A grey, fumbling wraith of a form surmounted by a small, puckered, shiny mask of a face, Mrs Smythe had already clawed at her hand, had caught it and clasped it between her own desiccated bunch of fingerbones. Now she was cooing. ‘My darling, you were wonderful. Such tone! Such colour! True, true virtuosity!’
She smiled at Mrs Smythe, feeling the skin of her mouth stretch, feeling her lips part in the social gesture. Her other hand rooted at the hard stones that guarded her neck, clung there as a sparrow in a storm clings to its nest. To keep the smile up, to display an undaunted face to Mrs Smythe and the room, took all her strength: her shoulders sagged, something within herself emptied, ruthlessly flowed like water down a drain, like wine out of a glass. But just as she was sure that her knees were going to give, that she would in another moment fall forward, sink down, down, a spark of anger flickered in her mind, flickered and finding tinder blazed, grew into flame and warmed her. Damn you, damn you, she thought as she smiled more broadly at her hostess, what right have you to give parties, to know everyone who counts and have favours to bestow? You know nothing of music, of my world of sound, of what it means to set tones down in space and time so that they relate, so that you can build on them other tones, inject into them rhythm, give them weight and meaning, construct with them a reality. You know only people, people you can twist and turn and force to do your bidding; you care only for power. And that is why I am here, why Basil is here, and you know it. Yes, I know and you know that it had to be you who gave a reception in my honour after this, my first ‘return’ concert, otherwise you might have lost a little of that prestige that is so precious to you. And we both also know that I had to accept your invation, and Basil, too, because old Jeffry Upman always comes to your parties and you tell him what his opinion should be. Jeffry’s opinion! Jeffry’s fame as a critic! Your opinion and your power! But where, Mrs Smythe, where do you get your opinion? From the music, from the tiny scraps of my sound you heard tonight when you were not chattering with one or another of your friends? Ah, no, not from the music – you have never learned to listen to music. You form your notions in subtle ways, if you can be said to have notions at all. You like those musicians and composers who will do as you suggest, who will add to your fame, who will cluster around you and heed your beck and call. It is like a snowball, isn’t it, Mrs Smythe? As it rolls downhill it grows larger and larger, and you can grow larger with it, just like all the other little flakes of snow, if you put yourself in its path and allow yourself to adhere. But if you avoid the oncoming snowball, if you resist it, you will be thrust aside to shiver alone, you will be ignored. Damn you, Mrs Smythe.
But, in fact, Mrs Smythe did not resemble a snowball as much as she did a ghost. Except for her face, with its palimpsest youthfulness, she was alarmingly insubstantial. She seemed a shadow in grey lace, a wreathed, two-dimensional shade. Her hands were pink bones, her feet animated shoes. Yet she inspired no compassion, she was not helpless, but a vituperative relic, an awe-inspiring totem, perhaps, that had been placed in your path by an enemy to bewitch you. And as she complimented you, as she smiled her wrinkles at you, she was measuring you, testing your loyalty, calculating your potential fame and its future worth to her.
‘What a lovely dress, Mrs Smythe – and what a lovely party! And now you say kind things to me, as well. I’m really overwhelmed!’ As she said these polite words, made this fitting response, she noticed with cold amazement that they proceeded in proper sequence, made sense and seemed to meet Mrs Smythe’s approval. But you could never tell for certain what Mrs Smythe was thinking. Her eyes, like gems imbedded in a crackled glaze, gave no clues; her gestures were inconsistent with her intentions; those who knew her well averred that the chief source of her power, other than her wealth, lay in her inscrutability.
‘I want you to meet a delightful young man,’ she was saying, her prehensile hand clutching avidly at Ellen’s aching wrist. Bobbing her head solemnly, she began to usher her through the crush, brushing past a painter and his mistress, a bevy of cherubic composers chortling at a boyish witticism, a stern-visaged sculptress who seemed to have been rough-hewn by her own hand out of alabaster, to a tall and gangling fellow, an adenoidal youth with a receding chin and a furtive hand that tried to secrete his faintly moustached mouth as they approached. But he saw that it was too late, that they were upon him, and his hand fell away embarrassedly, grabbed at his pocket and, missing that, fell limply at his side – she saw the crop of uncultivated hairs that littered his lip, too long to be a mistake in shaving, not dense enough to act as an adornment, too red to be ever anything but fatuous. ‘Ferdinand,’ Mrs Smythe was commanding, ‘I know you have been wanting to meet our guest of honour, dear Ellen here. Ellen, this is Ferdinand Jaspers. I’m sure you two will get along famously.’
And Mrs Smythe went on to another solitary victim, standing agape across the room from Ellen and Ferdinand, barely having halted her inexorable progress to introduce them. Ferdinand, she could see, was not used to Mrs Smythe. A flush had started above his collar and would soon threaten his face. His hand flew up to his mouth, jerked there for an instant, then fell reluctantly back again. ‘I – I enjoyed your recital, Mrs Purcell,’ he said. ‘I – I enjoyed it very much.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, knowing that she should say more, that it would be unkind not to help him by holding up her end of the unnecessary conversation, yet enjoying his uneasiness.
He wet his lips and, as if its action were controlled by a mechanism, his hand skittered up to his head, patted and smoothed his clay-coloured hair. She was amused to see a droplet of perspiration forming on his brow and, while she waited for him to speak again, she chose to speculate as to which side of his nose it would streak down eventually. Then the silence that had held only one youth’s shame was broken by a voice that sounded from somewhere in the room, that belonged to some one person in the clutter, a voice she almost, but did not quite, recognize talking about something she did not want mentioned, that she had hoped had been forgotten. ‘… how could you have kept from hearing about it? It was in all the papers. The more sensational ones even printed pictures of them lying there together, dead. A towel was thrown over his body, of course, and she was fully dressed. But, even so, I don’t think they should print such things. They said she killed him, you know. Oh, it was based on the time of their deaths – according to the medical examiner he died hours before she did. That was how it was, or so they said. She killed him, for jealousy or for some other reason, and then got to brooding over it. The night clerk said he had rented a room to a man and a woman. No, but then would you expect them to give their right names? Yes, she must have felt remorse … killed herself. My dear, I was so surprised that you hadn’t heard of it … a sensation, nothing less than a sensation. Why, I had seen him just a night or two before … he was singing in the Village, you know…’
Ferdinand cleared his throat and she recovered herself. She realized that all the time she had been listening to the other conversation, afraid to turn around to see who was speaking, she must have been staring at the youth, staring blankly and fixedly; but he might have taken this for a steady inquiry, an indication of another kind of interest. Quickly, she lowered her eyes.
He coughed. ‘I – I am a poet,’ he said.
Why, oh why, she asked herself, had he told her that? What did his being a poet mean to her? She continued to stare at him, realizing full well that even if he had at first mistaken her glance for coquetry, he could not now – seeing his face tighten, his ridiculous attempt at a moustache quiver as he grew more aware of her hostility, sensed that her look was a weapon.
‘I – I mean,’ he said, ‘that I’ve had a book published. A little book of verse.’ And his hand, like an eager retriever after a bird, swept up to his lip and then swept down again.
But, although she did not avert her eyes, she was not listening to him. She had heard the voice again, the voice that sounded familiar, which she was sure that, if she cou
ld only stop to think, she would be able to place. Once more it had risen above the continuous murmuring of the crowd, had broken free of the mass sound, and in its escape had seemed to create an area of quiet, a silence within the general noise, in which it alone existed, which it alone commanded. ‘As a matter of fact,’ the voice was saying, ‘I remember that I’d seen him even more recently than that. Yes, I’d not only heard him sing just a few nights before it happened, but he had been in my studio that very afternoon … Oh yes, I knew him well … why, he used to drop around all the time … Who was she? No one you’d know, my dear. Some dreadful person – a dancer I believe, I read some place that she had been a dancer; yes, I’m altogether sure she was a dancer … Why? Why do they ever? She loved him, I suppose. Isn’t that always the reason? Her name? Why, I don’t think I remember. I read it once … it was in all the papers, of course … but now I can’t remember…’
She recognized the voice, knew all at once without question that it could belong to no one but Nancy. And with this knowledge she felt herself compelled to cross the room, to seek out the voice, to confront Nancy and prove to herself once again that she had nothing to fear. Nancy had sounded behind her and at some distance – she must be back towards the fireplace. Thinking this, she turned about blindly and began to push her way through the chatting throng. The youth was aghast, his face lost all colour – she saw this out of the corner of her eye as she brushed past the nearest couple. She felt sorry for him. But she could not bother to return to him, to apologize for leaving him. It was too important for her to find Nancy, to break into her conversation, to hear clearly every word she had to say.
She sensed that her impulsive progress through the densely peopled room was causing comment, she could feel others’ eyes on her – but she did not care. Yet she did force herself to walk more slowly, to go out of her way rather than to press herself between a tall man and a robust woman who impeded her passage, to look for Nancy instead of locating her only by the sound of her voice. In fact, she even stood still momentarily, gazing about the great, glittering room, and was rewarded by the sight of the person she sought. Nancy leaned against the fireplace, her granite face contorted by her emphatic speech, her thick-fingered, peasant’s hands gesturing broadly. She was relieved to see her, but she did not hesitate any longer. Instead, she pushed forward again, even more impulsively than before, blundering against a sofa, nearly upsetting the butler and his tray.
Nancy saw her approaching. She turned away from her companion, a pallid man with sleek hair and an intense expression, to cry, ‘Ellen, darling, you were incomparable. It was really an occasion! But, Ellen – I’m so glad we saw you now – I think you can help us out. Ellen, tell me, do you remember meeting a man, a musician, a singer of folk ballads, very popular, in my studio last summer?’
She nodded to the pallid man, to whom she had not been introduced. Then she looked directly at Nancy’s massive face. ‘You don’t mean Jim Shad?’ Her breathing slowed as she waited for Nancy to react, to show any indication that she knew.
But Nancy’s face did not change. ‘That’s right. Well, I remember his name, too. But, Ellen, for the life of me I can’t remember the name of the woman – she was a dancer, a dreadful person – who killed him. You knew that he was murdered, didn’t you? I thought everyone knew, that simply everyone must have read about it – it was such a sensation; she beat his head in, you know! – but Jack here tells me that he didn’t know. You knew about it, didn’t you, Ellen?’
She smiled, amused by Nancy’s chatter. ‘It was terrible. I read about it at the time. Did they ever find who did it?’ She was proud of her own calmness, her inventiveness.
Nancy’s eyes widened and she plainly showed her disbelief. ‘But, darling, that’s what I’m trying to tell you! This woman, what’s-her-name, did it. She bashed his head in, then shot herself – although why she didn’t use the gun on him I’ve never understood. Only I can’t remember her name. I thought you might. She was a dancer.’ Nancy seemed to have run down.
She looked at her closely, saw her leaning against the mantel, her slouched stance, made sure that her face was blank with curiosity – or was it malice? ‘Although why she didn’t use the gun on him I’ve never understood,’ she had said. Had she meant that ironically? Was she using this means to let her know that she suspected her? The thought tortured her and made her want to avoid Nancy’s eyes. But she knew that she dare not do this, that if Nancy did suspect her such an action would help to confirm her belief. She must brazen it out.
‘I remember now. I do think I read something about a dancer. She killed him, didn’t she? Did you know her?’ She spoke harshly, jerkily.
Jack, who had been smoothing the marble of the mantel with his hand, looked at her in surprise. But Nancy, if she noticed, did not show that she was aware.
‘That was it, Ellen. The desk clerk said they registered together under assumed names the night before. Then they found them the next morning. Both of them were dead. She had killed him first, then shot herself. Don’t you remember her name?’
She pressed her hand to her throat, felt the diamond choker, was reassured by its unyielding presence. ‘I can’t say that I do. I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I didn’t follow the case. It must have happened just before Basil and I went away. We went to his cabin in the Catskills, don’t you remember? I had to get away from everything so that I could practise, and Basil was deep in his scores. We didn’t see a newspaper all summer. I’m afraid I missed all the gruesome details.’
Nancy smiled. ‘Of course, you wouldn’t. I had forgotten that you and Basil were away. Why, you must have left that same week! Oh, well, it doesn’t matter. I only wish my memory wouldn’t play such queer tricks on me.’
She could see now that she had been mistaken. Nancy had meant nothing by her question, had just been curious, gossipy, as was her nature. But now that her mind had started on that track, now that the special, dry-mouthed fear, the calm panic, had returned, she was forced to remember other details of that morning, that morning that seemed years ago but was only months, that morning that she had returned to the house to find Basil sitting up in his leather chair in the library, sitting stiffly with his head twisted uncomfortably, asleep. She had known at once that he had waited up for her, that he must have been concerned about her absence. She had gone over to him and knelt beside him, had awakened him with a kiss.
His eyes had opened heavily, slowly, his hand had flown to his forehead and rubbed it, before he saw her and accepted the fact that, at last, she was there. He had hunched forward in his chair, feeling in his bones the cramps of an uncomfortable night – he had taken her hand between his own and pressed it tightly. ‘Are you all right?’ he had asked.
She had been far from being all right. She had been frightened and sick and on the point of killing herself. On the way uptown in the taxi Shad’s face had haunted her, and even at that moment she could sense the blood upon her body like a weight or a burning brand. But she had not known how to speak to him of this. She had known that something within her was wrong, badly wrong, that in some way she was both wrong and bad. Yet the pressure of his hands on her own gave her strength, enabled her to lie. ‘I’m quite all right,’ she had said.
Later, much later, she had decided to tell him nothing about it. She had been clear in her own mind about that. He would learn of it soon enough, she had reasoned, from others – more brusquely perhaps, but less emotionally, than if she had tried to tell him. She had gone to her study, had locked the door, and for the first time since she had returned from the hospital she had addressed herself to her instrument. It had been all that day as if her fingers, her body – yes, even her mind – had not belonged to her; as if, so she remembered it, the hesitant music she made had not been heard by her, as if even her breathing were not her own. She had felt herself to be an instrument, a cruel, polished edge of surgical steel, lying on a sterile cloth, whetted for use. And the music, the sounds her fingers bro
ught into being, had been bright, sharp slivers of tone that had lacerated the silence.
At dusk Basil had knocked at the door and had persuaded her to come to dinner. Later, because he had wanted to and it had not displeased her, they had gone for a walk. He had bought a newspaper at the entrance to the park and they had gone inside, had sat on a bench to read it. If she closed her eyes even today (although she dare not close her eyes now with Nancy looking at her) she would still be able to see that headline, vaguely black in the indirect light of the lamp-post, that had told about Jim Shad’s murder and Vanessa’s suicide. She had reached for the paper, had tom it from Basil’s hands, had read the entire story. At first she could not understand why Vanessa had killed herself, and then she realized that the police did not understand either. It had seemed comic to her that the police should think that Vanessa had killed him; she had wanted to laugh, to sob, to get up and dance like a child in pigtails, but she had known that if she had she could never have explained her action to Basil. As it was, he had wanted to know why she was so interested in the murder. ‘This paper features a murder every night,’ he had said. But that had been easy enough. She had told him that she had met Jim Shad only yesterday at, of all places, his sister’s, Nancy’s, studio. She had said that it was the first time that a friend of hers had been murdered and that she was naturally interested.
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