Jackson's Dilemma Part 6

Very many people, many of whom Benet did not recognise, came to Uncle Tim's funeral, many wept. Oliver Caxton performed the service. Uncle Tim's ashes, for he had desired cremation, were scattered in the churchyard. Benet, speaking briefly, wept. People who knew him and people who did not came up to him. George Park in tears clasped his hand. There was to be no subsequent gathering, Benet had expressed his wish to be alone. Mildred, Owen, Anna, all his London friends tactfully disappeared. Edward withdrew. Marian and Rosalind were both with their mother in Canada. He would have to write to them, and indeed to many others who did not yet know. Oh G.o.d, he sat for a long time with his head in his hands. He got up and walked about, then sat down again. Hating the sunlight, he got up to pull the curtains of the drawing room. As he turned back he thought he saw a figure moving in from the hall. He stood staring. He had completely forgotten Jackson. He uttered a low sound of irritation. Jackson came forward a little nearer to him. He was wearing his dark clothes, his face, his head looked dark, he said something in a low voice. Benet said, 'What?' Then he said, 'Of course I will give you your money. I will give it to you now.' He just wanted Jackson to go, to go away forever.

Jackson moved forward into the dim room, 'Can't I stay?'

Benet now moved back. Jackson, taller, dark, seemed, perhaps Benet had set this up later, like a huge dark slash, a dark thing, something in a dark picture, a monk with a cowl.

Benet said, 'No. Will you go away, please. I will - later - will you just go - somewhere- '

The apparition faded away. Benet, after standing motionless for some time, emerged from the drawing room and ran quickly up the stairs into his bedroom, closing the door. He lay down on his bed. So Jackson, who had belonged to Tim, was now to be the property of Benet? Well, did he not owe this to Tim?

So it was that Jackson was at last allowed to inhabit the summer-house, later on called the Lodge, acting as guardian, cooking and shopping, looking after the house, and being always there.

FOUR.

Marian and Rosalind Berran had lost their father when they were young. Their Canadian mother, left with a considerable amount of money, had despatched them to a boarding school in England. Later, after their mother had 'taken on', though not married, a 'new husband' in Canada, the girls, now nearly 'grown up', had spent most of their summer holidays in England, acquiring a flat in London and renting a cottage at Lipcot, just outside the village. Occasionally Ada, alone, joined them there. The connection with Lipcot came through the, now so vaguely remembered, father, an architectural engineer who had somehow met with Uncle Tim in Delhi, and had somehow or other died in an accident when designing a bridge over a river. Tim had only briefly met the engineer, but he had soon made contact with 'the girls' then at school and later with Ada. So there followed visits at Penndean when Tim was there, later when he was not, and later still when he had retired.

Rosalind was certainly considered the more scholarly one of the two, destined she hoped for a career in art. Always busy with exams, she had stayed on in her London flat (now each girl had a flat) and her ambition was to study art history and if possible also be a painter. Meanwhile Ada appeared at regular intervals, providing money and instructing them to get work and acquire rich husbands. Rosalind was happy as a 'swot'. Marian was the wandering one, leaving school at eighteen and going abroad, once in France then in Italy, where she acquired (which Rosalind already had) a knowledge (less thorough than Rosalind's) of the two relevant languages. Rosalind meanwhile staying at home had also learnt German. Marian wanted to see the world, she went away on tours to parts of Europe. She tried to write a novel, but postponed this activity for later. The girls were handsome, friendly, happy, and very fond of each other, though someone (a friend of Owen's) declared that Marian had become jealous of Rosalind because Rosalind was 'really going somewhere' while frivolous Marian was not! Meanwhile, from far back, how far it was not certain, Tim, and also Benet, had decided that when the time came, one or other of those girls was going to marry Edward Lannion.

This was when the bets in the Sea Kings began. Rosalind was pretty but boyish, she was also a sort of a 'scholar', which might count for or against her. Marian was prettier (perhaps it was a matter of taste), while Rosalind was bookish, though perhaps more 'intelligent' if that were counted a 'good thing'. Bets were also laid about whether they were still virgins, when and who was the first boyfriend, or, more wildly, were they actually lesbians and in love with each other! The ultimate union of Marian and Edward was at last, by a small margin, established, though some declared that she was still wild and quite likely to run away with the 'raggle-taggle gypsies oh'. Then when at last the awful news of the vanished bride spread through the village on that morning, many women shed tears, but there was also a considerable amount of lively conjecture, and the 'raggle-taggle' faction were soon crying 'We told you so!'.

'In trying to glimpse Heidegger's path or state of mind after Sein und Zeit and to trace his thinking about the "things themselves" it is useful here to study his romanticism, the more emotional and intuitive aspects of his mind, in especial his interest in poetry and his particular interest in Holderlin.' Benet was in his study at Penndean, sitting at his wide-open window. Outside, scattered high up like dots, the swifts were circling in the pale morning sky. At a lower level a large hobby hawk was also circling below them. Benet looked at what he had written and sighed. What did that mean? Was not romanticism deep deep in Heidegger's soul right from the beginning, why mention it now? Had not Heidegger declared his romanticism from the start simply by taking over the Greeks? As for the Greeks, they didn't care, they were G.o.ds! And Holderlin was a G.o.d, something quite separate, a great poet, something which transcends the anxious little pawings of philosophers. Not that he, Benet, was a philosopher, not a real philosopher, and would never be. Why did he not, from the start, dedicate himself to poetry? Not of course to be a poet, but to live with great poetry all his life and understand and love it. English poetry, French poetry, German poetry, Russian poetry, Greek poetry. His Russian was far from good, but Pushkin had aided him and lifted him up. He had tried to write poetry. Should not he try once more? His heart was heavy. He had picked up Heidegger now to distract himself from misery. There was still no news of Marian. It was almost as if those who loved her, and should have been grieving and weeping and searching, had now returned to their daily lives. But what could they do, was he not returning to his? Oh this terrible waiting, the phone call from the police, the body found ... Benet felt, though everyone denied it, that it must have been his fault. Yes, he had tried so ingeniously to bring her and Edward together. How could he know, how much could he see? Oh poor Marian, oh poor Edward, they would never forgive him, Edward would never forgive him, and Marian would not - if she lived. How am I fallen, this base thought was also in Benet's mind. I had to be King, even when Uncle Tim was alive I was King. Now they will all pity me. Oh G.o.d, I am thinking about myself. He stood up, pushing the chair back. A black ball of utmost despair was in his breast. He moved into the drawing room and started walking to and fro.

Benet increasingly felt that all sorts of people were looking towards him and expecting him to act. But how? He had telephoned Ada in Canada on the day of the wedding, though putting the matter rather vaguely. He knew that Rosalind had of course telephoned then and also later. But should he not ring Ada again now, or should he wait for her to ring him? How much could he say, what did he know? He did not fancy long talks with Ada. He was in daily contact with the 'wedding guests' and other close friends, but there was simply no news. Would Marian suddenly turn up? Was it his duty to stay at Penn, or to return to Tara? He desired very much indeed to talk to Edward, but it appeared that Edward was 'not there'. He had telephoned of course, and several times driven as far as the door of Hatting, only to be told by his 'staff', speaking with an air of truth, that they had no idea where he had gone. Mildred, from London, had told him that she had rung Edward's bell, and in fact watched his house for some time, and there seemed to be no one in. Benet was also upset by a communication which he had received a little later from Anna, saying that she had actually driven down to Lipcot with Bran, she did not say when, but had alas found he was out. Oh G.o.d, where was Marian now? Where was Edward? Where was Benet's sanity? He looked at his watch. He decided that he would return to London.

Anna Dunarven was glad to be back in her London house. She had left it, with her son, some time after her husband had died. The horror of his death, so unexpected, so young, had been too much. She fled to France, taking Bran with her. The rich Scottish family who had rented the house during those years and cherished it so well had been 'very nice about it', having their eye in fact upon an even grander house. Anna was well off too, though she made no fuss about it. Lewen, a distinguished scholar, had left her a moderately rich woman. Her flat in Paris, and her house in Provence, though comfy were not large. Now Anna's life was changing. Was it not, she wondered as she gazed down her summer garden, absolutely in the balance? She had returned with a positive aim in view. It was time for Bran, now aged twelve, to go to an English boarding school, and he had indeed been accepted by the one where Lewen had been a pupil; he was to go there in the autumn. This sally, getting him into the school, had involved Anna in several brief incognito visits earlier on. Previously Bran had attended an excellent Lycee in Paris, was an ardent and intelligent pupil, good at mathematics, pa.s.sionate about history and literature, and, beyond English and French, fluent in Italian, good at Latin and now at Greek. Thus far Bran's plan was clear. But what about Anna's plan? Was she to stay on in London looking up her old friends and going to picture exhibitions? She had friends and pictures in Paris. Was she going to retain her Paris flat, her home in Provence? Or if she were to keep only one, which one should it be? Should she buy a cottage in the Cotswolds? She had seen several attractive ones on her recent tour. Or should she, following Lewen's life and work, buy a residence in Ireland - perhaps in Dublin, perhaps on the West Coast, or perhaps both? She couldn't do all these things, and surely London was now essential.

She had indeed returned to London, her London, Lewen's London, as to an expected chaos. She had come of course bringing Bran to his new home, also, as it happened, to see Edward's wedding, where she hoped to meet friends and acquaintances, perhaps even meet new people, other people, all sorts of people. Her father (a solicitor) had run away to America when she was very young, and her mother died when Anna was twenty. Anna's mother had been a promising pianist, but had given up her ambitions when she married a totally unmusical man. After his (welcome to both of them) disappearance, her mother resumed her piano, hoping that Anna, who had kept up her playing at school, might now indeed become a concert pianist. However this was not to be, and Anna married another unmusical, though otherwise angelic, man, Lewen Dunarven, a distinguished scholar in the history of Ireland. Anna had met Lewen through Benet, and Benet and Uncle Tim through Elizabeth Loxon, who wrote short novels under various names, and was a friend of Mildred's.

Anna, looking down the garden, sighed deeply - then, aware of someone in the room, turned round. There were two people, one of them Bran, the other Jackson. Bran ran to her and buried his face in her dress, then stood before her solemn, slightly frowning, narrow-eyed, a familiar look. She ran her fingers through his long curly tumbling amber brown hair and then drew her hand back over his brow. Over his shoulder she looked at Jackson. Bran pulled his head away like a recalcitrant horse, moved away from her and stood staring out of the window. Jackson was there, with Benet's permission, to pin up against the brick wall, at the end of the garden, a rambling vine which had fallen to the ground. This task had now been performed. Anna could not immediately think of another task, but she was sure she would soon be able to. She was very touched and pleased by the speed with which Bran and Jackson had established a rapport. Now Jackson was about to leave. He smiled at Anna and advanced to accept the envelope which she reached out to him. His smile was gentle, humorous, mysterious. Anna, who had many strange thoughts, wondered if she might somehow capture Jackson and take him away with her to Ireland. In this drama the idea of his being anything other than a servant did not figure. In answer to Anna's thanks Jackson gave another smile and a bow. Bran left the window and pulled at Jackson's coat. They left the room together and she could hear them talking and laughing in the hall.

Anna turned back to the window, where she could see, at the end of the garden, the piece of the brilliantly green vine up against the glowing red brick wall. Her thoughts reverted again to Marian. Had she run to another man? Could she be dead? Surely not. Anna returned to her own urgent problems. She thought, after all I am alone in this, I must not expect to find any help, any help at all.

Edward, so much sought for, was indeed hard to find. Was he dead? Had he lost his mind? Had he discovered Marian and murdered her? After all, had he not always been a bit deranged? Perhaps he had already left England?

Edward had spent the first night, the 'wedding night', at Hatting, and then on the evening of the next day returned to London, where he spent a following day and a night lying low, gaining his information only from the police. Then, rising early, he had left London and spent a day and a night at a hotel with which he was familiar in Salisbury. The day he spent sitting in his hotel room thinking. On the next day he drove down to Dorchester where he paused. The sun was shining from a pale blue sky. He had taken very little food in the hotel. He ate now, ravenously, bread and b.u.t.ter, eggs, coffee at a small 'tea room' which he remembered. He sat there quietly for a while, keeping in touch with the police. Rising and leaving Dorchester he set off, taking a coast road, then descending through a labyrinth of little lanes, towards the sea. He motored on, slowly now, looking downward and looking upward. Now at last, very slowly, he was able to drive the car out onto sandy shingle as near as he could to the sea. He got out, locked the car, and began to walk, looking back at intervals, over dried-up gra.s.s, trampling down the dry wild flowers, onto the stony sandy earth to where the earth ended and the stones began. Stumbling a little he went on walking upon the stones in the direction of the sea. He came at last to where the heaped up stones bordered the large now curling now retreating waves. He turned for a moment behind him to check a distant landmark. Then he sat down upon the stones, already made dry by the friendly warmth of the sun. He sat, blinking his eyes, looking out into the glittering chaos of the sea, so many mirrors lifting upward to the sky. His hands picked up the stones, large and small each one so perfect, so smooth, pale grey, dark grey, often streaked, criss-crossed, ringed with white. He sat upon the dry stone heap, looking down upon the lines of the advancing waves, hearing the crash as they destroyed themselves against the stones, dragging them downward in an ever-falling wall. He heard the fierce scooping hiss of the undertow. The sun was shining upon the wide huge empty theatre of the beach where there was no one to be seen.

Edward was in no hurry. Here he was, right above the waves, at the top of the tumbling cliff of stones which were perpetually falling and returning. He dug his boots into the fall of the stones, he felt them faintly shifting down below. The noise of the waves was deafening, like gun-fire, their strength terrifying, the droplets of their spray struck his face like pellets. The breaking waves looked grey and white. Further out the water looked blue, advancing, huge, fast, moving forward in order like galloping horses. Beyond, the line of the horizon was clear and dark as if drawn with a pencil. There were no boats. Ahead there was just the sea and above it the sky, a pale blue above the pencilled line, a few chubby white clouds lounging dreamily below a radiance of gold, but higher up the sky seeming to lose its colour altogether in a trembling stillness of pure light. It is a wonderful day, Edward thought. The stones were warm. A lovely day for swimming, he thought. Only Edward had given up swimming.

Edward and Randall had been on a bicycling holiday, in perfect weather, staying in little accidental inns, free, happy, just themselves. It was early in the season, in the spring. They were very fond of each other. Randall, the younger by two years, revered Edward. Edward lovingly protected his young brother. Their ages were now seventeen and fifteen. The death of their mother, now well in the past, was fadingly mourned by the children, still bitterly by the father. Somehow connected with that sad death was the fact, it was now clear, that the father loved the younger son more than he loved the elder son. All three, aware of this, watched it in silence. Edward certainly felt it as a faint but continuous scar. None of this however damaged his love for Randall, or Randall's love for him. The boys had set out upon their cycling holiday with their father's blessing and his command that they should be very careful and behave themselves. Earlier, and not for the first time, he had told Edward that he must be very careful and look after Randall.

There was a lot of laughing over their departure, at dawn, their rucksacks full of shirts and boots and bathing costumes and knives and forks and plates and fruit and sandwiches, their father and the servants waving them off. The weather was perfect, and they rejoiced as they rode steadily farther and farther away from Lipcot, southward, toward the sea coast. Of course they had gone on many such sallies before, but never quite so far and with quite so much money in their pockets. They were in no hurry. Their rucksacks, soon half-empty, were filled up again in grocers' shops, and they even (contrary to their father's orders) bought a bottle of wine. They were in a hurry to get to the sea, but somehow, it was as they meandered slowly south, still far away. Random nights spent at various small villages carried them to Bath, where they stayed two nights, then on to spiritual and exciting Glas...o...b..ry then another spiritual night at Dorchester, where they bought a book by John Cowper Powys, and lingered at Maiden Castle, then on to Weymouth where at last, together with numerous other people, they ran across the sand and leapt into the sea. They spent that night at Weymouth, and Edward suggested that they should stay there for another night. Randall however wanted to press on along the sea road, with its ups and downs and have their second swim in the 'real sea'. Edward, who was now rather tired of cycling, reluctantly agreed. So they set off slowly, upon the main sea road, not without replenishing their rucksacks here and there, and not forgetting the wine which they had not yet opened. The main road was full of ups and downs, sometimes losing even a glimpse of the sea. The sun was now well up in a cloudless sky. The brothers, tired of pedalling or pushing their machines up hills (though it was fun shooting down) decided that they must now find some little road which would lead them to the water, where perhaps there might be another more modest road to follow. After all, as Randall said, it's the sea that matters. They found such a little road, sometimes a track, running along, close beside the waves. The sun was blazing down, there was n.o.body about, slowing they selected a place for lunch, leaving their bikes chained up on the sandier inland. Then, putting down their rucksacks upon the stones, they decided that of course they must have a swim before lunch. Here the sh.o.r.e was composed of stones, beautiful stones, light grey, dark grey, smooth like eggs, large and small, their lovely forms covered with lighter criss-cross and speckled backgrounds of paler streaks and circles of pure white. Randall at once ran back and opened his rucksack and began collecting stones. How strange it was that, although the boys had had many holidays by the sea, they had never discovered this part of the coast, this perfectly magic place with n.o.body there!

They went down, crunching over the stones, to the edge of the water, where the waves struck the stones and dragged them down. Here they swiftly undressed and plunged in naked. They could master the stones, they could breast the water, they swam far out, where the quiet lilt of the water silently lifted them up and laid them down, then after much dolphin play they were standing and climbing easily up the sloping sh.o.r.e and onto the beach, and on to where they had left their rucksacks. They lay down naked upon warm stones, finding how pleasantly tired the lovely sea had made them. They put on shirts and slowly ate their delicious lunch and opened their bottle and drank a little wine. After that they slept.

Sitting upon the stones they had already noticed, upon a quite high hillock beyond the so-called 'road', a sort of hut, solitary it seemed, not large. Time, they realised, had pa.s.sed now and they were still quite a long way from their next destination. Soon it might be twilight! Randall suggested that they might spend the night in that hut - it had been such a hot day, it must be a warm night! Edward, the cautious one, said that the hut was not theirs, it was someone else's, anyway it was probably locked up, and anyone might come to inhabit it at any moment, after all they had seen n.o.body coming or going. Randall said they were miles from anywhere, it would take ages to drag their bikes up to the main road, and he for one was feeling very tired. Anyway it would be an adventure, and they could easily get up to the hut. Edward, to please him, at last agreed, and they set off with their rucksacks, then unleashing their bikes and loading them up and pushing them first along the sandy verge, then, just after reaching the little 'road' that they had come along, discovering a path which seemed to lead straight up to the hut. They abandoned their bikes, chained up and covered over in brambles, in a ditch, and struggled on up the rather steep way with their rucksacks. The hillock was a little higher than it had seemed from below, and it appeared it must be reached through a meadow, after a crawl under some barbed wire. Here they paused for a dispute. Edward said that it was ridiculous, evening was coming on, they should carry on with their bikes, surely they would soon find some pub and relax, as they had done before. However he gave way to Randall's excited begging that at least they must go on now as far as the hut and perhaps - As they reached it, at last, with caution, dragging their rucksacks exhaustedly through the long gra.s.s, the sun was falling behind the hills beyond. They stood still for a short while outside it, breathing deeply. They could hear nothing. They cautiously pushed the door, which to their joy was not locked. They stepped inside. The hut consisted of one small empty room, with a pile of wood in a grate with a chimney, which they had not noticed from below. It was all made of wood, the floor, the walls, and the roof, with a delicious woody smell, very clean and neat. Whoever lived there, or more likely visited there, must be a careful, fastidious, perhaps thoughtful, person, they agreed. It was now beginning to be a little dark in the hut. Randall suggested that they could make a fire in the grate, but Edward vetoed this. They would not want to draw attention to themselves - that is supposing they were to stay - Randall then discovered beside the fireplace a small box containing candles, and insisted on lighting one at once. He declared that in this little house, which was just for now their own, they would not light a fire, but they must have candlelight to celebrate their feast after which they would sleep. The hut was already very warm from the sunlight. Edward was still anxious, but was overcome by Randall's childish delight. They began to unpack. It was then that Randall suddenly noticed that after all some contents of his rucksack, including the bottle of wine, which he had put in a separate bag, had been left down on the beach! Edward suggested just leaving them but Randall insisted that they must have their wine to drink by candlelight, it would be so romantic, and anyway the tide might cover that part of the beach during the night. He said he would run and fetch it all in no time, and Edward could stay and light the candles. Edward, who felt very much like resting now, hesitated, then he thought I must go with Randall, he might get lost or fall or hurt himself on the wire. So they set off together in the twilight, back down the hill.

The sun had almost set and the cloudless sky had become a darkening blue. The moon, nearly full, was now faintly gleaming. Randall commented upon the fact that it had been invisible before. A perceptible wind was now blowing. Edward thought, we shall be jolly cold in that hut at midnight! However he did not say that to Randall. They got through the wire all right, pa.s.sed their bikes invisible in the ditch, then ran down to the track and out onto the beach. They could hear the strange rhythmic grating sound of the great waves upon the stones. It took them a little while to find the bag, now lying almost invisible. Edward picked it up. He felt the wind blowing. Randall had run past him to look at the sea whose harsh grinding sound of the waves breaking was louder now in the quiet darkness. Edward followed him slowly, then as he neared him he saw that Randall was undressing. Edward was at once alarmed. 'Oh Randall, not another swim, and it's getting dark, and -'

Randall, now undressed, was standing up, his body pale in the uncertain light, looking down at the crashing waves which were scrabbling at the shifting wall of stones. He cried, 'A moonlight swim, you must, come on, the water will be warm - ' He began descending, holding his balance upon the shifting stones, seeming to vanish in the coming waves, then seen instantly a little farther out, bobbing about in the white crested water and waving to Edward.

Edward shouted, 'Hurry up, come in, come back!' He feared the currents, the wind, the grim force of the waves, more savage now, larger, louder, taller, curling over in great white arches, hurling themselves in deafening impact against the slithering wall of stones, and in destroying themselves, each wave in its demise receding, dragging clattering down a grinding ma.s.s of sand and stones. Edward stood for another minute watching, he shouted out to Randall, he thought he could see him far out, he thought, I must go with him, I must look after him, oh dear all this is daft. He took off his jacket, pants and shoes, he tried to walk, searching for a foothold, then fell down the slope of sand and stones, kept his feet for a second as a wave broke violently over him, then found himself swimming. Here, the surface of the sea was a confused churning ma.s.s of white foam, coming and going, sucking back, sucking down, leaping up, then suddenly swinging into a trough, waves fighting with each other. Ordinary swimming was impossible. Edward, almost upright in the water, trying to tread his legs below him, swallowing water, attempting a breast-stroke, managed to keep his head up. He tried to move in the direction of where he had seen Randall. He thought that he glimpsed him in the chaotic darkness and tried to move towards him, but great curtains of racing churning heavy waves struck him violently making progress impossible. He kept trying to cry out, swallowing more water. Then suddenly Randall was beside him, he fumbled in the water, trying to grip Randall's wrist, saying perhaps aloud or to himself, thank G.o.d, thank G.o.d. He thought he heard Randall say 'Can't get out.' He thought, Randall is terrified and so am I. Holding his brother's wrist he kept on, not exactly swimming, but moving, trying to paw the water with one hand. Low down, between the wave crests, jerking his head up and swallowing water, he had entirely lost his sense of direction. Randall seemed to be jerking away from him or being pulled away. Edward, now putting his trailing legs into violent motion, thought he had caught a glimpse of what must be land, the final breaking of the waves. He also saw, in sudden glimpse, as if a wave had lifted him intentionally up, the moon now very bright. Edward was thinking I mustn't let him go - but am I drowning him by holding onto him? He turned his head and glimpsed Randall's gasping horrified face. Then suddenly he felt the movement of the water changing, they were close to the land, to the place where the waves ended their journey and smashed themselves against the perpetually descending cliff of stones. Edward felt the sudden change, he thought, now I must get a foothold, I must get a foothold, otherwise we shall fall under the wave. He felt water suddenly lifting him up, he lost his grip on Randall, he was caught inside the curling wave as he tried to stand, above him the dome of the wave, he could not stand, he was dashed down onto his knees, he struggled, feeling for a second the swift strong moving sand of the undertow, now racing back through his fingers, while the running cliff of stones, falling against him, were making him unable to rise, he was choking, drowning. He got up, crouching, attempting to get his legs apart, he thought, I must stand, or the next wave will kill me. He braced himself to the wave, and found himself still upright, moving, climbing, stretching out his hands against the tumbling stones. He had lost hold of Randall, indeed he had completely forgotten Randall, now he was crawling, now at last standing upon the sh.o.r.e. He turned back gasping, choking, looking back into the violent chaos of the huge towering waves. Where was Randall now - must he go back into this h.e.l.l and die himself? Surely Randall too must be somewhere near to him, clambering out? Out of the sea, at last, he turned stumbling along, looking out at the waves and screaming. There was no sign of Randall. He returned to the sea, breasting the waves, losing foothold, swimming, choking, then desperately attempting above all with his weary battered limbs, to get back to the land without drowning. His eyes were filled with water. He knelt, he stood, then knocked down to all fours, crept, stood again, desperately at the edge of the sea, staring and calling out. About twenty minutes later or perhaps more he saw Randall, floating face downward, carried in by a wave. He returned to the water, pulling at the limp body of his brother, wailing and crying and screaming, hauling him out onto the stones. He tried to remember what to do, laying him down on his face, pressing his back. It was all senseless and useless. They were alone in the dark on the empty beach. He could find no help.

It was some time after that that a motorist was stopped by a half-clad man, incoherently weeping, pointing down toward the beach. Later, other people came, the police came, Randall's body was carried away.

Edward now, sitting in the sunlight upon the stones beside the calm sea, was crying, wailing. He had never, until now, returned to this place. The little hut was still there, the sea and stones were there, the emptiness and no one. Edward had for many years wondered if he would ever come back. He had never been forgiven, his father had never forgiven him, his father hated him, he hated himself. Everybody remembered, many pitied him, n.o.body spoke of it of course. What had made him come now, perhaps he knew. He had made another death, that of Marian. Even if she was alive, she was dead. And between these two deaths, there was yet a third thing, a third crazy thoughtless deed, which must forever be hidden in darkness.

FIVE.

Marian, whom everyone was worrying about and searching for, was not dead. She had considered suicide. She had stared down at the shining rails at tube stations and felt in her body the trembling pa.s.sionate energy which would be needed, timing it carefully, to hurl herself in front of a train. She thought about drowning in some dark place, among abandoned buildings, beside the Thames. But she was a good swimmer and fierce violent instincts would simply prevent her, nor could she imagine thus some slow death. She had no access to poisons. She could of course throw herself in front of a bus, but this might be bungled, leaving her hideously disfigured and damaged. She had always feared high places and could not see herself awkwardly opening windows and climbing onto window sills. All these thoughts were superficial, false, unreal, hideous dreams which segregated her from the ghastly reality of what had happened to her, what she had done, and now forever after would have to live with.

Now, at present, she was sitting on a bed in a small cheap hotel down a side street near Euston Station. She had cried so much, she was still crying. It was morning. She had, weak with exhaustion, at last slept part of the night. She had dreamed a happy dream, and for a second waking held it. Now the horror was all back again, like a huge steel building collapsing, grinding down upon her. She had lost, she had destroyed, wantonly and forever, everything that was good and happy in her life. She had made an effort to cease her crying, not just the flow of tears, but now the rhythmic wailing, the convulsive repet.i.tion of 'ah!' 'ah!'. On the previous day someone had knocked on the door, then opened it, and asked if she was ill. Of course she was ill, but she said no, no, not at all, she was so sorry, she was quite well. Outside the sun was shining. Her watch told her it was morning, after seven o'clock. This was the beginning of yet another day in which she had stayed in the hotel. She must go somewhere, she must do something, but where and what? She thought, I must go back to Canada and never never return to this country again. But why Canada? She could not face her mother, she had ruined her poor mother as she had ruined all the others, all the other people, whom she would never never see again. She still had her handbag with her, her money, her cards. She must get away, somewhere, and become another person. That is the same as dying. Perhaps she should go to a priest. But she had given up priests long ago, as her mother had. Oh her mother, her dear, dear mother - everything had fallen, everything had been destroyed - and so quickly - it is like murder, it is murder - I am ill, I am very ill, she thought, trying now to check her moaning, I am going mad - am I to run out of here, and run about the streets? My face is swollen and hideous, no one will recognise me. She sat upon the bed, gasping, half dressed, stuffing her wet handkerchief into her mouth.

The condition into which Marian had entered, into which she had thrust herself, had origins further back. She loved her sister. But as they grew up her love was, she knew, very slightly touched by envy, later jealousy. Marian was rated more beautiful than Rosalind. It wasn't that. Marian was not sure what it was. Perhaps it was simply a growing up, and a determined parting of the ways. Rosalind had been bright at school, a 'scholar', she was clever, she was going to be an art historian. Marian, though not a fool, and far more naturally sociable, became aware that Rosalind was more sought after, more admired, more witty, more interesting. Rosalind knew what she was going to do with her life. Marian had no idea what was going to happen to hers. Both girls had learnt French, and a little Italian at school. Marian had now forgotten much of hers, whereas Rosalind preserved these, and was adding Russian. They went on pleasant trips to France, Italy, Spain. Marian then decided to go round the world, to brush up her languages, she said laughingly. Anyway she wanted to travel, to get away, to go to strange lands and have adventures. This tour came about, funded by her mother, by Benet, more liberally by Uncle Tim; and at last Marian, taking leave of England with lengthy wavings of farewell, turned her face to the wind and felt more deliriously happy than ever in her life. The beautiful white ship, ignoring Europe (which she a.s.sumed her wealthy pa.s.sengers already knew) pa.s.sed through the Mediterranean, stopping at Egypt, on down the Red Sea, then on to India, down the coast for temples and swimming, on to Ceylon, then at last the long sea voyage to Sydney. The stay at Sydney was proving unusually long because of some engine trouble. This did not worry Marian. She had made pleasant acquaintances on board, but let loose in Sydney she discovered even more delights and interesting friends. She sent postcards home, especially to her mother, Rosalind, Uncle Tim, Benet, and Edward, mentioning the pleasant delay. Just at this time Uncle Tim had died. There had been some argument about whether or when she should be told. At last a telegram finally brought the sad news. Marian sent a reply: Terribly sorry Uncle Tim. Probably staying on in Australia. Note hotel address. Marian had already informed her lovely white ship (her name was Calypso) that she must now travel on to see New Zealand without Marian. Marian had fallen in love with Australia.

From her hotel in Sydney Marian subsequently sent, not this time a postcard but a letter, to Edward. Marian had for a considerable time been aware that Benet, Tim and others were quietly hoping that she might marry Edward Lannion. Randall's sudden death had damaged the rather stiff but perceptible connection which had existed between Hatting Hall and Penndean. Mourning for that death existed for a long time. Edward left the university; his father died and Edward took charge of Hatting, spending also much time in London, having, at any rate for the moment, given up his historical novel and his poems. At that time too he became better acquainted with Benet and Tim, and also with the girls. On the boat Marian had been thinking about Edward, and had at her hotel composed and recomposed a tactful letter to him. She received a reply from Edward which, though very characteristically cautious, left her in little doubt. This whispered clarification left Marian suddenly not only more happy but more free. Now she was enjoying Australia. Then, before long, she should fly back. She had money in her pocket. Most of all, she could now toy with the idea of being 'the Mistress of Hatting Hall'! There was, in her change of plan, another shadowy consideration. Suppose she were to stay too long away, and find that Edward had found some other bride - or decided to marry Rosalind? She wrote a sort of love-letter to Edward, received a vaguely similar reply, and cast away her anxieties.

Marian had by now, though still based in her hotel, ventured a little out of Sydney on various expeditions. She had also acquired some Australian friends, been invited to parties, then to dinner parties. She was, after all, a totally unaccompanied beautiful girl. The bright friendly atmosphere of lovely Sydney suited her, especially so since that shadowy uncertainty had been removed. She would of course go home soon, only not just yet. She wanted to go to the Great Barrier Reef, to the Brisbane Zoo, to Ayers Rock, to see Aborigines, real bush and real free animals, koalas, kangaroos. As happens in Sydney she met all sorts of people. She met a man called Cantor Ravnevik. She met his name before him and thought it a strange lovely name, and she was glad to meet its eccentric owner. They had a drink together, they lunched together, they danced together. He told her about his family and his name. His great grandfather on his father's side had come to Australia from Norway. His mother's family had come more recently from Germany, half German and half Irish, also half Jewish. That, he said, accounted for his name. His other Scandinavian family name, being unp.r.o.nounceable for Australians, had been smoothed down to its more attractive present form. His parents were dead, he had only one brother, who was older than him, and who ran a sheep farm. He was very fond of his brother, his brother had a lovely wife who was going to have a baby, no, he himself was not yet married. Marian, though still not sure what the man was, began to like him very much. She had felt it proper to mention that she was engaged (or as she put it 'perhaps sort of engaged') to 'someone in England'. She showed him pictures of Lipcot, and Hatting and Penn, and country all around, and Benet and Rosemary and Edward and Mildred and others. Cantor noted these and smiled. He did not ask who the people were. He expressed his wish to take her to the farm. Marian, now feeling 'safe', allowed him to drive her out into the country, and was suitably amazed at the immensity of the farm, the vast distances, the hundreds and hundreds of sheep, 'not at all like England'. His elder brother (Arne Ravnevik) and his sister-in-law (Judith, Jewish, long known to the family, hence Cantor's name) welcomed Marian warmly. When Cantor asked her if she could ride she was delighted to say she certainly could! Then they rode together over beautiful wild country. She found Australian horses naughtier than Canadian ones and they laughed about that. Back in Sydney Marian visited Cantor in his flat and they made love.

Before this Marian had already explained, in answer to a question by Cantor, that she was not a virgin. She had indeed had a few adventures after leaving school, amounting, she said, to nothing. She had of course informed Edward of these facts. Edward accepted them calmly and said no more. Marian had not asked about him, about his previous life, though she was certainly curious about it. She had heard Benet say that 'really n.o.body knows about Edward'. Marian had asked Edward a few tame questions; she was content to leave more information until later. That would be what Edward would desire. She loved him and was proud to be, as it was emerging now, chosen as his wife. She was also a bit afraid of him, but that of course, would pa.s.s. She knew, as everyone knew, of Randall's death. This was a dark shadow, and there might be other ones, in Edward's life. She hoped and believed that love and patience might in time dispel them.

Marian lay down again with Cantor. She lay with her face deep in his blond hair. She had received another letter from Edward. She had booked her seat in the aeroplane which was to take her home. She told Cantor that she was leaving. He took the news with a little gesture and a slightly rueful smile. She was grateful for his calmness, she had been an episode, he had been so gently beautifully kind to her, but he would easily do without her. He also, perhaps because she was going, told her more about himself, how he did work for his brother, how he ran a literary newspaper, how he wrote a bit, how he attempted to help the Aborigines. Marian, on the point of leaving, was sorry now that she had not questioned him more about the Aborigines. Anyway it was too late and she would never see him again. She gently made a habit in the last days, of talking a little about Edward. The time came for departure. Cantor drove her to the airport.

The time between Marian's return and the completion of their wedding plans was longer than she had expected. When they met again she was shy and Edward was nervous. They lay together in Marian's flat and made some gentle fumbling love with closed eyes. They both, tacitly, reserved this time as a sort of holy preparation. Their great perfect union lay ahead when all would be achieved and revealed. Everyone was delighted with them. Rosalind's feelings (much discussed of course) about Edward were in fact of relief, not (as some believed) of envy. Watching her sister, whom she loved, she could quite early on see her 'made for him and Hatting'. Benet meanwhile, almost too briskly, arranged for the pair to be alone when they might have preferred company. For some unspoken reason there was to be no love-making in Hatting Hall, or of course at Penndean, only in Marian's flat. Hatting was 'out of bounds' until afterwards, until 'after the wedding'. Meanwhile, immediately after the wedding, they were to go (still in secret of course) to France. Weeks had pa.s.sed and everything was moving in slow motion. Marian's heart beat faster and faster and she was longing for it all to be over and they could be in France.

Something disturbing did occur which Marian felt she must conceal from Edward. She had considered from the first days of her return whether she should tell him what 'had happened to her' in Australia. At first she was ready to tell, only somehow she couldn't quite find the moment, and Edward seemed to have little interest in Australia anyway. Then it was too late and she was beginning to forget it all, absorbed in church services, invitations, dresses, and dealings with her flighty mother. Sometimes she and Edward thought they should just run away instantly to a Register Office! But of course there were always reasons which made this impossible. Meanwhile she watched Edward closely and thought about the 'gloom' which she was now relied upon to send away. As 'the day' grew very near, Edward returned to Hatting and Marian stayed in London, finishing her wedding clothes and packing up a box of 'secrets' destined for various 'worthies'. However, at a time now nearing the date of the wedding Marian received a letter with an Australian postmark. It was of course from Cantor and it was a love letter. Marian cried over this letter, suddenly she felt - what did she feel? She remembered the farm and the horses and - she hastily replied at once that she was getting married, but she gave no details. Cantor replied that she had been so vague about marriage he was not sure whether it was serious! But anyway he was soon coming to England on business and hoped to see her. This was a cooler letter. Marian was already very disturbed, and alarmed at finding herself so. She wished now that she had told Edward about Cantor. Now she could not, it was too late. She spent some time wondering whether she should reply to the letter, but finally decided not to. It was a matter of weeks, now of days, everything was fixed.

Then one afternoon, coming back alone to her flat, she saw an envelope upon the floor with a London postmark. Cantor was in London and this was once again a love letter. He said he was on business, not for long, he was a.s.suming that she was as yet unmarried and would she come and have lunch with him? He would ring her up. The telephone rang. She went into the kitchen and covered her ears. Half an hour later it rang again. Of course she must answer telephone calls, it might be anybody. She lifted the telephone. It was Cantor's voice. She began hurriedly to babble, no she could not see him today or tomorrow, no not for lunch or dinner, she was sorry - as Cantor's charming and familiar voice went calmly on she said, 'Cantor, please stop, please please, I cannot see you, I am to be married to Edward.' He said 'When?' Today was Monday, the marriage was on Wednesday. Marian said quickly, 'The end of next week.' She was terrified that Cantor would want to be invited, perhaps 'b.u.t.t in'. After a short silence he said, 'Well, that's it.' Then he said, 'I'd like to see you all the same. I've got a present for you - well, now it's a wedding present! Can we meet, can we have lunch, tomorrow for instance?' She said quickly, 'Lunch, no, sorry - ' 'Then before lunch then - I must give you my present!' 'Oh, all right, but not for long and where - ?' She thought, I'll see him and get it over! He said, 'I suggest Kensington, Barker's, why not, tomorrow and the ground floor among the shirts, at eleven?' Marian, who had no lunch plans and only a desire not to spend lunchtime with Cantor, said all right and put down the phone. She felt extreme irritation and annoyance with herself as well as with Cantor. She had not even asked him for his telephone number - she could have rung up and cancelled it all!

The next morning, the day before the wedding, Marian, talking on the telephone with Edward, suddenly recalling Cantor's tryst, fell suddenly silent. Edward said, 'Are you still there?' Am I still there? Yes, I am still there. Of course she is. A day had pa.s.sed, another day was to be. Yes, she would come tomorrow with all her 'secrets'. Yes, now, she might be out. 'Oh Edward - Edward -' He said, 'Don't worry, it will be all right!' She thought, my clothes are nearly ready now, at once, I could go to Penn now-only now I have to wait for that man! But I did want to wait anyway, didn't I? I still have so many little things to do! She set off for Barker's to 'get all that over'.

Coming into the shop and into the shirt department she looked about. Had he not come? Oh be it so! Then she saw him some way off examining a shirt. She felt at once a sort of shock, and put her hand to her breast. Had she forgotten him, how could she have forgotten him? For an instant she saw him as she had seen him at the very first, before he had seen her, just before someone had introduced him to her, just before he had danced with her, his thick blondish heavy hair 'long enough to tuck in behind his ears', his narrow slightly curved nose, his look as of a picture of some commander, perhaps a Doge of Venice. Venice! She felt slightly faint. The vision pa.s.sed. He turned, saw her, and waved. She waved. They approached each other smiling, he with his large blue eyes, yet wild, like an animal. They shook hands, smiling, laughing, he kissed her cheek, and they wandered together towards the exit and out into the street, walking and talking to each other. She noticed he was carrying a large leather bag. She asked after the farm, after Judith, had her baby come? Yes, a lovely baby, a boy of course. Why of course! And why had Cantor come to London? Oh on business for his brother, who had all sorts of investments over here, and was even considering a London office. Was he staying long? Not very long, but he had rented a little flat. What was in that big bag? Well, it was, in part, her present! Why in part? If she were patient she would soon see!

Marian had not, in all their quick laughing conversation, noticed where they were going. They had left the High Street and were now in a maze of small streets near Gloucester Road. 'Where are we?' 'Wait and see.' Marian was only now beginning to feel uneasy, and was about to say 'I must go' when suddenly they reached their destination. Stables. What? Horses.

Everything, including boots, which so beautifully fitted, had been unloaded and donned, they had trotted across the road and into the Park. Marian was intoxicated with joy. She had, since her return from Australia, simply given up riding. Now she was back in the saddle, even though in the demure surroundings of Hyde Park. Of course Cantor was a better rider, but Marian was good, they rode knee to knee upon their beautiful frisky horses, Jinny and Samuel. Then Cantor and Samuel went ahead, beginning to gallop, which was strictly forbidden, and Marian had difficulty in restraining Jinny, the horses loved it, the riders loved it, and at one moment when they were close side by side Cantor murmured to her: 'The Last Ride Together.' She had remembered the poem too. After that they took their excited horses back to the stables where Marian kissed them both. After that, as they walked away together, it appeared that it was lunchtime. They had lunch together at a pleasant restaurant in the High Street. It was then that Marian discovered that she had lost her watch. After that she said that she must take a taxi back to her flat, and at first there were no taxis, and when they found one Cantor gave his address not hers. Marian complained but Cantor said he just wanted to show her something and she could easily get back afterwards.

Then somehow they were at Cantor's flat where they were having tea sitting side by side upon the sofa, Cantor with his arm round her. He asked her again when her wedding was, and she replied, 'Wednesday.' 'This Wednesday?' Feeling suddenly very tired she said, 'Yes.' 'Really? You have been deceiving me!' After that they lay down side by side on the sofa and Cantor kissing her said that she had cruelly deceived him, and anyway she could not possibly be in love with Edward, she did not believe what she was saying, she knew that she was in love with him, Cantor. Marian started to cry. Then they were lying in bed together and she had taken off some clothes. She said that he was deceiving her and that he had drugged her, she was frightened, he must let her go, only their arms were round each other, and she had lost her watch. After that they made love and she slept again. Cantor said he was certain that she was going to marry the wrong man, and that it was not too late, she must know that it was not too late, and he wanted her to write down what she really felt. She loved him, Cantor, and no one else, and he wanted her to write this out, and he would show it to 'other people', he could not bear her giving herself away to someone else. He made her sit up and write out on a piece of paper, 'forgive me, I am very sorry, I cannot marry you'. Marian wrote out something and drank some more tea, only now it was whisky, or something else. After that she fell into a deep sleep.

When she woke it was daylight and she was in Cantor's arms and they were making love. She felt for her watch, she had lost her watch, she felt a little sick. Suddenly she sat up, where was she, with whom was she? She started to cry, to sob, and began to look for her clothes, which Cantor handed to her. Cantor sat down on the bed. She struggled, and began clumsily to put her clothes on, still crying. What day was it? Where was she, what time was it? Cantor said, 'I have delivered your message.' 'What message?' 'You wrote the truth. You wrote "forgive me, I am very sorry, I cannot marry you".' They have seen it. Only they have not seen me. 'I don't understand. I don't believe you. Oh G.o.d, what time is it?' 'It is the afternoon, and all is over.' 'What day? oh oh oh -' 'There is no wedding. You do not want this man. I know you do not want him. At this moment he is relieved. As you will very soon be. Rest now, rest my child.'

But Marian continued to sob, even to scream, as she put on her clothes and looked about for her coat and her handbag. Cantor, still sitting on the bed, watched her. He said, 'Marian, will you marry me?' 'No, no, no, I hate you, I hate you! Oh G.o.d, I have been a fool, what an awful fool I have been, I have destroyed myself -'

'Listen, you did not really want him -'

'No, and I don't want you either, I detest you, I shall kill myself. Why, why, why - I don't even know if you tell the truth -you have drugged me, you are hateful.'

'I tell the truth.'

'Goodbye -' She ran, holding her coat and her handbag, to the door. She struggled to put on her coat. She tried to open the door, in vain.

'Listen, my child -'

'I must go, go -'

'Well, where to? Let us just go somewhere together in my car.'

She fell down the steps, got up, then got into the car, banging the door. Cantor got in the other side, locking both doors, and the car set off. He kept turning to look at her. She looked like a mad creature, transformed, grimacing, her eyes staring with terror and horror. Cantor shuddered, he repeated mechanically, 'I have told them, I have been there in the night.' She uttered a wailing cry, holding her mouth wide open. Then she said, 'I have lost my watch,' and 'Leave me, leave me, I hate you - ' He said, 'Will you come with me, will you marry me - I am sorry to have hurt you - I must take you away - please please - I love you. I'm going home-come with me.' He turned to her terrible face, she was crying, fumbling at the door. She said, 'You have destroyed me, you have driven me mad, oh my wedding day, let me out, let me out.' By now Cantor was crying too. He said, 'Why did you keep on lying?' Then, 'Oh h.e.l.l! I'm going back to Australia.' He turned the car into a side road, then leaned over and opened the door. She slipped out and fled, disappearing among people. Cantor struggled with his seat belt, tried to get out to follow her, then sat back cursing. After a while he turned the car.

Marian ran, then walked, among strange unknown streets, weeping. People stopped, some trying to speak to her, asking what was the matter, could they help. She hurried quickly as if she knew where she was going, turning at random down unfamiliar streets. At last, trying to conceal her agitation and her tears, she entered a little hotel.

Benet could scarcely sleep during those days, he did not know where to station himself, whom he should be watching or watching for. He prayed for some, even slightest, signal from Marian. How could she be so cruel as to vanish in that way! Surely she knew that no one would hurt her or blame her - yet perhaps the poor child was captive somewhere - or was dead. Edward too had disappeared without any word - was it possible that he had found her - found her and killed her - or killed himself? Oh what terrible mad thoughts! Later would theyall look back, in sunlight? Was it possible that it might all be put together again, the love, the marriage, all made clear and made happy? Perhaps they just wanted a Register Office marriage after all!

Owen was going through a drunken phase because, he said, Mildred was gone into the spirit world. When Marian was mentioned he cursed and said the little fool would never come back. Anna was remote and curt and spoke of 'going away' or 'clearing off'. When Benet rang her she put down the telephone as soon as possible, sometimes at once. Benet had decided that he should at present stay at Penndean, since it was possible that Edward would, might, come back to Hatting. It was also, he felt, most likely if Marian were at some time, ashamedly, to return, he felt sure that she would come to him, and at Penn. But every day just brought more grief and anguish.

In fact, after days, Edward did return, and to Hatting, and straight from there to Penn, where he was told that Benet was. He walked in one evening, after Benet had been making his usual fruitless telephone calls, and came straight to the drawing room. Benet, putting down the telephone, went to Edward and seized his hand. Edward quietly thrust him away. Benet could see at once that Edward had altered. His face was twisted with exasperation and pain. He looked past Benet and out through the open gla.s.s doors into the garden, towards the copse of birch trees which the breeze was slightly moving. For a moment he stared out in silence, with the same anguished expression. Then he turned to Benet with a colder sterner expression and said, 'I have not much time.'

Benet, aware of his tallness, said, 'Do sit down.'

Edward ignored this. He said, 'No news of course.'

'No - and you?'

'Of course not! Oh Christ, I wish all this was over!'

Benet, already distressed by the intensely cold almost savage vibrations, sat down upon the sofa. He said, 'Edward, dear, do please sit down.' He pointed to a chair.

Edward bared his teeth with an audible 'ach!' and sat down.

Benet said, 'Oh how much, how much, I wish I could make you happy again. I feel I've let you down - yes, I am to blame -'

Edward, his face now twisted again with exasperation, looking away, said, 'Oh - nothing is your fault.'

'Well, nothing, I feel sure, is Marian's fault, surely that message was written by the person who kidnapped her -'

'Oh well, we would have heard from the kidnapper by now,' said Edward listlessly, still looking away, out of the window. He went on, 'No, it's not that-it's someone else, she's gone off with someone else, she just had to get away from me - it was all arranged - she never really wanted me - at all. Just as well, I'm not really - I just wish she'd let me know - a little earlier - but just doing it now - '

'Yes, I know, I know - and I'm - so very - sorry - But there were so many things - if she comes back now and wants you and wants you to forgive her - and - and make things right again? Isn't that possible.'

'No, of course not.' He paused. 'You know it isn't possible-it's all hatred, pure hatred.'

'What do you mean, what is - ?'

'Her hatred, my hatred, most of all my hatred.'

'Please see Marian when we find her, we don't know her story, she is innocent - you didn't hate her, you don't hate her -'

'I do now, I hate myself - '

'She may be dead, and -'

'I do not believe that she is dead,' said Edward. He paused, then went on, 'Often I think that I am dead-yes, I am or shall be dead. You do not know how much grief I have in me and what terrible things I have suffered, and done.'

'Edward, please, please, don't say such mad things, there are so very very many things in you and for you - and if you find her you can -'

'Oh, that - I don't know what I think about her or what has happened to her or what she's done - do not talk about her, she is over.'

'And you don't care - ?'

'And I am over too, I mean I am done for. I am going to sell Hatting.'

'Edward, no, never, you are not to sell Hatting, I forbid you - !'

Edward, who had been looking round the room with his face once more twisted into a grimace, suddenly looked at Benet and smiled. 'Dear Benet, always playing at my father!' He rose, the smile vanishing. He was thinner, his hair was shorter, jagged as if savagely cut, his face was wrinkled, his eyes narrowed, his lips trembling. For a moment he looked distraught, as if he were going to weep.

'Don't go,' said Benet, frightened, rising. 'Dear Edward, I love you, stay with me, don't go away - Have a drink, stay for lunch and - '

'I've given up eating and drinking - I'm just waiting -'

'What for?'

'Just waiting - for the awful thing to go away -'

'But Marian - '

'Not Marian. The dreams - if you only knew how much I am given over to the devil. I bring ill luck and doom. It's all over.' He added, 'I am going to travel abroad. Hatting will be up for sale. Please spread the news, will you.'

SIX.

It did not take Jackson very long, using a curving piece of plastic cut from a mineral water bottle, to undo the fragile front door of the house, and then the ancient lock of Marian's flat. He cautiously quietly moved the door, slid inside, and closed it silently. Then he stood still, breathing deeply, in the small hallway, then moved into the sitting room. He had not been there before. Of course, after Marian had disappeared, Benet and Rosalind, with Rosalind's key, had entered the flat, anxious not to find Marian dead upon the floor. They had come to the flat more than once. Edward did not accompany them. They had of course 'made a search'. Jackson looked round. Everything was tidy. That would be the result of their search. The police had also been in, and were said to have watched the place. Apparently, as Jackson heard Benet saying, they had found no clues at all. He himself, he was sure, had entered rapidly and unnoticed. That lot, he thought scornfully, would have no idea of how really to search. Of course someone ought to have been staying there all the time. He moved about slowly, noticing Marian's 'things', her clothes hung up in a cupboard, by her, more likely by Rosalind. Her rows of shoes neatly stowed under the bed. She might have left in a hurry, or been kidnapped, or-the china animals upon the mantelpiece, the cushions easily moved, the little desk easily rifled. Jackson pictured Benet and Rosalind finding everything untidy and putting it all back into order, having discovered nothing. Jackson, following the obvious tracks, looked through the desk, the sofa, the clothes, the bed, under the carpet, inside books, inside china animals, the kitchen, t