“Why didn’t I stay with him? They wouldn’t’ve let me, but still… I would’ve gone to the police, but if I said anything to the police-well, those killers and all the others would still execute victims, but without any priest to offer them absolution. And yet I think there must’ve been something I could do. It was twelve years ago that happened.
“What do you think?”
“That you didn’t have a choice, Father. Any more than if you’d been asked to tell something you’d heard in the confessional.”
The old priest was silent, looking at his beer. It had gone down in the pint by barely an inch with all of his talking. He said, “What are you here for? In Dublin, I mean.”
“Looking for someone.”
“Ah. Well, I reckon we all are, that. But can I buy you a pint before you have to go on looking?” The priest smiled.
So did Jury. Still, he rose, though he had no place he had to be and the search seemed hopeless.
“Some other time,” said Jury. “Nice talking to you, Father.”
PART III. Blessings and Curses
21
He had driven back to Northants, packed up the Bentley, and made the long drive to Bletchley (sans Agatha, who had blessedly decided to remain in Long Piddleton a bit longer). Melrose kept his eye out for Chick’nKings along the A-road, but saw only Little Chefs.
He parked the car in the garage, which sat some distance from the house and which might once have been a caretaker’s cottage, although the size of the property did not seem to warrant an extra building.
Melrose had not brought much, only a couple of largish suitcases with clothes in one, books and CDs in the other, the CDs mostly Mozart and Lou Reed. He had not noticed a stereo system in the house, but he could always go to Penzance and buy one. Maybe he had skinhead inclinations, this love of loud brash music, but probably not, since it was all Lou Reed (or, of course, Mozart); he imagined the skinhead population was far less discriminating.
He lugged the suitcases through the door and set them down. He saw that in the room to the right, drawing room or living room, someone had started a thriving fire whose flames shot straight up the chimney and whose light thrust portentous shadows across the walls.
Who had done this, Esther Laburnum? He doubted it, but she had mentioned a caretaker or gardener; he seemed a more likely person. The fire was such a welcoming touch, a stranger attending to one’s needs.
There was central heating; still, some of the rooms were so large, so cavernous, that the fire gave not only warmth and light but comfort. He took the suitcase of clothes upstairs and disposed of its contents in several dresser drawers in the careless manner that one might do when one hadn’t a Ruthven around to stack perfectly ironed shirts and handkerchiefs in drawers. Melrose did not think of himself as an aesthete, but he admired Ruthven’s aestheticism. Ruthven (and his wife, Martha) established an order that went ticking along, hardly ever a beat missed. One got used to it; one got spoiled, too. Melrose dumped a dozen pairs of socks in one of the drawers where Ruthven would have tucked them in like babies in bassinets. Then he went back downstairs.
He commenced another wander through the house, allowing himself a much slower pace than last time. He went from drawing room to dining room, thence to the library and the little room the agent called a snug and isn’t it dear?-a locution that made Melrose wince. Along the way, he studied each of the silver-framed photographs he had but glanced at during his first visit. He looked longest at the one of the Bletchley family gathered on the dock near the boat. They were a handsome group. The small sharp face of the elder Bletchley (Mr. Chick’nKing) jutted out from under a brimmed cap that left it half in shadow. The face struck Melrose as shrewd. How happy the two children looked. Losing a child must bankrupt one emotionally. After that loss washed over one, would there be any feeling left at all? A little, perhaps; perhaps enough to be going on with. And in the Bletchley case, it was not just death but death cloaked in mystery. His thoughts went to places where wholesale wipeouts were a daily occurrence, an hourly anguish. It was unimaginable to the observer, whose mind could not possibly encompass the depths of sorrow into which a mother or father might sink.
He was overtaken, as he looked around, by a sense of the familiar. Initially, the house had reminded him of Ardry End; now, it did even more. It was not as large and hadn’t as many rooms, but the feeling was the same. Was he one of those people who, upon venturing into something new, are actually rein-venting something old? A person so attached to the past that whatever path he takes leads back to it, rather like fresh footsteps on a course of already trammeled ground?
He went from the small library to the winding staircase and upward. These rooms he had scarcely glanced at. He looked in on each of five bedrooms gathered round the stairwell: two on each side and one at the front of the house. The bedroom at the front had its own bathroom; the two on each side shared bathrooms. He had stowed his belongings in the first bedroom to the left of the stairs because it gave the best view of the sea, a very dramatic view. Melodramatic, he should say; it depended on who was doing the looking. Thus far in his Cornwall experience, things seemed to be shaping up with melodrama to spare.
The bedrooms were fundamentally the same except for a variation in furnishings and color. He had chosen one with a thick four-poster bed and worn leather easy chair, which he had pulled over to the window and set beside it a glass ashtray on a bronze stand. He designated this room as a smoking room.
The other bedrooms did not yield anything in particular in keeping with his mawkish mood, but upstairs as well as down he was struck by the rooms’ readiness to receive visitors. Satin quilts and counter-panes; books on night tables. (By his own bed, volumes that leaned toward rigorous self-improvement: Emerson, Thoreau, and The One-Minute Manager, whose advice he was sure he should follow and equally sure that the lessons in the first two would shine in print but not in action. Really, these Americans could be so self-involved.)
In the piano room (which continued to fascinate) he was impressed anew by the sense that someone had left it just a moment ago. Bletchley-if it had been he who had last used it-might have only a few minutes ago inked in the notes on this score resting on the piano stand. Melrose wondered about him, wondered what the deaths of his children had done to his music. He wondered if the composing was a comfort. He stood by the casement windows and watched the sun going down. The tops of the clouds looked wet with light; the waves were edged in silver.
The position of the windows, the way they seemed to overhang the rocks so that one was looking directly down at the sea, made it, of course, impossible to see what was on the cliff directly beneath him. It had hidden the woman down there from his gaze until she moved on to a spot where the side window, the west-facing window, revealed her.
Melrose was dumbstruck. He had been so much in the company of ghosts, or at least had entertained ghostly thoughts, that a human presence now seemed unreal. It had started to rain since he’d returned, and he found himself looking down through a rain like floating gauze at the crown of this stranger’s light hair. She was wearing a fawn raincoat. He turned the fixture of the casement window, rolling it open. He called, “Hello!”
The woman looked behind her, seeing nothing.
“Up here!” Melrose shouted.
Then she craned her head upward, one hand tented over her eyes.
Melrose recognized her as the woman in the photographs, the mother of the two drowned children.
22
Please come in,” said Melrose, finding her still outside, waiting.
Stepping into the kitchen, she introduced herself as Karen Bletchley and added, “I’ve been seeing Esther Laburnum about the house. You’re Mr. Plant.”
“I am indeed. Are you very wet? Let me have your coat.”
She thanked him as she removed her raincoat and afterward ran her hands through her hair, shaking it a bit, getting out the raindrops. Her expression, which Melrose imagined she meant to make light an
d transparent, was instead grave and opaque. The smile she mustered was wintry. So were the eyes, their sadness seeming to spill over like tears, but she did not cry. She looked hurt enough to cry, though, as if Melrose had delivered a blow. The look seemed permanently stamped on her face.
He said, “I’m just going to make some tea. You look as if you could do with a cup.”
“I surely could. Thank you.”
“There’s a fire in the library-I mean the smaller one, the one you call a snug. Why don’t you go in and I’ll be along?”
It showed her acceptance of his place in the house- he was now the one living there-that she did not try to take over the tea preparation but was content to sit and wait. She was not a fusser.
He got the tray ready, using the good china, the cream-colored Beleek that always struck him as too delicate to use, as vaporous as breath. When he entered the library, she was looking at the books, replacing one and taking out another.
“I hope you don’t mind?”
“But of course not. They’re your books.”
“Still.” The one she held, she laid on the table as she sat down across from him.
The two easy chairs were drawn up to the small table as if sharing tea were their exclusive purpose. He raised the pot. “Shall I be Mother?”
She laughed. “By all means. I’ve always loved that expression. It’s so antiquated.”
For a fraction of a moment, Melrose could have kicked himself, remembering that the word “mother” would flood her with memories. But she seemed too sensible to go looking for unexploded bombs at her feet. Her eyes moved here and there, taking in the library’s books and furnishings as if it were she rather than he who was the prospective tenant.
“Where have you been living since you left?” He offered her the plate of biscuits he had tumbled from a fresh box he’d bought.
She took one and bit down before she said, “London. We have a house there, too. And one in Majorca. But this house, this house…” She shook her head as her eyes focused on the framed photographs. She took up the one of the two children and herself. “I expect Esther Laburnum told you…”
Melrose leaned toward her across the tea tray. He said, “I’m terribly, terribly sorry. I have no children, so I won’t say I can imagine how you feel. I can’t imagine it. I can’t imagine the well of sorrow this opens up in you, but it must be bottomless.”
Karen Bletchley looked at him, looked at him deeply, her gray eyes turned on him full force so there could be no mistaking that this was a person barely able to draw back from the precipice she had literally stood on an hour ago. That the feelings she had for her dead children would never, ever, be eased by the passage of time. She had started in to taste her tea, but the cup trembled too much and she replaced it in the saucer. Her hand seemed unable to let the teacup go, as if the very air had taken on a Beleek fragility and might crack if she moved.
She shook her head. “But it’s been four years, after all. I should-”
“No, you shouldn’t, and no, it hasn’t. It was only yesterday.”
She sat back then and picked up her cup with a firmer hand. She drank the tea, set the cup down again. “Thanks for saying that. Truly, thanks. I seem to be surrounded by people who tell me either time will take care of the pain, or that I shouldn’t dwell on it, or not to be morbid. Time does nothing, at least it hasn’t up to now.”
“It doesn’t apply. If you remember it just as clearly, why wouldn’t you feel it just as much? It’s hardly a comfort to be told you shouldn’t feel it.” Melrose poured out more tea for both of them.
Accepting the fresh cup, Karen Bletchley settled now in the chair as if taking comfort in it and sipped the tea. After a long silence, she began the story. “I don’t know why Noah and Esmé went out. When I left sometime around eight o’clock, they were in bed, as usual. Mrs. Hayter, our cook, sometimes took care of the children when we were gone, or we got a sitter in. Mrs. Hayter was beside herself when I came back. Poor woman, she blamed herself for their leaving the house.” She fell silent, coughed, and went on. “Mrs. Hayter said she’d heard a sort of cry, and that’s what woke her up. She got into her robe, found her electric torch, and went downstairs; her room’s on the second floor. It’s really more of a flat I fixed up for her so she’d have more privacy. She came down and there was no one here. She couldn’t understand that and wondered if she’d dreamt the voices. She went to Noah’s room, found he was gone, and then to Esmé’s. She was gone too. The woman was in a panic, looking in every room up and down, until finally she went outside. At that point she said she was terrified, just terrified. Of course, she would be.
“The sea was very rough that night and there was a blowing rain, the sort where sounds get lost on the wind. She thought she heard crying but couldn’t be sure and couldn’t determine the direction the sound came from. The last place outside-the last place she wanted to look was over the cliff’s edge. A combination of vertigo and fear kept her from it until she’d searched the grounds as well as she could. But she finally did, she said, and saw them. Down there in their bathrobes, side by side, a little curled up even, as if they were in bed asleep. Waves washed over them; the tide had come in. They drowned. She knew they were dead. She knew it.”
Karen paused, shook her head. “She was afraid we’d think she hadn’t done everything she could in not going down the stone stairs, she said. But she couldn’t, she was too terrified. Then she called the police; I came back first, and later Daniel. I can tell you this, though, I can tell you this.”
She had a way of saying things twice that had the effect of incantation, as if she might charm answers out of the dreadful night’s events. Melrose leaned forward.
“The children meant almost as much to Mrs. Hayter as they did to us. It would have taken colossal fear for her not to go down to them where they lay. Imagine her fright.” Karen stopped.
“And the police?” Melrose prompted.
“Were baffled. It’s odd, you know, to see that look on the face of a policeman.” Here she turned from seeking images in the fire to look at Melrose again, and smiled a little. “If the police hadn’t arrived before we did, probably there’d be two more bodies fallen down those steps. I tried to get down but they wouldn’t let me. That was just before the ambulance attendants brought the-brought the children up. It was hard maneuvering the stretchers-” She stopped, took a sip of lukewarm tea. Then she said, “There’s something horrible about all of this.” When Melrose opened his mouth to comment, she shook her head. “No, not just Noah and Esmé’s deaths, but the circumstances, the reasons. They couldn’t have fallen or been pushed from the top; there was no damage like that to their bodies. Police leaned toward its being an accident, yet they couldn’t understand why two little children would go out voluntarily in their night-clothes to clamber down those stone stairs. It made no sense. The only thing I could imagine was their trying to get to the boat. We keep a boat tied up down there to get us to the sailboat, farther out.
“This huge, unanswered question hangs over me. I can’t stop wanting to know.” She sat back. She picked up the book she had taken from the shelves. Poor Harry was the title. “Noah’s favorite.”
She handed it across to Melrose as if it could help him understand or explain the whole dreadful business. As if at least he could contribute a modicum of wisdom, or a fresh vantage point, or a new answer. “Poor Harry,” he said, smiling and going through the pages, stopping to look at one or another of the illustrations, which pictured a round little boy in a variety of tight spots. He looked up. “Harry was the fall guy for poor Noah?”
Her laugh was genuine; she appeared pleased that he’d got this much. “A broken cup, a trampled rose-bush, a torn place in a jacket sleeve. ‘It was poor Harry, Mum, that did it.’ Oh, yes, we were awash in poor Harry’s escapades.”
Melrose smiled and handed back the book.
She went on. “Daniel really couldn’t stand living in this house afterwards. He didn’t want t
hese constant reminders of the children. He did try, but he had finally to leave. The London house was easier, not so many memories.”
Melrose nodded toward the displays of photographs. “You left everything behind, even these pictures.”
She let her eyes wander over them again. “I know. It’s because-I wanted to keep the house as it was when they were here. I wanted it to be familiar to them.” She shrugged and looked away. “I don’t expect you believe in”-another shrug-“ghosts, do you?” This was said in an offhand conversational manner. With her eyes trained on something past him-desk or window-she said, “I’m just casting about. How about séances?”
When he laughed, she smiled. He said, “You want me to believe in something of the paranormal.” Melrose drew in a little, turned thoughtful. “It’s odd, though. I could almost say, ‘Funny you should ask.’ When I first came into your house I was immediately put in mind of an old film which I must have seen on late-night television years ago-are you sure this house has never been used as a film set? No, I expect not; it’s cheaper simply to use what’s near to hand. Anyway, the winding staircase, the double door to the living room, and the piano room-at least that’s what I call it-are so much like a house in a film from the forties or fifties. The Uninvited is the name of it. It’s perfectly sappy, the story and the whoosh-ing special effects: doors thrown open by unseen hands, a young lady named Stella with a dreadful British accent-the actress was American, I think-always on her uppers, hearing things, seeing things, things floating about rooms cold as ice. Anyway, I spent a few lovely moments wondering if the house was haunted and, if so”-he shrugged-“why so?” He smiled.
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