by Roger Curtis
Brian, avoiding eye contact, simply shook her hand. Alice was less inhibited.
‘Mark tells me you’ve been able to put it behind you. I’m so glad.’
‘Why shouldn’t I? Sarah-Jane replied, mildly irritated. ‘The coroner said I was not to blame. Nor Alan either, amazingly, but there it is.’
‘It seems that the flagstone at the top of the steps had still to be cemented in.’ Mark turned away from them to fill the sherry glasses. ‘Funny no-one noticed it at the time.’
‘Damn fool behaviour though, all the same,’ Brian said. ‘Nobody’s seen him since, but Alice got a long letter from a village up north that no-one’s heard of. He’s obviously keeping his head down.’
‘What puzzles me,’ Sarah-Jane said, ‘is why he was there in the first place.’
‘Ah, you don’t know?’ Sarah-Jane saw in Alice’s face a fleeting expression that brought back student days: it signified possession of knowledge that could be traded. ‘It’s simple enough really. I think it’s because his name had just been restored to the medical register. It was a kind of coming out opportunity, do you see?’
‘Then he certainly put it to good use.’
Brian said, ‘What puzzles me is why there was no mention of the breathalyser test at the inquest.’
Mark stared at him. ‘It seems the police made a mistake, Brian. It’s easy to do.’
Alice said, ‘I wondered that.’
‘A mistake, okay? Let’s leave it at that, shall we?’
Alice lowered herself into a chair, hands between knees, face blank but for a wisp of a smile, like a naughty child.
Sarah-Jane slid into the role of hostess. ‘Now, I want to tell you about Mark’s plans for the conservatory. Shall we all sit?’
The perfect meal drew to a close with Marguerite bringing in a platter of wild strawberries on a bed of aromatic leaves, the whole speckled with minute crystalline berries that Sarah-Jane had never seen before.
‘Courtesy of the Massingham Foundation,’ Mark said, as Marguerite excused herself and left the room.
Alice was impressed. ‘You’re so lucky, Sarah, to have a husband with that connection.’
‘Well, perhaps.’ Sarah-Jane hesitated, wondering how best to respond. ‘We made an agreement, you see, when we were married, that home life and Massingham wouldn’t be mixed. And mostly we’ve kept to it. This is an exception.’
Mark seemed anxious to change the subject; though, as they would shortly find, that was not what he had in mind. ‘I wonder if you two ladies would excuse Brian and me for a few minutes. If we get our little business over now we can all relax for the rest of the evening.’
‘Take your time,’ Alice said, ‘It will be nice to gossip with Sarah alone for a change.’
The awaited click of the door to Mark’s study at the end of the corridor had the effect on the two women of a nail being driven into an over-inflated tyre. Sarah-Jane slumped forward over the table and buried her face on her folded arms. Alice lay on her back across two dining chairs, below the level of the table top.
‘It’s not that great, is it Sarah? I can tell.’
‘Nope.’ Sarah-Jane placed her chin on her arm. ‘You know the worst thing? The assumption that I was somehow against Clare: as if there’d been some intent in what I did. And… and to give me no credit for having feelings towards the child. I have not slept, Alice, but not because of guilt.’ She picked up a knife and began toying with it. ‘One evening – and I haven’t told this to a soul – Jack came round. I think he expected me to fall at his feet and beg forgiveness.’ Sarah-Jane grasped the handle of the knife and Alice, who had raised her face above the level of the table at Sarah-Jane’s sudden change of tone, watched her knuckles whiten. ‘I can’t repeat what he said to me.’
‘Isn’t that understandable, under the circumstances.’ Alice thought for a moment. ‘You didn’t taunt him, did you Sarah? You know how you can sometimes.’
‘Perhaps. Anyway, there’s something I want to show you.’
Sarah-Jane jumped up and walked to the writing desk in the far corner of the room. From beneath a mass of papers she withdrew a single sheet and handed it to Alice. ‘This was the first of the hate letters. There have been others since, but this one’s – how shall we say – different.’
Alice scanned the few typewritten lines. ‘Tell me then.’
‘Whoever wrote it was involved. It’s not written from a distance like the others.’
‘I wouldn’t take it too seriously, Sarah.’
‘And the bit about him watching me?’
‘A crank, a nutter.’
‘That’s what I thought until yesterday.’
‘So what happened yesterday?’
‘There was a knock at the door. It was that woman three houses down, Mrs Fowler, who’s always complaining about horse droppings in the road. Apparently she’d been walking the dogs on the golf course and come across a bloke with binoculars.’
‘Bird watching, I should think.’
‘Possibly, but from where she said she’d seen him in the bushes the only thing visible is this house. I walked up there later. You could even see where the grass had been flattened.’
‘Sarah, you must be careful! What did he look like?’
‘Cap pulled down, beard she thought, scruffy mac. No one she knew.’
The men’s voices sounded in the hall. Sarah-Jane thrust the letter back into the pile. But the footsteps continued past the door, in the direction of the conservatory.
‘I’m glad your marriage has worked out, Sarah. We all wondered about it at the time.’
The two women had not found themselves in so intimate a situation since the Davisons had bought the house in Putney after their wedding and invited the Prestons to what turned out to be, overall, a stilted evening. It had puzzled both women that a friendship had later developed between their husbands, and more so that it had evolved independently of their own, so that Mark hardly knew Alice in spite of Brian’s frequent presence at Shirley Hills. As for the women, they met in town occasionally, but that was all. Alice’s observation on Sarah-Jane’s marriage seemed to invite an exchange of confidences. Sarah-Jane, needing a friend, was receptive to the invitation.
‘It’s played to pretty strict ground rules, Alice, so don’t be misled.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Oh, basically my comfort for his freedom. Not that he neglects me, you understand, but there’s a quirkiness about the arrangement I could sometimes do without. Like my crazy public name which – God knows why – he likes. That was part of the package.’
‘I did wonder. But why leave medicine?’
‘I’ve thought about it often. Responsibilities I couldn’t face up to, I suppose. I was tempted to go back and probably would have if it hadn’t been for the accident. Mark wouldn’t like it – dutiful wife and all that – but couldn’t exactly stop me.’
‘We’d love to have you back.’
Sarah-Jane smiled to herself because Alice could not have guessed that the freedom she had grudgingly bestowed on her husband was hers also in equal measure. By unspoken agreement the daytime hours were hers and only Marguerite, who was regularly despatched on a variety of spurious errands, had any real inkling of what that entailed. And Marguerite knew well enough on which side her bread was buttered. But such things were not for Alice’s ears, at least not yet.
So she just said: ‘Yes, I gather so. Brian has asked me a number of times.’
‘Has he? He never said.’ Alice hesitated. ‘In fact he doesn’t tell me much really.’ Another pause, as if she were gathering herself to jump a hurdle. ‘It’s not a very happy relationship, Sarah. He’s so wedded to his work. You’d think, as a fellow medic, I’d be ideally placed to keep up – but I can’t. There’s some hidden agenda, and I don’t know
what it is.’
‘Fame? Fortune?’
‘No, they’re incidental. It’s something much more inward looking. The way he looks and acts. It frightens me sometimes. But he’s kind enough when he thinks about it.’
They heard the men returning. Mark appeared in the doorway, grinning broadly. ‘Sarah-Jane must leave the room for one minute, because we have something to show her.’
Sarah-Jane dutifully obeyed and Mark stood aside to let her pass, brushing her cheek with his fingers. On the minute she returned.
On the wall facing the door was an exquisite portrait in oils. It showed her siting demurely, wistfully, on an armless chair, her long legs drawn up under her body and one side of her face illuminated by the light of a table lamp. On the table – and the subject of her rapt attention – a silver bowl of red roses. The artist had captured every nuance of her face and figure.
‘It’s beautiful!’ She couldn’t control her delight.
‘We thought it would help to cheer you up. You recognise the artist, of course.’
She was reminded of the miniatures she had once seen at Lightermen’s Mansions. ‘Brian?’ she said. ‘Brian, you really did that? For me?’ She kissed his cheek, which immediately flushed pink. Then she turned to Alice, ‘Alice, did you know about this?’
‘No, I’m afraid I didn’t,’ Alice said, looking away to hide her anger and hurt pride. ‘He’s good at keeping things secret.’
Sarah-Jane’s response was a half-smile that said don’t begrudge me this little pleasure. Alice returned it with one which answered, sorry, for the moment I got my priorities wrong. Mark appraised the situation in a second. ‘You come with me,’ he said to Alice, ‘while Sarah-Jane is doting over her own image. I’d appreciate your advice on revamping the conservatory. She tells me yours is looking quite superb.’
Alice followed forlornly, no doubt regretting she had not invited Sarah to see it.
Sarah-Jane’s eyes had hardly left the painting. ‘Brian, it must have taken you weeks.’
‘No, Mark only asked me at the inquest. He gave me one or two photos to work from. I… um… cancelled a clinic to finish it.’
‘That’s praise in plenty!’ Sarah-Jane took a step backwards. ‘You know, if it was anyone else I’d say the artist was in love with his subject.’ The remark was casual, without implication, but Brian’s response made her turn sharply to look at him.
‘Perhaps he is.’
‘Poof, don’t be ridiculous!’
‘Why ridiculous? Artists can express emotion in their work.’
‘It was just a way of saying I was pleased with it. Sorry.’
‘Then I’m glad you like it.’ He was ill at ease, fumbling with his cuff links, unable to say more.
Sarah-Jane thought it prudent to change the subject. ‘Brian, may I ask you something?’
‘Of course.’
‘How well do you know Jack Adams?’
‘Reasonably well. He was very helpful with the fund-raising. One of the few people who could understand the project and explain it to laymen. That was vital.’
‘But personally. Does he harbour grudges, for example?’
‘Why? Has he tried to contact you?’
‘He came here one evening, yes.’
‘My advice would be to keep out of his way for a while, until the dust settles. He’ll come round eventually. After all, it was hardly your fault.’
‘It wasn’t my fault at all!’
‘No, no, of course, but not everyone saw it that way.’
Sarah-Jane manoeuvred the subject back on course. ‘Would you say he could be… well… threatening?’
‘He has a bit of a… no, that’s not right… can get a bit agitated sometimes. But vindictive, no. Why? Has he threatened you?’
Sarah-Jane fetched the letter she had shown to Alice. ‘Have a look at this.’
‘That’s not his style, Sarah. You can discount the thought. But the letter’s interesting. I have a psychologist friend who’s into this sort of thing. May I show it to him?’
Sarah-Jane shrugged. ‘If you think it’s worth pursuing.’
‘I promise I’ll return it.’ He refolded the letter. ‘You haven’t, by any chance, shown it to the police?’
‘No, why?’
Brian appeared not to hear as he stuffed the letter into his wallet.
10
Winter passed and with the coming of spring Sarah-Jane’s altercations with Mark increased. It was a pattern she had noticed, although to a lesser degree, the previous year when Mark’s mood swings seemed to reflect the cycles of rain and shine. Once again the focus of his agitation was Marguerite, whom he claimed was becoming ever more bored with the monotony of life at Hightower. Actually, Mark had become aware that Marguerite’s social life now extended well beyond Croydon and their own circle, and he had seen off a number of admirers from the city bold enough to call at the house. In short, Sarah-Jane thought, he was scared of losing her. Couldn’t she, Sarah-Jane, find something new to occupy her? Like the horses, for example, which in any case were hardly earning their keep.
Marguerite’s misgivings were tempered by the alluring prospect of being kitted out as a clone of Sarah-Jane. The two women drove to New Bond Street, where a full morning was spent trying on riding jackets, jodhpurs, hats and boots. Sarah-Jane had even to persuade Marguerite to put on her original clothes for the journey home. The following morning, both appropriately attired, they led the most docile of the horses – Pasta – into the paddock next to the rose garden.
Horse and rider had the rigidity of a statue of an erstwhile general, except that Marguerite’s lips quivered with frustration verging on panic.
‘Move on!’ Sarah-Jane called.
Marguerite’s heels pounded the flanks of the confused animal but still it did not move.
‘Loosen the reins.’
Pasta shot forward, moving rapidly through its gears until it was heading at a gallop for the fence bounding the paddock.
Sarah-Jane ran after, willing it not to jump. But the alternative was almost as bad: an abrupt halt with Marguerite grasping desperately at the animal’s mane before sliding across its neck into the long damp grass .
‘You said that on purpose!’ Tears were running down Marguerite’s cheeks.
‘Of course I said it on purpose! How else did you expect the thing to move?’
Sarah-Jane grasped Marguerite’s hands and pulled her to her feet. But, as their eyes met, the movement, initially abrupt, became gentle. Keeping hold of the girl’s right hand she released her own to wipe a smear of dirt from the wet cheek, allowing her fingers to linger there for a moment longer than she intended. Now at the centre of the paddock Pasta paused to look at them, then continued grazing. ‘We’d better go and retrieve the wretched animal,’ Sarah-Jane said.
Marguerite wiped her hands on her less than pristine jodhpurs. ‘Get it yourself,’ she said, but her resentment was already dying.
As the two women advanced, Pasta retreated hoof behind hoof, in a passable display of dressage, maintaining a constant distance from them. Eventually the trio were back where they had started twenty minutes earlier.
‘Try again.’
‘No!’
‘You will!’
Neither woman had seen Brian enter the gate and walk up behind them. ‘Patience, patience, Sarah. Fighting with her will achieve nothing.’
Marguerite, calmer now, grasped the opportunity. ‘I’ll be going now, Miss. I’m sure you two want to be left alone.’
Sarah-Jane glared at her, then at Brian. ‘If that girl so much as smells a blade of grass she’s reduced to a gibbering idiot. She’d be happy living in a concrete bunker.’
‘Quite. As it looks like rain why don’t you put the poor beast away and make me some coff
ee?’
‘Marguerite will…’
‘You will.’
Once in the kitchen Brian spooned instant coffee into mugs. Sarah-Jane took an opened carton of cream from the fridge, sniffed it and set it beside him with a thump. Then she sat at the table with her head in her hands.
‘Country life too stressful for you?’
‘Probably.’ She stared at him, not trying to conceal her antagonism. ‘Why are you here? You usually only come when Mark’s around.’
‘I’m lecturing at Oxford on Thursday, at the Radcliffe. The treatment of facial tumours. I wondered if you’d like to come?’
‘Not really, Brian, thanks.’ Her spoon turned the cream in her cup over and over. ‘But thinking about it, I do need to go home. I haven’t been for ages and yesterday Mum’s solicitors rang to ask me to call in. Heaven knows why. I suppose we could combine the two.’
‘Easily.’
A niggling obligation potentially resolved, she suddenly felt relaxed. The cloud that had its origins in Marguerite’s riding lesson lifted. ‘I still like the picture, Brian. So does everyone who sees it. I think you cheated, though, in not making it full face.’
‘Perhaps that one’s still to come.’
She looked up in surprise: there was a darkness in the tone of his voice that shouldn’t have been there.
Sarah-Jane was relieved when the taxi arrived to take her to High Wycombe. Bentley and Carruthers had offices near the centre of town, where a little regency terrace had become an anomalous enclave in a sea of concrete. There was something reassuring about its creeper-clad brick facade that attracted clients; and the partners, without trying too hard, had lived up to the image. They had served the Potters well for many years and one of the Carruthers brothers had been Elizabeth’s godfather.