Death Speaks Softly (17 page)

Beryl lowered herself slowly into her chair, and Daphne eyed her uncertainly. Despite Claire's assurance, she looked as if she knew of her husband's lapse. Silence had again fallen, and again Daphne strove to break it.

'I say, Claire, would it be poss to swap duties on Friday? I've a date with the fang-merchant—six fillings, forsooth— but I could manage p.m.'

Claire said with an effort, 'If I were you, I'd take the day off. Don't worry, I can cover for you. I've nothing on till the evening.'

'Gosh, are you sure? You are a brick—thanks most awfully.' Daphne flashed her a toothy smile, gathered up the papers she'd been assembling, and hurried out of the room.

'God give me strength!' Beryl exploded. 'The way that woman fawns over you, you'd think she had lesbian tendencies.'

Claire stared at her, her smile fading. She was as shocked by the fact that it was Beryl voicing the sentiment as by the sentiment itself.
'Daphne?
I doubt if she even knows what they are.'

'In her parlance, then,' Beryl said savagely, 'she has a
pash
on you. A crush. It boils down to the same thing.'

'It most certainly does not!' Claire said hotly. 'And anyway, that's nonsense. You know as well as I do that Daphne's the most innocent, gullible—'

'God, I'm sorry, Claire.' Beryl put her hands to her face. 'I didn't mean it. I don't know what's the matter with me.'

Claire looked at her for a moment, letting her indignation subside. 'You're worried out of your mind, that's what's the matter with you.'

'Yes,' Beryl said flatly. Why deny it?

'You still think Bernard doesn't love you?' Did she owe it to Beryl to repeat Daphne's tale? But not now; Daphne was in enough disfavour.

'It's not so much that; I'm sure he's on the verge of a breakdown. There's a contained excitement about him, as though he's waiting for something to happen.'

'And he won't see a doctor?'

'No, he gets furious when I suggest it.'

Claire glanced at her watch. 'Tell you what. If you can hold the fort for a while—and be nice to Daphne!—I'll slip into the lecture room and see how it's going.' Quite often, if they weren't too busy, one or other of them would sit in on a seminar. Claire enjoyed the stimulation, and Beryl incorporated it into her self-improvement scheme.

'If he's managing all right,' she added, 'you can probably stop worrying.' She wished she could believe that.

'Bless you, Claire,' Beryl said gratefully. 'That would be a help. And please forget what I said about Daphne. I'm fond of her, too.'

Claire's heart was beating uncomfortably as she paused outside the lecture room. Then, holding her breath, she pushed open the door, slipped inside, and took a seat in the back row. If Bernard saw her, he gave no sign. He was still in the introductory stage of the lecture, a general resume which would be enlarged on throughout the day.

'At the age of twenty-two,' he was saying, 'Brouge fell violently in love with Jeanne Colliere, an apothecary's daughter, but she jilted him. Although there were many other women in his life, he never felt for them as he had for Jeanne, nor did he ever marry.' He went on talking, but Claire was only half listening, concentrating on his form of speech rather than the words, on his mannerisms and movements on the platform. Though a lectern had been provided, he'd pushed it aside, and the desk in front of him was bare of papers. He was, however, repeatedly sipping from the water in his glass. She must send someone to top up the carafe.

'It was about this time that he wrote his best-known novel,
Le Serpent,
and later in life, when his mental illness developed, people referred back to that early work as the first instance in which his phobia about snakes manifested itself

He was speaking like a well-rehearsed actor, Claire thought; one who had played the part throughout a long run and knew his lines so thoroughly that he didn't have to think about them.

To some extent she was wrong. Bernard indeed knew his talk by heart, but today as he delivered it, it struck him with an import so startling, yet at the same time so obvious, he was amazed he'd not seen it before.
He and Brouge shared parallel lives.
They'd both loved deeply, and suffered as a consequence. Both were brilliant—no false modesty on that score—and each had balanced precariously on the edge of sanity. But there the comparison ended. For Brouge had toppled over, and, convinced his body was filled with snakes, ended his days in an asylum for the insane. While in his own case, Cecile's return had saved him.

As he continued with his delivery, Bernard considered the delusion. There was something about snakes, something primeval, atavistic. Man's most ancient enemy, the cause of his downfall. And the primitive stem of the human cerebrum, so he had read, was called the reptilian brain. That pleased him, for it vindicated Brouge, who had indeed had something of the serpent inside him.

He recalled his own fantasy of his mind crumbling, hidden behind his smoothly impassive face. Perhaps it was his
reptile
brain that threatened the rest, seeking to destroy from within?

Claire's eyes moved from Bernard's commanding figure to his audience. Seated where she was, she could at best see their profiles, but each one seemed engrossed. Occasionally there was the scratching of a pen or a turning page, as some particular comment or example was noted down. She accepted that, had she not had previous doubts about Bernard's condition, nothing in his bearing or delivery would have given rise to them. There was a measure of comfort in that, to pass on to Beryl.

Hannah settled back in her deckchair and prepared for a pleasantly idle afternoon. In front of her, separated by high netting, the girls of the Ashbourne tennis team were knocking up with their opponents from St Anne's. The soft, rhythmic plopping of the balls, the occasional call of
'Yours!' formed, with the droning of a plane far overhead, the quintessential sounds of summer. Forming the thought, Hannah smiled to herself. They could keep their leather on willow; to her mind, cricket was boring and tennis the perfect spectator sport.

But she was not only indulging herself. The match against St Anne's was a major fixture in the term, and the presence of someone other than games staff much appreciated by the players. Added to which, Hannah reckoned she'd earned her treat. The last two weeks had been a strain, exacerbated by an outbreak of measles: while the re-entry of David into her life had also brought attendant problems.

She reached into her bag for sunglasses, recalling their talk on Monday evening. His spontaneous statement that he loved her had, she suspected, surprised himself as much as her. He'd never committed himself before, and it was Charles's proposal that had goaded him into it.

'Good afternoon, Miss James,' said a voice above her, and she gave an exclamation. Charles had materialized out. of her musings to stand beside her chair.

'Hello! What brings you here?'

'I dropped in those papers for the report. Your secretary told me where to find you.'

A prefect, having seen his approach, arrived with another deckchair, which she set up next to Hannah's. Charles smiled at her with his usual charm. 'Thank you, my dear. I mustn't stay long, but I'll watch the first couple of games.'

The umpire had taken her position, the knocking-up ended, and the players tossed for service. Charles said quietly, 'You know why I'm really here, don't you?'

Of course she knew. The ten days he had given her to reach a decision were up. They should have been enough. If she hadn't met David again, would she have accepted him? The possibility filled her with panic, a reaction leaving her answer in no doubt. Yet she regretted being pressed to give it. She enjoyed Charles's company; he was sophisticated and amusing, an attentive escort. Furthermore, he shared far more of her interests than David did. David was a home-loving man, busy in his work and liking to relax in the evenings. In the last few months, Charles had taken her about more than David had in three years—to concerts, theatres, dinner-dances. She'd met his friends, and knew, from their attitude towards her, that they expected Charles to marry her and approved his choice.

On the court, Angie Markham sent a backhand skimming over the net to land millimetres inside the back line. As her opponent reached for it, missed, and skidded into the netting, Hannah joined in the burst of applause. All round the court, scattered groups of spectators sat on the grass. There was no one within earshot of herself and Charles, and to all appearances the Deputy Head and the Chairman of the Board of Governors were simply watching the tennis. What more natural?

'Hannah?' he prompted. 'Have you made up your mind?'

She sighed and turned to him. 'I wish I didn't have to,' she said with a wry smile.

If only, she thought guiltily, she could enjoy a relaxed, uncommitted companionship with them both. The two men were opposites, but they appealed to different sides of her personality.

Charles said, 'It wouldn't be such a radical change. You'd still have the school, and we'd go out and about just as we have been doing.'

But as his wife, living in his home, she would no longer be her own mistress, free, during the long summer holidays, to fly as the mood took her to Greece, the Canaries, Paris: to eat what and when she liked, watch films on television till the small hours, or retire
to bed early with a book. And, most fundamental change of all, David Webb would be out of her life. Permanently.

When she didn't speak, he went on: 'Let me plead my case again. You've been totally honest, and I appreciate it. You say though you're fond of me, you don't love me. Fair enough, I can accept that. Because although I do love you, it's not what I felt for Mary. I'm being honest, too.' His wife had died ten years ago. 'Nevertheless, Hannah, we're
good
together. Why not enjoy what we have?'

On the court, a world removed from her by more than the netting, Ashbourne had taken the first set. Hannah realized guiltily she'd registered none of it. Briefly, unwillingly, she tried to picture herself as Charles's wife. And failed.

'It has to be no, Charles,' she said softly. 'I'm very sorry. I've had my freedom too long now to contemplate giving it up. But I've enjoyed your company and our time together very much. I hope we can still be friends.'

He was leaning forward in his chair, hands clasped between his knees, seemingly intent on the tennis. His eyes, too, were hidden behind sunglasses. 'You're quite sure?'

'I'm afraid so. I'm sorry.'

'I shall try again,' he said. 'Not immediately; we both need to take a step back and survey the situation. But as long as you're not anyone else's wife, I shall go on hoping one day you'll be mine.'

Hannah felt her eyes smart, and for the first time wished they were alone, so that she could reach for his hand. 'Don't mind too much,' she said.

He smiled slightly. 'I'd better go. I've an appointment at three. See you at the next meeting, no doubt. Goodbye, Hannah.'

'Goodbye.' She watched him as he walked towards the main gates, a tall, straight figure, immaculate in navy blazer and pale blue trousers. A tumult of feelings inside her fought for supremacy—regret, pity, but, coming out uppermost, a sense of relief. However painful it had been, she knew she had made the right decision. She was her own woman again.

With a sigh, she settled back and at last gave her full attention to the tennis.

At Melbray, Bernard's seminar was drawing to a close, with several among his audience determined to devote more study to the neglected Brouge. Beryl and Claire, their own work finished, slipped into the back of the room to wait for him. Beryl was anxious to satisfy herself that Claire's morning assessment held good. Watching him intently, she was not too sure. He spoke fluently, sometimes amusingly, but his eyes had the glazed look she had come to dread, which meant that his thoughts were elsewhere. At least there was no sign of disquiet among his audience. To all appearances, they seemed enthralled by what he was saying. Let it be all right, she prayed instinctively. Let nothing go wrong at this stage.

Bernard finished, to prolonged and enthusiastic applause which seemed to take him by surprise. He half-smiled, inclined his head, and turned to leave the stage. But his audience had questions.

'One moment, Professor. About Jeanne Colliere: did he have any contact with her in later life? I mean, is her influence apparent in his later work?'

Bernard hesitated, and Beryl held her breath. After a seemingly endless pause, he said, 'I'm sorry, could you repeat the question?'

The man did so and Claire watched, appalled, as Bernard patently tried to channel his thoughts in a specific direction. The question was simple enough, and she didn't doubt he knew the answer. The problem was that he wasn't prepared for it. Confident with his well-known text, any deviation requiring original thought, however basic, seemed to confuse him. Stumblingly he began to reply, gaining more confidence as he went along. But both women had registered the ripple of surprise that ran through the room.