(2011) What Lies Beneath

by Sarah Rayne

  I wondered how many people would mourn Crispian if I managed to kill him. Quite a lot, most likely. He was so memorable, so noticeable. In any group of people he was always the one people looked at or turned to. I did myself, I couldn’t help it. And I suspect that in fifty or even a hundred years’ time, if people find photographs of him, he’s the one they’ll look at.

  And so we set off for Marseilles. Crispian was being his usual charming efficient self with railway porters and carriage attendants. The porters were occasionally a bit surly, but I think money changed hands to smooth the way. There’s nothing like the chink of a couple of sovereigns to solve difficulties.

  Halfway to Marseilles somebody quoted the famous Flecker verse:

  We travel not for trafficking alone;

  By hotter winds our fiery hearts are fanned:

  For lust of knowing what should not be known,

  We take the Golden Road to Samarkand.

  Very appropriate, of course, but within the first two days of the journey I saw that this bizarre, macabre voyage would be much closer to travelling the road to hell than to Flecker’s visionary Golden Road.

  I was wrong. The journey was far worse than any hell we could have imagined.

  1912

  Crispian had known the journey would be difficult. What he had not realized was that it would be hellish.

  He had thought his father would create the difficulties, but Dr Martlet had administered some sort of bromide and Julius Cadence went meekly into the cab that was waiting for them, the luggage and a big cabin trunk already strapped to the roof. Crispian felt a knife twist in his guts when he saw how obediently and unsuspectingly his father got inside.

  The difficulties came mostly from Gil Martlet. Crispian supposed he should have known Gil would cause disruptions, but he had not expected any to occur quite so early in the journey. But heading south across France, in the privacy of the first-class private carriage, Jamie suddenly said, ‘Where’s Gil?’

  Crispian had been immersed in a Times article about the Balkans War. A ‘Balkan League’ had apparently been formed, with the idea of liberating Macedonia from the Turkish yoke. The aim seemed to be the ultimate ejection of the Turks from Europe, largely because the Turkish government had not carried out promised reforms. Crispian thought it sounded complicated and potentially dangerous. It was slightly worrying to read about Greece’s involvement. Crispian hoped the decision to sail round the Greek coast would not turn out to be a bad one. Thomas Cook had said as long as they did not go near the Turkish coastline they would be perfectly safe, but The Times had provided a helpful map explaining where the areas of aggression were, and Turkey was worryingly close to Greece.

  He looked up at Jamie’s question and said, ‘Gil went to the washroom, didn’t he?’

  ‘Well, either he’s having the longest wash in living memory or he’s been taken ill,’ said Jamie. ‘Because it’s over an hour since he went out.’

  ‘Oh Lord,’ said Crispian resignedly and, putting the Balkan worries aside, went out to address a worry nearer home.

  Gil was discovered in a carriage near the luggage compartment with the waitress who had served their lunch earlier. They had pulled down the blind, but behind it Crispian discovered they were tangled sweatily on a threadbare banquette, the waitress’s skirts pushed round her waist, her bodice unfastened, revealing her breasts. He had time to reflect that this particular act looked extraordinarily ungainly to an onlooker, then embarrassment and annoyance took over.

  Gil lifted his head and looked straight at Crispian. A grin lifted his lips. ‘Be with you in a while, dear boy,’ he said. ‘Unless you’d care to join me . . .?’

  ‘Good God, no!’ said Crispian instantly.

  ‘Pity. But I’ll come back to the carriage fairly soon,’ said Gil, as the waitress wound her legs round him again.

  Crispian got himself out of the carriage, but he did not go back to his compartment. He stood in the corridor, staring through the window at the passing countryside, beating down the spike of sexual desire that had sliced through him at Gil’s words. Unless you’d care to join me – the words throbbed in Crispian’s mind.

  When Gil came out into the corridor Crispian found he could not look directly at him. This was absurd. He ought to be feeling furious; Gil was supposed to be helping with this difficult, dangerous journey but at the first opportunity he had vanished in order to have sex with the nearest available female.

  Gil appeared entirely untroubled. ‘Have we reached Marseilles yet?’ he enquired. ‘I didn’t think we were due there for another hour at least.’

  In a low, furious voice, Crispian said, ‘You’re supposed to be here to help me with my father! Gil, how could you go off like that?’

  ‘All too easily,’ said Gil, lounging against the window, and looking out. ‘It didn’t matter, did it? Your father’s all right, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, but he might not have been. Have you no self-control?’ said Crispian, realizing too late what he had said.

  ‘As a matter of fact I’ve got very good self-control,’ said Gil, and Crispian heard the smile in his voice. ‘I even managed to time rhythms to coincide with the vibration of the wheels—’

  ‘For heaven’s sake,’ said Crispian, glancing down the corridor.

  ‘—although it was touch and go when we hit that fast downhill stretch. It’s considered the height of discourtesy to succumb to premature ejaculation with a total stranger, isn’t it?’ He sent Crispian his lazy smile and went unhurriedly back to their private carriage.

  Crispian remained where he was. I can’t take him on this journey after all, he thought. Not if he’s going to behave like this all the time. Join me, he had said . . . Join me . . . And with the words, a shocking bolt of longing had seized Crispian – not romantically by the heart, but bawdily, between the legs.

  Then he thought, no, it will be all right. Jamie’s here. He’ll keep Gil reined in. And Gil was making fun of me – he’s always done that. Remembering this, he felt better, and was able to return to the private compartment and reach for the discarded Times. Jamie was in the other corner, apparently engrossed in a book, and Julius sat opposite, drowsy and unfocused from one of the bromides Gil’s father had provided. Martlet had given Crispian several doses of the powders with a note as to how often they should be given. Julius seemed hardly aware of where he was; Crispian hoped he could keep him like that until they had got him onto the ship. If his father came out of the drugged stupor and realized what was happening, he might well resist.

  Several times, as Crispian worked his way through The Times, he sensed Gil watching him. Once he could not resist glancing up. Gil did not speak, but there was amusement in his eyes, fixed on Crispian, and Crispian lowered his gaze at once.

  As the train jolted its way across France to Marseilles, night began to fall. Crispian was deeply grateful for this, because it meant they would be able to board the ship in darkness.

  Chapter 10

  Entries From an Undated Journal

  We boarded the ship at Marseilles by darkness, and as we did so, I realized with panic and despair that my own darkness was starting to close around me.

  I don’t think anyone noticed – I had become very good at hiding it by that time. Perhaps they thought I was tired from the long journey and I mumbled something about feeling a bit travel-sick. Fortunately it was quite a small ship, probably with no more than thirty passengers in all, and I was able to get to my cabin with minimal fuss.

  The crushing pain was already wrenching my mind, but when the pain stopped, the deformity was in place. That was when I felt lighter, stronger, filled up with power as if it had been poured into me from a jug. I could conquer the world, do anything I wanted. Stevenson’s Mr Hyde, prowling the dim cobbled streets, had understood about that soaring exultancy, that deep strong wish to inflict violence, and I understood it too. During those darknesses, the longing to kill Crispian was almost overwhelming. But if I gave in to it, I knew I
would not be sufficiently careful. I would not plan or bother to cover my tracks. I would simply slay him on the crest of that dark arrogance and glory in his death with no thought for the consequences. It could not be risked. Murdering Crispian could only be done when I was sane and in control.

  So I spun the lie about feeling travel-sick and scuttled away to my cabin in the wake of a ship’s officer. He moved quickly, presumably because he was afraid I might vomit on the clean floor. I kept a hand clapped over my mouth to foster this impression; you get used to practising these small deceptions; they’re not praiseworthy, but they’re necessary.

  Once in the cabin I thanked whatever gods might be appropriate that we were not to share sleeping quarters. My quarters for the voyage consisted of a narrow room with a built-in bed and cupboard, a washstand and chair. It was airless and cramped already, and by the time we reached the Italian coast it would probably have turned into an oven, but I would have suffered a worse fate than baking below decks for the benison of that privacy. There was no lock on the door but the small chair could be wedged under the handle. I was shaking so badly by that time I could scarcely hold the chair, but eventually I got it in place, then threw myself on the bed and lay there, ready to do battle with the pain. It would pass in time; all I had to do was remain strong. Here it came – the crunching-bone agony, then the scalding feeling of power. There was a small oblong mirror fastened to the wall over the washstand, but I did not dare look into it.

  The pain passed after two hours – a mercifully short time – and light began to trickle back into my mind. I splashed cold water onto my face from the ewer left on the marble washstand. There were towels and soap as well. I’ll say many things against Crispian, but I have to admit he was never mean. The ship was small but the cabin was properly appointed and it looked as if passengers’ comfort would be well catered for.

  Restored and refreshed, I removed the chair from the door and went out. There had been mention of a passengers’ lounge for meals, and the prospect of food and drink and the company of normal human beings was comforting.

  1912

  Crispian thought that considering the macabre nature of this journey, it was progressing reasonably well.

  He hoped it would be uneventful, but they were only a few miles out into the Mediterranean when a storm blew up and most of the passengers were seasick. Crispian and Jamie managed to stagger up on deck, which was said to be the best place. Crispian did indeed feel better in the open, even with the rain lashing down, but Jamie hung over the side, retching and groaning, so Crispian left him to it, and made his way back downstairs to look in on his father.

  Julius’s cabin was hot and gloomy, and there was a slightly sour smell. There was a basin and ewer in the washstand cupboard, and Crispian guessed his father had been sick, like most of the passengers.

  Julius was half-lying on the narrow bed, his shoulders hunched, his face to the wall, but he turned when Crispian came in.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ said Crispian.

  Julius peered at him uncertainly. ‘Crispian?’

  His eyes were unfocused and his voice was blurred. He’s not sure who I am, thought Crispian with a twist of apprehension, but, speaking in as normal a tone as possible, he said, ‘I came to see if you were all right. Have you been seasick? Most people were.’

  Julius frowned, then appeared to recollect his surroundings. ‘Sick,’ he said, as if trying out the word. ‘Yes, I was sick.’ He sat up a little straighter. ‘Wretched storm,’ he said. ‘Still, you can’t take to the sea without expecting a storm or two.’

  This was so rational a remark, and Julius looked so much like his old self, Crispian relaxed.

  ‘Ring for the steward if you need anything,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you a little later on. We’ll have supper here together if you feel up to eating.’

  Julius nodded, then said abruptly, ‘The Aegean Sea, that’s where we’re going, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’ Crispian had explained this on the train from Waterloo. He had brought an atlas and traced the journey out for his father.

  ‘As long as it doesn’t turn out to be the Styx,’ said Julius, a glint in his eyes. Crispian’s heart gave a thump of apprehension. ‘Or even,’ said Julius, regarding Crispian with his head on one side, ‘the River of Jordan?’ His eyes were no longer fogged, they were sharp and clear, and for a moment he was again the strong, powerful man of Crispian’s childhood: the man who had headed Cadences Bank for so many years and wielded authority over so many people. ‘Did you think I didn’t know what was going on?’ he said. ‘Let’s have honesty between us at least, Crispian.’

  ‘We’re being perfectly honest,’ said Crispian. ‘Jamie and I want to study foreign banking procedures. You’ve been working too hard and this is a recuperative trip for your health. Dr Martlet suggested it. I explained all that to you.’

  ‘You always were a damn good liar,’ said Julius, turning away.

  Gil’s cabin was on the same corridor, a little further along. Crispian hesitated, then knocked lightly on the door. His heart was beating a little too fast, which would be the result of that brief disconcerting interview with his father or even the seasickness earlier. He was just thinking Gil was not going to answer – or perhaps was asleep – when Gil called out to come in.

  He was lying on his bunk, a book propped up, and he was wearing a silk dressing gown in dark red. His hair was disordered and the robe was slightly open at the chest. There was a faint scent of pine on the air, as if he might just have washed.

  ‘I’m only looking in to see how you’re feeling,’ said Crispian.

  ‘Never better,’ said Gil, although he was pale and there was a faint beading of moisture on his brow. ‘I’ve asked the steward to bring some chilled champagne, as a matter of fact. Finest thing in the world for seasickness, chilled champagne. It’ll be here in a minute.’ He considered Crispian. ‘You could stay and drink it with me,’ he said softly, and although he did not quite move over on the narrow bed as if to make room for Crispian, he somehow gave the impression of doing so.

  ‘Champagne gives me indigestion,’ said Crispian. But as he went out he was aware of Gil smiling the narrow-eyed smile he remembered from the train.

  When they reached Nice, Gil proposed they dine at one of the restaurants on the famous Promenade des Anglais.

  ‘At my father’s expense, I suppose,’ said Crispian caustically.

  ‘Yes, of course. I certainly can’t afford it, dear boy,’ said Gil. ‘But I do think we should sample some of the local delicacies while we’re here.’

  Crispian, who was writing a letter home, glanced up at him suspiciously. ‘What had you in mind?’

  ‘Bouillabaisse and salade niçoise,’ said Gil, meeting Crispian’s eyes guilelessly. ‘Both famous dishes of this area.’

  Jamie, however, requested to be omitted from the party. One had, of course, to eat, he said, but there were a number of famous works of art to be seen, and he would very much like to study them. ‘I thought you two wouldn’t be very interested in the museum,’ he said, ‘and I don’t really want to explore the nightlife, so I thought I’d hire the services of one of the guides for the afternoon. The captain says they’re always around the quayside, and providing one’s careful they’re generally trustworthy. There’s an art gallery I want to see. I’ll go out there with a guide on my own and have supper here with the captain and your father when I return.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Gil, ‘Crispian and I will dine out. Give our regards to the paintings and the statues.’

  Gil had been right about the bouillabaisse, which was delicious, and the Chablis they drank with it was excellent. Almost despite himself, Crispian found he was relaxing and enjoying Gil’s flippant conversation.

  ‘Here’s to you, Crispian,’ said Gil at one point, lifting his glass. His eyes were dark and glowing in the candlelit restaurant, and Crispian thought he was not completely sober. Then he thought he himself was not completely sober, either.<
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  As if guessing his thoughts, Gil said, ‘I’m fairly tipsy, dear boy. You’ll have to take my arm to get me back to the ship.’ He appeared to be perfectly serious, and when they left the restaurant and Crispian did take his arm, he was acutely aware of the muscles beneath the cloth of Gil’s lightweight jacket.

  They reached the ship around eleven and, as Crispian opened the door of his cabin, Gil leaned against the wall, watching him. It was infuriating to find this disturbing.

  ‘Am I to be asked in for a nightcap?’ said Gil. ‘Because I’ve got a bottle of brandy in my cabin I could fetch.’

  Crispian hesitated, intending to say he would have an early night, but heard himself say, ‘Yes, we’ll have a nightcap. Shall we call Jamie in as well?’

  ‘Let’s keep it just to the two of us.’

  Gil poured the brandy and when he passed Crispian the glass his fingers brushed Crispian’s hand, then lay against his palm for a moment. Crispian felt as if a thousand red-hot needles had slid under his skin. Oh God, he thought, I don’t have these kinds of feelings for another man, I don’t . . . He’s teasing me, that’s all.