‘One moment,’ he said.
‘Yes?’
‘Just before you go in there I’ve something I want to say.’
‘Yes?’
‘About the sword.’
‘The sword,’ said Mr Utamaro.
Alasdair searched for words.
‘I’m afraid I let that woman persuade me to leave the matter to her against my better judgement,’ he said. ‘To tell you the truth I don’t much like the police not knowing about it.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’ve been asking myself why the sword was stolen. That’s the key question, you know. And I can see no reason that I much like why any one of them should have wanted it.’
‘It is not a likable thing to steal.’
‘Perhaps not. But look at it this way. An object like the sword is not going to be very easily converted into money – especially by anybody not in touch with criminal circles.’
‘Yes, I had thought that the theft was probably not for money. But people sometimes act before they think. I even advise them to do it.’
Mr Utamaro gave a deep bark of laughter.
‘All right,’ said Alasdair, ‘but had you thought what the theft was for, if it wasn’t for gain?’
His voice sharp after the deep gurgle of Mr Utamaro’s laugh.
‘There are many reasons,’ Mr Utamaro said. ‘The mind tangled in the dualism of logic is capable of the utmost illogicality.’
‘That’s all very well, but I tell you I can only think of one reason, one very nasty reason. And if I’m right, we oughtn’t to be messing about like this. We ought to be getting the police.’
‘Perhaps messing about like this will be more efficacious than the police,’ Mr Utamaro said. ‘The theft may not be a matter for police procedure.’
‘You don’t want to fetch them in,’ said Alasdair. ‘And I think I can guess why. If this is made a police matter the news of the theft will eventually come to the ears of the warden and you don’t want that to happen.’
‘It would be much better if the sword was in its case when Major Francis returns,’ said Mr Utamaro. ‘That is why there may not be time enough for the police.’
‘All right,’ said Alasdair. ‘But I’m warning you. The only reason I can think of for someone stealing the sword is because it is sharp. I can’t stay silent for ever.’
Mr Utamaro turned and opened the double doors.
The meditators had a less formal look than when Alasdair had left them. Gerry had taken his chair and put it behind Flaveen’s. He sat on it back to front and was swinging his squirt flower by its rubber tube above her pale red hair. Flaveen was looking rather hot. She was sitting turned slightly away from Gerry with her arms folded defensively. Honor, sitting opposite her, was looking at her husband steadily. Her legs were crossed in a casual attitude, but her left hand was gripping hard on to the edge of her chair seat.
Mr Applecheek had, like Gerry, left his place. He had wandered over to one of the clumps of books on the mostly empty shelves and was immersed in a calf-bound volume. Miss Rohan and Jim Henderson remained in their places. Both kept the attitude they had all adopted when the meditation session had begun. They sat looking straight forward with their hands resting lightly on their knees. Miss Rohan, next to Flaveen, was sitting stiffly, her face showing plain disapproval of Gerry’s attitude. Gerry occasionally swung his flower a little in her direction, but never very far. Jim’s face too was taut. He might have been deep in concentration, except that his eyes moved restlessly.
‘What is the sound of one hand clapping?’ said Mr Utamaro.
Mr Applecheek looked up from his book.
‘My dear chap,’ he said, ‘it’s extraordinary that you should say that. Here am I ostensibly plunged deep in Bigg’s Christian Platonists of Alexandria and what do I find running through my head but that absurd jingle. And now you come in and repeat it. Do tell me what it is?’
‘It is a koan,’ said Mr Utamaro.
‘A koan. Now what – Oh dear me, yes. It all comes back to me. The koan was what we were meditating about. My dear fellow, how can I apologize? What a blessing the clergy are meant to be woolly-headed.’
Gerry picked up his chair and made a great show of scuttling back to his place.
‘Miss Rohan,’ said Mr Utamaro, ‘what is the sound of one hand clapping?’
‘I – I was thinking about it,’ Miss Rohan said.
‘But I see no sweat,’ said Mr Utamaro.
He walked up to her and thrust his face towards hers. Miss Rohan moved back a little in her chair.
‘I don’t think that that will be necessary,’ she said.
Mr Utamaro looked at her gravely.
‘I do find my mind wander,’ she said. ‘I know it ought not to, but I will need some practice.’
‘Good,’ said Mr Utamaro.
He turned away.
And swung round again.
‘What is the sound of one hand clapping?’
‘But really...’ said Miss Rohan.
‘Come, what is the sound of one hand clapping? I want an answer.’
‘It’s – It’s – But I don’t know what it is.’
‘You must answer.’
‘I can’t. I really can’t. I don’t know. I don’t understand.’
The edge of tears.
‘Don’t try to understand. Answer.’
‘But how can I answer? I really don’t know.’
‘What is the sound of one hand clapping?’
Mr Utamaro stepped back a pace and looked down at Miss Rohan. His questions a rain of blows.
‘Answer,’ he said. ‘Answer. Answer now.’
Miss Rohan put out her right hand in front of her and agitated it once or twice.
‘Is it that?’she asked.
Cowed.
‘Is it?’ said Mr Utamaro. ‘Say what it is.’
‘Oh, this.’
With sudden vigour Miss Rohan raised her hand high above her head and brought it swiftly down, palm towards the floor, until she stopped it with a jerk level with her elbow.
Silence.
Mr Utamaro smiled. His eyes cheerful.
Miss Rohan continued to hold her hand out in front of her. She looked at it with a puzzled expression.
Something not seen before, a new object.
Fingers moderately stubby, with the nails cut neatly. The cuticles carefully pared. No varnish or polish. The skin a little red and shiny, with two small cuts in it. The flesh softened by regular use of hand cream. The lines across the swollen knuckles deep. On the third finger a ring. A fine gold band in the form of a snake, its tail coiled round its neck. In its open mouth a single large emerald.
‘Ooh,’ said Flaveen, ‘what a lovely ring. May I look?’
She caught hold of Miss Rohan’s hand and gazed at the ring.
The plump white fingers. The stubby reddened ones.
‘It’s lovely,’ Flaveen said. ‘Is it something special?’
‘It was an engagement ring,’ said Miss Rohan.
She snatched her hand from Flaveen’s. Then held it out again, briefly.
‘It’s ever so pretty,’ Flaveen said. ‘And you never married him?’
‘No, I never married him.’
‘He didn’t die or anything?’
‘Not until years after.’
Miss Rohan looked at Flaveen, still leaning forward to see the ring.
‘We found we couldn’t agree,’ she said. ‘He came from an old naval family, and when we had been engaged about six months he made up his mind to leave the service and farm. He said he couldn’t contemplate the long periods of separation while he was at sea.’
‘That’s lovely,’ said Flaveen. ‘Really lovely.’
She smiled.
‘Lovely?’ said Miss Rohan. ‘I didn’t think so.’
She lifted her head.
‘I still don’t think so. He had a duty to his country and a duty to his family.’
‘But if he was in lov
e?’
The pained surprise. Innocence encounters reality.
‘His duty came first,’ Miss Rohan said.
The firm line of her mouth.
‘And what happened to him in the end?’ Flaveen said.
‘He was killed in action. He left me the ring I had given him back in his will. I’ve worn it ever since.’
‘May I have another look?’ said Flaveen.
Miss Rohan held out her hand again. Steady under inspection.
‘That’s an emerald, isn’t it?’ said Flaveen.
‘Yes.’
‘And it must be terribly valuable. It’s so big.’
‘It’s a good stone. But the setting is more valuable. It was originally eastern and the ring had been in his family for several generations.’
She turned and looked up at Mr Utamaro.
‘But I’m afraid that wasn’t a very good answer to the koan,’ she said.
‘It was an unexpected answer,’ he said. ‘It was worth hearing. But there must be answering in private as well as in public. Who will come and see me next?’
He looked round.
‘Miss Mills?’
Flaveen did not answer.
‘Miss Mills?’
‘Not her, sir,’ said Gerry. ‘Please, sir, she didn’t do it, sir.’
Flaveen looked up.
‘Was it me?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ said Mr Utamaro. ‘Are you ready to come and see me?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Flaveen. ‘No, not yet.’
‘Mr Applecheek then, I think,’ said Mr Utamaro.
Mr Applecheek was sitting with his hands tightly clasped together staring into space. There was a slight flush on his lined cheeks. His eyes were unusually wide open. He looked up at the sound of his name, unclasped his hands and brought the tips of his fingers together.
‘A clergyman is always supposed to set a good example,’ he said. ‘Civic duties and so forth.’
He got slowly to his feet. The aged limbs.
‘Provided, of course,’ he added, ‘that the duties are not carried to the point of effective action.’
Mr Utamaro stood aside to let him go through the doors and closed them behind him. Together they walked along to the tall room where the two chairs faced each other on the bare floor.
Mr Utamaro ushered Mr Applecheek to the chair Alasdair Stuart had sat in and took the other himself.
‘You were talking of duties just now,’ he said.
Mr Applecheek waved his hand in a gesture of vague dismissal.
‘One has to, one has to.’
‘Mr Stuart was saying to me, as we were coming to see you just now, that he thought I was failing in my duty.’
‘Indeed? He strikes me as a person who would have very definite notions of duty. An excellent young man, an excellent young man.’
Mr Applecheek allowed his eyelids to sink down till his eyes were closed.
He opened them briefly. A glint of bright blue.
‘But tiresome,’ he said. ‘Though as a clergyman I naturally don’t say so.’
Mr Utamaro shot a finger out towards Mr Applecheek. Pointing.
‘Are you a clergyman?’ he said.
Mr Applecheek made no reply.
Mr Utamaro put both his hands on his knees and leant a little further forward. His head jutted forward, the two tufts of coarse black hair standing up with electric vitality.
He said nothing, but looked at Mr Applecheek with unwavering concentration.
A trace of a smile moved Mr Applecheek’s lips.
‘An interesting question,’ he said.
Mr Utamaro did not move. Unblinking eyes under the shaggy black eyebrows.
‘A question, indeed, that sets up a whole trail of speculation.’
No comment still from the tense figure. Dressed in a kimono, sitting on the edge of an old kitchen chair.
‘Of course,’ said Mr Applecheek, ‘in the strict sense of fact, yes, I am a clergyman. Properly ordained in the Church of England. However, that is not quite what you wanted to know, is it?’
‘No,’ said Mr Utamaro.
The bare syllable.
‘Well then, in the sense that the bishop has certain views about my capacity for parochial duties, I am not a clergyman. I admit it.’
He wagged a reproving finger.
‘But, look here, my dear chap,’ he went on, ‘I’ve no doubt that if I go on submitting to this sort of bullying I may undergo a spiritual transformation of some sort. I can see the way you are going. And I can see a great many unpleasant objects strewn along the path.’
‘Think of the goal,’ said Mr Utamaro.
‘Well, and when I do think of it, what do I see? A system totally at variance with the beliefs I have held for a lifetime.’
‘No, no,’ said Mr Utamaro. ‘I think you are misunderstanding me. Even on purpose. I think you do not want to let me get behind your guard. You have too much to hide. So you attack me. I have practised judo, you know, I understand about fighting.’
‘Now what on earth is all this about?’ said Mr Applecheek.
Mildness. Benevolence.
‘What on earth are you saying? Hiding things? What have I got to hide?’
‘A sword?’ said Mr Utamaro.
‘Oh, that sword. I had a feeling we wouldn’t go far without that sword coming to the fore. Well, this is all I have to say about the sword: it is an object which interests me when I can see it because I am interested in beautiful things.’
‘You are a collector then? ‘
‘No, not a collector. I am not interested in the possession of objects. I simply like to look at them. I am, if you like, a connoisseur.’
‘So it does not matter to you where something beautiful is so long as you can look your fill at it?’
‘I repeat. I entirely lack the collector’s instinct,’ Mr Applecheek said. ‘I am not a hoarder, not a hoarder at all. And now, my dear chap, you have utterly exhausted a very old man. I shall go and sit quietly in the common room and read the paper. A few uncomplicated facts will be refreshing – not that facts are exactly what the papers print.’
*
‘Oh, that Mr Gerry,’ said the blonde girl.
She sighed.
‘Just now I saw him outside the library,’ she said.
‘So that is why all alone I have to peel the potatoes and have no one to talk English to,’ said the dark girl.
‘You could have come and talked to Mr Gerry.’
‘Ach, nein. When he sees me it is not talking.’
‘To me he only talks,’ said the blonde one. ‘Such things he says.’
‘All lies.’
‘But so funny.’
She stroked one of her plaits as it hung in front of her.
‘At ten o’clock,’ she said, ‘Mr Utamaro is going to give a lecture on Zen and the art of flower arrangement. Mr Gerry is going to stay away. He told me so.’
‘Then I am going to the village to buy four stamps.’
‘You bought eight yesterday.’
‘I need four more.’
‘Oh, what lies. Everybody in this house tells lies all the time.’
‘If other people do not speak the truth it is necessary also to lie.’
‘You ought to say: it is necessary to lie too. In conversational English the word “also” is seldom used.’
‘I do not care. I am going to the village.’
‘There is no need to go yet. Mrs Manvers has just gone to see Mr Utamaro. She will keep him a long time. She talks such a lot, and everything she says is so exaggerated.’
‘While her husband, I suppose, says nothing and is incapable of lying.’
‘Oh, Mr Gerry. He is different. He can’t help lying. But his wife, she does it on purpose.’
*
Mr Utamaro got up when Honor came in and held out his hand for her to shake.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘have you got anywhere?’
‘We are here all the time,’ said Mr U
tamaro.
‘Here all the – Oh, I see. Zen. Look, I don’t want to be rude , but couldn’t we cut it out? There was a good deal to be said for coming in here like this to have a so-called whatsit – sanzen – but once we are alone, for goodness’ sake, let’s cut out the trimmings and get down to business. What have you found out this morning? And a straight answer, mind.’
She bumped down on the chair opposite Mr Utamaro, and immediately stood up again.
‘What have I found out?’ said Mr Utamaro.
He sat unmoving on the battered kitchen chair,
‘I have found out many things.’
‘Ah.’
Honor caught hold of her chair by its back, jerked it round until it was at right angles to Mr Utamaro and knelt on it looking down at him.
‘So you have got something to work on?’ she said. ‘I take it you don’t know who stole the sword, but tell me just exactly what you have got on to and we’ll be beginning to get somewhere. And don’t miss out a thing. Anything, anything at all, may be vital. Just tell me everything you have discovered.’
‘I have found out what I expected to find,’ Mr Utamaro said. ‘That Mr Stuart, Miss Rohan and Mr Applecheek all have something to hide.’
‘All?’
Honor slipped off her chair with an ungainly movement and stood beside it, her long fingers tapping on the top strut.
‘Surely, they can’t all three ...?’ she said. ‘It doesn’t make – No, let me think. You’re sure?’
‘Each one has something to hide,’ said Mr Utamaro. ‘But it is nothing to be surprised about. So many people have things to hide. And you, Mrs Manvers, you have a great deal to hide.’
Honor’s fingers froze to stillness on the chairback.
Chapter 6
‘A Great deal to hide?’ Honor said.
She looked down at Mr Utamaro sitting relaxedly on his hard chair.
Unwilling respect.
Then a sudden hardening of the facial muscles.
‘What nonsense,’ she said.
She gave her chair an impatient jerk.
‘I’ve got nothing to hide. I gave up hiding things years ago, years and years ago. I gave it up. You know that. You heard me yesterday. I’m always like that. All my secrets, out they come.’
‘But you still have secrets,’ said Mr Utamaro. ‘Empty handed I go and behold a spade is in my hand.’
‘Oh, no.’
Honor placed both hands over her ears. Theatrical despair.
Zen there was Murder Page 6