The Lying Tongue

by Andrew Wilson

  Crace snorted with self-hatred. “What was I thinking of? Chris, my beautiful boy. I should have let him go. I should have forced him from me. That life was no good for him, and it was obvious he was unhappy. I wouldn’t let him out of the house. I wanted him there, you see, with me. Do you understand?”

  As he looked at me, his eyes pleading with me to say something, I almost felt sorry for him. I filed the words away in my head, ready to transcribe them as soon as I got to my room. My notebook was filling up gradually as I gathered the raw material for my book. Crace in his own words, his own pitiful, miserable, sordid little words.

  After this outburst, Crace said no more. His head drooped forward onto his chest and he resumed that position of fatigued defeat I had seen him adopt so many times before. It was as if all the life had been sucked out of him, his corporeal body reduced to a shell. I stood up to leave the room, and he waved me away with a skinny hand.

  In my room I took out my notebook from my rucksack, which I had stashed away out of sight under my bed, and wrote down our conversation as quickly, but as accurately, as possible. Then I fished out the letter from my pocket and tore open the envelope. It was written in the same scrappy hand as before. The paper was thin and cheap, and black Biro smudges covered the page like squashed flies. A dirty fingerprint marked the top right-hand corner.

  23 Church View

  Winterborne

  Dorset

  DT11 0GF

  Dear Mr. Woods,

  Thank you for your letter. It is much appreciated. Please call me on 01258 893489 and we can discus the matter further. Mr. Crace will be curios to find out more, I guarante that. You see we now know how Chris died.

  I also have some more surprises for you.

  Yours,

  Mrs. M. Shaw

  I was beginning to see the pieces fall into place. I now knew that Chris was much more than Crace’s “tenant.” And the implication from this shabby blackmail attempt was that there was something suspicious about the way he had died. No wonder Crace felt so damned guilty. No wonder he couldn’t write.

  I was certain I wasn’t going to find the answers by simply asking Crace. He had already told me much more than he had ever wanted to say. If I pushed him any harder, even if I did use the excuse that his words helped me cope with my sexual confusion, I doubt I would get much further with him. I suppose his reticence on the subject spoke for itself; if there were something suspicious about how Chris had died, Crace wouldn’t want to talk about it, would he?

  A phone call to Mrs. Shaw—that was the obvious first step.

  I shoved the letter in my pocket, found my phone card in my wallet—I didn’t want to use my mobile in case Mrs. Shaw kept a note of my number—and walked back down the portego. I peeked into the drawing room; Crace stared ahead in an unseeing daze, blind to the world.

  “I’m just going to pop out to get a bottle of wine for supper,” I said. “I think both of us could do with a drink.”

  Crace nodded. “Very well.” His voice sounded distant, sad, as if talking about the past had infected the present. “Don’t be long now.”

  As soon as I was outside, I took out the letter and read it once more. I was filled with excitement. This latest twist was a biographer’s dream. Subject as potential murderer—I couldn’t get better than that. I walked down the calle and through the meandering streets imagining my future. Jake had filled me in on the often ridiculous amounts of money paid by some British newspapers for serialization rights of certain newsworthy books. How much would they pay me? More than enough money to buy time so I could then get down and write the novel. I would make my name, perhaps even do a deal with a publisher for two books, first a biography and then my novel. That would show my father. That would show all those people back home who never had any trust in me, Eliza and Kirby. Better revenge than a mere broken arm.

  I stopped at a phone outside a bar and dialed the number. There was a slight delay before a connection was made and then it seemed to ring forever. I was on the point of replacing the receiver when I heard a crackle on the line.

  “Hello?” The voice was that of a man’s, old and rasping.

  “Can I speak to Mrs. Shaw, please?”

  The man cleared his throat. “There’s no Mrs. Shaw here,” he snapped.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “Is this 01258 893489?”

  “Who’s speaking?”

  “It’s Adam Woods. Mrs. Shaw wrote me a letter—about the writer Gordon Crace? She said that I should telephone this number.”

  “Oh, I see,” The man’s voice suddenly took on an ingratiating, weaselly tone. “Yes, of course, of course, Mr. Woods. Very nice of you to call.”

  “Can I speak to Mrs. Shaw, please?”

  “I’m afraid you can’t. I’m afraid Mrs. Shaw is no longer with us,” he said.

  I was beginning to have my suspicions that the whole thing was a setup, that it was all some kind of hoax. What was going on?

  “It was me who wrote you that letter. I’m, or I was, the nearest thing to what you might say was Chris’s stepfather. Mrs. Shaw—Maureen—died in February. Cancer ate her away. Nothing but skin and bone at the end. She got so weak—”

  “I’m sorry to hear that Mr…. Mr.—”

  “William, William Shaw. After her husband died, Maureen took my name, but we never married, you see.”

  “Do you have something that might interest Mr. Crace?”

  “Yes, you might say that, you might indeed,” he said, his asthmatic rasp whistling down the line.

  “Can I ask, first of all, why you didn’t write using your own name?”

  “At one stage Maureen and Mr. Crace knew one another. Not very well, of course. But she looked up to him. She did then, before she found out what was going on, you know. I thought writing as Maureen would grab Mr. Crace’s attention. A name from the past, if you like. Sounds like it did the trick, didn’t it? Rattled him right and proper, I should think.”

  “Mr. Crace has assured me that he wants to settle this matter. He’s told me he wants it cleared up, but of course you must give me something to go on. I’ll have to report back to him with as much detail as possible. You do understand that?”

  “Yes, indeed,” he said. “Maureen knew there was something odd from the beginning. She never believed her son could do that…you know…kill himself the way he did. When I asked why, how she could be so certain, she just said that she knew. She didn’t want to go into it, but she said it was as near to murder as you could get. If she was so sure, why didn’t she go to the police, I asked. But she felt sick at the thought. The shame of it, was all she would say. Of course, she was never the same after it happened. But now that she’s dead, everything has changed. Circumstances are different. Things have come to light, Mr. Woods.”

  As he finished the sentence the words seemed to degenerate into one long wheeze. I imagined him yellowed by cigarette smoke, fingers stained, lungs drowning in blackened tar.

  “May I ask what exactly has come to light?”

  “A book—a writing book. Found it when I was going through Maureen’s things. She’d hid it away all this time, never let on to me. That’s how she knew, you see. Knew that Chris didn’t do it. It’s all there—and, God bless us, much more besides—in that book.”

  “Can you tell me what kind of book, Mr. Shaw?”

  “You know…what do you call it…his diary.”

  I knew straightaway I had to see the diary. It would be the key to Crace. If he wasn’t going to reveal any more about himself, and after his recent confession it seemed unlikely, then this was the only way. I was sure that if I could only find out more about the death of Chris I could at last begin to understand Crace.

  I told William Shaw I would have a word with Crace and then call him back. I wanted to elevate the matter beyond mere blackmail, give it some kind of respectable gloss. I said that it was highly likely the author would want to secure the diary and transfer it into his hands for safekeeping. Of cou
rse, Crace would insist that some kind of settlement be made; after all, he didn’t want Mr. Shaw to go to all that trouble without a little remuneration. Was there a figure he had in mind? Mr. Shaw went silent on this point. A thousand pounds, I suggested.

  “I find that acceptable, Mr. Woods,” he replied.

  So now all I had to do was to negotiate my way out of Crace’s palazzo and get my hands on the money. My instinct told me that the latter task would be easy compared to trying to extricate myself from Crace’s grip. I had saved up quite a large chunk from my monthly salary, but this would also have to pay for my airfare back to Britain, my travel down to Dorset and accommodation. And what would I say to Crace?

  By the time I wandered from the phone booth to the wine shop and bought a couple of bottles, I had my plan. Crace hadn’t moved since I had left him. I uncorked a bottle of slightly perfumed white, poured him a glass and held it out for him. He took it mutely.

  I sat down beside him. “I’ve just heard some really bad news.”

  Crace raised his head and looked at me.

  “While I was out, my mobile rang. It was my mother. Her mother, my grandmother, has just died.”

  She had, in fact, been dead several years, and my other grandmother had died before I was born. Tears began to well up in my eyes.

  “I was so close to her. I can’t quite believe it. Oh, gosh, look at me—”

  I felt the wetness on my cheek and tasted a slight saltiness at the corner of my lip.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  Crace raised his hand from his lap and brought it up to my face. With an exquisite tenderness, he wiped a tear from my cheek.

  “You poor boy. You poor, poor boy,” he said.

  It was his act of kindness that did it, his gentleness that reduced me to sobs. He believed me, and I felt wretched, absolutely wretched. But now I had no choice.

  “My mother wants me to go home for the funeral, but I know how much you hate to be left. I don’t have to go, but—”

  “Of course you must go. There’s no argument, simply nothing more to be said.”

  “But will you be all right? I mean, who will—”

  “Don’t worry yourself, Adam. You can easily get one of the women from the shop to deliver the provisions. It’s imperative that you go. Don’t worry about me.”

  “But I feel so awful. Honestly, though, I’ll be back as quick as I can, definitely within a week or so.”

  At this I thought he would explode, but he only looked at me with pity.

  “Take your time. I’ll be fine.”

  “Thank you, Gordon.”

  “What was she like, your grandmother? Oh, sorry—that was terribly insensitive of me. You probably don’t want to—”

  “No, it’s fine. I’m sure it will help to talk about her.” I wiped my eyes and nose, sniffing a couple of times. I actually felt genuinely upset.

  “She was a wonderful woman, really unique. Sara, she was called. Born before her time. Incredibly spirited and lively, always game for a glass of champagne, even though she was, oh, ninety-two or something like that. I think she could even do the splits well into her seventies.”

  The memory, which was real enough, made me laugh. Crace smiled back.

  “I’m sure you must have been very close?”

  “I was closer to her than to my parents, even to my mother.”

  “She must have been a wonderful woman, as you say.”

  “She was. I remember the way she used to stroke my hair as a boy, playing with it between her fingers, saying it was like spun gold.”

  “When’s the funeral?” asked Crace.

  “At some point next week. We’re just waiting for a final date.”

  “So you must get back as soon as you can?”

  “Yes, I suppose I must. But really, if you’d rather I stayed with you, I will. Honestly.”

  “Would you really do that, Adam, if I asked you?” Crace looked a little incredulous, flattered perhaps.

  “Yes, of course. I know how much it means to you to have someone you trust around.”

  He paused for a second, as if assessing his mood. What would I say if he really asked me to stay?

  “No, I’m not going to do that. Even I wouldn’t be so selfish.” He started to raise himself from his chair. “Now, come on. Let’s get your things in order. You’ve got a plane to catch.”

  The trust in his eyes was the worst thing. It made me feel so shabby somehow. It would have been so much easier if Crace had behaved coldly toward me, or if he were angry or suspicious about my decision to fly back to Britain. But he seemed to understand what the death of my grandmother meant to me as if he too had once experienced similar feelings and emotions. I forgot for an instant that he might be a murderer. In fact, for a moment, it felt like I was the criminal.

  The two of us chatted as I gathered together my things. Just as I was about to pack my wash bag, I looked down into the ruck-sack and saw my notebook, open. The wash bag I was holding fell from my hands, its contents clattering down on to the wooden floor.

  “It’s only natural that you’re feeling jumpy, a little on edge,” Crace said. “After all, you have suffered quite a shock, you know.”

  “Sorry, yes,” I said, bending down to pick up shaving foam, toothpaste and a nail clipper. I noticed a pack of razor blades nestling next to Crace’s foot.

  Our eyes met.

  “Here you are,” he said, reaching down for them and passing them over to me. “You don’t want to forget these. No, it’s a perfectly common response to grief. You might even feel nauseous. Do you feel nauseous, Adam?”

  “Yes, a-a little,” I stuttered, dropping the razor blades back into the wash bag and placing it inside the rucksack, on top of the notebook.

  “Shaking, sickness, confusion, irrational thoughts—you might experience all those in the next few hours or days. So you must look after yourself. Get plenty of rest. Take a drink—a serious drink, a glass of whiskey or cognac—if you think it might help.”

  He suddenly looked miserable.

  “I’m not sure how we will be able to keep in touch, but that’s too bad, isn’t it?”

  I felt soiled by guilt, almost as if Crace could see traces of my plans inscribed into my skin.

  “Here, take this,” I said, giving him my mobile phone in an effort to try to make myself feel better. “Just in case you need it. And I’ll be able to call you on it.”

  “Why, I wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

  “Just keep it on,” I said, fishing in my bag for the charger. “And when the battery runs down, plug it into this. Then I’ll be able to check on you.”

  “Are you sure?” he said, much more cheerful now.

  “Yes, of course. I’ll rent another one at the airport when I land.”

  “That is terribly kind of you. Now let me do something for you. Let me give you this,” he said, bringing out a stash of money. “At least it can cover the cost of the phone and some of your expenses. And I want to pay for your flight—your return flight.”

  “I couldn’t possibly accept, Gordon. No, that’s too much.”

  “No, I insist. Anyway, it’s purely selfish on my part. At least then I know you’ll be coming back.”

  He laughed a little as he said this.

  “That’s incredibly kind of you. Thanks. But I’m not sure which day will be best for me.”

  “Oh yes, I see. Of course.” He looked slightly disappointed but tried to cover it up. “Then why don’t you book a ticket and then if you need to change it, well, so be it.”

  “That’s perfect. Thank you.”

  After calling the airline on my mobile and showing him how to use the phone, we enjoyed another drink together. I arranged for Lucia, the teenage daughter of the woman who ran the pasticceria, to drop off food for Crace in my absence and then rang for a water taxi. As Crace and I walked through the palazzo and down into the courtyard, the sun had started to set, fragmenting into hallucinogenic,
bright shards that painted the stonework a surreal mix of pinks, violets and blood reds. The sound of lapping water outside added to the dreamlike effect. Everything seemed distant, somehow alien, as if I were viewing events from a distant perspective or watching myself projected onto a large screen.

  “You know, I’ll miss you, Adam,” he said. “I feel that over the last few days—you know, with all these things we’ve been talking about—we’ve really gotten to know one another better. It did unsettle me quite a lot, uncovering all that about the past, and at one point I thought I would not be able to carry on, but in fact it really has helped me. Do you feel it’s helped you as well?”

  “Oh yes, definitely,” I replied. “It’s really helped clear my head. Get things into proportion, straighten things out, so to speak.”

  Crace smiled weakly. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised that it even helps with your writing. I know the last time we talked about it, you said that you were having difficulties.”

  He stared at me, waiting for an answer.

  “Erm, yes, I think it will. I know I haven’t done much recently apart from take a few notes. You know the kind of thing—sketches, ideas, rough drafts.”

  “It’s from these little germs that great infections grow. There’s nothing like being possessed, taken over, swallowed up by one’s own writing. Maybe you’d like to show me what you’ve written when you come back. Of course, if you don’t want to, I’d totally—”

  “No, of course I’ll show you. In fact, I’d really value your opinion.”

  “I can’t wait,” he said, embracing me with his skeletal arms. “I know you have to go, but please come back just as soon as you can. We might even be able to carry on our little talks…”

  I walked through the doorway, down the calle and saw that the water taxi was waiting in the side canal.