Though not for one moment did Alfred Baxter cease to appreciate his good fortune in working for Viola Windrush, the week after she and her brother left he found something of an anti-climax. The comings and goings engendered by their visit, the laughter, the carefully prepared meals, the frequent appreciation of all his work in the garden, had been a constant pleasure. Their apparent happiness, thought Alfred, had brushed off on to himself. Besides which, being kept so busy, there had been no time to dwell on the mystery of Eileen’s elusive face, and the haunting voices of the girls were never heard again.
But alone once more, wife and girls returned in their strange forms. No matter how hard he worked in the garden, Eileen’s face flew back and forth in Alfred’s mind, a silent pendulum, taunting him with an expression he could have sworn he never knew when she was alive. This imagined face was pinched, mean, accusing. It did not smile. The eyes were unforgiving. It was filled with dislike.
Sometimes, Alfred thought it must be the heat that was affecting him. He would break off from his digging, sit on a bench in the shade of the limes, take off his cap and wipe his balding head with a large handkerchief. He would listen to the flutter of the leaves, and sniff the distant smell of sea. With some pride he would then let his eyes dally among the lovingly cared for herbaceous border, the massed white roses, the velvet-eyed pansies and starry pinks that edged the stone paths. He alone had rescued the garden, and the transformation gave him a satisfaction that could not be denied. But no matter how much he filled his eyes with flowers and leaves and sky, the unpleasant face of Eileen remained in his vision.
At the end of his day’s work, she was replaced by the chatter of the girls. After his tea, once Alfred had retired to his chair in the sitting-room, hoping for a peaceful evening, they would begin their gossip. He could not make out exactly what they said, though sometimes odd sentences came to him so clearly that he would look round and be surprised to find himself still alone. It was the tone of the girls’ talk that made him shiver: he had the distinct impression they were in some way against him, mocking — like Eileen, accusing. In fitful dreams, at night, they lined up in court and interrogated him. He could see they were shouting, but he could not hear the questions. When he was unable to answer, they laughed and jeered. Night after night Alfred woke up sweating and afraid. Dear God, he prayed, what did I do to them that they should punish me like this?
After a week of solitude, Alfred could bear evenings in his own sitting-room no longer. Instead, he took the liberty of passing the hours in the Windrushes’ kitchen. There, he would drag up a chair to the fire, which he liked to light despite the warmth of the evenings, and read his paper or do his crossword puzzles. In peace. Merciful peace. No one followed him there, and by day Eileen’s face was less persistent. Alfred felt the balance of his mind gradually returning.
One evening he came across a report in the local paper that Admiral Fanshawe, Maisie Fanshawe’s father, had died. It gave the time and place of the funeral. Alfred, remembering the Fanshawes had been good customers in the old days, felt he would like to pay his last respects. He had not, by his own volition, taken a day off since he had been there, so he would feel no guilt in going to the funeral on Friday. He would like to say a word of condolence to Miss Maisie, who had been here recently. Yes, Admiral Fanshawe’s funeral would make a pleasant outing.
On Friday morning Alfred went early into the garden and gathered a bunch of white roses. He was not much of a one with flowers once they were cut, but he managed to gather them into a reasonably tidy-looking spray. Eileen would have laughed at his effort, no doubt: but he was not ashamed, and the smell was wonderful. Alfred wrote a small card to accompany the flowers, and placed them in water while he dressed.
For the first time since the morning he left the shop, Alfred took out his navy serge suit and a plain cream shirt. He found the sad black tie that he had bought for Eileen’s funeral, but nowhere could he lay hands on his old black bowler. This was a much-loved and well-worn hat, purchased when Alfred was made church warden forty years ago, brushed and used most Sundays since, until the sale of the shop. The hat had also accompanied Alfred on his many journeys with Eileen to cathedral cities. It had been respectfully taken off as they had entered some great portal, and put to rest on a chair beside him while Alfred prayed for strength to do his duty and love his neighbour. The fanfares of stone arches, flaring hundreds of feet above his head, always made Alfred feel strangely naked. He was glad when he could replace the hat once more, outside.
The loss of the bowler — in the move, Alfred supposed — was something of a shadow on the bright day. Luckily, inspiration came to him: in the many hats in the cloakroom, surely a suitable replacement could be found. In the circumstances, he felt, Colonel Windrush would have understood, and approved the loan. Alfred hurried off, found what he needed almost immediately — a most superior bowler, a size or so too big, perhaps, and in need of a good brush, but otherwise perfect.
With clean handkerchief sprightly in his pocket, white rose in his buttonhole and the Colonel’s hat bobbing on his ears, Alfred set off in some excitement for the bus stop. He enjoyed the long wait in the sun, sniffing at his funeral spray, admiring the shine of his shoes, and the general feeling of wellbeing. He enjoyed the ride on the bus, the view of harvesters in wide fields, the grey line of sea becoming fainter and fainter. But by the time the bus arrived in Docking, the sun had disappeared in an overcast sky. Very appropriate, thought Alfred. Climbing down the steps, he felt the first drops of fine rain.
The village church was half full, mostly elderly people. Alfred was a little shocked to see many of them had not bothered with funeral clothes: some of them were in positively cheerful dresses and scarves, and some men wore no ties. But perhaps that’s how it was these days: perhaps showing respect for the dead through sombre clothes was an oldfashioned idea.
Alfred found a seat with a good view of the altar and settled down to enjoy the music. There was a nice show of flowers, though he himself had never had a fondness for gladioli. But the lilies were magnificent: probably from the Fanshawes’ own garden.
After a while a small group of Fanshawe relations were escorted up the aisle by the vicar, and shown to the front pew. Miss Maisie was the tallest, and very thin. Unlike the others, all in black, she wore a neat coat of grey flannel, cut on almost military lines, Alfred thought. She wore grey stockings, grey shoes and gloves, and a hat that was no more than a puff of dotted net, half concealing her eyes. It reminded Alfred of a bunch of gypsophila. Very pretty. He trusted the word was not out of place on such an occasion.
From where he sat, Alfred had a fine view of Maisie Fanshawe’s profile and high shoulders, bony through the grey flannel. The coffin arrived, the service began: Alfred knelt, sang, listened, prayed with the congregation. But the conscious part of his mind he found entirely preoccupied by the sight of the Admiral’s daughter. There was something about her, he could not for the life of him explain what it was, that held his complete attention. She was, in some way, like the Windrushes’ garden, transformed. Alfred turned his mind back to the pictures he had of her, so recently, on her visits to the Windrushes: an awkward-looking lady, really, in clothes that never looked quite right, like Miss Windrush’s, and grey hair that made her older than she really was. She had seemed cheerful enough, but had — how could he put it? — no presence. That was it. Nothing about her that made you look again. Rather pathetic, was his impression, really: the downcast air of an eternal spinster.
But now, so great was the change, here in the church, that Alfred found it hard to believe he was looking at the same person. Her pale bony cheeks, flecked with tiny shadows from the dotted net, were — well, not exactly beautiful, but arresting. The mouth, significant before for its definite downward curve and damson lipstick, was colourless, perhaps to disguise in its corners the hint of a smile. It occurred to Alfred that relief, obviously, was what had caused the change: that was it, sheer relief. After all, it had been well known the poor girl had had to look after her paralysed father for many years. His passing on, for all its sadness, must also afford her secret joy. But there again, it wasn’t just her sense of freedom that seemed to burn through the slight grey figure: it seemed to be something more positive than that. She had about her the sort of calm exhilaration that you see on the faces of lovers when one is forced to catch an early train and the other, bidding him farewell, knows she will be following shortly.
The service over, the funeral procession moved out into the graveyard. Most of the villagers then dispersed. Only a small group of relations and friends made their way to the open grave. Alfred was undecided what to do: he would not like to offend the Fanshawes by intruding in a private occasion, but on the other hand he felt to leave now would be to cut his outing short. Settling for a compromise, he placed himself behind a tall gravestone some way from the coffin. Thus he could silently join in and observe, but cause no offence.
Alfred pulled the bowler well down over his ears, watched the almost invisible rain spread a gossamer sheen over his navy serge. The funeral group intoned their prayers, eyes cast down into the gaping earth. The severity of black yew trees, behind them, was dimmed with rain: the sky was a solid grey, church and gravestones were grey stone and, matching them in her grey flannel, Maisie Fanshawe shone like an ethereal being, a dove among crows. Once again, Alfred stared and stared, trying to put his finger on what it was he was seeing.
Once the ceremony was over, Maisie detached herself from the others as if she wanted to be alone for a few moments. Unknowingly, she approached the gravestone behind which Alfred stood, half concealed and at attention. He took his chance.
‘Miss Fanshawe,’ he said, stepping on to the path and raising the bowler. ‘May I offer my condolences?’
‘Oh, Mr Baxter. Thank you. It was good of you to come.’
She looked surprised to see him. They shook hands. Her eyes, smudged through the gypsophila, were not mourning eyes, but sparkling.
‘Your father was a fine man, if you don’t mind me saying,’ added Alfred. ‘And a very good customer.’
Maisie smiled. ‘I’m glad his suffering is over,’ she said. ‘Now, it seems to be raining harder. Would you like to join us back at the house for a drink and something to eat?’
Alfred, taken aback by such unexpected kindness, hesitated in his acceptance. But Maisie insisted. She tugged at his arm, laughing. ‘Come along. You need something before your journey back.’
Then, amazingly, Alfred found himself in step with her along the path, some distance from the others. He felt her high spirits, dancing within her slight form. It was as if she had been untouched by the death, the rain, the grey.
‘I suppose you’re getting into order for the return,’ she was saying. ‘Isn’t it a nice surprise?’
‘What’s that you’re saying, Miss Fanshawe?’ Alfred was confused.
‘Didn’t you know? Well, as a matter of fact I only heard myself last night. Gideon is coming back. For good. Isn’t that lovely?’
‘Good heavens,’ said Alfred. ‘I suppose Miss Windrush has been ringing me and I haven’t been there. She may be trying even now!’
‘No matter: she can ring again.’
‘And when will he be coming, if I may enquire?’
‘Some time in the next few weeks. He sounded as though he intended to stay in Norfolk quite a while, this time.’
‘Just what the doctor ordered,’ said Alfred, very pleased, observing Maisie’s light grey shoes almost skipping on the gravel path.
‘Exactly,’ she agreed, and they reached the house.
Alfred spent a most agreeable hour in the company of some polite Fanshawes, partaking of thin pink meats and garden salads, and he found himself accepting several glasses of sherry and white wine. Maisie Fanshawe herself ate nothing, but saw to it her guests were as happy as could be expected in the circumstances. She rustled from one to another of them in a grey silk dress that put Alfred in mind of Eileen’s honeymoon silk. A diamond dust of rain was on her nose — again, like Eileen’s wedding day. Her dotted net was pushed back to reveal happy eyes and a private smile.
All the way back in the bus Alfred thought of Maisie Fanshawe, wondering what it was about her. Strange thing was, it seemed to be something he recognized: some look he had seen, been warmed by, many, many years ago. Funny he couldn’t put a name to it. Perhaps it would come to him, like the answers in his crossword puzzles, sudden from nowhere, making sense of the clues.
Hannah Bagle quickly observed the change in Gideon on their return to New York. He was preoccupied, distant, restless. The things about her he used to appreciate — her efficiency, cooking, beautiful clothes, well-informed mind — he seemed not to notice any longer. It came as no surprise to her when he announced he was returning home for good, which meant farewell for the two of them.
Hannah took the news calmly, inwardly furious she had not taken her chance and been the one to do the breaking off. She was practised at leaving but did not care to be left, however unsatisfactory the arrangement had become. And she had to agree with Gideon the best of their relationship had passed. Some vital energy had gone astray, died, whatever, to be replaced by irritation and apathy. Ah well: their measure of time having come to an end was no great cause for regret in Hannah. Her weekend with Harry Antlers in London lingered excitingly in her mind: maybe she should now take her chance to visit him for longer, and persuade him to return with her to New York. But should that plan not materialize, there were always others. Plenty of others.
Thinking Harry might display some interest in the news — Hannah guessed his affair with Viola was not progressing as well as he claimed, she rang him from her office. She explained the situation. His voice was dull in response, tired.
‘So,’ said Hannah, ‘Gideon will be back in a couple of weeks. I understand he’s going to jolly old Norfolk for a while. Hope he has himself a ball. Your Viola, I understand, is going there next week.’
‘Is she?’ Harry’s voice brightened with interest.
‘Funny, the English way of loving some old seaside dump. Yeah, she’s going on down there, she told Gideon. Doesn’t like London in the summer. Didn’t you know?’
‘She may have told me. I probably didn’t take it in.’
There was a long pause. Hannah took her chance.
‘Which leaves the way open for you and me, honey. I’ve reason to be over myself, quite soon. We could get together again.’
‘Maybe,’ said Harry. ‘I’m going to be busy moving. ‘I’ve found my penthouse.’
‘That’s terrific. I could help. Viola all right?’
‘Fine.’
‘You sound tired.’
‘Just overworked. Offers for films and plays have been streaming in, somehow. Difficult to know which to do.’
Harry glanced at the letter he held in his hand: a single offer to direct Measure for Measure for an autumn festival in southern Ireland.
‘That’s terrific,’ said Hannah again. ‘It’s nice to know I’m in with a famous director.’ Her words were strangely cheering.
Having finished editing his film with extraordinary speed, Harry occupied himself with the move to his new flat. This involved buying furniture, china, linen, everything: he owned almost nothing but books and records. Unaccustomed to choosing such things, his searches round the shops confused and irritated him. He found himself in a perpetual state of frustration and bad temper, breaking off more and more frequently to fill himself with soothing snacks. His only means of judging any piece of furniture or household object was by its price. If it was very expensive he thought it must be all right, and took it. Thus his film money dwindled in a matter of days. Sliding towards an impoverished state increased his general despondency. Completely desolate, one evening, he turned into a French restaurant he could not afford, with the intention of eating and drinking till his troubles receded.
He stood at the door, eyes refocusing in the gloom, waiting to be shown a table. It was then he saw, in a distant corner table, Viola and the scholarly-looking worm who had opened the front door to him. A waiter approached. Harry fled into the street.
This was the first time Harry had set eyes on Viola since the evening that had gone so wrong. Since then, he had sent her a series of letters, varying in tone and assurances (I swear I have not laid a finger on anyone since the day we met, more than can be said for you and all your lovers) but he had made no attempt to meet her. The unexpected sight of her, this bleak evening, was the final undoing of a desperate, ravenous man. The revenge which he had contemplated in Shepherds Bush at dawn, but rejected later, now screamed back into his heart. This was it: the time had come to hurt Viola as much as she had hurt him.
As Harry hurried along the street in search of another restaurant, rage and venom so contorting his features that people stepped away from him, the calculating part of his mind was coolly at work. Thanks to Hannah’s recent invitation, a plan formed quickly in his mind. He would have to hurry, though: make sure he had moved into his flat, when the deed was done, so that no one could find him. Today was Friday. Viola would be going to Norfolk tomorrow, of that he could be certain. In private celebration, Harry ordered spaghetti, two steaks, baked potatoes and a whole bottle of good wine.
The brief sight of Harry destroyed the pleasure of dinner for Edwin and Viola. Viola’s reaction was one of pounding heart and shaking hand: panic, fear, the desire to run away. They left halfway through their sorbets. Viola clung to Edwin’s arm the whole way back to the house.
She had planned to go to Norfolk that afternoon. But Gideon had rung to say he had booked a plane on Sunday evening, a week earlier than he had expected. So Viola changed her mind, decided to wait for him over the weekend, and drive him to Norfolk on Monday. Edwin, hearing the changes of her plan, had invited her to dinner tonight. He had also come up with a whole list of agreeable suggestions as to how they should pass the weekend.
Back in the house, they fetched themselves large glasses of whisky, went to the library. They both preferred the comfortable clutter of books to the austere tidiness of the drawing room.
‘I shall stay here in the dressing-room, tonight, and the whole weekend,’ said Edwin. ‘If that man’s on the warpath again, you need someone to protect you.’
Viola smiled gratefully. Her face still ached when she moved it.
‘Perhaps a little music would unwind us,’ said Edwin.
He put on a record of a Brahms quartet. They lay further back on the same sofa. Edwin took Viola’s hand. She did not resist.
The inspiration of the music filled Edwin with a deep longing — for what, he could not precisely define. Comfort, perhaps. Peace, perhaps. Viola, almost certainly.
When the music was over, Edwin sat up, still holding her hand. Warmed by the whisky he felt bold and happy.
‘Do you know what I think?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Viola.
A dozen declarations, in a hopeless tangle, knotted in his head. He sighed.
‘Dearie me,’ he said. ‘Well, perhaps one day … In the meantime, I shall take it upon myself to guard over you when you’re here. It’s the least I can do in return for your Uncle David’s kindness.’ He went to refill their glasses, then picked up one of his books. ‘I shall insist you go to bed in a few moments,’ he went on, with mock fierceness, ‘but I shall also insist you spare me just a minute to look at this. I’ve found the most wonderful seventeenth-century engraving of the Smerinthus ocellata, the Eyed Hawk Moth. Look at those fierce eyes painted on its wings! When it fears it’s going to be attacked it raises the wings. They look like the face of an owl, or a cat, and the predator is scared away … Just what I need as your bodyguard.’
They both laughed. Edwin went on to tell Viola about the cautious nature of the Oak Processionary Moth, whose larvae have extraordinary habits.
‘They’re the hippies of the moth world,’ he explained. ‘They live in communal webs in the trees. During the day they travel to other trees to eat their leaves. They move, head to tail, in long processions — sometimes twelve metres long, spinning a silk thread to guide themselves home again. You’d be surprised by the infinite wisdom of the humble moth.’
Safe in Edwin’s world of gentle creatures, Viola found herself enjoying the rest of the evening, her mind happily diverted from thoughts of Harry Antlers.
It was by now the ragged end of summer, late August. The long hot days were coming to an end. The sun, when it moodily appeared, gave off an irritable heat as if to spite the dregs of its own high season. There were frequent clammy showers in London. Storms of thin thunder by night, summer lightning.
On the Saturday marked for the execution of Harry Antlers’ plan, rain fell heavily all day. But Harry’s mind was not on the weather. He was busy trying to make some order of his own flat, in which he intended to spend that night. His new plan had made it essential that he never return again to his old address. This meant moving sooner than he had intended — a matter of loading his car with his few possessions, and unpacking the many things that had been delivered. Surprisingly, the activities of the day, which he had been dreading, gave him pleasure. He was proud of his view and his expensive furniture. A little disappointed, perhaps, that the place looked so small, once the stuff was arranged, but he would continue to call it a penthouse. A penthouse would be some compensation for the odious behaviour of his beloved lady. His own home at last, it was but a beginning of greater things … Full of energy, Harry ate quantities of fish and chips in his soulless kitchen, and felt rising within him the heady mixture of determination, resolution and revenge.
It was raining hard in Norfolk, too. Alfred Baxter, with only the weekend left to prepare the house before the arrival of the Windrushes on Monday night, set about his favourite job of cleaning the silver. He lit the fire in the kitchen, for it was quite cold, made a pot of tea, and hummed to himself, as was his habit, while he polished.
His mind was still on Maisie Fanshawe. Funny thing was, thinking about her so much since the day of the funeral, Eileen’s nasty face had not been giving him so much bother. It was as if all Maisie’s gentleness and goodness had blotted out the badness of Eileen, which Alfred still could not remember in real life, but which had haunted him so after her death. Thinking of Maisie gave Alfred the same shivery feeling as looking at a sunset, or walking through the door of Lincoln Cathedral: a sort of private communion with something that understood. He still could not be sure of the reason for her elation at the funeral — indeed, he sometimes thought it might have been his imagination, the impact of a rare outing. But he was no longer concerned about its cause: merely grateful for the warm effect it had had upon him. In his nightly prayers he now thanked the Lord for so strange a blessing in his old age. He also approached his Father on the delicate subject of timing. Dear God, he said, why was it not your will that I should have met someone like Miss Fanshawe when I was at an age to do something about it? Why should you have chosen to show me, too late, what I have missed all these years? He pondered these questions many times. As yet, the good Lord had not given him an answer.
At the end of the day, the silver completed and returned to its cupboard, Alfred went upstairs. With the rain still battering so hard, he wanted to check all the windows were firmly shut and there was no leaking since the new repairs to the roof. The thundery sky made it very dark upstairs. Alfred switched on several lights, checked every room. He had it in mind to put flowers in Miss Windrush’s room before she arrived, by way of welcome. His funeral spray had given him confidence when it came to cut flowers. That was another thing: Maisie Fanshawe had written a very nice letter thanking him for the roses. A beautiful spray, she had said.
Downstairs again, Alfred went to his part of the house. With the Windrushes coming home so soon, he felt he should revert to spending his evenings in his own sitting-room. It was not inviting, there. Unlived in for several weeks, it was cold, damp and gloomy, though through the windows the lime trees were a searing yellow-green against the blackish sky. Alfred made himself a cheese sandwich. He boiled the kettle. As it began to whistle he heard the mocking laughter of the girls coming from the sitting-room. At least, he thought he heard it: he could not be quite sure, for when the noise of the kettle died down there was absolute silence. He may have been confused, but it was enough to cast aside all his good intentions about keeping to his own quarters. A stormy night was not the sort of night on which a man should be alone listening to the ghostly laughter of his former girlfriends. Alfred hurried back to the fire.
In the high-backed comfortable chair, crossword puzzle on his knee, a cup of tea beside him, Alfred soon put himself to rights. The flames from the apple wood were warm upon him. He had Monday, and all the delights of a lived-in house again to look forward to. Yes, he was a man of good fortune, thought Alfred, and may it please the Lord to let things thus continue.
He listened to the rain chipping at the window, and the grumbling of thunder. Maisie Fanshawe glowed in his mind, an indefinable colour like early dew. She smiled at him through her gypsophila, and he smiled back, with tears.
At seven that evening Harry Antlers opened his brand new formica kitchen drawer and studied the collection of brand new carving knives and kitchen implements. After much deliberation he chose a knife-sharpener, a long steel implement with a heavy handle of carved bone, which had made it very expensive. Harry tested it in his hand. He liked the feel of it.
When he had placed his chosen weapon in a plastic bag, he gathered up two apples, a packet of biscuits, a hunk of cheese and a bar of chocolate to be added to the bag. These were in case of urgent hunger on the journey, despite a three-course supper in an Indian restaurant. Harry had no intention of experiencing for a second time the pains he had suffered on his first journey to Norfolk.
He set out into the pouring rain. Just his luck, he thought, the heavens should be so against him whenever he wanted to visit Viola in her loathesome seaside house. But, with the curries filling his stomach, he was not really disconcerted. He rather liked the rhythm of the windscreen wipers slashing through the lemon pearls of water, the slooshing noise of the tyres as he drove fast through the London streets.
There was an extraordinarily clear picture in Harry’s mind, so precise that he was convinced it had been sent to him by way of a message. It was a picture of Viola, happy in her monstrous kitchen. He knew, quite surely, she would be there. Less definite in Harry’s mind was whether or not she would be alone. He guessed, judging by her general promiscuity, she would probably be entertaining her doctor lover. In which case the doctor would be dealt with by the brand new weapon. In fact, Harry hoped the lover would not be there: he did not contemplate murder but, unused to armed attack, his plans might get out of hand. Besides which, the lover might well recover from his wounds, thus more closely bonding him to Viola.
No: Harry’s aim of attack was something he supposed might hurt Viola more than a few blows to one of her many admirers. He had noticed through his tears, that dreadful night in London, the only thing that had seemed to pierce Viola’s hard little heart — the smashing of the photograph of her parents. Harry had reflected on this fact, and suddenly it had all become clear to him. What she was, plainly, was a materialist of the worst order. What mattered to her were things, places. She knew nothing of love or charity: there was not an ounce of goodness in her. (God only knew why he loved her.) But she was moved by things. Things, therefore, were his target. Smash up a few things that meant most to her, and she would see what it felt like to have a broken heart.
Harry arrived at the Norfolk village as the church clock was striking ten. He spent some time driving round to find a concealed parking place away from the house. There was no one about on such a wet night: the elements were, after all, on his side.
He finally chose to park in what appeared to be a deserted track leading to the marsh. He finished off the food, then realized he had foolishly left nothing for the journey back when he would certainly be in need. Cursing his stupidity, he put the knife sharpener in his pocket and got out of the car.
In crime stories, Harry remembered grimly, the villain always makes one silly mistake: his was to have forgotten his mackintosh. The force of the rain surprised him. It soaked through his thin jacket in moments, while muddy puddles seeped through the synthetic leather of his shoes. Angered by these unexpected handicaps, Harry made his stumbling way towards the house. There was no moon, just darkness, all the more disagreeable for being warm.
He came at last to the drive of the house, saw two lights upstairs. They indicated Viola was preparing for bed. Good. That would leave Harry free to smash up the kitchen — he knew that trusting country idiots like her never locked doors — and get away easily. He went down the front drive, round to the back door that led directly to the kitchen. There, to his consternation, he found more lights. This must mean that though Viola was probably upstairs, it must be her intention to come down again and switch them off. Harry swore.
For a long time, standing under the mulberry tree for shelter, he wondered what to do. His eyes were fixed on the lighted kitchen window, some twenty yards away. There was no sign of life. Perhaps Viola was in the bath. With the soaking sleeve of his jacket Harry wiped at the rain on his face. Curiously, his violent intentions had subsided a little. He thought perhaps he should wait until all the lights went out. But then a loud crack of thunder brought him to his senses. He jumped, enraged again: must get on with the business with no more thought.
A dripping figure, Harry moved slowly towards the window. Overhead, the thunder crackled and rumbled, and he thanked the heavens for their aid. Like this, his entry would never be heard.
A yard or so from the window, Harry stopped. He could now see the high-backed chair drawn up by the fire, turned away from him. He could also see a small part of a man’s bent head, and his arm.
So that was it, the bitch. The lover waiting downstairs while she prepared herself for him. Well, she would get no fun from him tonight.
Harry crashed through the back door, half blinded by rain in his eyes and the light after darkness. Thunder filled the room. Harry felt himself hurtling towards the chair, catching his hip on the corner of the table as he went, causing a sharp pain. He heard his own roars climbing against the thunder, saw the startled flash of an old man’s face, open mouth spewing forth a pitiful cry. The rough bone handle of his weapon gave courage to Harry’s hand. He slashed at the cowering head, over which defensive hands fluttered feebly as fledgelings. The skin at the temples broke like egg shell. It was so easy. So easy. Serve the baby-snatching bastard right.
In the room of laughing thunder, Harry watched a thin claw of blood spout from the head fallen over the side of the chair. The blood gathered speed and density, began to drip on to the flagstone floor. Harry moved backwards, one hand on the table. The thunder stopped, quite suddenly. In the silence he thought he could hear the drip of blood, but it may have been rain from his own clothes. The quiet unnerved him. He gave a feeble slash with the knife sharpener at the only two things on the vast pine table: a bowl of white roses and a pot of home-made strawberry jam. (Naturally home-made, scoffed some part of Harry’s mind.) They fell over, a small noise. Roses sprawled in spilt water. Jam oozed from broken glass. The old man did not move.
Harry Antlers ran.
An hour later, driving home from a late call, Richard Almond passed the house. He was surprised to see a lighted window upstairs. Viola had sent him a card to say she and Gideon were returning late on Monday night. Perhaps there had been some change of plan.
Richard drove past the house, thinking he would ring in the morning, when he found himself stopping the car. He had a strange feeling that he should just check everything was all right. He knew all too well the ruthless energy of those possessed. Harry Antlers would stop at nothing. If Viola had arrived early, pursued by the madman, she would need more than Alfred Baxter’s protection.
Alarmed by his own thoughts, Richard skidded into the front drive. Viola’s car was not there. He rang the front door bell, shouting his name through the clatter of rain. He did not want to alarm anyone by so late a call. He waited, ringing and shouting, for some moments. Then he went round to the back door. It was open. The kitchen lights were on.
Richard’s appalled eyes leapt from the spilt jam to the spilt blood. In a moment he was pushing the unconscious figure of Alfred Baxter upright in the chair. It was at once apparent the old man was alive. Shallow breathing, profuse bleeding. With remarkably quick fingers Richard snatched a dishcloth and bound it round Alfred’s head to quell the flow of blood for the few moments while he fetched his case from the car.
A short time later, having made his patient as comfortable as he was able and covered him with rugs from the cloakroom, Richard went to the telephone in the hall. First he rang for an ambulance. Then he called the police.
Harry Antlers drove slowly and calmly back to London through the rain. He stopped only once, on the outskirts of Newmarket, to throw his knife sharpener into a field. Hungry though he was, he judged it unwise to relieve his hunger at a transport cafe.
By three in the morning — having made sure no one observed his entry into the block of flats — he had bathed, put on dry clothes, and consumed an early breakfast of eggs and bacon. His only regret was that he had not had more time for wrecking the kitchen. Still, incapable though she was of loving, even the hard-hearted Viola might suffer some punishment on hearing of her elderly lover’s attack.
A very small worry nagged beneath the fried eggs: the bloody old man had looked curiously dead. The blow, Harry was sure, had not been hard, nothing to a younger man. But he had not counted on Viola’s taste for geriatrics. Some time, he would try to find out how serious the damage had been.
But for the most part Harry’s mind was wonderfully clear of thought or conscience. He imagined he must be a true villain, feeling like this, and the reasons for his villainy — ugly face, dreadful childhood — were not his fault. Juries were very sympathetic to such cases these days. Not that the incident would ever get to court. For Harry was about to carry out the final part of his plan.
He rang Annie Light. Once again, sleepily, she urged him to come round. Having granted her the compliment, this time, of undressing completely, Harry insisted on a serious talk before they indulged in anything else. They clung to each other in the narrow bed.
‘Now listen, Annie. If you love me as you say you do, and you must know by now the feeling is pretty mutual, I want to ask you to do something for me that might make a whole difference to my life.’
‘Of course, Harry. Anything. Anything.’ Annie wriggled, impatient.
‘I don’t want you to ask me any questions. What’s been happening is no concern of yours, and never will be.’
‘No.’
‘But I want you to extend tonight in your mind. Should anyone ask you questions about what you were doing this evening, I want you to say you spent the whole evening with me. We went for a drive, came back here. You can admit we made love, if necessary.’
‘What sort of people might question me?’ asked Annie. ‘Are you in trouble?’
‘No, my love, I’m not in trouble. But I could be without your help. It’s all far too complicated to explain. Just trust me: I need your help.’
‘Of course,’ said Annie.
‘So if by any chance one day the police —’
‘The police?’ Harry felt her fear.
‘I love you, Annie.’
‘I’ll do anything you like.’
‘You swear you will keep to your story?’
‘Of course. I’d do anything in the world for you. You know I would.’
She had relaxed at last, silly little thing. Harry thought he could count on her, though plainly she would need a little encouragement from time to time.
‘I was so touched, the way you cleared up my flat,’ he whispered. ‘The flowers.’
‘It was nothing.’
‘You mustn’t be frightened by the police. It’s a very small chance it’ll ever come to that.’
‘No. I’ll do my best.’
‘Swear I was with you all night?’
‘Swear. Wish you had been.’
‘You will be. Another time.’ Harry braced himself to seal her promise. ‘I’ve always loved you, you must know that,’ he said.
Early on Saturday morning Viola and Edwin left the house to visit the Tate Gallery. They were out for the rest of the day and went to a film in the evening. Thus Richard, who had been ringing continually, was not able to get hold of Viola till very late that night. She at once rang Gideon in New York with the news, and rose at dawn on Sunday to drive to Norfolk. Her farewell to Edwin was very brief: she woke him in the dressing room with a hurried explanation. She could give him no idea of when she would return, she said. Perhaps never, to her uncle’s house. Horrified by her various bits of news, Edwin leapt from his bed with uncharacteristic speed. With no conscious thought he ran to the library, snatched up the engraving of the Hawk-Eyed moth and thrust it into her hands.
‘Hurry,’ he said, ‘and take this.’
‘But its your precious moth with the fierce eyes —’
‘I’d like you to have it. Off you go, now.’
He put up a hand to pat her hair. But she was gone, shouting something about trying to remember the moth’s name. Edwin, clutching at his pyjamas, ran after her.
‘Smerinthus ocellata,’ he called down the stairs. But the front door had slammed. He doubted if she heard.
Richard met Viola at the house. Having told her all he knew, in greater detail than on the telephone, they drove to the hospital to see Alfred. He was recovering well and was expected home in a week or so.
‘The police can’t get much out of him,’ said Richard, on the way there. ‘He remembers very little about the whole thing. He keeps saying the man was very wet, as if he’d been in a river, and very fat. He remembers seeing the buttons of his shirt were undone. He had no clear picture of his face except that it was nasty. Nothing else has come back to him. The police are coming up this afternoon to see you,’ he added. ‘They wanted to know if you might have any ideas.’
‘You told them nothing?’
‘Nothing. I thought it was up to you.’
‘It’s quite plain. Harry Antlers was out to kill either me or my imaginary lover.’
‘He’s overstepped himself,’ said Richard. ‘It’s a traditional end for those suffering from his particular affliction. You’ll put them in touch with Mr Antlers, then?’
Viola paused only for a fraction of a second.
‘Of course,’ she said.
‘I know, quite positively, I’ve made the right decision,’ said Gideon. ‘My life is here, not in America. It’s a tremendous relief to be so sure.’
It was Monday night, late. Viola had waited up for him. They sat by the fire with bread, cheese and wine. Gideon was full of the adrenalin of one who has made a long journey and is not yet ready to sleep. They had talked at length of the assault on Alfred, the obvious fact that Harry Antlers was the culprit. Viola had discussed her own attack, horrifying her brother. Now, they turned to their plans.
‘And what about you, Violetta? When the flat is finished will you live there? I hope not. I don’t want you anywhere on your own till that maniac is put safely away.’
‘I’ve been idle long enough,’ said Viola. ‘Getting a job is my first priority. But not in London. I don’t want to be there any more. Ever.’
‘No. You could be here.’
‘Only for a while. There’s no work, here. Perhaps I should go abroad.’
‘It might help,’ said Gideon, ‘if I told you about an even more important decision than coming home.’ He twirled his glass, spinning his wine. ‘I’m going to marry Maisie of Docking.’ He laughed, seeing Viola’s face. ‘That is, I can’t be quite sure of that: but I’m going to ask her tomorrow.’
Viola, speechless, found delight in the idea slowly coming to her.
‘I’ve thought about nothing else since I left here,’ Gideon went on, ‘and it seems to be the only decision in my entire life about which I’ve not had a single doubt. She’s the one for me. The only puzzle is why I never realized, years ago …’
‘She was different, then.’
‘She was. Well, we’ve left it a bit late, but not too late. We’ll get married in the next month or so, live here as much as we can. I’m sure she’d want that. Though I shall probably have to be in London a few days a week.’ He studied his sister’s face again. ‘But you, Violetta — and I know Maisie will agree — you’re not going to be turned out of your house. You can stay here for as long as you like.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Viola, ‘but I would never do any such thing. Quite impossible for everybody. Really. But if you could perhaps buy me out, then I could find myself something else. I rather fancy the West Country.’
Gideon smiled down at her.
‘Of course I’ll buy you out if that’s what you want. But wouldn’t that be a lonely life? The West Country would be far away from us.’ He paused. ‘And Richard,’ he added.
‘So it would,’ said Viola. ‘But you know me. I like my aloneness.’
Gideon got up.
‘Well, there’s time to think about it all. Now, I must get a few hours sleep before the proposal. Do you think she’ll have me?’
Viola laughed.
‘Not a single doubt.’
‘And you think it’s a good idea?’
Viola rose, too, and embraced her brother.
‘The best idea you’ve ever had,’ she said.
Now that the pain in his head had almost gone, Alfred was rather enjoying himself in hospital. Everyone made a great fuss of him, changing the bandage over his eye very gently, propping up his pillows, constantly enquiring after his comfort. They intended to take out his stitches in a few days time, then he would be allowed home.
He had had visitors every day. The first time the police had questioned him he had still been quite drowsy, and remembered nothing of what they had asked him or what he had told them. Since then, they had been several times. But he was not able to give them much help, try as he might. The fact was the picture in his mind was very unclear. Trying to remember did nothing to help. One moment he had been imagining Maisie Fanshawe — he had omitted to furnish the police with this detail — the next, an ugly mug of a face had loomed above him, shouting. After that Alfred knew nothing till he woke up to find himself surrounded by the flowery curtains of a hospital cubicle. So, regretfully, he had not been able to be of much use to the police. He only hoped they caught the bugger. Shouldn’t be at large, a maniac like that. It was a very good thing, though, and Alfred thanked the Lord for His blessing, that he had been the one to be attacked rather than Miss Viola.
She herself had been to see him every day, sometimes with the gallant Dr Almond. They brought roses from the garden, and books and jars of honey and jam. They were kindness itself. What a fortunate man he was.
Then, the day after his return, Mr Gideon and Maisie Fanshawe came. Alfred could hardly believe it when he saw them walking down the ward towards him.
‘Well, I never,’ he muttered to himself, straightening his pyjama top.
Maisie Fanshawe sat by his bed and gazed at him with marvellous concern, so that he felt he was basking under a bright sun. Dressed in a lovely pink, this time, she still had that funny radiance about her, so it hadn’t been his imagination at the funeral. When her eyes were not on himself, Alfred noticed them swinging constantly across the bed to Mr Gideon. Beautiful, she was, sort of, thought Alfred. But it was not an uneasy thought.
They asked all about the attack, and were evidently pleased to see him so well on the’ way to recovery. Not until a few minutes before the end-of-visit bell did they then tell him their own news: they were to be married very shortly. What’s more, Norfolk was to be their home, and Alfred’s job and flat were there for the rest of his life, should he want them.
Alfred gripped each one by the hand, unable to speak, overjoyed. Not in a million years would he ever have imagined Mr Gideon going for such a quiet lady, but how right he was. Alfred, had he been able, could have assured him how right he was.
When they had left, promising to return next day, Alfred lay back on his pillows. Although he was delighted by their news, and looked forward to serving them to the best of his ability for many years to come, they soon went from his mind. Lovely young couple though they were, they were replaced by the person who had been occupying most of Alfred’s thoughts since he had regained consciousness: Eileen.
Yes, Eileen was with him again, laughing and smiling and sweet as ever, just as she had been in real life. He tried, just once, to remember the disagreeable face, the face which had gone wrong in his mind, somehow, in the last few months: but it would not return. And another thing: he had a dream one night about the girls. Turned out they had enjoyed their picnic so much they had been taken short by the incoming tide and drowned. Somehow, in his dream, he wasn’t sorry. Just realized they had gone. Awake, he never gave them another thought. He heard no more laughter.
Funny thing, really, thought Alfred, sniffing the white roses. Old man gets a blow on the head, and it brings back his wife. Brings her back just as she always was, his dearest Eileen. So in a way, and Alfred would confide this to no one in the world but the smiling Eileen — he couldn’t bring himself to feel that hard about his attacker. Poor man. Perhaps he had never known a happy life, or what it was to love.