Up to this point, I'd faced no direct threat to myself, nor had she; but now both of us were in danger. My encounter in Grainger's lane and the grisly events in Detroit could be written off as chance or coincidence, but not the search of my mother's house; that changed everything. I was now a target, even if I didn't understand why. But this meant that May was in danger as well — she had to be, since she was the only reason I was involved in the first place. That night, pulling myself together in the Hay-Adams, this conclusion seemed at first inescapable and then horrifying: for as soon as I'd thought everything through, I called her number in Toronto… and there was no answer. I called at midnight, at one, at one-thirty, then every ten minutes till three in the morning, and she still wasn't there. Falling asleep in a fever of guilt, I awoke at seven. Still no response. Then, as I began phoning the airport, something occurred to me. I had one other name in Toronto— Stewart Cadogan, Brightman's lawyer. So I dialed his number instead. At seven twenty-five there was no one in his office, but at seven thirty-one, by God, the old man picked up the phone himself.
There was a moment's pause as he took in my name. Then he grunted, "I'm surprised you'd start doing business this early, Mr. Thorne. But gratified. I've—"
I was in no mood for his crustiness and cut him off. "This is urgent, Mr. Cadogan. I'm very worried about May."
"For what reason?"
"Never mind. I just want you to send—"
"But I think I do mind, Mr. Thorne. You almost make it sound as if she was in danger."
"She is."
That made him pause for a second. "Why do you say so?"
"Because I've been calling her home since yesterday evening, almost continuously. There's nobody there."
"That would hardly indicate—"
"Listen, I don't want to argue. Just send somebody around there and make sure she's all right."
The anger in my voice finally got through to him. "I apologize, Mr. Thorne. I'd not understood that you were so upset. And of course, if you wish, I'll send someone to her house— I'll go myself — but I really don't see the need. She's not there — because yesterday afternoon she left for France."
"France?"
"Yes."
"You're sure?"
"Yes… or reasonably so. Yesterday afternoon she came by my office and said she was on the way to the airport. She had her bags with her."
I thought a moment, digesting this. It seemed incredible. She could only just have arrived back from Detroit. But she did have a house in France, so it was possible.
"How did she seem?"
"Calm. Subdued… but calm."
"You weren't surprised by her leaving at such a time?"
"I'm not sure it was my place to be surprised, Mr. Thorne. She said she was exhausted, that she wished to get away. I know she loves France and spends considerable time there— it seemed not unreasonable. And she left me various instructions concerning her property, the will, her father's remains… indeed yourself, Mr. Thorne."
"What do you mean?"
"What I say. Miss Brightman gave me your number in Virginia and I tried to call you yesterday. She wished me to thank you on her behalf and since — she said — your efforts would have left you considerably out of pocket, she instructed me to give you a check for ten thousand dollars."
I was stunned — by everything, but the money especially. And the fact that I had spared a few thoughts for what this was costing me didn't make me feel less offended. After a moment I said, "Of course I won't accept her money, Mr. Cadogan— money has nothing to do with this and in any case that's a ludicrous sum."
"Mr. Thorne, she asked me — on her behalf — to insist."
"All right, you've insisted. But I still won't accept it."
"Very well. There was one other point. She wanted me to thank you for what you've done, but also to say that now you should stop. She was very determined about that. She said she would write you later and explain, but for now she wanted me to make you promise, unconditionally, to give up all the inquiries that you've been making into her past. They'd only cause harm; they'd only hurt her. That's what she said."
I made no reply. I was trying to understand what she was doing, and I suppose, from one point of view, it might have made sense — get away, wipe the slate clean.
"Mr. Thome?"
"Yes."
"I ask you for that promise."
"I'm not sure I can give it."
"Mr. Thorne, please consider this carefully…" But then he stopped himself. And when he went on, he surprised me. "I'm sorry, Mr. Thorne. It was presumptuous of me to say that, for I know you will consider it as carefully as anyone could. But I am worried about her… despite what I've said. Perhaps it would be best for all of us to do just as she asks."
I hesitated. Had she told him something she hadn't told me? Perhaps she had, for now the old man went on, "You understand that I am discreet, Mr. Thorne — by my own nature and by the nature of my profession. But perhaps you don't know how often I curse that discretion. I do so now, for there is a great deal I would like to say which I can't. So I only say this. I have known the Brightmans for a good many years, and I know that May Brightman was always her father's protector — that was her life — and he was hers — that was his life. Now, you see, all she has left are those memories. If you were to alter them, or reveal that they had a false basis, you would be doing her a harm greater than you could possibly know."
"I think I'm aware of that, Mr. Cadogan."
"Very well. Do as you think best, and if you need me — for any reason — I can always be reached through this number. Please don't hesitate to use it."
"Thank you, sir. I'll remember."
We hung up. And for a moment, as I stood by the phone, I felt a funny mixture of feelings. Relief, consternation, something else… God only knows what it was. Mistrust? Suspicion? Her flight, the offer of money — so much money — and then her demand that I not go on — what did it mean? Then, as I asked myself this question, I was able to answer another. I knew what May had told Cadogan: she'd told him about our broken engagement. Yes, I was certain; that had shifted my status with the old man, lending me a legitimacy — as an old friend of the family — that was not far removed from his own. But there seemed, under the circumstances, only one reason why she would have confided this to him: to give him an extra call on my loyalty. After all, he'd been clear enough; to go on would be a betrayal of May.
Should I?
For me, this was a very real question, and I spent much of that day, and another sleepless night, thinking about it. In fact, I did not want to betray her; more importantly, I did not want to put her in danger. But the more I thought about what had happened, the queasier I felt. Her flight to France, in the final analysis, didn't seem natural and certain old questions would not go away. In Halifax, I'd wondered for the first time how much she'd actually known, how much of the truth she had told me; and, try as I might, her forgetfulness about Bright-man's Jaguar still seemed peculiar. Then there was the money — and though I was probably being a little self-righteous, I still felt offended. It looked like a bribe.
But — of course — this argument had another side as well. She'd run off, but so what? It was her way of handling grief. And her grief, after all, would have a peculiar cast simply because it was the confirmation of her own worst fears: those fears would now seem a self-fulfilling prophecy, making her responsible for her father's death. Insane, but people are like that___Then there were my own motives to consider. If I truly mistrusted her, perhaps the reasons were to be found in myself and the old wounds my ego had suffered. She'd betrayed me, after alclass="underline" perhaps my psyche was now taking belated revenge. And this explanation seemed distressingly reasonable because the alternatives, when you thought about them — and I spent a lot of time thinking, that afternoon, in the Hay-Adams bar — bordered on the ludicrous. If I was going to suspect her, what could I suspect her of? Did I really imagine that she'd been involved, malevolently, in her father's disappearance and death? The idea was crazy.