House of the Hanged (15 page)

The moment the black sedan had disappeared down the driveway, Tom made for the terrace and smoked a cigarette, pacing, replaying the encounter in his head, totting up the errors he'd made.

Commissaire Roche had him in his sights – that much was certain – but unless the Italian's body came bobbing to the surface, the investigation was doomed to peter out through lack of physical evidence. It was the only consolation to draw from this unexpected turn of events. The rest was almost too depressing to think about.

That one photograph had changed everything.

It told him that his instinct had been correct. No one was to be trusted, not even Leonard.

And certainly not Yevgeny and Fanya.

By the time he returned from his morning swim, his head was clear and he had worked out a rough plan of action. Paulette had arrived in the meantime and was doing battle in the kitchen with the detritus of dinner, while Barnaby bounced around her, waiting for the coffee to come to the boil.

‘Who was the dwarf in the suit?' he asked, meaning Commissaire Roche.

‘A neighbour. It's an old boundary dispute – the joys of country life.'

‘Don't knock it,' said Barnaby. ‘I've decided to shake the city dust from my feet and go rustic, like you.'

Tom laughed; it was a ridiculous notion.

‘It's true,' bleated Barnaby. ‘It came to me in the bath just now.'

‘Had you taken one of your pick-me-ups from Heppell's?'

Heppell's was the chemists in Piccadilly where Barnaby went in search of substances to regulate his moods.

‘Annoyingly, old man Heppell has become rather snooty about what he's happy to dispense me. No, this was the real thing: a genuine epiphany.'

‘In a bathtub?'

‘I'd take a bathtub over a dusty road to Damascus any day.'

Barnaby wasn't joking. The moment Paulette shooed them from the kitchen to the terrace, he was quick to elaborate further.

It began with the usual litany of misery: finances in a hopeless tangle . . . down to absolute bedrock . . . a welter of debts and threats of legal proceedings . . . creditors dunning him from all quarters . . . some bank or other calling up his overdraft . . . prostituting his talents as a hack-journalist . . . going off the deep end with drink.

For once, though, this cold shower of self-reproach wasn't a prelude to an appeal for yet another handout from Tom. Barnaby was resolved to turn things around by himself.

‘I don't want to end up as a cautionary tale, Tommy.'

He only ever called Tom ‘Tommy' when he was speaking from the heart, when he wished to be taken seriously. It was an old code of theirs, reaching back to boyhood.

‘So, you've decided to go rustic?'

‘That's right – a God-wotter in a lovesome thing, rose plot, fern'd grot, whatnot – as the poet says. It worked for you, didn't it? Obviously, I couldn't afford anywhere as grand as this, I don't have a wealthy great aunt eager to assuage her guilt by settling a vast inheritance on me.'

‘It wasn't quite like that.'

‘It was close enough,' said Barnaby. ‘No, my shoebox in Hangover Terrace is mortgaged to the hilt, but if I put it on the market I'll have just about enough to rent a place out of town for a year or two, along with a bit of juggling money. I'm thinking Henley – a damp little cottage with an overgrown garden and horny-handed country folk for neighbours.'

‘Somehow, I can't see you with horny-handed country folk.'

‘You think I can? I despise horny-handed country folk. That's the point.'

‘You're losing me.'

‘I'm going to write a book about it.'

‘About how much you despise them?'

‘Of course not. I'll paint them as engagingly eccentric and bursting with uncommon wisdoms.'

‘When the cuckoo comes to a bare thorn, Sell your cow and buy your corn; But if she sits on a green bough, Sell your corn and buy your cow.'

‘Exactly! Complete and utter nonsense, but it sounds likes centuries of wisdom distilled down to a few lines. A city readership will lap it up.'

It wasn't a bad idea, not bad at all.

‘Got any more like that?' asked Barnaby.

‘A moon early seen, seldom seen.'

Barnaby chuckled delightedly. ‘Of course you do – a Norfolk lad from the back of beyond. I'll give you a shilling for each and every one of them.'

‘And where are you going to pitch yourself in this paean to a lost age?'

‘As a hopeless but entertaining scoundrel who finds himself slowly seduced by the pastoral idyll. It'll be a life of unspeakable drudgery, of course, but unsophistication is now the ultra-sophisticated thing. The duller we are, the more amusing we are. I might even get myself a dog; yes, an old bull terrier bitch who hates grass snakes. That's got to be good for a chapter or two. And who knows, maybe I'll even find myself a girl, some rosy-cheeked wench with honest peasant buttocks who skins rabbits in her spare time.'

Tom laughed. ‘You know, I think you might be on to something.'

‘Really?'

‘Absolutely. It's very timely. Throw in a bit of local history, the more macabre the better – ghosts, highwaymen swinging from gibbets, that sort of thing – and maybe a few seasonal recipes –'

‘– learned at the elbow of some toothless old crone.'

‘You're getting the idea.'

‘
My
idea,' said Barnaby, with emphasis. ‘If you're not in Henley by October, it's up for grabs.'

‘I'll be there.'

There was something in Barnaby's voice that suggested this particular fantasy might actually come to life.

‘Humour's the key,' suggested Tom.

‘You managed to be mildly amusing about the Wailing Wall in your last book. I'm sure I can do the same for inglenook fireplaces that don't draw properly and, I don't know, badgers digging up my vegetables.'

‘Is that what badgers do?'

‘Believe me, those bloody badgers will do whatever the hell I tell them to do.'

Tom laughed. ‘There's only one problem.'

‘What's that?

‘When the first book flies off the shelves, you're going to have to stay on in Henley and write another.'

‘Oh fuck,' said Barnaby. ‘I hadn't thought of that.'

Lucy had fully expected to find Leonard banished by Mother to one of the other bedrooms for the night, but as she made her way downstairs for breakfast she could hear the two of them giggling like naughty children in their bathroom. These sounds of merriment were accompanied by the splashing of bath water, which brought to mind an image hard to stomach at such an early hour.

The seeds of the argument had been sown during the walk back from dinner at Tom's, when Mother had stumbled in the darkness, falling and grazing her knee. Quite reasonably, Leonard had suggested that it was a little unfair of her to curse the uneven pathway, given the amount of alcohol she had consumed over dinner.

‘You're a fine one to talk,' Mother had retaliated. ‘Was it three or four Poire Williams you put down at the end there?'

‘It's important to cleanse the palate before bed.'

‘Bugger, I think I'm bleeding.'

‘Mother, language.'

‘Oh, don't you go playing little Miss Prissy with me. I saw the way you were carrying on with Walter. That poor boy, he'll probably have nightmares.'

‘Nightmares?'

‘About wild-eyed harpies holding him captive.'

‘Yes, the poor boy,' said Leonard ruefully. ‘That might be more amusing if it wasn't so predictable.'

It had been one of Mother's more benign argumentative moods, but that had all changed the moment they arrived at the house. Leonard was held to blame for the fact that the tincture of iodine hadn't travelled with them from London, and then castigated for his heavy-handed nursing skills while crouched at her feet with an enamel bowl of water and a roll of cotton wool.

‘Surely they taught you how clean and dress a wound in the army?'

‘Wounds, yes. We spent less time on scratches.' His wry smile was intended for Lucy.

‘Why on earth are you smirking at her?'

‘Okay,' said Lucy, ‘that's it, I'm going to bed.'

‘Traitor,' mumbled Leonard.

She left him there in the drawing room, kneeling before his wife like some elderly vassal paying homage to a feudal lord.

Lucy was brushing her teeth her when she heard the piercing scream. Worried that Mother had finally pushed Leonard too far, she hurried naked to the head of the stairs, straining to hear the voices rising up from below through the darkness.

The scream, it turned out, had been brought on by the liberal application of Chanel No.5 to the graze.

‘You enjoyed that, didn't you?' Mother snapped accusingly.

‘Well, I had to put something on it.'

‘Why stop with scent? You'll find a bottle of bleach in the cupboard under the kitchen sink.'

‘Venetia, please . . . I don't want to have a fight. I want to go to sleep.'

Mother was having none of it, though. That scream had cleared her lungs; they were ready for action.

‘Tired, are you?'

‘A little,' Leonard replied.

‘A heavy night, was it?'

‘Excuse me?'

‘You can't have forgotten so soon. Last night . . . in Cannes . . . with your good friend Yevgeny.'

‘Not especially heavy.'

‘So where were you when I called your hotel room just before midnight?'

‘Playing billiards, I believe, downstairs.'

‘And at one o'clock in the morning? Still playing billiards, were we?'

‘The reception doesn't put calls through to the rooms after midnight.'

‘Oh, you checked, did you? That's very telling.'

She was like a dog with a bone; she wasn't going to release it until she'd picked it bare. First she accused him and Yevgeny of taking themselves off to some sordid little bordello, to which Leonard replied that she couldn't be more mistaken . . . it had been a large and rather upmarket bordello.

‘I knew it!' Mother declared.

‘I'm joking.'

‘Well, I'm not. The two of you were up to something. Did you even see a golf ball during your time there?'

‘Oh, for goodness' sake, Venetia!'

‘You've shipped her in, haven't you? – your little hussy – set her up in an apartment in Cannes.'

A puzzling silence stretched out, and for a moment it seemed to Lucy that Leonard might actually be about to say ‘yes'. He didn't, although what he did say was no less shocking.

‘I gave you my word I would never see her again, and I haven't.'

‘Unfortunately, I remember you giving me your word that you weren't having an affair with that slattern when in fact you were.'

‘I thought we were over this.'

‘Did she bring one of her floozie friends along for Yevgeny? Is that what happened? Is that why you're so bloody tired?'

Lucy's legs had grown suddenly and strangely numb, and she crept unsteadily back to her room on them, flopping on to the bed and clutching a pillow to her midriff.

While the row rumbled on downstairs, she tried to make sense of what she had just overheard. Leonard had had an affair with another woman, so why didn't she feel more anger towards him? The pain in Mother's words had been palpable, a living thing buried beneath the bile, so why was she unable to muster more sympathy for her? She struggled to feel anything. Even the suspicion that life as she knew it was over lacked any real sting.

She could no longer look on Leonard as a long-suffering saint, he was also a sinner. Mother didn't just dish it out, she also had her own cross to bear. Lucy's world hadn't fallen apart, she realized as she lay there curled in the darkness, it had simply shifted on its axis, revealing another face to her, an alien aspect. There was nothing to fear from it, though. How could there be when she still had Tom, a fixed point in the universe by which to orientate herself?

This was the consoling thought she had carried with her into her dreams, the thought which had then warped itself malignly while she was sleeping into a torrid fantasy which had seen her wake with a start just before daybreak, hot, breathless, and wet.

It wasn't the first time that Tom had made love to her. She remembered the first time, the confusion and the guilt which had followed, the blame all hers for having led him astray. It hardly classified as a recurring dream, if only because the circumstances were always different, but it had caught her out enough times for the shame to have given way to a sort of bemused acceptance of their secret trysts.

Last night had been different, though. She had not been relieved to wake from the dream; she had tried to will herself back into his arms, his bed, and when that failed, she had slid her fingers between her thighs and she had finished what they had started together. Afterwards, she had fallen into a deep and peaceful slumber, waking several hours later, not at all ashamed of what she had done, but with a satisfying glow still in her belly and a lazy smile on her lips.

Something had changed in her, and she suspected that in some convoluted fashion it had to do with the knowledge she now carried within her. Why else was she feeling so defiant, so empowered? It could only be because she saw Mother and Leonard's relationship in a new light: a flawed and faintly ridiculous pairing of two quite different people, unsuited to each other in so many ways, almost a generation apart in age. So what if she had indulged in a little private fantasy? She and Tom were not only closer in age, they were closer in almost every other way, too.

What she didn't anticipate, when Mother and Leonard finally tripped downstairs to breakfast, was how well disposed she felt towards them. Mother's apology helped.

‘Darling, did I make a complete fool of myself last night?'

‘Not a complete fool.'

‘Do you think you can bring yourself to forgive me?' The question was accompanied by a coy little pout.

‘What your mother means is: forgive me.'

‘Do I?'

‘Yes,' replied Leonard firmly.

‘Forgive me, darling.'

Lucy got up from her chair, wandered round the table to where Mother was seated and wrapped her arms around her from behind. Stooping to kiss her on the neck, she said, ‘You're forgiven.'

‘So are you, my darling – for being such a strumpet with Walter.'

‘Venetia!'

‘It was a joke.'

If you only knew the truth, thought Lucy.

An almost identical thought passed through her head when she greeted Tom down at the cove.

He and Barnaby were diving off the rocks around to the right, but on spotting them all arriving they both swam ashore, rising from the water on to the sand – one pale, one brown as a Balinese.

‘Apologies for the disgustingly white slug-flesh,' said Barnaby. ‘Feel free to vomit.'

Mother prodded him in the belly. ‘That wasn't there last year.'

‘And you won't know it from a washboard by the time I leave.'

‘Meanwhile, it's good for buoyancy,' said Tom.

‘Thus speaks the praying mantis,' retorted Barnaby.

‘I agree,' said Mother, spreading out one of the old rugs. ‘Tom's looking far too thin. Don't you think, Lucy?'

She found herself flummoxed by the question, fearful that her response would somehow betray her. Barnaby came unwittingly to her aid.

‘She's hardly the person to ask. Look at her. I assumed she had cancer when I turned up at the tennis club yesterday.'

‘Actually, I do,' Lucy replied quietly, with as much dove-eyed sincerity as she could muster.

Barnaby's jaw almost hit the sand, and he found no comfort in the awkward looks of the others.

‘Oh my God,' he sputtered, ‘I'm so sorry, I had no idea . . .'

Leonard was the first to cave in, giving the game away with a loud laugh which then set everyone else off.

Barnaby levelled a finger at her.

‘You, young lady, will pay dearly for that before this week is out.'

Yevgeny, Fanya and Walter showed up in a sailboat an hour or so later, Yevgeny swimming ashore while Walter rowed Fanya in.

Barnaby was curious to know if Ilse would be joining them.

Yevgeny gave him a slap on the back. ‘Don't worry, I think she likes you.'

Walter passed by with a grin. ‘Don't worry, I
know
she likes you.'

‘So where is she, then, this great admirer of mine?'

‘Shopping,' replied Fanya.

‘For new underwear?'

Yevgeny laughed. ‘For lunch. She and Klaus have invited us all to lunch.'

Eight people on the beach meant an obligatory game of volleyball; it was one of the house rules, no excuses allowed. Lucy found herself teamed with Tom, Yevgeny, and Fanya – who, like Mother, spent most of her time complaining that the sand was too hot underfoot. Nevertheless, they all made fools of themselves, leaping about the place and working themselves into a sweat before running into the sea to cool off at half-time. The others were leading 8–6 and Yevgeny was all for discussing tactics, but Tom seemed determined to pursue an altogether different conversation.

‘Yevgeny, I almost forgot, I spoke to Baptiste earlier. He sends you his best.'

‘Baptiste?'

‘The photographer who stayed with you when you were down briefly back in May.'

‘You spoke to Baptiste Daumier?'

‘A friend of mine in Paris wants some portraits taken of her children. I thought he might be interested.'

‘I would have thought portraits were beneath Baptiste.'

‘Well, times must be tough, because he said he was happy for her to call him.'

‘That's good,' said Yevgeny, sinking beneath the water before resurfacing.

‘He's a very nice young fellow.'

‘Yes,' concurred Yevgeny. ‘Yes, he is.'

‘He reminded me of that day we all spent in St Tropez.' It came across as a strangely pointed statement, because Tom left it hanging so that it required a response from Yevgeny.

‘I remember it.'

‘I'd love to see the photographs some time – the ones he said he sent you later.'

‘Yes, of course. I should have brought them from Paris.'

‘No rush,' said Tom. ‘Although he did say there's a particularly good one of me which I might want to keep.'

It was a bizarre exchange, made all the more bizarre by the fact that it took place between two disembodied heads bobbing on the surface of the sea.

‘Come on,' said Fanya, who had been silently listening in while swimming in circles. ‘We have a match to win.'

They lost it by three points, which gave the victors control of the gramophone for the rest of the morning – another house rule. No one complained. Walter had come armed with the latest discs from America, which his younger brother in New York sent over on an almost weekly basis.

‘He's worried about me, thinks I'm falling behind on real culture over here.'

Even Mother, whose taste in modern music didn't extend much beyond Lew Stone and Cole Porter declared, ‘You know, I think I might be coming round to this American “Swing” thing. What did you say his name was?'

‘Benny Goodman.'

‘A negro, I assume.'

‘White as salt, actually.'

‘Even better,' said Yevgeny, looking for a cheap laugh.

He didn't get one from Tom. ‘I don't understand. Better than what? Better than black?'

There was a distinctly hostile edge to his tone, not something she had ever heard before from him.

‘You have to remember that Yevgeny is a
White
Russian,' joked Leonard, ever the diplomat, looking to smooth things over.

Tom's eyes remain fastened on to Yevgeny. ‘Yes, that must be it.' The words were accompanied by an unconvincing smile.

Yevgeny didn't look shocked by this public challenge from Tom, or even angry. He looked scared.

Walter followed Leonard's lead, swiftly changing the disc on the gramophone, shortening the uncomfortable silence as best he could. ‘If you like Benny Goodman, wait till you hear him on this.'