Chapter Twenty-Seven
I had to wait till Nick was out of the bath to shower, and by then the hot water was tepid. I didn’t mind: I showered in cold. I needed to wake up. As the shock wore off, I began to feel involved again. It hadn’t, as far as I could see, been my fault that Teddy had died, but neither had I done what the Womun had paid me to do: I hadn’t stopped her.
I still owed her that duty, or some duty. She was my client, however half-baked. Or murderous.
After the shower, I cleaned my teeth, dressed, and went downstairs. Barty and Nick were in the kitchen. She was scrambling eggs, he was watching her, leaning against my noticeboard. He was too tall for my kitchen. The ceiling wasn’t eight feet at its highest point, sloping down as it neared the window (was something wrong with the bedroom floor above?) and it cleared his head by only inches.
I’d have to change my man, I thought flippantly. Or my flat.
Then I realized what I’d thought. Change the flat? Never. Never. Silently, I apologized to my flat.
Nick looked up. ‘I’m making scrambled eggs on toast for all of us. That’s all that’s in the fridge, and that’s all I can cook anyway, without recipe books. You don’t have any recipe books.’
‘Get a move on, then,’ I said. ‘We’ve got work to do.’
Barty pushed himself away from the wall. ‘D’you want me to go?’
‘No,’ I said, rather hurt. ‘D’you want to?’
‘If you want to work, I mean,’ he said.
‘You’re going to help.’
‘Have you a fee structure in mind?’
‘Yes. A share of Nick’s scrambled eggs and the satisfaction of a job well done. A fair offer.’
‘I’ll remember that you think it a fair offer next time I hire you,’ he said.
‘Eggs are ready,’ said Nick.
As soon as we’d eaten I told Barty what I wanted him to do and left him in the sitting-room with the phone. Nick and I were in the kitchen, going through Kinross’s file on Edward Webb. I explained what we were looking for – any reference to the Vestal Virgins, particularly in their last term at Oxford – and then divided the material up. I still didn’t trust myself to fire on all cylinders so I deliberately gave her the most promising stuff, and more than half of the total.
I finished first, with nothing productive. Mine had been notes on Webb’s graduate supervisions: more or less solid maths. Then I just sat and watched her read, and tried not to think about Teddy. Finally she looked up. ‘That’s it,’ she said.
‘So what happened in the Finals term of 1971?’ I said.
‘It was a big mess. At the beginning of term St Scholastica’s were flipping their lid because Grace was obviously pregnant, and she named Edward as the father.’
‘Grace was? Fennel is Edward’s child?’
‘That’s what it says here. This Janet Wilson woman got on to Balliol, and then Edward asked permission to marry Grace—’
‘He asked permission? How old was he?’
‘That’s not the point. It was a college rule – undergraduates weren’t allowed to marry, and if he broke college rules he couldn’t sit his exams. He asked permission and he was granted it by the Master, against Kinross’s advice. Kinross thought it would ruin his career. But after all that, Grace wouldn’t marry him.’
‘Why not?’
‘She said she didn’t want to, apparently. She said no one had consulted her, and she’d arrange her own life, thank you. So it went quiet for a bit, though Edward was gated for a week or two, I suppose to remind him not to want to marry women who didn’t want to marry him, or for wasting the Master’s time, or for having sex with a member of the University, or something. Then Elspeth did her nut. She started bleeding in the middle of the night in College and woke everybody up and the college doctor was called and said she’d had a botched backstreet abortion, and she was taken to the Radcliffe Infirmary, where they saved the baby.’
‘They saved the baby?’
‘And then she said Edward was the father, and that he’d arranged the abortion.’
‘While still gated?’
‘It’s not funny,’ she said, bewildered.
‘Sorry,’ I said, trying to sober up. It was serious, of course it was, but it was a long time ago, and struck me as farcical.
Nick went on, ignoring me. ‘So Janet Wilson wrote to Kinross and said Edward Webb would have to marry Elspeth. It was what Elspeth wanted. So the Master gave permission. Then Edward Webb said he wouldn’t, and Elspeth cracked up.’
‘How?’
‘Nervous breakdown. She was moved straight from the Radcliffe Infirmary to the Warneford – that must have been the local mental hospital. That was three weeks before her exams. And a week later, she was smuggled out of the Warneford and taken up to London, where she had another abortion. Successful this time. And she went back in to the Warneford and cracked up completely, and told them who had arranged the abortion and taken her up to London, et cetera.’
‘And that was Edward?’
‘Not just Edward. Edward, and Melanie Slater.’
‘Babykiller,’ I said. ‘Of course. That’s what Elspeth wrote on Melanie’s wall, when she broke in last Sunday.’ I was beginning to feel for her. She’d been everybody’s pawn.
‘So then Edward was in deep trouble. The Master wanted to send him down for bringing the college into disrepute, but Kinross spoke up for him. He obviously didn’t like him – you should read some of his comments – but he thought he was a real mathematician. So Edward was rusticated – that seems to be what they call suspended – but allowed to come back to sit his exams. And when he’d sat the exams and got his results and been accepted to do his graduate degree, he married.’
‘Who?’
‘Melanie Slater.’
I whistled. ‘So Melanie’s still married to him? And living in sin with her smart mock-husband? And little Bella is a bastard?’
Nick was right, it was a mess. A major mess. Poor Elspeth. By a stupid accident of biology, she’d been torn apart.
Then I rethought it. She needn’t have got pregnant in the first place. And if she had, she should have taken care of herself. Or could she? The little pointy-faced creature in the punt photograph didn’t look as if she could take care of a stuffed toy.
‘Just a minute,’ said Nick. ‘Is this Edward Webb character still alive? I thought you said Teddy wanted you to find his father, but that you thought he was probably dead.’
I’d forgotten how long ago it had been since I’d briefed Nick. I was just about to explain when she said, ‘Teddy will be pleased, won’t he? That’s good. I like Teddy.’
It wasn’t her fault, but when she said that, I saw him fall, again. I heard him land. And I tried to breathe into his shattered face.
‘What’s the matter, Alex?’ she said. ‘What is it?’
I heard Barty coming into the kitchen, but I couldn’t see him, because the room was going round. Then I felt his hand on my forehead, and something in front of me, under my chin.
‘Barty?’ I said.
‘Yes. Barty with basin,’ he said.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
While I was being sick, I could half hear Barty explaining to Nick what had happened at the British Library yesterday. It saved me doing it, anyway.
After that I sipped water for a while, then I went up to clean my teeth, wobbly-legged and frustrated. This wasn’t like me. I’m usually tough. Much worse things have happened to me without having this effect. It was terrible about Teddy, of course it was, but me cracking under it wasn’t helping anyone; certainly not him. He was beyond help, and I firmly believe that if people are beyond help you shouldn’t waste energy worrying about them.
Perhaps it was just that I’d seen him die. Or that he hadn’t deserved it. Or that he was so young. Or that he’d liked my breasts.
I sat on the edge of the bath with a wet facecloth on the back of my neck, and tried to get a grip. On anything.
When
I felt less dizzy I went down again. They’d moved into the living-room. Nick looked scared; I couldn’t imagine why. But I didn’t want her to, and if she was scared because of me, I had to reassure her.
I didn’t trust my voice, and I was right, because it came out high and quavery when I said, ‘I’m fine. Really.’
Barty looked at me.‘Good,’ he said.‘I spoke to my police contact. They haven’t found Elspeth yet. Or Edward. The dogs are being looked after by a neighbour. Elspeth arranged that yesterday morning. She said she wouldn’t be back till Monday.’
With every word he spoke I felt stronger. ‘Did you get Grace?’ I asked.
‘I know where she is. I spoke to Fennel, and she gave me Grace’s number at the hotel, and the number of the Festival office. I was just going to ring them when I came into the kitchen.’
‘To give me your Florence Nightingale,’ I said.
‘Exactly so, though perhaps not so much the Lady with the Lamp as the Man with the Basin. One of my best.’
‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘Not at all. The least I could do, after you gave me your Botticelli’s Venus earlier . . . Shall I try the Festival now?’
‘You – you treacherous snake,’ I said. ‘I’m not in the least like Botticelli’s Venus. And it wasn’t like that.’
‘Wasn’t like what?’
‘I’ve taken up naturism,’ I said. ‘A healthy hobby.’
Nick was watching us, her head moving back and forth like a Centre Court audience at Wimbledon. ‘Alex, are you all right? Really?’ she said.
‘Yes, I am,’ I said, and I nearly was. ‘Ring the Festival, Barty.’
It took a while to get Grace, and when she came on the line Barty passed her over to me without speaking. Lucky, because I was beginning to feel the stirrings of jealousy again, with him actually in front of me. Was it lucky, or was it diplomatic? He made the Cresta Run look like a cheese-grater.
‘Alex?’ said Grace. ‘What happened?’ For the first time since I’d known her, she wasn’t chuckling. Even if you couldn’t quite hear it, the chuckle was usually there, like the murmur of an underground river. Now it had gone, and she sounded older And more New Zealand.
‘Did you hear about Teddy?’
‘Yes. It was on last night’s news . . . It’s dreadful. Didn’t you get my message?’
‘No. The tape was damaged,’ I said. ‘Someone spilt coffee on it.’
‘Well,’ she said, and fell silent. At least she wasn’t a drag-it-out person, a just-fancy-that person.
‘Do you think it was an accident?’ I said.
‘Of course it was. Teddy wasn’t supposed to be there. He knew nothing about it. Any of it. Though he started it off, in a way.’
‘How?’
‘When he told Elspeth that you were a private detective. And a television researcher After he saw your advertisement in the post office. He knew she liked women who did audacious things.’
I felt far from audacious. I felt, irrationally, responsible. ‘So how did that start Elspeth off?’
‘I don’t know, exactly,’ she said. Not a form of words, I suspected, that she often had occasion to use.
‘Guess,’ I said.
‘Partly that she was upset by Leona’s death . . . and I said, to cheer her up, that death helps a writer – any artist – because of the publicity. And she thought she’d get publicity for all of us if she set up the Womun stunt, and she thought that if she hired you, with all your media contacts, you’d help. Unknowingly, of course.’
No wonder I’d felt manipulated. ‘Didn’t she mind who she hurt, with the ceiling?’
‘She wasn’t going to smash it. Just splash paint on it, and upset everyone, and leave a note from the Womun.’
‘And you went along with all this?’
There was a silence. Then she said, ‘You know how it is, with old friends. Sometimes you love them more than you agree with them. More than you enjoy their company. More than you have in common, after a while. Elspeth was hard work.’
‘So to escape her emotional demands, you went along with her?’
‘Yes. I didn’t think it would do any harm. And it wouldn’t have. Elspeth’s safe. She’s very conventional. She wouldn’t have smashed that ceiling, however much she hated the Museum lot. It was Edward, it must have been. It worried me when you said he was involved. I got on to Elspeth straight away, to warn her to keep him out of it, but she said she could handle him. She said he was enjoying himself, and he got little enough fun, and she was going to take him along. She was proud of her plan. She wanted company, I think.’
‘But how did Teddy get involved?’
‘I’ve no idea. No idea at all.’
Perhaps his telephone message would have told me, I thought.
Grace was speaking again. ‘How is Elspeth? Have they locked Edward up?’
‘They haven’t found her,’ I said. ‘They haven’t found either of them. Where will they have gone?’
Silence.
‘If you know, you must tell the police,’ I said. ‘And get them a good lawyer.’
‘I don’t know,’ she said.
I covered the mouthpiece of the receiver. ‘Barty, get her to tell you where they’re likely to be. Elspeth’s still my client. She needs looking after. So does he, by all accounts.’
Barty looked cautious. I suppose he was trying to estimate how much I knew about his relationship with Grace, and how jealous I was likely to be. ‘Why me?’ he said.
‘Because you were her lover,’ I said. ‘Because she still fancies you. Because you’ve known her for twenty-four years and I met her last Thesday, all right? Come on, Nick, we’ll leave him to it.’
It didn’t take him long, and I didn’t listen, not to a single word. I despise women who want to take a man and wipe out every single relationship he’s ever had right up to the moment he first looked into their short-sighted eyes. I wasn’t going to be one of them, if I could help it. Never. Though I was, I feared, by nature. Or perhaps by circumstance.
Grace needed help. I didn’t want to imagine how bad she must feel about the tragic mess she’d partly created, or at least had failed to prevent. Barty’d be a good person for her to talk to. So I didn’t think about what they were saying or how pleased he might be feeling to hear her voice or about any of the past they shared, but concentrated on clearing the action board.
The action list went first. I wrote another, with just one item:
Arabella Trigg – report
I took down the text of the Guardian article and binned it. Then I reached for the photograph, which of course Barty had taken.
That was Barty’s framing and Barty’s eye; Grace had all but named him to me, in the bath, and I hadn’t listened. I wondered as I crumpled it up which of the Vestal Virgins had spent the night with him after that day on the river back in 1969. When I’d been five.
‘Are you all right, Alex?’ said Nick.
‘Yes. Why, does it worry you if I’m not?’ I said.
‘Because you’re so indestructible, usually, I suppose.’
‘Nobody’s indestructible,’ I said, ‘and you’ve only known me five days, and any investigator who wasn’t upset by the violent death of a perfectly healthy, intelligent, interesting young client would be a nutter, don’t you think? Specially if it happened right in front of their eyes.’
‘Would you like a coffee?’ she said.
‘Definitely,’ I said.
She was learning.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
It was twenty past six, just after sunset. The darkening sky was washed with delicate pink, and the air smelt of dying summer Barty’s BMW was parked in a layby two hundred yards from Grace’s Oxfordshire cottage, and Barty and I were sitting in the front, waiting. Nick was in the back. She hadn’t wanted to be left out, and with that number of people, another couldn’t hurt. We were waiting for the other cars.
Several of them. Grace was sure that Elspeth and Edward would have holed up in
her cottage, but she was prepared for Barty to tell me that only if I agreed to let her make her own arrangements about who else was there.
She wanted time to drive up from the West Country herself. She wanted a lawyer. And she wanted to invite Melanie Slater.
Barty’d agreed on my behalf. When he told me, I just nodded. If Grace wanted a circus, then she could have it, so long as I managed to get hold of Elspeth and sort her out.
A large Audi was the first car to draw up behind us. Inside, Melanie Slater and a man I recognized from her drawing-room photographs as her husband, Nigel Meades. I was surprised she’d been prepared to come.
Barty went to talk to them. When he came back, I said, ‘How is she?’
He shrugged. ‘As you’d expect. Very – sad.’
‘Not angry?’
‘Who with?’
‘Elspeth? Edward? Grace? Me?’
‘No. She doesn’t seem to be. Nigel’s angry, though.’
‘Why?’
‘They were supposed to be going to an important dinner-party tonight. Important to him.’
‘Melanie wouldn’t have gone to that anyway,’ I said. ‘The night after Teddy died?’
‘No, but Nigel would.’
‘So why didn’t he go, and let Melanie come here by herself? Or did he think she wasn’t up to it?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘He’s jealous of Grace.’
‘How, jealous? Sexually?’
‘No. Territorially.’
Barty knew them too well. All of them. I shifted my body further down the seat and wedged my feet up on the glove compartment in front of me. It might scratch his precious car, but I didn’t care.
Barty looked at me and smiled, and I nearly moved my feet. He’d seen through me before I had. I hate that.
I had to say something. ‘Barty, why didn’t Melanie tell Teddy his father was alive? Come to that, why didn’t Grace?’
‘It was Melanie’s decision. She’s always believed if something isn’t talked about, it isn’t happening. She never accepted that Edward hadn’t loved her enough. Plus Edward wanted to be dead. He didn’t want to see Teddy. Perhaps, more importantly, he didn’t want Teddy to see him, not as he was. After the accident.’
The Glass Ceiling Page 17