‘Who?’
‘Patrick Seton’s girl friend. It wasn’t she who actually came to the flat, but I think Matthew Finch knows the girl.’
‘Who? Which girl?’ Martin enquired in his legal voice. ‘You don’t make it clear which is which.’
‘I’ll try and get the letter back.’
‘We’d better have the police informed right away, ‘Martin said.
‘All right,’ Ronald said.
‘Well, I know it won’t do your reputation much good,’ Martin said, ‘losing an important document like that. But I don’t suppose you depend much on your forgery detection work, do you?’
‘I like it,’ Ronald said.
‘Do you think you can get it back?’
‘I don’t know,’ Ronald said, deliberately, as one refusing to be a mouse even while the claws were upon him.
‘I’m not trying to make things difficult,’ Martin said, ‘but…’
‘But what?’
‘Well, you say you can’t work from the photostats. I daresay the photostats would be taken as some sort of evidence. But you can’t give any evidence of forgery from a photostat, can you?’
‘Not really. I’ve got to test the ink and study the writing on the folds in the paper. That sort of thing.’
‘You’ve got us in a pickle,’ Martin said.
‘Matthew Finch knows the girl. I’ll see if he can do something about it.’
‘He was at the party tonight, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you speak to him about this?’
‘Yes.’
‘You told him what had happened?’
‘Yes. I made the mistake of telling him about the letter in the first place. Then he informed the girl. He thinks the girl who got into my rooms must be the girl he knows who works with Patrick Seton’s girl in a coffee bar. This girl is the friend of the other girl, and—’
‘Who? Which girl is which? What are their names?’
‘Alice and Elsie,’ Ronald said. ‘I think we’d better get the police to handle it, as you suggested.’
Martin had stopped for the traffic of South Kensington. He sat back from the wheel and pondered. Then, as he started up the car again, he said, ‘Let’s leave it that you get the letter back by tomorrow night or we’ll get the police to find it. If it hasn’t been destroyed by then.’
‘It has probably been destroyed by now,’ Ronald said in a louder voice than usual. ‘And actually I think we must inform the police in any case.’
‘They might ask you awkward questions,’ Martin said.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, it’s obvious you’ve been careless.’
‘That can’t be helped now.’
His melancholy and boredom returned with such force when he was alone again in his flat that he recited to himself as an exercise against it, a passage from the Epistle to the Philippians, which was at present meaningless to his numb mind, in the sense that a coat of paint is meaningless to a window-frame, and yet both colours and preserves it: ‘All that rings true, all that commands reverence, and all that makes for right; all that is pure, all that is lovely, all that is gracious in the telling; virtue and merit, wherever virtue and merit are found — let this be the argument of your thoughts.’
For Ronald was suddenly obsessed by the party, and by the figures who had moved under Isobel’s chandelier, and who, in Ronald’s present mind, seemed to gesticulate like automatic animals; they had made sociable noises which struck him as hysterical. Isobel’s party stormed upon him like a play in which the actors had begun to jump off the stage, so that he was no longer simply the witness of a comfortable satire, but was suddenly surrounded by a company of ridiculous demons.
This passage from Philippians was a mental, not a spiritual exercise; a mere charm to ward off the disgust, despair and brain-burning.
This was the beginning of November. It is the month, Ronald told himself in passing, when the dead rise up and come piling upon you to warm themselves. One is affected as if by a depressive drug, one shivers. It is only the time of year, that’s the trouble.
With desperate method he began to abstract his acquaintance, in his mind’s eye, from the party, and examined them deliberately to see the worst he could find in them. One must define, he thought: that is essential.
Isobel Billows, with her hungry lusts, her generosity wherever she thought generosity was a good investment, smiled up at him in the glaring eye of his mind.
‘What’s wrong with me?’ she said.
‘Nothing,’ he said, ‘but yourself.’
‘Oh, Ronald, you always see the worst side of everything, there’s a diabolical side to your nature.’
‘What do you mean, diabolical?’
‘Well, possessed by a devil, that’s the reason for your epilepsy.’
‘Adulterous bitch.’
‘Oh, Ronald, you don’t know how basely men treat me. Men have always treated me very badly.’
‘A woman of your class shouldn’t talk like that.’
‘But they come and sponge on me, Ronald, and then they go away and say, “Oh, her. You don’t want to have anything to do with her. Don’t listen to her.”‘
Martin Bowles was her lover, and was also her financial adviser, and, in his legal capacity, handled her property. ‘… and you see,’ Martin said — he was sitting at his desk in chambers, in the bright eye of Ronald’s imagination, leaning one hand on his high bald forehead — ‘I haven’t much freedom, what with my old ma and the housekeeper, and then there’s Isobel, I’m fairly tied to Isobel.’
‘Will you marry Isobel?’
‘No, oh no. It’s a question of business interests.’
‘Have you misappropriated Isobel’s money?’
‘No, oh no. I’m on the right side of the law.’
‘Yes, the right side of the law.’
‘Don’t be vulgar, Ronald.’
‘It was you who employed the phrase.’
‘Isobel’s very well off although she pretends to be poor. She doesn’t live up to her money, you know.’
‘Fraudulent conversion, it’s revolting.’
‘Not at all. There’s nothing fraudulent about it, I’m perfectly safe in the law. There’s a large sum involved, Ronald, but I’m perfectly safe.’
‘Forty thousand?’
‘How do you come to know all this, Ronald?’
‘From piecing together what I hear and see in one direction and another.’
‘My old ma’s a tyrant, quite a drag upon my life.’
‘You shouldn’t be living with your mother, at your age. It makes a mess of a man. it makes for a mean spirit, living with mama after the age of thirty.’
‘You know, Ronald, you should have been more careful with that letter.’
‘Yes.’
‘And now you’ve gone and lost it. Shall we inform the police? Shall we ruin your little reputation as a reliable expert? You shouldn’t have talked.’
‘Please yourself. I don’t particularly want to get the letter back. Why should I hound Patrick Seton? He has offended in the same way as you, on a smaller scale than you, but less cleverly than you.’
‘This is rather absurd,’ said Martin Bowles in the mind’s ear of Ronald. ‘I won’t have it.’
‘I won’t have it,’ Marlene Cooper said, brushing her earrings past Ronald’s mouth as if he were not there. ‘I won’t have Tim remaining on friendly terms with that revolting bald barrister.’
‘I like Martin Bowles,’ Tim said.
‘If Patrick’s case comes to court your friend will be prosecuting counsel.’
‘Someone’s got to be prosecuting counsel,’ Tim said. ‘Well, you must give up your association with him.’
‘I haven’t got any particular association with him. Martin is just a friend,’ Tim said.
‘But, Tim, dear, I saw you with him at Isobel’s party, laughing away as if nothing had happened. Do you realise that when you give evidenc
e for Patrick, the man is sure to cross-examine you.’
‘I don’t want to be involved,’ Tim said. ‘I’m not giving any evidence. We treat your conspiracy as a joke.’
‘You are weak,’ Marlene said, ‘like your father and his father before him.’
And so he is, Ronald thought, viciously, for he was especially fond of Tim. He doesn’t want to be involved at all; except, of course, with Hildegarde.
‘I did everything for Ronald that a woman possibly could do,’ Hildegarde said. ‘I washed his shirts, mended his clothes, I bought the theatre tickets and I set the alarm clock for him. I made every possible allowance for his disability. I even helped him in his job. I made a study of handwriting and even ancient manuscripts. What more could I have done?’
‘Nothing at all,’ said Tim in the bemused ear of Ronald’s imagination, as he sat there in his flat in the small hours of the morning. ‘Nothing at all,’ said Tim. ‘Move over, darling, and don’t kick.’
‘It makes me kick,’ Hildegarde said, ‘to think of Ronald. If only he had given me some excuse when he broke with me….’
‘Shut up about Ronald,’ Tim said. ‘It’s jolly off-putting.’
‘Does he know about us?’ Hildegarde said.
‘No, of course not.’
‘He mustn’t know about us,’ she said. ‘It would upset him and he would never forgive you. I don’t want to break up your friendship with Ronald.’
‘You’re sweet,’ Tim said, snuggling down. ‘Lovely to think tomorrow’s Sunday,’ he said, ‘and a long lie in.’
‘Let me put your pillow straight, sweet boy,’ said Hildegarde. ‘You are all crumpled up.’
Matthew had told Ronald: ‘I saw Hildegarde Krall the other evening in the Pandaemonium Club at Hampstead. She was wearing jeans, looked very nice.’
‘Was she alone?’
‘Yes, alone.’
‘Did you speak to her?’
‘Only briefly. She left early. Walter Prett was with me. She left when he started making a nuisance of himself and insulted Francis Eccles.’
Tim, Hildegarde, Matthew Finch, Francis Eccles, Walter Prett. Ronald got through the list by half-past three in the morning. Who are they, he thought, in any case, to me? Why be oppressed by a great disgust? ‘We must go to court,’ Ewart Thornton says, ‘we must oppose Patrick Seton at all costs. Let us give evidence for a Mrs. Freda Flower, about whose wrongs none of us cares.’ But why does he induce in me a condition near to madness?
Because one is formed in that way, and at times of utter disenchantment no distraction whatsoever avails, even the small advertisements in the newspapers are vile, in the same way that I, in my epilepsy, am repulsive. He recited over to himself the passage from Philippians: ‘… all that is gracious in the telling; virtue and merit, wherever virtue and merit are found — let this be the argument of your thoughts.’ By a violent wrench of the mind Ronald was capable of applying this exhortation in a feelingless way, to the company of demons which had been passing through his thoughts. He forced upon their characters what attributes of vulnerable grace he could bring to mind. He felt sick. Isobel is brave simply to go on breathing; another woman might have committed suicide ten years ago; she knows how to decorate her house and how to dress. Marlene is handsome, Tim is lovable, Ewart Thornton is intelligent, has gone far in the world, considering his initial disadvantages, and moreover he is a schoolmaster, and, moreover, one who respects his career and so finds difficulty in the practice of it. Martin Bowles is considerate to his mother. Matthew Finch is afflicted by sex and is blessed with a simple love of the old laws. Walter Prett is beset by neglect and foolish fantasies and he loves art and is honest in his profession. Hildegarde has a tremendous character. Eccie has a job on the British Council….
By four o’clock he was in bed. At five o’clock he rose and vomited. Next morning he had an epileptic seizure lasting half an hour; it was a type of fit in which his drugs were useless. This often happened to Ronald after he had made some effort of will towards graciousness, as if a devil in his body was taking its revenge.
He resolved to go to Confession, less to rid himself of the past night’s thoughts — since his priest made a distinction between sins of thought and these convulsive dances and dialogues of the mind — than to receive, in absolution, a friendly gesture of recognition from the maker of heaven and earth, vigilant manipulator of the Falling Sickness.
Chapter IX
I CAN’T help feeling sorry for little Patrick Seton,’ said Matthew Finch. ‘That widow and her friends seem to be ganging up on him in a most unpleasant way.’
‘I’m sorry for him too, in a way,’ Ronald said.
‘He’s half Irish,’ said Matthew.
‘The thing is: about this letter.’
‘It sounds like Alice’s friend, Elsie,’ Matthew said. ‘I’ll see Elsie this afternoon.’
‘It may be destroyed by now.’
‘I doubt that,’ Matthew said. ‘Alice is a sentimental girl’
‘It’s hardly a sentimental letter.’
‘What does it say?’
‘Get the letter back and you’ll find out.’
‘I know I’m to blame for this, I shouldn’t have told Alice you had it,’ Matthew said. ‘I’m a foolish fellow, you know.’
‘Where will you see Elsie?’
‘I’ll go round to the coffee bar. She’s always on duty on Saturday afternoons. I’ve got to see my cousin later, but—’
Ronald’s telephone rang. Martin Bowles said, ‘I say, Ronald. I thought it best to have Fergusson told that the letter had been stolen. I hope you—’
‘Who’s Fergusson?’ Ronald said.
‘The detective-inspector who keeps his eye on Patrick Seton. He says he’ll be seeing Seton about it and doesn’t seem to be worried about getting it back, that is, if Seton has it. I hope you agree that was the best course. If it comes out in court—’
‘Yes, it was quite the most sensible thing to do,’ Ronald said. ‘I’m much relieved.’
‘Sure you don’t mind? If it comes out in court that you—’
‘No, I don’t mind a bit. In fact I’m glad. I ought to have done something of the kind straight away. The police should be informed of a theft of this kind. Only, in these particular circumstances. I doubt if Seton actually has the letter. His girl’s got it, we think.’
‘Who’s we?’
‘I’ve just been discussing it with Matthew Finch. As you know, he’s a friend of the two girls in question.’
‘Which two girls?’
‘Seton’s girl and the other girl, her friend, the one we think stole the letter for Seton’s girl.’
‘I really can’t make out who these girls are, Ronald. What has Matthew Finch to do with this?’
‘Well, you know I was indiscreet enough in the first place to tell him I was working on the letter. And he was indiscreet enough to tell Elsie, and—’
‘Who’s Elsie?’
‘She’s the other girl who’s a friend of Seton’s girl. I told you’
‘Yes, but I didn’t make notes. Look, Ronald, you can’t conduct a case like this.’
‘I’m not conducting the case.’
‘If it comes out in court that you’ve committed these indiscretions, you won’t blame me, will you?’
‘No,’ Ronald said.
‘I expect Fergusson will want to see you,’ Martin said. ‘A nice chap. Straight with you if you’re straight with him.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘Now, Ronald, don’t be—’ Ronald hung up. ‘Some detective-inspector is going to find the letter,’ he said. ‘So let’s forget it.’
‘I’ve got you into trouble,’ Matthew said. ‘My sister thought probably this would happen when I told her about the letter—’
‘Where are you lunching? I haven’t done my shopping yet, what with one thing and another.’
‘I’ve got you into trouble with my talk,’ Matthew said. ‘Would
you like me to see Elsie in any case? It wouldn’t do any harm, would it?’
‘You’d better see Elsie,’ Ronald said. ‘Because I doubt if the detective-inspector will find the letter.’
‘You said just now he was going to find it.’
‘I know I did,’ said Ronald. ‘And I’ll end up in the bin, I daresay. Come on, let’s go out.’
The telephone rang again just as they were leaving. Ronald returned to answer it.
‘Oh, Ronald,’ said Martin.
‘Yes.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Look, Ronald, I don’t want you to misunderstand me. It’s just that I’m bound by certain rules, you know. One has to observe certain—’
‘Of course,’ Ronald said. ‘Obviously.’
‘You’ll help Fergusson all you can? I’ve told him you will.’
‘Of course. But look, I don’t really think Patrick Seton has the letter. I think it’s something the girls have cooked up.’
‘Which girls?’
‘Polly and Molly,’ Ronald said.
‘Who?’
‘Cassandra and Clytemnestra,’ Ronald said.
‘Look, Ronald. This is awkward for me. You know me, you like me, don’t you?’
Here it comes, Ronald thought.
‘Of course,’ he said.
‘Well, put yourself in my place. I’ve got my old ma on my hands. She’s going blind. Can’t see the television. The housekeeper’s going blind. They fight like cat and dog, they were pulling each other’s hair the other day. Can’t get a new housekeeper, and anyway my old ma won’t have anyone new. The housekeeper—’
‘Hold on a minute,’ Ronald said, and placing his hand over the receiver, murmured to Matthew, who was hovering at the door, to make himself comfortable on the sofa for at least five minutes. Have a drink. Cigarette — ‘Yes, halo,’ he said, returning to Martin on the telephone.
‘The housekeeper,’ Martin said, ‘was my old nurse and my old ma won’t get rid of her, she’s got nowhere to go and we can’t afford a pension. Then I do the shopping for the week-end. Not on weekdays, I draw the line there. Then Isobel’s affairs take a bit of looking after, you know. I give her my professional services, she doesn’t realise what I save her. Still, Isobel’s a good sort, as you know, and very attractive. I say, Ronald, would you say Isobel was an attractive woman?’