Original Sin (44 page)

She was riding now against the stream of traffic but was hardly aware of the details of the journey, her mind a muddle of anxiety, impatience and irritation. It wouldn't have hurt Maureen to have driven her to Wapping in the Fiesta, but trust Maureen not to miss the

chance of a meal. She was becoming aware, too, of her own hunger but told herself that, with luck, she would have time to grab a sandwich from the bar before the gig. Innocent Wall was, as usual, deserted. The back of Innocent House rose like a dark bastion against the night sky, then, as she looked up, her head flung back, became as insubstantial and unsteady as a cardboard cut-out, reeling against the low scudding clouds stained pink by the lights of the city. The pools in the gutter of the lane had dried now and a freshening breeze caught her at the end of Innocent Lane bringing with it the strong smell of the river. The only signs of life were the lit windows of the top flat at number x2. It looked as if Miss Peverell at least was now at home. She dismounted at the end of Innocent Lane, anxious not to disturb them with the sound of her bike, not wanting to be delayed by questions and explanations. She walked up the lane as delicately as a thief towards the shimmer of the river , to the place where she had parked the Yamaha. There was sufficient light from the lamps on the forecourt to aid her search, but no search was necessary. The purse lay exactly where she had hoped to find it. She gave a small, almost inaudible, whoop of delight and stuffed it deep into the zipped pocket of her jacket. It was less easy to see the face of her watch, and she moved closer to the river. At each end of the forecourt the two great globes of light supported by bronze dolphins threw shining pools on the heaving surface of the water which as she watched shimmered like a great cloak of black satin, shaken, smoothed and gently billowed by an invisible hand. Mandy glanced at her watch: 8.20. It was later than she thought and suddenly she found her enthusiasm for the gig had waned. The surge of relief at finding her purse had induced a disinclination for further effort and in this mood of contented lethargy the prospect of the cosy claustrophobia of her bed-sitting-room, the kitchen to herself for once, the rest of the evening in front of the television, grew in attraction by the second. There was that video of the Scorsese Cape Fear which was due back tomorrow, �2 wasted if she didn't watch it tonight. Now in no hurry, she turned almost without thought to look up at the faqade of Innocent House. The bottom two storeys were faintly lit by the lights from the forecourt, the slender marble pillars gleaming softly against the dead windows, black cavernous openings into an interior which she now knew so well, but which had become mysterious and forbidding.

How odd, she thought, that everything inside would be just as it was when she had left; the two word processors under their covers, Miss Blackett's neat desktop with her rack of filing trays, her diary placed precisely at her fight hand, the locked cabinet of files, the notice board to the fight of the door. All these ordinary things remained even when there was no one there to see them. And there was no one, no one at all. She thought of that small bare room at the top of the house, the room where two people had died. The chair and the table would still be in place, but there would be no bed, no woman's body, no naked man clawing at the bare boards. Suddenly she saw again Sonia Clements' body, but more real, more frightening than when she had seen it in the flesh. And then she remembered what Ken the packer had told her when she had taken a message to number so and had stayed gossiping, how Lady Sarah Peverell, wife of the Peverell who had built Innocent House, had thrown herself from the top balcony and smashed to death on the marble. 'You can still see the mark of the blood,' Ken had said, shifting a box of books from the shelf to the trolley. 'Don't let Miss Frances see you looking for it, though. That's not a story the family like to have told. But they can't clean that stain away for all that, and there'll be no luck in this house till they do. And she still walks, does Lady Sarah. You ask any waterman on the river.' Ken, of course, had been trying to frighten her, but that had been in late September, a day of mellow sunshine, and she had relished the story, only half believing it, feeling an agreeable shiver of self-induced fear. But she had asked Fred Bowling and she remembered his answer, qhere are ghosts enough on this river, but none walk at Innocent House.' That was before the death of Mr Gerard. Perhaps they walked now.

And now the fear was becoming real. She looked up at the top balcony and imaged the horror of that fall, the flailing limbs, the single cry - surely she must have cried out - the sickening crunch as the body hit the marble. Suddenly there was a wild scream and she started, but it was only a seagull. The bird swooped above her, perched for a moment on the railings, then winged its way down-fiver. She was aware that she was getting chilled. The cold was unnatural, seeping out from the marble as if she stood on ice, and the

river breeze was colder now, blowing against her face with the first chill of winter. She was taking a last look at the river, glancing down to where the launch lay silent and empty, when her eyes caught a flash of something white at the top of the railings, to the right of the stone steps which led down to the Thames. It looked at first as if someone had tied a handkerchief to the rail. Curious, she walked across and saw that it was a sheet of paper rammed down on to one of the narrow spikes. And there was something else, a gleam of golden metal at the bottom of the rail. Squatting down, a little disorientated by self-induced fear, Mandy took some seconds to recognize it. It was the buckle of a narrow leather strap, the strap of a brown shoulder-bag. The strap strained down to the puckered surface of the water, and beneath that surface something was just visible, something grotesque and unreal, like the domed head of a gigantic insect, its millions of hairy legs stirring gently in the tide. And then Mandy knew that what she was seeing was the top of a human head. At the end of the strap was a human body. And as she gazed down in horror the body shifted in the tide and a white hand rose slowly from the water, its wrist drooping like the stem of a dying flower. For a few seconds disbelief fought with realization and then, half fainting with shock and terror, she sank to her knees, clutching at the iron railings. She was aware of the cold metal rasping her hands and then the strength of it pressed against her forehead. She knelt there, powerless to move, terror squeezing at her stomach and turning her limbs to stone. In this cold nothingness only her heart was alive, a heart which had become a great ball of burning iron thudding against her ribs as if it could power her through the railings and into the river. She dared not open her eyes; to open them was to see what she could still only half believe; the double leather of the strap straining down to the abomination below. She didn't know how long she knelt there before she was capable of sense and movement, but gradually she became aware of the strong river smell in her nostrils, the coldness of the marble against her knees, her quietening heart. Her hands were so rigid on the ra'dings that it took painful seconds to prise the fingers away. She drew herself up and then suddenly found strength and purpose. Running wordlessly across the courtyard, she banged on the first door, Dauntsey's, and pressed his bell. Above, the windows were dark and she wasted no time in waiting for the answer which she

knew wouldn't come, but ran round the house into Innocent Walk and pressed Frances Peverell's bell, keeping her right thumb on the button while she hammered on the knocker with her left hand. The response was almost immediate. She couldn't hear the rush of feet on the stairs but the door was thrown open and she saw James de Witt with Frances Peverell at his shoulder. Incoherently she stammered, pointing towards the river, began running and was aware that they were on her heels. And now they were standing together looking down into the river. Mandy found herself thinking, I'm not mad. It wasn't a dream. It's still here. She heard Miss Peverell say: 'Oh no! Oh please God no!' Then she turned half fainting and was caught in James de Witt's arms, but not before Mandy had seen her make the sign of the cross. He said: 'It's all right, my darling, it's all right.' Her voice was half-muffled in his jacket. 'It isn't all right. How can it be all right?' Then she broke free and said with surprising strength and calmness: 'Who is it?' De Witt didn't look again at the thing in the river. Instead, carefully, he prised the sheet of paper from the railing and peered at it. He said: 'Esm Carling. This looks like a suicide note.' Frances said: 'Not again! Not another! What does it say?' 'It's not easy to see.' He turned and held it so that the light from the globe at the end of the railings fell on the paper. There was almost no margin, as if the page had been trimmed to fit the words, and the sharp finial of the rafting had pierced and torn the paper. He said: 'It looks as if it's written in her own hand. It's addressed to all of us.' He smoothed it out and read aloud: '"To the partners of Peverell Press. God rot you all! For thirty years you've exploited my talent, made money out of me, neglected me as a writer and as a woman, treated me as if my books aren't fit to bear your precious imprint. What do you know about creative writing? Only one of you has written a word and his talent, such as it was, died years ago. It's me, and writers like me, who have kept your house alive. And now you've thrown me over. After thirty years I'm finished, without explanation, without the right of appeal, without a chance to rewrite or revise. Finished. Dismissed, as the Peverells have casually dismissed their unwanted servants for generations. Don't you realize that this finishes me as a human being as well as a writer? Don't you know that when a writer can no longer be published she may as well

308

be dead? But at least I can make your name stink throughout London, and believe me I shall. This is only the beginning."

Frances Peverell said: 'Poor woman. Oh, poor woman. James, why didn't she come and see us?'

Would that have done any good?'

'It's the same as Sonia. If it had to be done it could have been done differently, with compassion, with some kindness.'

James de Witt said gently: 'Frances, there's nothing we can do for her now. We'd better call the police.'

'But we can't leave her like that! It's too horrible. It's obscene! We

must pull her out - try artificial respiration.'

He said patiently: 'Frances, she's dead.'

'But we can't leave her. Please, James, we must try.'

It seemed to Mandy that they had forgotten she was there. Now that she was no longer alone the terrible paralysing fear had faded. The world had become, if not ordinary, at least familiar, manageable. She thought: he doesn't know what to do. He wants to please her but he doesn't want to touch the body. He can't pull it out by himself and can't bear for her to help. She said: 'If you were going to try mouth-to-mouth breathing you ought to have pulled her out at once. It'll be too late now.'

He said, it seemed to Mandy with a great sadness: 'It was always too late. Anyway, the police won't want the body interfered with.'

Interfered with? The words struck Mandy as funny. She fought an impulse to giggle, knowing that if she gave way to giggling she would end by crying. Oh God, she thought, why doesn't he bloody well do something?

She said: 'If you two stay here I could ring the police. Give me the key and tell me where the phone is.'

Frances said dully: 'In the hall. And the door's open - at least I think it's open.' She turned to de Witt, suddenly frantic: 'Oh my God, James, have I locked us out?'

'No,' he said patiently. 'I've got the key. It was in the front door.' He was about to hand it to Mandy when their ears caught the sound of feet approaching down Innocent Lane and Gabriel Dauntsey and Sydney Bartrum appeared. They were both wearing raincoats and brought with them a sense of the reassuringly normal. Something about the three still figures, faces turned towards them, alerted them and their footsteps quickened to a run.

309

Dauntsey said: 'We heard voices. Is something wrong?'

Mandy took the key but did not move. There was no hurry anyway; the police couldn't save Mrs Carling. No one could help her now. And now two more faces were peering down, two more voices murmuring their horror.

De Witt said: 'She's left a note. Here, on the raffings. A fulmination against the whole lot of us.'

Frances said again: 'Please get her out.'

And now it was Dauntsey who took control. Looking at him, at the skin which in the light of the globes was as sickly green as river weeds, at the lines scarring the face like black wounds, Mandy thought: he's an old, old man. This shouldn't happen to him. What can he do?

He said to de Witt, 'You and Sydney could lift her using the steps. I haven't the strength.'

His words galvanized James who made no further objection but began walking carefully down the slimy steps holding on to the railings. Mandy saw his involuntary shiver at the bite of the cold water on his legs. She thought, the best way would be for Mr de Witt to support the body from the steps and Mr Dauntsey and Mr Bartrum to pull on the strap, but they won't want to do it that way. And, indeed, the thought of watching the drowned face rise slowly from the water while the men pulled on the strap, as if deliberately hanging her again, was so horrible that she wondered how the thought could have come into her mind. Again it seemed to her that they had forgotten her presence. Frances Peverell had moved a little apart, her hands grasping the railings, her eyes fixed on the river. Mandy guessed a little of what she was feeling. She wanted the body brought out of the water, the dreadful strap removed; she needed to stay until that was done but she couldn't bear to watch it happening. But, for Mandy, to look away was more horrible than to watch. If she had to stay it was better to know than to imagine. And of course she had to stay. No one had again taken up her suggestion that she should take the key and ring the police. And there was no hurry. What did it matter if they came later than sooner? Nothing they brought with them, nothing they could do could revive Mrs Carling.