The Skull Beneath the Skin (40 page)

Cordelia felt totally inadequate. She said: “No indeed. But have you somewhere to go, for tonight I mean?”

“She’ll be staying with me.”

Tolly came quietly into the room. She was wearing a dark-blue fitted coat with padded shoulders and a small hat pierced
with one long feather. The outfit was reminiscent of the thirties and gave her a slightly raffish and outdated smartness. She was carrying a bulging suitcase bound with a strap. She moved unsmiling to Mrs. Munter’s side—it was impossible for Cordelia to think of her by any other name—and the two women faced her together.

Cordelia felt that she was seeing Mrs. Munter clearly for the first time. Until now she had hardly noticed her. The strongest impression she had made was of an unobtrusive competence. She had been an adjunct to Munter, little more. Even her appearance was unmemorable, the coarse hair, neither fair nor dark, with its stiff, corrugated waves, the stolid body, the stumpy work-worn hands. But now the thin mouth which had given so little away was taut with an obstinate triumph. The eyes which had been so deferentially downcast stared boldly into hers with a look of challenging, almost insolent confidence. They seemed to say: “You don’t even know my name. And now you never will.” Beside her stood Tolly, unchanged in her self-contained serenity.

So they were going away together. Where, she wondered, would they live? Presumably Tolly had a house or flat somewhere in London where she had made a home for her child. Cordelia had a sudden and disconcertingly clear picture of them, not living there surrounded by memories, but installed in a neat suburban house within convenient distance of the Tube and the shopping parade, net curtains looped across the bay window, hindering inquisitive eyes, a small front garden railed against unwelcome intruders, against the past. They had thrown off their servitude. But surely that servitude must have been voluntary? Both were adult women. Surely it wasn’t the fear of unemployment that had kept them from their freedom? They could have left their jobs whenever it suited them. So why hadn’t they? What was the mysterious alchemy that
kept people tied together against all reason, against inclination, against their own interests? Well, death had parted them now, one from Clarissa, the other from Munter; parted them very conveniently the police might think.

Cordelia thought, I’m seeing both of them clearly for the first time and still I know nothing about them. Some words of Henry James fell into her mind. “Never believe that you know the last word about any human heart.” But did she know even the first word, she who called herself a detective? Wasn’t it one of the commonest of human vanities, this preoccupation with the motives, the compulsions, the fascinating inconsistencies of another personality? Perhaps, she thought, we all enjoy acting the detective, even with those we love; with them most of all. But she had accepted it as her job; she did it for money. She had never denied its fascination, but now, for the first time, it occurred to her that it might also be presumptuous. And never before had she felt so inadequate for the task, pitting her youth, her inexperience, her meagre store of received wisdom against the immense mysteriousness of the human heart. She turned to Mrs. Munter.

“I should like to have a word with Miss Tolgarth alone. May I, please?”

The woman didn’t reply but looked at her friend and was given a small nod. Without speaking, she left them.

Tolly waited, patient, unsmiling, her hands folded before her. There was something which Cordelia would like to have asked first, but she didn’t need to. And she was less arrogant now than when she had first taken the case. She told herself that there were questions she had no right to ask, facts she had no right to be told. No human curiosity, no longing to have every piece of the jigsaw neatly fitted into place as if her own busy hands could impose order on the muddle of human lives,
could justify asking what she knew in her heart was true, whether Ivo had been the father of Tolly’s child. Ivo who had spoken of Viccy with knowledge and love, who had known that Tolly had refused to accept any help from the father; Ivo who had taken the trouble to get in touch with the hospital and learn the truth about that telephone call. How strange to think of them together, Ivo and Tolly. What was it, she wondered, that they had wanted of each other? Had Ivo been trying to hurt Clarissa, or assuage a deeper hurt of his own? Was Tolly one of those women, desperate for a child, who prefers not to be burdened with a husband? The birth of Viccy, if not the pregnancy, must surely have been deliberate. But none of it was her business. Of all the things that human beings did together, the sexual act was the one with the most various of reasons. Desire might be the commonest, but that didn’t mean that it was the simplest. Cordelia couldn’t even bring herself to mention Viccy directly. But there was something she had to ask. She said: “You were with Clarissa when the first of the messages came, during the run of
Macbeth
. Would you tell me what they looked like?”

Tolly’s eyes burned into hers with a sombre, considering stare, but not, she thought, with resentment or dislike. Cordelia went on: “You see, I think it was you who sent them and I think she might have guessed and known why. But she couldn’t do without you. It was easier to pretend. And she didn’t want to show the messages to anyone else. She knew what she had done to you. She knew that there were things even her friends might not forgive. And then what she hoped would happen did happen. Perhaps there had been some change in your life which had made you feel that what you were doing was wrong. So the messages stopped. They stopped until one of the small number of people who had known about them took over. But then they were different messages. They
looked different. Their purpose was different. And their end was different and terrible.”

Still there was no reply. Cordelia said gently: “I know I’ve no right to ask. Don’t answer me directly if you’d rather not. Just tell me what those first messages were like and I think I shall know.”

Then Tolly spoke: “They were written by hand in capital letters on lined paper. Paper torn from a child’s exercise book.”

“And the messages themselves. Were they quotations?”

“It was always the same message. A text from the Bible.”

Cordelia knew that she was lucky to have gained so much. And even this confidence wouldn’t have been given if Tolly hadn’t recognized some sympathy, some empathy between them. But there was one more question which she thought she might risk.

“Miss Tolgarth, have you any idea who it was who took over?”

But the eyes looking into hers were implacable. Tolly had told all she intended to tell.

“No. I concern myself with my own sins. Let others look to theirs.”

Cordelia said: “I shall never pass on to anyone what you’ve just said to me.”

“If I thought that you would, I wouldn’t have told you.” She paused, and then asked in the same even tone: “What will happen to the boy?”

“To Simon? He told me that Sir George will keep him on at Melhurst for his final year and that he’ll then try for a place at one of the colleges of music.”

Tolly said: “He’ll be all right now she’s gone. She wasn’t good for the young. And now, if you’ll excuse me, Miss, I’d like to help my friend finish her packing.”

There was nothing more to be said or done. Cordelia left the two women together and went to her bedroom to get ready for the afternoon’s excursion. As her object was to search for the newspaper review, her full scene-of-crime kit was hardly necessary, but she slipped a hand magnifying glass, a torch and notebook into her shoulder bag and pulled her Guernsey over her shirt. It might be cold on the boat on the return trip. Lastly she wound the leather belt twice round her waist and buckled it tight. As always, it felt like a talisman, a girding on of resolution. As she crossed the terrace from the western front of the castle she saw that Mrs. Munter and Tolly were already making their way towards the launch, both of them carrying a case in either hand. Oldfield must only recently have landed. He was still dragging his crates of wine and groceries on to the jetty, helped rather surprisingly by Simon. Cordelia thought that the boy was probably glad of something to do.

Suddenly Roma appeared from the dining-room windows and hurried down the terrace in front of her. She went up to Oldfield and spoke to him. The canvas post bag was on top of
his trolley and he unbuckled it and took out the bundle of letters. Drawing close to them Cordelia could sense Roma’s impatience. It looked as if she might snatch the bundle from Oldfield’s gnarled fingers. But then he found what she was wanting, and handed her a letter. She almost ran from him, then slowed to a walk and, without noticing Cordelia’s approach, tore the envelope open and read the letter. For a moment she stood absolutely still. Then she gave a sob, so high that it was almost a wail, and began stumbling along the terrace, pushed past Cordelia, and disappeared down the far steps to the beach.

Cordelia paused for a moment, uncertain whether to follow. Then she called to Oldfield to wait for her, that she wouldn’t be long, and ran after Roma. Whatever the news, it had devastated her. There might be something she herself could do to help. And even if not, it was impossible just to board the launch and set off as if the scene had never happened. She tried to silence the small resentful voice which protested that it couldn’t have occurred at a more inconvenient time. Was she never to be allowed to get off the island? Why should she always have to be the one to act as universal social worker? But it was impossible to ignore such distress.

Roma was stumbling and reeling along the shore, her hands flung out before her, groping the air. Cordelia thought that she could hear a high continued scream of pain. But perhaps it was the cry of the gulls. She had almost caught up with the fleeing figure when Roma tripped, fell at full length on the shingle and lay there, her whole body shaking with sobs. Cordelia came up to her. To see the proud and reserved Roma in such an abandonment of grief was as physically shocking as a blow to the stomach. Cordelia felt the same rush of impotent fear, the same helplessness. All she could do was
kneel in the sand and put her arms round Roma’s shoulders, hoping that this human contact might at least help to calm her. She found herself softly cooing as she might to a child or an animal. After a few minutes the dreadful shaking ceased. Roma lay so still that, for a second, Cordelia feared that she had ceased to breathe. Then she heaved herself clumsily upright and threw off Cordelia’s arm. Walking unsteadily into the surf she bent and began splashing her face. Then she stood upright for a moment, looking out to sea before turning to face Cordelia.

Her face was grotesque, bloated as a long-drowned visage, the eyes like gummed slits, the nose a bulbous mess. When she spoke, her voice was harsh and guttural, the sounds forcing themselves through swollen vocal cords.

“I’m sorry. That was a disgusting exhibition. I’m glad it was you, if that’s any comfort.”

“I wish I could help.”

“You can’t. No one can. As you’ve probably guessed, it’s the usual commonplace sordid little tragedy. I’ve been chucked. He wrote on Friday night. We only saw each other on Thursday. He must have known then what he was going to do.”

She pulled the letter from her pocket and held it out.

“Go on, read it! Read it! I wonder how many drafts it took to produce this elegant, self-justifying piece of hypocrisy.”

Cordelia didn’t take the letter. She said: “If he hadn’t the decency and courage to tell you to your face, he isn’t worth crying over, he isn’t worth loving.”

“What has worth to do with love? My God, why couldn’t he have waited?”

Waited for what? thought Cordelia. For Clarissa’s money? For Clarissa’s death? She said: “But if he had, could you ever have been sure?”

“Of his motive, you mean? Why should I care? I haven’t that kind of pride. But it’s too late now. He wrote a day too soon. Oh God, why couldn’t he have waited? I told him that I’d get the money, I told him!”

A wave, larger than its fellows, broke at Cordelia’s feet and rolled a woman’s silver evening sandal among the brighter sea-washed stones. She found herself looking at it with an artificial intensity, making herself wonder what sort of woman had worn it, how it had come to be in the sea, from what wild party on what yacht it had been lost overboard. Or was its owner out there somewhere, a slim, half-clad body turning in the waves? Any thought, even that thought, helped to shut out the harsh unnatural voice which might any moment say those fatal words which couldn’t be taken back and which neither of them would be able to forget.

“When I was a child I went to a co-educational school. All the children paired off. When the friendship cooled they used to send each other what they called a chuck note. I never had one. But then I never had a boyfriend. I used to think it would be worth getting the chuck note if only I’d had the friendship first, just for one term. I wish I could feel that now. He was the only man who has ever wanted me. I think I always knew why. You can only deceive yourself so far. His wife doesn’t much enjoy sex and I was a free fuck. All right, don’t look like that! I don’t expect you to understand. You can get love whenever you want it.”

Cordelia cried: “That isn’t true, not of me, not of anyone!”

“Isn’t it? It was true of Clarissa. She only had to look at a man. One look, that’s all it ever took. All my life I’ve watched her using those eyes. But she won’t any more. Never again. Never, never, never.”

Her anguish was like an infection, strong and feverish and smelling of sweat. Cordelia could feel its contamination in her
own blood. She stood on the shingle, afraid to approach Roma since she knew that physical comfort would be unwelcome, reluctant to leave her, miserably aware that Oldfield would be getting impatient. Then Roma said gruffly: “You’d better go if you want to catch the launch.”

“What about you?”

“Don’t worry. You can escape with an easy conscience, I shan’t do anything stupid. That’s the euphemism, isn’t it? Isn’t that what they always say? Don’t do anything stupid. I’ve been taught my lesson. No more stupidity, Roma! I can tell you what will happen to me, in case you’re interested. I’ll take Clarissa’s money and buy myself a London flat. I’ll sell the shop and find myself a part-time job. From time to time I’ll take a foreign holiday with a woman friend. We shan’t much enjoy each other’s company, but it will be better than travelling alone. We’ll devise little treats for ourselves, a theatre, an art show, dinner at one of those restaurants where they don’t treat solitary women as pariahs. And in the autumn I’ll enrol for evening classes and pretend an interest in throwing pots, or the Georgian architecture of London or comparative religion. And every year I shall get a little more fussy about my comforts, a little more censorious of the young, a little more fretful with my friend, a little more right-wing, a little more bitter, a little more lonely, a little more dead.”