Suspension of Mercy (7 page)

10

S
ydney debated asking Mrs. Lilybanks to join them in the picnic, then decided to. Mrs. Lilybanks accepted.

Inez and Carpie, with babies, arrived in a blue Volkswagen station wagon driven by a curly haired, skinny young man dressed in old clothes whose name was Reggie Mulligan. He did something in the theater, Sydney was told. The other man was older and better dressed, and owned the Volkswagen, though he hadn’t cared to drive. Fortunately, it was a sunny day, and they spread blankets—two from the car, one contributed by Sydney—on the grass behind the house. Sydney had brought out one of the two deckchairs for Mrs. Lilybanks. Inez and Carpie spent more time pulling their babies back from the plates of sandwiches and out of the cake than they did eating. Sydney had taken them all on a tour of the house, which ordinarily he found boring but today he rather enjoyed, as if he were showing them his castle. What if the bedsteads were secondhand (the mattresses were not, however), the bookshelves and chests of drawers a little banged up, the living-room sofa not exactly spruce? What kind of undersized dumps did Mulligan and the other man live in in London? Here Sydney had privacy, space, and fresh air. The house also looked quite tidy, considering there was no woman in it. He was pleased that his study with its stacks of paper, his obviously busy typewriter, and his sharpened pencils gave an impression of diligence and productivity.

“Working on an old novel at the moment,” Sydney had said in answer to Vassily’s, the older man’s, question, “but Alex and I have a couple of television synopses in the works now, too.”

The girls had been to the house before, of course.

It was in the middle of the al fresco lunch, just when Sydney thought everything was rolling along beautifully after their second martinis and the first plunge into sandwiches, that Inez said:

“Hey, Syd, I tried to call Alicia last night, and her mother said she isn’t there and she doesn’t know where she is. You better check up on your wife.” Inez’s thick lips spread in a smile that showed most of her white teeth, and a ripple of amusement went around the blanket’s edge.

“That’s funny,” Sydney said. “Well, maybe she’s in Brighton again, but she said she was going to her mother’s. I didn’t try to pin her down.”

“Didn’t try to pin her
down?
” from Carpie, and there was more laughter.

“No, if she wants to paint for a while by herself—” Sydney tried to make a casual gesture and spilled some vin rosé on his trouser cuff.

Mrs. Lilybanks had stopped talking to Vassily, though they had been going great guns before. Sydney started to say something else, but decided not to. He reached for a deviled ham sandwich. Then he looked at Inez and asked, “Her mother didn’t sound worried, did she?” By now Reggie and Carpie were talking together.

“Oh, no. Well, I don’t
know
, because I don’t know her that well,” said Inez, who always recited the obvious very carefully. “I think she certainly wanted to know where she was. She even asked me if I had any idea . . . Her mother didn’t call you?”

“No,” Sydney said, and concentrated on his sandwich. It would certainly sound like a marital tiff, he supposed, to Inez and her crowd. Well, let it. He was vaguely ashamed of that, but how much better it was they thought that than suspected the hideous truth, that Alicia was six feet under. Well, four feet. Sydney smiled slightly to himself. He noticed that Mrs. Lilybanks was watching him. Sydney looked away from her.

Inez and Carpie and the two men stayed until about 4:30, then took off in the station wagon for London. Mrs. Lilybanks insisted on helping him wash up and put away things. Sydney had thought she meant to pump him about Alicia, her whereabouts and whether a quarrel had caused her to go, but Mrs. Lilybanks didn’t mention Alicia. She talked about starting an apple and pear orchard behind her house, the quality of Suffolk light in painting and how it had influenced Constable, and how pleased she was that every bit of her lemon cake (which she contributed to the picnic) had been finished. When the last cup was put away, she thanked Sydney for a delightful afternoon.

“You must meet my granddaughter Prissie next time she comes. She was here once, but on such a flying visit, I didn’t ask you to come over. I think she might be up next Saturday.”

“I’d like to meet her,” Sydney said.

“She’s only twenty-two, but I think she may get somewhere in the theater, if she keeps at it. Good-bye, Sydney, and thanks again.”

“Good-bye, Mrs. Lilybanks.”

Mrs. Lilybanks made her way slowly along the side of the road toward her house.

When she entered her living room, her eyes were drawn to the unframed watercolor Alicia had made of a vase of flowers one afternoon when she had been here. The paper was propped up on the mantel, braced by the edge of a framed photograph of Martha with Prissie as a baby. Mrs. Lilybanks wondered what Alicia was doing at this moment and if she were happy or unhappy. Alicia would drop her a line soon, wherever she was, Mrs. Lilybanks felt sure. Maybe Sydney knew by now where she was and wasn’t saying, because Alicia wanted to be quite alone, not even in communication with her friends. At any rate, Mrs. Lilybanks thought the best thing to do was not to mention Alicia any more to Sydney, not to speak of her unless he did, because obviously the situation caused him some embarrassment. But why had he smiled to himself just after he had been embarrassed? Well, he was a writer, and probably all sorts of things flitted through his mind, imaginary things. And tangents.

11

T
hat same evening, Saturday, Sydney felt he ought to write a note to Alicia’s mother, so he did. It went:

July 9th

Dear Mrs. Sneezum,

I am sorry to have told several people to write to Alicia at your house in Kent, but I had thought that she was going there, at least at first. She wanted to get away from this rather deadly quiet house and the equally dull countryside for a while to paint some and just be alone for a bit. She did not seem to want to tell me exactly where she was going, perhaps wasn’t sure herself, but I’m writing this to assure you she was in a calm frame of mind when she left. When you hear from her, I’d appreciate it if you told me where she is, but only if she is agreeable to letting me know. I know she does not want to be disturbed for a while, so I have no intention of disturbing her.

Life goes on here quietly. I am working, though with no notable success as yet. I hope you and Mr. Sneezum are well.

Affectionately yours,
Sydney

His letter, which he forgot to post until after the 3
P.M.
collection on Sunday, brought a telephone call from Mrs. Sneezum Tuesday morning.

“I wondered if you’d heard anything from Alicia?” she asked.

“No, I haven’t, but I wasn’t—”

“When did she leave?”

“She left Saturday before last. July second.”

“Good heavens. I’ve rung a couple of her friends in London, but she’s not there and nobody has any idea where she is, which I think is most unusual.”

“I think there’s a strong chance she’s in Brighton, Mrs. Sneezum. She went to Brighton for a few days about three weeks ago, as you probably know.” Sydney was sure Mrs. Sneezum knew, because Alicia said she had dropped her mother a postcard.

“Oh,” Mrs. Sneezum said thoughtfully. She excused herself to speak to her husband, then said, “How long did she say she might be gone?”

“She didn’t say. A few weeks—I don’t know. I hope you won’t be worried about her.”

“But it’s not like Alicia not to tell
anybody
where she’s going. Being alone is one thing but being so secretive isn’t like her at all. Was she upset about anything?”

“No. It was Alicia’s idea.”

Mrs. Sneezum was silent, but Sydney heard her impatient sigh.

“Also Alicia’s not very good about writing, as you know.” But Alicia was fairly good about writing to her mother. Sydney thought of Smith, saying one of his brides-in-the-bath had injured her right hand.

“Didn’t she say where to forward her post?”

“No, she didn’t. There’re only three letters here. They don’t look important.”

“Well, Sydney, would you let us know as soon as you hear anything from her? Reverse the charges, that doesn’t matter. You’re all by yourself down there?”

“Oh, yes,” Sydney said. Did she think he had a girl with him?

“I’ll say good-bye. Do ring us.”

Sydney said he would, then hung up. The sun was boiling through the living-room window. It was a rare day, rather warm, hot for England. The conversation would have been the same, Sydney thought, if he had killed Alicia and he were trying to make her mother and everyone else believe that she had taken herself off to Brighton. Alicia was probably lolling in a beach chair at Brighton, wriggling her toes in the sand, with her long, pretty face turned up to the sun and her eyes closed. It should be lovely in Brighton with a sea breeze thrown in. Meanwhile, the Sneezums—
kah-choo!
—were getting worried down in Kent, mainly because they had nothing else to occupy themselves with. Mr. Sneezum had retired before Alicia’s marriage with plenty of money and a heart condition that kept him from eating meat, Sydney remembered. He had a passion for gardening, and the Chelsea Flower Show was the high spot of his year. Mrs. Sneezum was active in county politics and various do-gooder kind of things. She was smaller than Alicia and thinner. Alicia was their only child. Naturally, they’d be a little worried.

He started to reread the next page of his manuscript, then reached for a brown notebook at the back of his desk. The notebook was blank except for two poems, hastily written, which Sydney had intended to polish at some time and never had. He wrote, five blank pages beyond the last poem:

July 11. The first of many conversations, no doubt, with Mrs. Sneezum. This in response to my letter of Saturday explaining Alicia’s absence and silence. I carried it off calmly, in fact felt no anxiety whatsoever. I wonder if things would have been different had I been face to face with her? She asked me about Alicia’s post. Well, it is strange: Alicia left no address to which she wanted her post sent. Can I help that? The worst is yet to come, when A.’s monthly check will not be claimed on August 2nd. I’ll then have to manufacture a man she is staying with. And best to start now.

This gave Sydney a pleasant feeling of both creating something and of being a murderer. He would fill in the preceding pages, he thought, with an actual account of the murder some time when he felt in the mood, pushing her down the stairs, keeping the body overnight, carrying it out the next morning—and perhaps being seen by Mrs. Lilybanks, or only fearing that he had been.

Just before 5
P.M.
, the telephone rang, and Sydney thought it was probably Mrs. Sneezum again.

“Polk-Faraday speaking,” said Alex.

“Bartleby the Scrivener scrivening,” Sydney replied.

“Syd, my friend, guess what?” Alex said.

Sydney guessed what, but he could hardly believe it. Hittie had just rung Alex at his office to say that Plummer of Granada would buy
The Whip Strikes
, if they could show one or two other finished scripts plus some synopses of equal caliber. Hittie had opened the letter and rung Alex immediately.

“I haven’t buzzed him back,” Alex said. “I’ll tell him an unqualified yes, no? We’ll deliver the goods.”

“Tell him we’ll produce an indefinite number of super Whips. Meanwhile, I hope that second story’s coming along?” It was the one about the murdered husband.

“It is, it is,” Alex assured him. “First draft nearly done.”

“I’ll get to work right away on a new synopsis.”

“Good. Want to come up tonight, old pal, and we’ll kick an idea around? Provided you’ve got an idea to kick around.”

Sydney was tempted, but he knew they’d roar around congratulating themselves and not get any work done. “Thanks, but it might be better if I stayed here and kept my nose to the tombstone. The grindstone,” he corrected, laughing.

Alex laughed, too. “Okay, but don’t be too much of a recluse. How’s Alicia? Sorry you two didn’t come up for the party that night. Alicia wanted to come, you spoilsport.”

“Yes. Sorry. I was working that weekend. She could have gone by herself. When I get this novel done—”

“Give Alicia our love.”

Sydney took a breath and said, “Alicia’s not here. She went off to Brighton again, I think.”

“Again? When’s she coming back?”

There went the pips.

“She might stay longer this time. A few weeks.”

“She’s getting fed up with your grindstone. I’ll sign off, old pal.”

Sydney stood by the telephone, dazzled with hope, turned slowly around, then looked at the telephone again. He wished he could pick it up and ring Alicia to tell her the news. But she’d hear about The Whip through their friends, if they sold it. Nonsense, she was dead and underground, he reminded himself, and smiling, he ran up the stairs back to his study.

12

M
rs. Edward Ponsonby—otherwise Alicia—had installed herself in Brighton at a larger and more comfortable hostelry than the bed-and-breakfast place she had been in before where the curfew, or the landlady’s retiring time, had been 10
P.M.
according to a sign inside the front door. She was in a real hotel now, the Sinclair, though it was a modest one and she had no private bath. Her monthly check of fifty pounds had come in July 2, the day she had left home, so she had cashed it in Ipswich. She and Sydney had a joint account at the Ipswich bank with about a hundred pounds in it, but she didn’t want to write checks on that and deprive Sydney, and a check would also betray where she was. She intended to live on her fifty pounds as long as it lasted, then perhaps take a job as a clerk somewhere, not in London but in a small town with a restful atmosphere. Her bill at the end of a week at the Hotel Sinclair had diminished her resources by nine guineas, but her meals out cost very little, and she thought she might last until her next check, and from check to check, but she foresaw that life might become boring without a job. And how to get the next check was a slight problem, because it would come to Roncy Noll and Sydney wouldn’t know where to forward it, and she did not want to tell her bank, and consequently Sydney, where she was. Her personal post was not important, she could let that go. Also, it would look as if she really had disappeared off the face of the earth, if she took no interest in her post, and therefore Sydney could play his games. She supposed he would act as guilty as possible, as if he had really murdered her, and irritate everyone. Just how far he went, Alicia thought, would be a good indication of his sanity and maturity. She had some misgivings about both.

She thought of ringing Edward Tilbury one evening, or some Sunday afternoon. She might ask him, really not caring whether he came or not (he might have an all-absorbing interest in London by now), if he would like to come down on a weekend. Alicia played with several fantasies: Edward would come down some Saturday and they would register at an hotel under another name, maybe Ponsonby, and they’d have a wicked weekend; or Edward would spend another Saturday with her and a real love would develop between them, causing her to do something drastic, like divorce Sydney; or a passionate love affair would start, Edward would wangle a month’s leave from his firm, and they’d take a cottage somewhere. Or Edward might commute to London to his job, and spend the nights and weekends in Brighton. In case of a long affair, it was wiser if they took a cottage outside of Brighton, because some of their London friends might realize they were both “missing,” and draw a conclusion and think of Brighton because people knew she liked it.

Alicia was obsessed with the color blue now, and she had bought sheets of heavy blue paper which she cut into six-by-eight-inch rectangles. With these in a drawing pad, her fountain pen that drew in India ink, and a single color pencil—a red one—she sat for hours on the beach and promenade benches making abstract drawings of the scene around her. She was inspired to send a few of them to Mrs. Lilybanks, but she didn’t. She did not want even Mrs. Lilybanks to know where she was. Mrs. Lilybanks would naturally tell Sydney. Sydney might think she was in Brighton, but Alicia didn’t want him to be sure of it.

Two weeks passed, and Alicia felt much calmer and happier. She imagined her parents being a little worried about her, but she thought Sydney could smooth that over. Her parents should realize that if anything serious happened to her, it would be in the newspapers. But in the third week, Alicia grew tired of the speckled strawberry sundaes in tall glasses at the Eclair, of the scallopine at the Italian restaurant, of the rotten pastry in the tea shops that she could afford, and she even grew tired of her four walls in the Hotel Sinclair (papered with a tiny boat design, pink on cream) which had looked so delightful at first because the room was new to her, and her own. One evening she indulged in two double gins in a pub in Steine Street, and at the end of the second, she rang Edward in London.

Edward was in, rather to her surprise, and she took it as a favorable omen.

It was all arranged in an incredibly short time, even before the first three minutes had run out. Edward would come down the following Saturday morning, on the 10
A.M.
train which arrived at 11, and he would stay over Saturday night and Sunday. He sounded extremely pleased that she had rung him.

She met him at the railway station, nearly missed him among the people getting off, because he seemed to be ducking his head, and he also seemed shorter than she remembered. But his happy, open smile was the same when he saw her. He swept his hat off, and kissed her on one cheek. They had a drink in the buffet of the station.

“I suppose you think I’m mad,” Alicia said, “but I’m taking another vacation, a longer one this time, and doing quite a bit of drawing. I brought my oil paints, too.”

“My dear, I think you’re delightful,” Edward said. “What’s mad about it?”

From that, and his tone, she knew he would not tell any of his London friends he had seen her, and would not ask anything about Sydney.

“Where’re you stopping?”

“At the Hotel Sinclair,” Alicia answered. “Nothing grand, but it’s quite adequate.”

“Would you object if I took a room there? Or would you prefer me to go to another hotel?” He smiled his boyish, shy smile. “It’s so much easier for us to meet, if we’re under the same roof.”

“Of course, I don’t mind. I should think the Sinclair’s big enough for both of us.”

Edward had a hold-all with him, which contained a shirt, swimming trunks, and pajamas, he said. So they went to the hotel from the station, and Alicia explained that because she didn’t want Sydney or her parents to know where she was, she had registered under another name, Mrs. Edward Ponsonby.

“I hope you don’t mind the Edward,” she said.

“I’m pleased,” said Edward Tilbury.

Alicia had no intention of starting an affair with Edward, really, so she didn’t. Edward was obviously willing. She felt guilty about having asked him down to Brighton without sleeping with him, but curiously he seemed to be content with the situation. They spent a Saturday afternoon and evening and Sunday as pleasant as their first Sunday, and Alicia gave him an antique tie pin which she had bought in a spare moment on Saturday afternoon. She did not say anything about when they might see each other next, but Edward asked if she would be in Brighton next weekend. Alicia said she thought she would be, and Edward asked if he might come down again.

“Yes, I’d love it. If you’ve nothing better to do,” she added automatically, but she loved Edward at that moment, and he had never come nearer to possessing her.