Duggan took a breath, more than a pause, as if to gather the memory before his eyes and be sure he had told enough.
"I was dumbfounded, of course. I looked at Heber. He smiled and looked at Morgan and shook his head. I said to them, ‘Is it my soul I'm selling? Is this man the devil?’ But she didn't laugh. She said, ‘No, but Faust is within you, like a common virus we all live with. It will rise when you are weak—if you don't take care. I'm only warning you of the danger.’”
Duggan took another and longer breath. In the short silence, there was no shuffling of feet against the marble floor.
"'Faust is within you.’ The reverend just said the Lord was within us and it made me think of Morgan's warning to me. It is so difficult to imagine the Lord is within us. We are such small and frail and smelly creatures. Where would the Lord find a place to hide? But Faust! That I easily saw. That I understood .... She was right, of course, this woman who was never famous but known so well by all of us. I have made many mistakes in my life since, but I have always been aware of the Faust within me. That caution has, I hope, kept me from the devil, and I thank Morgan for it."
The words sounded so much like something Morgan might say, Henry could distinctly hear her voice in them. Still, it was an odd memorial to give. But it was not as odd as what came next.
Ranulf Richter had taken Duggan's place, passing the taller man with a touch of his hand on Duggan's shoulder.
Richter sniffed and wiped his sleeve on the stubble of beard that covered his face. His black scarf barely covered the chest hair that peeked from beneath it.
"Morgan was a dear and lovely friend to most of us. And we do not need a service like this to remind us of what we have lost.... I do not need to be reminded. I will think of it each morning when I awake. With due respect to Aaron, she was my sister. We had long since passed that threshold of friendship when the beat of her heart made my blood rush.... And she was killed. She was murdered. She was strangled. The dear, warm life in her was wasted. And my own life has been damaged beyond all repair. Someone is a killer. Someone is a murderer.... Someone here, with us, now .... My God—” He choked, cleared his throat and raised his voice. “My God is a vengeful God, and I am his servant."
The heavy silence of the great room broke into whispers only after Ranulf Richter sat down again. Henry turned to the eyes of Detective O'Connor, who was looking in Henry's direction but beyond him. Henry turned around. The tall, thin blond fellow who had been at the other end of the pew had disappeared.
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Chapter Ten
The phone rang persistently, stopped, and rang again. Henry put down his book. It would not be Albert. Albert went to bed early, as did Henry's father. It might be Leona. He was not in the mood to be talking to Leona. Then again it could be Shelagh. Henry picked up the receiver and leaned back in his chair.
The accent of the caller's voice was English, with the quick and precise enunciation achieved by the repetition of Latin verbs in a public school.
"Mr. Sullivan. My name is Peter Johnson. I have been told that you did an appraisal of my father's books."
Henry liked his old phone. It was a fifty-year-old black rotary which still had better sound than any new one he had tried. He liked the weight of the receiver in his hand and the mechanical whir of the dial. One thing he did not like was that strangers could call him, people selling almost anything, and enter his small universe without permission. If he had a new phone, he could see the incoming number and make the choice to answer it. But then, he had often admitted to himself that he liked the unexpected quality of lifting a receiver and not knowing what he was going to get. It was a small element of the unexpected in a day mostly given to routine. Besides, he did like the sound of the old phone better.
"Mr. Sullivan?"
Then again, he did not like to be suddenly presented with problems he could not take the proper time to consider. His mind was going over everything he had ever known about Morgan Johnson. He had never heard of anyone named Peter.
"Mr. Sullivan?"
Henry said, “Who are you?"
There was a sound of an exasperated breath. “My name is Peter Johnson. Heber Johnson was my father."
Henry spoke deliberately. “I don't think so. Morgan had only one child."
There came the sound of another breath. Audible impatience. “That's correct. Morgan's son is Arthur. My mother's name was Ismay. My mother was married to Heber Johnson after the war—when he was at Oxford. They divorced afterward. It is a matter of public record. A matter of bad judgment in the heat of the moment, you might say. My mother has been dead since 1964. It seems very few people ever knew my father had been previously married."
Henry said, “I guess not,” allowing his doubts to linger in the tone of his voice.
The man said, “No. Well, we had little contact. He supported my mother, of course, and then paid for my schooling. None of that matters now. My concern is more immediate. With Morgan dead, I believe I am heir to half of my father's property. The value of that property is of real concern to me. I am not a rich man. I never had the good fortune that blessed my father. I cannot ignore the value of his estate, nor continue as I was."
Henry's thoughts ran together. His first response was not his first thought.
"Morgan has only been dead for a few days. How did you hear about it?"
The caller offered a theatrical sigh. “Sadly, the papers. My wife and I have actually been in Boston for weeks. But I don't believe that is a matter for your concern. In any case, I heard. I was shocked, of course. And greatly saddened. And my purpose now is to establish some sense of the value of the estate as soon as possible. There are other lives involved. I have my own responsibilities. What I badly need from you is your estimate of the value of the books."
Henry wanted to slow all of this down so that he might comprehend it. “How did you get my number?"
The answer was quick and prepared. “I got your name from Arthur. I got your number from a friend in the book business."
Henry thought to ask, “So you have been to the apartment?"
There was a definite hesitation.
"Yes. More than once. I have been to Boston several times over the years. I came to the apartment to see Heber more than once.” The voice hesitated again. “Why are you asking these questions? This is really only a family matter, and not your concern."
Henry answered quickly. It was his turn to set the bidding.
"Morgan was a good friend. I am aware of her hopes concerning the estate. What happens to it matters to me."
The voice altered—just enough for Henry to imagine an adjustment of direction.
"I'm sure you mean well, but as I say, it is not really your concern. I can have no interest in broadcasting private family matters to a total stranger."
Henry said, “But you want my help?"
There was another hesitation.
"You were paid to do a job."
Indeed, he had never asked for his usual payment, but that was known only to one other person, who was now beyond telling.
"One dollar. My customary fee to friends, just to make it legal."
Another pause. The impatience in the voice was clear. “And that estimate of value is now part of the estate. I am asking, as a legitimately interested party, that you give me a copy of your work."
Henry managed his voice. “That's fine. I'll give you a copy on receipt of a letter from Morgan's attorney, Mr. Downes, requesting I comply."
Another pause. The tone changed yet again.
"I need some help in this, Mr. Sullivan. I can't be fighting everyone. I have no money for lawyers.... Can I speak with you privately?"
"I suppose."
"Can we meet for breakfast tomorrow?"
"Where?"
"This is not my town, Mr. Sullivan. You choose the place."
"Charley's Sandwich Shop, on Columbus."
"A cab will know where that is?"
"If he d
oesn't, get out and find another cab."
After deciding on a time, Peter Johnson hung up, and Henry called the number on the card given him by Detective O'Connor. He got an answering machine and attempted to summarize the conversation while it remained fresh in his mind. There was still little reason to mention Ranulf Richter, but Henry added a new name to his short list.
He turned out his light and lay down on the bed, but there was no drift of sleep for him now, only the near dark punctuated by the sound of Eliot's girlfriend, Jessica, or an occasional car in low gear working its way around the street looking for an open parking space.
The pale film of street light on the ceiling offered few images until hours had passed, and then it was not Morgan or Helen Mawson but his mother he remembered—as she was before she became sick—as she used to sit in a straight-backed chair on the small front porch on warm mornings and read her books.
When he was a child, he supposed this was part of her work—to read each day before she left for her job at Boston Edison. When she was finished with a book she would leave it on the seat of her favorite chair in the front parlor, and after she left, Henry would pick it up and put it at the end of the row of books that slowly grew in length on the shelves there. Four hundred and thirty-six. He kept count of them from the time he was old enough to do so and told her the number very officially each time she finished one, and his father would say that he was going to grow up to work in a polling place at election time someday. The last count had been four hundred and thirty-six. Excepting a few favorites. Those she placed separately in the china cabinet in the dining room.
A funny thing. Mrs. Prowder had done the same with the Tennyson. But Mrs. Prowder's cabinet had been otherwise full of imitation Blue Delft. There was never any china in his mother's cabinet. They never owned much more china than was dirty in the sink or drying in the rack. It was because she did not arrive home again until after eight that they only had elaborate dinners on the weekends. She never liked to cook in any case, even though she did it so well. His father's cooking had only been adequate for spaghetti, hot dogs, hamburgers, and odd sandwiches made from cold meats and smelly cheeses. His mother enjoyed going out to eat when they could, and they always did that at least once a week, usually on Saturday. Sunday she would cook. With the Betty Crocker cookbook open on the slick tablecloth, she would make something in a quantity which would give them leftovers for at least one more meal.
Her favorite things to make were roasts; lamb and beef and pork, which she pestered with a spoon, stooping to look in the old oven with one of his father's battered flashlights in one hand and the spoon in the other—the oven light had never worked in Henry's memory. Why had his father never fixed it? The smell of the roasting meat filled the whole house right up to his room, where, because it was Sunday, he would be doing his homework at the last minute, until the odor drove him mad and he came down to watch and talk.
Shelagh was always there first. His sister had helped skin the vegetables, shaved them until they were bright with their own color, onions always and potatoes and carrots, but sometimes turnips, which Henry hated. What he loved the most was the gravy and the thick, fresh rye bread his father picked up at the Jewish bakery.
His mother liked to talk when she cooked—"chatting,” she called it. She liked to tell stories about her childhood, about her first job as a sales clerk at Woolworth's, when she was assigned to care for the dead goldfish, or going to the circus when it came to the old Boston Garden, and her first date with his father, and other such things which had no importance except to them.
But he did not want to be remembering all of that just now. Not now. Henry turned on the light in his room; his remembrance vanished within the limits of hard edges.
The line of reference books behind his desk stopped his eyes before they settled on the stack of paper he had left on top—the Helen Mawson letters. He had already read most of them. They would not be a diversion now. The allusions to small events in the lives of strangers would only be more frustrating than his own thoughts.
He pulled a book from the stack of odd titles on the table. It was a lucky choice. Three Men in a Boat had the sort of reserved humor in a distant and foreign world he needed. He read until well after dawn.
Peter Johnson was the man who had been closest to Henry in the pew at the church. He was taller than Henry, and thinner. His blond hair was freshly cut short at the sides and long enough at the top to comb roughly over with a swipe of the hand. He wore small oval glasses. He had large ears, which was at least one characteristic Henry thought he had noticed in a picture of a younger Heber Johnson.
Peter Johnson's tie was loosened because the morning had already turned warm, and his tweed jacket and corduroy pants looked uncomfortable in the close and steamy heat of Charley's. He had taken a seat by the window and already ordered a small stainless-steel pot of tea which gleamed in the sun beside his cup. He seemed to unfold from his chair to stand as Henry entered, saying, “Good morning.” The hand he offered was cold.
Henry said, “Good morning,” with as cool a tone as he could muster and sat down across the table, with the sun at his back. He asked, “Have you eaten yet?"
Peter Johnson grimaced a smile. “Not as yet. I am fairly famished, though."
They ordered, and Johnson cleared his throat several times on the way to saying something. Henry waited until the man settled on a beginning.
"It's good you came ... I'm a little at a loss, you see. I don't—I'm not sure how to proceed."
The dissembling seemed rehearsed.
Henry said, “What can I help you with?"
Peter Johnson raised his shoulders in a performed shrug.
"The books, certainly. I'm not sure of anything else.... You see, we are in the same profession. I am a book dealer as well. I had a small shop in Hay-on-Wye, in Wales."
This was a place Henry had often heard of, an ancient Welsh farm town converted almost entirely to the book trade, right up to the ancient castle at the center.
"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Given your father's interest—"
Johnson interrupted purposefully.
"And my mother. She was a writer, you see. Travel books, mostly. She wrote under the name Ismay Whyte. Her maiden name."
Henry knew the name. He did not think she had ever been popular in the United States.
Henry asked, “What kind of books do you sell?"
Peter Johnson tilted his head, arched a brow, took a breath, and poured more tea in a half-filled cup, all in an ordered sequence.
"Well, travel, naturally—mostly. It's a nice specialty. I've done well with it until lately. Business was pretty bad in Hay-on-Wye after September Eleventh. It's really a tourist town. The number of buses from London are way off and half-filled. It hasn't really recovered. And ... it's not your problem, of course, but to add a human interest that matters to me at least, my wife has been ill."
Henry was wary of this. He made his “I'm sorry” as flat in tone as possible. He had always been a sucker for sad stories.
Peter Johnson sighed.
"Getting the right care for Vivienne has put the finances into a bad spin.... I want you to understand—I would not be playing the part of the greedy relative otherwise—I am broke...."
The choking off of the man's voice made the point that this confession was made out of necessity.
Henry said, “I thought medicine was socialized in England."
Peter Johnson rolled his eyes more than necessary. “Indeed. Very. If your back is hurt or you need a tooth pulled, it's just fine. Cancer is another story. We've come to the States three times already for treatments. She's here now. We've been staying at a very nice rooming house in Brookline. Six treatments this time, over three weeks or so. She has already been in remission twice, but it came back in the spring."
Their food arrived. Henry wondered if he had put too much of an edge in his statement on the phone to Detective O'Connor. This man's dramatics might only be t
he simple defensive measures of someone unused to speaking of private matters with a complete stranger. Henry said, “Had you gotten help from your father with this?"
Johnson nodded. “Yes. A good bit. Up until last year. He paid all the bills that I couldn't cover ... But I wanted to show some independence, you see. I didn't want to be a total leech. I covered too much myself, and as business fell, we got behind.... This spring, I asked again. Heber was already in pretty bad shape by then himself. He gave me another ten thousand. But it was gone in no time. The doctor—Dr. Shore, wonderful man—he's been holding up his billings, trying to help us out. But it will all have to be paid for, eventually. Most of it involves other specialists and the damned medicines."
Henry felt contrite. He could imagine himself in this. “Did you ask Morgan for help?"
Peter tried to smile. “Yes. Of course. I'd do anything. And she was brilliant. She was doing what she could. She'd put the beach house up for sale and promised us whatever it brought. She had us out there during the summer, you know. But I suppose the market is off.... Nevertheless, Viv was very grateful. I was very grateful."
The picture Henry had imagined was now changed.
He said, “But with Morgan's death, that's all on hold."
Peter nodded again, just enough to answer. “Quite ... And Arthur is not interested in my problems. I suppose he has problems of his own. I could be sympathetic, except my situation doesn't allow for it."
Henry looked at the man's eyes. They were small for his face, framed by the lines of squinting below the heavy fold of his brow, and set back above the wide columns of his cheeks. Those eyes looked back at him as if in a plea to say no more.
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