by Mary Kelly
Beddoes didn’t hear the rest. He had so much ado not to laugh at the mustache man’s name that he turned away. So it happened that he saw Ivan rise from his seat and sway toward the bar. He came to rest between Beddoes and the group of three. He pushed the empty glass at the barmaid and groped for his pocket, supporting himself all the time on the counter with his left hand.
The barmaid stared at him and made no move. “I don’t think you’d better have any more, sir,” she said in a flat way, making it a statement rather than a recommendation.
Ivan simply waited, as if he hadn’t heard, gaping at the glass.
Since he appeared quiescent, the barmaid busied herself elsewhere. But Beddoes saw that her move was designed to establish relations with potential assistants. She leaned across and touched Joe’s arm.
“You going to have one of my raffle tickets, Mr. Pearce?” she asked heavily.
“Raffle tickets, my dear?” Joe turned with an almost courtly inclination. “What for?”
“First prize, hamper and five pounds; second, turkey and bottle of whisky; third . . .”
“No, no, Daphne, I meant, what’s the charitable object?”
“Same as usual—Dr. Barnardo’s.”
“Ah. Yes, I don’t mind a couple.”
She lifted a book of tickets and a large silver-and-blue cardboard egg from under the counter.
Nutface laughed. “Bit early, Daff. Goin’ ta raffle the egg too?”
She was still forming her slow reply as Ivan lurched around.
“I ain’t got it,” he squeaked.
It came as a shock to Beddoes to hear a prosaic whine issue from Ivan, instead of the elegantly broken English or fluent Russian he’d irrationally expected.
There was a pause. The mantle of authority fell quite naturally on Joe.
“Ain’t got what, old cock?” he rumbled, his fruity bass at once firm and soothing.
Ivan was silent. His eyes passed hazily from one face to the next. Beddoes met him with indifference. Ivan shook his head and turned back to the counter. He extended a shaking hand for his expected drink, the money for which lay where he had left it.
“Go on, Daff,” Nutface urged the barmaid, “one more can’t do no ’arm.” He grimaced and winked behind Ivan’s back to indicate that he, personally, would insure that it should not.
“ ’Ere, mate,” said Joe magisterially, nodding support, “ ’ave one with us. One more on me, eh, boys? An’ we’ll make that the lot. Same agen, please, Daphne. What’s yours, chummy?”
Ivan realized that he was being offered a drink. He managed to collect his money and put it back in his pocket without dropping it, then edged along the counter to attach himself to the party. Whether he intended to comply with Joe’s cunningly inclusive admonition that this drink was to be the last, or had even understood it, Beddoes doubted. But the ruse had succeeded in so far as it had lured Ivan to a position from which the three guardians of the pub’s peace could at least try to sweep him out the easy way in a general comradely exit if need be. And Ivan was suddenly very anxious to be comradely, either because to stand him a drink was to make him a friend or, as it seemed to Beddoes, because he found something in the three men to reassure him. He seized his beer and gulped some down, as though aware that if he didn’t reduce the level quickly the shaking of his hands might cause wastage. His face became animated, although the direction of his eyes remained unsure. He even attempted a feeble grin. He opened his mouth.
“I see it,” he said.
Beddoes looked cautiously around the room. Its occupants were engaged in talk, either in pairs or in groups. He and Ivan, perhaps rather unfortunately, were the only solitaries. No one appeared to have noticed what was going on at the bar. Ivan’s voice was so weak and wheezy that Beddoes imagined it must be inaudible beyond the range of his immediate circle.
“I see it,” he repeated breathlessly. “I told ’im what it look like. How could I tell ’im unless I see it?”
“That’s right, mate.” Nutface exchanged a pessimistic glance with his friends.
“I told ’im,” continued Ivan, heedless of a need to clear his throat. “I told ’im all about it.” His expression grew maudlin. “Ah, it was lovely,” he sighed.
“What was, mate?”
“The egg.”
Nutface tapped his forehead to the others. “What egg?”
“The Easter egg. I told ’im. All white an’ glittering; lovely, like ice an’ frost an’ stars.”
Nutface raised his eyebrows. “Bleedin’ poet!”
“Sounds more like a perishin’ Christmas egg.” The morose Jim spoke up suddenly. “Yes, I reckon thass what that was, a perishin’ Christmas egg, eh, Joe? A Christmas egg.”
Repetition showed his satisfaction with his wit. His face was as lugubrious as ever.
Nutface burst out laughing. “ ’Ere, Daff!” He leaned across the bar to communicate the mot, which was still being mumbled by its author.
“Lovely,” said Ivan. He raised his eyes, and Beddoes saw that they were swimming with tears. “An’ I lost it; I lost it. I lost all of it.” The tears ran down his cheeks.
“Oh gorblimey,” Nutface muttered in disgust. “What about it, Joe?”
“Cheer up, cock,” said Joe, laying a paternal hand on Ivan’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go ’ome?”
Ivan made such a convulsive movement that Joe, evidently thinking he was about to be sick, stepped hastily out of range. Ivan was not sick; but in a moment his former vacancy returned. He swung his back to the man who had bought him his drink, which he had not yet finished, and Beddoes began to move unobtrusively away.
He went back to where he had been sitting, picked up his newspaper and pencil, and left the pub. At any minute, he felt, Ivan also would be leaving, either voluntarily or propelled by Joe and company. He walked a few yards along the main road, then stopped; and with deliberation took out a cigarette and stuck it in his mouth. He covertly blew out three matches to prolong the business of lighting it, but the fourth he let alone. Then he dropped his paper, contriving in letting it fall to catch the edge of the center page and fan it wide apart and then to place it so that he had to turn back to face the pub when he picked the paper up carefully. He folded it into a tight roll, and, as he finished, was rewarded by the sight of the pub door swinging open and Ivan staggering out alone.
Ivan didn’t come along the main road toward Beddoes, but turned into Tamplin Walk, a narrow alley beside the Derby Arms. The far end would join Goswell Road, thought Beddoes, sauntering after him. This was probably the quickest way to Bright’s Row. But did Ivan want to go back to what he’d left, the squalid room and the dead grandmother? Perhaps he’d forgotten. Perhaps his feet had of long necessity grown independent of his head and carried him willy-nilly in the right direction from any pub in the district. If he did go home, the Division could look after him. And the best of luck, thought Beddoes, viewing with disfavor the alternative prospect of snailing around Islington till the small hours. He wouldn’t risk losing sight of Ivan by phoning for someone to take over, and as he could recognize none of the divisional detectives except the man he’d relieved at the Derby he couldn’t hope to meet help on the road.
Come on, Vanya, get a move on, he muttered under his breath, watching Ivan’s unsteady progress down the badly-lit lane. Vanya’s hide, unlike his own, appeared to be seasoned by drink, impervious to cold. That rum had been a good idea. Two would have been even better. Nightingale, no doubt, was still toasting himself in the jeweler’s armchair. Beddoes waited a moment; then, at enforced leisure, strolled through the set of iron posts which marked the end of Tamplin Walk and which Ivan had encountered with some confusion.
They emerged into the brightness of Goswell Road near the great junction with City Road. Ivan lunged off the pavement and struck out on a long diagonal across both lines of traffic. Beddoes rolled up his eyes, suppressing the hope that a heavy truck would take Ivan off his hands, and followed. Only he kept with propriety to the pedes
trian crossing, which lay like a tape measure straight across the converging main roads, divided only by the island with its lavatories and huge yellow road signs; Oxford, S. Wales, Slough, The West, they promised. Beddoes, launching himself on the second half of the black-and-white strip, looked to his right. “Up and down the City Road, in and out the Eagle.” Where was the Eagle? Not far down you could look into the gray water of the Basin, banked by wharves, factories, and dumps. Within the gentle throw of a stone a wooden boom slanted across the surface; a clump of rushes sprouted in the center of it, and in that solitary patch of vegetation a pair of swans had nested. That was the nearest thing to the Eagle that he knew.
Ivan was going straight on. It began to look as if he meant to go home; and he was going faster. There were few people about. The street was quiet, but not dead, dotted with bright windows, outward sign of the warrens inside the old houses which rose sheer from the pavement. Beddoes looked down into snug, carpeted basements with coal fires glowing in the grates. Coal from the cart didn’t burn with that still brilliance, he knew, but the great railway depots of Somerstown were not far away. He averted his eyes from so much untouchable comfort and studied Ivan’s erratic course. The faster he wished to go, the wider he rolled. One of the houses was shored up by two large beams, their bases embedded in the pavement. Ivan skirted the first, swerved, and went under the second, as though he were starting a figure eight in a country dance. He was trying to run. He narrowly missed running into a young couple coming toward him. Quite unconcerned, they minded their own business, walking with their arms around each other, the girl’s head resting on the boy’s shoulder, yet discussing something between them with a brisk, businesslike air. Ivan swung into a side street which would lead him away from Bright’s, and as Beddoes turned the corner his heart sank. The road branched; at the fork stood a small pub. A white-and-tabby cat ran across the street and disappeared into the darkness of a bombed patch. There was a contractor’s board stuck inside its fence. Soon a sharp block of flats would rear abruptly over the old houses, which were smaller in this street and darker. There was no one out but Ivan and himself; and Ivan was heading for the pub door.
Beddoes began a long systematic curse; then checked. Vacillating Vanya had thought better of it. He reeled down the street to the left of the pub, a street which marked a swing back toward Bright’s. Beddoes tagged on, resigned. He supposed he ought to be thankful that Ivan was too drunk to suspect he was being followed, that he never happened to look behind him. Unaccountably, Beddoes felt the desire to look back himself. He did, carefully. Two men, shambling toward the pub. Another cat, streaking low to the ground. Nothing else. Ahead, Vanya was developing quite a turn of speed. He was nearly at the end of the street where Beddoes perceived railings and trees. What was that? A park? Gardens?
Ivan reached the corner and turned left; and from the right hurtled a soapbox on wheels, narrow tireless rims clattering over the cracks of the pavement. Two bicycle lamps were fixed to the front. Power was provided by the energetic footwork of the small boy at the back, while his partner, the driver, was responsible for steering and simulating the noise of an engine in top gear. With a sound like the disgruntled meow of a wild cat, he waved his hand up and down to signify that they were to stop. The contraption came to a standstill within an inch of Beddoes’ toes.
“Got the time please, mister?” asked the driver, staring up at him.
“Time you were in bed,” observed Beddoes civilly, looking at his watch. “Twenty past ten.”
A gasp of horror met this information. “Thanks, mister. Come on, Tim,” said the driver all in one breath.
Beddoes watched them dashing off. “You ought to have red lights on the back,” he called after them. “You’re breaking the law!”
Tim stopped the furious working of his feet, turned, cocked a finger-gun, and emitted two sounds like steam escaping from a train. At which, Beddoes supposed, he ought to topple slowly to the ground, clutching his stomach and grimacing.
He started, and ran to the corner. Ivan had gone. There was no sign of him, up or down the road. Without hesitation Beddoes crossed to the opposite pavement, flanked by the railings and trees he’d seen from a distance. He refused to give way to panic, though his heart was hammering; as yet, there was occasion only to abuse himself as a triple cloth-head. Ivan couldn’t have gone far in those few seconds. Perhaps he was in one of the houses calling on a friend. But the windows were all dark. The row seemed deserted. Beddoes peered through the railings into the spreading trees on his right. He jumped. It seemed to him for a second that he was standing on the brow of a steep hill from the invisible foot of which rose many-storyed tenements, layer upon layer of lighted windows. Then he understood. The hill brow was a sloping bank; what he took for a void of darkness was a strip of motionless water; and the tenements reaching from the depths were the reflected backs of tall houses perched on the treeless bank opposite. So still was the inky surface, now that he looked closely, he could see that in what he’d thought were lower storys the curtains and lamps were all hanging upside down. This must be part of the canal. Which canal? The Regent? The Grand Junction? Nightingale lived near a canal. Nightingale—what could he say to him? I was watching some kids on a cart. Beddoes walked on. The bank was so steep that the trees revolved in the corner of his sight as he passed, willows with enormous sprawling limbs. A cat, the third, a black one, shot through a gap in the eroded railings. Beddoes stopped. What was the matter with the lower storys? The bright window squares were wavering, stretching and contracting. There was no wind. Something had dropped or fallen in.
“Ivan!”
He shouted it. Russians, canals, suicide. He shouted to the empty street, forcing himself through the gap in the railings, shouted formlessly as he stumbled down the bank, slithering, catching at branches and bushes, fumbling for the whistle in his pocket. Not there—forgotten; black mark, he thought. Ivan, Vanya, blast you, this isn’t Fontanka. He tore off his raincoat and flung it behind him somewhere, dragged off his shoes, grabbed his flashlight—remembered for once—and swept the beam over the water. There was the center of the spreading ripples, close to the edge. With a despairing bellow for help to the backs of the tall houses, he threw down the flashlight and plunged in. He yelled from sheer agony. He was being stabbed, riddled, cut up. It was impossible; it was freezing. He couldn’t stand it; he was going to get out. He went under, blind and groping, meeting nothing but swirling darkness. Yet he could feel it wasn’t too deep, six or seven feet. He groped and groped. His heart was going to split in a second. He had to breathe. He burst through to the surface, spluttering and blowing. Why hadn’t someone come? He had to have lights. He shouted, very breathlessly, and went under once again. He swam and groped, swam and groped, till lights began to ping on and off in his head. Suddenly he hit something soft, recoiled, choked on a gulp of water, and clutched cloth between his fingers. There was movement, a struggle against his hand. The grip wasn’t right; he hadn’t had time, hardly ever practiced. They were sinking. He heaved, kicked, clawed—chin, shoulder—and got it. Now, surface; he had to surface, to break out of all the bells and fireworks, up, back, and up. But clothes were heavy; Streatham Baths in trunks another matter. An inch, only an inch; but he couldn’t, not with Ivan. Let him go, he thought. No. It was coming. He was up. He gasped and swallowed knives. His body was on the rack. His legs were strangely feeble. The bank now, he thought, the dry scratchy bank, with Ivan dead or alive, and soaked enough without the help of the canal. Regent or Grand Union? Moika, Fontanka, or Ekaterinski? Something rubbed his shoulder. The bank.
He dragged himself out, landed Ivan, rolled him over, and collapsed on top of him, shaking, puffing, and snorting. Why had no one come? He tried to call out, and uttered an exhausted croak. He couldn’t let Ivan die, not after all that. He heaved himself up and tried to press down on Ivan’s back with arms like jellyfish. Swimming was obviously not his best subject, especially in near ice. One, two, wait, he thought
. Come on, Vanya. One, two . . .
A meteor cracked his head open, a magnesium star split the darkness. Nuclear warhead, he thought sickly, and knew no more.
Mr. Majendie reminded Nightingale of a small fat silver-haired hamster, or perhaps a round silver teapot spouting puffs of steam was nearer the mark, including as it did the loquacity, so gentle and fussy and quasi-old-fashioned. Nightingale felt more than a tough of skepticism. He didn’t imagine that a leading figure in the trade of fine jewelry, objets d’art, and antiques had reached his position by conducting business with loving kindness. Majendie, the plump household pet blinking over the top of rimless spectacles, babbling persiflage, inclining the head in urbane courtesy, was all the time marking the flaw, the crack, the fake, or concealing jubilation at an unsuspected treasure. From behind those innocent-looking lenses could shoot a glance of extreme shrewdness, such as Nightingale had witnessed in the midst of Majendie’s professions of surprise and regret. The professions were genuine, he thought, within the limitations of Majendie’s speech. How distressing—thus Majendie received news of Princess Karukhina’s death, but accompanied by a flash of great relief not to say satisfaction, as if Majendie said to himself, and from his heart, how fortunate.
“It would be interesting to know,” Mr. Majendie said now, stretching his short legs to the fire, “how our estimable police force discovered that Princess Karukhina had been a client of ours.” He paused for a moment to peep invitingly at Nightingale, who smiled politely. “Ah, I’m not permitted, I see. But the Princess, dear me, how sad! One feels, you know, that an era has closed. And what an era! We shall never see its like, my dear sir. Never.”
“No,” said Nightingale in a neutral tone. Eras must close quite commonly for Majendie. “When you said that the Princess was a client of yours, did you mean a former client?”
Mr. Majendie blinked sweetly. “She was still honoring us with her patronage. We called on her, you know, as late as last week.”