The Corpse at the Haworth Tandoori

by Robert Barnard

  “Charmayne Churton, and her brother, Ivor Aston,” said Mellors, and then gestured toward Declan.

  “The new handyman, Declan O’Hearn,” interrupted Charmayne, a strong element of gush in her voice. “We’ve all heard about you.”

  “Not an easy job you’ve taken on,” said her brother. “We hear that you’ve made an excellent start.”

  “Charmayne and Ivor have cottages on either side of me,” said Jenny Birdsell. It seemed something of an effort to keep her voice as neutral as it was.

  “We’re devoted to Ranulph,” said Charmayne, sitting down and producing the statement as if it were some kind of certificate or passport. “We agree on that. We sometimes tiptoe to the studio—with Melanie’s permission, of course—just to see the work he’s been doing that day.”

  “We’ll rely on you to tell us when we can do that without disturbing him,” said Ivor Aston. “Which means when he’s asleep, basically. Ranulph has very acute hearing.”

  “Yes, I’ve noticed.”

  “We wouldn’t think of trying to watch him at work. It would be intrusion. Quite apart from the fact that he would hear, and have one of his rages. To be the object of one of them would be shattering to someone of my temperament.”

  “Isn’t it remarkable,” said Stephen to no one in particular, “that my grandfather inspires such devotion?”

  “Not really surprising,” put in Arnold Mellors quietly, “considering he’s one of the country’s great artists.”

  “Was,” said Stephen. He turned to Declan. “Grandfather feels no affection, you know. He’s incapable of it. That’s why it’s remarkable that he manages to inspire it in others. Even my mother, whom he treats like dirt, seems genuinely fond of him. To me it’s a great mystery.”

  “Not really a mystery,” said Jenny Birdsell, her manner quite schoolteacherly, “when what we really feel—what we feel primarily—is not affection but admiration.”

  “Hmmm,” said Stephen, considering that. “Partly true, I suppose, like most things. But it’s not true of my mother, for one. What she feels is affection—love. It’s incomprehensible.”

  “Love often is,” said Declan feelingly. “People love the most terribly unsuitable people—husbands and wives, parents and children, brothers and sisters. And it is incomprehensible to outsiders. There’s no logic to it, or it wouldn’t be love.”

  Stephen shrugged.

  “Maybe, maybe. But I hope when I love I don’t waste it on someone who’s incapable of feeling affection herself.”

  “Maybe someone who’s incapable of loving back is a lot safer than the other kind,” said Arnold Mellors.

  “Safer?” said Stephen, his voice rising. “You don’t understand much if you think loving my grandfather is safe. You watch it, Declan, or you’ll fall victim too. Because he has one other clever trick that can be deadly—absolutely deadly.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He makes you know what he wants done without having to tell you in words. And he makes you want to do it for him.”

  5

  IN THE BOSOM OF HIS FAMILY

  The next morning Declan took over the male nurse part of his duties for the first time: he helped Martha to get her father up, then alone he helped him to shave, dress, and relieve himself. He had had a great deal of advice the night before from Martha about what needed to be done, and what Ranulph Byatt liked or disliked in the doing of it. In the end he just went his own way, doing things as he had done them with his elderly relatives back home. Only once did he displease his charge, when he pulled the old man’s trousers on little by little.

  “Put them around the ankles, then pull them up!” he roared.

  “Oh, is that how you like it, sir?” said Declan, unfazed. “Then that’s how it’ll be done.”

  The getting ready process tired Byatt, and he sat for some minutes getting his breath.

  “Does my ancient body nauseate you?” he asked suddenly, looking at Declan with a loathing that seemed to be directed not at him but at himself.

  “Not at all, sir,” said Declan truthfully.

  “Well, it ought to, a young man like you. It nauseates me. And it used to be a body capable of giving pleasure. Not just what you’re thinking of, but pleasure to look at. Difficult to believe that now.”

  “Growing old’s a nasty business, sir. The only thing nastier is not growing old.”

  It seemed touch-and-go whether Ranulph Byatt would dispute this piece of folk wisdom, but in the end he just looked at Declan thoughtfully and said, “Ye-e-es.”

  At around half past ten Byatt was ready for work. It was about the same time as he had been summoned the previous morning, and Declan concluded that Martha’s words about not knowing when inspiration would strike were so much flimflam; it was production-line stuff he was painting, and he worked to a routine.

  The couple of hours in the studio were different from the first session only insofar as Declan on the second day had to prepare the palette. He decided that the best course was to be polite, even obsequious, but firm. He never wavered in calling Byatt “sir”—indeed, it came naturally to him, so old, so different, so commanding did the artist seem to a twenty-year-old Irish boy. On the other hand, when Byatt asked for a “dash” of this color or a “dab” of that, and then bawled “too much!” Declan waited a second and then asked to be shown specifically how much a dash and a dab were. Ranulph Byatt looked at him speculatively, and then took a tube of paint and demonstrated, insofar as his shaky, pain-wracked hands were able.

  The blocked shapes of the picture began to gain more substance, to look less like a scheme, more like a picture. Declan decided that if this was production-line art it was good for its kind. He did not reflect that for the first time in his life he had made an artistic judgment. When he was asked to squat, palette in hand, in easy reach of Byatt’s hand, he decided that the old man’s features, regarded closely again, revealed a new access of liveliness, the mouth in particular more mobile. So he was not entirely surprised when, out of the blue, the old man said, “I might go down to dinner tonight.”

  Without hesitation Declan came back with, “I think we can manage that.”

  The old man chuckled: “Surprise them.”

  “It will that,” said Declan. “Though I’m not sure we can manage to creep down the stairs.”

  “No, they’ll hear us starting down and gather at the bottom like a flock of squawking hens.”

  The relish and contempt in his voice was unmistakable.

  “If that’s what you want,” said Declan.

  “It is,” he said emphatically. Then, after a pause, “I don’t get much chance to spring a surprise. These days.”

  “If you’ll just tell me what time to come and get you,” said Declan, studiedly neutral.

  “They bring me my tray at seven-fifteen,” said the old man. “Say a half an hour before that. One of them will be in the kitchen getting it ready. The rest will be having their sherries and their gin and tonics. I’m not allowed sherries or gin and tonics. Half a glass of gnat’s piss now and then is the most the doctor will permit. I’ll insist upon it tonight.”

  I bet you will, thought Declan to himself, and as he took the old man back to his bedroom he thought he detected a sense of pleasurable anticipation in the tired, old body. He’s looking forward to making trouble, Declan decided.

  Unusually, the old man demanded a second session in the studio in the afternoon. As a session it was short and unremarkable, lasting no more than half an hour, and resulting in no more than a few dabs at the fields picture. Declan assuaged his boredom by watching through the window an upright, vigorous man training a young dog at the far end of the field, not far from the stables. Declan could see him snap an order at the dog, who would then crouch down, paws forward, gazing intently at the man, who would then turn, walk away, pause, then turn back to face his animal, pause again, then bark an order. The dog would bound up to him, and be rewarded by a second-long pat on the head. Then the
whole process would begin over again.

  “Colonel Chesney,” said Ranulph Byatt, contempt in his voice. “Bloody fool. Should have bought himself a mechanical toy. Cost less to feed.”

  At seven o’clock prompt Declan presented himself at the door of Byatt’s bedroom. The old man had been lying down, but had not taken off any of his clothes, apart from his waistcoat and slippers. With mischief in his voice he insisted Declan put on his tie for him, and a proper jacket. Shoes, he said regretfully, he did not think he could get on any longer. Once dressed “respectably for dinner,” as he called it, they began the long walk along the landing to the head of the staircase. There they paused. Voices were coming from the sitting room where Declan had been interviewed on the first night. The door was open, but neither man could hear what was being talked about. After a minute or so Ranulph Byatt nodded to Declan and they began their descent of the stairs.

  Declan had already noticed that the third stair from the top had a creak to it that a horror film producer would have coveted. The pair of them together made it more noticeable than ever. Talk stopped in the sitting room. They progressed down another stair. It had a high-pitched squeak to it. There came the sound of footsteps from the sitting room. First Martha, then an unknown man appeared in the doorway. Colonel Chesney, Declan suspected, from the determined set of his shoulders and the small military mustache. The two of them advanced to the foot of the stairs and Melanie, slower, appeared in the sitting room doorway. Of the three she seemed the least concerned, merely regarding them with a stately interest.

  “Daddy, what are you doing?” Martha cried. “We’ll be bringing your tray up in a few minutes.”

  “Don’t bother yourselves. I’m here.”

  “But you know what Dr. Dinsdale says about overdoing things—”

  “Are you sure this is wise, Ranulph?” asked Colonel Chesney. Then, as if retreating even before he had advanced, he added, “Would another arm be of any assistance?”

  “I have a perfectly adequate arm helping me already, Chesney,” said Byatt. They made the last two steps down into the hallway, and Byatt looked around him triumphantly.

  “Well, Declan has done you good,” said Melanie.

  “He has. Get back to your drinks, all of you. I suppose Stephen is doing my tray. Go and tell him not to, somebody, and tell Mrs. Max there’ll be an extra to dinner. And wine. I want wine! We’ll go straight into the dining room, Declan.”

  Such was the force of his personality that Martha and Colonel Chesney, after a word or two of expostulation that were aborted as soon as uttered, turned and retreated back to where they had come from. Declan wondered whether Chesney was the husband that Martha was said to be hunting. Melanie watched them, amused, then hobbled through to the kitchen to alert Stephen and Mrs. Max, as the cook was always known, that there would be an extra place needed at table for dinner. Declan and Ranulph proceeded slowly along the hallway from the sitting room, then turned into the door of the dining room. Ranulph paused and looked around, seeing it for the first time in some while.

  “Dark and drab and dreary and dusty,” he pronounced.

  Declan, who was not especially sensitive to his surroundings or critical of them, could only agree. Dark, old furniture, heavy and unstylish, drab reproductions on the walls, dismal fawn wallpaper, peeling in places. If he had been asked to describe what a prominent modern artist’s home would look like, it would have been nothing like this. The room—the whole house, with the exception of the studio—was caught in a time warp and called for explanation.

  The only one that Declan could come up with was that the house had been bought, or perhaps inherited, with the existing furnishings, and that Ranulph Byatt was quite indifferent to his immediate surroundings—an indifference that had communicated itself to, or been shared by, his “womenfolk.” But even if that were so, how could an artist be happy with faded and shabby old prints on his walls when in the corner of his studio, as Declan knew for sure, canvases of his own were stacked unseen?

  Declan’s thoughts were interrupted by Mrs. Max, who bustled in with a steaming plate of soup.

  “I thought you might like to get this down you before the others come in,” she said to Ranulph. “I know you have problems with soup, and the boy can help you.”

  Mrs. Max had problems with the name Declan, which she was unfamiliar with. Declan thought her action showed great delicacy: Ranulph would certainly not like to be spoon-fed soup in front of his family.

  “I’m very much afraid ‘the boy’ will have to help,” he said ruefully. “Thank you, Mrs. Max.”

  “It’s a great pleasure to see you down again, sir,” she said, turning at the door. “I hope it’s to be a regular thing.”

  “We’ll see, we’ll see,” said Byatt, taking his first mouthful of soup from the spoon held by Declan. “At least you’re not telling me not to overdo things.”

  “As if that would be of any use!” said Mrs. Max. “I’ve known you too long to try that one. If I’m any judge you’ve been overdoing things since you were in nappies.”

  Ranulph Byatt enjoyed his soup. At one point he took the spoon from Declan and tried to feed himself, but as the spoon approached his mouth his hand began shaking and the thick brown liquid spilled back into the bowl and onto the polished table. Shaking his head but saying nothing, Byatt handed the spoon back. He had not quite finished the soup when voices were heard in the hall. He pushed the plate away from him, as a sign that he had had enough.

  They all came in, a little awkward, uncertain how to behave in a situation they were no longer used to. Mrs. Max hurried in first, with an extra place mat, glass of wine, and cutlery, followed by Melanie, Martha, Stephen, and Colonel Chesney.

  “We asked Walter to stay to dinner,” said Martha fussily, almost apologetically.

  “He’s welcome,” said her father briefly, then added: “I suppose you thought I’d behave better with him here.”

  “Don’t be silly, Daddy. Of course you’ll behave well. Anyway, we’d asked him before you came down.”

  “I can attest to that, sir,” said Colonel Chesney.

  “Oh, you can attest to that, can you?” asked Byatt, unable to keep the scorn out of his voice. “Then of course I accept your attestation.”

  Mrs. Max brought in a heavy pewter tureen and they all helped themselves, still awkward, to soup. Declan guessed that if Ranulph hadn’t come down Mrs. Max would have brought in a tray of plates already filled with soup. They began eating, Melanie being the most insouciant and normal, Stephen the least. The latter crouched over his plate, ate as if eating was done in obedience to an order rather than as a pleasure, and stared ahead of him in a glowering manner as if auditioning for the young Heathcliff.

  “Well!” said Byatt, watching them all without affection. “It must be over a year.”

  “Since you came down to dinner? I think you’re right, Ranulph. Maybe eighteen months,” said Melanie, pausing in her eating and still the most normal in her behavior of all of them.

  “And yet here everything is, exactly as it was—apart from Declan, of course. Here’s you, my dear, still queening it at the head of the table, nursing the consciousness that you are the wife, soon to be the widow, of one of Britain’s great artists, and trying to forgive me for refusing that knighthood that would have given you the ladyship you’ve been in training for all your life.”

  Melanie smiled pityingly.

  “Dear me, Ranulph, do we have to celebrate your return by going over all those old canards? For the thousandth time, I merely thought you should accept the honor that you richly deserved, that’s all.”

  “More than richly deserved. Overdeserved!” said Byatt, his eyes flashing. “If it had been a peerage, as it should have been, I would have accepted.”

  A shadow briefly passed over Melanie’s face, disturbing for a moment her queenly placidity. Declan decided that the emotion that prompted it must have been regret.

  “You will have to be content with poster
ity’s verdict on you as my muse, my inspiration, my sheet anchor to the world,” continued Byatt. “Posterity, as a rule, can be relied on to get it wrong, but in that they would be right. You have been my inspiration, and so much more. . . . And then there’s dear Martha—still the same, still devoted, still a martyr to duty. Where do you get that from? I wonder. Duty is a thing I’ve always tried to bypass, to forget about entirely, and I’ve found that very easy to do. Duty hasn’t loomed at all large either in my dear wife’s scheme of things—her moral universe, as you might say, though with the rider that a universe has never been smaller than my wife’s moral one. I suppose we shall have to blame the grandparents as usual. My father was a dreary little man, the sort of person who worries if he’s five minutes late at the office, and works five minutes over to make it up.”

  Declan, who was cutting up the steak, which was the main course for his employer, flushed. He was used to family rows, but cruelty in the O’Hearn household was direct, brutal. This cruelty nestled under a civilized, urbane exterior. It was, he sensed, the more deadly for that.

  “But at least there’s something now in your life since I was last in this room, isn’t there? The husband hunt! And that really is something new and important, because it can go on for the rest of your life. It will give you an interest until senility breaks out, and you may be on your deathbed and you will still not have got anywhere with it.”

  Martha Mates looked down at her plate, flushing, and began to cut determinedly at her meat.

  “You’re cruel,” said Stephen Mates.

  “Yes,” said Byatt. Declan thought he was going to leave it at that—as well he might, in Declan’s view—but he added: “To be realistic is to be cruel.”

  “You can be realistic but simply make the judgment in your own mind,” said Stephen.

  “But that would be to dodge the issue, wouldn’t it? Silence assumes consent, assumes complicity with lies and fantasies. Such as that you, Colonel, will ever be a painter.”