The Dark Shore (4 page)

Two

1

The hotel staff at the reception desk were unable to trace the anonymous call.

“But you must,” said Jon. “It’s very important. You must.”

The man behind the desk said courteously that he regretted that it was quite impossible. It was a local call made from a public telephone booth but the automatic dialing system precluded any possibility of finding out any further information.

“Was it a man or a woman?”

“I’m afraid I don’t remember, sir.”

“But you must!” said Jon. “Surely you remember. The call only came through a minute ago.”

“But sir—” The man felt himself stammering. “You see—”

“What did he say? Was it a deep voice? Did he have any accent?”

“No, sir. At least it was difficult to tell because—”

“Why?”

“Well, it was little more than a whisper, sir. Very faint. He just asked for you. ‘Mr. Towers please,’ he said and I said, ‘Mr. Jon Towers?’ and when he didn’t answer I said, ‘One moment, please’ and connected the lines.” He stopped.

Jon said nothing. Then after a moment, he shrugged his shoulders abruptly and turned aside, crossing the hall and reception lounge to the bar, while the man behind the desk wiped his forehead, muttered something to his companion and sat down automatically on the nearest available chair.

In the bar Jon ordered a double Scotch on the rocks. There was a sprinkling of people in the room but it was easy enough to find a seat at a comfortable distance from the nearest group, and when he sat down he lit a cigarette before starting his drink. After a while he became conscious of one definite need dominating the mass of confused thoughts in his mind, and on finishing
his drink
h
e stubbed out his cigarette and returned to his room to make a phone call.

A stranger’s voice answered.

Hell, thought Jon in a blaze of frustration she’s moved or remarried or both and I’ll have to waste time being a bloody private detective trying to discover where she is.

“Mrs. Rivington, please,” he said abruptly to the unknown voice at the other end of the wire.

“I think you have the wrong number. This is—”

“Is that Forty-one Halkin Street?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then she’s moved,” said Jon wearily and added, “Thank you,” before slamming down the receiver.

He sat and thought for a moment. Lawrence, the family lawyer, would probably know where she was. Lawrence wouldn’t have moved in ten years either; he would be seventy-five now, firmly embedded in his little Georgian house at Richmond with his crusty housekeeper who probably still wore starched collars and cuffs.

Ten minutes later he was speaking to a deep mellifluous voice which pronounced each syllable with meticulous care.

“Lawrence, I’m trying to get in touch with my mother. Can you give me her address? I’ve just rung Halkin Street but I gather she’s moved from
th
ere and it occurred to me that you would probably be able to tell me what’s been happening while I’ve been abroad.”

Lawrence talked for thirty seconds until Jon could stand it no longer. “You mean she moved about five years ago after her second husband died and is now living at Five, Consett Mews?”

“Precisely. In fact—”

“I see. Now Lawrence, there’s just one other thing, I’m extremely anxious to trace my cousin Marijohn—I was planning to phone my mother and ask her, but I suppose I may as well ask you now I’m speaking to you. Have you any idea where she is?”

The old man pondered over the question.

“You mean,” said John after ten seconds, “you don’t know.”

“Well, in actual fact, to be completely honest, no I don’t. Couldn’t say. Rivers could tell you, of course. Nice chap, young Rivers. Sorry their marriage wasn’t a success
...
You knew about the divorce, I suppose?” There was a silence in the softly-lit room. Beyond the window far-away traffic crawled up Berkeley Street, clockwork toys moving slowly through a model town.

“The divorce was—let me see
...
six years ago? Five? My memory’s not so accurate as it used to be
...
Rivers was awfully cut up about it—met him at the Law Society just about the time the divorce was coming up for hearing and he looked damn ill, poor fellow. No trouble with the divorce, though. Simple undefended desertion—took about ten minutes and the judge, was pretty decent about it. Marijohn wasn’t in court, of course. No need for her to be there when she wasn’t defending the petition
...
Are you still there, Jon?”

“Yes,” said Jon, “I’m still here.” And in his mind his voice was saying Marijohn, Marijohn, Marijohn over and over again, and the room was suddenly dark with grief.

Lawrence wandered on inconsequentially, reviewing the past ten years with the reminiscing nostalgia of the very old. He seemed surprised when Jon suddenly terminated the conversation, but managed to collect himself sufficiently to invite Jon to his home for dinner later that week.

“I’m sorry, Lawrence, but I’m afraid that won’t be possible at the moment. I’ll phone you later, if I may, and perhaps we can arrange something then.”

After he had replaced the receiver he slumped on to the bed and buried his face in the pillow for a moment. The white linen was cool against his cheek, and he remembered how he had loved the touch of linen years ago when they had first used the sheets and pillowcases which had been given to them as wedding presents. In a sudden twist of memory he could see the double bed in their room at Clougy, the white sheets crisp and inviting, Sophia’s dark hair tumbling over the pillows, her naked body full and rich and warm
...

He sat up, moved into the bathroom and then walked back into the bedroom to the window in a restless fever of movement. Find Marijohn, said the voice at the back of his brain. You have to find Marijohn. You can’t go to Michael Rivers so you must go to your mother instead. Best to call Consett Mews, and then maybe you can see Justin at the same time and arrange to have a talk with him. You must see Justin.

But that phone call. I have to find out who made that phone call. And most important of all, I must find Marijohn
...

He went out, hailing a taxi at the curb, and giving his mother’s address to the driver before slumping on to the back seat. The journey didn’t take long. John sat and watched the dark trees of the park flash into the brilliant vortex of Knightsbridge, and then the cab turned off beyond Harrods before twisting into Consett Mews two minutes later. He got out, gave the man a ten shilling note and decided not to bother to wait for change. It was dark in the mews; the only light came from an old-fashioned lamp set on a
corner
some yards away, and there was no light on over the door marked Five. Very slowly he crossed the cobbles and pushed the bell hard and long with the index finger of his right hand.

Perhaps Justin will come to the door, he thought. For the hundredth time he tried to imagine what Justin would look like, but he could only see the little boy with the short fat legs and plump body, and suddenly he was back in the past again with the small trusting hand tightly clasping his own throughout the walks along the cliff path to Clougy
...

The door opened. Facing him on the threshold was a woman in a maid’s uniform whose face he did not know.

“Good evening,” said Jon. “Is Mrs. Rivington in?”

The maid hesitated uncertainly. And then a woman’s voice said, “Who is it?” and the next moment as Jon stepped across the threshold, Camilla came out into the hall.

There was a tightness in Jon’s chest suddenly, an ache of love in his throat, but the past rose up in a great smothering mist and he was left only with his familiar detachment. She had never cared. She had always been too occupied in finding lovers and husbands, too busy trekking the weary social rounds of cocktail parties and grand occasions, too intent on hiring nursemaids to do her work for her or making arrangements to send him off to boarding school a year early so that he would no longer be in the way. He accepted her attitude and had adjusted himself to it. There was no longer any pain now, least of all after ten years away from her.

“Hullo,” he said, hoping she wouldn’t cry or make some emotional scene to demonstrate a depth of love which did not exist. “I thought I’d just call in and see you. No doubt you saw in the paper that I was in London.”

“Jon
...”
She took him in her arms, and as he kissed her on the cheek he knew she was crying.

So there was to be the familiar emotional scene after all. It would be like the time she had sent him to boarding school at the age of seven and had then cried when the time had come for him to go. He had never forgiven her for crying, for the hypocrisy of assuming a grief which she could not possibly have felt in the circumstances, and now it seemed that the hypocrisy was about to begin all over again.

He stepped backwards away from her and smiled into her eyes. “Why,” he said slowly, “I don’t believe you’ve changed at all
...
Where’s Justin? Is he here?”

Her expression changed almost imperceptibly; she turned to lead the way back into the drawing-room. “No, he’s not. He went out after dinner, and said he wouldn’t be in until about eleven
...
Why didn’t you phone a
nd
let us know you intended to see us? I didn’t expect a letter, of course that would have been too much to hope for—but if you’d phoned—”

“I didn’t know whether I was going to have time to come tonight ”

They were in
the
drawing room
. He recognized
familiar pictures,
the
oak cabinet,
the
pale willow-pat
te
rn china.

“How long are you here for?” she said quickly. “Is it a business trip?”

“In a way,” said Jon abruptly. “I’m also here to get married. My
fiancé
e is traveling over from Toronto in ten days’ time and we’re getting married quietly as soon as possible.”

“Oh?” she said, and he heard the hard edge to her voice and knew the expression in her eyes would be hard too. “Am I invited to the wedding? Or is it to be such a quiet affair that not even the bridegroom’s mother is invited?”

“You may come if you wish.” He took a cigarette from the box on the table and lit it with his own lighter. “But we want it to be quiet. Sarah’s parents had the idea of throwing a big society wedding in Canada, but that was more than I could stand and certainly the last thing Sarah wanted, so we decided to have the wedding in London. Her parents will fly over from Canada and there’ll be one or two of her friends there as well, but no one else.”

“I see,” said his mother. “How interesting. And have you told her all about your marriage to Sophia?”

There was a pause. He looked at her hard and had the satisfaction of seeing the color suffuse her neck and creep upwards into her face. After a moment he said to her carefully, “Did you phone the Mayfair Hotel this evening?”

“Did I—” She was puzzled. He saw her eyes cloud in bewilderment. “No, I didn’t know you were staying at the Mayfair,” she said at last. “I made no attempt to phone you
...
Why do you ask?”

“Nothing.” He inhaled from his cigarette, and glanced at a new china figurine on the dresser. “How are Michael and Marijohn these days?” he asked casually after a moment.

“They’re divorced.”

“Really?” His voice was vaguely surprised. “Why was that?”

“She wouldn’t live with him any more. I’ve no doubt there were various affairs too. He divorced her for desertion in the end.”

He gave a slight shrug of the shoulders as if in comment, and knew, without looking at her, that she wanted to say something spiteful. Before she could speak he asked, “Where’s Marijohn now?”

A pause.

“Why?”

He looked at her directly. “Why not? I want to see her.”

“I see,” she said. “That was why you came to England I suppose. And why you called here tonight. I’m sure you wouldn’t have bothered otherwise.”

Oh God, thought Jon wearily. More histrionic scenes.

“Well, you’ve wasted your time coming here in that case," she said tightly. “I’ve no idea where she is, and I don’t give a damn either. Michael’s the only one who keeps in touch with her.”

“Where does he live now?”

“Westminster,” said Camilla, her voice clear and hard. “Sixteen, Grays Court. You surely don’t want to go and see Michael, do you, darling?”

Jon leant forward, flicked ash into a tray and stood up with the cigarette still burning between his fingers.

“You’re not going, are you, for heaven’s sake? You’ve only just arrived!”

“I’ll come again some time. I’m very rushed at the moment.” He was already moving out into the hall, but as she followed him he paused with one hand on the front door latch and turned to face her.

She stopped.

He smiled.

“Jon,” she said suddenly, all anger gone. “Jon darling—”

“Ask Justin to phone me when he comes in, would you?” he said, kissing her good-bye and holding her close to him for a moment. “Don’t forget. I want to have a word with him tonight.”

She moved away from him and he withdrew his arms and opened the front door.

“You don’t want to see him, do you?” he heard her say, and he mistook the fear in her voice for sarcasm. “I didn’t think you would be sufficiently interested.”

He turned abruptly and stepped out into the dark street. “Of course I want to see him,” he said over his shoulder. “Didn’t you guess? Justin was the main reason why I decided to come back.”