The rivals of Sherlock Holmes : early detective stories (29 page)

“Not witchcraft surely?”

“And witchcraft,” said Munday, “of a sort. Anyway, that love of Africa or the exotic anywhere is like sexual voyeurism. You go on watching and you think you’re perfectly detached. But you’re involved in a rather pathetic way. It changes you. You’re violated by just seeing it.”

“So you stopped being a voyeur,” said Caroline.

“I never started.”

Emma coughed. She passed the salad to Caroline and said, “There are avocados in it. I hope they’re ripe.”

“Who is Mrs. I^ranch?” asked Caroline.

“She used to do for us,” said Emma. “Alfred was forever scaring her half to death with African stories.” “My idea of an African story,” said Munday, “is talking about one’s servants.”

But Emma ignored him: “Once, Mrs. Branch said, ‘They must be so savage,’ and Alfred said, ‘Well, they wash their hands before they eat—that’s pretty civilized.’ He’s full of remarks like that. You were at his talk, so you know.”

“You notice she took the hint,” said Munday.

“I must remember that,” said Caroline.

“Alfred uses Africans to reproach the English,” said Emma. She smiled. “Incredible isn’t it? But that’s anthropology.”

“I always think of anthropologists as having these jungle helmets and shorts, and becoming honorary chiefs of obscure tribes, and hiking for days with little native guides,” said Caroline. She had affected a stagey manner; she was acting. How strange it was to

see her behaving like this, Munday thought; to see them both, Emma and Caroline, playing parts in company, assigning him his trivial part, because the role of lover was unplayable. “Oh, yes,” Caroline said, “and being terribly interested in arrowheads and blunt daggers.”

“You’ve just described my husband,” said Emma. “Not exactly,” said Munday.

Emma leaned towards Caroline, and said, “You should see Alfred’s weapons.”

“I’ll open that second bottle of wine,” said Munday. He went to the sideboard and pulled the cork, and filling the glasses he said, “I think you're going to like this one. It’s rather better than that Spanish number.” Caroline smiled and said, “This has been a lovely evening.”

“I’m enjoying myself,” said Emma. “We see so few people. We don’t do much in the way of entertaining. It’s a treat for us having you over.”

“Yes,” said Munday. “But you must have lots of friends in the area.”

“Not really,” said Caroline. “Like you, I'm a stranger here—though I’ve lived here for quite a number of years. The local people aren’t very easy to know. And the others are too easy, if you know what I mean. I live a quiet life.”

“So do we,” said Emma. “But not by choice. There are so many plays on in London I’d like to see.”

“That’s an expatriate remark if I’ve ever heard one,” said Munday.

“It’s true,” said Emma.

“My husband and I used to go up to London for the plays,” said Caroline.

“And you don't go now?” said Munday.

“Well, I lost him you see.”

“I’m sorry,” said Emma.

“It takes some getting used to.”

“You're managing, though,” said Munday.

“Just,” said Caroline. “I had to give up my dogs.” “Dogs?” Munday reached for his glass of wine, but

he saw his hand was trembling, and he didn’t pick it up. He moved the glass in circles on the table. He said, “What did you do with them?”

“I bred them,” said Caroline. “Alsatians—beautiful creatures.”

“That must have been a lot of work,” said Emma.

“I had help. Mr. Awdry found me a wonderful chap,” said Caroline. “Local. But awfully sweet.”

“Was it Hosmer, by any chance?” asked Munday.

“Why yes, but how did you know that?”

“I see him at The Yew Tree from time to time,” said Munday.

“You’re very brave,” said Emma. “It must be hard for a widow here.”

“It can be,” said Caroline. “But the day after my husband died, I overslept. I hadn’t done that for years. Perhaps that tells you something about our marriage.”

At that moment the lights went out. “Power cut,” said Emma. But it had been announced as a possibility, and they were prepared for it. There were candles on the window sill. “Just a moment,” said Munday. He struck a match, but in the spurt of flame he saw the rigid corpses of two dogs, their skin peeled off, their white muscles showing a thin foam of decay. And another, more vivid image, his dagger in the throat of the foxhound. Munday found the candles and brought them to the table. The conversation continued, but in candlelight, with their faces half-hidden and their bodies in shadow, it was more confidential, with an intensity that the harshly-lit room had restrained.

“They whisper about me,” said Caroline into her fiery sherbet.

“Who does?” asked Emma.

“The locals,” said Caroline. “You must have heard the talk. They say terrible things about me. They tell stories.”

“I’ve heard nothing,” said Emma.

“What sort of stories?” asked Munday.

“Oh, you know the kind of thing,” said Caroline.

She paused. The bones and hollows in her face were set off by shadows; her eyes held two candle flames. She finally said, “I didn’t give up my dogs—they were stolen. One morning I went to the kennel and they were gone. It’s dreadful when something you care about disappears—you can’t help thinking you’re next.”

“It is dreadful,” said Emma. “That makes me angry.” She was breathing hard with her mouth shut. She said, “They talk about us, too.”

“Do they?”

“They object to our visitors,” said Emma.

Caroline said, “They can be very cruel.”

Munday said, “In Africa—”

But Emma had leaned forward and was saying, “We don’t intend to stay here.” Her panting made the candle flame dance near her face.

“That’s not true,” said Munday.

“It is!”

“Why not?” Caroline put the question to Emma.

“We’re just renting this house—it’s not permanent. I’ve never liked it here, and I don’t want to stay.”

Munday said, “We haven’t made any firm decision. We haven’t even discussed it.”

“I’ve made up my mind,” said Emma. “This house! At first I thought it was England, everything I’ve always disliked about England I found here—the damp, the cold, the shabbiness. That awful trap that appalled me even when I was a girl. So I thought it was me. But it wasn’t. No, it’s something else, something much worse. There are rooms in this house that Mrs. Branch refused to clean—I’ve seen things! Alfred laughs, but it’s so terrifying for me sometimes. You have no idea.”

“Calm yourself,” said Munday. “I love this house.”

“I can’t help it,” said Emma. She blinked and started again, “This house—”

“You’ll have to forgive Emma,” said Munday. “She’s not well.”

“No,” said Caroline. She looked at Emma as an

adult at a child quieted by terror; Emma was very pale and small—she might have been stunned by a slap in the face. “I know what you mean,” said Caroline. “My house is no better. I’m alone, and when you’re alone in a room even a toast rack can look like an instrument of torture.”

“I’m often alone,” said Emma. “Alfred doesn’t know.”

“She paints,” said Munday. “And there’s the garden. Emma’s always had green fingers.”

“A crack in the wall or a mirror—even that can look very threatening,” said Caroline. “And the furniture seems to sit in judgment upon you.”

“Yes,” said Emma eagerly. “Yes, that’s exactly how I’ve felt.”

“And the noises,” said Caroline.

“The noises!” said Emma. “It’s worse during the day, much worse when the sun is shining, as if you’re being mocked by the light. That’s so sinister.”

“My house is empty,” said Caroline. “I shall go back there tonight and turn on all the lights. Do you know how it is, entering an empty house?”

“I do,” said Emma. “It’s the feeling I had when we came here, and it has never left me, not for a single moment! It doesn’t bother Alfred at all.”

“I don’t see why it should,” said Munday, but he had known the fear, and Emma’s outburst had reminded him of how keenly he had felt it.

“But it would be better if you did,” Emma said. “Then you’d know how I felt it, as Caroline does.” Munday was struck by how easily this first time Emma said his lover’s name.

“It just occurred to me,” said Caroline. She touched at her throat with misgiving.

“What’s wrong?” said Munday.

“I won’t be able to turn on the lights tonight. The house will be dark. These damned power cuts!”

“What a shame,” said Emma. “You see, I know just what’s going through your mind. It’s late, it’s dark— do you have very far to go?”

“I’ll see you home,” said Munday. “If it’ll make you feel any better.”

“That’s awfully kind of you,” said Caroline.

Munday tried to find an emotion in her eyes, but he could not see past the candle flames flickering there, two narrow blossoms of light that gave her cat’s eyes.

“Yes,” said Emma. Her face fell. “Then I’ll be here alone.”

“I won’t be long,” said Munday. He had visualized something like this happening, though he had not guessed that Caroline and Emma would get on so well. The darkness helped, and seeing them together he had become aware of their similarities: Caroline wasn’t glamorous, nor was Emma so plain. They both had strengths he needed and an attraction he valued. But he knew he would have to choose; it was the worst of love, the excluding choice, and he had delayed it for too long.

“It’s selfish of me,” said Emma.

“Not at all,” said Caroline.

“I wish there were something we could do,” said Munday.

“But there is!” said Emma. She turned to Caroline. “Why not sleep here—stay the night?”

“I couldn’t,” said Caroline.

“It’s no trouble. We have masses of room. That’s what people do in the country, the way I imagined it. I can lend you a nightdress.”

“Emma—”

“See to the coffee, Alfred.”

“I really could go straight home on my own,” said Caroline.

“But there’s no one there,” said Emma. “You’re not expected.”

“No,” said Caroline. “That’s quite true.”

“I want you to stay.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely,” said Emma. “Do it for my sake. So it’s settled. Now, take this candle and go into the other room, and we’ll bring in the coffee.”

Caroline left the room, carrying the candle. The light wavered, a liquid glimmering on the walls, as she glided down the passage.

“I’m glad she’s staying,” said Emma. “I feel I’ve been so unfair to her. I don’t like to think of the things I’ve said about her.”

“I’ll put some wood on the fire,” said Munday.

“Such a sad woman,” said Emma. “Be kind to her, Alfred.”

Caroline was crouched on the sofa, her knees tucked beneath her. She hugged a cushion to her stomach and said, “I like her. Perhaps that’s the reason I stayed.”

“Really,” said Munday, but he made it a murmur of* disinterest and doubt.

“You know very little about your wife.”

“I know she’s lonely, and her heart bothers her. She’s had a bad time of it.” He lit the candles in the wall holders over the hearth. “We’re partly to blame.” “Partly?” said Caroline. She smiled and flicked one of the tassles on the cushion with her fingers. “Are you going to leave her?”

Munday thought a moment. He said, “Wouldn’t it be perfect if we could live like this, the three of us.” “You don't mean that,” she said.

Then Emma walked in with the coffee. She served it and took a chair before the fire, between Caroline and Munday. “I’m not having any coffee,” she said. “It would only keep me awake. I’ve put a nightdress and clean towel on your bed. It’s the back bedroom. I hope you’ll be comfortable.”

“You’re very kind,” said Caroline.

There was complete peacefulness on Emma’s face. She said, “It would be lovely if every evening was like this. The candlelight, the fire, good company. I think I could actually bear it here.” She let her head fall back and she seemed to sleep, still smiling quietly. Her repose excited Munday; he felt a stirring of desire for her, thumbs and fingers within him warming his grave pulse to a weightless dance. The desire he felt for Emma became a yearning for Caroline—it was intense, bearing on one, then the other, a sexual blessing Emma inspired that he would bestow on Caroline. He savored the speed and impatience, the flutter in his blood.

He said, “Emma’s had a long day. Cooking’s quite an effort for her.”

“I’m awake,” said Emma. Her eyes were nearly shut. “Just.”

“I’d like to help with the washing-up,” said Caroline.

“It’s too dark for that—this blackout,” said Emma. “I’ve piled the dishes in the sink. Alfred and I can tackle them tomorrow.”

“It’s easier in the morning,” said Munday.

Emma rolled her head to one side and said to Caroline, “I feel as if you’ve rescued me.”

“It’s you who’s rescued me,” said Caroline.

“No,” said Emma. “I didn’t realize until tonight I could be happy here. It’s your doing.”

Munday said, “You look tired, Emma.”

“I am tired.” Her voice was thick with fatigue. ‘That fire always makes me so sleepy.” She sat up straight and said, “I’m nodding off. You must forgive me. I’m going to bed. Alfred, will you lock up and make sure Caroline has everything she needs?”

“Of course,” said Munday.

Emma got to her feet. She was somewhat unsteady. Caroline came over to her and said, “Sleep well,” and raised her hands. Emma reached and took them, and the women drew together, an action of unexpected grace, like that of two trained dancers beginning to music. They faced each other and touched cheeks, and then they kissed with great naturalness. It was a swift sisterly gesture, with a mute sigh in it, and their bodies met, their loose lips grazed. But Munday saw them hold it a fraction too long, and he was a gaping witnfess to a moment of intimacy. He sat back and squinted—he did not want to look away, though he felt he should, it was only proper.

And without saying more to him, Emma went out of the room. He heard her on the stairs, the light stamps rising up the other side of the wall. The sound faded and stopped. Then there was the wind in the chimney, the soft pop of the fire.

“Now,” said Munday, and he got up from his chair and made a move towards Caroline.