The Accomplice

  “But I didn’t…”

  The first doubt came into her mind. For she remembered that she hadn’t known that Yevgenia was there. She had been hoping that she was not, that the drawing room would reveal itself as empty. It had been just before she had unlocked the front door and gone into the swirling sea of smoke that she had suddenly understood why Tom had blared out “Xenia” to her in the car. It had been the answer to the quiz, to the guessing game about whom he had seen. Perhaps Xenia had been there and taken Yevgenia for dinner with Al. So her actions in going into the smoke-filled house were even less rational than he realized. She would say nothing more about her motives.

  “If only I had gone over an hour earlier. If only Xenia had not been out.”

  “It is useless to say ‘if only’. Don’t think like that. I must go and collect Laura who should have finished praying for me by now. You’re all right, I’m glad to see. And Tom? He’s over that last infection?”

  Zita accompanied him to the door; as she watched him drive off, she saw Xenia returning from next door and waited for her.

  “I went to find some clothes and things,” Xenia said. She put an arm tentatively on Zita’s shoulder. “How are you now?”

  “Oh, I’m OK. What’s it like over there?”

  “The fire people are there to see how it started. It’s terrible, black everywhere, even in the bedrooms and the drawing room is like, like hell. They said the police will come later, and the insurance people.”

  “Oh, what a nightmare. At what stage did you get back last night?”

  “I don’t know the time. I was at a film in Woodham, so not very late. The fire brigade was here already and Dr Flowers and Lynne. It was terrible because they were carrying you on a stretcher to your house. I thought it was you who was dead.”

  “Poor Yevgenia; poor, poor Yevgenia. She was all right in the afternoon, presumably, when you saw her?” Xenia looked at her blankly. “I must phone Rosie and let her know what has happened. She must have Marcus’s and Naomi’s phone number in Italy and Ivo’s.” They had turned inside the house. “You must move in here. Bring over all your stuff.”

  Lynne and Tom returned from their walk at that moment and Zita was distracted from her intended task for a while. Only sometime later did she dial the number of Rosie’s flat. Why, she asked herself, did Rosie not know already? Al could have told her. Al would have brought Xenia home. Why had Xenia made no reference to Al? Zita did not waste time in the usual introductory rituals when Al answered; she simply asked for Rosie.

  “She’s gone out to get the papers,” Al said. “Shall I get her to call you back?”

  “Yes, please. Can you warn her, Al, that something awful has happened. Yevgenia died last night, rather horribly. She set fire to her chair with a cigarette, at least that’s what we think. She must have been overcome by the smoke. It was that awful acrid smoke that killed her, apparently. She wasn’t really burned because the flames didn’t get going until I opened the door. Oh dear, why am I telling you all these horrible details?”

  Al sounded appropriately shocked, concerned for Zita. “Do you need Rosie? Do you want her to come down to Woodham?” He sounded reluctant; there was no rushing to be on the spot to help.

  “No, no.” Zita might have welcomed seeing them if there had been any eagerness to come. “It’s not necessary. But could Rosie phone Marcus and Naomi, and her brother and do that sort of thing. If she could get Marcus to phone me, he can tell me what he would like me to do about things.”

  “Rosie’ll want to speak to you first, to hear about it. She’ll be terribly upset. I’ll get her to call you in the next quarter of an hour.”

  He was about to put the phone down when she asked, “What time did you bring Xenia back last night, Al?” There was a moment’s embarrassed pause.

  “I didn’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I didn’t bring her back. She went home on her own.”

  It was Zita who now let the silence grow. Eventually when neither of them rang off, Al said, “We had a disagreement.” There was another pause. “Basically we had a row. Xenia went off. I came back to London. I got back here about eight, I suppose.”

  Yevgenia’s house was remarkably little damaged by the fire. Only her chair was calcified by the intense heat of the smouldering upholstery. The Persian rug that Zita had seized from the floor in the hall and used to put out the flames was charred. For the rest the whole of the interior of the house was covered in a thick black soot which, as Xenia had said, had penetrated even the rooms farthest from the fire, and painted them an ashy grey. The drawing room itself was horribly blackened and the air was still poisoned with the sharp dry odour which had overwhelmed Zita the night before. She found a man standing beside the corpse of Yevgenia’s chair.

  “You’re the neighbour?” he said. “I was just going to bring the key back to you. I’ve finished here.” He had a cropped head and muscular arms and thighs that seemed about to burst out of his clothes. “The insurance people might want to look at it. You’d better be in touch with them tomorrow.”

  “But it’s clear what happened?”

  “Clear? That’s a laugh looking at this mess. Yes, it’s clear. Cigarette dropped on this side, left-handed was she? between the cushion and the frame. Not enough oxygen to make a flame, just smoke. Lucky it wasn’t one of those modern chairs that go up like a torch. Much more painful death. She might have been drowsy: an afternoon nap? a little drink? and didn’t notice. Probably fell asleep holding the cigarette. Anyway, she wasn’t going to make a quick get away if she used those.” With his foot he nudged Yevgenia’s sticks one against the other; a brown pill bottle rolled out from under the chair. He picked it up and shook it and dropped it again, wiping his hands on the sides of his trousers. “Empty,” he said.

  They went out into the hall together, where they met Xenia carrying her thin Russian suitcase.

  “I’ve got everything now,” she said. They left the house and locked it behind them.

  “The smell hangs on everything,” said Zita. “You’ll want to wash all your clothes.”

  Xenia walked slowly, leaning away from the weight of her case. “Let me help you,” Zita said.

  “No, I can manage. Did Al say…?”

  “Say what?” Zita did not want teenage confidences.

  “About yesterday.”

  “He said he didn’t bring you back.”

  “No. I left him. I went to see a film in Woodham by myself. I didn’t say before because I did not want to embarrass him. I decided to leave because, well, he is Rosie’s boyfriend, after all.”

  She stopped to change hands. Zita put out her hand to help. “What on earth have you got in here?”

  They reached Zita’s door and put down the suitcase. Suddenly Xenia’s pale face creased, comically, like a clown’s or a child’s, the corners of her eyes and mouth turning down. “It was so awful; yesterday was so awful,” she wailed. Tears spurted rather than rolled from her eyes, projected by passion. She was sobbing hysterically. Zita put her arm over her shoulder and led her inside.

  “What’s the matter with her,” Lynne asked unsympathetically. “She’s upset. It’s all been a bit much.” The telephone began to ring. “Oh, that’ll be Rosie, or Naomi,” Zita said. “Xenia, go and sit down. I’ll make some coffee in a moment.” A long moment if it was Naomi. She picked up the receiver in the kitchen, preparing herself to rehearse all the details at length. She was surprised to hear her mother’s voice. “Zita.”

  “Mama, where are you? Are you in Oxford?” She knew at once she was not by the echo, the gap between speaking and reply, giving an uncharacteristic note of hesitation to Valentina’s speech.

  “No, I’m not back. In fact, I shall not be back until next week now.”

  “You’re enjoying Russia.” She said it, a statement rather than a question, to fill in the pause which seemed to be greater than just the time lag on the line. “What are you doing now?”


  “Zitushenka.”

  “Yes?”

  “Zita, I am going to get married.”

  “Mama.”

  “What?” The pauses throbbed with electronic noise; they rushed to fill the space and their voices overlapped and interrupted one another. “You must stop calling me Mama, Zita. You’re too old.”

  “All right, all right. Mama, he’s Russian. Who is he?” Zita felt faint again, faint and furious. She looked behind her for a kitchen stool and sat down. “What is this, Mama?”

  Valentina’s voice was firmer, now that the news had been told. “He is an old classmate. We were together at university and at the Institute. His name is Boris Andreevich Zurin. I met him again at Milan and he invited me back to Russia.”

  Zita did not comment, so Valentina went on. “I am making arrangements to get married in a month’s time. He has to apply for a passport and an exit visa again. I have to get him visas for England and the States. There is so much bureaucracy, you cannot imagine.”

  “So he’s coming to live with you in the West? You’re not planning to set up home in Moscow?”

  “St Petersburg. He’s now in St Petersburg. We may commute. We shall raise some money for his Institute. Or he’ll come to the West, if he can find a job he likes. Zita, are you still there?”

  “Yes, Mama. So Russia is not so bad after all?”

  “Did I ever say it was bad? Anyway it’ll be a very good chance for you to see for yourself, when we get married here in the Palace of Weddings. It will be such a joke.” Humour had never been Valentina’s strong point, Zita reflected, sourly.

  “Zita,” Valentina was cajoling. “Have you got over the shock now?”

  Her daughter’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m ashamed,” she said. “I haven’t wished you every happiness, Mama. When shall I meet Boris? When will you come back?”

  “You’ll meet him at the wedding. You’ll come with Tom and your crazy girl, if necessary.”

  “Valentina, I hope you will be very, very happy. It sounds so romantic, to meet a lover from the past, to be carried off by him to Russia, to plan a new life.”

  “It is romantic. I can’t tell you, Zasha, what it is like to be in love again. It is so extraordinary. Everything is filled with light and life. Everything is beautiful. Russia is beautiful. I see everything like new, with a new meaning.”

  Zita made a supreme effort. “Send my warm good wishes to Boris. Tell him I look forward to meeting him. Send photographs. I hope you have taken masses of photos, of everything, of Moscow, of St Petersburg, the spire of the Peter-Paul fortress, the onion domes, the birch trees, the river, Boris…”

  “Zitya, I am going now. I shall call you later.”

  Zita slowly replaced the receiver. Xenia and Lynne came into the kitchen pushing Tom between them.

  “Was that Naomi?” asked Xenia.

  “No,” said Zita abstractedly. “No. If the phone rings it’ll be her next time, so you take it, Xenia. I can’t face making lunch. You two girls can produce whatever you like. I’m going into the garden.”

  Outside the world was dusty and tired; the grass was unkempt and scuffed like an old carpet; the encircling hedges made the air stuffy, closing round her like her office walls. Valentina was right. Why did she live like this, not, as her mother meant, a narrow suburban, provincial life, but inside her head a narrow one-track existence like a commuter train, travelling to and fro on its tracks, never looking at what lay outside, never getting out to explore what was beyond?

  She had walked the circumference of her garden, she discovered, tracked round the circle. She went back through the kitchen where Tom made gagging noises to attract her attention. She ignored him and continued her route into the garage, where she pulled open the Oliver trunk. She stuffed bundles of papers and photographs into a plastic bag, without looking at them. In the kitchen she found some matches and took them with the bag out into the garden. At the side of the house, by the garden shed, was an incinerator, an aluminium dustbin with holes in the bottom and a chimney in the lid. It was part of the kit for playing at gardening which houses such as hers are equipped with, but which she had never had time to use. She emptied a few handfuls of paper into the incinerator, then struck a match. The first one went out as she was lowering it inside to reach the paper at the bottom. She applied the second one, as soon as it flared, to a single photograph, allowing it to catch, before she dropped it on the pile below. She fed the flame with fragment after fragment, waiting patiently until the last was well alight before adding the next. She could hear a voice, Xenia’s, calling her name from within the house, but took no notice.

  A few moments later footsteps approached and she turned with some irritation to find Stevens standing behind her.

  “What are you up to?” he said. “Burning the evidence?”

  He had evidently decided to forget that they had been shouting at one another two days earlier. Perhaps such exchanges were so common among the police that you did not even have to choose to forget them; or perhaps having shouted and sworn at one another they had entered into a new relationship. For the first time she allowed herself to look at what she was about to place on the flames. It was a self-important photograph with a thick mount, one of the formal groups taken at her wedding. She looked at the former Zita and the previous Oliver in the centre of their families: Valentina and John Guilfoyle on one side, Oliver’s parents on the other, the rest of his family all around them. Oliver had wanted the whole works and, although it was not how Guilfoyles usually did things, he got them. Her father looked vaguely bewildered, every bit a professor; Valentina, a larger Valentina than today, looked determined; the will that had decided everything in her own life was there in the fierce gaze. Oliver’s parents – strange to think of Oliver’s having parents, he seemed a man ready formed, without need of nurture – looked not dissatisfied with what their idolized son had committed himself to. And in the midst of them all, the bride. Zita gazed at herself. In the past, in her secret orgies of regret, looking at these mementos, such a photograph produced fruitless rage for what might have been and wasn’t.

  She found she had no such feelings now: the pathos of vanished love did not strike her. It was like looking at the ancient photograph of an unknown group that you might come across when clearing up after someone who had died; you could laugh at the dated clothes, the odd expressions, because the scene was without emotional resonance.

  She handed it to Stevens, saying casually, “Exactly. When you’ve got that sort of thing in the case against you, what can you do but burn it?”

  He looked at it briefly, without interest. “Who is it?” He dropped it on the bonfire.

  “Not like that, you’ll put the fire out.” She poked it into position. “Me, of course. What did you think I meant?”

  “Didn’t look like you.”

  “No, well, I was someone else then.” She fed another folder of photos in without bothering to open them. “And what are you doing?”

  “I came to see what had happened there.” He jerked his bald head back at Yevgenia’s ruined house. The air currents shifted direction slightly. Zita moved round the incinerator to avoid the smoke. Now it wavered in a fine veil between them. “You’ll have to agree now,” he said.

  “Agree on what? I agree nothing.”

  “That I was right.”

  “Right?”

  “It looks like suicide to me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “One day she confesses to a murder, to herself if no one else; then the next she dies. There must be some connexion.”

  “There’s no connexion at all.” Zita bent down and began to drop in more paper, one sheet after another. “So you’re going to hound her even beyond her death, are you?”

  “No. No, you’re right, too, that’s really what I came to tell you. They’ve called it off, closed it down, the investigation into your poor Yorick. There was a planning meeting, to review current cases, their progress, what to do abou
t them. I had managed to keep it going, but now that the lab reports on the Cresacres are negative, it was felt that we were getting nowhere. The file’s left open; if anything more comes up in the future, it can all be started up again.”

  Zita emptied the last papers in her carrier bag into the incinerator. The flames died down and dark grey smoke rose in a column. She drew back blinking. “So you’ve been forced by circumstances, by unco-operative superiors to put it on one side again. But you know what really happened and you’ll wait another twenty years hoping to prove it.”

  He shrugged. “Yes, I know what happened, more or less. I haven’t worked out the details. And now she’s gone I don’t suppose I’ll get proof. But I know what I heard.”

  Zita folded her arms. She no longer felt the rage at his obtuseness, at his refusal to see or understand, that she had on Friday evening. Yevgenia’s death made it all seem pointless now.

  “Poor Yorick was the son of the previous tenants, who lived in the house before Jean bought the place. They were called Dryburn and belonged to some obscure puritanical sect. The child was killed on 6th March 1945 by a flying bomb which fell on the corner of the square. He was called Ezra; he had a teddy bear which was put in the grave with him in the crook of his left arm. I imagine that the parents buried him in the garden with permission from the local authorities. I haven’t had time to check that yet, but it is perfectly legal. They usually ask to be assured that there is no spring, stream or well in the garden. I suppose the grave should have been marked on the deeds, but it seems not to have been, or I missed it. The oddity is putting him in the ground without a coffin; I suppose that was part of their cranky beliefs.”

  “You’re making all this up.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Where did you get it from?”

  “The cleaning woman who worked there at the time.”

  “In 1945? How old is she, for Christ’s sake? Aged ninety and gaga, obviously.”

  “She has got Alzheimer’s, but her grasp of the past is perfectly good. She just doesn’t present it in the way you’d expect.”