“Because the expression of some of the features conflicts with that of the others.”
“Yes, that’s right enough. It’s the face of a child who’s had a shock. Anyhow, she has the oddest effect on me. I don’t care tuppence about things which used to plunge me into suicidal gloom. I’ll give you some examples.”
He picked up the cigarette, lit it, then went on:
“D’you remember I told you that I was going to live with a girl called Jess? Well, I’ve just had a note from her saying she’s gone off with an American airman. I’ve no doubt it’s only a reconnaissance flight—she’ll probably return to base—but the point is that I don’t care tuppence whether she does or not.”
He evidently expected me to say something, so I asked:
“Hadn’t Jess a friend—a girl called Frieda? Perhaps she’d give you a room.”
“I dare say she would. But don’t forget that Frieda is mad-keen on an Italian prisoner of war called Purgatorio. Misnamed, in my opinion, because he sounds hell to me. But she’s crazy about him. Always talking about her urges! Very tiresome. Besides, she isn’t a woman—she’s a secret weapon. If you say one word against Fascism, up she goes into the stratosphere—like a V 2.”
“So you don’t think you could stand her?”
“I do not. Always praising Mussolini and Hitler. I really do not think I could face washing-up every night with the Axis.”
Pause.
“I’m free, Max, for the first time in my life. And the proof is that I’ve had things out with my mother. I told you she’s always writing me letters, asking why I’m not chasing the Huns, sword in hand. I had another this morning which started: Are you my son? That’s what I keep asking myself. Pretty odd question, in view of her pre-natal evidence. Anyhow, I’ve just written telling her that I was invalided out of the army—and that I shall ignore all future letters till she writes reasonable ones. So I’ve cut the umbilical cord—at last!”
Another pause.
“Look here, Max, what was the real reason why you did not mention Carol that day at the club?”
“It was impossible for me to discuss it. That’s why.”
“Well, in a way, I can understand that. After all, her death must mean much more to you than it means to any one else. I’d go mad if I were in your shoes.”
Almost immediately, he went on:
“Antony will be back in a minute and then I’ll have to go. I’ve got to find somewhere to sleep and that may not be easy. It’s the devil of a night. What with the dim-out, the frost, and the fog, it looks like a photograph of the future. Still, no good getting depressed. Peace is coming—so we must steel ourselves for sterner ordeals. But tell me this: Can I see you soon?”
“Whenever you like, but I’m poor company.”
“Rubbish! You’re a genius. You’ve no idea how my stock goes up when people discover that I know you. And now I’m going to tell you something—something important.”
He rose, then said with measured emphasis:
“I’m going to find out who murdered Carol.”
“You are?”
“Yes. And you’re going to help me.”
Before I could say anything, Antony came into the room.
When Mervyn had got into his overcoat, with some difficulty, he announced:
“I’m off. Got to find a bed. I may get one at Monty Green’s.” Then, turning to Antony, he asked: “You know Monty Green?”
Antony did not know him.
“Oh surely! Strangely enough, he married Gwen Bullock. You remember Gwen. Big—beefy—bursting with team-spirit. Whenever you see her, you think of hockey. You must know Monty Green! Vegetarian—conscientious objector—Jehovah’s Witness. Lives in a bombed basement in Chelsea.”
He adjusted his scarf.
“I suppose you’re not coming, Max? If you are, we’ll have a drink together.”
Before I could reply, Antony said:
“Max is staying here.”
“Right! I’m off. Don’t bother to see me out.”
After the front door had banged behind him, I got up and said:
“I ought to go too. I’ll have to get some food and I’d better have an early night, as I’m going to Hove to-morrow.”
“You’re sleeping here.”
“But——”
“You’re sleeping here. I’ll make up a bed on the sofa, then you’ll have the fire for company.”
“But you haven’t any food.”
“There’s enough. You’re to turn in early, so we mustn’t talk. If you try to, I shall read to you. I know you like being read to.”
I tried to say something, but he went on:
“No good arguing. That’s how it’s going to be. I’ll get the blankets.”
I should not have to grope through dark frost-bound streets, first to the club, then to the flat. I should sleep here in the firelight. I should escape from the spectres which thronged solitude. For a few hours, I was reprieved.
I sank deeper into the arm-chair, then closed my eyes.
Everything was strangely still. As the moments passed, my impressions became confused. It was not Antony in the next room. It was Hilda. I was a child again. A child, gazing into the nursery fire—haunted by the Empty House—dreaming of Fredrika.
Chapter Three
MRS. NORTON
The train raced through a landscape rigid with frost. Streams were frozen; icicles hung from eaves; even the air seemed solid. Everything was sealed with winter’s crest. Only the train shot endlessly on through a static world.
It is an odd fact that the more catastrophic circumstances become, the more unreal they seem. Often, during the worst London raids, I had the extraordinary delusion that this delirium existed only for me—that, any minute, I should wake to find myself in a normal world. But everything which had happened since my “dream” seemed a continuation of it. The talk with Mervyn at the club—the Scotland Yard interview—the hours I spent with Antony—all had the same somnambulistic quality. On each of these occasions, I had watched myself—and I was watching myself now, as I sat in a corner seat of an empty carriage, while the train raced towards Brighton. And I had no doubt whatever that I should watch myself during my meeting with Mrs. Norton.
Till yesterday, I knew nothing of Carol’s circumstances, consequently I did not know whether she had any relatives and I certainly did not care. Nothing extraordinary about that, as my chief desire was to break with her and so become free from the fantasies she created. It is terrible suddenly to have your imagination obsessed by one torturing image—to find yourself held in the octopus-grip of habit. What should I know of the real Carol? The woman I visited in Mitre Street was no more—and no less—than an astral shape in a drug addict’s dream. A shape—wholly unreal to sanity: wholly real to madness.
But I assure you, the murdered Carol was very different. She was not a shape. She was a woman. An unknown woman. (Many a murderer, staring at his victim, realises that he has killed a stranger.)
Day and night, the dead Carol haunts me. There is no escape. Always, everywhere, I am alone with her. In the street, at the club, with others, awake or dreaming—I am alone with her.
All physical memories of Carol, except two, have vanished. The first is my vision of her, standing by the screen in Hartley Harrington’s studio, when I knew that here was a model for a nude. Never had a subject “shown itself” so uniquely. The second is the vision of her in my “dream,” when I stood at the foot of the bed, looking at her without desire—surprised by the beauty of the chestnut hair—amazed by the discovery that it was this child who, again and again, had fired sexual imagination. These memories haunted me and I felt they were connected, although I could find no link between them.