Jemima Shore at the Sunny Grave

by Antonia Fraser

  Then in the autumn the leaves come. For weeks they torrent relentlessly down on top of us, floating, hurtling, scudding, according to the weather. Fast or slow, they still keep on coming down. There’s no avoiding them. The Council, in the shape of some reluctant men in blue overalls, do sweep the leaves off the streets, in a manner of speaking, into the black plastic bags, and after a week or two—too long in my opinion—take them away. But we’re responsible for our own forecourts.

  To tell the truth I rather like sweeping up the leaves. It’s not a hard job. I have my own little broom based on my own pint size (to which Inspector Portsmouth alluded with such heavy-handed gallantry), and the fact that you have to do the sweeping all over again the next day, and the next, and the next after that, gives the job a certain timeless quality. Marcus, my grandson, who lives in the basement flat of my house, is supposed to do things like sweeping the leaves for me. As he’s supposed to do other heavy jobs which I can’t manage. But as a matter of fact, I sometimes wryly reflect, it’s nearly always exactly the other way round. The truth is, I like bringing order into chaos, and you can’t exactly say that about Marcus. There’ll be plenty of time for him to change his ways, plenty of time before I’m really frail. Besides, it has to be admitted that when you sweep a forecourt, you see what’s going on in the world, don’t you?

  For example, it was while at my sweeping, a year ago last October—rather early in the morning, but then I do like to get going early—that I realized my grandson Marcus was spending his nights with Galina Jarvis. Those nights, that is, she was not spending with her rich Spanish admirer, the one who visits her in the Mercedes car, sometimes with the chauffeur, sometimes without. And it was during my sweeping this year in late September—a quick foray as you might say to catch the early ones, the forerunners before the main army drops from the sky—that I established how and with whom Galina Jarvis departed for her holiday.

  She went, of course, with the Spaniard. To be frank, who else could afford to keep Galina in the luxury she demanded? Of her current admirers, that is. Not Marcus certainly; for Marcus I fear belongs to another army, the kind of army which doesn’t so much drop from the sky as lie around in the streets, or in Marcus’s case on my sofa—the army of the unemployed. No wonder Marcus gets depressed sometimes: I urge him—generally—to go down to the gym and work it off, to the gym not the pub.

  Nor could Charlie Jarvis, Galina’s unfortunate husband, afford to take her on holiday: Galina had already ruined him, I fear, with her gaily insouciant extravagance. Poor Charlie Jarvis: no wonder he hates her, hated her I should say, for in his case Galina ruined him but somehow kept the house, the splendid freehold house in Notting Square. Charlie Jarvis was born in that house: he always loved it, even as a rumbustious little boy. And now he’s in a tiny flat, a bedsitter, I believe. Except he has to be local for his new office in Kensington High Street, it might have been better to move just a little further away. Altogether too poignant. For it seems our freeholds are worth a fortune these days, or so they tell me: irrelevant information in my case, for I was born in Notting Square too, you know, and with any luck will die in it. Except I don’t want to die alone, of course: so “with any luck” means that I hope Marcus will still be here to “look after” me.

  “Oh, Mrs. Langhorn, you’re not to go talking about dying like that,” said Mrs. Singh to me, when I observed something along these lines to her. “I am sure Marcus is not thinking like that too,” she added in her kindly way. “He is loving his old granny.” For Mrs. Singh of course knows all about Marcus. She probably knows all about Marcus and Galina Jarvis too—knew about them, I should say. Mrs. Singh certainly knows that I’m depending on Marcus to take care of me—when the time comes and I can no longer manage to take care of him.

  I never told Marcus what I saw that September morning: first of all Galina with her expensive suitcases, brand names stamped all over them. (Now that is vulgar! Or would have been in my day.) Then the Spaniard, acting discreetly in his terms, maybe, as he stole out of the house: he did look to left and right, and the collar of his camelhair coat was turned up; all the same he couldn’t resist a kiss, a quick kiss on her soft cheek, her soft plump cheek, as they stole out of the house together.

  (How did she look when she was dead? But I don’t think I can ask the police, not under the circumstances.)

  Of course I didn’t tell Marcus what I saw. Just as I didn’t tell Marcus she had returned. I think Inspector Portsmouth believed me; he certainly asked me about it enough times: Marcus’s relationship with Galina, Marcus’s feelings for Galina, even the break-up of Marcus’s relationship with Galina. Ah well, as I told Inspector Portsmouth, that’s past history.

  “Mrs. Langhorn,” said the Inspector patiently, “you do realize that your evidence of the timing is crucial? We’ve been over this before—” We had indeed. Many times. “I need not remind a lady of your—” What word was he going to use? “A lady of your seniority,” he continued with a smile, “of the importance of precision in a case like this.”

  No, he certainly did not need to remind me of its importance: for I was quite as well aware as Inspector Portsmouth that Marcus had an unimpeachable alibi for the lunchtime period. That is to say, he’d been in the pub, our local as a matter of fact, where he’s rather well known. He arrived at twelve-thirty, plenty of witnesses to that, and left at closing time, about three, having eaten a pub lunch and drunk quite a few drinks. Then he went to the cinema up at Notting Hill Gate, plenty of witnesses to that because he goes quite often in the afternoon; it was almost empty and as a result the usherette swears he didn’t leave till five o’clock, in the Inspector’s words, “No crafty slipping out to the Gents.” He sat on the opposite side of the cinema and never moved from his seat. While five o’clock—the time of his return—is too late for the time of death.

  “So, Mrs. Langhorn, if you saw Galina Jarvis sweeping the leaves away at one o’clock—”

  “I did, Inspector,” I said firmly. “I’m quite clear about that. Just as I mentioned the fact to Mrs. Singh, and she’s quite clear about that too.”

  “The money, Mrs. Langhorn,” the Inspector went on rather more abruptly. He was beginning to drop the gallantry, I noted, and no longer treated me as a little old lady, more as an adversary. “You gave your grandson some money to go to the pub. And some money to go to the cinema. Wasn’t that rather an odd thing to do? When you have told several people round here you don’t approve of Marcus going to the pub.”

  “Odd?” I frowned in what I hoped looked like genuine puzzlement. “The poor boy has no money—”

  “Yes, perhaps it wasn’t so odd. Is it possible, Mrs. Langhorn, you were determined your grandson should be out of the way for a particular period, say twelve-thirty to four, and that was one way of making sure? But of course if Galina Jarvis, seen only by you, was not alive at one o’clock, was already dead before twelve-thirty—”

  “Seen only by me, Inspector? Oh, whatever gave you that idea? Oh, no, no, no. Mrs. Singh saw Mrs. Jarvis. Didn’t she tell you? You know what they’re like about the police, don’t quite trust them sometimes, I fear. She’ll tell you now, I’m sure. When I told her Mrs. Jarvis was back, she was reminded that Mrs. Jarvis hadn’t paid her bill, rather a big one, cigarettes, magazines, papers, going back months, back to the time she tricked Charlie Jarvis out of the house. ‘Mrs. Singh,’ I said, ‘you’ll catch her now if you run up the hill. She’s there sweeping the leaves in that cherry-red hat of hers.’ And sure enough she did, the moment she closed for lunch. So she saw Galina Jarvis: I’m afraid she didn’t get a cheque though. ‘Not a convenient time, Mrs. S.,’ said Galina in her languid way, with the broom in her hand. Poor Mrs. Singh could hardly insist: they’re so polite. And now—” I maintained discreet silence. Frankly I thought it unlikely that any of the three men connected with the late Galina Jarvis would pay up for her, not the Spaniard, not Marcus—and not Charlie Jarvis. Not Charlie, even though Charlie had now of course regain
ed possession of his beloved house, Galina having made no will while the divorce settlement was in the process of being thrashed out.

  So it will be Charlie Jarvis sweeping up the dead leaves at number 36 next year: in theory at least. Of course he may be engaged in some rather different form of menial work, or exercising in a rather different form of courtyard. How long will it take the police to reach Charlie Jarvis, I wonder? I don’t feel inclined to help them any further, I’m afraid, especially in view of Inspector Portsmouth’s recent quite unpleasantly abrupt manner. Besides, I have sometimes been accused of being quite a nagging person—all things considered, I think I’ll keep out of the affairs of the late Galina Jarvis in future.

  Let Inspector Portsmouth reach the obvious conclusion concerning Charlie Jarvis himself, now he’s got rid of this silly obsession about my grandson Marcus and all those threats he was heard making about Galina and the Spaniard.

  “When she comes back, I’ll fix her.” That sort of thing, spread about the pub, I believe. So stupid and reckless. No wonder I had to do something about it all, and quickly, when I saw that Galina was back. Because I need Marcus, you see, I need him to look after me in the future, here at the end of my life in Notting Square.

  As for Charlie Jarvis, I doubt whether he will think it wise to tell the police about that telephone call. He’ll be in too much trouble trying to explain away what happened when he got there. I think it was the sight of the for sale board on the railings of his house that actually did it. Just a quick telephone call to Charlie Jarvis and a word in his ear that Galina had come back with her nice Spanish friend and did he know that she had just put the house up for sale? I’ve always kept in touch with him, you see, so I had his telephone number handy. After he had to move to that flat, I really think he enjoyed my little reports on the progress of the Square garden—that sort of thing. That was my only part in it all, such a very minor one. I simply don’t think the Inspector need be bothered with it. By the time they’d had a flaming row it was too late for Charlie Jarvis to realize that it was actually the house next door that was for sale.

  How many blows? He was always such a violent little boy, a terror at Marcus’s parties, I remember it well. But I mustn’t think about that too much.

  “Now you will be taking great care of yourself, Mrs. Langhorn,” said Mrs. Singh this morning. “Marcus too. He must take care of his granny.”

  “He will, Mrs. Singh, he will,” I replied. “After all, I’ve taken great care of him.”

  “Dove sono …” questioned the dulcet, plangent voice of Emily Nissaki at the beginning of the third act of The Marriage of Figaro. And “Where indeed are they, those previous happy moments?” silently echoed Leila Hopper from the third row of the stalls.

  “Dove andaro i giuramenti …” sang the handsome black-haired American soprano, in the role she was rapidly making her own. And: “Too right, where have they gone, those vows of a deceiving tongue?” recited Leila bitterly to herself. She felt at that moment that she had all too much in common with the Countess Almaviva since both of them faced a predicament caused, essentially, by an unfaithful man.

  “Oh heavens! To what humiliation am I reduced by a cruel husband!”: those words also had found a tragic echo in Leila Hopper’s heart. Except that Leila intended to deal with her own off-stage predicament rather differently. No masquerade for her, no changing clothes with her maid—what maid? Leila didn’t have a maid—and above all no sweet reconciliation at the end of the day.

  “Più docile io sono …” Yes, the forgiving Countess on stage was going to be a good deal kinder to her husband than Leila was going to be to Charlie Hopper. For what Leila had in mind was murder.

  Not the murder of Charlie himself however: reared on the fine old tradition of operatic vengeance, Leila planned something subtler, crueller and finally, she hoped, more devastating. For Leila intended that at the post-opera party in the theatre bar—a party for the theatre’s patrons—Charlie should personally administer poison to his mistress. Not for nothing had Leila thrilled to the macabre and tragic plight of Rigoletto, convinced the wayward Duke was inside the sack which actually contained the body of his daughter. And then there were the twists of the plot of Tosca by which the singer finally delivered her own lover’s death warrant. Charlie Hopper should hand the poisoned chalice—actually the free glass of wine for the patrons—to Magdalen Belport. Thus he would always know that he personally had brought about her agonizing death.

  What about Leila’s own position in all this? Did she really expect to elude discovery for very long? It was true that she had persuaded Charlie in one of his good-husbandly moments to purchase the poison in question on her behalf. (A peculiarly nasty garden potion destined to reduce errant lawns to scorched earth, it was accompanied by a list of warnings which had caused Charlie to observe mildly, “What price the ecology these days, darling?” But when Leila had retorted, “If you weren’t away so much and helped me more in the garden …” Charlie had dumped the poison and hastily changed the subject.) Since Charlie had indubitably purchased the poison, it would be Charlie’s word against hers when it came to the question of who had actually administered it.

  At the same time, more grandly, Leila did not expect and did not want to avoid discovery for very long for the crime of passion she was about to commit. After all, what did life hold for her, now that she had lost Charlie?

  “J’ai perdu mon Eurydice …”—Leila adored Gluck—even if she was an unlikely Orpheus and Charlie, handsome broad-shouldered Charlie, an even more improbable Eurydice.

  But Magdalen Belport, of all women in the world! It was not that Magdalen Belport lacked beauty. The late Earl of Belport had died childless some years ago leaving Magdalen, his fourth, much younger, wife, a large fortune and the right to queen it at Belport Park for her lifetime. Whatever his faults, he had known how to pick a woman who would in a sense grace the role of Countess. Previous countesses had been renowned for their looks in periods which stretched back into the thirties. Magdalen, a former model (as the newspapers never failed to point out), had the long legs, the narrow hips and neatly catlike features of her original profession. With her elegant, unchanging leanness—she had to be well over 40—and an endless fund of money at her disposal, Magdalen Belport could cut more dash at a patrons’ function in a pair of white silk trousers and a sequinned matador’s jacket than all the other women in more conventional evening dress. Leila knew. She had seen her do it …

  No, the fearful cruelty of Charlie’s behaviour lay in the relative positions of Leila Hopper and Magdalen Belport within the Festival organization. And who knew the facts of this better than Charlie himself? As Countess of Belport, by far the most glamorous local figure, Magdalen acted as titular Chairman of the Festival committee. This meant that she attended at least one committee meeting, and bought a great many tickets (some of which she always gave away, whether she attended the performance or not, since Magdalen’s friends were not exactly passionate lovers of the opera). If Magdalen did attend, she could be guaranteed to behave with the utmost benevolence, glittering matador jacket and all, and make remarks which were on the whole gracefully innocuous—Magdalen liked to please. Then she always went on to accept all the credit for the work of the Festival. That was the work which had actually been carried out, dutifully, devotedly, day in, day out, or so it often seemed, by Leila Hopper.

  Leila’s love of opera might be verging on the obsessional—she knew in her heart of hearts that it was—but then so, she had always thought, was Charlie’s own passion for the subject. And yet he had not appreciated the sheer disloyalty of an affair with Magdalen Belport. It was as though to denigrate all their shared feelings for the Festival, the pooled task of finding singers, arranging programmes, in all of which Charlie had so often said, “You are the Belport Festival. Don’t worry about the public thank you. Magdalen Countess of B. is just our essential figurehead, a publicity-mad mermaid on the prow of our ship. A woman who actually thinks Pava
rotti is a bass”—Leila had laughed at the time, much reassured by Charlie’s words—“just because he’s got that wonderful deep barrel-chest. No, she actually said that to me. You’d think even Magdalen noticed that wasn’t exactly a bass singing ‘Nessun dorma’ at the time of the World Cup.” And surely Charlie had laughed too.

  Given Charlie’s essentially lighthearted temperament, the wayward nature which Leila both loved and deplored, she had often thought that a passion for opera was the deepest, most stable thing in her husband’s life. Had it not drawn them together in the first place—that magic evening at the Coliseum listening to Linda Esther Gray as Isolde? Yes, opera was Charlie’s greatest passion—until his passion for Magdalen Belport, that is.

  “My lovely Countess”: Leila would always remember how she found out: those words overheard on the telephone when Charlie had imagined she was working late in her tiny Festival office, following immediately on the highly disquieting incident of the trip to Venice. Charlie Hopper had always travelled a great deal, mainly to America, since his work as a rather grand kind of salesman demanded it, and Leila, since she had no choice, accepted the fact. Charlie did after all in consequence get to hear of rising young stars in the States who might be prepared to visit Belport: that was part of the way in which the Festival work had drawn travelling Charlie and homebound Leila together. (Emily Nissaki, whom Charlie had heard sing Mimì while in Chicago, was an example of that kind of happy serendipity between husband and wife.)

  What she did not accept, could never accept, and was now going to take violent action to end, was Charlie’s new passion for Magdalen, which meant that since that Venetian trip—as it turned out to be—he had hardly seemed to cast an affectionate glance in Leila’s direction, let alone a caress. No Micaela bewailing her lost happiness with Don José had ever felt more piercing sorrow than Leila recalling how long it was since Charlie last made love to her.