“The bookcase, yes,” he said. “I messed it up. It’s the top. It’s the wrong way around. I can’t get the damn f limsy back off without ruining it, so I thought I might stain the edge. I just haven’t got around to it yet.”
Sophia put her hand to her mouth to stif le her laughter.
“What?” Banks said.
“Just the thought of you on your knees with an Allen key in your hand cursing to high heaven.”
“Yes, well, that’s when Mr. Browne turned up.”
“Your mysterious visitor?”
“That’s the one.”
“Forget him. From what you said, I very much doubt that he’ll be back. Surely you’ve got real criminals to catch, not just spooks and shadows?”
“Plenty,” said Banks, thinking of the East Side Estate. “Trouble is, A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S
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most of them are underage. Anyway, enough of that. Enjoy this evening?”
“It’s not over yet, is it?”
“Certainly not.” Banks bent over and kissed her. A taste of things to come.
Sophia held her glass out. “I’ll have one more glass of that spectacular Amarone before you sit down,” she said, “then I think it’ll be bedtime.”
Banks poured the wine from the bottle on the low table and passed her the glass. “Hungry?” he asked.
“For what? Leftover chicken chow mein?”
“I’ve got some nice Brie,” said Banks. “And a slab of farmhouse cheddar. Extra old.”
“No, thanks. It’s a bit late for me to start eating cheese.” Sophia pushed back a stray lock of hair from her cheek. “Actually, I was thinking about the play.”
“What about it?” Banks asked, filling his own glass and sitting beside her.
Sophia turned to face him. “Well, what do you think it’s about?”
“Othello? Oh, jealousy, betrayal, envy, ambition, greed, lust, revenge.
The usual stuff of Shakespearean tragedies. All the colors of darkness.”
Sophia shook her head. “No. I mean, well, yes, it is about all those themes, but there’s something else, a subtext, if you like, another level.”
“Too deep for me.”
Sophia slapped his knee. “No, it’s not. Listen. Do you remember at the very beginning, when Iago and Rodrigo wake up Desdemona’s father and tell him what’s going on?”
“Yes,” said Banks.
“Well, did you notice anything about the language Iago uses?”
“It’s very crude, what you might expect from a soldier, and a racist, something about a black ram tupping a white ewe and making the beast with two backs. Which, by the way—”
“Stop it.” She brushed his hand away from her knee. “It’s also very powerful language, very visual. It plants images in the hearer’s imagination. Remember, he also talks about Desdemona being covered by a Barbary horse. That’s the language of the stud farm. Just imagine what sort of images it must have put into her father’s mind, how unbearable 1 3 2
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it must have been to think of, to see, his daughter that way.”
“That’s how Iago works,” said Banks. “He plants ideas, pictures, lets them grow, bides his time.” Banks thought of Sophia saying, “So I’ve been told,” and the images it created in his mind.
“Exactly. And why?”
“Because he feels slighted in his career and he thinks Othello has slept with his wife.”
“So most of the poison comes from within himself. Thwarted ambition, cuckoldry?”
“Yes, but he spews it out on others.”
“How?”
“Mostly in words.”
“Exactly.”
“I know what you mean,” Banks said, “but I still don’t see what you’re getting at.”
“Just what we’ve been saying. That it’s a play about the power of language, about the power of words and images to make people see, and what they see can drive them insane. Iago uses exactly the same technique on Othello later as he did on Desdemona’s father. He presents him with unbearable images of Desdemona’s sexual activities with another man. Not just the idea of it, but images of it, too. He paints pictures in Othello’s mind of Cassio fucking Desdemona. I mean, what real evidence does Othello have of his wife’s unfaithfulness?”
“There’s the handkerchief,” said Banks. “But that was fabricated, planted evidence. Verdi made rather a lot of it, too, mind you. And Scarpio does the same thing with the fan in Tosca.”
Sophia gave him a look. Verdi and Puccini were out of her pur-view. “Other than the damn handkerchief ?”
“Iago tells him that Cassio had a dream about Desdemona, said things in his sleep. Did things.”
“Yes, and that in this dream, he—Cassio—tried to kiss Iago, and get his leg over, thought he was Desdemona. Othello’s already half-crazed with jealousy by then, and bit by bit Iago feeds him even more unbearable images until he’s over the edge. And he kills her.”
“Of course,” Banks said, “you could also argue that Othello did the same thing with Desdemona, too. He even admits to winning her over A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S
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by telling her stories of battles and exotic places and creatures. Putting pictures in her mind. Cannibals. Anthropophagi. Those things with their heads below their shoulders. Real life and soul of the party.”
Sophia laughed. “It worked, though, didn’t it? It got Desdemona all steamed up. And you’re right. Othello benefited by the same technique. As chat-up lines go it can’t have been such a bad one. It works both ways. Language can impress and it can inf lame the passions. In this case jealousy. Othello must have been a man who was used to possessing things. Even women. It’s a play about the power of stories, language, imagery.”
“For good or for evil.”
“Yes, I suppose you could say that.”
“Well, it did get Othello laid.”
Mazzy Star were singing “So Tonight That I Might See” now, the last track on the CD, with its slow, hypnotic beat and distorted guitars.
Banks sipped the last of his rich, silky amarone. “And in the end,” he said, almost to himself, “Iago succeeds in talking Othello into murdering Desdemona and killing himself.”
“Yes. What is it, Alan?”
“What?” Banks put his glass down. “Just a glimmer of an idea, that’s all.” He reached out for her. “But then a better one came along.
How would you like to hear a story about a particularly grisly murder I solved once?”
“Well, you certainly know how to get a girl in the mood, don’t you?” Sophia said, and came into his arms.
SUNDAY MORNING dawned clear and sunny, the sky as blue as the grass was green, a perfect late-spring day. After an early breakfast, Banks and Sophia drove to Reeth in the Porsche, parked on the village green, then headed past the Buck Inn and the bakery toward the old school and turned up Skelgate. At the top, they went through the gate onto open moorland and walked high along the daleside below Calver Hill.
Curlews soared above the moors, making their curious piping calls.
There were rabbits everywhere. Families of grouse bobbed in and out of the tufted grass. Once in a while, Banks or Sophia would approach 1 3 4
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too close to a tewit’s ground nest, and the birds would start to panic, twittering and f lying nervously back and forth, defending their territory. Across the dale, on the rising green slopes of the other side, pale gray drystone walls formed the shapes of milk churns and teacups. The path was muddy in places, but the ground was drying quickly.
They turned a sharp bend and walked down a steep curving hill, hand in hand, then passed through the hamlet of Healaugh, the limestone cottages with their tiny well-tended gardens of bright-colored f lowers a profusion of red, yellow, purple and blue, where bees droned lazily, and then back along the riverside, under the shade of the alders, to the small swi
ng bridge, which they crossed and continued by the riverside, turning onto the old Corpse Way into Grinton.
They didn’t see another human being until they passed the Saint Andrew’s Church on the lane, where a woman in a red polka-dot summer dress and a white broad-brimmed hat was putting f lowers on a grave.
Banks had a sudden and ominous feeling of apprehension, of im-pending disaster, that this would be the last good day for a long time and that they should go back to Reeth, start the walk again. This time they should make sure that they savored every moment even more than they had the first time, store up the beauty and tranquillity they felt against future loss and adversity. In days to come, he thought, he might cherish and cling to the memory of that morning. Was it T. S. Eliot who said something about shoring fragments against his ruins? Sophia would know. The feeling passed, and they crossed the road to The Bridge.
Sophia’s parents were already waiting in the bar when they got there. They had taken a table by the window, settling themselves on the comfortable padded bench. Banks and Sophia sat in the cushioned chairs opposite them, and they could see Saint Andrew’s across the road through the low bay window. The woman in the hat was just leaving through the lych-gate. Saint Andrew’s, a beautiful, small twelfth-century Norman church with its square tower and arched door porch, was where the Corpse Way ended, Banks remembered.
Before Muker Church was built in 1580, Saint Andrew’s had the only consecrated ground in Upper Swaledale, and people had to carry their dead in large baskets all the way from Muker or Keld sometimes, A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S
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along the Corpse Way to Grinton. At some of the bridges on the way, there were old f lat stones that used to act as resting places, where you could put down the coffin for a few moments and have a bite to eat and a spot of ale. Some of the travelers were no doubt drunk in charge of a coffin when they finally got to Grinton, and perhaps even one or two coffins got dropped along the way. There was a famous book about a journey with a coffin, but he couldn’t remember its title. Another question for Sophia. He asked her, and she did know. It was Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying. Banks made a mental note to read it. She also knew about the T. S. Eliot quote. It was from The Wasteland, she told him. She had written a long essay about it at university.
“We haven’t ordered yet,” said Victor Morton, Sophia’s father. “Just got here ourselves. Thought we’d wait for you.” He was a fit, slim man in his early seventies, not an ounce of fat on him, and judging by the fancy adjustable, sprung walking sticks by the table—more like ski poles than walking sticks, Banks thought—the Mortons had also been for a walk before lunch. Victor’s face glowed from exercise.
“Let me order,” said Banks. “Everyone know what they want?”
The choices were fairly predictable for a Sunday pub lunch—roast beef and Yorkshire pudding for Banks and Victor, roast lamb for Sophia and pork for her mother, Helena. It was easy to see where Sophia got her looks, Banks thought, glancing at Helena as he went to the bar to order. She must have been quite a beauty in her day, and Victor had no doubt been a dashing, handsome young diplomatic attaché. Banks wondered how much parental resistance they had encountered. After all, a Greek waitress in a taverna and a young Eng-lishman with a shining civil service career ahead of him . . . It can’t have been easy. Banks got along perfectly well with Helena, but he sensed Victor’s disapproval and suspicion of him. He wasn’t sure if it was the age difference, his job, background, the fact that he was divorced, or simple paternal possessiveness, but he felt it.
Sophia helped him carry the drinks back. Beer for Victor and himself, white wine for the women. At least they had some fairly decent wine at The Bridge, and the young landlord was also a keen fisherman who sometimes put his catch of the day on the dinner menu.
Banks sat back and enjoyed his drink through the small talk. Some-1 3 6
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how, nothing tasted quite as good as a pint of well-kept ale after a long walk. Victor and Helena had walked west along the river to Marrick Priory and back, and they were also ready for a hearty lunch.
When the food came, they all ate in silence for a few moments, then Victor looked up at Banks and said, “Very good meal. Nasty business, that Hindswell Woods and Castleview Heights. You involved?”
“I was,” said Banks, with a sideways glance at Sophia, who had told him exactly what she thought of his pursuit of chimeras.
“Funny chap, Laurence Silbert.”
Banks paused, glass halfway to his mouth. “You knew him?”
“Well, yes, sort of. Not in Eastvale, of course. Didn’t even know he lived there. Years ago. Bonn. Back in the old days, before the Wall came down.” He nodded toward Sophia. “She was still at school,” he said, then turned back to Banks as if his words were some sort of accusation or challenge.
Banks said nothing.
Sophia looked at her mother, who said something in Greek. The two of them started chatting quietly.
Victor cleared his throat and went on between mouthfuls of food.
“Anyway, I say I knew him, but it was more by reputation than anything. I believe I only met him the once, in passing. But you hear things, you know, and things happen. Embassies, consulates, pieces of home ground abroad, a sort of sanctuary, hallowed ground. The soil in the vampire’s coffin, so to speak. People come and go at all times of the night and day, in a hell of a state, some of them. I often wondered why we didn’t employ a full-time doctor. We didn’t like it, of course.
All that cloak-and-dagger sort of thing is supposed to be kept out of sight. Not supposed to be happening at all, most of it, but . . . what can you do? A fellow countryman in pain, trouble or danger? And there were documents, of course. Diplomatic bags. Sometimes you couldn’t help but see their contents. Why people feel compelled to keep written records of even the worst things they do is beyond me. Lucky for you they do, I suppose, though, isn’t it?” He went back to his meal.
“Sometimes,” said Banks, who had often wondered the same thing himself. “When did you meet him? Do you remember?”
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“Remember, of course I do. I might be going a bit deaf, but I’m not senile yet, you know.”
“I wasn’t—”
Victor waved his fork. “It was the eighties, eighty-six or eighty-seven. Not too long before the Wall came down, at any rate. The embassy was in Bonn then, of course, not West Berlin. Bonn was the capital. Interesting times.” He lowered his voice and leaned forward to catch Banks’s ear as he spoke. He needn’t have worried about people overhearing, Banks thought; the pub was noisy with family conversations, laughter and the shrieks of children. There was a man at the bar, Banks had noticed, who looked out of place and kept glancing over, but he wouldn’t be able to hear their conversation.
“Were you involved in intelligence work?” Banks asked.
“No, not at all. And I’m not just saying that because it’s classified or anything. We weren’t all spies, you know. A lot of us were just your basic office workers. Some of us were genuine diplomats, attachés, consuls, vice-consuls, undersecretaries, what have you, not like the Russians. Spies to a man, that lot. No, in fact I tried to keep as much distance as possible . . . you know. But one hears things, sees things, especially in heady times like those. I mean, we didn’t stand around with our heads buried in the sand. There was gossip. The lifeblood of the diplomatic service, I sometimes thought, gossip.”
Banks slipped the photograph out of his pocket and discreetly showed it to Victor. “Do you recognize this man with Silbert?” he asked.
Sophia shot him an annoyed glance, but he ignored it and she went back to talking to her mother.
Victor studied the photo and finally shook his head. “No, I’ve no idea who he is,” he said.
Banks hadn’t expected him to know, really. It had been a long shot, a ref lex action. “Why do you remember Laurence
Silbert in particular?” he asked.
“Well, it’s funny you should mention that. His reputation, I suppose. I was just thinking about him a little while ago when all that stuff about Litvinenko hit the fan. Plus ça change and all that. We used to call Silbert 007 around the office, just between ourselves, you understand. A little joke. Bit of a James Bond. Not the girls, of course, he 1 3 8
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never was interested in that direction, but he had the good looks, the coldness, ruthlessness, and he was tough as nails.”
“He killed people?”
“Oh, I’m sure he did. Not that I ever had any evidence, mind you.
Just rumor. But he worked on the other side a lot, so he’s bound to have faced danger and . . . well . . . I’m sure you can imagine what it was like.”
“Yes,” said Banks.
Sophia kept glancing at Banks sideways, and he could tell from her expression that she was half annoyed and perplexed that he was talking shop with her father, but also pleased that they were getting along, not reduced to the usual monosyllabic grunts that had become their excuse for conversation lately. He turned and smiled at her while Victor was cutting off another lump of Yorkshire pudding, and she smiled back. “Shall I get more drinks?” she asked.
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