Chapter 20

The lodger might be in or he might be out. For once Gwendolen had no idea. She was too weak to bother, too sleepy to listen for his comings and goings. That nonsense this morning, young people behaving in an ungoverned way, as she never had, had taken it out of her. If they had all gone as soon as she was. home, she was convinced she would by now have been feeling much better instead of as weak as a kitten. Talking of kittens, here had been a letter from Mr. Singh among the few that hadcome for her, complaining that Otto had killed and eaten both his guinea fowl. Being a peaceable man, he wrote, he didn't intend to " take the matter further. " He just wanted her to be aware of the " predatory instincts and achievements" of her " savage pet. " Meanwhile, he had purchased two geese which would be more than a match for the " ornithophagous beast. " Gwendolen cared very little about guinea fowl or, come to that, Otto, but she grimly contrasted this excellently educated " native, " his use of polysyllabic words and his perfect spelling, witht he illiterate English of the present generation. Even she wasn'te ntirely sure if " ornithophagous" meant " bird‑ eating. "

The rest of the post had been the electricity bill, the menuf rom a Vietnamese takeaway, and an invitation to the opening of a new Bond Street store. Nothing from Stephen Reeves. Perhaps he was away on holiday. He had always gone away alot and no doubt he hadn't changed. She would never forget, even after they were ultimately reunited she wouldn't forget, how he had been on his honeymoon while she waited andwaited for him to come. Wherever he was now, he'd probably be coming back today or tomorrow.

The new orderliness in the kitchen, which she surveyed after she had had a sleep, made her cross. What business had those two to go about tidying her home? Now she wouldn't be able to find anything. All the tinned food was in one cupboard, all the brushes and dusters in another. Someone had washed the dusters, removing the encrusted grime of years that had comfortably transformed them from yellow to gray, gray to dark brown. Now they were more or less yellow again. She slammed the cupboard door in disgust. And what had become of all the things she kept in the washhouse?

The bulb in the overhead lamp had gone out. She wasn't climbing up to change that now, not in her state of health. Olive or Queenie could do it tomorrow. She looked for her flashlight, which should have been in the fridge so that shecould see it when she opened the fridge door and the lightcame on. The flashlight wasn't there and she had to hunt for it, finally discovering it on a cupboard shelf along with some cano peners, a screwdriver, and a box of shoe‑ cleaning equipment. Olive and Queenie and their tidiness mania again. In the halfdark she lifted the lid of the copper. It had formerly held a lot of clothes. Although just about past wearing, these would have come in useful for tearing up for washrags and plugging the sink, its original plug having perished years before. Olive and Queenie had very high‑ handedly disposed of the lot. She shone the beam of the torch inside, illuminating the depths.

What was that lying in the bottom? A mysterious object to Gwendolen's eyes. At first she saw it as a sling, the kind of weapon she remembered being taught in Sunday school that David had employed against Goliath, then surely as a garment. A kind of truss? It looked hardly strong enough to contain a hernia. Perhaps it was a body belt but if it was, it lacked anything in the nature of a purse. After several attempts, she succeededin fishing it out by means of a pole with a hook on the end of it, originally intended for opening a skylight. She wouldshow it to Olive or Queenie. The thing must belong to one of them.

Exhausted from her explorations, she went to bed and slept heavily till morning.

Off to spend Sunday with friends who had a house with a rive rfrontage at Marlow, Nerissa left her house in Rodney's car ten minutes before Mix arrived on foot. He had read in a magazine that the thirties film star Ramon Novarro had kept his figure by walking a mile around Hollywood every day, holding his navel pressed as near as he could to his spine. Emulating hi mon the fairly long walk, surely a mile, from St. Blaise Avenuedown Ladbroke Grove and along Holland Park Avenue toCampden Hill Square, Mix was conscious of twinges in hisback. They were nothing like the agony he had suffered the other night and he tried to ignore them.

Her car was parked outside. Good. He had been afraid he had started out too late and she'd have gone out. For about halfan hour he hung about in the square, walking down and backagain. The milk arrived and sat on the doorstep in the full sun. She must be counting on the breeze keeping the temperaturedown. He was wondering if she had already taken the newspaper in when it came and was deposited on the doormat beside the milk.

Someone would steal it and the milk as well. She'd thankhim for ringing the doorbell and handing in the cartons andthe enormous Sunday paper. It might even be possible for himnot to hand but to carry them in for her. Ifhe did that she'd bebound to ask him to stay for coffee. She'd probably be only half‑ dressed, in deshabille as they said. He imagined her in ababy doll nightdress, barely covered by a diaphanous robe, and he marched up to the door and rang the bell.

No reply. He put his ear to the grille of the entryphone. Silence. He rang again. She wasn't in. She must have gone out onfoot, running perhaps, or caught a train somewhere. He was bitterly disappointed. So near and yet so far, he said to himself, going back down the steps but still lingering in case she cameback from her run.

No one went jogging for as long as two hours. He'd try again tomorrow. Then, walking back, he remembered that he'd better go in to work tomorrow and he remembered too that he'd never phoned head office to say he was ill on Friday, he hadn't phoned them at all. And he hadn't looked for messageson his mobile or checked his answerphone. Of course it wasn't important. If he couldn't take an afternoon off without crawling to management like a trainee after all the years of service, who could? He expected messages from at least one of the three clients he'd let down on Friday but, as it turned out, all three had phoned him, one disappointed and pleading, another furious, and the third threatening to take her business elsewhere. Nothing from head office. Nothing from Jack Fleisch. He'd have been amazed if Mr. Pearson bothered with him, andt here was nothing from him either. No doubt he had thought better of further reproaching such an asset to the firm as Mix was with his experience and his efficiency.

The day had as usual become very fine and warm. The Indianman's geese were grooming each other under a palm treein the sunshine. It was the only tree in the garden Mix was able to identify and he recognized it from an illustration in his grandmother's Bible. What had become of that Bible he had no idea. But he remembered the picture. The Indian man's palm looked as if it had been there for years and years, long before he and his wife came. Mix was surprised that it survivedthe winters, Notting Hill being a lot colder than Jerusalem. He had never noticed it till this morning. But he had never spent so much time watching the garden as he did now.

The two patches of freshly dug earth looked very obvious to him, the one where he had dug at first and where the heavinessof the soil defeated him, and the other that he had chosen for Danila's resting place. There was nothing to be done about it. He must wait for the weeds to grow back and he had no ideahow long this would take. If only he'd had more time he would have dug deeper. It troubled him a little that her body lay only three feet down, less than three feet really, because although she was thin, a section through her at the rib cage would be severalinches. Still, who was going to look?

Old Chawcer never went out there, or never had to his knowledge, and was even less likely to do so now. He had nevers een Ma Winthrop or Ma Fordyce venture into the garden. The old man on the side with the conservatory never looked over the wall, as far as he could tell. The house on the otherside was all flats, but the basement, or " garden flat, " had been empty all the time Mix had been there and he imagined that the damp made it impossible to live in. No one would be interested in two rectangular dug‑ over plots. Bodies buried in the earth, according to Dr. Camps in Medical and Scientific Investigationsin the Christie Case, became skeletons after a few months. Not that long. By next spring she would be just bones.

He had left her just as she was, naked and wrapped in the red sheet. The plastic bag he had slid off her, brought it back upstairs and carefully cut it up, depositing the small pieces in his rubbish sack for collection. Twice he had checked the copperto be sure nothing was left behind. It was dark in the washhouseand impossible to see to the bottom of the copper but hecould tell there was no room for anything to be left behind…

A cold tremor passed through him. The thong. What had become of the thong? Now he remembered clearly feeling the bulge of it in his pocket and dropping it into the copper after he had heaved the body in. He had never retrieved it, of that he was sure. It must still be there. What does it matter, he thought, no one will look in there, she hadn't lifted that lid for years, probably never will again. Besides, he could go downand get it, almost whenever he liked. Now if he wanted. He was nearly certain she had still been in bed when he came back from his walk to Campden Hill and even when she got up, s he'd take herself straight to that sofa in the drawing room.

He pocketed his keys and came out onto the landing. Bright sunshine streamed through the window above the stairs, so ofcourse Reggie's ghost was hiding itself away in some dark corner. As he started down the tiled staircase he heard the frontdoor open and close and a voice, unmistakably belonging to Ma Fordyce, called out, " Hiya, Gwen! You still in the land of the living? "

Old fool. Now he'd have to wait for her to leave again andthat might not be for hours.

Hoping she wouldn't have to climb all those stairs, Olive went straight into the drawing room, still carrying the two bags of food she had bought on the way. She was wearing her newblack trousers and a lemon‑ colored linen jacket that matchedher new hair tint. To her relief Gwendolen was up, though still in her nightclothes and lying on the sofa.

" I've brought you some goodies, dear. "

" Timeo Danaos et donaferentes, " said Gwendolen.

" I don't know any Tim, Gwen, " said Olive with a heartylaugh, " and I can't understand a word of that lingo. How are you? "

" As well as can be expected. I've no appetite so you needn't have bothered with goodies, as you call them. "

" Don't be such an old curmudgeon. I'm trying to help. I'm going to make us a coffee each, won't be long. "

While she was gone Gwendolen investigated the carrierbags. Chocolate‑ well, she could eat that‑ biscuits, marzipanfruits, a nasty sponge cake with mock cream. Still, Olive hadn't done badly. At least there wasn't a lot of salad stuff and green apples with no taste to them.

Olive reappeared with milky coffee and ginger nuts on a plate. " You're so thin you can eat as much as you like. Aren'tyou lucky? "

" You don't mean you're dieting. At your age? "

" I always say you're never too old to take pride in yourappearance. "

" On the subject of appearance, is this yours? "

The object that was put into Olive's hands made her giggle.

" Are you joking, Gwen? Is this some sort of game? "

" I found it in the bottom of my copper, in my washhouse. Is it yours and what is it? "

" Well, Gwen, you've never been married and I knew you were innocent about a lot of things, but I didn't know it went that far. " So Olive took her revenge for years of rudeness andingratitude. " Even a child would know what that is. "

" Thank you. You've said quite enough. Now perhaps you'll tell me what it is. "

This caused Olive some embarrassment, which she triednot to show. " Well, it's a‑ it's a kind of pair of‑ well, knickers. Girls wear them. Once I'd have said 'only that sort of girl, ' but things have changed, haven't they? Now even nice girls, I mean, not actresses or‑ well, stripteasers, if you know what I mean. "

" Oh, I know what you mean. In spite of my profound naivete and resemblance to a retarded child… "

" I didn't say that, Gwen. " Though not a slave to political correctness, Olive shuddered at some of the things that snapped off Gwendolen's tongue.

“No? I think you did. In spite of all my cerebral deficiencies, I do just about know what you mean. Don't, please don't, tell me it’s yours. "

Olive was really incensed by now. " Of course it isn't mine. Do you suppose that would go around my hips even if I was so‑ so… "

" Meretricious? Licentious? Concupiscent? Vain? "

" Oh, I've no patience. If you weren't unwell and didn'tknow what you're saying I'd be really cross. "

At last Gwendolen saw that she had gone too far. Sustaining this kind of altercation took more energy than she was capable of today. She drank her coffee, which she had to admit (though not aloud) was very good. " Do you suppose it could be Queenie's? "

" Of course not. This has been worn by some young woman. A girl of twenty. "

Nerissa immediately came into Gwendolen's mind and along with her, the lodger, Cellini. The minute she arrived home, he had been coming out of her kitchen. Why? He had a kitchen of his own. " Did you or Queenie put my bag of old clothes on top of the copper? "

" Certainly not. I found a bag of clothes in the washhouse and I left them there. Very musty and smelly they were, but there‑ it's not my business. "

" No, indeed. " After that, Gwendolen decided to be gracious. " It was very kind of you to buy me the chocolate and those other things. What do I owe you? "

" Nothing, Gwen. Don't be absurd. If you want my opinion and I dare say you don't, that Mr. Cellini had a girl here while you were in hospital and they were larking about where they shouldn't have been. People these days‑ well, I don't like talking about these things‑ but they do‑ well, have baths together, and it's just possible… You see, you could stand up in a copper which you can't in an ordinary bath. "

" I've no idea what you mean, " said Gwendolen. " I needs omething lighter than Darwin to read. Before you go, would you see if you can find The Golden Bowl? Henry James, you know. "

He watched Ma Fordyce leave and once he had seen her disappeararound the corner, he went downstairs, careful to tread softly. The drawing room door was open and on the sofa he saw old Chawcer lying on her back, asleep with her mouth open. Always one to notice domestic order and its reverse, he observed that the kitchen was fast reverting to its normalc haos. The old girl had only been home twenty‑ four hours.

Confident he would find the thong where he had left it, he tiptoed into the washhouse and lifted the lid of the copper. Of course it was impossible to see down to the bottom of it. How did women ever get the water out of there? Perhaps they didn't. Perhaps there was always some lingering, stagnant and smelly, in the depths. There must be a flashlight somewhere. Nearly sure he'd once seen her with a flashlight in her hand, hepadded around the kitchen, looking into cupboards and openingdrawers. No flashlight, but he did find a candle and a box of matches. Afraid she'd hear the match striking, he waited and listened, holding the lit candle in his hand. Once he was sure he wasn't dragging herself off the sofa to come and find him, he put the hand holding the candle as far as he could down the deep well of the copper. The light was quite adequate to show him walls and a base apparently made of some sort of bluish pottery‑ and nothing else. Nothing. No thong. The copper was empty.

Still he held the candle there as if continuing to light the hollow space would ultimately reveal that it wasn't as empty as he'd thought at iirst. He stared down, closing his eyes and opening them again until a drop of boiling wax fell on his thumb, making him jump back and very nearly cry out. Instead he cursed under his breath, pinched out the flame and put candle and matches back where he had found them. He walked back slowly, passing the drawing room door. Old Chawcer was still asleep. Had she found the thong? Or was it one of the other two? It seemed to him that they must immediately have known it had belonged to the missing girl whose picture appearedalmost daily in the papers. Only today there had been a bold headline: HAVE YOU SEEN DANILA?

Upstairs in his own flat, he asked himself if he should doanything. Ask old Chawcer or ask one of the others? But he was very alive to the awkwardness of it. How to explain what he was doing in the washhouse, why he was even touching thecopper? They would want to know who the thong belonged to. He couldn't think of any explanation except the true one for how the thong got where it was. Perhaps they wouldn't ask. Mix had very little idea of how other people might react to his own activities or whether they might think things he regarded as normal and ordinary as quite different from that. But he had some small inkling through remarks made by the three elderly women that an older, a much older, generation than his own might be embarrassed by a garment so blatantly sexual as a G‑ string. If only they were, they might not mention it, they might prefer to pretend they had never found it, might throw it away in disgust or shock. You wish, he said to himself, but he began to think there was a possibility of this.

While she was still asleep, he went into her bedroom and examined the bottles and packets she had brought back from the hospital and left on her bedside table. Among them was a jar with a label on its side that said: Two to be taken at night to promotesleep. Certain she wouldn't have counted them, he helped himself to eight. If he needed more after four nights he could always come back. Instead of two, he took three and slept hea‑ ily for three hours. After that he was wide awake and passed the rest of the night uneasily.

He kept thinking of arguments against his optimistic theory of the three (or one or two) of the old women disposing of the thong. Suppose Ma Fordyce, say, had read all that stuff about Danila working in what the papers called a " beauty salon and gym, " suppose she knew very well what the thong was and decided a girl from a place like that would be more than likely to wear a thong‑ suppose all that and then would she go to the police? Easy to say, as he had in the bright light of afternoon, that this was a crazy farfetched idea. In the small hours itseemed reasonable.

He had to see the Holland Park woman at nine‑ thirty and he was twenty minutes late. She was too pleased he had come at all to reproach him for failing to be there on time. On his way down to Chelsea he checked his calls and was quite surprised to see a message from Mr. Pearson's assistant. Would he call to arrange an urgent meeting with the chief executive? This gave Mix a cold feeling but one quite unlike the tremor that had lurched through him when he remembered the missing thong. Surely Pearson wasn't all that concerned about a few missed appointments. He was very polite to the man in Chelsea and showed him how to adjust the belt on his treadmill himself, providing the weakling was strong enough to wield a spanner. For all his working out, he still had the muscle development of an anorexic girl. Since his exploits with pick and spade, Mix had begun to pride himself on his physical strength.

Not anxious to appear in too much of a hurry, he fitted a new belt to a machine in Primrose Hill before phoning Mr. Pearson's assistant. She was a chilly young woman with an inflated idea of her own importance.

" You took your time, " she said. " There's not much point in leaving you people messages if you never check them. "

" What time does he want to see me? "

" Immediately. Like twelve‑ thirty. "

" For God's sake, it's a quarter‑ past now. "

" Then you'd better get on your bike, hadn't you? " She suddenly became almost human, if in a nasty way. " He's livid, incandescent. I wouldn't want to be in your shoes. "

Mix got on his bike, or rather, drove as fast as the traffic alloweddown the Outer Circle and Baker Street. It was still nearly twelve forty‑ five when the assistant showed him into Mr. Pearson's office. Pearson was the only person Mix had evercome across who called people, in this case his staff, by their surnames alone. He associated such usage with what he knewof the army, men in prison or up in court, and he didn't like it.

" Well, Cellini? "

What kind of response was he supposed to make to that? "

“No answer was the stern reply, " said Pearson, laughing athis feeble joke. He added as if it were an afterthought, " We're going to have to let you go. "