The first visitors to Harry Antlers’ penthouse were two plainclothes policemen. They were received with cool courtesy, and tea in the brand new Worcester cups. Harry conveyed no surprise at their visit. He merely wondered how they had tracked him down, considering he was ex-directory and had given his address to no one, but he supposed they had their ways.
The interview, he thought, went very well. Privately relieved to hear the old man was alive, he showed concern at the plight of Alfred Baxter who was, said the police, ‘Iiving in the house’. This news ignited fury in Harry’s breast, for he had never supposed Viola’s lover was actually installed. To quell his agitation he quickly ate several digestive biscuits and maintained his outer calm. No, he said, he had never met the Baxter man or heard of him. He himself had only visited the house on one occasion, and Viola Windrush had been on her own.
The police then questioned him, in most delicate fashion, about his own relationship with Viola. Was it true there had been some harassment?
‘Ah, that,’ said Harry, giving a pained smile. ‘Well, you know what women are. They get these fancies in their heads … Make up incredible stories when they’re spurned.’ He sighed. ‘I’m sure you know what I’m getting at.’ He sounded so solemn, pained, and full of understanding, the two men exchanged a glance that might have been of sympathy. One of them wrote a very short sentence in his notebook.
Finally, he was asked in the nicest possible way if he could prove to them where he was and what he was doing on the night of the attack. Harry’s eagerness to oblige, he later considered, might have been the only moment he went slightly over the top. He jumped up and fetched his diary, rummaged through the pages.
‘Think I was probably somewhere Miss Windrush —’ he gave them a look — ‘wouldn’t like to hear about. I trust you’d be discreet in this matter?’ They nodded. Harry’s ringer jabbed a page of the diary. ‘Yes! Here we are. A.L. 7.30.’
‘What, may I ask, sir, is A.L.?’
Harry assumed his conspirator’s face.
‘A.L., Inspector, is my girlfriend, Annie Light. To put it simply, it’s a matter of mutual love. Not, as is the case with Miss Windrush, a case of your unrequited. On the night in question, we met at 7.30. We spent the evening together. Then, well — you know how evenings with the girlfriend are inclined to end?’
He thought one of the policemen allowed himself the faintest smile.
‘Could you give us Miss Light’s address, sir? We’d like to have a word with her, confirm all this.’
‘Of course.’
Harry supplied her address and, also by heart, her telephone number which he had taken the precaution of learning that morning. He felt confident in Annie. Since their last night together, he had spoken to her several times, tutored her on what precisely to say. Only yesterday he had sent her a dozen yellow roses, with the promise that if she was interviewed, and all went well, he would take her out to what he called a champagne dinner, plus much else besides. So there were incentives for Annie. Harry was not afraid.
The policemen thanked Harry for his trouble and said they hoped they would not have to be in touch again. Harry urged them to come any time, often as they liked. Nice to see them.
Once they had gone, he felt it appropriate to congratulate himself on a brilliant performance. The brand new fridge being stuffed with delicacies from an expensive shop nearby, he was able to celebrate in his favourite manner.
A few days later he heard from Annie the interview had gone according to plan. The police believed her, definitely. To prove to himself there was some honour in his heart, Harry took the girl out to dinner and did indeed buy her half a bottle of inferior champagne. Promising there would be many more such occasions, he visited her narrow bed for the last time. The next day he arranged for his telephone number to be changed — Annie did not know his address — and sent her more roses proclaiming his undying love. But Annie’s use was over. He never saw her again.
The next visitor to the penthouse was Hannah Bagle. She had flown over on an extended business trip, which meant she would be occupied by day, but have many a free night, should that be of interest to Harry.
She sat on his low, pale sofa — not unlike her own in New York — looking, thought Harry, just the sort of girl most men would give their eye teeth to have in a penthouse: dressed in a cream satin shirt slung with gold chains, long silky legs flowing over his new carpet. She was sinuous, alluring. Harry found himself opening his one bottle of good wine, boasting of its year.
‘So tell me,’ he said, ‘what’s been happening? You and your lover parted on good terms?’
Hannah looked down into her drink, modest.
‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘Unfortunately not. I would have liked it that way, as you can imagine. But it wasn’t to be.’ She sighed. ‘No, I’m afraid poor Gideon was pretty cut up about the whole thing. I didn’t mean to hurt him, of course I didn’t mean to. But the thing had come to its natural end, as far as I was concerned. It would have been pointless to go on. So I just had to take the bull by the horns and tell him goodbye.’
‘Difficult,’ said Harry.
‘And now, you know what? Almost as soon as he got here he called me to say he was getting married. Next week. Can you imagine?’ She laughed. ‘The quickest case of rebound I’ve ever heard in my life. Some middle-aged spinster, I gather — though he didn’t put it quite like that — who’s never been out of Norfolk. Taking her last chance, poor old thing. Well, good luck to them.’ Hannah raised her glass. ‘I think it’s all very funny.’
‘Quite,’ said Harry.
‘Poor old Gideon. He was so British. I hope he’s happy. Such odd things seem to please him. That week in Norfolk when we came over, remember? Apparently he and his sister spent most of their time in a boat. He said it was wonderful. Well, we all have our different pleasures.’ She fiddled with the top button of her shirt, finally leaving it undone. ‘And you, Harry. How are you and the elusive Viola?’
‘She’s in Norfolk for a while. Helping prepare for the wedding, I dare say.’
‘Most probably.’ Hannah gave a small laugh. Her pale cheeks had turned to apricot. Harry had never seen her so desirable. ‘Shall I tell you a cute idea that came to me? I thought it might be quite amusing if you and I went to the wedding.’
‘What?’
‘Sit down. Let me explain. Not officially, of course. Just take a peep, from a distance. I could feast my eyes on the country wife, you could get a glimpse of your beloved Viola.’
‘It’s a very mad plan,’ said Harry, recognizing in this beautiful woman something of his own deviousness.
‘Well, think about it. It might be entertaining.’
‘It might indeed. And as you can imagine, I know the layout up there pretty well.’
Hannah stood up, slunk towards him.
‘Well, then. Besides, I’d like to get a glimpse of this Norfolk that Gideon was always going on about.’
Harry took her hands.
‘Norfolk stinks,’ he said.
Many of those who had been at Admiral Fanshawe’s funeral now came to see his daughter married. Alfred Baxter, an usher with no more than a bruised temple and a mending scar, had seen to it the church was billowing with flowers from the garden. Miss Windrush and he had arranged them the previous day, and now the smell of roses, pinks, lavender and honeysuckle had gathered like a whole summer into the cool grey stone of the church walls.
Richard Almond was best man, very handsome in his morning coat. Alfred liked seeing him and Miss Windrush coming down the aisle together, after the bride and groom. They made a fine couple. Would that things could have been different, but no doubt the Lord had His reasons.
Outside, a crowd of villagers had gathered at the gate. Some distance away, a short fat man and a tall blonde girl, both wearing dark glasses, strove to be inconspicuous among a small group of elderly people.
‘Seems he’s married his grandmother,’ Hannah observed.
Harry agreed, though his eyes were not on the bride. He was watching Viola, in a lavender dress much like the one in which he had first seen her, and a straw boater with dancing white ribbons. She went to a car with the best man. Admittedly, the best man gave no indication of being anything but polite to Viola, but the fineness of his tired face caused a jealous shaking in Harry’s legs.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I know a good vantage point for the next part.’
Hannah, thoroughly enjoying herself, followed her coconspirator.
The small reception, as Harry had discovered from one of the villagers, was to be held on the lawn of the Windrushes’ house. It was a warm September afternoon, gentle breeze from the sea fluttering through flowers and skirts and ribbons. Alfred was proud of the garden. He had put in a great deal of overtime, since his return from hospital, and he thanked the Lord he felt fit as a fiddle. The roses were clinging to their prime: a week from now any breeze would shake their petals to the ground. But this afternoon every rose head was firm, scenting the soft air.
Alfred Baxter, while hurrying dutifully around with trays of champagne, managed to spend much time admiring the bride. In cream satin, which emphasized the delicacy of her bones, to Alfred’s delight she wore another dotted veil — white this time, naturally — which was as near as you could get to real gypsophila. She shimmied about the lawn among her guests, holding her husband’s hand, smiling, smiling. Alfred recognized the look: a development of how she had been — though properly sad to outward appearances, of course — on the day of the funeral. So that had been her secret: Mr Gideon. Well, she deserved him. She had had too many years on her own. Nice to think, at last, she’d found herself one of England’s gentlemen.
In the course of his duties at the reception, Alfred was urged to partake of several glasses of champagne himself, and after a while his own wedding day merged happily with the real one. As Maisie Fanshawe glided about the garden with her husband, he saw himself and Eileen in a state of similar enchantment all those years ago. The only difference was that he and Eileen had been less fortunate with the weather. It had been raining. Eileen’s pretty face, smiling at him here among the guests, was sprayed with diamonds of rain, just as he remembered. And then he came upon her with her old woman’s face, the sweetness of it unclouded, still smiling at him. As Alfred raised his glass to toast the young couple, he knew quite certainly Eileen was near him now for ever, good as he had always known her to be, and he thanked the Lord.
Sometimes Viola drew away from the guests, looked back at the whole picture, securing it for the future. She recognized the day as the end of an era. She wanted to preserve its essence: the air, light with roses, the trembling trees dappling the lawn, the smiling faces and nostalgic hats, the solid protection of the house behind them. Once, she turned towards the marsh and sea, and for a mad instance thought she saw the face of Harry Antlers peering through the hedge. She knew it was a silly fantasy brought about by the champagne, but her heart began to pound in its accustomed way. She turned, to find Richard at her side.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
‘For an awful moment I thought I saw Harry Antlers spying through the bushes.’
They both laughed. Richard looked about.
‘Imagination, this time,’ he said.
‘I hope so.’
‘When are you off?’
Viola took a small sip of champagne. Her eyes, huge over the rim of the glass, were violet against the pale sky.
‘Very soon.’
She had found a cottage in the West Country, an isolated corner of the land sheltered by the Downs, which she would transform slowly over the years.
‘You must let me know where you are,’ said Richard.
‘Of course.’
Richard sighed, looked out to sea. ‘Weddings,’ he said.
‘Weddings.’
Viola looked at him. She had drunk enough to make her bold.
‘They make one think,’ she said.
‘They do. They sadly do.’
Gideon and Maisie were approaching, a shining galleon through the waves of friends.
‘Come on,’ said Richard, touching Viola’s arm. ‘I must go and do my duty: the toast. We must drink to the bride and groom.’
He lifted his own glass fractionally in the direction of Viola, then drank, emptying it, shutting his eyes.
‘They don’t seem to have many friends,’ observed Hannah. She had a ragged view of the proceedings through a thick hedge. Her high heels were sunk in marshy earth. She was hot and uncomfortable.
Harry, from his superior position lower in the hedge, had recognized Alfred Baxter from his wounds, and was fascinated. He watched him hand a glass of champagne to Viola, watched him talking and laughing with all the ease of an old lover. How could Viola bring herself …?
‘That,’ he said, nudging Hannah, ‘that small one there with the balding head, is another of Viola’s admirers.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she scoffed. ‘That’s some kind of servant. Look, he’s taking the tray round to people.’
Harry plunged his face so far into the bush his cheeks were scratched by thorns. But no discomfort could interrupt his studies.
‘By God,’ he said at last, ‘I do believe you’re right.’
At that moment, Viola, who had disengaged herself from the crowd and moved alone towards the hedge, her eyes on the sea, looked straight at the small gap through which Harry was carelessly peering. In sudden terror, he dropped to his knees, pulling Hannah with him. Through the thickness of the bottom of the hedge, he could now see only Viola’s shoes, suddenly joined by those of a man.
‘Time we left,’ he said.
On the way back to the hidden place where Harry had parked the car, Hannah suggested they paid a short visit to the beach. Harry was reluctant. Too many matters were pressing to be turned over in his unhappy mind. He wanted to get back to the safety of London as fast as possible. But Hannah was persistent.
‘Come on, Harry, for heaven’s sake. We’ve driven all this way. Now we’re here, I want to see a bit more of this Norfolk. The wedding wasn’t much of a show.’
Harry agreed to half an hour. They settled themselves, after an awkward walk in unsuitable shoes, in the curve of a dune.
‘This isn’t bad,’ said Hannah, brushing sand from her silk trousers.
‘The place is a dump,’ said Harry. Somehow, sand had crept into his socks. He looked across the beach. The tide was far out. He could see the black ribs of an old wreck. Despite the warmth of the air, he shivered.
‘Your Viola looked all right,’ said Hannah.
‘She’s a lovely lady.’
‘Gideon was putting on a cheerful face.’
‘His class are very good at disguising,’ agreed Harry. Then a wayward thought came to him. ‘I wonder how he’d feel, your ex-lover, if you and I went off together?’
Hannah laughed. ‘What an idea! But you’re not a free man. There’s Viola.’
‘Quite,’ said Harry. ‘But supposing I were free?’
Hannah laughed again, a little puzzled.
‘Why, that’d be salt in the wound all right. He’d go mad.’
Harry strove to find a more comfortable position in the sand. He was very hungry. He put his hand in his pocket, searching for the last of his fruit gums. Coming across a small box, he drew it out. Opened it. It was the diamond star.
‘My, that’s pretty,’ said Hannah.
‘It’s for you,’ he said, handing it to her. ‘Here, take it.’ A wonderful plan was beginning to form.
‘You’re kidding,’ said Hannah.
‘No. I mean it.’
‘For me? Really?’ Hannah pinned it to her silk breast. ‘It’s marvellous. Heavens, Harry, that’s the kindest thing.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s just a small tribute to a very beautiful lady. There’ll be others.’
‘Listen, you’re sounding serious!’
‘I am serious. I’m dead serious. I wouldn’t give a diamond star to a lady unless she meant …’ Harry’s voice almost broke. Cursing the lack of fruit gums, he controlled himself. ‘Hannah, will you marry me?’
With great surprise, Harry watched her rolling about the sand, bent knees caught in her hands, laughing in a way that was highly amused, though he failed to see the joke.
‘Marry you, Harry? That’s the greatest. Oh, that’s quite something. For a moment, I almost took you seriously.’
She knelt, then, before him, gently touched his ugly face with a luminous hand. Behind them, the sun was falling.
‘Did you?’ he said.
‘What’s in store for you and me,’ she answered, ‘is one hell of a good time. Don’t you think?’
At that precise moment, Harry recalled later, Hannah’s silvery face almost touching his, his bottom uncomfortable in the sand, a kind of mist lifted in his brain. It was then that he knew the demon of Viola had gone from him: his love for her was dead. But rising from the gap she left was the most beautiful creature on earth. He wanted her more than life, and he would get her. He would try his utmost to set about it in a tranquil fashion: he had no doubt he would succeed. Then, together, they would go to southern Ireland while he made Measure for Measure. They would return to New York while he directed a hit on Broadway. In London they would buy a bigger penthouse. He would be the envy of all men, including her ex-lover Gideon. Viola herself would not be unmoved. The adrenalin of his new plans charging his veins, Harry heaved himself up.
‘Come on, my love,’ he said. ‘Time to go.’
Hannah stood beside him. They looked at the darkening beach and sea.
‘Oh, Harry,’ Hannah said, ‘I forgot to tell you. While you were showering, there was a call. The police, they said.’
Harry laughed. He had no worries now.
‘The police?’ he said, and touched her diamond star.