Death Of A Hollow Man (31 page)

Nicholas leaned back on a raspberry satin sofa seamed and scalloped like a great shell and drank deeply of his aperitif. He loved Tim and Avery’s sitting room. It was an extraordinary mixture of downy delights such as the sofa and austere pieces of donnish severity like Tim’s Oscar Woollen armchair, two low black glass Italian tables, and a stunning heavy bronze helmet lying on its side near the bookshelves. He said, “What’s on the menu today, Avery?”

“Satay.”

“I thought that was a method of doing yourself in.” Nicholas slithered about on the shiny cushions. “Whoops! Can I have some more of this marvelous wine, Tim?”

“No. You’re already all over the place. And there’s some Tignanello with the meat.”

“Shame!” cried Nicholas. Then: “Did you see Joycey’s daughter on the first night? Wasn’t she the most breathtaking thing?”

“Very lovely,” said Tim.

“Those legs … and that long neck … and eyelashes … and those spectacular bones …”

“Well, you may not be the most sober person in the room, Nicholas,” said Avery. “But my God you know how to take an inventory.”

“Will you come and see me in my end-of-term shows?”

“How the boy leaps about.”

“If asked,” said Tim.

“Maybe in my last year I shall win the Gielgud medal?”

“Nicholas, you really must at least pretend to be a bit more modest, otherwise the rest of the students will positively loathe you.” Avery turned his attention back to his cooking. He frazzled the pork a little, sipped some more wine, checked the soup, and peeped at his little sugar baskets with iced cherries keeping cool in the larder. Then he took hot brown twists of bread from the oven, poured the soup into a warm tureen, and tuned once more into the conversation.

Nicholas was saying that he would come back and see them in the holidays. Personally Avery believed that once the lad hit the smoke, neither of them would see or hear from him again. He called, “From me to you,” and took in the tureen, the bread, and an earthenware bowl of Greek yogurt and sour cream. The talk was still of the theater.

“I don’t know whether to stay on for
Vanya
or shoot off now,” Nicholas was saying.

‘‘You won’t start at Central for months,” said Tim. ‘‘But I could get some sort of job and see all the plays and join a movement class or something.”

‘‘There are three marvelous parts in it,” continued Tim. ‘‘And now that Esslyn’s gone, you could take your pick.”

“Mmm.” Nicholas spooned in some more soup. “This isn’t very tomatoey, Avery.”

“Miss Ungrateful,” retorted his host. “Still, if your taste buds are punch-drunk on monosodium glutamate, what can one expect?”

“I don’t know the play,” said Nicholas. “What’s it like?”

“Twice as long as
Little Eyolf
but without the laughs,” said Avery. “And the tap routines.”

“It’s wonderful. A Russian classic.”

“I don’t think I fancy being directed by Harold in a Russian classic. He’ll have us all swinging from the samovars. I think I’ll go.”

“You may not be allowed to go,” said Tim, “while the investigation’s still going on.”

“Blimey.” Nicholas scraped his bowl clean and held it out for more. “I hadn’t thought of that. I suppose we’re all under suspicion. Present company excepted.”

“We’ve guessed and guessed at the possible culprit,” said Avery, wielding the ladle. “You don’t deserve this— but answer came there none.”

“The present odds-on favorite is the Everards.”

“Don’t talk to me about the Everards,” said Nicholas, tenderly touching his swollen nose.

“That was wicked of Tom to tell you,” said Tim. “I didn’t think the police did that sort of thing. I thought statements were in confidence.”

“What have they got?” asked Avery.

“A black eye each and one cut lip.”

“Don’t swagger, Nicholas.”

“He asked me! Anyway—why are they on top of the list? They were the court toadies.”

“Nasty position, court toady,” said Avery, passing the still-warm twists. “You must get to hate the person you’re sucking up to.”

“Not necessarily,” said Nicholas. “Weak people often respect those much stronger than themselves. They feel safe getting carried along on their coattails.”

“You surely don’t see the Everards as weak, Nico?” said Tim.

“Well … yes … don’t you?”

“Not at all.”

“I can see him wanting to get rid of
them,”
continued Nicholas, “nasty little parasites. But not vice versa. I still favor Kitty.”

“What about Harold?” suggested Avery.

“Of course, along with everybody else, I’d just love it to be Harold. In fact, apart from him having neither motive nor opportunity, I see Harold as the perfect candidate.” Nicholas slurped his last spoonful. “This soup really grows on you, Avery.”

“Well, you’re not having any more,” cried Avery, bearing away the empties, “or you’ll have no room for the nice bits.”

Avery scraped the sauce, smelling of butter and peanuts, into a boat, and took his shallow Chinese dishes from the oven. He loved using these. They had a shaggy bronze crysanthemum painted on the bottom and small blue-green Oriental figures touched with gold around the sides going about their business in a world of tiny trees and short, square white rivers, tightly corrugated, like milky squibs. Avery got such pleasure from causing all this exquisite artificiality to vanish then, as he supped, gradually exposing it again. They were the only things in the kitchen that never went into the dishwasher, and only Avery was allowed to clean them. They had been an anniversary present from Tim bought during a holiday at Redruth, and so doubly treasured. Now, he brought the bowls with their curls of crispy pork and scurried round the table, placing them before the others.

Tim said, “I do wish you wouldn’t romp,” and Nicholas sniffed and murmured, “Aahhh … gravy mix.” Avery bowed his head for a moment more in relief over a job well done than in thanks for benisons received, and they all dug in. Avery passed the sauce to Nicholas, lifting it high over the candle flames.

“There’s no need to elevate it,” said Tim. “It’s not the host.”

The Tignanello was opened and poured, and Tim lifted his glass. “To Nicholas. And Central.”

“Oh, yes …” Avery toasted Nicholas, who grinned a little awkwardly. “R. and F. before you’re twenty-five, or I shall want to know the reason why. And don’t forget— we believed in you first.”

“I won’t.” Nicholas gave a slightly drunken smile. “And I’m so grateful for everything. The room … your friendship … everything …”

“Don’t be grateful,” said Tim. “Just send seats in the front row of the dress circle for all your first nights.”

“Do you think then … the gods will reward me by answering my prayers?” The heavy attempt at sarcasm was only partially successful. Nicholas’s voice trembled.

“Nico—you’re so naive.” Tim smiled. “That’s the way the gods punish us—by answering our prayers.”

“Oh, my—it’s not going to be one of your world-weary evenings is it? I don’t think I could stand that.”

But Avery’s response was jocular, and he appeared the picture of contentment. He beamed, and his little blue eyes twinkled. He started to relax. He had been tiptoeing about very carefully all day, because his morning horoscope, though fairly positive on the whole, had ended, “There may be friction in the home, however.” But surely, reasoned Avery, by nine-thirty any respectable bird of ill omen must be safely tucked up in its nest, reading the runes for the following day.

“Is it all right?” he asked, mock-anxious.

“My love—it’s absolutely marvelous.” Tim reached out, and his slim El Greco fingers rested briefly, lightly on Avery’s arm. Avery’s face burned with the intensity of his pleasure, and his heart pounded. Tim
never
used an endearment or touched him when other people were present, and Avery had quickly learned that he must behave with the same propriety. Of course, it was only Nico but even so …

Avery breathed slowly and deeply, experiencing the spicy scents of the meat, the delicate fragrance of the jasmine in its hooped basket, the aroma of the wine, and the slightly acrid drip of the candles not just briefly in the membranes of his nose but pervasively, as if they had been injected into his bloodstream and were spreading languorously through his body. He broke a piece of bread and popped it into his mouth, and it was like the bread of angels.

The phone rang. Everyone groaned. Avery, who was nearest, pushed back his chair and, carrying his glass, went to answer it.

“Hullo? … Oh, hullo, darling.”

“Who is it?” Tim mouthed, silently.

Avery pressed the secrecy button. “The Wicked Witch of the West.”

“My condolences.”

“Tim sends his love, Rosa.”

“And mine.”

“And Nicholas. We’ve been having the most divine— Oh, all right. I’ll be quiet. There’s no need to be rude. One must go through these opening civilities, otherwise one might just as well take to the hills … Shut up yourself, if it comes to that.” He switched again. “Evil-tempered old crone.”

The two men at the table exchanged glances. Tim’s faintly humorous, rather resigned. Nicholas’s wry, even a touch patronizing. A look that would never have graced his features when their friendship had first begun. They turned their attention back to Avery, whose face was avidity personified. His soft lips, delicately tinted toffee brown from the satay, were pushed forward into a thrilled marshmallow
O.

“My dear!” he cried. “But didn’t we always say? Well, I certainly always said … Are you sure? Well, that clinches it then … Of course I will … and
you
keep
me
posted.” He hung up, took a deep swallow of his wine, and hurried back to the table. Bursting with information, he looked from Tim to Nicholas and back again. “You’ll never guess.”

“If there are three more interesting words in the English language,” said Tim, “I’ve yet to hear them.”

“Oh, come on,” Nicholas said, rather slurrily, “what she say?”

“The police have arrested David Smy.”

Avery sat back more than satisfied with the effect of his pronouncement. Nicholas gaped foolishly in disbelief. Tim’s face, golden and ivory in the candle’s flame, became bleached; white and gray. “How does she know?”

“Saw him. She was going to the library when a police car drew up outside the station and two cops marched him inside.”

“Did he have a blanket over his head?”

“Don’t be so bloody silly, Nicholas. How on earth could she have known it was David if he’d had a blanket over his head?”

“Only they do,” persisted Nicholas with stolid determination. “If they’re guilty.”

“Well, really. Sometimes I think your thought processes should be in a medical mysteries museum.”

“Leave the boy alone.” Tim’s voice laid a great chill over the lately so festive company. “He’s had too much to drink.”

“Oh … yes … sorry.” Avery picked up his glass, then nervously put it down again. His exhilaration was draining away fast. Almost as he entertained this thought, the last couple of wisps evaporated. He looked across at Tim, who was not looking at him, Avery, but through him, as if he didn’t exist. Avery looked down at the glistening puddle of peanut sauce, picked up his spoon, which clattered against the gilded rim of the bowl, and tasted a little. It was nearly cold. “Shall I warm this up Tim … do you think? Or bring in the pudding?”

Tim did not reply. He had withdrawn into himself as he occasionally did in a way that Avery dreaded. He knew Tim didn’t mean this behavior as any sort of punishment. The action was so undeliberate as to appear almost involuntary, yet Avery inevitably felt responsible. He turned to their guest. “Are you ready for some pudding, Nico?”

Nicholas smiled briefly and shrugged. He looked a little sulky and deeply abashed, as if guilty of some social misdemeanor. Yet, Avery thought, it is I who have committed the solecism. How unpleasant now, how
crass,
his reception of Rosa’s news appeared. With what salacious relish had he rushed to the table to relay the information, as if it were some edible goody he couldn’t wait to share. If he had stopped to think, even for a moment, he must have behaved differently. After all, this was a friend they were talking about. They all liked David and his kind, unhurried ways. And now he might be going to prison. For years. No wonder Tim, extremely fastidious at the best of times, had removed his attention from such a lubricious, blubbering display.

“Well …” he said, forcing cheeriness into his voice, “it doesn’t do to get depressed. Okay, Rosa saw him going in … what does that mean? He might have just been asked to help clear up one or two points. Help them with their inquiries.” Avery wished he hadn’t said that. He was sure he’d read somewhere that was the official way of announcing that the police had got the guilty party but weren’t legally supposed to say so. “Just because he was the man in the lighting box doesn’t mean … well … what else have they got to go on, after all?” (Only that he had ample opportunity. Only that he was the man who took the razor on. Only that his mistress was now a rich widow.) Tim was getting up.

“What … what’s happening?” said Avery. “We haven’t finished.”

“I’ve finished.”

“Oh, but you must have some cherries, Tim! You know how you love them. I made them especially. In little sugar baskets.”

“Sorry.”

I could kill Rosa, thought Avery. Malicious, scandal-mongering, interfering old bitch! If it weren’t for her, this would never have happened. And we were having such a lovely time. Tears of disappointment and frustration sprang to his eyes. When they cleared, Tim, wearing his overcoat and Borsalino hat, was at the sitting room door. Avery leaped to his feet.

“Where are you going?”

“Just out.”

“But
where
, Tim?” Avery hurried across and hung on Tim’s arm. His voice trembled as he continued, “You must tell me!”

“I’ve got to go to the station.”

“… the … the police station?” When Tim nodded, Avery cried, “What on earth for?”

But even as he asked, Avery’s heart was squeezed with the terrible cold foreknowledge of what would be Tim’s reply.

“Because,” said Tim, gently removing Avery’s hand from his sleeve, “I was the man in the lighting box.”