‘‘Fin de Siècle.” It was a man’s voice.
‘‘Is Mr. Clive Fisher there, please?’’
‘‘I don’t know, sir. I’ll just see.” After a minute Vere put on another record and turned up the volume, so that the room was bursting with the wails of a tenor saxophone. ‘‘No, sir, he’s not here yet.”
‘‘Are you expecting him?’’
‘‘Well, he’s here most nights.”
‘‘Thanks.” I hung up and stared at Vere. Then I got hold of the phone wires and pulled at them till they broke. I walked towards her. She backed away and snatched up a brass ornament. But I only put the receiver down on top of the gramophone.
When I got out in the street and into my car I found I was soaked in sweat. Perhaps being like that didn’t come natural to me after all.
Chapter Twenty Seven
The Fin de Siècle wasn’t far off Pimlico Road, an oldish Victorian house, and the only thing that made it different from the rest was a monogrammed F/S over the fanlight. When you got inside there were a couple of uniformed men to take your coat, and upstairs was the main eating part which was two rooms with a connecting corridor and a snack bar at either end.
To get in you had to be a member, but I asked for Clive Fisher and when they said he wasn’t there I said I’d an appointment with him. They asked me my name; I said Victor Moreton, so one of them took me upstairs and I sat in a corner of the dining-room and waited.
There was hardly an inch of wall in the club not hung with sketches and pastels and portraits; I wondered if some of the members paid for their meals that way. It was a quarter to eight now and the place was nearly full. There was a good bit of corduroy and dandruff about. Yet most of the members seemed to have plenty of money to spend on drink, and I guessed some of them got their livings in plebeian ways and worked off their artistic leanings after hours.
At eight o’clock a decadent looking youth sat down at the grand piano in the further room and began to pick out self-conscious tunes on it. The music came through into this room by way of a loud-speaker. At five past eight Clive Fisher came in.
They led him straight over to my corner, and half the people evidently knew him because he had to talk and joke on the way. So he was nearly at the table before he saw me and I got up to greet him. He gave a jump of surprise, and I suppose that was the moment when he could have disowned me and got me turned out. But he’d been in too many shady deals to be able to assume innocence without a second thought. And while he hesitated the attendant moved away.
I said: ‘‘I wasn’t sure what time you usually got here.”
He glanced round the room, I think just to make sure Victor Moreton wasn’t there. Then he said in his high nasal voice: ‘‘What a coincidence. I was only thinking of you the other day.”
He looked just the same as ever: healthy and pink-faced and rather womanish and bold.
I said: ‘‘I’ve been thinking of you a lot. Join me at a meal.”
He hesitated again, and then sat down uneasily. ‘‘How’s Sarah? I suppose you’re settling down now?’’
‘‘Not as quickly as we hoped. Have you been out to your cottage since last week?’’
‘‘No.… Why?’’
‘‘We called there last Friday.”
‘‘Oh …” He glanced at me sulkily as the waiter came up. I said: ‘‘You order, I’ll pay.” And when he’d done so: ‘‘ We went straight along there after Mr. Jerome called.”
‘‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
‘‘You should. He told me you sent him.”
He knew then that the fences were down: up to then he’d been wary, hoping. There was hardly a movement in his face, yet his whole expression changed.
I Said: ‘‘What made you send him? It was a pretty bad mistake, wasn’t it?’’
Clive picked up a roll and buttered it and ate it, greedily as if he was hungry. After he’d swallowed it he said vindictively: ‘‘Jerome’s still in hospital. You’ll be lucky to get away with that.”
‘‘So will you.”
He eyed me: ‘‘If you’re thinking of some of your strong-arm stuff here it won’t wash, Branwell. You’ve chosen the wrong place.”
‘‘I can always wait for you.”
‘‘I’ll take care to leave with friends.”
At the table next to us two people were arguing about Salvador Dali.
I said: ‘‘You must have been pretty hard up to show your hand this way.”
‘‘So what? What are you going to do about it?’’
‘‘That depends on you. I suppose you realize I know all about you?’’
He hesitated, picking up another roll; glanced at the people nearest; you could see the indecision crawling across his face. ‘‘Well,’’ why should I be done out of my share?’’ he said suddenly. ‘‘I worked for it.”
‘‘Your share being twenty thousand pounds?’’
‘‘Why not?—now.”
‘‘You were only a helper—like Ambrosine. You got paid for your work.”
‘‘Helper be damned! I was—well, never mind.…”
‘‘Probably you suggested it,’’ I said. ‘‘It seems more in your line than his.”
He didn’t speak.
I said: ‘‘I can imagine Tracey some time saying, ‘I’d burn the place down before I’d sell those pictures.’ And you saying, ‘ Why not do both?’ ’’
He shrugged uncomfortably. ‘‘I’m not ashamed of anything I did. We live as we must. Before you throw stones at me, think about yourself and Sarah. It’s perfectly obvious …”
‘‘What’s perfectly obvious?’’
‘‘Well, I was fool enough to believe Sarah knew nothing, that Tracey had kept it from her as he said he had. Then when she married you it began to look different, didn’t it? I sent Jerome along that first time just to see the lie of the land, to tell her about Tracey if necessary, to point out what might happen—the disgrace, the loss of all the insurance money, the mud that would stick to her and to you. But she didn’t need any telling …”
The meal came but we didn’t begin to eat.
I said: ‘‘When you set fire to the place, why didn’t you clear out at once?’’
He looked at me and laughed shortly. ‘‘Oh, no, you don’t get that dog to bark. I was in London.”
‘‘Any proof?’’
‘‘You bet.”
‘‘And what went wrong?’’
‘‘You’re the insurance hound. You tell me.”
I said: ‘‘I suppose you know I was there that night.”
He looked up, really startled. After a minute he said: ‘‘What are you trying to sell me?’’
‘‘Probably a ticket to Madeira—if you can get one before the police catch up with you.”
His hand fumbled on his knife. His fingers were long and flat with the nails cut close. ‘‘ Don’t talk to me about the police. Any minute I like I can put you on the run, Branwell. You’re in this, both of you, up to the eyes. Why shouldn’t you pay me half the money? It’s better than having to part with it all and having to face the police yourselves.”
I said: ‘‘Isn’t it about time you stopped telling yourself fairy tales? The police know all about this. I’d spoken to them before ever Jerome turned up.”
I said: ‘‘ What happened to the originals of the paintings you copied for Tracey?’’
I don’t think Clive had enjoyed his meal. I think it had stuck in his chest.
‘‘They’re far away—where you can’t reach them.”
‘‘One isn’t.”
He looked up at me. ‘‘The Bonington …?’’
‘‘It was a mistake to sell it in England, wasn’t it?’’
‘‘You seem to know all about it.”
‘‘Well, there’s such a thing as export licences, if the owner wants to take it home. Was that first fire a rehearsal or did it go wrong?’’
‘‘What do you think?’’
‘‘I think
it was a bit of both, just to see if it was as easy as you thought—but chiefly that it went wrong. What made you go in for this sort of thing—an artist like you?’’
The place had emptied rather quickly. The pianist in the next room was ambling his fingers over the piano like a sleep-walker.
‘‘Have you tried to live on what a painter can make? You get kicked around in the gutter for forty years—when you’re dead somebody discovers you and the dealers make a packet.”
‘‘You must have had a good many profitable lines before this.”
He said: ‘‘I don’t believe you were really there that night. I don’t see how you can have been—unless …”
‘‘Yes, I was there. So don’t you think it’s about time you told me the rest?’’
He sat for a minute uneasily stirring his coffee. ‘‘I don’t know what you mean——’’
‘‘Did you start this blackmail racket all by yourself, or is there someone else in it?’’
‘‘Why should there be? Anyway, what difference does it make?’’
‘‘It could make a lot——’’
I hadn’t heard the man come up behind me. ‘‘ Beg your pardon, Mr. Fisher; you’re wanted on the telephone.”
It was one of the attendants from downstairs, a big chap, not the one who had shown me in here. I looked up and saw that the other one was just inside the door.
Clive said: ‘‘Who wants me?’’ I could see a sudden glint in his eye.
‘‘Mrs. Litchen. She asked me if …?’’
Clive began to get up. I said: ‘‘Vere Litchen hasn’t got anything that’ll help us. Send word you’ll phone her later.”
Clive sat down again, but he, too, glanced towards the door. It’s queer how quickly the feel of a place can change. There were only six other diners in this room now; two in a corner and four at the bar.
The other attendant must have had a signal because he came in and up to the table. The big attendant said: ‘‘Mrs. Litchen sent word, sir, that this—guest you’ve got … wasn’t invited by you.”
‘‘Nor was he,’’ said Clive petulantly. ‘‘ He’s come here—throwing his weight about.”
‘‘She said we was to see the manager about it, but just at the moment Mr. Browning’s out.” The big man turned and looked at me. ‘‘ This is a private club, you know. You’ve no right in here except on the invitation of one of the members. That’s the law.”
I said: ‘‘Mr. Fisher and I have had a meal together. It’s a bit late for him to complain.”
‘‘But I do complain,’’ Clive said quickly. ‘‘This man came here under a wrong name and forced himself on me. He thinks he can get away with anything.”
‘‘That’s what Mrs. Litchen said. She said he’d been——’’
‘‘Well, what are you going to do about it?’’ I asked.
The piano had stopped in the other room. The youth who’d been playing came through into our room and ordered a drink at the bar. He sat on one of the stools and combed his fair hair back with a hand.
The big man said: ‘‘I’m afraid we shall have to ask you to leave.”
‘‘And if I don’t?’’
‘‘Then we’ll have to take steps, like.”
Two more of the diners were going. The youth stared across at our table curiously and made some remark to the man at the bar. I took my time and thought things out. A rough-house here wouldn’t hurt Clive. I’d learned a good bit. But there was still one thing, and the most important.
I said to the big man: ‘‘Perhaps we can make a deal.”
He didn’t budge. ‘‘That’s up to you, sir.”
I said to Fisher: ‘‘There’s one question I’d like you to answer me. If you did I might call it quits—for the time being.”
You could see he was very uneasy. He’d taken the chance Vere Litchen had given him; but he was afraid of what I’d say in front of the attendants. In the end he decided to risk it.
‘‘There’s no harm in asking.”
I said: ‘‘Who comes to your cottage now and smokes asthma cigarettes?’’
He turned his coffee cup round but didn’t pick it up. A very peculiar expression crept over his face.
‘‘Tracey—did, of course.”
‘‘And does he occasionally get up out of Lowis churchyard and smoke one with you still?’’
He parted his lips in a humourless grin. After a minute he said: ‘‘What’s it worth to you to know?’’
‘‘Whatever it’s worth to you to get rid of me.”
His eyes went round the room but he didn’t look at me. There was a spurt of talk from the people at the bar.
Fisher said: ‘‘Why don’t you go down and see?’’
‘‘Where? To your house again?’’
‘‘No.… To Lowis Manor.”
‘‘You seem to forget it was burnt down,’’
He pushed back his chair.
‘‘Not all of it,’’ he said.
Chapter Twenty Eight
A clock was striking nine as I left the Fin de Siècle. There was only one obvious thing to do.
A light fog had come down while I was indoors, but in Kent it was no more than wet roads and a drizzle. There was a moon somewhere for the night was not really dark. Traffic lights and traffic were with me, and I made good time; but it seemed a week, a nightmare when you must open a door and are afraid of what’s beyond.
I felt cold and curiously alone. If Sarah had been with me it would have been different. But she’d gone. I felt as if something had happened to her, so that already, instead of my having seen her twelve hours ago, days had passed. Still more, that days would pass before I saw her again—that our marriage and our life together were a sort of delusion which had only a few thin strands binding it to reality—no root, no foundation that would last. And part of the fault was in me, but most of it was in circumstances that, as always, operated outside our control. And the bitterest trick of all was still to be turned. And it was my privilege now to turn it.
As I came through Sladen and turned up the lane to Lowis my heart began to thump. It was the first time I’d been to the Manor since. ‘‘There’s the old stone-built hall,’’ Michael had said, ‘‘and of course the stables. And part of the kitchens were saved.”
For some reason, I hadn’t counted on the gatehouse. It was a shock, like seeing something you never expected to see again. I drove past the lighted windows and stopped the car exactly where I’d put it in May. I got out and my hand fumbled with the keys and nearly dropped them. The trees were dripping. I climbed the wall in the same place and made a stumbling way round to the drive. It was all the same: that was what surprised me, the holly hedge, the garden. As I turned the corner of the drive I could see a light.
Just for a second I got the feeling that the fire too and everything that came after it was a sort of confidence trick and that I could make out the low straggling shape of the house, the tall, grouped chimneys and the timbered walls, the overgrown yew and the irregular windows with their leaded panes; and that when I went up to the door Trixie and her owner would be waiting to greet me. Then the feeling passed and I blinked my eyes and could see that where the house should have been was a great gap. A tooth had been pulled out of the countryside. Nothing else was marred, but all else was marred because of it. A sharp wall or two made edges in the dark that the trees couldn’t copy. The stables were unlighted and the old hall: the light came from the back of the house.
I went slowly across the gravel drive and came to the place where the front door had been. It was like some of the houses I’d seen in the Falaise pocket. A wind blew where no wind should have been. I stepped over the threshold among the rubble and the weeds. There were bits of flooring, treacherous, pot-holed; planks across a crater which must have been part of the cellars. You could just pick out the design, the lay-out as it had once been. The body had been here, and the broken balustrade … across there the stairs and the door to the kitchens.… It was rooms at t
he back, attached to the old hall at the back, which had escaped. The light was in an upstairs room.
Staring at it I nearly fell, groped my way to a solid wall, an unlighted window. This was new. Something had been bricked in to make a solid front. I traced it with my hands and then with my eyes. There seemed to be no door here. The light was nearly above me. My hands were sticky with sweat.
Not far from where I was standing a big piece of charred timber reared itself like the muzzle of a gun. There seemed to be no door anywhere along the front. This was the no-man’s-land, left to the grass and the weeds to cover over the worst scars.
I tried the window. It was a sash window and slithered up without much sound. As I put my foot over the sill a dog began to bark. It was Trixie.
I waited a bit to see if she would quiet down, but she went on. I slid my leg over and climbed in. Immediately, all around me in the indoor air, was the heavy smell of herbal cigarettes. I stood there and straightened up. I wasn’t in a room but in a passage. At the end of it were stairs leading up, and at the top was a door with a crack of light underneath. My own breathing didn’t seem to be working properly.
Trixie wasn’t upstairs. Trixie was downstairs somewhere, shut in a room. You could tell that by the tone of the bark. Suddenly she stopped. The place was suddenly quiet. It was far more silent than the damp night outside. I went up the stairs, climbing the stairs leaden footed, like a deep-sea diver. I put my hand on the door handle, but for a second couldn’t turn it. I was more frightened than I’d ever been in my life before.
Something worked in me at last, and the handle turned. I went in.
It was part of the old house, you could tell by the beams, the window; used as a living-room now; fire burned in the hearth; a radio; papers and a cushion on the floor; it was empty. There was another room beyond, half lit, the door open; you could see a chair, the corner of a bed.