He told himself this, but as before, it did not convince. She muttered a few more words, lapsing as she always did, from English to her native Sicilian, to a dialect filled with liquid threat, with razor-sharp sibilants, with saints’ names and obscenities intermixed.
She was trembling; the light in the hallway was poor. Court, acknowledging his fear, backed away from her.
‘I fixed him,’ she said, turning her bright black eyes on Court. ‘He’s starting to die right now—but slow, from the inside out. I’m going to let him suffer awhile, and then I’m going to finish him off. I fixed him. I had him on-line. He tried to hide, but he couldn’t hide from me this time. I summoned him up.’
The last phrase had a hissing sound to it. Court turned, and without speaking further, quickly left. He felt followed the instant the door closed, and he blamed Angelica and her dramatics for this. The sensation remained with him when he left the Carlyle; he could not shake it off. He decided to walk to the Conrad building, as he sometimes did at night, and it pursued him there. He stood outside the Conrad, on the north corner, looking up at the dark windows of the apartment his wife wanted—and he knew he was watched.
He swung around, staring towards the shadows and shrubbery of the park; nothing moved; no-one spoke. He looked up at a thin and sickly moon, riding high above that many-eyed roof-line, and then, some time after midnight, hailed a cab and directed it back south.
The sensation of being pursued remained. He could blame it on fatigue, on lack of food, on superstition, on the conversation with Angelica which still rippled through his mind—but he could still sense some watcher, some follower in his street; he could sense eyes as he stepped into the elevator.
Instinct, recognition, the influence of some sixth sense—whatever the explanation for that sensation of unease, he saw how timely its warnings had been as soon as the elevator doors opened.
He felt his body come alive with adrenalin shock; the door to his loft stood open, its locks smashed. He could see that in the room beyond vandalism had been at work. The lights were on; the floor was a sea of paper, and the perpetrator of this, whose identity he did not doubt for one second, was still present. He could hear that low, pedantic, murmuring, Midwestern voice, and it was murmuring an old message. ‘Under the left breast,’ he heard. ‘Under the left breast.’
He hesitated, flexing his hands, summoning his strength; then, with the eagerness of one greeting an old friend, a familiar not seen in a long while, he moved forward and pushed the door back.
Chapter 10
‘BREEDING,’ COLIN’S GREAT-AUNT EMILY said, with an air of getting straight to the point. She leaned forward and tapped Lindsay on the knee. Lindsay, who had been day-dreaming, jumped.
‘She’s bred once—will she breed again?’ Emily asked, in a sharply interrogative manner, glancing towards Colin. For one confusing moment, Lindsay thought this particular question might refer to her.
‘Fecundity,’ Emily continued, turning back to Lindsay, and giving her a glare. ‘She is unquestionably fertile. In my opinion, that is what’s giving them the heebie-jeebies—bunch of old women. But, darn it, do they have a point? I want to know what you think, Lindsay. Advise me, my dear.’
Lindsay did not know what she thought. To give advice was a little difficult, as she did not have the least idea what Emily was talking about. She tried hard to think of some noncommittal reply. For at least the last ten minutes, she realized, Aunt Emily had been rattling away to Colin, and Lindsay had allowed her own attention to wander away.
She had been looking at this room, which was large and packed with a glorious accumulation of stuff. Some of this stuff was superb and some was tat. She had been wondering why Emily chose to put a vase of green ostrich feathers on a Hepplewhite desk; whether the magnificent portrait above the fireplace was a Sargent; whether the two strikingly beautiful women depicted in it could be related to Emily, who was strikingly plain; and whether the grand piano in the corner was supporting fifty-five ancestral photographs in silver frames, or fifty-six.
She had also been wondering why Emily had reminded her of Miss Havisham, since she could now see that, beyond a tendency to pursue a private agenda in conversation, Emily did not resemble her in the least. This was no mad Dickensian bride, but a tall, lean woman, with a shock of white hair, bright, iris-blue eyes, and a good line in tweeds. She was wearing three pairs of spectacles on leather thongs about her neck, yet so far had used none of them; she was seated at one end of a gigantic sofa—Colin, looking nervous, was seated at the other end—and somewhere among the plenitude of its exquisite tapestry cushions there was at least one, possibly two, pug dogs. The lighting was subdued, which made the number of pugs difficult to confirm; they, or it, snuffled and snored constantly. Lindsay and Colin were drinking prudent mineral water; Aunt Emily was knocking back a serious bourbon on the rocks.
Inattention, as Rowland McGuire had often remarked, was Lindsay’s besetting sin. She was always too busy examining the leaves of each tree in the forest to notice where the forest road led. With a woman like Emily, whose conversation was given to abrupt swerves, this tendency was disastrous. Emily was still waiting for a reply to her question, and Lindsay’s brain was in mid-skid. Breeding? Fertility? Lindsay eyed the pug, or pugs; it came to her that Emily was discussing the breeding of dogs, or, more specifically, bitches.
‘Pedigree very dubious indeed,’ Emily now said, rattling off again, to Lindsay’s relief. ‘Who sired her? No answer to that question, my dear. And then there’s the matter of her fame. She is excessively famous.’ Emily cocked a sharp eye at Lindsay. ‘What’s our reaction to that, my dear? Is famous bad or good?’
Dogs could be famous, Lindsay thought—if they won Crufts, or something like that. Yes, she was almost sure she was on track. Emily was on the subject of dog-breeding, of pedigree, about which Lindsay, who liked only strays and mongrels, knew nothing and cared less. Still, old ladies had to be humoured. She gave Emily what she hoped was a smile of bright intelligence.
‘Tricky,’ she said.
‘And then there’s the money question.’ Emily’s face became grave, as did Lindsay’s two seconds later. ‘Too much money, my dear—and very recently acquired, or earned, which makes it rather worse.’ She paused, eyeing Lindsay. ‘Loot. The acquisition of loot. Always a delicate subject, that. Better not investigated sometimes. As I said to Henry Foxe, Henry, where d’you think this came from, darn it?’
She thrust out a skinny hand and waggled a finger. On this arthritic digit was a very large diamond, Lindsay saw; it was one of the biggest rocks she had ever seen in her life.
‘And d’you know what Henry said? Tiffany’s.’ Emily gave a delighted snort of laughter. ‘I always admired Henry’s sense of humour; very droll. In fact, Lindsay, my dear, there was a time—Lord, back in 1932 this would have been, when Henry Foxe and I…’
‘More bourbon, Em?’ Colin rose quickly to his feet.
‘You are one sweet man,’ said Emily. ‘Don’t you agree, my dear? Colin, just wave the bottle over the top.’
Colin poured an inch of bourbon into the glass. Emily declined ice and suggested he wave the bottle a bit more. Colin added another inch of bourbon, opened his mouth to speak, shut it again, and sat down with a defeated look. Lindsay eyed Emily; she gave no signs of being in the least intoxicated. Mad, Lindsay decided. Totally mad; barking; off the wall, and permanently out to lunch.
There was method to this madness, she suspected, however. Emily had some objective in view, she felt, even if, for reasons of her own, she was approaching it by a peculiar and indirect route.
‘So, to summarize,’ Emily continued, ‘she’s bred once—which reminds me, my dear. You have a son, I think Colin said?’
‘Yes. Tom. He’s reading Modern History at Oxford now.’
‘Ah, Oxford. Brideshead. Delightful. I can’t believe it, my dear—you look so young.’
‘I married young,’ Lindsay said, with some firmness.
&
nbsp; ‘And divorced young, too, I hear. Quite right. If they’re no good, ship them out…Of course, I never risked marriage myself, not that I regret it now…So, let me see, your son must be eighteen, nineteen?’
Lindsay sighed. She debated whether to claim Tom as a child prodigy who had gone up to Oxford aged fifteen, remembered Colin had met him, and decided against.
‘Twenty any minute now,’ she said.
‘Colin was charming at that age.’ Emily gave her a measuring look. ‘Wild, innocent, muddled. Ah, youth.’ She paused, eyeing Lindsay. ‘Of course, he’s still charming now. As I expect you find, my dear?’
‘Very,’ said Lindsay.
The drift of Emily’s questions was now clear, she decided, hiding a smile. She looked at Colin, who appeared both agonized and mortified. She looked at Emily, who clearly suspected Lindsay of designs on her great-nephew. She considered saying plainly that if Colin had been wild, innocent and muddled at twenty, his character did not appear to have changed greatly in the succeeding two decades. She considered saying, even more plainly, that she was not trying to hook Colin, so his vigilant great-aunt could relax her guard.
She rejected these possibilities: the second was ill-mannered; the first was hurtful—and she had no wish to hurt Colin, whose demeanour now indicated profound and desperate dejection. He shot Emily a pleading look.
‘You’re rambling about a bit, Em,’ he said. ‘I expect you feel tired. Maybe we should—’
‘Nonsense, I’m just waking up. Hitting form. Besides, I haven’t finished, and I want Lindsay’s views on this. Where was I? Ah yes, I was summarizing—the case for the prosecution, point by damning point! Breeding, pedigree, money…and fans, of course. The fans will almost certainly present problems, my dear, don’t you think?’
Fans? Lindsay, now hopelessly lost, looked up at the ceiling.
‘And finally, my dear…’ Emily had been ticking off these points on her fingers. ‘Finally, we come to the single most important question of all. S-E-X, my dear—and also love, of course.’
Love? Lindsay began to see that dogs could not possibly be the subject of discussion here. Colin, who had blushed painfully when the words ‘sex’ and ‘love’ were used, was now staring hard at the air, in the manner of a man who believed that, if he concentrated hard enough, he could teleport himself elsewhere.
‘I’m afraid I don’t quite follow,’ Lindsay began.
‘My, dear, there is the ex-husband?’ Emily said, as if this made everything clear. ‘A most peculiar man—or so our spies report. Like you, my dear, if you’ll forgive my saying so, she has not loved wisely, and she has not chosen well. Will she choose more wisely second time around? Can we trust her to find a suitable mate, someone who will fit in? Alas, not necessarily. She will imagine she is in love, as women do, and her judgement will be impaired…’
‘What absolute rubbish, Em,’ Colin interrupted, five seconds before Lindsay. Showing signs of recovery, he gave his aunt a combative look. ‘You’re in no position to judge her first marriage, and she’s far likelier to make the right choice second time around…’
‘I agree,’ said Lindsay. ‘Having one’s fingers burned improves the judgement no end.’
‘Do you think so? What a charming pair of optimists you are.’ Emily gave them a sprightly look. ‘I remain dubious. The next husband—do we know the nature of the beast? No. What about lovers? There are likely to be lovers. More problems there. I foresee disturbances! I can sense them in the air…’
She gave a quick glance over her shoulder, then peered around the room as if disturbances might lurk here, among the crowded furniture, behind the thick folds of the curtains—or beyond the room perhaps, Lindsay thought; beyond it, in those shadowy galleries, in that womb of a staircase hall. A clock ticked softly; Emily appeared to be listening; from the plenitude of cushions came a low pugnacious growl. Lindsay, suddenly remembering the ghost of Anne Conrad, felt something cold slither along her spine.
‘Did you hear something, Colin?’ Emily, paling a little, cocked her head on one side.
‘No, nothing. It was probably just Frobisher in the corridor.’
Colin rose, moved to the door, opened it and looked out. A cold draught issued into the room and wrapped itself around Lindsay’s ankles. She shivered. Colin closed the door.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Frobisher’s in her bedroom watching television—I can just hear it. You probably caught the sound of that, Em.’
‘Maybe. My hearing is acute at times.’ She hesitated. ‘This building is full of noises, and not always sweet ones. Occasionally, it expresses its opinions and its desires. It used to frighten me when I was a child…Did you hear anything, Lindsay?’
‘No, not exactly. But something—when your little dog growled. And my hands—my hands feel terribly cold.’
‘You didn’t see anything, I hope?’ The question was sharp.
‘No, no. Nothing at all.’
‘Stop this, Em.’ Colin moved across to Lindsay and took her hand. ‘Stop it. You’re making Lindsay’s blood run cold.’
‘I am? I did nothing at all.’
‘Lindsay, this is my fault. I shouldn’t have told you those ghost stories at dinner…’
‘Perhaps. I’m susceptible to stories. I’m fine now—it’s passed, whatever it was. Where were we?’
Colin released her hand. Lindsay could sense his unease. As he crossed back to the sofa, a long silent look was exchanged between aunt and nephew; as a result of that look, and for the first time that evening, Emily was quelled. She retreated back into her nest of cushions and Colin, to Lindsay’s great relief, took charge.
‘I doubt if you’ve followed half of this,’ he said. ‘Emily can have a rather circuitous approach. Listening to you, Em, is like driving blindfold down a chicane. In fact, it’s straightforward, Lindsay. The Conrad building is a co-operative—there’s really no equivalent in England. Its board decides whether or not someone can acquire an apartment here. At the moment, one of the apartments, number three, which is directly underneath this one, is available. It used to belong to one of Emily’s oldest friends, and she died earlier this year. The woman who now wants to buy it—and we won’t name her, I think, but she’s an actress and she’s very well-known—has been pressing for a decision, because she wants to move in as soon as possible; in fact, she wants to celebrate Thanksgiving here.’
‘We’ve been given a deadline,’ Emily piped up. ‘We are not used to ultimatums. We don’t like them at all.’
‘I’d have given you an ultimatum, Em,’ Colin said, with impatience. ‘This has been dragging on for months. Bankers, stockbrokers, the IRS, references—it wouldn’t surprise me if you had her medical records. It’s absurd.’ He turned back to Lindsay. ‘Tomorrow, the decision has to be made, one way or the other. Emily is on the committee…’
‘Along with four dithering males!’ Emily cried.
‘And the Henry Foxe she mentioned chairs it. But don’t listen to Emily when she says “dithering”; two of those men are carved in granite, and as for Biff Holyoake—well, can you describe him as a man?’
‘I adore Biff!’ Emily protested. ‘Biff is a sweetheart. Biff is Peter Pan on his fourth divorce…’
‘Precisely. Say no more.’
‘Biff’s very pro her anyway. When the subject of orgies came up, Biff was charmed. He said, in that case she’d certainly get his vote. Dear Biff! Two martinis for breakfast these days, I hear, but dry in most other ways
‘Orgies?’ Colin and Lindsay said in unison. Colin sighed. ‘I don’t need to ask who raised that possibility, do I? It was you, wasn’t it, Em?’
‘I might have mentioned it, in passing.’ Emily, showing signs of resurgence, gave a gleeful smile. ‘One has to consider the worst. Remember her profession! I foresee parties, alcohol, substance abuse…people coming and going day and night…I know what goes on, you see! Frobisher fetches me the gutter press, and I pay it the very closest attention. I fear the worst! What a
bout cocaine? Angel dust. Snow. Nose candy—I know all the terms! I think nose candy is on the cards, myself.’
‘Em, please.’ Colin sighed. ‘In the first place, she doesn’t live like that—as I’ve told you a thousand times. In the second, what about Biff? Biff Holyoake, to everyone’s certain knowledge, has a four-hundred-dollar-a-day coke habit, and he’s had it since 1952…’
‘Biff’s mother was at Chapin with me. Biff’s grandfather was your great-grandfather’s best friend. They founded…’ She stopped short, glancing from Colin, who was frowning, to Lindsay, who was amused.
‘They founded a firm friendship,’ she continued, her manner somewhat flustered. ‘A loyal friendship. They were lifelong friends, like you and poor dear Rowland McGuire. So, so—where was I? Ah yes, Biff. Biff may be a lost soul, but he is one of us. He is a fine good man, and I will not have a word said against him…’
‘Christ,’ said Colin indistinctly.
‘What was that, Colin?’
‘Nothing.’
Colin, who had sunk his head in his hands at some point during the peroration on Biff Holyoake’s ancestry, now raised it. He gave Lindsay a look of blank misery.
‘You see?’ he said. ‘You see what I’m up against here?’
Lindsay considered. She indeed saw what Colin was up against in an obvious sense, since Emily’s views were a swamp of prejudice, and arguing with her was like mud-wrestling. But she suspected Colin’s words had a deeper meaning. She was still trying to work out what that might be, when Emily stirred, preened, emerged from her nest of cushions, and fixed her with a very intent look indeed.