Honeybath's Haven (13 page)

It was a letter, in the first place, exuding forgiveness and reconciliation, and it continued in a vein of virtual euphoria which explained itself when the name of Gutermann-Seuss hove into view. There had been some gross misconception –a consequence of Prout's not actually having interviewed the lady himself – and he had been shown that objectionable curiosity when the real thing actually existed in the next room.

And it was the real thing: small and very simple – in fact no more than a bunch of zinnias in a porcelain vase. But at a mere glance it announced itself for what it was. Prout was now its fortunate owner, since he had purchased it (probably to an eventual modest advantage) on the spot. He would be most grateful if Honeybath would tell Edwin about it; even sound Edwin for any recollection of it he had. Not that establishing a strict provenance was essential when it was a question of so unchallengeably authentic a thing. And Edwin, of course, would probably
not
remember it, since his memory was quite as much in decay as the rest of him. It was just possible – Prout added in a postscript – that this excellent Mrs Gutermann-Seuss might harbour something further of Edwin's, since her possessions lay around the Brighton house in great profusion and confusion. But Prout would go easy on this possibility for a time, since it would be impolitic to let the lady feel there was too much in the wind.

Honeybath hesitated for some time about showing this letter to his friend, although he was clearly intended to do so. There was nothing in the deal for Edwin, and of course no reason why there should be; nor would Edwin be at all concerned about that aspect of the matter. He might, however, be upset by the mere fact of an early picture turning up. Hadn't he reacted in an agitated and equivocal way to the suggestion that he might himself be sitting on a clutch of the things? But in the end Honeybath did hand the letter over. That it contained an unflattering estimate of Edwin's mental and physical condition didn't matter very much, since Edwin managed to delight at once in declaring himself mad and in making fun of his brother-in-law's conviction that he was so.

Edwin declared that he had never heard of Gutermann-Seuss, and that even if the existence of this person at a former time were proved to him, he would still dispute the probability of his having left a widow. (It was a sign, Honeybath thought, of a substantial recovery of nervous tone on Edwin's part that he talked nonsense like this.) As for zinnias, he had no memory of ever painting such things, and he doubted whether he would recognize a zinnia if one were shown to him now. It was quite possible, of course, that Melissa had once stuck a bunch of flowers in front of him and that he had gone to work on it. Perhaps he had pretended that he was Fantin-Latour or even some piddling Dutchman. They'd used to play, hadn't they, games like that?

Honeybath agreed that they had, and Prout's letter was mentioned no more. The Italian trip was proving quite a success. Edwin was frequently depressed, and occasionally excited and bizarre. He advanced odd reasons for visiting one place and avoiding another. Assisi was dangerous because wolves still came prowling down from Monte Subasio, and turned nasty when they failed to find their old chum. Perugia was impossible because even the clothes of all those charming youths in Perugino's paintings were impregnated with the smell of chocolate. It wasn't always easy to tell when Edwin was producing fun and when the detritus of a disordered imagination. And this conversation, particularly of an anecdotal and reminiscent sort, was difficult to follow because he had a fondness for nicknames that came and went like quicksilver. Who were Soggy Sabrina and Narky Ned and Signor Cipolla? Honeybath felt he was expected to know – which he certainly did not. But at least Edwin's intermittent clowning never exhibited itself in front of works of art. It might have been said that these turned him sane at once. Nor, before them, did he beweep his outcast state, or envy this man's art and that man's scope. As the little tour went on Honeybath became more and more convinced that he had hit upon the right thing. It was Italy that was the Great Good Place.

This view of the matter took a severe dent, indeed, when the two artists ran into Melissa. This happened in Rome in the Sans Souci, a fact making the coincidence a shade less remarkable than it would otherwise have been. The gastronome (if not sybarite) lurking in Lightfoot had brought the two men to this celebrated place of refection, and Melissa was remembering it from earlier years when she and her husband had presumably been on better terms. Honeybath was halfway through something called Danilo's Dream, and Edwin was discussing a Miracolo San Bruno, when Melissa simply walked across the restaurant and stood planted before them. Her presence in Rome remained only vaguely explained, but it was to be presumed that Deep Meditation had rather let her down, and that she had decided on a spell of High Living instead.

‘They look distinctly out of place,' Melissa said, as she glanced from one to the other. ‘Not properly dressed for this place at all. They might be Germans. Or even Americans.'

‘Melissa, sit down.' Honeybath had frequently uttered these words equally firmly in the past. The effect of Melissa was slightly less devastating when she was constrained to direct address. ‘We're delighted to see you,' he added on a conciliatory note. ‘I hope you're going to dine with us.' It would be well worth a couple of thumping lies, he thought, if Melissa could be persuaded to take a seemly view of this encounter. He couldn't quite think of what was the Italian equivalent of
le haut ton
or
la crème de la crème
. But they were presumably surrounded by it in this elegant establishment.

‘I meant to go to the White Elephant,' Melissa said, a little discontentedly. She had sat down. ‘But I lost my way.'

‘Ah, the White Elephant.' Honeybath didn't in fact know the White Elephant. It sounded like a pub (but in this he was mistaken), which would have been more his style. ‘I expect we can find something to suit you. I don't know who Danilo was. But his Dream is at least no Nightmare.'

This was jocularity on the nervous side. Here was Edwin contented and enjoying himself; definitely to be described as on the mend. But Melissa's irruption was unlikely to fortify the convalescent process.

‘Penne Karlof,' Melissa said, decisively if mysteriously.

‘Si, si, Signora
.' Edwin had jumped to his feet, draped his table napkin over his arm, and was inclining his head respectfully over his wife's shoulder – with a hand holding an imaginary pencil poised over an imaginary scribbling block. Edwin, all too plainly, was putting on one of his turns. It was a critical moment. Honeybath, however, had come to exercise a considerable degree of authority over his travelling companion, and he succeeded in repressing him now. Melissa watched the process with an appraising eye.

‘Is Edwin all right?' she asked.

‘Of course Edwin's all right.'

‘Ambrose is anxious about him.' Melissa might have been talking about a domestic pet, or a child still of years too tender to understand that it was a topic of debate. ‘Ambrose says his memory is entirely gone, and that he would be totally unreliable in anything he said about himself. Ambrose believes that distressing physical symptoms are sure to follow. Are his sphincters still tolerably in order?'

‘Melissa, dear, your sense of humour can be deplorable. Do be serious.' Honeybath had glanced apprehensively at Edwin, who might well react unfavourably to these outrageous remarks. But Edwin had achieved a rapid withdrawal within himself, and seemed to be paying no attention to either of his companions. He continued, however, to be appreciatively aware of the Miracolo San Bruno.

‘Very well.' Melissa paused to brief a waiter on her need of Penne Karlof; presumably it was a dish claiming to be as light as feathers. ‘Ambrose has found three early paintings. I suppose you've heard that.'

‘Three!'

‘All from the lumber-room of some dreadful old woman in Brighton. Or so he says. I don't believe she exists. But, if she does, I suppose the pictures were her lawful property. They're Ambrose's now. I think it's very odd.'

‘Are you insinuating, Melissa, that your brother isn't being quite straight about them?' It was in a tone of severe disapproval that Honeybath asked this. He was coming less and less to care for Prout, but he judged Melissa's line to be scandalously unsisterly.

‘I think there should be something in it for us. And haven't I to protect Edwin's interests? He is my husband, you know.'

‘An ill-favoured thing, sir, but mine own.' Edwin produced this Shakespearian thought without the slightest appearance of emerging from his abstraction. The effect of this was disturbing, to say the least.

‘Have you seen these pictures?' Honeybath asked. Although reluctant to continue this conversation on its present terms, he felt a very strong curiosity in the matter.

‘No, I haven't. Ambrose refused to show them to me. But I'll tell you a funny thing. Just before I came away, I went to see him on some business of quite a different sort. He didn't so much as want to let me into his flat. But I insisted, and found a man with him whom he simply refused to introduce. It was extremely unmannerly. I hate bad manners.' Melissa made this perhaps surprising claim emphatically. ‘So I said to this person quite firmly: “Who are you ?” And he told me his name was Michaelis, and that he knew Edwin. He seemed quite embarrassed. Of course the name conveyed nothing to me. So I just left some papers with Ambrose, and came away. But I thought it funny, as I said. I don't know why I thought it funny, but I did.'

‘Hilarious.' Edwin had suddenly become attentive to his companions in the most normal-seeming way. ‘Michaelis, Melissa, is a leech they keep around Hanwell to paw people's tummies and peer inside their heads. A well-meaning chap, I'd say, and quite splendidly without a scrap of aesthetic sense. I suppose your brother has hopes of him, and had got him along in order to chat him up. Naturally they'd be a bit embarrassed when you poked in.'

‘What do you mean by saying Ambrose has hopes of him?' Melissa demanded. ‘I don't understand you.'

‘Ambrose would like to see me shut up good and proper, and feels the chap might sign on the dotted line. He regards me as an expensive nuisance, Ambrose does.' Edwin offered these shocking opinions with what seemed perfect good humour, and Honeybath found it impossible to tell whether he was in fact startled by the information his wife had produced. ‘I expect he had a preliminary go at it the last time he came down to Hanwell, just before Charles and I took off from the place.'

‘My dear Edwin,' Honeybath said, ‘for goodness sake don't start imagining things. Michaelis has been your medical advisor – at least in a vague sort of way. It would be grossly improper of him to hold the sort of confabulations you suggest with a person who is no more than your brother-in-law.'

‘Then, Charles, what
was
it in aid of? Ambrose's barging in on Michaelis at Hanwell is one thing. But this affair at Ambrose's own flat is a most unlikely get-together. It certainly wasn't for the purpose of having a friendly drink. Incidentally, let's get Melissa some champagne. She deserves it.'

Honeybath called for the champagne. He didn't like Edwin's curiously relaxed manner a bit, and moreover he was unable himself to find a motive that could have prompted the odd conference Melissa had stumbled into. In a groping kind of way he connected it with the possibly mythical Mrs Gutermann-Seuss and the turning up of those three early Lightfoots. What if a cache of the things really did exist, but was perhaps still Edwin's own property and concealed somewhere at Hanwell Court? He had himself actually sounded Edwin about something like this, and received what he dimly remembered as an evasive reply. And no further light on it had emerged during the present Italian trip, perhaps because it had been Honeybath's line to consign Hanwell and any mystery that might be connected with it to at least a temporary limbo. Now he found himself intuitively convinced that Edwin's very ease of manner was ominous; that it was a disguise that might blow away at any moment and land him again with a companion who had been given occasion to be seriously disturbed. He cursed this luckless visit to the Sans Souci – or alternatively Melissa's incompetent inability to find her way to the White Elephant. He was even sufficiently upset to think of breaking up the party before the champagne was finished. He distrusted the effect of the stuff on Melissa, for one thing. She was a woman who easily got tiddly (which was the correct vulgar word for it), and if she and Edwin then got across one another there might be the most distressing scene.

But he restrained himself, and nothing of the sort happened. Melissa appeared puzzled rather than challenging. Edwin returned to his former abstraction, and finished the evening with a composure that was wholly commendable. He was like a man relieved of tension because some power of decision has been restored to him.

This last impression was soon to explain itself. The two men returned to their hotel in the hair-raising fashion inseparable from a nocturnal ride across Rome in a taxicab.

‘I'm going to pack,' Edwin said, when he had arrived outside his bedroom door.

‘My dear Edwin, you're forgetting. We're going to spend three more days in Rome.'

‘You may be. I'm going home.'

‘What do you mean – home?' This was not, perhaps, a tactful question, since Edwin's only home now was the curious establishment in which Honeybath had persuaded him to domesticate himself.

‘Hanwell, of course. I'm going to clear things up there.'

‘You mean you've decided to move out?' It was Honeybath's conviction now that this was the best course that Edwin could adopt. He was uneasy, all the same.

‘I suppose so.'

‘Of course I'll come back with you, Edwin. Perhaps I can give you a hand over the next few weeks. There will be quite a lot to consider.'