The Devil's Advocate

by Vanessa James

  'Is that what you really think of me?' she said finally, her voice low, near to breaking.

  'Oh, God knows!' Claudia turned away with a sigh of exasperation, her temper finished. She sat down again weakly, and when she turned to Luisa again, her face was tired and haggard. She held out her hand.

  'Lou,' she said, her voice more gentle, 'I'm sorry. You know how I fly off the handle. But obviously I'm going to see it differently from you.' She gave a low bitter laugh. 'After all, it's a simple choice, isn't it? Which matters more—your precious purity, or your sister?'

  'Claudia, no!' Impulsively Luisa crossed to her, taking her hand and kneeling beside her. 'It can't be like that. It won't be like that. There must be some other way.'

  'To get you off the hook, you mean?' Claudia looked at her coldly, and Luisa let go her hand.

  'Claudia,' she said slowly, 'I cannot, I will not do this. I know you can't understand, that for you it could just be something trivial, soon done, soon forgotten, but for me it wouldn't be like that, it would be wrong, going against everything I believe in… I can't, Claudia. Not even for you.'

  'I'd do it for you.'

  Claudia spoke flatly, in a matter-of-fact tone of voice, and Luisa turned her face away miserably, because she knew it was true. Claudia stood up.

  'Well, anyway, that's it,' she said dismissively. 'At least now I know where I stand. You keep your unsullied purity, your unstained reputation, and I…' She shrugged. 'My own fault, of course. I have no right to blame anyone but myself, etc, etc. Except I damn well do, Luisa. I blame you.' She stopped at the door and turned back, her face wan, her eyes blazing with anger. 'And I shall go on blaming you. For the rest of my messed-up life!'

  'Claudia…' Luisa jumped up, but she was too late. The door of Claudia's bedroom slammed shut, and she heard the key turn in the lock.

  She stood there for a few moments, unable to move, beyond tears now, her breath coming fast and painfully in her chest. Then she began to pace the room, back and forth, back and forth, like a trapped animal, trying to fight off the memories and emotions that Claudia had brought flooding back, trying to force herself to think clearly.

  After a while she crossed out into the little hallway, hesitating outside her sister's door. From inside she could hear the sound of muffled crying, and she felt a stab of pain and love shoot through her heart. It was like that year, that terrible year, after their mother died. Claudia could hardly remember that now, but she could. The footsteps in the night on the bedroom floor.

  'I want Mummy, Lou, where is she?'

  'Mummy's gone, darling. Can't you sleep? Come in with me, I'll hold you.'

  'All night?'

  'If you want.'

  'You won't go away, Lou?'

  'No, darling. Not ever. I promise.'

  Weakly Luisa rested her forehead against the cool walls, listening to the awful dry racking sobs that came from behind the closed door. Then, suddenly, she straightened, and went quickly back into the sitting-room. She picked up the telephone, hesitated, and then dialled a number. There was just one last chance, she told herself feverishly, the only one she had.

  The number seemed to ring interminably; then it answered and she spoke.

  'Hallo? I'd like to speak to Julius Morrell's secretary please. It's Luisa Valway.'

  CHAPTER THREE

  'Oh, for God's sake, Luisa, have a drink or something.'

  'Luke, I can't. I've got to be there in a minute…'

  'Rubbish, my dear, a little Dutch courage never did anyone any harm.' Ignoring her protestations, he poured two large brandies into some old chipped glasses. He gestured to the clock. 'It's less than ten minutes from here. Now calm down. Sip it slowly.'

  They were in Luke's tiny flat above the gallery, hemmed in by Luke's paintings, by a lifetime's magpie collecting. Luke was wearing what he always wore in the evenings: a green velvet smoking jacket that had seen better days, and an incongruous vivid scarlet scarf about his neck. They gave an air of youth and gaiety to his features, belied by the deep lines of his face, the iron grey of his hair which—ever since he had been at Oxford in the twenties—he had worn obstinately and unalterably long. He leaned on the mantelpiece, his elbow finding a tiny resting place between a clutter of snuffboxes, an ostrich egg, and a collection of Victorian silk fans; the ancient gas fire spluttered. He looked down at her kindly.

  'Better?'

  'A bit.' Luisa smiled up at him wanly; she was so fond of Luke. She had known him since she was a child, had worked for him for five years. In the past, she had spent such happy evenings, talking, looking at pictures.… She spread her hands in a gesture of despair.

  'I'm so tense,' she said apologetically. 'I didn't expect to have to see Julius so soon, you see. I… I thought he was in Italy, but his secretary says he came back unexpectedly. This evening is the only time he could see me.'

  'Come on, Luisa my dear. What difference does it make? Now or next week—you've got to get it over with.'

  'But in his house. It would be so much easier in an office…'

  'Luisa, you're making a mountain out of a molehill. You're resurrecting all sorts of old memories, adding two and two and making six… It'll be perfectly all right, you'll see…' He paused. 'I've met him, you know—Julius, that is. Once when he was a boy, with his father and your mother.' He hesitated fractionally. 'I sold him a painting once, a few years ago. And he acted for a friend of mine, who'd got into a spot of bother. He's a brilliant counsel…'

  'Oh, I know that,' Luisa said bitterly. 'Renowned for his ability to get a conviction.'

  'Not in this case. He was acting for the defence. My friend owes Julius Morrell quite a lot.'

  There was a mild reproach in his voice, and Luisa acknowledged it.

  'I'm sorry, Luke. I'm on edge.'

  He smiled and sat down, lighting one of the long black Russian cigarettes he always smoked, inhaling deeply. There was silence for a while, and Luisa looked around the tiny tranquil room, trying to calm herself. There was one great painting among the many that clustered the walls, jostling for space on the old-fashioned shabby wallpaper; she never liked to look at it, but it drew the eyes effortlessly by its power. It was a nude, of her mother, painted when she was perhaps Luisa's age; her limbs were tawny, the strong curves of her breasts and thighs were exaggerated with primitive strokes. She was lying back on a bed, propped up, her neck arched, her black hair falling across brilliantly patterned cushions; asleep perhaps, in a kind of easy, animal-like abandon. The painter had been her mother's lover—or so Luke said. Through the shutters behind her, you could see the sea, the clear light of the Mediterranean. Luisa forced herself to look at it; it was so like Claudia.

  Luke's eyes followed her gaze; he seemed almost to read her thoughts.

  'You know, my dear,' he said abruptly, 'I find Claudia much to blame in all this. I'm not sure you wouldn't have done better to stay out of it altogether. She has to grow up some day, you know, fend for herself. And she'd acted very badly. Old Teddy Morrell was devoted to your mother—he took Claudia on there purely because of that. After all, her record wasn't too good, was it?'

  'She'd been through a lot of jobs. But there were reasons for that, Luke.' Luisa sprang quickly to her sister's defence, and he suppressed a smile. 'No, it's true! She could never settle at work—hated office hours. She'd be late, get herself fired. But she has been trying, really, Luke. Since she went to Morrell & Kennedy she's been much better…'

  'Until this,' he said gently.

  'All this was a mistake! Claudia's not really dishonest. She's terribly sorry for what she's done. Oh, can't you see, Luke?' She leaned forward impulsively. 'I have to help her. No one else can.'

  'Well, well. Don't get worked up again, my dear.' He smiled and gestured to the painting. 'She's just like your mother, of course. Gets more like her every day. Lucia was always impossible—wild, impetuous, a heartbreaker. Such a heartbreaker. Didn't know what she was doing half the time, and wouldn't have cared much
if she did. But no one could ever get angry with her for long. She was so beautiful…' He sighed, and looked into the fire. 'I remember the first time I saw her: she came into the room and—well, it was as if time had stopped. You couldn't look at anything else; nothing. She was so alive, so vibrantly alive, and then…' He broke off sadly, and shrugged, as if he could shift the memories. 'Dangerous thing, beauty.' He looked at her keenly. 'But then you should know that, Luisa.'

  'I should?' She looked at him in surprise.

  'My dear! And I thought I'd been training you all these years.' He laughed. 'Stand up—go on. There's a glass there. Now, look in it, my dear, the way I've showed you, and tell me what you see.'

  Hesitantly Luisa stood up, and looked in the huge dusty gilt-framed mirror that stood perched on top of the mantelpiece. Luke watched her intently, sipping his drink.

  'Well? What do you see?'

  Luisa lowered her eyes from her own image. 'Nothing. A blank, my lord.'

  She quoted the line lightly, hoping to deflect him, but Luke made a gesture of impatience. He stood up, and turned her face back to the glass. His keen eyes, faded blue now, but still sharp, traced the lines of her face.

  'Perhaps,' he said slowly. 'A little. Not quite awake, but certainly…'

  'Tired, you mean?' she laughed nervously.

  'No,' he said, his voice serious. 'You know what I mean, Luisa.' He paused, and then went on as if he were cataloguing a portrait, measuring the distances between her features with his long narrow hands. 'Features, delicately formed; brows, classically spaced; complexion, pale—too pale! Eyes… strange eyes, a little distrustful perhaps, and a disturbing colour, amber almost, old gold. Hair extra­ordinary—Rossetti would have loved your hair; like light. Difficult to catch, that.' He smiled at her reflection in the glass. 'Not a modern face, of course, but then neither is Claudia's. There's a savagery of line in her face—Fauviste; your face—difficult to say. Not this century, certainly. Almost medieval. Something about the way your eyes are set… I've got it! You've never been to Venice, of course, but there's a painting there, a Madonna, by Bellini, it's in the Accademia… Yes. That's it!' She saw a light of triumph at having placed something come into his eyes. 'I have a copy somewhere, but you should see the original one day.'

  Luisa looked back at her own face in the glass, curiously, as if she were looking at another person. She sighed. She saw nothing of that, she thought dully. She saw only a pale girl, curiously bloodless; herself. She turned away.

  'Hardly vibrantly alive,' she said, unable to keep a note of bitterness out of her voice.

  'Not yet.'

  He patted her shoulder lightly, thoughtfully.

  'I think you'd better go, don't you, my dear? You don't want to be late for your appointment.'

  The odd spell of the last few minutes had been broken; quickly Luisa looked at her watch.

  'Oh, I must go, you're right.' She turned to the door. 'And you won't tell anyone, Luke, you promise? Nobody knows about all this, you see. I haven't even told Claudia about tonight…'

  He laughed, and planted a light kiss on her cheek.

  'My dear, the secrets I could tell! I'm the soul of discretion. If it's any comfort, I think you're doing the right thing. Let me know tomorrow what's happened—all right? And if you want a shoulder to cry on, you can always come back here afterwards…'

  Luisa let herself out, slipping quickly past the shrouded paintings and statues in the gallery below, and out into the cold night air. It was already dark, and the air was dank, smelling of wet grass, damp privet, soot, against her skin. The moon was rising, white as a bone, veiled with thin cloud, just above the park on the hill. She quickened her steps on the steep pavements, and at the corner hesitated. There were only street lamps lighting the way ahead of her, and she looked back momentarily at the warm cluster of little shops by the gallery, the pub; on the night air, the chink of glasses, the music of the jukebox drifted. Resolutely she turned her back, peering at the tall white houses ahead of her. Opposite the park, his secretary had said, the fourth house after the turning. At the gate she paused. It was not too late, she thought nervously, looking up at the tall curtained windows; she could still change her mind. Then she forced herself to open the gate. She must go through with it; she must!

  Decisiveness helped; she felt her spirits lift a little as she mounted the steps to the wide porch, and pressed the bell. Luke was probably right; she was being foolish to judge Julius by childhood memories. After all, he was a man now, he must have changed; surely, if she could only explain, he would help them?

  'Miss Valway?' The door was opened by a manservant in a dark suit, who ushered her into a wide, brilliantly lit hall. 'Mr Morrell will be with you in a moment. If you would like to wait in here. May I take your coat?'

  He led her into a huge drawing room, and withdrew, silently, the closing door making hardly a sound. Nervously Luisa looked around her. Julius must be a very rich man, she realised with surprise, her eyes taking in the rich Chinese carpets, the antique furniture. The room was painted a deep red, one wall was flanked from floor to ceiling with books; dark velvet curtains the colour of blood masked the tall windows that over looked the park. She stood uncertainly, near the door, and then—when no one came— she moved reluctantly into the room and stood near the fire. A clock ticked; the room was perfectly ordered; not a cushion, not a book or newspaper was out of place. On a table by the fire was a huge Chinese bowl, planted with white hyacinths which were just coming into bloom. She leant towards them, looking at the tight buds just flushed with green, just beginning to unfurl; their scent rose up to her powerfully on the warm air, heady, clear, the scent of spring in midwinter.

  'Miss Valway.'

  She spun round, words rising to her lips. Then she froze, staring in disbelief across the room.

  The man who spoke had come in quite silently, had shut the door behind him. He was standing perhaps twenty feet from her, his hands in the pockets of a dark formal suit, his eyes grey, cold, even at that distance. Dark auburn hair fell slightly forward over his forehead, and as she looked at him he brushed it back with an impatient gesture. She felt the blood rush to her face.

  'I… I don't understand,' she stammered finally. 'There must be mistake…'

  'There's no mistake.' He crossed the room to her, his face unsmiling, and came to a halt some five feet away. 'We met this morning. Or have you forgotten so soon?'

  'I know… but… there must be some confusion…'

  'No confusion.' He smiled grimly. 'Perhaps we should introduce ourselves again. I'm Julius Morrell.'

  Luisa swayed, and he made no attempt to steady her. Instead her hand found the smooth polished surface of the table behind her, and she leaned against it for a moment, staring at him, as the seconds lengthened. Of course: how could she have been such a fool? she thought bitterly. If she hadn't been so nervous, so keyed up, she could never have made that mistake. Kit's eyes were grey too, but they had never had that coldness; his mouth had always been slightly weak, almost girlish; not cruel, almost savage, like this man's. And the voice—how could she have forgotten the voice, so incisive, clipped, beautiful but harsh—a pros­ecutor's voice, even then. He was looking at her now, she realised, rather as he might look at a witness in the box that he was about to tear to shreds before a jury, and the dislike in his eyes, uncompromising, undisguised, foreshortened ten years to a few seconds. He had looked at her like that, just the same way, once before…

  The memory gave her courage; she straightened and stepped forward.

  'I'll go, then. There's no point in my staying now.'

  'You think so? I should say, from your sister's point of view, that there's every point in staying, wouldn't you?'

  He moved, lazily, without haste, so that he was blocking her path, and she was forced to look up at him.

  She stopped, her mind confusedly jumbling the events of the past day, trying to make sense of them. She must not act hastily this time, she thought, in a flood
of desperation. Perhaps there was some misunderstanding. Perhaps, this morning, it had all been some kind of cruel game…

  'You want an explanation, I suppose? Women usually do.'

  He crossed and sat down on a chair by the fire, his eyes never leaving her face.

  His words stung her, and she turned to him defiantly, keeping her voice low. 'Don't you think you owe me one?'

  He shrugged. 'Perhaps. Then we both have a debt, don't we?'

  She stared at him, not understanding, but he said nothing more. There was a long silence; Luisa clenched her hands. She was not going to be outfaced, she thought suddenly, her courage returning to her. If she left now, she was throwing away her last chance. Slowly, taking her time, she chose a chair opposite him, and sat down. It was covered in red velvet; her dress was black. As she sat, the skirt swirled out in an aureole of shadow across the vivid colour, and he smiled grimly.

  'Did you choose that costume specially?'

  'I… I don't know what you mean…' she stammered.

  'I think you know exactly what I mean.' The grey eyes flashed. 'So demure, so chaste. All in black, like a nun. Did you think I'd be impressed?'

  'I didn't think about it at all.'

  'I'm sure you did. After all, you must have thought about this meeting quite carefully.'

  'I thought about the meeting. Not my appearance.'

  'Really?' The narrow lips curved briefly in a cold smile that never reached his eyes. 'What a paragon of your sex! Not the way they usually operate.'

  'I came here purely for your help.' Her voice sounded stiff, and as she spoke she met his eyes. Not even pride, she knew, could hide the pleading in her own.

  'For my help?' His voice was deeply sarcastic. 'This morning you told me I wouldn't help a dying man in the street.' He stood up. 'A vivid phrase, I thought, that. Over-coloured, perhaps, but still revealing. Will you have a drink?'