Three Brothers (26 page)

Julie returned a minute or so later. “How was the air?” Sally asked her.

“What? Oh yes. Very fresh.” There was suddenly a loud chatter of birds in the garden that distracted Sam’s attention, but neither of the women seemed to hear it; they were staring at each other.

The three of them worked on till five, when it was time for Julie to leave. “You’ve been quiet this afternoon, Sam,” she said.

“Have I?” He tried to smile at her but the smile froze on his face; he simply gazed at her with a perplexed expression.

“You look,” she said, “like a frowning soup-plate.”

When she had left, Sam and his mother sat together in silence for a while. “Let’s go outside,” she said. “It’s a lovely evening.”

There had been a brief shower earlier that day, and the air was heavy with moisture and perfume all the more intense for lingering in the dust and shadows of the city; the generally overheated atmosphere now seemed languorous and restful.

“So now we know,” Sam was saying, “that Julie has been in touch with Flaxman.”

“Or Flaxman may have contacted her.”

“What did he want? What did she want?”

“What do you think?”

“Money of course.”

“And Flaxman?”

Sam was silent for a moment. “Information. Either Flaxman offered her money for something, or she approached him. I never told you about the letter, did I?”

“What letter?”

“I was asked to deliver it to Flaxman.”

“Who asked you? Asher?”

“Pincher Solomon.”

“I told you never to get involved with him.”

“That’s why I didn’t mention it to you. The letter really upset Flaxman.”

“Do you know why?”

Sam shook his head. “Not really. There was something about Tuesday evenings. Wait a minute. There was a little book. At least I think it was a book.” He rubbed his forehead violently. “I think,” he said, “that we should go back to Highgate.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. But we’re missing something.”

The house was exactly as he had seen it on the day he discovered the body, except that a “For Sale” board had been planted neatly in the garden. It now belonged to Sally and to Andrew, but it still retained the personality of Asher Ruppta. Sam wandered into the clean and modern kitchen, where a fly was hurling itself against a window above the sink; with some difficulty he opened the door into the garden and allowed the fly to escape. When he went back into the hall, where he had seen the body lying on the first landing of the stairs, Sally had gone. He called out to her, but there was no reply. He walked into the living room that looked over the gravel drive
in front of the house, but then suddenly turned around when he sensed that someone had entered the room behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. There was no one, of course: he had imagined it. Yet he knew now that Ruppta had been murdered by Flaxman.

He left the room and began to climb the staircase, when he heard his mother scream. He ran up the stairs and into a bedroom on the first floor; she was standing at the side of the room, close to the wall. “I almost trod on it,” she said. It was a dead crow, its black plumage still glistening in the sunlight. “How did it get in here?”

At that moment the bedroom door closed with a thud, startling them both.

“Open the door for me,” he said. Then very carefully he picked up the dead bird and, carrying it in both hands, took it down the stairs and out through the open door into the garden. He put the bird in the earth, and then covered it with fresh soil. He looked down at the spot for a minute or so.

“I think I know what happened,” he said to his mother as soon as he re-entered the kitchen. “Julie gave Flaxman a key to the house. She kept three sets in the office. Flaxman was looking for something. I think it might have been the little book I once saw. He was looking for something that had to do with his Tuesday evenings.”

When Julie arrived on the following morning, she seemed distracted and ill at ease. She made herself a cup of tea, and munched disconsolately on a digestive biscuit. “Are you feeling all right?” Sam asked her.

“Bad dreams. Funny how they affect your mood. They’re only ghosts, after all.”

“What are?”

“The people in dreams. They’re mostly dead, aren’t they?” She spoke with her mouth full of biscuit. “Do you know that
song? ‘You meet the nicest people in your dreams. It’s funny but it’s true, that’s where I met you.’ I can’t remember the rest.”

“How’s your sister?” Sally had come into the room.

“What sister?”

“You know. The one in Folkestone.”

“Oh. She’s still very poorly.”

“I am sorry to hear that.”

Julie looked at her suspiciously. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” Sally looked at Sam, as if asking his permission. “Except I don’t believe you have a sister. I think you made her up.”

“And why would I do a stupid thing like that?”

“To give yourself an alibi. On the day that you met Martin Flaxman. The day Asher was murdered.”

Both women looked pale and strained, their eyes larger than usual, their lips white.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes I do.”

“Do you really think that I did him in?”

“No. But I think you gave Flaxman the key to his house.”

Julie’s face was suffused with a sudden flush, and she realised at once that she had betrayed herself. “You can’t speak to me like that. That’s slander, that is.”

Sam could not bear the tension and animosity between the two women; he got up and, leaving the room, walked up the front path of the small dusty garden where grew roses and geraniums. He could hear their voices rising and falling in counterpoint. There was a silence and, just as their quarrel resumed, Sam went back into the house.

“Flaxman said he wanted a notebook,” Julie was saying. “A diary. I agreed to help him find it.”

“Why did you do that?”

“Why do you think? Money. Ruppy wasn’t exactly a philanthropist.
Anyway, I couldn’t find it. I looked everywhere. I was sure that Ruppy had put something in the safe, but it wasn’t there.”

“What’s in the book?”

“How am I supposed to know? I wasn’t Ruppy’s keeper.”

“You’re shouting again.”

“I have a right to shout. You have been accusing me. Threatening me.”

Again there was a pause, both women becoming quickly exhausted by their argument that seemed as if it might have no end. “So then what happened? You couldn’t find the book. What did you do?”

“Flaxman arranged to meet me at the north end of Battersea Bridge. Funny spot, really. Very windy. A lot of traffic. Maybe that’s why he chose it. No one could hear him. He was a strange one. Dressed like a tailor’s mannequin, but with the face and manners of a navvy. He had very small hands. I remember that.”

“Why did he want to see you?”

“Why do you think? He wanted my help. Where did I think the book might be? That kind of thing. I told him that it was more likely to be in Ruppy’s house than anywhere else. That was my first thought.”

Sally glanced at Sam, as if divining his thought. “So you decided to give him the key.”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Sally was indignant. “How could you betray him like that?”

“Don’t use that word to me, Madame Palliser.”

“So you gave Flaxman the key,” Sam said in a voice that he hoped was without blame.

“He knew the address already. They had some some kind of business in the past. Something dodgy, or I’m a Dutchman.”

“And he went there to look for the book.”

“I assume so.”

“This was on the morning that Ruppta was killed.”

“So it seems.”

“Assume? Seems?” Sally went over to Sam, and held on to the back of the chair in which he was sitting. “You know what happened, Julie.”

“Do I?”

“Ruppta surprised Flaxman, and he was killed. Simple.”

“Is anything ever simple? Do you know the reasons for anything you ever do, Sally? Do you understand the consequences? I don’t. I don’t think anyone does.” At this moment Julie appeared to Sam to have acquired some kind of power; it was as if he had seen the blue vault of heaven open above her. She moved towards the door. “Would you like your son to know how his father behaved? Arson. Beatings. He set dogs on some of his tenants. I am sure Andrew would like to read about that. And would he like to learn about his mother? Don’t you think I know all about you, Sally? Silence might be the best policy.”

“I don’t accept that.” Sally’s voice was uncertain, and she looked towards Sam for a response. He sat with his head bowed.

“Well,” Julie said with an expression of triumph. “There we have it.”

“We can’t leave it like that.” Sam raised his head. “Something has got to happen.”

“Hasn’t enough happened already?” Julie got ready to leave.

“You can’t work here any longer,” he said.

“Why should I want to? I don’t really fancy working for a whore.” Sally walked over to her, and slapped her hard upon her right cheek. Julie put up her hand to her face, and laughed. “Listen,” she said, “it’s beginning to rain.” Sam also heard the sound of a swift and sudden shower. But when he walked over to the window, there was no rain falling.

A happy shagger

A
S LONG
as her husband still lived, Lady Flaxman was in charge of the company; only on his death would it pass to her daughter. “Of course,” she said to Harry, “I would prefer to be the merry widow. But not everything is possible.” Her care for her husband was exemplary; she had installed a team of three nurses in the house on Cheyne Walk. Whenever she referred to her husband she called him “Sir Martin” and spoke almost in a whisper. “I am tiptoeing,” she told Guinevere, “through the tulips.”

All decisions about the
Chronicle
were now directed to her. Harry was at first dismayed by her ascendancy—thinking that he would only ever have to deal with a more compliant Guinevere—but slowly he began to adapt to the situation.

“You know, Harry,” Lady Flaxman said to him one evening as they sat alone in the office that had once been her husband’s, “he could go on for a long time. Modern medicine is absolutely wonderful. Have you thought about that?”

“Surely you could hand things over to Guinevere?”

“Guinevere hasn’t got a clue. She is a social worker. She’s practically brain-dead. But you know that, don’t you?” She smiled sweetly at him. “She would need a big man behind her. Are you big, Harry?”

“You must ask Guinevere.”

“Why don’t I find out for myself?” She gave a harsh laugh when she saw his expression of horror. “I won’t eat you, you know. Or perhaps I will. Would you mind that, Harry?”

“You’re Guinevere’s mother.”

“What has Guinevere got to do with it? Have you got something against mothers?” He shook his head. “I should hope not. Well, we will be very discreet.”

“No. I mean that I can’t do this, Maud.”

“Lady Flaxman, please. Think of it as business.” He waited solemnly for her to continue. “The boss is always right. Isn’t that what he used to say?”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Not a threat. An opportunity. I can do things that Guinevere cannot even imagine.”

He closed his eyes for a moment. “I am not sure what you mean by that.”

“In the sphere of business, Harry. I have plans.” She outlined to him her scheme for an
Evening Chronicle
and a
Sunday Chronicle
, making use of the same building, the same presses and the same staff. “We won’t just be printing newspapers,” she said, “we will be printing money. Does that excite you, Harry? Will you be a happy shagger?” She came over and grabbed his cock. “I think something is stirring.”

So began the affair between Lady Flaxman and Harry Hanway. Harry was surprised how quickly he overcame his initial reluctance; she was Guinevere’s mother and he began to notice, or to emphasise to himself, the ways in which physically she resembled her daughter. She was not desirable, but she was not altogether repulsive. He was in any case strangely excited by her schemes for the future; he had not believed that he could be aroused by the idea of profit, but had that not been one of the reasons for his attraction to Guinevere?

Lady Flaxman was very eager in her lovemaking, although she often expressed horror at her husband’s treatment of her in bed. “In the past,” she told Harry, “I have been a common field system for that man. He has ploughed me and fertilised me. It was medieval. I might have been laid out in strips.”

“He would handle me,” she said on another occasion, “as if I were a church organ. Pushing bits in. Pulling bits out. And all the time paddling with his feet.”

She was not insatiable, but she was demanding. There was a small attic room in the house at Cheyne Walk, where she frequently took Harry; she called it “the blue lagoon.”

Harry was relieved by the fact that Guinevere was more than ever detached from married life; or perhaps she was simply more distracted by her cares as a social worker. In particular she seemed to be worried about Sparkler; as far as Harry could gather from her comments, the young man had been dismissed by his publishing employers for petty theft, and was now descending into a state of bored and listless drunkenness. “He used to be so cheerful,” she said to her husband. “Now he can’t be bothered to get up.”

“You can’t help someone who will not help himself.”

“If I hear that again, I will scream. It doesn’t absolve me.”

Guinevere seemed unaware of the relationship between her mother and her husband. She still invited Lady Flaxman to the house in Mount Street, where she half-listened to her complaints about the business, the state of her husband and of the world in general. “How’s Dad?” was her first question one evening.

“Well, he is not tap dancing. And he’s not getting fat on a drip, I can assure you of that.” At this moment Harry entered the room. “Ah, Mr. Hanway. My partner in crime.” She smiled sweetly at her daughter. “Don’t you think your husband is looking well these days, dear? He has such a spring in his step. And I’m sure he’s lost weight. How do you do it, Harry?”