‘I do not often read the papers,’ said Mr Utamaro.
‘I sometimes think of giving it up,’ Miss Rohan said. ‘Almost everything one reads in it is disagreeable. But there is still this one item that sustains me.’
‘And that is?’
‘The date at the top of the front page.’
She took a short step towards him and spoke on a lower note.
‘I was sitting in the garden just now,’ she said, ‘reading the paper as a matter of fact, and do you know what happened?’
‘Something that surprised you.’
Mr Utamaro looked at her. His tangled eyebrows knitted in a glance of fierce penetration.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘something that surprised me. I shall never get used to such behaviour. It oughtn’t to exist.’
‘It does exist.’
‘But, only imagine, that girl, Miss Mills, Flaveen. She was leaning out of a window on the second floor, and –’
She paused. And when she went on made an effort to control the vehemence.
‘– and she blew one of those nasty tweeter things at me, the green one Mr Manvers gave her last night.’
‘Indeed,’ said Mr Utamaro.
‘Oh, I know, I oughtn’t to object. You will tell me it was only youthful high spirits. But I do object. I hate it. Say what you like, it is nasty and vulgar, and there it is.’
‘She has different manners from you,’ said Mr Utamaro. ‘But you know from your own experience she has a great deal of kindness in her make-up.’
‘Oh, yes, I know that. And don’t think I am trying to deny it. She is a kind, and even a simple-hearted, girl underneath. I grant you that. I suppose you will say that for that reason I ought to like her. But I don’t. And I can’t bring myself to. Her whole manner – everything she says and does – is alien to me. We were brought up poles apart. And whatever happens, poles apart we remain.’
And suddenly Gerry was leaning over the banisters above them.
‘Caught you in the corner,’ he said.
Miss Rohan said nothing. A toss of her head and quick steps past Gerry up the stairs and away.
‘Oh, oh,’ said Gerry. ‘In the doghouse again.’
He ran down the last few steps of the stairs, swung round the newel post and confronted Mr Utamaro.
‘I can’t help it,’ he said. ‘I’ve only got to see her, and I feel like making a raspberry. And she always reacts so beautifully. That’s what gets me.’
He tossed his head and took six or seven steps back up the stairs in a parody of Miss Rohan’s walk.
Then he turned and came down to Mr Utamaro.
‘Is that clock right by any chance?’ he said.
‘The hands point to the correct time,’ Mr Utamaro said. ‘But it doesn’t matter.’
Gerry shook his head sadly.
‘It may not matter to you, old cock, but time is vital to us businessmen. Never lose a minute. That’s my motto.’
‘When you can’t think of anything else to say,’ said Mr Utamaro, ‘you ask what the time is. Everybody does it. But you must learn not to be afraid of having nothing to say. There is very little that has to be said.’
Gerry’s face took on an expression of deep seriousness.
‘You’re perfectly right,’ he said. ‘That’s what is wrong with me. Idle chatter. I mean to ask you one thing, and I ask you something else. Sheer frivolity. Utterly disgusting. I didn’t want to know the time at all. I wanted to know if you had seen my wife. That’s no lady, that’s my wife.’
‘No,’ said Mr Utamaro. ‘I have not seen her. Did you want her urgently? I was just going to take a walk round the gardens. Major Francis told me it was important to do what he called “beating the bounds” once a day. I will look out for your wife as I do it.’
‘Don’t bother, don’t put yourself out, don’t go to any trouble just for unworthy me,’ said Gerry. ‘I just wondered if you happened to know where she was. Felt like a nice old heart to heart. Which way were you going?’
‘I will go up to the far end of the grounds first, if you like,’ said Mr Utamaro. ‘To that spinney you can see from the big lawn. The garden stretches as far as that. Then if you go down the drive towards the village we are bound to see her if she is in the grounds.’
‘Man the pumps,’ said Gerry. ‘All hands to the fo’c’sle. Belay there. And if you do find her, don’t try to engage her in frivolous conversation. I know you, that’s just the sort of thing you would do. I have a feeling she’s in a bit of a tigerish mood. So if you find your head bitten off, don’t be surprised.’
‘I will go then,’ said Mr Utamaro. ‘The sun is out. It will be pleasant.’
They walked together to the wide front door. Gerry set off down the drive and Mr Utamaro went round the corner of the house to the cedar lawn. As he got to the corner he turned and called back to Gerry.
‘Here is something to think about,’ he shouted. ‘What is the smell of your trick flower?’
Gerry had looked round when he heard Mr Utamaro’s voice. Now he put his hand to the empty buttonhole in his lapel.
‘What did you say?’ he called back.
‘What is the smell of a paper flower?’ said Mr Utamaro.
‘I don’t know,’ said Gerry. ‘It broke and I threw it away.’
‘That is a good answer,’ shouted Mr Utamaro.
He turned on his heel and set off across the lawn.
The sky was a soft light blue and the clouds lolloping across it were small and puffy and entirely white. At the far side of the lawn from the house there was a pergola in a moderate state of repair. Mr Utamaro went through it and into the kitchen garden. The big beds were mostly empty; the brown earth, recently turned by a cultivating machine, was weed free. One large patch still supported a number of cabbages battered by the length of the winter. Where one of them had been cut shoots of new green caught the sunlight. A straight path made of cinders went through the vegetable garden from end to end. Mr Utamaro walked along it with powerful strides. At the end he came to a thick beech hedge still keeping its crisp bronze leaves. Mr Utamaro opened the gate at the end of the cinder path and stepped into a big orchard. It consisted mostly of apple, pear and plum trees. Only the pears were showing any sign of blossom, but a single row of cherries along one border of the orchard was in full bloom, dazzlingly white, harder in tone than the clouds in the soft blue sky but as dense in mass.
For one minute Mr Utamaro stood looking at them. Then he briskly resumed his walk.
The orchard was bounded on the far side by a yew hedge, tall, massively dark green, and thick. The path went through an arch in it. When Mr Utamaro had passed this he found himself in a piece of rough pasture which had been left untended at least all the previous summer. The grass had long since dried to desiccated brown stalks and had been soaked by a winter’s rain and battered to a tangle by the wind. The path could scarcely be made out. Mr Utamaro picked his way carefully along it, stepping over giant thistles blown down across the faint track and striding over patches of swampy puddles.
After about a hundred yards the pasture began to merge into the spinney which could be seen from the lawn under the cedar of Lebanon. This consisted of scrubby birch trees leading up to a clump of seven pines.
Mr Utamaro followed the path right into the spinney. Under the pines he saw an old summer house in the rustic style. The bark was peeling from the wood and a sharp smell of rotting came to his nostrils.
Through a gap where one of the planks was missing he saw a patch of vivid orange.
He stopped walking and stood still.
‘Mrs Manvers,’ he called. ‘Mrs Manvers, your husband was looking for you.’
The orange stuff of Honor’s blouse moved, but she said nothing.
Mr Utamaro went forward and entered the summer house. Honor was sitting on a small bench that ran across the back of the hut. Mr Utamaro bowed and sat down beside her.
‘I left your husband about ten minutes ago,’ he said. ‘He
asked me if I had seen you and, as he appeared a little anxious to find you, I said I would look for you as I walked through the grounds. Major Francis asked me to inspect them every day, but yesterday I forgot.’
Honor looked at him.
‘Gerry seemed anxious to find me?’ she said.
‘Yes, I thought so.’
Honor laughed.
A bark.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘it’s certainly a change for him to be wanting me. It’s generally only when he needs money that he’s anxious to see me. I earn a good deal more than him. I forget whether I toid you that.’
‘You did,’ said Mr Utamaro.
‘Yes, I expect I did. I believe in telling people the truth about us. I believe in telling the truth, you know.’
‘I have heard you say so.’
‘I do.’
She took hold of his arm. Thin fingers gripping tight.
‘That’s my creed, you know,’ she said. ‘Telling the truth. Telling my truth, and everybody’s else’s. Bringing things to light. That’s what I believe in. That’s what keeps me going.’
She laughed again. A longer laugh.
‘Do you think that’s a good enough creed?’ she said.
‘No,’ said Mr Utamaro.
‘No, I didn’t think you would.’
‘No creed is a good enough creed. When we start living to a creed we are forcing our minds into a strait -jacket.’
‘But as creeds go,’ said Honor, ‘mine has got a bit to be said for it, hasn’t it?’
‘No,’ said Mr Utamaro. ‘One is as bad as another.’
‘So it doesn’t matter if I abandon my creed,’ said Honor.
‘You must abandon it.’
‘And it doesn’t matter if I’m left without a reason for living?’
‘To be without a reason for living is the only reason for living.’
‘So helpful,’ Honor said.
A jet of venom.
‘It is only words,’ said Mr Utamaro. ‘They cannot be helpful, but sometimes one tries them.’
Honor sat without speaking. From time to time she glanced at Mr Utamaro. He sat impassively, absolutely motionless. But active. Thought concentrated by a burning glass.
After eight minutes Gerry’s voice could be heard shouting.
‘Mr Utamaro. Mr Utamaro.’
Getting nearer.
‘Mr Utamaro. Utey. Utey.’
Mr Utamaro said nothing.
Honor stirred, half got up to go, slumped back again.
‘Bloody countryside,’ came Gerry’s voice quite close to them.
‘Manvers, your wife is here,’ said Mr Utamaro.
Gerry yelped.
‘For heaven’s sake,’ he said, ‘you don’t want to go doing that. I’ve got nerves.’
He came round the summer house and stood in the doorway. He looked at Honor.
‘You two were very quiet,’ he said.’ Spot of dodgy canoodling, or what?’
‘Gerry, you’re disgusting,’ said Honor.
‘Here,’ said Gerry, ‘I want to talk to you. Come on.’
Honor looked surprised.
‘You want to talk to me?’ she said. ‘What about?’
‘Family matters,’ said Gerry.
A touch of insolence.
‘Then I will leave you,’ said Mr Utamaro.
‘I must apologize for this boor,’ Honor said.
Mr Utamaro brushing through the undergrowth of the spinney, tracing the path through the tangled grass of the pasture. Walking without haste but with speed through the orchard and the kitchen garden.
The garden overshaded now by a fat black cloud. No sun. The freshness of the new green shoots lost in the dimmer light. Heavy raindrops striking the already moist earth of the vegetable beds, refilling the cups of the old cabbage leaves. A drop struck Mr Utamaro on his shaven head near the left ear. He walked on.
A puff of breeze stirred the brittle leaves of the beech hedge. The rain holding off. And a sudden downpour.
The cloud bucket sharply reversed.
The turned earth battered into mud, the wet grass flattened into the soft ground, the cherry blossom knocked from the branches.
Mr Utamaro ran back and took shelter in the arch of the high yew hedge, but before he got there his cotton kimono was soaked.
In two minutes the shower was over. The fat black cloud moved away. The smell of damp vegetation.
Mr Utamaro continued his patrol of the grounds with his kimono gently steaming. In northern Norway Major Francis tramped over some snow.
*
‘Well,’ said Miss Rohan, ‘we seem to be a reduced party.’
Sitting in the common room after lunch. Mr Utamaro, his feet still generously muddy from his walk, the two tufts of black hair on either side of his head only just bristling up after their wetting and his kimono still dull with dampness, Alasdair Stuart, Jim Henderson, the Rev. Cyprian Applecheek. Miss Rohan, neat hair unvarying, neat suit, bright shoes which had lost the traces of wet at the toes – pouring instant coffee.
Mr Applecheek after a pause replied to her.
‘I would have welcomed the absence of the others at luncheon,’ he said, ‘only the food did not merit a second helping.’
Another silence.
Single sentences dropping into the afternoon torpor. Acorns from an oak.
‘Here comes someone, anyhow,’ said Alasdair. ‘Bit slack if you ask me, missing a meal and not saying a word.’
The sound of footsteps on the bare boards of the corridor outside. Magnified, echoing.
The door opened and Honor came in.
‘Hello, everybody,’ she said. ‘I wondered where you all were. I’m back in the civilized world now. Sorry I skipped lunch. Suddenly I felt I had to get away for a quiet think.’
She smiled at Mr Utamaro.
‘This Zen must be getting me worried,’ she said.
The door opened again and Gerry came in.
‘See,’ he said, ‘I brought back the wandering sheep. She had to file a story. We went down to the village.’
Nobody spoke. A disparity noticed.
‘Perhaps the efficacy of Zen has been a little overrated,’ Mr Applecheek said.
A gleam in his eyes.
‘Have I said something wrong?’ said Gerry,
‘Not necessarily,’ Mr Applecheek replied. ‘It may have been your good wife. She seemed to imply that she had left us for less mundane purposes, less mundane indeed.’
‘She’s a snob, you know,’ said Gerry. ‘Doesn’t like it to be thought she works for a living. Likes to give out an air of having a husband to support her.’
Smooth. Easy.
‘But the hard fact is she had to get on to her editor to let him know what to expect about this balloon story. I think he thought she wouldn’t do it.’
‘And will you do it, Mrs Manvers?’ asked Alasdair.
‘I certainly told the editor I would just now,’ Honor said.
Jim Henderson slammed his book shut.
‘You didn’t see Flaveen?’ he said.
‘Flaveen, no,’ said Gerry. ‘Where is she?’
‘That’s what I’ve been wondering,’ Jim said. ‘She didn’t come in for lunch.’
‘There could be many reasons for that,’ said Miss Rohan.
And a silence.
‘I can’t think of that many,’ said Jim.
He walked quickly across to the door and out
Nobody spoke.
An inexplicable uneasiness.
‘I expect she has a headache,’ said Miss Rohan.
‘I must try to remember that she missed a meal,’ Mr Utamaro said.’ I think Major Francis wanted me to make a note of any meals that were not eaten. He left me a typed sheet of instructions and I seem to remember that that was one of them.’
A pause.
‘You’ve lost your instructions?’ said Mr Applecheek.
‘I do not recall seeing them since Major Francis left,’ Mr Utamaro said.
‘Mr Henderson seems to be making a very thorough search,’ said Miss Rohan.’ He seemed to be a little…’
She abandoned the remark.
‘Did you say Major Francis was in Norway?’ Alasdair said.
‘There must be a lot to do on the administrative side,’ Miss Rohan said.
Each glancing at the other, ready to stop speaking but carrying on.
Unwillingness to create a silence.
‘I am not a born admin—’ Mr Utamaro began.
The sound of heavy steps running along the corridor towards them.
They all sat listening.
Miss Rohan stood up.
The door was pushed open.
Jim Henderson.
A blank face.
‘Flaveen,’ he said. ‘Flaveen.’
The two words forced out.
Mr Utamaro got up and moved across the room to him. Swiftly, silently.
Miss Rohan stood stock still. The others looked up at him. Waiting to hear something of importance. Something grave.
Mr Utamaro touched Jim lightly on the elbow.
‘I’ve found Flaveen,’ Jim said. ‘She’s dead.’
Chapter 11
‘Dead?’ said Miss Rohan.
A touch of sharpness.
‘What do you mean, dead? Has she been ill? Are you sure? Where is she?’
She glanced at her watch, and stood waiting for an answer.
Jim wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket and for a moment let the thick cloth blot out the light from his eyes.
‘She wasn’t ill,’ he said. ‘You don’t understand.’
He swayed slightly backwards and forwards.
Mr Utamaro guided him deftly to a chair. He leant over him for an instant and then said:
‘Now, tell me where she is. We don’t need to know any more.’
Jim looked up at him. Totally pale. Eyes slowly blinking.
‘In the meditation hall,’ he said.
A whisper.
‘All right,’ said Mr Utamaro. ‘Now, Miss Rohan, will you stay here and look after Mr Henderson? And Mr Stuart will you come with me?’
‘You’re sure you don’t want me?’ said Miss Rohan.
‘I will come for you if it is necessary,’ Mr Utamaro said.
Zen there was Murder Page 11