in me, but we had connected. ‘So, what did you think?’

  ‘Did you eventually find them?’ I asked. ‘George and Cécile?’

  ‘Oh yes, depending on how you define found.’ He sniffed and fumbled for his handkerchief. ‘I’m getting a cold I think.’ I handed him a tissue from the box on the sideboard.

  ‘Where they married?’

  ‘No.’ He turned back to the window, he was still fussing with Incas’ ears with one hand. ‘I didn’t do the right thing at all.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Have you come far?’ he asked, still avoiding eye contact.

  ‘I’ve come from the village where you used to live, at Lapston.’

  ‘Really?’ he met my eyes. ‘What is she like now? I’d like you to say someone’s done her up and returned her to her former glory.’

  ‘I’m afraid not. She’s a ruin. It’s very sad.’

  ‘She was beautiful. But she was sad too, at the end.’

  I reached forward and put a hand on his arm. ‘Mr Carrick.’

  ‘Call me Carrick, they all did. She used to, never called me Captain, no one did, quite glad; I wasn’t a good soldier.’

  ‘Can you tell me what happened to everyone, to George and Cécile? How did Lapston pass to her?’

  The look he gave me was unsettling, as if he was seeing me for the first time, and I leaned back unsure about what to do.

  ‘In there,’ He indicated towards the wardrobe. ‘The second book.’

  I stood up, knowing where to look. The wardrobe smelt old and musty as I opened it, the clothes were messy, thrown in there without care. No one thought about how his things were stored. The book was black, a leather bound notebook with gold-edged pages like a bible. It was his second journal.

  ‘You’ll find it all in there, take it,’ He said with a sigh. ‘I knew you’d come, it was only a matter of time.’

  ‘How did you know I’d come?’

  ‘I’ve been waiting for you. Everyone has to account for themselves, to purge themselves. I’ve been waiting for you to come for a long time.’

  I opened the book. It was the same even hand, the ink black, foreboding.

  ‘Do you really want me to read this, Carrick?’

  He nodded. He had stopped stroking Inca’s head. She raised a paw and placed it on his leg, her big eyes half-mooning. No one could resist her and she knew it, but Carrick was wiping a tear from his eye.

  ‘I did what I had to do,’ he said at length. ‘I don’t regret any of it, but I made the wrong decision about Alice. I killed her.’

  ‘Killed Alice?’

  ‘No, not Alice but as good as, I broke her heart, she wouldn’t have put herself in danger if she was coming home to me. She volunteered for that flight, knew it was a dangerous mission. One of the last acts of war in France and my Alice was on that plane. One of the last acts of war, my Alice.’

  I
knelt down beside him, his head was tilting to the left. I had tired him out. He nodded and said finally, ‘I killed her.’ I drew in a sharp breath and stood over him as he slumped into a deep sleep.

  Who had he killed? I knew the answer was in the book I was holding and I desperately wanted to start reading it. A chill ran through me, so many secrets, a past that was being unlocked by an imposter.

  I left his room, closing the door behind me with a soft click. I so wanted to take a seat in the small visitor’s lounge and read the first few pages of the journal, but I reckoned that if I left for home, and beat the rush hour traffic, I could make dinner for Steve and spend the evening reading.

  I slid the book into my handbag and headed for the car park.

  I tapped in “Previous Destination” on the satellite navigation system and the name of my village came up. As I reversed out of my parking space, I was wondering what I was doing and if I should be doing it at all. I had no idea what I was going to read in Carrick’s book. Part of me said I should take it back and leave it there with him, but the journalist part of me was desperate to find answers.

  I released the handbrake and left Lady Cormer House behind me, a retreating reflection in my rear view mirror.

  PART THREE

  60

  The letter arrived at the end of February. Mrs Hall was waiting for me as I returned from visiting Peterson.

  ‘It’s from Mr George,’ she said. ‘I know the hand.’ There was a tremor in her voice as she passed it to me. Naturally, she was still worrying that there would be consequences in her leaving Lapston so unexpectedly.

  I turned the envelope over but there was nothing to suggest where it had been posted. The postmark itself was smudged, no return address on the reverse side.

  ‘Oh, do open it, Mr Carrick, do,’ she implored.

  I ripped open the top.

  “My Dear Carrick,

  I have come home to Lapston for the final time.