‘‘Thanks to some part of the ‘underground’ you stirred up in Holland, I have located the Leonie of Grevil’s letter—and, I’m almost certain, Buckingham with her. But before I make any further move I must have your identification. Without it nothing can come to the boil.
‘‘Can you fly out or train out one day this week? I should be so grateful if you could. I’m enclosing a cheque which should pay expenses and enable you to pick up your foreign exchange.
Regards, ‘‘Philip.’’
Chapter Ten
On the way home Charlotte Weber had casually mentioned the sketches I proposed to make of her, so it was only necessary for me to suggest I might go round the following morning and begin. She’d spoken in front of Sanbergh. Da Cossa was there too, and though I didn’t know quite where he fitted in, it was plain that he didn’t propose to fit in with me. I looked on him rather as Sanbergh’s jackal and, if anything, more full of enmity than the lion.
If I hadn’t altogether forgotten how to draw, then I felt like making a good job of this or dying in the attempt. It was queer in this business—and disconcerting—to find already how many things initiated with only one purpose, begun cold and with no thought in my mind but the inquiry into Grevil’s death, had already come to catch at my personal life and my own private feelings. It was damned unsettling.
After breakfast I did some more of Grevil’s notes. The shorthand was very rough, and here and there he used abbreviations of his own, so that it all took a considerable time. But I came on one interesting entry right away.
‘‘Heard Pangkal no better. Much miss his painstaking efficiency, all the peculiar merits of the studious Asiatic Buckingham no substitute, though he handles the diggers well. This not always easy because the fossiliferous stratum is below the low water level and liable to flooding …
‘‘Have never met anyone like B, and he says same of me! Used to think he put on this pose of representing the new morality. Now I wonder if partly sincere. He argues that what is called crime is as biologically natural as birth, death and procreation, and that in the near and enlightened future it will no longer be forbidden but will be recognised and renamed as an integral part of human behaviour. Honesty, he says, will then be regarded as never having existed except as an imaginary barrier to defeat natural enterprise. Truthfulness will be a convenience used only when the facts can’t be denied. Uprightness will be seen as another name for stupidity.
‘‘I tell him he’s still in intellectual rompers, that these arguments he advances are as modern and progressive as Nineveh and Ur. Every tyrant from Sennacherib to Hitler has used them. I tell him he’s not ahead of the times but behind them.
‘‘In fact, he’s nobody’s fool, and I sometimes wish I could feel more convinced of my own arguments … not that they’re right—I know that—but that they’re powerful enough and urgent enough. Vitally important such views as his should be discredited because it’s becoming less and less safe for humanity to breed the renegade and the tyrant. So much harder—and slower—to impose upon the human spirit by example what the scientist can now impose upon the human body by nuclear fission.
‘‘Much quality in B. though. We have tremendous conversations. Have talked more to him than to anyone before about this new theory I have denying man’s catarrhine affinities and placing his antiquity as a distinct primate from the first interglacial. Jack’s keen alert brain is quite admirable foil. He’s no archæologist in the strict sense. What he does do is bring to everything he tackles intense intellectual curiosity that for a short time sweeps everything before it. Flaw is in the word short. With his talents he should have got anywhere; instead nowhere. His brain is much too good to be running the way it is. Somewhere he went off the rails, and if one could find that point … Of course the way to put him right is to prove him wrong!’’
‘‘You should be out swimmin’ and divin’,’’ said Charlotte Weber, fiddling with the scarf round her neck. ‘‘Wasting the days on me. Make hay, etc. Last April we had seventy-two hours of thunders. All through it I read War and Peace I felt I was at a celestial movie and God had written the background music.’’
‘‘I was in California until the beginning of the month, so missing a day’s sun won’t hurt me.’’
‘‘In California. I surely love the beaches there. Not that I’ve ever been, but the postcards one’s friends send. What were you doing?’’
I told her while I began to get the first rough lines on paper. The challenge in this job was not merely in the hate campaign of some of Charlotte Weber’s peculiar friends, but in Charlotte herself, in the personality behind her big dark bloodshot eyes and sagging heavily powdered face and large tolerant undisciplined mouth. I was surprised how important that had become.
I said: ‘‘Tell me about Leonie Winter. You promised. Have you known her long?’’
‘‘Oh, dear Leonie. Oh yes. Yes, I met her first at Cannes just after the war; that is, the season when things began to start up again. I remember the collaborators were still being sorted out. Like laundry that’s got mixed. But even that was better than the year before. The year before, you’d call to see your old friend Raoul and find him hangin’ from his chandelier. Embarrassin’. It always upsets me to see my friends in trouble even when they’ve been naughty.’’
‘‘You met Leonie?’’ I prompted.
‘‘She was representing Great Britain in some swimming contest. She was seventeen or eighteen then, I suppose. She was like a beautiful fair bitch maystiff just growing out of the puppy stage. I’m simply livin’ for the day when Tiffany and Bergdorf are that age. Didn’t you ever hear of Leonie Hardwick? I’ve seen her once or twice since and kept pressin’ her to come and stay, but she never would or could. Life’s so complicated for the young.’’
I stared at the line of her nose. It needed no overemphasis.
‘‘Maybe she was busy with her various husbands.’’
‘‘Husbands?’’ Mine Weber turned her head and spoiled the line altogether. ‘‘No, I’m the one with the husbands, dear. Overwhelmin’ when one thinks. Girls should be warned when young. Marriage is habit forming. But Leonie’s only had one so far.’’
‘‘She was talking about several yesterday.’’
‘‘You must have provoked her. She’s quick with her tongue when provoked. It’s a good failin’. You didn’t believe her, did you?’’
‘‘What happened to the one?’’
‘‘He died. Such a nice boy, and money in the family too. D’you ever read Tennyson? My mother did whenever she was enceinte. I don’t know what the significance was Maud, Maud, and the rest. Don’t thou marry for money but marry where money is.’’
‘‘Is that what Leonie did?’’
‘‘No, they were devoted. It was that bad summer for polio in England. They all caught it. Leonie got over it quickly—just left her with that slight stammer—but Tom Winter and the baby both died. I felt very angry when I heard.’’
‘‘Angry?’’
‘‘So many scoundrels left in the world. Deplorable. Fate should know its business better.’’
I stared at the sketch and then slipped it quietly behind and began again.
‘‘D’you mind bringing your head up. Thanks. Not too much. Right.’’
‘‘She gave up serious swimming when she married, and never took it up again. Just as well. Competitive sport is fun for the teenager, but after that you begin to wear it on your face. I rather lost sight of the dear girl until she wired me to know if she could come and stay. Why is one flattered by the attentions of the young?’’
‘‘And Captain Sanbergh?’’
‘‘Can I move my shoulder? I’m having cramp.’’
‘‘Of course. We’ll stop for a few minutes. Get up and walk about.’’
‘‘No, really very camfortable. This chair is Venetian: I like to think one of the Doges sat in it. Or Titian. His girls are overrated. What were you telling me about Charles Sanbergh?’’
&nb
sp; ‘‘I wondered if you’d known him long?’’
‘‘Oh, God, yes. A lifetime.’’ She sighed. ‘‘Dear Charles. So kind, so reassuring. A man like that. One forgets one is more than half a hundred years old?’’
I sketched for a while.
‘‘Does he live here all the time?’’
‘‘Who, Charles? I’d say not. He’s been away all winter … Have you ever done a self-portrait? Must be interesting.’’
I saw that she was not prepared to talk about Sanbergh. ‘‘No,’’ I said after a second. ‘‘I don’t think it would be very interesting.’’
‘‘What? Not with a face like yours? I’d want to. Sincerity, insight, steadfastness of purpose; they’re all there—and eyes, restless but very seeing. Should say you were bitter but soft-hearted. Interestin’ disharmony. Weil worth a pot of paint.’’
I smiled but didn’t reply. Presently I said: ‘‘You’re not an American are you?’’
‘‘Do I look it? Improbable. What makes you ask?’’
‘‘Some turns of speech. And then——’’
‘‘I’m part Italian, part Danish, with a lot of other things in back. One grandmother was a Scot and the other a Serb. No chance at the Kennel Club. Have you noticed the Continental European, if he’s over thirty-five he talks English with an English accent; if he’s under it’s with an American. Signs of the times.’’ She pulled her scarf round. ‘‘ My last husband was an American. Dear Sam. He spelt his name with two B’s, but when he died I dropped one and pronounced it the European way—I hope he doesn’t mind.’’
‘‘I wouldn’t if I were he.’’
‘‘It’s queer, you know, him dying so much before me when I expected to die so much before him. Downright confusin’.’’
There was silence for a time. I said: ‘‘Tell me, when you heard—when you were told you hadn’t long to live, did it ever occur to you to take your own life?’’
‘‘No … No, I don’t think so. I was too busy. Think of the arrangin’ to be done. Tidyin’ up. Codicils. If you’re going to be cheated of twenty years, why give up the last twenty months?’’
‘‘Provided there’s any part of it you can enjoy.’’
‘‘Well, yes. There nearly always is. I thoroughly enjoyed mine. Why sulk?’’
I worked for about another hour, and by then had made a fairly satisfactory sketch. At least it seemed satisfactory to me. I suppose I was like someone who hasn’t played tennis for years; you go on a court and are pleasantly surprised you can still play at all.
By now it was past noon and the sun was creeping round to the loggia where we’d been sitting. The four mastiffs were admitted and came lurching and snuffling in, making a great fuss of us both. Mme Weber invited me to lunch but I refused. I didn’t want to sponge more than necessary.
So she excused herself. Before lunch she wanted to see Louise Henriot, the Frenchwoman with the long cigarette-holder, and it would give the dogs exercise. Leaning on her stick, tapping across the tiled floor, with a shuffle of paws following her, she left me, having told me to take another glass of sherry before I went.
I leaned on the balcony. There was more wind this morning; the leaves of the palmettoes and the tree ferns fluttered and rustled in the garden like old men reading newspapers. Overhead was high cloud and the smear of an aeroplane. Mme Weber’s footsteps receded into silence. The house was very quiet.
She had two servants, I thought; an elderly woman who had once been a local beauty and; dancer, and a slim cheerful young Roman called. Berto, who did all the waiting at table. I wondered where they were now. I picked up my sketch and stared at it. I laid the other sheets on top of it and rolled them into a funnel and put them in my pocket. I could either leave by way of the loggia and the front garden or through the house and out of the back gate.
I went through the house.
In the white hall shallow stairs with a square stone balustrade led up to the first floor. I picked up a copy of the New York Times and stared at the headlines. Now, very faintly, one could catch the sound of voices. They came from the kitchen. The two servants were in there. And the four dogs were out.
I went up the stairs.
The window at which I had seen Leonie was the end one above the drawing-room. The white passage had flush doors with brass lever handles; this all looked now as if it had been redone very recently. I tried the last door and went in.
To begin ransacking a strange house at midday is probably not the most cautious of moves, but all day today I’d felt the need to force the pace. Yes, it was Leonie’s bedroom. That very faint scent, and there were sandals I recognised, and a scarf, and on the lower half of the shutters a green strapless swim-suit. On a folding rest of canvas and wood was a Rev-Air suitcase. I went to it and saw the K. L.M. label still tied to the handle, Amsterdam to Rome. With a feeling as if I were doing something really unpleasant, I nipped back the catches and lifted the lid.
The case was about a quarter full, some underclothes, nylon stockings, a beret, a girdle; in the pocket papers; I ran rapidly through them, map of Rome, a few receipted hotel bills, among them one for four nights at the Hôtel.
Doelen, Amsterdam; passport, Issued four years ago in London. Helen Joyce Winter; maiden name Hardwick; profession married woman; born Cambridge, 1st March, 1929; residence 9, Granville Gardens, Maidenhead. Height 5 feet 7 inches; eyes hazel; hair fair; special peculiarities, none.
She’d lost weight since her photograph, changed. Her face looked rounded, girlish, the expression unformed, innocent, secure. I looked at the embossments; she had been to France twice, Italy once before this time; not apparently to Holland before; there was nothing else to see.
As I was going to close the case I saw three or four unlaundered handkerchiefs at the bottom, and one looked bigger than the rest. I picked it out. On the comer was a familiar monogram, G.T.
I glanced quickly at my watch. Twenty minutes after twelve. The dressing-table.
Here all the usual things. Nail varnish, cigarettes, scissors, hairbrush, a freckle of spilt powder from a Lanvin box, that was the scent; needle and a reel of silk thread. In the drawers a gold bracelet, a garnet necklace, a flimsy nightdress—a writing-pad with a letter unfinished in it
‘‘Dear Mummy,
‘‘So glad to have your letter—* I’ve been intending to write every
day. I have been here a fortnight already .and am feeling so very
much better, more relaxed, able to let go, and I think, I believe
able to see things straight for the first time. One good thing—Holland
ended everything. Although it didn’t seem so at the time, perhaps
it was better that way, the way it worked out. Nothing could be
more final. Now perhaps I shall be able to plan again.”
‘‘Thank you for not giving away my address. I think I shall stay here just as long as Mme Weber will put up with me. I’ve done more swimming these last weeks than since before I married Tom, and the weather has been perfect. Last night I slept seven hours. It’s a completely feckless life, everybody lazes about and eats and drinks and smokes and gossips. There’s no point to it—it’s not going anywhere, but that suits me just now. One has ample time to think—and just doesn’t want to. So stop worrying about me. I’m really all right.”
‘‘The broom is coming out and the slopes of the island are yellow with it. There are geraniums in flower all the way beside the funicular. Very few tourists yet. If there should be a sudden influx next month——’’
The letter stopped there. One good thing, Holland ended everything. Perhaps it was better that way. With Grevil’s swollen body floating in a canal? With his wife and daughter bereaved and all the promise of his career flung away?
There was a movement by the door. I turned sharply. Nicolo da Cossa was standing watching me.
Chapter Eleven
He said: ‘‘I fear Leonie has little valuable jewellery. Perhaps I can direct you to Mme Weber�
��s room.’’
‘‘Has she something better?’’ I said. ‘‘Of course you’ll know about that.’’
The shock was running out to my hands now. It left me feeling boneless.
He smiled spitefully: ‘‘ I know about it but I am not a thief. I do not abuse the hospitality of my friends.’’
I looked round. ‘‘Well, I’ve finished here. Let’s go down and drink a sherry while we discuss it.’’
‘‘There is nothing to discuss, signore. Except how quickly you can get off this island.’’
I shut the drawer. ‘‘What are you doing in the house yourself?’’
‘‘You thought I was on the beach? Sometimes I have migraine. Now please to go down and I will follow.’’
I went to the door and out. He followed me down. I turned through into the big drawing-room and picked up my glass.
‘‘Sherry?’’
‘‘Thank you.’’ I could see he was enjoying this. ‘‘I shall tell Mme Weber, of course, as soon as she comes in. I think perhaps I shall leave it with her if she tells Leonie.’’
‘‘You’re not going to call in the police, then?’’
He limped across and took the second glass from me. ‘‘Why be vindictive?’’
‘‘Especially when you’ve no proof.’’
‘‘That is so.’’
‘‘In fact, it’s only your word against mine in telling Mme Weber.’’
‘‘She and I are old friends. Besides, what have I to gain?’’
‘‘You might think you had something to gain.’’
He stared at me with his big sombre eyes. ‘‘Tell me what?’’
‘‘You might be uneasy over my friendship with Charlotte Weber.’’
‘‘With an old woman? You must be insane.’’
‘‘A wealthy woman who regards you as her pet artist.’’
He showed me his teeth. ‘‘You flatter yourself, signore. I have not seen your work, but you are a confessed amateur, a Saturday-painter. Charlotte is too wise in her judgment not to know shoddy stuff when she sees it.’’
The Little Walls Page 11