I told myself I would have to stop this futile fantasising, but if I was going to I had to start by not seeing Tessa, and by isolating myself entirely from the ongoing investigation.
And before I could make any decision on this, Mary entered and said, ‘She’d be very pleased to see both of you.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Thank you, Mary.’
I casually picked up the Lady Chatterley.
‘And you’ll let me know, Richard, please,’ said Mary. She was tense, poised as though for flight.
‘Know?’
‘What...what happens.’
I hadn’t intended to, if my guess happened to turn out correct. ‘Well, of course, Mary.’
We went across the corridor to Tessa’s door. I tapped on it, and she called out, ‘Come in, please.’
This time she was sitting, fully clothed, on the bed. She had kicked off her shoes and was leaning back against the bed-head with a pillow behind her, as Amelia likes to do when sitting reading. It’s strange how, simply by the removal of shoes, a certain informality is established. Perhaps Tessa realised this.
‘I do hope,’ she said, ‘that you’ve come to tell me those police persons have gone.’
‘I’m afraid not. There’re so many things to be answered before they’ll decide to leave.’
And when they did, they would do so with someone accompanying them, under arrest.
‘Have the boys been up to tell you?’ I asked.
She gave me a rueful smile. ‘It’s a long while since they’ve come to confide their secrets to me.’
‘Yes...well...I’d have thought they would come and tell you their news. Their good news.’
‘But you must sit down, please. Amelia...is that correct? Amelia, you’ll find that chair very comfortable, and Richard...’
But I was already sitting on the edge of the bed. I could have reached over and tickled the soles of her feet. But by now she must have realised that I was carrying a book. She ought, really, to have recognised it. But there had not been the slightest reaction. It could have been any old book.
‘I was going to tell you about the treasures we’ve been finding,’ I went on. ‘This is in the library I’m talking about. The library! There’s been a certain amount of discussion about that — about calling it the library. The will, you see. There was that phrase in Sir Rowland’s will: the oil paintings in my art collection. Now...the boys say that your husband always included the library in his definition of art collection. Do you go along with that, Tessa?’
‘Oh yes. I see what you mean. Yes, he meant the library, too. There were some paintings in there. I don’t know if they’re still there.’
‘Certainly. They’re still there. They happen to be sketches by some of the Impressionists, and probably very valuable. Thirteen of them would come under the definition of oil paintings, which would include them in Jeremy’s inheritance.’
She picked idly at the bedspread. I wasn’t sure she’d noticed the book in my hand. If so, she hadn’t reacted. ‘I’m very pleased about it,’ she said gravely.
‘You wouldn’t dispute that — the definition of art treasures, even though they’re in the library?’
She stared at me blankly. Her fingers were now still. ‘But why would I dispute it?’
‘If you did — successfully — they might legally be considered to be yours,’ I explained.
She was not responding. It seemed very difficult to spark any emotional response from Lady Theresa Searle.
‘I don’t want them.’ She flipped a hand.
‘They’re very valuable.’
She shrugged. ‘To what use would I put the money?’
It was very difficult not to glance at Amelia. This woman was difficult to understand. She never seemed to react like a normal person.
‘You mentioned an intention to marry Geoffrey Russell,’ I reminded her.
‘It’s the man’s prerogative to support his wife.’ She raised elegant eyebrows at me, challenging me to dispute it. ‘Geoffrey is quite capable of that. And I would not like to feel that he would ask me to marry him, if he was at the same time bearing in mind that I would have money to bring to the marriage.’
I smiled. It had been most elegantly stated.
‘And who would know better than your husband’s solicitor the size of his estate, and what will remain as yours?’
‘That is exactly as I see it,’ she told me. She was an innocent, that was it. ‘But surely, this isn’t why you came to speak with me. No...make no mistake...I’m pleased to see you both. Someone to talk to. I do have a tendency to feel lonely.’
If so, it was entirely her own choice. She was mobile, and nobody made any attempt to restrain her.
‘But...the will.’ I had to be persistent. ‘Does Geoffrey realise, I wonder, what treasures we’ve uncovered in the library, and what large amounts of money might drift into your bank account, if the interpretation of the will was carefully manipulated?’
She laughed. It was the first time I’d heard her laugh. It was a a tinkle, a young girl’s laughter. ‘You should have been a solicitor yourself, Richard. No — I don’t think you can accuse Geoffrey of unprofessional behaviour.’
‘It was the last thing—’
‘It sounded very like it. And I assure you, Geoffrey doesn’t care about my money. It’s me he wants. Little old me! You don’t know what that means to a woman, Richard. He just doesn’t understand, Amelia. Men are all loin and muscles.’
I was surprised to hear her express it like that.
Amelia murmured, ‘Richard’s very strong, certainly.’
I glanced at her, hoping to catch her playful smile, but her gaze was fixed steadily on Tessa’s face.
‘Whatever happens,’ said Tessa complacently, ‘I shall inherit the house. It’s the address Geoffrey wants. The address. So splendid on his letterheads. I believe he’s ordered the printing already. Geoffrey Russell, Solicitor, Penhavon Park, Shropshire.’
‘I think he would prefer it as Salop.’
‘You’re quite right. That’s what he said, now I come to think of it.’
‘Hmm!’ I murmured, some vague memory troubling me. Then I had it. ‘But didn’t you tell me you intend to sell it? This place. To sell it.’
‘Well...yes.’
‘Then he wouldn’t be able to use his precious letterhead.’
She laughed. It was a child’s mischievous laugh this time. ‘Oh, but he would. I’d sell it to him.’
Amelia moved nervously. I said, ‘Penhavon Park...and you.’
‘No please. Me and Penhavon Park.’ She smiled. A real smile, this was. It lit her face. ‘I know him. It’s me he wants. The house and the grounds are a bonus.’
‘Isn’t that splendid!’ said Amelia.
‘But,’ I suggested, ‘he hasn’t yet heard about the valuable contents of the library here. And when he does, it might be that he can find a perfectly legal manoeuvre that excludes its contents from the phrase: my art collection. He might engage a barrister on this, for an opinion. An expensive barrister, one who realises the value of its contents. A whole...’ I snapped my fingers. ‘What would be the collective noun? Ah yes. A whole haggle of barristers to prove the point.’
‘Richard!’ Amelia said, but gently, warningly. Yet I can’t help it when I see deception being practised, especially the deception of this woman, so obviously naïve, and especially by an officer of the court. I become angrily facetious. I had to take a grip on myself.
‘Do you wish to tell me something?’ asked Tessa, suddenly looking angelic.
I sighed. ‘Only that the contents of that library are very valuable. Paintings by the Impressionists and heaven knows how many first editions amongst the books.’
‘It’s a dusty load of rubbish,’ said Tessa forcefully.
‘I think not. I brought one at random to show you.’ I held it up before her eyes. At random! ‘Not only a first edition, but printed in Paris because it was banned in this country. Smuggled in.
It must be fantastically valuable.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t think so.’ She hadn’t yet realised what I was showing her.
‘Banned,’ I said, ‘because it was too erotic for consumption in England in the twenties. Lawrence himself claimed he was exploring the sensual aspects of human relationships, but—’
‘What did you say?’
All the animation had run from her face. It was stiff, the skin dry, the blood running from it, but flushing her neck.
‘Lawrence. D.H. Lawrence. This is a first English edition of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, Tessa. Printed in Paris.’
I held it closer to her. She tried to recoil more deeply into the pillow. ‘I don’t wish to see it,’ she whispered.
‘But it’s very interesting,’ I insisted, pressing on with it in spite of Amelia’s expression. ‘There’re notes. In the margins. Can you explain that, Tessa?’
‘Richard!’ It was a soft but urgent warning from Amelia.
But if Tessa had reacted differently, I would have responded to her mood. If she’d smiled and waved the subject aside lightly, and perhaps said, ‘Oh that! I thought it rather amusing, frankly,’ I would have retreated to impersonalities. But she simply didn’t wish to give it any consideration. Not even look at it. Out of sight, out of mind. But now it was within sight, and tightly locked inside the mind I was so anxious to explore. She had made no answer to my question, so I repeated it.
‘Can you give any explanation for the pencil notes, Tessa?’
‘No!’ It was an abrupt withdrawal.
‘They’re written in your hand.’ But this was only a guess.
‘Of course they’re not. How dare you say—’
I dared because I could no longer retreat, and because I now knew I was correct. There had been panic in her eyes.
‘Perhaps you still have the pencil. Something like a 2H, I’d say.’ It was a ridiculous suggestion, but it kept things moving.
‘I don’t wish to discuss it. Please go away.’
‘This matters, Tessa.’
‘How can it matter now? A silly old book. And it was...was obnoxious.’
‘So you have read it?’
She moved her head, seeking escape.
‘Have you?’ I insisted, but gently.
‘I admit to having read a little,’ she said quietly, her voice uncertain.
‘The notes run all through it.’
‘I’ve already told you—’
‘A man is dead, Tessa.’
‘What? What’s that got to do with it?’
‘I think Lawrence might solve the mystery.’
‘You’re talking nonsense. Are you quite sane?’ Now it was offended dignity she offered.
I wondered that myself. Did I have to shout it in her face, before she would admit to recognising its importance?
Amelia’s hand was locked on my kneecap. The fingers closed, tighter and tighter. Nevertheless, I had to go on.
‘The person who made those notes, Tessa, was a woman who must have been strongly affected by the text. Not simply that — a person who was involved emotionally. Lady Chatterley was living your life, or you hers, there on the page, and you felt yourself swept along with it. Isn’t that so? The writer of these pencil notes was captured by it, shared it, even luxuriated in it.’
I waited for her interruption, which really should have come sooner. But she stared at me with a set, white face, and said nothing.
‘The heroine is Lady Chatterley,’ I explained, in case she’d forgotten. ‘She was the gamekeeper’s lover. What I believe — what I’d give my right hand not to believe — is that Lady Chatterley was born again under a different guise. As Lady Searle. But which came first, Tessa? That’s the point. Lady Chatterley’s lover or Lady Searle’s? And which was the imitation of which? Of course, Lady Chatterley was earlier in time, but she couldn’t have existed for you until you read the words. Then she became alive. Did you live her life from then — or were you already living a similar life?’
Amelia kicked my ankle. If she thought I was enjoying this, then she had me all wrong. I was hating it.
Tessa was staring at me blankly, the life draining from her face, the flesh sagging, and the years poured over her as I watched, until she clasped her hands to her face, and her whole body vibrated with her weeping, the bed with it.
I stared at her, helpless. Amelia said quite sharply, ‘How dared you, Richard? I’ll never forgive you.’
I had dared because I’d had to. The story was dead; Lady Searle’s gamekeeper was dead. But she had been living a fantasy, lost in it. Now I had forced her into admitting, to herself, that it had been real, and her mind had tracked back to the reality. I had lost her. What might have been a distortion of disgust on her face, might just as well have been a distorted smile, a reminiscent smile. And in her eyes there was nothing. Amelia whispered, ‘Please...’
I levered myself from the bed. Almost possessively, I took the book in my hands and turned away. We left the room, closing the door quietly behind us. I had no way of knowing whether I had left behind a tangle of misery or a gradually unwinding release from the past.
15
Mary turned from the window as I closed her door behind us. ‘Well?’
It was a demand, quite out of character for our mild and undemonstrative Mary. I shrugged.
‘I think we’ve unearthed some of the truth. Perhaps not all of it.’
Then she was herself again. ‘Can’t we go home, Richard? Amelia, I hate it here.’
Amelia went to her. ‘Oh, surely not. Jennie’s here. You don’t want to leave, not yet, anyway.’
‘The memories...’ She made a gesture that embraced them, and gave a grimace rejecting them.
‘And I find I’ve still got to trespass amongst them,’ I admitted, somewhat ruefully.
‘Now, Richard...’ Amelia was upset.
I was leaving a trail of misery behind me, and saw even more ahead. ‘We now know about Tessa and your brother, Mary,’ I told her. I tried to dismiss this knowledge as something quite paltry. ‘But I think there’s more to it, still. And I believe you’re the one who knows it.’
‘I don’t think I want to talk about it,’ Mary said, turning away and barely breathing it.
I shrugged. ‘You know how it is — a trouble shared is a trouble halved.’
‘And you know — that isn’t so. It’s a stupid old saying. It isn’t halved, it’s doubled.’
‘But...’ Amelia was hesitant, darting glances from Mary’s worried face to mine, which was equally concerned, I’ve no doubt. ‘But if there’s a trouble, Mary...’ It was Mary whom Amelia wanted to help. But to me it seemed that so many other people were involved.
Mary made no reply. She seemed to find something of interest, out beyond the window.
‘Did you know about Tessa’s affair with your brother, Mary?’ I asked, quite casually, once more perching myself on the bed.
‘Oh no. Of course not. Not at the time. Of course not.’ She’d turned to say this, but now returned her attention to the outside scene. ‘Joe’s here. That’s his car.’
It seemed she was about to use this as an excuse to get out of her room and down to him and Jennie — away from me.
‘He’ll want to be alone with Jennie,’ I said. ‘And she with him.’
‘Of course.’ She smiled a slight admonition to herself.
‘So now’s the time for a good old chat,’ I assured her. ‘While we’re alone.’
‘Chat?’ asked Mary cautiously.
‘About yourself, and about Sir Rowland Searle.’
‘No!’ said Amelia flatly.
‘If you think not, love,’ I said equably. ‘But I thought...talk it through and get it out of the way.’
‘Out of the way?’ Mary was confused.
‘Before Phillips gets on to it,’ I explained.
Mary frowned. The name hadn’t registered. Amelia made a gesture. It seemed to be an angry one.
‘Before the Chief Inspe
ctor starts digging deeper,’ I amplified. ‘I mean, he’ll have all the physical details at his fingertips by now. All the clues and the circumstances. So he’ll be nosing around for possible motives.’
‘Motives!’ Amelia was becoming agitated. ‘Are you talking about Mary’s motives?’ There was a warning note in her voice. ‘I’ve never heard anything so fantastic in my life.’
‘Oh, come on, love. Nobody’s even considering Mary. This is a man’s crime. No...I meant, Mary’s probably the key to it. What Mary knows.’
‘But I know nothing!’ It was a desperate appeal.
‘It goes back quite a long way, you know. Not just what happened yesterday, or a month back...a year. I think it goes right back to your affair with Rowland, Mary. As far back as that.’
Mary tried a light laugh, rejecting such fantasies. ‘Really, Richard!’
‘I’m serious, Mary, believe me. And I want to peep into your memory.’
‘Oh...really? What can I hope to remember that could be that much help to anybody?’
‘Your affair with Rowland. You were very young, Mary. A girl. A servant girl. An attractive girl, I’ve no doubt at all, judging by Jennie.’
Amelia was moving around restlessly. She knew me, knew I didn’t pry into personal matters unless I had to. I didn’t think she fully realised, though, what it was costing me. It had to be done with a smile, that was the trouble, with a casual air that dismissed any suggestion that the discussion could be deadly serious. And now I felt that a smile might be physically painful. I dared not catch Amelia’s eye; dared not even glance at a mirror, fearing what I might see.
There had been an extended pause, but Mary’s attention had not wandered from my face for a second. Now she decided on her attitude; she would be lightly dismissive.
‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘I was young and silly, and Rowland...I can see him now. Looking back — I can realise he wasn’t what you’d call a self-confident man. It was all on the surface. Poor Rowland. Rowley, he told me I must call him. But that was later, much later, when we sort of knew each other better.’
And Amelia, bless her, decided she must help me. ‘I bet he was terribly handsome.’
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