That tag end of rope is part of the executioner's rope which hanged Dr Thomas Neill Cream, the Lambeth poisoner, in November 1892. The stained linen nightdress with the broderie anglaise frills was worn by Constance Kent. It's not the nightdress she had on when she slit the throat of her small stepbrother but it has a certain interest all the same. That pair of handcuffs with the key were used on young Courvoisier who murdered his master, Lord William Russell, in 1840. The spectacles are a pair which belonged to Dr Crippen. As he was hanged in November 1910 he's really nine years out of my period but I couldn't resist them.'
Ivo asked:
'And the marble of a baby's arm?'
'That hasn't any criminal interest as far as I know. It should be in Memento Mori or in the other cabinet but I hadn't time to rearrange the exhibits. But it doesn't look out of place among the props of murder. The man who sold it to me would approve. He told me that he kept imagining that the limb was oozing blood.'
Clarissa hadn't spoken and, glancing at her, Cordelia saw that her eyes were fixed on the marble with a mixture of fear and revulsion which none of the other exhibits had evoked. The arm, a chubby replica in white marble, lay on a purple cushion bound with cord. Cordelia herself thought it an unpleasant object, sentimental and morbid, useless and undecorative, and to that extent not untypical of the minor art of its age. Clarissa said:
'But it's perfectly hateful! It's disgusting! Where on earth did you pick it up, Ambrose?'
'In London. A man I know. It may be the only extant copy of one of the limbs of the royal children made for Queen Victoria at Osborne House, said to be by Mary Thornycroft. This one could be poor Pussy, the Princess Royal. It's either that or a memorial piece. And if you dislike it, Clarissa, you should see the Osborne collection. They look like the remnants of a holocaust, as if the Prince Consort had descended on the royal nursery with a machete, as he may well have been tempted to do, poor man.'
Clarissa said:
'It's repulsive! What on earth possessed you, Ambrose? Get rid ofit.'
'Certainly not. It may be unique. I regard it as an interesting addition to my minor Victoriana.' Roma said:
'I've seen the Osborne pieces. I find them repulsive too. But they throw an interesting light on the Victorian mind, the Queen's in particular.'
'Well, this throws an interesting light on Ambrose's mind.' Ivo said quietly:
'As a piece of marble, it's rather well done. It's the association you find unpleasant, perhaps. The death or mutilation of a child is always distressing, don't you think, Clarissa?'
But Clarissa appeared not to have heard. She turned away and said:
'For God's sake don't start arguing about it. Just get rid of it, Ambrose. And now I need a drink and my lunch.'
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Half a mile from the shore Simon Lessing stopped his slow and regular crawl stroke, turned on his back and let his eyes rest on the horizon. The sea was empty. Faced with that shuddering waste of water, it was possible to imagine that there was emptiness also behind him, that the island and its castle had gently subsided under the waves, silently and without turbulence, and that he floated alone in a blue infinity of sea. This self-induced sense of isolation excited but didn't frighten him. Nothing about the sea ever did. Here was the element in which he felt most at peace; guilt, anxiety, failure washed away in a gentle and perpetual baptism of redemption.
He was glad that Clarissa hadn't wanted him tagging along behind her on the tour of the castle. There were rooms he would be interested to see, but there would be time enough to explore on his own. And it would give him another excuse to keep out of her way. He couldn't swim more than twice a day at most without it seeming odd and deliberately unsociable but it would seem perfectly natural to ask if he might wander off to explore the castle. Perhaps the weekend might not be so terrifying after all.
He had only to thrust himself upright to feel the bite of the cold undercurrent. But now he floated, spread-eagled under the sun, feeling the sea creeping over his chest and arms as softly warm as a bath. From time to time he let his face submerge, opening his eyes on the thin film of green, letting it wash lightly over his eyeballs. And deep down there was the knowledge, unfrightening and almost comforting, that he only had to let himself go, to give himself up to the power and gentleness of the sea and there need never again be guilt or anxiety or failure. He knew that he wouldn't do it; the thought was a small self-indulgence which, like a drug, could be safely experimented with as long as the doses were small and one stayed in control. And he was in control. In a few minutes it would be time to turn and strike for the shore, to think about luncheon and Clarissa and getting through the next two days without embarrassment or disaster. But now there was this peace, this emptiness, this wholeness.
It was only at moments like this that he could think without pain of his father. This was how he must have died, swimming alone in the Aegean on that summer morning, finding the tide too strong for him, letting himself go at last without a struggle, without fear, giving himself up to the sea he loved, embracing its majesty and its peace. He had imagined that death so often on his solitary swims that the old nightmares were almost exorcized.
He no longer awoke in the darkness of the early hours as he had in those first months after he had learned his father's death, sweating with terror, desperately tearing at the blankets as they dragged him down, living every second of those last dreadful minutes, the stinging eyes, the agony as he glimpsed through the waves the lost, receding, unattainable shore. But it hadn't been like that. It couldn't have been like that. His father had died secure in his great love, unresisting and at peace.
It was time to turn back. He twisted under the water and began again his steady powerful crawl. And now his feet found the shingle and he pulled himself ashore, colder and more tired than he had expected. Looking up, he saw with surprise that there was someone waiting for him, a dark-clad, still figure standing like a guardian beside his pile of clothes. He shook the water from his eyes and saw it was Tolly.
He came up to her. At first she didn't speak but bent and picked up his towel and handed it to him. Panting and shivering he began patting dry his arms and neck, embarrassed by her steady gaze, wondering why she was there. Then she said:
'Why don't you leave?'
She must have seen his incomprehension. She said again:
'Why don't you leave, leave this place, leave her?' Her voice, as always, was low but harsh, almost expressionless. He stared at her, wild-eyed under the dripping hair.
'Leave Clarissa! Why should I? What do you mean?'
'She doesn't want you. Haven't you noticed that? You aren't happy. Why go on pretending?'
He cried out in protest.
'But I am happy! And where can I go? My aunt wouldn't want me back. I haven't any money.' She said:
'There's a spare room in my flat. You could have that for a start. It isn't much, a child's room. But you could stay there until you found something better.'
A child's room. He remembered hearing that she had once had a child, a girl who had died. No one ever spoke about her now. He didn't want to think about her. He had thought enough about dying and death. He said:
'But how could I find somewhere? What would I live on?'
'You're seventeen, aren't you? You're not a child. You've got five O-levels. You could find something to do. I was working at fifteen. Most children in the world start younger.'
'But doing what? I'm going to be a pianist. I need Clarissa's money.'
'Ah yes,' she said, 'you need Clarissa's money.'