The rivals of Sherlock Holmes : early detective stories

by Paul Theroux

  “I’m often alone,” said Emma. “Alfred doesn’t know.”

  “She paints,” said Munday. “And there’s the garden. Emma’s always had green fingers.”

  “A crack in the wall or a mirror—even that can look very threatening,” said Caroline. “And the furniture seems to sit in judgment upon you.”

  “Yes,” said Emma eagerly. “Yes, that’s exactly how I’ve felt.”

  “And the noises,” said Caroline.

  “The noises!” said Emma. “It’s worse during the day, much worse when the sun is shining, as if you’re being mocked by the light. That’s so sinister.”

  “My house is empty,” said Caroline. “I shall go back there tonight and turn on all the lights. Do you know how it is, entering an empty house?”

  “I do,” said Emma. “It’s the feeling I had when we came here, and it has never left me, not for a single moment! It doesn’t bother Alfred at all.”

  “I don’t see why it should,” said Munday, but he had known the fear, and Emma’s outburst had reminded him of how keenly he had felt it.

  “But it would be better if you did,” Emma said. “Then you’d know how I felt it, as Caroline does.” Munday was struck by how easily this first time Emma said his lover’s name.

  “It just occurred to me,” said Caroline. She touched at her throat with misgiving.

  “What’s wrong?” said Munday.

  “I won’t be able to turn on the lights tonight. The house will be dark. These damned power cuts!”

  “What a shame,” said Emma. “You see, I know just what’s going through your mind. It’s late, it’s dark— do you have very far to go?”

  “I’ll see you home,” said Munday. “If it’ll make you feel any better.”

  “That’s awfully kind of you,” said Caroline.

  Munday tried to find an emotion in her eyes, but he could not see past the candle flames flickering there, two narrow blossoms of light that gave her cat’s eyes.

  “Yes,” said Emma. Her face fell. “Then I’ll be here alone.”

  “I won’t be long,” said Munday. He had visualized something like this happening, though he had not guessed that Caroline and Emma would get on so well. The darkness helped, and seeing them together he had become aware of their similarities: Caroline wasn’t glamorous, nor was Emma so plain. They both had strengths he needed and an attraction he valued. But he knew he would have to choose; it was the worst of love, the excluding choice, and he had delayed it for too long.

  “It’s selfish of me,” said Emma.

  “Not at all,” said Caroline.

  “I wish there were something we could do,” said Munday.

  “But there is!” said Emma. She turned to Caroline. “Why not sleep here—stay the night?”

  “I couldn’t,” said Caroline.

  “It’s no trouble. We have masses of room. That’s what people do in the country, the way I imagined it. I can lend you a nightdress.”

  “Emma—”

  “See to the coffee, Alfred.”

  “I really could go straight home on my own,” said Caroline.

  “But there’s no one there,” said Emma. “You’re not expected.”

  “No,” said Caroline. “That’s quite true.”

  “I want you to stay.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely,” said Emma. “Do it for my sake. So it’s settled. Now, take this candle and go into the other room, and we’ll bring in the coffee.” Caroline left the room, carrying the candle. The light wavered, a liquid glimmering on the walls, as she glided down the passage.

  “I’m glad she’s staying,” said Emma. “I feel I’ve been so unfair to her. I don’t like to think of the things I’ve said about her.”

  “I’ll put some wood on the fire,” said Munday.

  “Such a sad woman,” said Emma. “Be kind to her, Alfred.”

  19

  Caroline was crouched on the sofa, her knees tucked beneath her. She hugged a cushion to her stomach and said, “I like her. Perhaps that’s the reason I stayed.”

  “Really,” said Munday, but he made it a murmur of disinterest and doubt.

  “You know very little about your wife.”

  “I know she’s lonely, and her heart bothers her. She’s had a bad time of it.” He lit the candles in the wall holders over the hearth. “We’re partly to blame.”

  “Partly?” said Caroline. She smiled and flicked one of the tassles on the cushion with her fingers. “Are you going to leave her?” Munday thought a moment. He said, “Wouldn’t it be perfect if we could live like this, the three of us.”

  “You don't mean that,” she said.

  Then Emma walked in with the coffee. She served it and took a chair before the fire, between Caroline and Munday. “I’m not having any coffee,” she said. “It would only keep me awake. I’ve put a nightdress and clean towel on your bed. It’s the back bedroom. I hope you’ll be comfortable.”

  “You’re very kind,” said Caroline.

  There was complete peacefulness on Emma’s face. She said, “It would be lovely if every evening was like this. The candlelight, the fire, good company. I think I could actually bear it here.” She let her head fall back and she seemed to sleep, still smiling quietly. Her repose excited Munday; he felt a stirring of desire for her, thumbs and fingers within him warming his grave pulse to a weightless dance. The desire he felt for Emma became a yearning for Caroline—it was intense, bearing on one, then the other, a sexual blessing Emma inspired that he would bestow on Caroline. He savored the speed and impatience, the flutter in his blood.

  He said, “Emma’s had a long day. Cooking’s quite an effort for her.”

  “I’m awake,” said Emma. Her eyes were nearly shut. “Just.”

  “I’d like to help with the washing-up,” said Caroline.

  “It’s too dark for that—this blackout,” said Emma. “I’ve piled the dishes in the sink. Alfred and I can tackle them tomorrow.”

  “It’s easier in the morning,” said Munday.

  Emma rolled her head to one side and said to Caroline, “I feel as if you’ve rescued me.”

  “It’s you who’s rescued me,” said Caroline.

  “No,” said Emma. “I didn’t realize until tonight I could be happy here. It’s your doing.”

  Munday said, “You look tired, Emma.”

  “I am tired.” Her voice was thick with fatigue. ‘That fire always makes me so sleepy.” She sat up straight and said, “I’m nodding off. You must forgive me. I’m going to bed. Alfred, will you lock up and make sure Caroline has everything she needs?”

  “Of course,” said Munday.

  Emma got to her feet. She was somewhat unsteady. Caroline came over to her and said, “Sleep well,” and raised her hands. Emma reached and took them, and the women drew together, an action of unexpected grace, like that of two trained dancers beginning to music. They faced each other and touched cheeks, and then they kissed with great naturalness. It was a swift sisterly gesture, with a mute sigh in it, and their bodies met, their loose lips grazed. But Munday saw them hold it a fraction too long, and he was a gaping witnfess to a moment of intimacy. He sat back and squinted—he did not want to look away, though he felt he should, it was only proper.

  And without saying more to him, Emma went out of the room. He heard her on the stairs, the light stamps rising up the other side of the wall. The sound faded and stopped. Then there was the wind in the chimney, the soft pop of the fire.

  “Now,” said Munday, and he got up from his chair and made a move towards Caroline.

  “Aren’t you afraid she’ll hear?” Caroline whispered. “She’ll be asleep soon,” said Munday. He went over to her and brushed her ear with his mouth, and kissing her he received a faint sweet fragrance of Emma’s cologne. He inhaled it and said, “I can taste her on you.”

  “You’re so slow.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I could always taste her o
n you,” said Caroline. “She helped us. We need her. It would be awful, you know, just you and I—living here in this place, dishes in the sink.”

  “It would be different somewhere else.”

  “Where?”

  “Anywhere,” said Munday. “At your house.”

  "This is my house!” she said. She saw his bewilderment and added, “You didn’t know that. I think she does, in her way. You know very little. You barely know me.”

  “I know I love you,” he said. He took her by the waist and drew her towards him. She struggled, but remained in his loose grip.

  “You invented me,” said Caroline.

  There was a scrape on the ceiling, Emma’s footsteps. They both looked up. Munday listened for more, and Caroline said, “She did too.”

  “No.”

  “I needed it. I’m grateful to you for that,” said Caroline. “She’s beautiful.” Caroline faced him and said, “But you’re a desperate man.” He took one of her breasts and worked his thumb over the nipple. “What are you?”

  “The same,” she said. “I’m like you. Why else would I be here?”

  “So you see, we belong together, you and I.”

  “And Emma,” she said.

  There were sounds of bedsprings just above their heads, the low ceiling creaked. It was plaster, roughened in patches where the stain had made it peel, and it was slumping and cracked in enough places to give the impression that if it was jolted too hard it would divide at its severest crack and collapse and cover them. The thick beam which ran along the center would splinter as well and add weight to the chunks of stone, the shower of dust. The sight of the ceiling caving in was vivid to Munday because the strain of the creaking and the five-note song of the bedsprings continued like music from the finger-harp which set Africans in motion.

  “She’s in bed,” said Munday.

  “She can’t sleep.” Caroline reached up and ran her fingers dreamily along a crack. She said, “She’s right there.” As she was looking up Munday stood close to her and pressed his face into her neck. The bedsprings seemed to respond to the pressure of her fingers, touching and following the crack. She moved in Munday’s embrace, stroking the ceiling, until her back was turned to him and he was pressed against her shoulders. She took his hands and lifted them from her waist to her breasts and cupping the backs of his hands in her own she slid them over her breasts—she was languidly fondling her body using his hands. Then she planted her feet apart, opening her legs and lifting her buttocks against him, scalding his groin.

  They stayed like this, pressed together, as if she was carrying him, like a swimmer rising with a victim on her back from a deep firelit pool. The room had darkened, the heat was hers, not that of the dying fire that ceased to blow with any force into the chimney. He remained on her back, holding to her breasts, and he was aroused, for although she was facing away, her hands kept his over her breasts and the gentle switching of her soft buttocks he found a wonderful caress. She pulled at the neck of her dress, and he heard the sigh at her teeth as her nipples rode through his fingers.

  The bedsprings still sounded, but he didn’t hear them. He embraced a stifling heat and remembered Africa, a memory of bursting blossoms that surged in his body and reddened the backs of his eyes with fire. She was jungle, moving against him, trapping him in the rufous dark of her heat, weakening him but making his penis into a club. She took his right hand and moved it down her stomach, bumping his wrist on her hip, and pressed the pad of hair, gripping herself with his tickling hand and rolling the other over her breast. She pitched and came alive, plant flashing into animal, feathery and damp, but with muscles working under all that warmth.

  She was a creature from an amorous bestiary, as if she had clawed her way out of a voluptuous myth, a long-legged heron or swan, with horny yellow feet, a woman’s head and hunger and eager winged hands, and the cries of a child in her throat. Briefly, Munday imagined he was subduing her; but that was illusion— he was no hunter, the subduing was hers, she gripped him and bore him as if driven by the scratching on the ceiling, the sound of the bed. With her stroking buttocks she brought him almost to the point of orgasm. He flew, clinging to her back, seeming to rise on the quivering light and shadow of the room that was like a passage through a forest of dense trees. And her shrugging insistent speed was like a reminder that he must obey her and follow her to the end. She dropped to her knees, and Munday went down, pulling cushions from the chairs, kicking his shoes off.

  “Let me do it,” she said. She helped him off with his clothes, but slowly, undoing each button. He reached for her dress, but she was quicker: she squirmed and stepped out of it and then knelt over him in a pair of tight lacy pants.

  “Listen,” she said.

  The bed spoke through the ceiling, and the ceiling itself seemed to tremble with the sound.

  “She can hear us,” he said.

  “No,” she said, and worked her pants down with her thumbs. In the whiteness of her body he saw a peculiar savagery: she was a huntress clasping a ferret between her legs. She got on all fours and then face down on the floor, on her knees and lifted her yellow buttocks at him. He hugged her from behind and entered her, but she complained and took his erect penis and fixed it at the tightness of her arse. He prodded it into her feeling her roughness squeeze him, and he opened her until he could lie across her back. He sodomized her in pumping strokes while he ran his fingers over her cunt, and it seemed to him as if, straddling her in this way, his mouth at the back of her ear, he was crawling over a dank forest floor.

  “I love you,” he said. “Please, God—”

  “Don’t stop,” she said, much calmer than he.

  He felt an orgasm approach, pinching his ankles and calves, climbing to his thighs and concentrating on that sawing prod that was pushed so deep into her it felt as if it was wearing away.

  She acted quickly. She moved from under him and pushed him over, and holding his penis like a truncheon she licked at his inner thigh, rolling her head between his legs and lapping at him. She jerked on him, blinding him with pleasure, and her mouth slipping over him and her tight grip made him feel he was being carried upside-down. She had captured him and carried him into this heat and now his arms lay on the floor and she, the marauder, was dragging him to a destination not far off. He put his hands over his face and groaned, and he felt her draw him to her to feed on. There was no sound from him; he shivered, his shoulders going cold, and now a chill, like a wind starting in the still ‘room breathed fraility on him. Caroline swallowed and ran her arm across her mouth. Munday was going to speak, but he hesitated, and he realized he was listening for the ceiling and the bedsprings. There was nothing, except that so quiet the ceiling was emptied of cracks and even the beam looked powerful.

  “I love you,” he said at last.

  Caroline went over to the fire and threw some split pieces of wood on the fire. She hit them with the poker and drew light from beneath them. Flames jumped at splinters. But Munday was cold; he put his shirt on as, naked, Caroline built up the fire.

  “That first time,” she said, “here, in front of the fire, after we’d finished I sat beside you. You were sleeping. And I was thinking—” She broke off and smiled and shook her head.

  “That you loved me,” he said.

  “No/’ she said.

  “What, then?”

  “That I loved myself,” she said. “It was—I can’t describe it—euphoria—the way I feel now. It’s so marvelous. I wonder if other people feel that way, that overwhelming affection for their body after sex. I was so happy I wanted to cry and touch myself. It was real love.” He said, “Narcissism.”

  “Yes, yes,” she said. “But not the ugly kind, posturing, preening yourself before other people, making them acknowledge you.”

  “Nothing to do with sex, then,” he said.

  “Everything,” she said.

  “What a selfish vfew of sex.”

  “I admit it,” she said. But I can’t
help it. Sex can

  make you feel so strong you don’t need anyone. After I make love, I think I could go to a desert island or a forest and live for the rest of my life. And this feeling lasts for ages.”

  “Then why don’t you go to your forest?”

  “God, to be away from here!” she said. She looked at Munday and said, “As soon as I start to go, I want to make love again. Then I look for you.”

  “You don’t have to look far.”

  “It’s not that easy,” she said.

  “We could make it easy,” he said. He reached for her hand. “I want to live with you.”

  “You’d hate me,” she said, pulling her hand away. “Never,” he said, and clutched her. She allowed it, but she was staring at the ceiling. He said, “I know what you’re thinking. I could live without her.”

  “But we couldn’t,” she said.

  He touched at her face, like a blind man reading braille for an answer. Sex had emptied him and made him speedily innocent; there was nothing of desire in his touching—it was curiosity.

  She said, “Don’t give her up. I couldn’t love you that way. And you’d despise me.”

  “You’re making it impossible,” he said.

  “It’s been possible up to now,” she said. “We can go on like this. She matters more than you know.”

  “Poor Emma,” he said.

  “Don’t pity her.”

  “What is it you want me to do?”

  “Keep her,” she said. “If you want me, keep her in this house—stay with her, please.”

  Munday said, “That’s crueler than leaving her.”

  “It is the only way.”

  “Is it the village?” he asked. “Are you afraid of them thinking you drove her away?”

  Caroline said, “You don’t understand.”

  “But I do ” said Munday. “Africa prepared me for this.” '

  “This isn’t Africa.”

  “Villages are my subject,” he said. “I know how they operate. You don’t know and so you’re afraid.” She took her dress from the floor and made a shawl of it for her shoulders, and then she stared at the fire and said, “You know nothing.” The accusation maddened him. He said, “You want to make a fool of her so that you’ll seem innocent.”