A Closed Book (19 page)

‘Yes, you're right … Yes, I never thought of that.'

‘He probably didn't either. You'd be amazed how easygoing and thoughtless people can be when what's potentially at stake is their greatest fear in life. By the way, it looked fairly new.'

‘What did?'

‘The spring on the wardrobe door. It looked as though it had just been changed. It was a bit blood-stained, but you could tell it was new.'

‘It
was
new. As a matter of fact, I was the one who changed it.'

‘You were?'

‘That's right.'

‘At Sir Paul's request?'

‘Naturally.'

‘Why on earth did he want it changed?'

‘I gather the catch had always been a bit faulty. The door didn't close properly and once or twice Sir Paul had walked into it. He hadn't realized it had swung back open and, you know, he'd hurt himself quite badly. Actually, he did it again only the other day. Walked smack into the side of the door. Given himself a big black-and-blue bruise. As I recall, you could still see it on his forehead.'

‘Yes, we noticed that.'

‘So, anyway, he was telling me about what had happened and I said, if he liked, I'd put a new spring in. What's called a restrictor. I'm quite good at that kind of odd job.'

‘He specified that particular type, did he?'

‘Yes, he did. I remember that clearly.'

‘I see. So why do you suppose he actually stepped right inside the wardrobe, it being so narrow and him so claustrophobic?'

‘There I can't help you, Inspector. Except –'

‘Yes?'

‘Well, as you can check for yourself, Sir Paul had a lot of clothes. A whole wardrobe. I got the impression he must have been quite a – quite a dapper sort of dresser before, well, before the disaster struck him. It's true, all the time I was with him, I never saw him wearing anything around the house but a slovenly old dressing-gown. The same dressing-gown he died in. Still, you could tell it had once been expensive. Fine silk and all. He'd let himself go, and who can blame him? But, anyway, as I say, he had lots of clothes, lots of suits and jackets, all made to measure, and he'd actually taken the trouble to memorize the exact order they were hung up in the wardrobe. So I can only suppose he stepped right inside the thing to get out some jacket or maybe a tie – he was very proud of his collection of
ties – maybe a tie hanging up at the far end.'

‘Sounds reasonable. Except, if you say he never wore anything but a ratty old dressing-gown, why go to all the trouble of hunting out something special? For whose benefit?'

‘He always did wear a tie. Always. Even when he hadn't shaved for a couple of days, you could be sure he'd have one of his silk ties on.'

‘Did he ever have visitors?'

‘No.'

‘What, never?'

‘In the month I've been here, not one person ever came to see him. Course, I can't speak for the weekends, but I think it highly unlikely.'

‘Let me get this straight. He had no contact at all with the outside world?'

‘There'd be the occasional telephone call. Very occasional.'

‘What a queer way to live.'

‘It was the way he wanted to live. It was he who cut himself off, you know, Inspector. He couldn't bear to let his old friends see him. See what he'd become. We'd sometimes walk down into the village in the evening, and passers-by really would stop and stare at him. Sir Paul knew it. And, in spite of all his bluster, it hurt.'

‘He couldn't have known, surely?'

‘He
insisted
on knowing. He'd grill me after every encounter. Did they stare? Did they gawp? Did they blanch? What did they say? He had to know. He had to drink his poison to the very last drop.'

‘Brrrr, a bit too creepy for me.'

‘If that's how you feel, Inspector, think how he felt.'

‘True. A sad, sad case.'

‘So it was just you and he together in this lonely old cottage?'

‘Uh huh. Well, actually, no, when I first moved down here, there was a housekeeper who'd come in every day. A Mrs Kilbride, a local woman. But about a week after I arrived, she started having problems with her husband. I mean,
he
started having problems, health problems. He had a bad flu, then some kind of pneumonia, and now, I can't be sure, but he may have come down with something very serious. Lung cancer, I believe. Anyway, we saw less and less of her as time went by and she eventually dropped out of our lives altogether.'

‘Who did the cooking – the – the dusting, the housework?'

‘I did.'

‘You're quite the Renaissance man, Mr Ryder.'

‘I've always lived alone. If I don't do it, no one else will. At home, I mean.'

‘I see … Ah, Willie, there you are. I was just about to call you. I think Mr Ryder here has told me everything he knows.'

‘Which wasn't much, I'm afraid.'

‘Never expected it to be. So? Turn up anything of interest?'

‘Could be, sir. Or could be nothing.'

‘Well, what is it?'

‘A diary.'

‘A diary!'

‘Where'd you find it?'

‘In Sir Paul's bedroom. Tucked away in a drawer beneath a pile of old newspapers. It was locked, but I, eh, I managed to open it. Fact, I found quite a few of these notepads in there. This one looks like it's the most recent, though. And what's interesting is –'

‘But that's impossible!'

‘Just a moment, Mr Ryder. What were you saying was interesting, Sergeant?'

‘But, Inspector, I tell you, there can't be a diary. Not Sir Paul's diary. The man was blind, he didn't have any eyes! How could he have kept a diary!'

‘Sergeant?'

‘It's his, all right. Got his name on the cover.'

‘But he couldn't write! What do you suppose I was here for?'

‘Well, that's it, you see, Mr Ryder. As you'd expect, it's all handwritten. And the writing's really terrible. It all slants to one side just like – Oh God, what do you call it?'

‘What?'

‘When writing slants. You know, like in a book?'

‘Italics?'

‘Italics. That's it, Inspector, that's the word. It's like it's all written in italics. Page after page of it.'

‘Okay, Willie, but what was so interesting? What you were about to say?'

‘Just that this one, this particular notepad, seems to start with the arrival of Mr Ryder here.'

‘Really?'

‘Yeah. Listen. “The blind is flapping at the window again. I don't care what anyone says, there really has to be a draught somewhere.” Blah blah blah blah blah. Then he continues, “Ryder will be ringing the doorbell any minute now, or so I hope. He's late already. Slightly as yet, but late all the same. I can't abide” – can't quite make this next word out. Begins with a v or maybe it's a u.'

‘Just go on.'

‘“What was it someone said? That the trouble with – with – punctuality” – punctuality, right – and, yes, now I get it, the word in the sentence before was
“unpunctuality”. “I can't abide unpunctuality. What was it someone said? That the trouble with punctuality is that there's never anyone there to appreciate it. Well, I would have been here to appreciate it! Though, to be fair, if he has motored down from London, it's possible the weekend – the weekend – traffic has been heavy.”'

‘That it?'

‘No, there's more. “So, Mr Ryder. There you are and here I am. We shall see what we shall see.” “We shall see what we shall see.” Funny language for a blind man to use.'

‘Mmm. Though, in an odd way, you don't have to have known him to get the feel of the sort of man he must have been. Is there a lot more of the same?'

‘Yup. He seems to have written in it fairly regularly. Here's something about you, Mr Ryder. “Somewhat colourless, at least so far, but that's all right and he'll – he'll – he'll –”'

‘What's the problem, Sergeant?'

‘Words stuck together. Oh, I get it. It's “probably thaw” – “he'll probably thaw”. But it's written like it's a single word – “probablythaw”. Here's another – “allinall” all bunched up together. Normal, I suppose. Poor fellow couldn't see what he was writing.'

‘Okay. Read on.'

‘“He'll probably thaw as we get to know each other. Inevitable if he's to live here, so – so – deference isn't a
bad point of departure. Not too stupid, either, which is convenient. No, all in all, I think I've made a good and suitable choice. God knows, I might have done worse.” Well, that's a bit of a mixed notice, Mr Ryder. But on the whole good, I suppose.'

‘Any of the entries dated?'

‘Doesn't look like it, sir. Wait a moment – no – no, it isn't. “I know now I've taught myself nothing, memorized nothing. All those years and nothing to show for them. I'm helpless, helpless – and, save for John, completely alone in the world. Sightless, eyeless, faceless andalone – and alone” – don't know what this is – “au” – “auf” – no, it looks like a “t”. Could it be “autistic”?'

‘All right, assume it's “autistic”.'

‘“Sightless, eyeless, faceless and alone, autistic, visually autistic, exiled from the – from the – humdrum – the humdrum – the humdrum – vibrancy of the world. Oh, has anyone ever, ever been in such desperate straits? What is that world to me now but a blank sheet of paper, a blank blank sheet of paper” – no, wait, I think it's – yeah – it's “a blank
black
sheet of paper – a blank black sheet of paper from which every trace of text is fading fast. What I would give – my right arm, my left arm, my legs, my nose, my fingers, my” – well, sir, what it says is – “my cock, everything! – for one more glimpse of that world!” Oh dear, oh dear. He
was
in a bad way.'

‘All right, Willie. A little respect. It goes on, does it?'

‘Yes, sir. Fills the book, nearly.'

‘Good. Well, Mr Ryder, if you don't mind, I think we'll take this along with us.'

‘I –'

‘As I said, it might just give us an insight into the poor man's frame of mind at the end. Who knows?'

‘And I'm very grateful you could give us so much of your time. Sergeant?'

‘Please don't bother seeing us out. And thanks again. If we need you for anything, we know where to get in touch. Goodbye, Mr Ryder.'

‘Goodbye.'

Gilbert Adair published novels, essays, translations, children’s books and poetry. He also wrote screenplays, including
The Dreamers
from his own novel for Bernardo Bertolucci. He died in 2011.