Dark Angel (30 page)

Sweat has broken out again on his brow (the fever goes in cycles). His eyes are open and fixed; his lips slacken, shape dry and incomprehensible noises, and then slacken again.

Gwen reaches for the bell for the nurse. In truth, Shawcross’s appearance now frightens her, and she does not like to touch him. Before she can ring, however, Shawcross begins to talk—a rush of words and phrases, some of which are comprehensible.

Rats. Shawcross begins to talk of rats: large ones, black ones, rats who squirm, rats whose eyes bulge, rats who nibble, rats in pantries, rats in haylofts, rats in sewers, rats in—yes—traps, and the half-rhyme seems to please him, for he gurgles and quivers and repeats the word, and then, rising up in the bed with a strength Gwen did not suspect he possessed, he moves on, from rats to ribbons.

“Black ribbons,” Shawcross screams, and though his voice is slurred the word is quite distinct. “Black ribbons. Stamp on their heads. That’s it. Stamp on ’em….”

Gwen is transfixed with horror and disgust. Ribbons, ribbons—oh, why should he talk of ribbons? She tugs hard on the bellpull and forces herself to bend over him, to make her voice soothing.

“Eddie,” she says softly. “Eddie, my dear. You must rest. You must not talk, please, Eddie….”

Eddie’s voice has subsided; he slumps back against the pillows. From his throat comes a series of bubbling guttural noises; spittle froths at his lips. Gwen stares down at him fearfully. Can this be a death rattle? She yanks at the bellpull again, and as she does so, Eddie’s eyes stop their darting and flickering; they seem to focus on her face. He looks directly at her and says, with perfect lucidity:

“You called to me. In the woods. I heard you call to me.”

“No, Eddie,” Gwen begins, terrified that the nurse will come in and hear this conversation. “No, Eddie, you’re mistaken. You’re feverish. Please lie still….”

But something has happened, even as she speaks: a small paroxysm. Less than a shudder, not violent in any way, no more, really, than a slight clenching of the facial muscles, followed by a relaxation. In that fraction of a second the greatest of boundaries is crossed, and Gwen knows it instantly, even before the nurse—now at her side—reaches across, touches Eddie’s throat, sighs, checks her watch, and says, “He’s gone.”

It is a quarter past six, the beginning of a new day. Dr. Haviland is summoned at once, and there is one final nastiness—though, fortunately, Gwen does not witness it.

Before rigor mortis sets in, Shawcross must be washed and laid out. At seven-thirty, just when this process is almost complete and Haviland is preparing to depart, there comes from the bed a most horrible noise, a gurgling, an eructation. The doctor and two nurses swing around; one of the nurses (the less experienced, and an Irish Catholic) touches her crucifix and crosses herself. The sight that greets their eyes is not a pleasant one, nor a common one, though Dr. Haviland, in cases of severe blood poisoning, has seen it before. From all the orifices of his body Shawcross weeps. A sticky yellowish substance, like honey but not so sweet-smelling, issues forth from his ears, from his nostrils, from his mouth….

The washing must be done again. The laying-out must be done again; the nightshirt must be changed, the pillowcases, the sheets. The more experienced of the two nurses, tight-faced, sends a message down via the kitchens, for flowers from the hothouses—if possible, lilies.

They are sent, and finally, at around nine, the other formalities take place. The blinds have already been lowered throughout the house, and in this dim light the members of the Cavendish family come to pay their final respects. Boy, Acland, Freddie. Steenie is spared the ordeal, since his nerves are delicate, but Constance is not. She comes in last, standing rigidly between Denton and Gwen Cavendish at the foot of the King’s bed.

She looks at the cherubim, at the embroidered royal arms, at the bed on which—just a few days ago—she posed for Boy’s photograph. She looks at her father—eyes closed, linen sheets up to his chin. When led forward by Gwen, she bends over his body and places a dry kiss in the air beside his cheek.

The room reeks of lilies, a flower Constance will loathe forever afterward. She does not cry; she does not speak. She listens for the sound of a bird’s wings, for, even though it is daylight, she knows her protector is here with her in this room. She listens and it comes, a susurration of the air; for the first time she bends her head.

Constance’s silence, her lack of tears, alarm Gwen. She takes the child back to her room, sits her down, and talks to her quietly and as gently as she can for some while. Gwen knows that the things she says to Constance are banal; she says them nonetheless. She wonders if she should mention Constance’s presence on the dressing-room stairs (where she was discovered by the nurse) but decides against it. The child is capable of deeper feelings than anyone guessed, Gwen tells herself. Let the matter rest.

“Constance, I want you to know,” she says at last, “that we feel responsible for you, my dear, and we care for you. The matter will need thought, but remember, Constance, you will always have a home here with us, at Winterscombe.”

Constance has been expecting this. She understands that although Gwen’s eyes are tearful, the invitation springs from guilt and not affection.

“I understand,” she replies in her stiff way. She pauses. She fixes Gwen with her eyes. “When will they take my father away?”

Gwen is flurried by the question.

“Later today, Constance. This afternoon. But it is better not to dwell on it, my dear—”

“When he has gone …” Constance lays one small grubby hand on Gwen’s sleeve. “Then. May I sit in his room on my own? Just for a little while. So I may say goodbye to him?”

“Of course, Constance. I understand,” Gwen replies, touched by the request.

And, later the same day, when Gwen is sure that the undertakers have departed, she herself leads Constance back to the King’s bedroom. She opens the door and switches on the lamps. (She does not want Constance to be frightened.) She checks that the bed has been remade and the lilies removed. She settles Constance in a chair.

“You’re sure you want to stay here alone, Constance? Would you like me to sit with you?”

“No. I should prefer to be alone,” the child replies in her odd formal way. “Just for a little while. For half an hour. I want to think of him.”

“I’ll come back at four,” Gwen replies, and leaves her.

When Constance is alone in the room, she looks over her shoulder, toward the bed. Its curtains have a frightening look; they billow at her.

She stands and, in a cautious way, approaches the bed. She darts out a hand and pulls the coverlet back. The pillows reassure her. They are clean and smooth. They bear no imprint of a head.

Constance smooths the coverlet into place. She backs away from the bed. She walks about the room slowly, touching the furniture as she passes. The back of a chair: its horsehair-cover bristles. The back of another chair: velvet this time. She smooths out a crease in the antimacassar. She goes into the dressing room, then the bathroom beyond, switching on the lights as she passes. She looks at the great copper shower, at its levers and spouts, at the wonders of German plumbing. From the basin she purloins a small tablet of carnation soap, which she pockets.

She returns to the bedroom. She becomes more purposeful. There, laid out upon his dresser, are her father’s personal possessions, removed from his evening clothes when he was brought up here. A few coins, the case containing his cheroots, a box of matches, his pocket watch and chain, a clean and unused linen handkerchief.

Constance picks up this handkerchief, but it is freshly laundered; it does not smell of her father. She sniffs it. She presses it against her face. She replaces it upon the dresser. She picks up the silver watch chain.

She opens the case of the watch, which is dented. She examines its face. The watch, not wound for several days, has stopped. Its two small black hands point off in opposite directions. Constance closes the case. She holds the watch tight in her hand. She glances once more, over her shoulder, toward the bed. The bed is still empty.

In a crablike, sideways manner, Constance inches her way from the dressing chest to the writing desk, which stands between the windows.

The desk is not locked. In its bottom right-hand drawer, however, underneath some sheaves of papers and printer’s proofs, there is a wooden traveling writing case. This is locked, as always. The key to this writing case is small and silver. It hangs upon her father’s watch chain.

Constance bites her tongue between her small teeth. She bends forward. She concentrates. She fits the key into the lock and turns it.

Inside the writing case there are a number of letters and bills, which she does not pause to examine. Beneath these, there is an exercise book with a black cover. It is the kind of book a pupil might use in school. It bears no identifying label.

Constance’s hands are a little afraid to touch this book. They advance toward it and then they draw back. Finally they delve into the box. They remove the notebook. Its cover is not stiff. It may be rolled up, this notebook, like a newspaper.

Constance rolls it as tight as it will go. She thrusts it down into the deepest pocket of her full black skirt. She examines the skirt. Does the bulge show? No, it does not.

After this, she is quick. She relocks the writing case and closes the drawer. She replaces the watch chain upon the dressing chest. She does not look in the mirror on the chest, because she fears it. If she looked there, she might see her father’s pale face, his neat beard. He might do something very terrible: He might beckon to her.

She returns to the chair where Gwen stationed her. She sits down quietly, in an obedient way. She thinks about her father. She tries not to think where they may have taken him. Wherever it is, she is sure it will be cold, and lonely.

Shall she say goodbye, now? Shall she say it out loud? Constance hesitates. She can feel that her father is very close. It seems foolish to say goodbye.

“Goodnight, Papa,” she says at last, in a small voice.

The following week there was, as Dr. Haviland had foreseen, an inquiry of sorts. You would not expect it to be too thorough, that inquiry, and you would be right.

Desultory
might describe it;
tactful
might describe it. The local police, overawed, had no intention of offending such a prominent local landowner as Lord Callendar, whose cousin was Chief Constable of the County and whose closest friends were so prominent on the local judiciary.

There was an inquest. Not one member of the Cavendish family appeared; they all gave written evidence. That evidence established with some accuracy the time Shawcross was thought to have left the party. It emphasized that Shawcross—a writer, after all—often took walks alone. Beyond that, it told the jury nothing.

Cattermole, who did appear and who rather enjoyed the experience, was more forthcoming. Having explained that, for many years, the traps once used to deter poachers had been stored in a disused barn, where they rusted away, no one giving them a second thought, he moved on. Before the coroner could stop him, he reminded the jury that there had been Gypsies in the area for weeks. These Gypsies, he continued, had been found to have decamped on the very day the accident was discovered. Since neither he nor any of his men (he could vouch for them) would have positioned traps known to be illegal, he drew his own conclusions. The jury might do the same, he continued, as the coroner leaned forward to interrupt. In his view, it was the Gypsies who had placed the trap, intending mischief to his keepers or to him.

The jury was composed of local men, including several tenant farmers from the Cavendish estates. Their verdict? Death by Misadventure. The matter was closed.

Was this verdict accepted in the privacy of Winterscombe? Perhaps by some—though I think there were other members of the family who had their doubts. The only person to express those doubts out loud was Sir Montague Stern. He voiced them the day after the inquest, in his chambers in Albany in London; there Maud was visiting him, for the first time.

“Death by Misadventure,” Stern said in his even way. “That is convenient. And neat.”

Maud, who was distracted both by the attraction she felt toward Stern and by the details of his drawing room—such a restrained, perfect room, and full of perfect things, a great contrast to the man himself—did not take this in at once. When she did, she gave a small shriek.

“Montague! Whatever can you mean? Obviously that was the only verdict. We all know it was an accident.”

“Do we?” Stern stood by the windows. He looked into the street.

“But of course. The Gypsies—”

“I am not convinced by the talk of Gypsies.”

Something in the way he said this drew Maud closer. She advanced a few steps. She looked at Stern, who was tall, whose complexion was pale, whose features bore the marks of his race, and whose eyes were heavily lidded. Those eyes told her nothing. He looked toward her, his expression appraising yet cool. They might have been discussing a dinner party, not a death. Again she had that sensation, experienced at Winterscombe, of a contained man, of contained power. She was shocked by what he said; also excited.

“You cannot mean … If it was not an accident, then it would be a question of—”

“Murder?” Stern gave a slight shrug, as if he found the word distasteful. Maud was tempted, but sensible. She stepped forward another pace, then stopped.

“That is ridiculous. Unthinkable. Why, for a murder, you would need a murderer—”

“Indeed. I would have said there might be candidates.”

“Preposterous. I shall not listen to this. I believe you are trying to frighten me.” She hesitated. “Who?”

Stern smiled. He extended a hand to her. Maud stared with some fascination at his hands, which were fine-boned, and at his cuffs, which were exceptionally white. A glint of gold at the wrist.

“It is pointless to speculate.” Stern sounded more brisk. “The matter is resolved. It is unlikely to be investigated further. I like puzzles—that is all. I like to try to solve them. Purely for my own entertainment, of course.”