After Roper, it was Roper's people who became the object of his fascinated indignation. He thought of Major Corkoran alias Corky alias Corks, in his grimy muffler and disgraceful suede boots: Corky the signer. Corky who could get five hundred years in jail anytime Burr chose.
He thought of Frisky and Tabby and the misty company of retainers ― of Sandy Lord Langbourne, with his gold hair bound at the nape; of Dr. Apostoll on his risers, whose daughter had killed herself for a Cartier watch; of MacArthur and Danby, the grey-suited executive twins from the nearly respectable side of the operation ― until collectively the Roper household became a kind of monstrous First Family for him, with Jed his First Lady in the Tower.
"How much does she know about his business?" Jonathan asked Burr once.
Burr shrugged. "The Roper doesn't boast and doesn't tell. Nobody knows more than he needs to. Not with our Dicky."
An upper-class waif, thought Jonathan. A convent-school education. A faith rejected. A locked-up childhood like mine.
* * *
Jonathan's only confidant was Harlow, but between operational confidants there are limits to what either can confide. "Harlow is a walk-on." Rooke warned, during a night visit to the Lanyon. "He's only there for you to kill. He doesn't know the target, and he doesn't need to. Keep it that way."
Nevertheless, for this stage of the journey the murderer and his mark were allies, and Jonathan strove to make a bond with him.
"You a married man, Jumbo?"
They were sitting at the scrubbed pine table in Jonathan's kitchen after returning from their planned appearance at the Snug. Jumbo shook his head regretfully and took a pull of beer. He was an embarrassed soul, as big men often are, an actor or a grounded opera singer with a huge barrel chest. His black beard, Jonathan suspected, had been grown expressly for the part and would be gratefully removed as soon as the show ended. Was Jumbo a genuine Australian? It didn't matter. He was an expatriate everywhere.
"I shall expect a lavish funeral, Mr. Linden," said Jumbo gravely. "Black horses, a sparkling carriage and a nine-year-old catamite in a top hat. Your health."
"And yours too, Jumbo."
Having drained his sixth can, Jumbo slapped on his blue denim cap and lumbered to the door. Jonathan watched his crippled Land-Rover hobble up the winding lane.
"Who on earth was that?" said Marilyn, arriving with a pair of fresh mackerel.
"Oh, he's just my business partner," said Jonathan.
"Looked more like bloody Godzilla on a dark night to me."
She wanted to fry the fish, but he showed her how to bake it in foil, with fresh dill and seasoning. Once, as a dare, she tied his apron round him, and he felt her strong black hair brush against his cheek and waited for the smell of vanilla. Stay away from me. I betray. I kill. Go home.
* * *
One afternoon Jonathan and Jumbo took the plane from Plymouth to Jersey and in the little port of St. Helier made a show of inspecting a twenty-five-foot yacht that was moored on the far side of the harbour. Their journey, like their joint appearance at the Snug, was intended for display. In the evening. Jumbo flew back alone.
The yacht they inspected was called Ariadne, and according to her log she had arrived from Roscoff two weeks earlier, sailed by a Frenchman named Lebray. Before Roscoff she was in Biarritz and, before that, open seas. Jonathan spent two days fitting her out, provisioning her and preparing the chartwork.
On the third day he took her to sea to get the feel of her and boxed the compass for himself while he was about it, for at sea as on land he trusted no one's work but his own. At first light on the fourth day he set sail. The area forecast was good, and for fifteen hours he cruised nicely at four knots, reaching for Falmouth on a southwesterly. But by evening the wind had turned blustery and by midnight it had freshened to a six or seven, throwing a big ground swell that had the Ariadne pitching.
Jonathan reduced sail and ran before the weather for the safety of Plymouth. As he passed the Eddystone Lighthouse the wind veered westerly and fell, so he changed course to Falmouth once more and beat west, hugging the shore and short-tacking to avoid the heavy weather. By the time he reached harbour he had been sailing hard for two nights without sleep. Sometimes the sounds of the storm deafened him. Sometimes he heard no weather at all and wondered if he was dead.
The beam sea and the close-hauling had rolled him about like a boulder; his body creaked and his head rang hollow with the solitude of the sea. But throughout the journey he thought of nothing he afterwards remembered. Or nothing but his own survival, Sophie was right. He had a future.
"You been somewhere nice, then?" Marilyn asked him, staring at the fire. She had taken off her cardigan. She wore a sleeveless blouse, buttoned down the back.
"Just a trip upcountry."
He realised with dread that she had been waiting for him all day. Another painting stood on the chimney-piece, very like the first. She had brought him fruit, and freesias for the vase.
"Well, thank you," he said politely. "That's super of you. Thanks."
"You want me, then, Jack Linden?"
She had lifted her hands to the back of her neck and unfastened the top two buttons of her blouse. She took a step to him and smiled. She began weeping, and he didn't know what to do. He put his arm round her and led her to her van and left her there to weep till she was ready to drive home.
* * *
That night, an almost metaphysical sense of his uncleanliness descended over Jonathan. In his extreme solitude, he decided that the fake murder he was about to commit was an externalisation of the real murders he had already committed in Ireland and the murder he had committed against Sophie; and that the ordeal that awaited him was a mere foretaste of a lifetime of penance.
For the days that remained to him, a passionate fondness for the Lanyon took possession of his heart and he rejoiced in every fresh example of the cliff's perfection: the seabirds wherever they put themselves, always in the right place, the hawks lying on the wind, the setting sun melting into black cloud, the fleets of small boats clustered over the shoals below, while the gulls above made a shoal of their own. And when darkness came, there were the boats again, a tiny city in the middle of the sea. With each last hour, this urge to be assumed into the landscape ― hidden in it, buried in it ― became almost unbearable.
A storm got up. Lighting a candle in the kitchen, he stared past it into the swirling night, while the wind crackled in the window frames and made the slate roof chatter like an Uzi. In the early morning, when the storm dropped, he ventured outdoors to wander over last night's battlefield ― then, Lawrence-like, leapt helmetless onto his motorbike, drove up to one of the old hill forts and scanned the coastline till he made out some landmark that pointed to the Lanyon. That is my home. The cliff has accepted me. I will live here forever. I will be clean.
But his vows were in vain. The soldier in him was already polishing his boots for the long march toward the worst man in the world.
* * *
It was during these final days of Jonathan's tenure of the cottage that Pete Pengelly and his brother. Jacob, made the mistake of going lamping at the Lanyon.
Pete tells the story cautiously, and with visitors present he won't tell it at all, for there's confession to it and a certain rueful pride. Lamping for rabbits in those parts has been a hallowed sport for fifty years and more. With two motorcycle batteries in a small box strapped against your hip, an old car spotlamp with a close beam, and a bunch of spare six-volt bulbs, you can mesmerise a whole convocation of rabbits for long enough to pick them off in salvos. No law and no battalions of strident ladies in brown berets and ankle socks have succeeded in putting a stop to it, and the Lanyon has been a favoured hunting ground for generations ― or was, until four of them went up there one night with guns and lamps, led by Pete Pengelly and his younger brother, Jacob.