Green Darkness (80 page)

“It would be wise,” said the Hindu, “in fact, I did so before we left London.” He gave a faint, almost boyish chuckle. “I trust I’m improving in forethought and care for your comfort. There was need . . .”

Lily looked quickly around in the gloom of the back seat. “How silly,” she said with an uncertain laugh. “You’ve been wonderful through all this—this awful mess. And . . .” she paused, searching for the right words, embarrassed. “You’re a professional man, you’ve stood by, given a lot of your time . . . and I’m fortunately quite able to . . .”

“Recompense me with a generous stipend?” said Akananda softly. “I know, my dear, but in this life, for me, money recompenses nothing. Later—perhaps—we can talk about specific ways in which you may help others.”

He put his hand suddenly over hers. She jumped with startled pleasure, then let her hand go limp under the tingling warmth.

“What do you see?” he asked very low.

Bewildered, she looked around at the Alfriston green, the church’s thick squatty spire high on a mound against the dim-lit trees and the gabled roof lines of the old buildings. “I see Alfriston,” she said, “what else?”

“What do you feel, then?” he asked, his grip tightened on her hand.

“Why . . .” said Lily slowly, “it seems foolish, but I did have a flash just then—white columns like a temple, against a blue, blue sky—I felt love, desertion, sorrow . . . a man who abandoned me and—our little girl . . . grieving.”

“Yes, just so,” said Akananda.

They were silent again, while the hedgerows slipped by and the Downs—humped up darkly green and mysterious on their right.

Then Akananda spoke in a tender low voice. “My love for you is still there—but in a higher form. You may trust it, now.”

Lily quivered. She caught her breath like a girl. From any other man she would have thought this an overture; she had received many since her widowhood, as what pretty rich woman did not? She knew that from him it couldn’t be anything so crude, and that the melting and release she felt were not materialistic.

As they passed by a village church, he spoke again. “While Celia was in great danger, you went to pray in Southwark Cathedral. Do you know why you were drawn to that place?”

“No . . .” she said after a moment, “and it didn’t seem to help. I sat for an hour, as you’d told me, but I couldn’t calm down. I kept having a feeling that there was something behind the church, buildings, unhappy buildings . . . but when I went out to look, I didn’t see anything but warehouses. I took a cab back to Claridge’s.”

“There
was
unhappiness for you once where those buildings stand,” said Akananda, “it was Lord Montagu’s priory four hundred years ago.”

“Did I live there?” asked Lily in a whisper. “Do you
know
that I did?”

“Yes,” he said. “But there’s no need for you to puzzle over it. I was merely curious. Look!” he added on a brisker tone. “Aren’t those the gates to Medfield Place? They’re shut, I wonder if they’re locked. Will you ask the chauffeur to find out?”

Lily tapped on the dividing window, and complied in a hushed voice. The chauffeur nodded, touched his cap and presently flung the gates wide open for the car to pass through.

The rhododendrons and the laurel were blooming along the short avenue, bunches of pale stars in the gloaming. Though it was past nine o’clock, the eerie glimmer of a late—June evening suffused the rambling house and its architectural mixture of periods.

Akananda retained some memory of the place as it had looked when he, as Julian, had stopped there briefly with Tom Marsdon on the way to Ightham Mote—much smaller then, lacking the Victorian wing, and even some Elizabethan room which Tom must have added himself. But the dovecote and huge tithe barn seemed unaltered. And was that not another confirmation, he thought, of the many outward changes which a soul as well as a house might accrue without affecting its essential individuality?

The car drew up before the entrance steps; the chauffeur got out and opened the rear door. “Seems to be nobody about, madam,” he said to Lily. “Shall I ring?”

She said, “Please,” and sat tautly, gripping her suede handbag, staring at the dark, silent house.

The chauffeur pushed the bell, then stood back and waited. Nothing happened. He pushed again, and after a further wait came back to the car.

“Is there some staff, madam? I could go round to the back entrance. Front door’s locked, I tried.”

“There
was
staff . . .” said Lily unhappily, “at least Nanny was here Wednesday when I came to see Richard, though she acted very strange and scared, spoke through the crack, just said that Richard had given orders that
nobody
was to be admitted—especially not
me.
” Lily pressed her lace handkerchief to her mouth. “Oh, Doctor . . . what
is
happening here?”

Akananda did not answer. He got out of the car and walked around to the garden, which was fragrant with roses, stock and carnations. Fireflies twinkled amidst the foliage, and over the swimming pool. He looked down at the pool. On the rectangle of water between tiny blue-glazed tiles a few brown petals floated, there was a slight scum. Incredible to realize that the scene beside this pool happened only a week ago—the apparently gay house party around the brink, the careless sunlight on bronzed bodies. The chatter, the banalities. And Richard’s graceful, reckless diving

Akananda walked to the coping and stared down into the cloudy water, seized by a frightening question. And was at once reassured. No. He knew that Richard was alive, and though the guidance was imperfect—or his reception of it—he
had
achieved a measure of certainties. Richard was alive somewhere in that dark cloistered house, but the next development could not be foreseen, and Akananda tried to gather together the golden forces into his body, into his brain, as he had been taught, while fighting weakness—an immense desire to be free from pressure, to rest again in his quiet isolated rooms in London, away from turmoil, misery, effort.

Even towards Lily, waiting in the car, he felt impatience. Let them all help themselves now, he thought,
Celia
is saved. Through whatever unorthodox measures he used, and however he had suffered with her, expiation would continue—for him. He had felt, since emerging from the ordeal in the London Clinic, a stricture in his chest, darting pains in his left arm, and knew very well what they meant. He had now sacrificed his splendid bodily health, the mechanism was impaired.

This beating on a closed door is stupid, he thought. There’ll be comfortable rooms in Alfriston; I’ll knock up the chemist, get some digitalis at least. But I want to be alone. I’ll tell Lily Taylor. She’ll do whatever I say. And nothing actually has to be done tonight. Arthur would think me mad . . . perhaps I am hallucinating—self-hypnosis. At Guy’s they thought I was cracked. “Now, Mr. Akananda, will you kindly dissect for us the pineal gland, where you aver the soul . . . has . . . had . . . but I admit
this
corpse is deader than mutton . . .” and the fawning, jeering laughter.

Akananda turned sharply away from the swimming pool; he was aware of faint musical sounds from the house behind him. He listened, frowning, and walked towards the Elizabethan wing. The sound was unmistakably chanting . . . men’s voices . . . the cadences . . . the sliding mysterious harmonies—Gregorian—adoration . . . to the Virgin . . . to God . . . as he had heard it in this house last week, as he had heard it hundreds of years ago.

He sighed, bowed his head, and threw his arms out in front of him, palms up, in a gesture of weary surrender. Alien music, alien voices, but nonetheless compelling, and significant.

He walked to the door of the garden room and found it open. With sureness and resignation he followed the sound. Up the front stairs, down those passages, around a corner, down another small flight to the old schoolroom. Here, the din of men’s voices from the speakers was garbled, deafening. The door was wide open, and Richard was kneeling in the tiny makeshift chapel, his head resting on his clasped hands. He jumped up when he saw Akananda standing beside him.

“Get out of here!” he shouted. “How dare you spy on me! How the devil did you get in?”

Akananda took a deep breath as the haggard, unshaven baronet loomed over him. The hazel eyes were savage, the eyes of a trapped uncomprehending animal, and dangerous. Paranoid, Akananda thought. He had seen that look often enough.

Akananda gestured at the stereo. “It’s a bit loud,” he said mildly, “though very beautiful—this old church music. I’d like to listen with you, but let’s turn it down a little.”

Richard glared at the slight, elderly doctor in the well-cut brown suit. “You were here when Celia died,” he cried. “I remember you. Get out, you spy! I sacked the servants, and locked the doors.”

“Well, yes—” said Akananda smiling, “I suppose you did, except the garden door—maybe the lock is defective.” He went to the record player and lowered the volume to a soothing murmur. “My Latin is rusty,” he said, “what are they singing?”

“A
Salve Regina
—” answered Richard warily after a moment. His eyes lost their dangerous glint and grew haunting and puzzled. “I don’t see what you’re doing here.”

“Please sit down,” said Akananda. “It’s hard to listen to music standing, don’t you think?” He sat himself on an old school bench and waited, quietly watching, until Richard slowly followed suit.

“I’ve always wished I had a better knowledge of western religious music,” said Akananda casually. “I heard some at Oxford, of course, but I didn’t understand it, I was reared amongst instruments very different—like the sitar—though our Indian chants struck me, even in my youth, as somewhat nasal. I’m afraid I haven’t a very keen ear.”

“Oh, indeed?” Richard’s eyes continued perplexed, but his fists relaxed. He swallowed once or twice.

“By the way,” said Akananda, “your wife, Celia, is
not
dead—I came down to tell you that she is at the London Clinic, and doing very well.”

Richard made a grimace. He jumped up. “You’re wrong . . . of course she’s dead. I killed her, I and that Simpson woman. We
killed
her you know, and by God, Celia deserved it. Celia the wanton and fair.”

“Edna Simpson is dead,” said Akananda, with inward trepidation. How far and how fast dared he go? “She had a—an accident, fatally burned in a fire caused by a spirit lamp.
She
is dead, Celia is not,” he repeated in a slow, measured voice. “Now, Sir Richard, I’d like you to go to bed and rest. We can hear the Gregorian chants in the morning.” He saw signs of renewed tension, and an angry spark in the baronet’s eyes. “Is Nanny still here?” Akananda asked pleasantly. “Or did you sack her too?”

Richard looked startled. “Nanny? I don’t know. She kept pestering me. I did make her clear out . . . I think.”

Akananda nodded. “Nobody likes being pestered, though I expect she’s around. Anyway, shall we go look? I gather she’s always been devoted to you.”

“Devoted . . .” Richard repeated. He considered the word and shuddered. “There
is
no devotion,” he said. “There’s always betrayal . . . soon or late, they betray . . . You
too!
” He rounded on Akananda, his eyes slitted, his upper lip drew up in a tigerlike snarl.

Akananda, for all his experience, felt a thrill of primitive fear. He
must
get the man from this room, and he must overpower with his will alone—there was no help to be had, no physical help.

“Go touch your crucifix, Stephen Marsdon!” cried Akananda in a loud voice so penetrating that Richard started. He shook his head like a goaded bull. “What do you mean!” He glanced from the corner of his eyes to the altar.

“Do as I command you, Brother Stephen,” said Akananda. “You vowed obedience to your superior. I am your superior!”

Richard wilted very slowly under the force behind the doctor’s eyes, the concentrated beam of light. He licked his lips and fumbled, breathing hard, at his brown leather belt.

“Not the rosary on your scourge,” said Akananda. “Touch the altar crucifix.”

Richard dragged himself to the altar and put his hand on the wooden shaft, below the nailed silver feet.

“
Ecce Agnus Dei, ecce qui tollit peccata mundi
. . .” said Akananda, as the monks’ voices murmured their imploring chant from the far corner which contained the speakers.

Richard stood rooted with his hand on the crucifix. “
Domine non sum dignus ut intres sub tectum meum,
” he said in a muffled voice like a frightened child. He began to tremble.

Akananda walked three paces very quickly, and took Richard’s other hand. “Come,” he said. “We’ll find Nanny. She’ll make us some tea and toast, I hope. I’m very fond of buttered toast.”

Richard followed the guiding hand out of the schoolroom.

Lily was admitted to Medfield Place by Akananda, over an hour later. He stood in the doorway, smiling faintly, but she saw by the blaze of electricity in the entrance hall how tired he was.

“Is it bad?” she whispered. “You
found
him, didn’t you?”

He nodded. “He’ll do, I think. I’d brought a syringe-full of sedative with me—in case. He’s been given it, and is sleeping. Nanny’s with him. It
was
quite bad for a while.” Akananda gave a grim laugh.

He had no intention of telling Lily how bad it had been, though after leaving the schoolroom, Richard was docile long enough to permit Akananda to inject a powerful tranquilizer. Fortunately, it had begun to take effect before Richard saw the slashed portrait of Celia in the stairwell. “See . . . I told you she was dead, and I killed her!” he shouted furiously to the doctor. “She betrayed me!”

Akananda looked at the ribbons of painted canvas hanging from the frame, and said nothing. He kept his charge on the move, his anxiety mounting. What had happened to the little Scottish nurse? He dared not leave Richard alone to hunt on his own. By the time they had wandered through most of the great house, and Akananda had often called out, “Nanny, where are you?” in the silent passages, even in the attic, he saw that his charge was flagging, and must be kept quiet, though he was as sure that Nanny was nearby as he had been that Richard was, earlier. His intuition strengthened as they went downstairs and returned to the kitchen. Of course—with all his knowledge of the past, which in Richard’s disordered brain was so gruesomely intermingled with the present—he should have guessed.