The Interpretation Of Murder (40 page)

    'My God,' I said.

    'It is purely personal attack,'
Ferenczi commented. 'Will American paper publish such things?'

    'There's your freedom of the press,'
said Brill, who received a withering glance from his wife. 'They've won. Hall
will cancel. What can we do?' 'Does Freud know?' I asked. 'Yes. Ferenczi told
him,' said Brill. 'I gave highlights of newspaper article,' explained Ferenczi,
'through door. He is not so upset. He says he has heard worse.'

    'But Hall hasn't,' I observed. Freud
had endured calumny a long time. He expected it; he was to a degree inured to
it. Hall, however, had as perfect a horror of scandal as any other New
Englander of old Puritan stock. To have Freud proclaimed a libertine in the
New York Times
the day before the inauguration of Clark's celebrations
would be too much for him. Aloud, I said, 'Does Freud have any idea who in New
York knew him in Vienna?'

    'There is no one,' Brill cried. 'He
says he never worked with any Americans.'

    'What?' I said. 'Why, that's our
chance. Maybe the whole article is a fake. Brill, call your friend at the
Times.
If they are really planning to publish this, tell them it's libel.
They can't publish an outright lie.'

    'And they are going to take my word
for it?' he answered.

    A half hour after the delivery of the
morning post, the Banwells' maid informed Clara that a visitor - 'a policeman,
ma'am' - was waiting in the foyer. Clara followed her maid to the marble entry
hall, where her butler was holding the hat of a small, pale man in a brown
suit, with beady, almost desperate eyes, a bushy mustache, and equally bushy
eyebrows.

    Clara started when she saw him. 'And
you are -?' she asked stiffly.

    'Coroner Charles Hugel,' he replied,
no less stiffly. 'I am chief investigator of the murder of Elizabeth Riverford.
I would like a word with you.'

    'I see,' replied Clara. She turned to
her butler. 'Surely this is Mr Banwell's business, Parker, not mine.'

    'I beg your pardon, ma'am,' answered
Parker. 'The gentleman asked for you.'

    Clara turned back to the coroner.
'Did you ask for me, Mr - Mr -?'

    'Hugel,' said Hugel. 'I - no, I
merely thought, with your husband out, Mrs Banwell, that you -'

    'My husband is not out,' said Clara.
'Parker, inform Mr Banwell that we have a caller. Mr Hugel, I am sure you will
excuse me.' A few minutes later, from her dressing room, Clara heard a cascade
of oaths sworn in George Banwell's deep voice, followed by a slamming of the
front door. Then Clara heard her husband's heavy footsteps approaching. For a
moment Clara's hands - applying powder to her lovely face - began to tremble,
until she willed them still.

    An hour and a quarter later, Nora
Acton and I were steaming north up the Hudson River past the spectacular
burnt-orange cliffs of New Jersey. We had left the Hotel Manhattan through a
basement door, just in case - after I had changed clothes. On the New York side
of the river, an armada of three-masted wooden ships was anchored under Grant's
Tomb, their white sails flapping lazily in the bright sunshine, part of the
elaborate preparations for the Hudson-Fulton celebrations this fall. A few
puffs of cloud floated in an otherwise unblemished sky. Miss Acton sat on a
bench near the prow, her hair flowing and tousled by the breeze.

    'It's lovely, isn't it?' she said.

    'If you like boats,' I answered.

    'Don't you?'

    'I'm against boats,' I said. 'There
is first of all the wind. If people enjoy a wind in their face, they should
stand in front of an electric fan. Then there are the exhaust fumes. And the
infernal horn - the visibility is perfect, there's no one around for miles, and
they blow that blasted horn so loud it kills entire schools of fish.'

    'My father withdrew me from Barnard
this morning. He called the registrar. Mother made him.'

    'That is reversible,' I said,
embarrassed to have been chattering so ridiculously.

    'Did your father teach you to shoot,
Dr Younger?' she asked.

    The question took me by surprise. I
couldn't tell what she meant by it - or if she even knew what she might have
meant by it.

    'What makes you think I can shoot?' I
said.

    'Can't all men of our social class
shoot?' She uttered
social class
almost contemptuously.

    'No,' I answered, 'unless you include
shooting one's mouth off:

    'Well,
you
can,' she said. 'I
saw you.'

    'Where?'

    'I told you: at the horse show last
year. You were amusing yourself at the shooting gallery.'

    'Was I?'

    'Yes,' she said. 'You seemed to be
enjoying yourself a good deal.'

    I looked at her for a long time,
trying to see how much she knew. My father's suicide had involved a gun. Not to
put too fine a point on it, he had blown his brains out. 'My uncle taught me,'
I said. 'Not my father.'

    'Your Uncle Schermerhorn or your
Uncle Fish?'

    'You know more about me than I
realized, Miss Acton.'

    'A man who lists himself in the
Social Register can hardly complain if his relations are common knowledge.'

    'I did not list myself. I was listed,
just as you were.'

    'Did you grieve when he died?'

    'Who?'

    'Your father.'

    'What is it you want to know, Miss
Acton?'

    'Did you?'

    'No one mourns a suicide,' I said.

    'Really? Yes, I suppose the death of
fathers is common. Your father lost a father, after all, and that father lost
his too.'

    'I thought you hated Shakespeare.'

    'What is it like, Doctor, to be
raised by someone you despise?'

    'Wouldn't you know better than I,
Miss Acton?'

    'Me?' she said. 'I was raised by
someone I love.'

    'You do not usually display that
emotion when speaking of your parents.'

    'I am not speaking of my parents,'
Nora replied. 'I am speaking of Mrs Biggs.'

    'I didn't hate my father,' I said.

    'I hate mine. At least I am not
afraid to say so.'

    The wind grew stronger. Perhaps the
weather was turning. Nora gazed steadfastly at the shore. What exactly she
meant to make me feel, I didn't know.

    'We have this much in common, Miss
Acton,' I said: 'We both grew up wishing not to be like our parents. Either of
them. But defiance, Dr Freud says, shows just as much attachment as obedience.'

    'I see: you have achieved
detachment.'

    Some minutes later, she asked me to
tell her more about Freud's theories. I did, avoiding any mention of Oedipus
and his cognates. Breaching the usual professional etiquette, I described to her
some of my previous analysands - anonymously, of course - hoping to illustrate
the workings of the transference and its extreme effects on analytic patients.
To this end I told her about Rachel, the girl who had tried to disrobe for me
in virtually every session.

    'Was she good-looking?' asked Nora.

    'No,' I lied.

    'You're lying,' she said. 'Men always
like that kind of girl. I suppose you had sex with her.'

    'I certainly did not,' I answered,
surprised by her explicitness.

    'I am not in love with you, Doctor,'
she said, as if it were a perfectly logical reply to make. 'I know that's what
you think. I mistakenly supposed I had some feelings for you yesterday, but
that was the product of very trying circumstances and your own declaration of
affection for me.'

    'Miss Acton -'

    'Don't be alarmed. I don't hold you
to it. I understand that what you said yesterday no longer reflects your true
sentiments, just as what I said yesterday no longer reflects mine. I have no
feelings for you. This, this transference of yours, which you say makes
patients either love or hate their doctors, has no application to me. I am your
patient, as you said. That is all.'

    I let her words pass without response
as the ferry churned upriver.