Glass in hand I walked over to stare at his pastel of the Faraglioni Rocks. ‘‘I should have thought her very liable to be taken in by the fake and the sham.’’
Outside there was a sound of grinding gears as a bus drew away from the gate. A few moments later there was the pad of quick feet, and Jane’s voice and. then Leonie’s and Hamilton White’s. They were back but did not come inhere. We heard their feet on the stairs.
Da Cossa had come over to me. ‘‘ I should be happy if you would explain what you say.’’
A few years ago I felt he would have used a dagger. ‘‘That isn’t your picture, is it.’’
‘‘Look for yourself,’’ he said. ‘‘ It is signed. What more is it that you want?’’
‘‘To have seen you paint it.’’
‘‘I’m sorry. I can’t oblige.’’
‘‘Nor could you ever have. The thing’s a bit florid for my taste, but it’s painted by a man who knows every trick in the trade. It’s thoroughly expert.’’
‘‘Quite so. I——’’
‘‘I saw you painting on the quay yesterday. You just haven’t the technique to do a job like this. I’d stake my life on it.’’
‘‘Yesterday I used oils—an unfamiliar medium. And——’’
‘‘The medium doesn’t matter—not that much. Be sensible; we’re both of age.’’
He stared up at me. He was near enough for me to smell the scented oil on his hair and to see the black hair curling like a that on his chest under the open silk shirt. I said: ‘‘In the ordinary way it wouldn’t be my business, but I should guess you wanted to impress Mme Weber, so you bought this from some down-and-out artist and … Perhaps others too. Are there others too?’’
In the garden there was the gruff coughing of dogs.
He said: ‘‘And the proof?’’
‘‘Your word against mine. But I could sow the doubt.’’
‘‘What were you doing in Leonie Winter’s room?’’
‘‘Not stealing.’’
He smiled again, nastily. ‘‘ Fetishism, perhaps. I knew a man once … For my part now, I am only interested in underclothes when there is someone in them.’’
‘‘I’m glad you have some natural instincts,’’ I said.
‘‘More, I am certain, than you have, signore.’’
We faced each other like two bristling dogs, each waiting for the other to bite.
Then we heard the tapping of a stick.
‘‘Well, that’s fine, you’ve stopped on, Philip,’’ said Mme Weber. ‘‘We need another man for lunch. There’s baby octopus, d’you mind? I’ve a weakness. You two artists been exchangin’trade secrets, no doubt? Nicolo, is your head better?’’
In a minute the room seemed full of people and dogs. Just as Charlotte Weber and Mlle Henriot came in from the loggia, Leonie and Jane entered by the ordinary door. Leonie looked surprised to see me, and just for a second not too sure of herself. I thought: so far I understand nothing about her at all. ‘‘ One good thing, Holland ended everything. It was better that way, the way it worked out.’’ An accidental combination of skin, bone and flesh—attraction she hadn’t earned, power she didn’t deserve … Yes, but it wasn’t just that, it was more than that.
It was all very well to kick myself for being unable to approach her as I would an ordinary woman. I wasn’t detached enough on either count. Grevil got in the way of normal friendship. She got in the way of normal antagonism.
Before lunch she kept out of my way, but at it we were put together so there was no escape. Towards the end I said: ‘‘I think I started off on the wrong foot yesterday. D’ you think we might scrap the record and begin again?’’
‘‘And the day before?’’ she said pleasantly, after a moment.
‘‘And the day before.’’
‘‘… Very well. If you feel that way.’’
‘‘I wondered if you would come a walk with me this afternoon.’’
I watched her long clear-skinned fingers as they broke a stick of bread. She hadn’t looked at me during this. ‘‘A walk?’’
‘‘Yes, I thought it might be pleasant as there’s a breeze today. We could start off and see where we should get to.’’
‘‘I can tell you. Into the sea. The island is only four miles long. There are very few level places at all.’’
‘‘Then let’s climb.’’
She looked at me then with her sandy-green eyes, thick-lashed, cool, unsmiling. ‘‘Should that follow?’’
‘‘I don’t know.’’
‘‘Is that the first doubt you’ve had about me since we met?’’
‘‘You don’t really believe that, do you?’’
She looked down. ‘‘ Well, walking wouldn’t help.’’
‘‘Talking might’’
‘‘That’s a doubt I have.’’
‘‘Then maybe we can help each other.’’
The young manservant tried to refill her glass with Orvieto, but she waved him away.
‘‘Will you come?’’ I said.
We climbed up to Anacapri and then took the path to La Migliari. She was in a frock today, with green suède sandals, and a wide-brimmed beach hat rather like the one Mme Weber had worn yesterday; but on Leonie Winter it looked different. Having seen that four-year-old photograph, I saw she was fine-drawn now. You could understand the sentence in her letter about having slept seven hours. It must have been quite an achievement.
And why? After a time she mentioned her husband, and I said: ‘‘And what
did your second husband like?’’
She didn’t answer for a minute, and I went on: ‘‘ Tell me, was it
photographs of your half-sisters you were showing that Italian
family yesterday?’’
She stopped to pick a sprig of broom. ‘‘I rather supposed you’d
ask Charlotte Weber.’’
‘‘She told me without asking. Anyway, if you’ve had one husband
only, and a child, and lost them both in that way, why put on such
a terrific act for my benefit?’’
She sniffed the broom delicately. ‘‘It wasn’t an act. I didn’t think
you really wanted to know.’’
‘‘No,’’ I said. ‘‘I see that. I’m sorry.’’
She glanced at me. ‘‘Thank you for saying one sincere thing,
Philip.’’
‘‘Am I such a rotten actor?’’
‘‘I don’t know. I don’t know the play.’’
We were walking now across open land, having done all the
climbing necessary. If you blinkered your eyes you could have
thought yourself on Dartmoor.
I said: ‘‘ There’s no play. One ad-libs as one goes along. That’s
life.’’
She said quietly: ‘‘ Oh, I grant you it all. You say your lines, and
what does it matter if they’re messy and meaningless? Nothing at
all.’’
‘‘Well, it can matter.’’
‘‘When?’’
‘‘When it cuts in on someone else who’s had the wit or the luck
to contrive a pattern that makes sense.’’
‘‘Are you thinking of a special case?’’
I didn’t answer, and we walked on until we came rather
unexpectedly to some bars across the path. There the path ended,
and so it seemed did the earth. We’d come to the edge of a sheer
cliff that fell away about a thousand feet into the sea.
A sudden eddy of wind met us, and she put up a hand to her
hat. ‘‘This is the end of our walk.’’
The world felt very empty, standing there, and two seagulls wheeling and crying didn’t help to fill it. The sea was finely wrinkled, like thumb-prints under a magnifying glass. There was a fishing-boat and two men in it, one with a red handkerchief round his head.
She dropped the sprig of broom. At fir
st it seemed to cling to the ragged cliffs among the other wild-flowers, but then it went circling down, getting smaller until it reached the sea. She turned away. ‘‘Phew! That makes me dizzy.’’
After a few seconds I followed her and sat about a yard away on the springy turf. I thought of the letter of hers I’d read this morning. And the handkerchief lying unwashed in the bottom of her case.
She took off her hat and put it beside her and shook her hair. The bit of light fringe fell back provocatively over her forehead. ‘‘How long have you been painting?’’
‘‘Oh … pretty long.’’
‘‘All your life?’’
‘‘… Until these last few years.’’
‘‘And then?’’
‘‘Then it didn’t add up any more.’’
‘‘You don’t do it for a living?’’
‘‘No, that’s the point.’’
‘‘What’s the point?’’
For a second or so I examined in my own mind whether I wanted to explain anything more about this to her. I came to the conclusion I didn’t. But confidence might breed confidence.
‘‘Well, you play about with a thing for a time and think, fine, I’m coming along nicely. And then suddenly you wake up to the fact that you’re a big boy now and nothing really important is coming along after all.’’
She tucked her legs under her with a sliding movement and pulled her skirt into its proper fold. It had been tight about her thighs. ‘‘ D’you judge that by whether you make money of it or not?’’
‘‘No that’s only one of many ways. The important thing is when you realise inside you that it never is going to amount to anything—even to yourself.’’
She shook her head. ‘‘I don’t see how that can be.’’
‘‘Why not?’’
‘‘Well, I don’t see how something you create yourself can be a dead loss to yourself—however good or bad it may seem to other people.’’
‘‘That’s true only for someone who hasn’t the intelligence to criticise his own work.’’
‘‘No, surely … No, I don’t agree.’’
I said: ‘‘ Perhaps I wanted too much.’’
‘‘I can certainly understand that,’’ she said.
‘‘Oh, you mustn’t judge everything by yesterday.’’
She smiled. ‘‘Talking of yesterday … Tell me one thing.’’
‘‘If I can.’’
‘‘Did you—well, try to rush things because of your opinion of me or because of your opinion of yourself?’’
‘‘Neither, as it happens.’’
She waited. I said: ‘‘ Where do you live in England?’’
‘‘Mainly in London.’’
‘‘With your father and mother?’’
‘‘No. My father was killed in the war. My mother has married again, and I have two half-sisters in spite of your mistrustful mind. But I work and have my own flat.’’
‘‘And you swim.’’
‘‘I hate to think how much you’ll know by the end of the portrait.’’
‘‘You haven’t the arms one expects of a swimmer,’’ I said.
She put one hand up to cover the other arm above the elbow. ‘‘You’ve old-fashioned ideas in some things—if not in others. Would you ever like to jump over a place like this.’’
‘‘Not much.’’
‘‘I used to love diving, and it would be that sensation you’d get, wouldn’t it, only a hundred times more so? Like an arrow falling.’’
I said: ‘‘ It might be worth trying some time when you’re tired of life. It would certainly be more dramatic than dying, in bed … or for that matter in some back street or dirty canal.’’
There was dead silence for a bit. I hadn’t meant to blurt it out. She slowly took her hand away from her arm. ‘‘So that explains everything.’’
‘‘Explains what?’’
‘‘You are a relative of his.’’
It’s queer how the exchanges of a dozen words can make and break something so quickly. ‘‘His brother. Did you suspect it?’’
‘‘Of course, to begin. You’re so like him—younger, broader; but the same shape of shoulders, your eyes, voice. And then I thought it was just nerves, imagination.’’ She stood up. ‘‘Well, tell me what you want to know, and then I can go.’’
‘‘How he died.’’
‘‘I know nothing about that.’’
‘‘You mean you don’t know how it happened.’’
‘‘I mean I know nothing about it.’’
The breeze was blowing one lapel of her frock covering her throat and then uncovering it again.
I said: ‘‘Sit down. We can talk about it quietly.’’
‘‘No, thank you.’’
‘‘Don’t you think I’m entitled to ask?’’
‘‘I don’t think you’re entitled to go about it the way you have. If you wanted to know about Grevil, it was less than ever necessary to—to——’’ She stared angrily at the sea.
I said: ‘‘How was I to know what you’d be like? He’d never even mentioned you to me.’’
‘‘He didn’t have much chance.’’
‘‘When did you first meet him?’’
She shook her head but didn’t answer.
‘‘Leonie, you must tell me. When did you first meet him?’’
‘‘In Holland. A month ago.’’
I got up too, stood beside her. ‘‘You’re telling me you met Grevil for the first time only a few days before his death?’’
‘‘Of course I am! What did you think?’’
‘‘I think it’s impossible——’’
‘‘Well, you’re perfectly entitled to——’’
‘‘No,’’ I said, catching her arm as she was turning away. ‘‘ Listen. How can you expect me to swallow that? How do you explain the letter?’’
‘‘What letter?’’
‘‘The one that was found on him—that said everything was over between you.’’
She got her arm free and stared at me. ‘‘I didn’t know any letter was found on him … Do you mean’’—her eyes changed—‘‘the one I wrote?’’
‘‘Didn’t you leave it for him before you left?’’
She had gone very white. ‘‘No … Oh yes. But—was that how you traced me?’’
‘‘Partly.’’
‘‘So you thought—is that what you think?’’
‘‘What do you suppose I should think?’’
She took a breath, ‘‘But it—it’s beyond belief that …’’ She stopped again and didn’t seem able to go on.
‘‘It’s beyond belief to me,’’ I said. ‘‘I don’t see why it should be to you.’’
‘‘And how has that … Do the police know about it?’’
‘‘Of course.’’
‘‘Do they think it had something to do with his death?’’
‘‘If you were the police,’’ I said, ‘‘what would you say?’’
Chapter Twelve
She had dropped her hat, and now she picked it up, dusting bits of dry grass off it. I watched her mouth. As I was going to speak she said:
‘‘Give me a minute. I have to put this straight in my own mind.’’
I stood and waited. Due west was the lighthouse on the extreme promontory of the island. Between it and us in a direct line were the monstrous profiles of the cliff.
She said: ‘‘Tell me exactly what the police think.’’
‘‘That Grevil committed suicide because of his love affair with a woman called Leonie, which she ended by writing him that letter.’’
‘‘And do you believe that?’’
‘‘No, I never have. At least, knowing Grevil, I didn’t believe it possible, until I saw you.’’
‘‘What difference did that make?’’
‘‘It occurred to me that over a woman like yourself it was just on the cards.’’
She looked thoughtfully at me. I said: ‘‘You don’t deny
having written the letter?’’
‘‘Of course not.’’
‘‘Why did you write it?’’
‘‘If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.’’
‘‘Supposing you try.’’ She made an impatient gesture. I said: ‘‘You must tell me. It’s vital.’’
‘‘… I knew Grevil barely two days. I’m certain when he died he’d not even read the letter.’’
‘‘Yet you believe he killed himself.’’
‘‘Isn’t it for the police to say?’’
‘‘If they can. It’s still more for the people who were on the spot.’’
‘‘I wasn’t on the spot—or near it. If I had been——’’
‘‘Why didn’t you go to the police and make a statement as soon as heard—if you’ve nothing to hide?’’
‘‘I didn’t hear of it until I was in Naples. And I didn’t say I had nothing to hide.’’
I said: ‘‘Look, my dear, we’ve got to get this straight. If you don’t answer me, you’ll have to answer the police.’’
‘‘Do they know where I am?’’
‘‘Not yet.’’
‘‘But you’re going to tell them?’’
‘‘It depends.’’
‘‘I couldn’t help them, Philip.’’
‘‘We could decide that better if you told me what you know.’’
‘‘I … don’t think I can. It involves someone else and I——’’ She stopped.
‘‘It involves someone else?’’
‘‘Yes. I——’’ She glanced round as if trying to see a way out. ‘‘Philip, I can’t say much now. I’ve got to have a few hours to see round it. I’d no idea, honestly I’d not the ghost of an idea … certainly not that the police had found my letter. Well, you may think, that’s all very well but they did, and now it’s time for you to tell what you know. I know it is, and if it was the police asking me I’d have no second wind at all. But Philip, you’re not the police, and I want to ask you … perhaps till tomorrow. If you called in the police they wouldn’t be here till then, so it won’t be much delay …’’
She turned her eyes on me, and we looked at each other pretty straightly for what seemed a long time. I knew I was going to think badly of myself if I gave way.
‘‘Yes,’’ I said.
She smiled a bit then, doubtfuIly, but not at all with the look of yesterday. I was going to say something else when I heard a dog barking.
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