The Book of Evidence (15 page)

her p o o r face blotched and swollen, dressed in a l u m p y pullover and a crooked skirt. Charlie French stood a little apart f r o m the rest, with his hands a w k w a r d l y clasped. I was surprised to see him. Decent of him to come, courageous, too. Neither he nor the girl looked in my direction, though they must have felt the pressure of my h u m i d gaze. T h e coffin seemed to me surprisingly small, they got it d o w n into the hole with r o o m to spare. P o o r M a . I can't believe that she's gone, I mean the fact of it has not sunk in yet. It is s o m e h o w as if she had been bundled away t o m a k e r o o m for something m o r e important. O f course, the irony of the situation does not escape me: if f had only waited a few months there w o u l d have been no need to — but no, e n o u g h of that. They'll read the will without me, which is only right. T h e last time I saw her I f o u g h t with her. T h a t was the day I left for Whitewater.

She did not visit me in jail. I don't b l a m e her. I never even b r o u g h t the child for her to see. She was not as tough as I imagined. D i d I destroy her life, too? All these dead w o m e n .

"When the ceremony was over Charlie walked past the car with his head d o w n . He seemed to hesitate, but changed his m i n d and went on. I think he w o u l d have spoken to me, had it not been for the presence of the detectives, and my aunts a g o g behind him, and, oh, just the general awfulness of everything.

S o I A M D R I V I N G a w a y f r o m the village, in the H u m b e r H a w k , with a foolish grin on my face. I felt, for no g o o d reason, that I was escaping all my problems, I pictured them dwindling in space and time like the village itself, a quaint j u m b l e of things getting steadily smaller and smaller. If I had stopped for a m o m e n t to think, of course, I w o u l d have realised that what I was leaving behind me was not my tangled troubles, as I fondly imagined, but, on the contrary, a mass of evidence, obvious and unmistakable as a swatch of matted hair and blood. I had skipped Ma R e e k ' s without paying for my lodgings, I had b o u g h t a burglar's kit in the village shop, and n o w I had as g o o d as stolen a car — and all this not five miles f r o m what w o u l d soon c o m e to be k n o w n as the scene of the crime. T h e court will agree, these are hardly the marks of careful premeditation. ( W h y is it that every other thing I say sounds like the sly preamble to a plea of mitigation?) T h e fact is, I was not thinking at all, not what could really be called thinking. I was content to sail through sun and shade along these dappled back roads, one hand on the wheel and an elbow out the w i n d o w , with the scents of the countryside in my nostrils and the breeze whipping my 102

hair. Everything w o u l d be well, everything w o u l d w o r k itself out. I do not k n o w w h y 1 felt so elated, perhaps it was a f o r m of delirium. A n y w a y , I told myself, it was only a madcap g a m e I was playing, I could call it o f f whenever 1

wished.

Meanwhile here was "Whitewater, rising above the trees.

An empty tour bus was parked at the gate. T h e driver's door was open, and the driver was lounging in the stepwell, sunning himself. He watched me as I swung past him into the drive. I w a v e d to him. He w o r e tinted glasses.

He did not smile. He w o u l d remember me.

Afterwards the police could not understand w h y I showed so little circumspection, driving up brazenly like that, in broad daylight, in that unmistakable motor car.

B u t I believed, you see, that the matter w o u l d be entirely between Behrens and me, with Anna perhaps as g o -

between. I never imagined there w o u l d be anything so vulgar as a police investigation, and headlines in the papers, and all the rest of it. A simple business transaction between civilised people, that's what I intended. I would be polite but firm, no m o r e than that. I was not thinking in terms of threats and ransom demands, certainly not. W h e n later I read what those reporters w r o t e — the M i d s u m m e r Manhunt, they called it — I could not recognise myself in their depiction of me as a steely, ruthless character.

Ruthless — me! N o , as I drove up to Whitewater it was not police I was thinking of, but only the chauffeur Flynn, with his little pig eyes and his boxer's meaty paws. Yes, Flynn was a man to avoid.

H a l f w a y up the drive there was

G o d , these tedious details.

H a l f w a y up there was a fork in the drive. A w o o d e n arrow with H O U S E written on it in white paint pointed to the right, while to the left a sign said S T R I C T L Y

103

P R I V A T E . I s t o p p e d the car. S e e me there, a b i g b l u r r e d face b e h i n d the w i n d s c r e e n p e e r i n g first this w a y , then that. It is like an illustration f r o m a c a u t i o n a r y tract: the sinner hesitates at the p a r t i n g of the w a y s . I d r o v e o f f to the left, a n d m y heart g a v e a n a p p r e h e n s i v e w a l l o p .

B e h o l d , the w r e t c h forsakes the p a t h o f righteousness.

I r o u n d e d the s o u t h w i n g o f the h o u s e , a n d p a r k e d o n the grass a n d w a l k e d across the l a w n t o the g a r d e n r o o m .

T h e french w i n d o w w a s o p e n . D e e p breath. I t w a s n o t yet n o o n . Far o f f in the fields s o m e w h e r e a tractor w a s w o r k i n g , it m a d e a d r o w s y , b u z z i n g s o u n d that s e e m e d the v e r y v o i c e of s u m m e r , I hear it still, that tiny, distant, prelapsarian s o n g . I h a d left the r o p e a n d the h a m m e r in the car, a n d b r o u g h t w i t h m e the t w i n e and the roll o f w r a p p i n g p a p e r . I t struck m e s u d d e n l y h o w a b s u r d the w h o l e thing w a s . I b e g a n to l a u g h , a n d l a u g h i n g stepped into the r o o m .

T h e painting i s called, a s e v e r y o n e m u s t k n o w b y n o w ,
Portrait of a Woman with Gloves
. It m e a s u r e s e i g h t y - t w o centimetres by sixty-five. F r o m internal e v i d e n c e — in particular the w o m a n ' s attire — it has b e e n dated b e t w e e n 1655 a n d 1660. T h e b l a c k dress and b r o a d w h i t e collar a n d cuffs o f the w o m a n are lightened o n l y b y a b r o o c h a n d g o l d o r n a m e n t a t i o n on the g l o v e s . T h e face has a slightly Eastern cast. (I am q u o t i n g f r o m the g u i d e b o o k to

"Whitewater H o u s e . ) T h e picture has b e e n variously attributed t o R e m b r a n d t a n d Frans Hals, even t o V e r m e e r . H o w e v e r , it is safest to r e g a r d it as the w o r k of a n a n o n y m o u s m a s t e r .

N o n e o f this m e a n s a n y t h i n g .

I h a v e s t o o d in f r o n t of other, p e r h a p s greater paintings, a n d n o t b e e n m o v e d as I am m o v e d by this one. I h a v e a r e p r o d u c t i o n of it on the w a l l a b o v e my table here — sent to me b y , of all p e o p l e , A n n a B e h r e n s — w h e n I l o o k at it 104

my heart contracts. T h e r e is s o m e t h i n g in the w a y the w o m a n regards m e , the querulous, m u t e insistence o f her eyes, w h i c h I can neither escape n o r assuage. I s q u i r m in the g r a s p o f her gaze. S h e requires o f m e s o m e great effort, s o m e t r e m e n d o u s feat of scrutiny and attention, of w h i c h I do not think I am capable. It is as if she w e r e asking me to let her live.

She. T h e r e is no she, of course. T h e r e is o n l y an organisation of shapes and colours. Y e t I try to m a k e up a life for her. S h e is, I will say, thirty-five, thirty-six, t h o u g h p e o p l e w i t h o u t thinking still speak of her as a girl. S h e lives w i t h her father, the m e r c h a n t (tobacco, spices, and, in secret, slaves). S h e keeps h o u s e for h i m since her m o t h e r ' s death. S h e did not like her m o t h e r . H e r father dotes on her, his only child. S h e is, he proclaims, his treasure. She devises m e n u s — father has a delicate s t o m a c h — inspects the kitchen, she even supervises his w i n e cellar. She keeps an inventory of the h o u s e h o l d linen in a little n o t e b o o k attached to her belt by a fine g o l d chain, using a c o d e of her o w n devising, for she has never learned to read or write. S h e is strict w i t h the servants, and will p e r m i t no familiarities. T h e i r dislike she takes for respect. T h e house is not e n o u g h to a b s o r b her energies, she does g o o d w o r k s besides: she visits the sick, and is on the b o a r d of visitors of the t o w n ' s almshouse. S h e is brisk, s o m e t i m e s impatient, a n d there are mutterings against her a m o n g the alms-folk, especially the o l d w o m e n . At times, usually in spring and a t the b e g i n n i n g o f winter, e v e r y t h i n g b e c o m e s t o o m u c h f o r her. N o t i c e the c l a m m y pallor of her skin: she is prey to obscure ailments. S h e takes to her b e d a n d lies for days w i t h o u t speaking, hardly breathing, while outside in the silvery northern light the w o r l d g o e s a b o u t its b u s y w a y .

S h e tries to p r a y , b u t G o d is distant. H e r father c o m e s to visit her at e v e n i n g , w a l k i n g on tiptoe. T h e s e periods of 105

prostration frighten him, he remembers'his wife dying, her terrible silence in the last weeks. If he were to lose his daughter too — B u t she gets up, wills herself to it, and very soon the servants are feeling the e d g e of her tongue again, and he cannot contain his relief, it comes out in little laughs, roguish endearments, a kind of clumsy skittishness.

She considers him wryly, then turns back to her tasks. She cannot understand this notion he has g o t into his head: he wants to have her portrait painted. I'm old, is all he will say to her, I am an old m a n , look at me! A n d he laughs, a w k w a r d l y , and avoids her eye. My portrait? she says, mine? — I am no fit subject for a painter. He shrugs, at which she is first startled, then grimly amused: he might at least have attempted to contradict her. He seems to realise what is g o i n g through her mind, and tries to m e n d matters, but he becomes flustered, and, watching h i m fuss and fret and pluck at his cuffs, she realises with a pang that it's true, he has aged. Her father, an old man. T h e thought has a touch of bleak c o m e d y , which she cannot account for. "You have fine hands, he says, g r o w i n g testy, annoyed both at himself and her, your mother's hands — we'll tell him to m a k e the hands prominent. A n d so, to h u m o u r him, but also because she is secretly curious, she goes along one m o r n i n g to the studio. T h e squalor is what strikes her first of all. Oirt and daubs of paint everywhere, g n a w e d chicken bones on a smeared plate, a chamber-pot on the floor in the c o m e r . T h e painter matches the place, with that filthy smock, and those fingernails. He has a drinker's squashed and pitted nose. She thinks the general smell is bad until she catches a w h i f f of his breath. She discovers that she is relieved: she had expected s o m e o n e y o u n g , dissolute, threatening, not this pot-bellied old soak. B u t then he fixes his little wet eyes on her, briefly, with a kind of impersonal intensity, and she flinches, as if caught in a 106

burst of strong light. No one has ever looked at her like this before. So this is what it is to be known! It is almost indecent. First he puts her standing by the w i n d o w , but it does not suit, the light is w r o n g , he says. He shifts her about, grasping her by the upper arms and walking her backwards f r o m one place to another. She feels she should be indignant, but the usual responses do not seem to function here. He is shorter than her by a head. He makes some sketches, scribbles a colour note or two, then tells her to c o m e t o m o r r o w at the same time. A n d wear a darker dress, he says. Well! She is about to give him a piece of her mind, but already he has turned aside to another task. Her maid, sitting by the door, is biting her lips and smirking.

She lets the next day pass, and the next, just to show him.

W h e n she does return he says nothing about the broken appointment, only looks at her black dress — pure silk, with a broad collar of Spanish lace — and nods carelessly, and she is so vexed at him it surprises her, and she is shocked at herself He has her stand before the couch. R e m o v e your gloves, he says, I am to emphasise the hands. She hears the note of amused, disdain in his voice. She refuses.
(Her
hands, indeed!) He insists. T h e y engage in a brief, stiff little squabble, batting icy politenesses back and forth between them. In the end she consents to r e m o v e one glove, then promptly tries to hide the hand she has bared. He sighs, shrugs, but has to suppress a grin, as she notices. R a i n streams d o w n the windows, shreds of smoke fly over the rooftops. T h e sky has a huge silver hole in it. At first she is restless, standing there, then she seems to pass silently through some barrier, and a dreamy calm comes over her.

It is the same, day after day, first there is agitation, then the breakthrough, then silence and a kind of softness, as if she were floating away, away, out of herself He mutters under his breath as he works. He is choleric, he swears, and clicks 107

his tongue, sending up sighs and groans. T h e r e are long, fevered passages w h e n he w o r k s close up against the canvas, and she can only see his s t u m p y legs and his old, misshapen boots. E v e n his feet seem busy. She wants to laugh w h e n he p o p s his head out at the side of the easel and peers at her sharply, his potato nose twitching. He will not let her see w h a t he is d o i n g , she is not allowed even a peek.

T h e n one day she senses a kind of soundless, settling crash at his end of the r o o m , and he steps back with an expression of w e a r y disgust and w a v e s a hand dismissively at the canvas, and turns aside to clean his brush. She comes f o r w a r d and looks. For a second she sees nothing, so taken is she by the m e r e sensation of stopping like this and turning: it is as if — as if s o m e h o w she had walked out of herself A long m o m e n t passes. T h e brooch, she says, is w o n d e r f u l l y done. T h e sound of her o w n voice startles her, it is a stranger speaking, and she is c o w e d . He laughs, not bitterly, but with real a m u s e m e n t and, so she feels, a curious sort of s y m p a t h y . It is an a c k n o w l e d g e m e n t , of —