The Old Contemptibles (34 page)

There was a silence broken by Melrose’s suddenly saying,
“Mon amour premiere.”

Jury leaned over, looked at him closely. “What do you mean? You seem distracted.”

“Do you ever run into people, well, women, who remind you of other, well, women?”

“Yes.”

“Helen Viner. It occurred to me that women often remind one of one’s mother. Sounds damned silly.” Melrose’s laugh was embarrassed.

“Why silly? Is that the ‘first love’ you meant?”

“I don’t like my personal feelings getting mucked around in a case. For you, well, it’s even worse. The whole thing must have been godawful.” He shoved aside his pint, said, “Let’s have some wine. Chablis Contemptible. Nineteen-ninety was a good year for that. What do you say?” Melrose asked again, urging Jury. “I’m sleeping here tonight; there’s another room.”

“See Connie Fish doesn’t charge you another two quid for the private bath.”

Jury sat there, turning the letters over and over while Melrose got the wine. He also brought back two wineglasses, fairly clean.

As Melrose poured the dubiously labeled white wine, Jury thought of that first afternoon, the flight of the swallows.
“ ‘Agnosco veteris vestigia flammae.’ ”

Melrose took refuge in annoyance. “I wish you’d stop
saying
that.”

“You were spouting French, weren’t you? Anyway, I’ve only said it twice—” Jury counted on his fingers. “—in ten years.” He did not mention the third time, over two weeks ago.

“Do you
have
to say it?”

“Yes.”

Melrose looked up. “Why?”

“It’s the only Latin I know.”

The glasses clicked.

Gray light was bleeding through the cracks around the blind. Jury hadn’t realized it was morning until he took his arm from his eyes and turned his head to the window.

The bed was littered with notes, documents, letters. He hadn’t slept. He hadn’t undressed. He had read and thought and thought and read.

Now he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat staring at the floor and the pot of coffee Connie Fish had supplied him with last night. Cold dregs looked pasty in the cup.

Jury walked to the window and raised the blind. Smoke rose from the chimney pots of the few cottages in a drunken line on the other side of the narrow road down which now a drover and his boy were steering a flock of Swaledales. On the corner at the T-junction was the post-office store. And that was Boone. In the distance he could see Great Gable shrouded in vapor.

Had he felt in a better mood, he imagined he would have seen it all as bucolic, peaceful, and that range of mountains as grand.

His mood wasn’t good. He felt drained. It was strange to him how his rage at Jane had been extinguished in the course of one little day. She had used him, yes, but only in a sense. She must have suspected what had happened five years ago, and seen her own behavior as compliantly evil, though Jury saw it merely as confused and complex.

Poor Jane. She had wanted him, and only him to investigate. Had her suicide been too obvious a “murder,” there would be no way of controlling the results—and the one that concerned her most was that Alex not be hurt any more than he would already be.

Probably, she had thought he could find the evidence to prove it all. Well, he couldn’t; there was no hard evidence, not these letters, and not this painting. It was a figure without a face, and there could be no face if Fellowes hadn’t painted one in.

Alex would suffer if the truth came out.

Millie would suffer if it didn’t.

“For a psychiatrist, you seem to be in a muddle,” said Lady Cray. “It’s only nine; our appointment is for this afternoon.” Although she hated to admit it, she felt some trepidation, and couldn’t help but rake her eyes again over those rows of books.

Maurice Kingsley laced his hands behind his neck, leaned back and smiled. “I thought I’d like to see you now. Is this a problem?”

“Problem? Certainly not.” He was being a bit superior. From her black leather bag she drew the black Porsche lighter and lit her cigarette.

“Never did find mine,” said Kingsley, nodding at the lighter.

She arched an eyebrow. “It wasn’t on the bookshelf? Where you left it?” Her gaze shifted to the shelf behind him, the one that had held the letters. Might as well call his bluff. Proprietorially, she ran her index finger over the lighter, felt something on the bottom. Her glance slid to it, then straight back to the doctor. It was the first time she noticed it—a tiny gold band with the minuscule inscription
From A.
Oh, hell.

“I don’t recall leaving it there.” His eyes held hers. “I wouldn’t care that much, except it was given me by a friend. Sentimental value, you know.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I certainly
do
know. My grandson gave me mine. You know. Andrew.” She fingered the inscription.

“Ah, yes, Andrew. Your favorite person.”

“Umm.” She smoked away. Was he suppressing a smile? One had to be careful with psychiatrists. They were tricky, untrustworthy. “Well? Why did you want to see me this morning?” What, she wondered, was he up to?

“About last night—”

She shifted in her chair, kept her face expressionless.

“Does the sight of blood make you ill?” asked Kingsley, suddenly.

She stiffened. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He’d brought down his arms, was leaning over them, doodling on a pad. “You went white at the dinner table when Mr. Plant cut his hand. I thought you were going to pass out, really. What were you thinking?”

“Thinking? Nothing, really.” She laid the lighter on the desk, nearly midway between them. “Why?”

“That’s what I’m asking
you,
Lady Cray.”

The trouble was, she didn’t know. It had been more of a feeling. A feeling-thought. As if words were imprinted over a feeling, or run into it, the mortar that held the bricks together. One couldn’t separate mortar from stone or the whole structure would topple—Oh, what in hell was she doing? Calmly exhaling a thin line of smoke, she said, “You seem to be chasing some idea of your own.”

He sat back, smiled. “I am.”

Did he know? Did he know
what?
Why had she thought of those letters . . . more precisely, the ribbon that lay hidden beneath her silk scarves. She’d wanted to throw it out but felt oddly bound by it. She felt, indeed, like weeping. “Mirrors,” she said suddenly.

“Oh? Blood makes you think of mirrors?”

What she was thinking of was the mirror she’d been looking into last night over Mr. Plant’s shoulder and the doctor’s and Madeline Galloway’s reflection in it. “Were you watching?” Her voice was edgy, nervous. She didn’t like this at all.

He became very still. “Watching what?”

“Oh, nothing.” Change the subject. “My mother had a three-sided mirror. I used to stand before it and preen.” This wasn’t changing the subject. He was looking at her—
scrutinizing
would be a better word. “I dislike looking in mirrors.”

“But you used to like it, apparently.”

She laughed. “Well, I was a child, wasn’t I. So conceited. Still am. I’m a preening sort of person.”

“No, you aren’t. Just the opposite, I’d say. You’re very, very clever. Canny, shrewd. I wouldn’t want you, you know, on
my
trail.”

Oblique, she thought. Very clever himself. “My mother was quite beautiful, you see. And my father—” She stopped and swallowed.

He was looking at her in that odd way. “Go on. Your father.”

“Have you ever been married, Dr. Kingsley?”

Silence. And he seemed to be humoring her when he answered, “Yes. A long time ago.”

She glanced at the lighter. “To
A.”

Again he smiled. “Yes. To
A.”

“I’ve often wondered about Dr. Viner. Has she?”

“What? Been married?” He sat back. “No. What’s all this interest in the marital state of psychiatrists?”

“Both of you are so attractive. It seems odd that neither is married. Especially Dr. Viner.”

He started his doodling again. “And have you some fantasy going about me and Dr. Viner?”

“That would be rather—impudent.”

He laughed. “ ‘Impudence’ isn’t a word that has much coinage in psychiatry.”

She filled in her own thoughtful silence by taking out another cigarette. But she wouldn’t use the lighter; she pulled out one of her monogrammed silver matchbooks. She liked matches. Perhaps she’d been a child arsonist. Yes, she’d mention that if the conversation got unpleasant again. But that wasn’t at all what was chiefly on her mind. She said, “A number of years ago I became rather attached to an exquisitely beautiful woman. Foreign type.” She struck the match, watched the tiny flame spurt up between them, watched it die. “I don’t recall my feelings as being of a sexual nature, but the experience did lead me to question my, well, latencies, shall we say. Now, she herself was one of those exotic, European women. Mind you, nothing at all passed between us. But I know she was drawn to me physically. I don’t know
how
one knows that sort of thing.” She smoothed her skirt. “She gave me boxes and boxes of chocolates.” She smoked, looked mistily at the light spangling the tall window.

“No, she didn’t.”

“What?” She started.

“Give you boxes and boxes of chocolates.”

“And
how
do you know that?”

“It was an afterthought. You tossed it in to lend credibility to the whole story—this ‘foreign type’ of woman.” He smiled. “I know you nick chocolates. It’s apparently a real obsession. Like the ribbons—”

“Let’s not pursue that, thank you—”

“If you had been ‘enthralled’ by this ‘foreign’ lady, your description would be more precise. And you, Lady Cray, do not strike me as a person much given to ‘thralldom.’ You’re too damned smart.”

“Next you’ll be saying I’m a pathological liar, I expect.”

He laughed. “Oh, no. You’re definitely not that.”

Again, she was silent, thinking. “Several years ago I was riding on the Underground behind a young lady with her hair tied up in a ribbon. It was pale blue; I still remember. It dangled down to the top of the seat. I stared at it for some time. Then I pulled the end very, very slowly, absurdly thinking perhaps I could get it. Well, of course she felt the tug. She turned, yelled . . . rather nasty things. ‘You old
les!’
meaning, I expect, ‘lesbian.’ It was quite humiliating. Again, I wonder if one can tell—about one’s self, about others.” The thin, upward swirl of bluish smoke might have been that ribbon.

“Yes, if one’s extremely sensitive to the signals of others.”

“And was I sending out a signal?”

“To her?”

“Ah, you
believe
in this lady.”

“Yes. But you weren’t signaling her. You are me.”

“Why would I do that?”

“I’m not sure.” Kingsley was chewing on the end of his pencil. “You want to know something.”

“No. As I said, I was just wondering if some instinct could tell one of another’s . . . sexual preferences.”

“Homosexuality, you mean.”

She shrugged, letting her eyes rest on the beam of sunlight.

“Me? Is it me you’re wondering about?”

“Heavens,
no.”

“Why does blood remind you of mirrors?”

She jumped. “Good heavens, what’s
that
to do with the subject?”

He smiled. “But that
is
the subject. Much more than the chocolates. You thought I was watching you in the mirror last night.”

She didn’t answer.

He leaned forward, his head jutting over the desk. “Do you know what displacement is?”

Her eyes were fixed on the window. “I daresay I could deduce the meaning if I wanted to. Which I don’t.”

“Example: all of these ribbons of different colors. Pale blue, green, yellow, it doesn’t matter. Except for red.
That’s
the one that matters. All of the other colors actually mean nothing, but if you see red as only
one
color amongst many, then it loses some of its potency.”

He must know about the letters. She felt in some sort of dreadful danger and thought of his watching her in the mirror. But was it him? Dr. Kingsley? She tried to swallow; there was a stone in her throat. “The hour’s really up and I have to meet—”

“Sit down. Come on, Lady Cray: what does a red ribbon bring to mind?”

“Blood.” The word came out against her bidding.

“Was it really your mother’s three-sided mirror? Or is that a screen memory? You standing in front of her mirror putting ribbons in your hair? Preening? You saw blood. But where?”

She really couldn’t swallow. Her mouth opened, shut.

He waited.

She said nothing.

“What happened before your father died?”

“My
fath—”
And then she saw it. The little image pulled her from the chair. “Shaving. He was shaving and I crept up on him. Surprised him. The razor slipped and cut him—” She ran her finger from her ear down her throat. “He was furious.”

“Superficial. A purely superficial cut. How long after that did he die?”

She shook her head. Nothing came. She thought of the ribbon lying where she’d hidden it. It was no longer a treasure. It was no longer anything.

She felt a terrible sense of loss.

“It’s odd, isn’t it?” asked Kingsley. “What plagues us is what we most desire. One of those needs has to go.”

After a few more moments, she rose and hoped her dignity was still somewhat intact. After all, she was an old lady. Terrible for an old lady to be driven by the terrors of a little girl. She walked toward the door, able now to swallow. To speak. She turned. “I really think you’ve earned it.”

He raised his eyebrows. “What?”

“Although it’s of great sentimental value to me, do keep the lighter.”

She glanced at the desk where it lay and walked out.

“Faster, faster!” yelled Adam Holdsworth, arm raised like an officer commanding his troops.

Short of breath, Wiggins stopped. It was nine in the morning; Adam Holdsworth had breakfasted on scrambled eggs and four rashers of bacon, urging Wiggins to have something more than tea and toast. Wiggins was already exhausted. “But you must understand, sir, I
can’t
go faster; there’s too many twists and turns and blind hedges.” He took out his big handkerchief and wiped his face as the old man mumbled something about “sissy police.”