Sextet (56 page)

‘Much of what I said was true as it happens.’ A spasm of pain passed across Court’s face. ‘Colin, you’re not thinking clearly. I told her what I knew she wanted to hear. What else was I supposed to do?’ His voice had begun to break; Colin saw that he too was now beginning to tremble, that his face was drained of colour, and that the love he felt for his son was naked in his face. ‘Colin. I’m grateful to you for what you did, you’re a good man, but—just give me my son, Colin…’

Colin looked down at the boy, now curled in his arms in a foetal position. He kissed his hair, then lifted him into his father’s arms. Court clasped the boy tight against his heart, and began to say his name over and over again, in a low voice. Colin saw the boy slowly begin to move. He made a small mewing sound, and scrabbled at his father’s jacket, then stole his arms about his neck.

Colin’s vision blurred. He found he was blinded by tears, and by the force of his own emotions. He rejoiced that the boy was safe, but his rejoicings were shot through with fear and with doubt. He thought: I heard the knife
fall
; I heard it fall
before
he touched her. The knife fell and
then
there was that embrace.

The knife was lying on the floor, he realized; it lay several feet away from the bannisters, and its position told him nothing. He stared at it, and as he stared, the sequence of events, so clear to him only seconds before, began to shift. He found he was not certain of sequence, of cause and effect. Had the knife really been dropped
before
the embrace? And why did he think of it as an embrace anyway? It might, as Court claimed, have been a struggle of some kind, a contest for the weapon. He stared at the area of the landing where these glimpsed events had occurred. He found they were now receding from him fast; they were as fragmentary as the details of a dream, forgotten on waking. The harder he struggled to recall them, the ghostlier and more insubstantial they became. They were impressions only, and Tomas Court was correct: a muddle of impressions should not be imparted to the police.

He swung around to Court, suddenly wanting to ask him again why he had put his arms around the woman and what that embrace
meant
. Court was now huddled against the far wall, stroking his son’s hair and speaking to him in a low, soothing voice. He did not look like a murderer; an embrace could mean so many things, Colin thought.

He turned away; he was beginning to see why this one question so preoccupied him. He was still almost sure that he had seen Court embrace the woman, and he was absolutely sure that he had seen his friend Rowland with his arms around Lindsay in a bedroom doorway—and now, with his whole heart, he wished to believe that both embraces were innocent. Concentrate, concentrate, he thought. He looked at his watch and found an impossibly short length of time had passed since he had slammed the door of Emily’s apartment. He looked up at the dome, then down at the floor. Neither were securely themselves. I understand
nothing
. I am certain of
nothing
, he thought.

He moved towards the bannisters, gripping them tightly, and looked down. The air came rushing up at him. He began to understand that, for some time now, the Conrad building had been stirring, and coming back to life.

He could sense its pulse now, and its intakes of breath. He found he could see a shape on the floor below, arms flung out, and a stain spreading. A man he knew was bending over that shape, and he could see people, emerging, merging, and milling back and forth. He could see a woman in a red dress, standing to one side at the foot of the stairs; his heart, in whose promptings he retained faith, told him this was the woman he loved and wished to make his wife.

He watched the man bending over the body rise to his feet with a shake of his head; he watched this woman he loved turn away and cover her face with her hands.

This is happening and it is not happening, Colin thought, as he watched Rowland gently put his arms around Lindsay, and hold her against him for the second time that night.

A
T FOUR THE FOLLOWING
morning, Colin and Lindsay were finally able to leave the Conrad. They stepped out of the building into a hushed, near-silent Manhattan. The snow on the sidewalks was unbroken; there was a serene high moon, and each limb of the trees in Central Park was frosted silver.

‘Oh, let’s walk, Colin.’ Lindsay took his hand. ‘Let’s walk. How quiet it is…’

‘You won’t be too cold?’

‘No. I need air and silence. And you must need them far more than I do.’

Colin was indeed desperate for both. He took her arm in his; they crossed to the far side of the avenue, and began to walk south. Colin listened to the crunch of their footsteps; he glanced back at the trail they left in the fresh snow. Snow was continuing to fall, gently, as they walked, and it was already beginning to fur and obliterate the marks of their feet. Much preoccupied with death that evening, Colin thought of death as he walked. He and Lindsay were the same age—how many years or decades had they left? It was so important that they should waste none of this future time, he thought. He hoped they would be granted many years, but for all either of them knew, the time allotted might be short.

He could hear the wheels of Time’s winged chariot very clearly tonight, but he heard them, he found, without fear. They concentrated the mind wonderfully; he drew Lindsay’s small cold hand into the warmth of his overcoat pocket and clasped it tightly. He wondered if Lindsay could sense his thoughts, if she felt something similar. Looking at her quiet face, he felt that she might.

As they walked, the unusual quietness of the city began to calm him; he allowed his mind to consider the events of that long strange night. He thought of his still-unanswered proposal, of a death he had now decided
was
accidental, of the labour of his interviews with the police; the more accurate and factual his replies to their questions had been, the less accurate they felt. He still was not sure of the dead woman’s name, he realized. He had still been trying to piece together her story and her connection to Tomas Court, when he had learned that she had an accomplice, and that this accomplice had been found when, at Tomas Court’s suggestion, the tiny service room off the elevator shaft on the first floor had been searched.

A man—perhaps her brother; the police had seemed as uncertain as Colin—had been found. According to one of Colin’s informants, he had been in a delusional state. According to another, the man, freaking out, had finally been yanked out of the tiny room gibbering about ghosts.

‘So—was
he
Joseph King?’ Colin had asked Tomas Court, as they sat together between police interviews.

‘No.’ Court had given him one of his still, pale looks. ‘No, he was just her medium, if you like. He killed that tourist in Glacier. It was he who attacked me at my loft that time but his sister planned it, I think. Colin, don’t worry about the details; they’re not important, and they don’t concern you. Let it go. Just tell the police what you saw and heard tonight.’

Colin looked around the room where they were waiting. Its light was too bright. There was a clock on the wall which Colin refused to look at. He had a strong sense that he and Court were outside time, outside place. Here, he found, he could ask Court anything, and Court would reply without evasion or deceit.

‘Do you feel free, Tomas?’ Colin had looked at his white, strained face with concern. ‘Do you feel free—now she’s dead?’

‘Free?’ Court considered; the concept of freedom seemed unfamiliar to him. ‘No, not really. I had hoped I might, but I can’t erase the tapes, or forget those letters she wrote. I listened to those tapes once too often.’

‘I heard a bit of them.’ Colin coloured. ‘That night with Thalia, at your loft. They were still playing—and I couldn’t find the switch-off mechanism…’

‘Really? I usually used a remote.’

‘In the end, I couldn’t bear it any more. I just ripped the tape out of the machine. That stopped it.’

‘Did it?’ Court gave a half smile. ‘And do you still remember what was said?’

‘No, not really. I did for a bit, but it’s worn off now. It was just pornography anyway…’

‘
Just
pornography?’

‘All pornography’s the same.’ Colin coloured more deeply. ‘It’s repetitious. I hate things like that.’

‘“The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom—”’

‘What?’

‘William Blake.’ Court gave a sigh. ‘It was one of King’s favourite quotations, that. There were a lot of quotations…’ He turned and gave Colin a still, tired and affectionate glance. ‘What a good decision I made when I hired you, Colin.’

‘I don’t see why.’ Colin sank his head in his hands. ‘I’ve been a fucking disaster as far as I can see. I couldn’t find you the right Wildfell Hall. I spent weeks sitting around saying “but”. And tonight, I tried reasoning with a mad woman. I kept saying “please” and “don’t do that”. It was the most fucking pathetic thing I’ve ever heard in my life.’

‘I wouldn’t agree.’ Court frowned. ‘I could hear what you were saying as I came up the stairs. I knew it wouldn’t work, but that wasn’t the point. To the pure in heart, all things are pure—and besides, I think it had some effect. After all, she didn’t stab Jonathan; she didn’t jump; so maybe she did listen to you after all…’ His pale eyes rested on the wall opposite. He sighed. ‘You used the word “wicked”. It’s years since I’ve heard anyone use that word in its proper sense. Ah well.’ He touched Colin’s arm briefly. ‘You’re a very good location manager, Colin. Let’s leave it at that.’

Court had said nothing more. Colin had completed his police interviews, but had not seen Court again that night. In a state of glassy and unnatural calm, he had returned to Emily’s apartment. There, he found Lindsay and Rowland waiting for him. Nic Hicks, to his relief, had already left; Henry Foxe had returned to his own apartment, it seemed, once he was sure that Emily’s collapse in her hallway was not, as had been feared, a heart attack.

Emily, Frobisher informed him, had been put to bed and was now asleep. Her three ancient indistinguishable friends, meanwhile, were preparing to depart. They had wanted to wait, it seemed, until Colin came back. Why they should have wished to do this, Colin could not conceive, since they seemed remarkably unconcerned as to that night’s events. The eldest and frailest of the three was virtually blind, Colin realized, as she kissed him goodnight; all three lingered, and all three were
still
twittering on about the elevator.

‘The override switch! Such a
useful
device!’ the eldest cried, fiddling with her gloves. ‘Do remember it on another occasion, Frobisher dear. My sisters and I were shown how to use it by our father—a little trick he taught us when we were girls. All you need is a very
small
implement, dear; nail scissors will suffice. You open up the control panel, flick the override, and up you go!
Most
useful tonight, for dear Henry’s party. Ten flights of stairs, which we could
never
have toiled up. Dangerous in the wrong hands, of course…’ She paused. ‘Do
you
know anything about hydraulics systems, Mr McGuire?’

Rowland, silent and abstracted, started. ‘No, no—I’m afraid I don’t.’

‘Ah well. Goodnight Mr McGuire. Lindsay, Colin With which, they wrapped themselves in their ancient moleskins and glided out. And Colin, finding himself alone with Lindsay and Rowland, had discovered that he knew what he had to do next.

‘Rowland, could I have a word with you alone?’ he said.

Lindsay at once rose, consternation on her face. She had been about to protest, Colin feared—but perhaps his determination communicated itself to her. She glanced from one man to the other, then, saying she would fetch her coat, quietly left.

The door closed behind her. As if from a great distance, Colin considered his friend. Rowland had risen, and his discomfiture was evident. Colin saw he was finding it difficult to meet his gaze, and this puzzled him for a second. He was not angry with Rowland, he realized. He did not feel angry, or jealous, or confused, or betrayed. He simply felt calm—and armed. Excalibur was in his hands, he thought.

‘I have to say this, Rowland, and I have to say it now,’ he began, in a quiet voice. ‘There’s been enough confusion and uncertainty tonight—’

‘I wouldn’t argue with that.’

‘I didn’t realize until just before I saw you together in that doorway.’ Colin sighed. ‘That must seem stupid to you—but it wasn’t stupidity. It wasn’t even that I trusted you, so it never occurred to me you might lie. It was just that I was so happy, I couldn’t see beyond the happiness—I think it was that.’

‘Colin, I regret this more than I can say. I want to explain—I’m entirely at fault here…’

‘Rowland, you’re my friend.’ He paused. ‘I know you won’t have done this lightly.’

‘No, I did not.’

‘You had three years, Rowland. You’ve known Lindsay three years. You could have acted at any point in those three years—and you didn’t. Tell me why not. Was it her age?’

‘Partly.’ Rowland looked away. ‘Also—’

‘Tell me.’

‘Colin, I wasn’t in love with her. I looked on her as a companion, a colleague, a friend. I came to love her—and that process, well, it had never happened to me before. I wasn’t sure it was enough. I was very afraid of making a mistake and hurting her. I wasn’t sure of her feelings either. Colin, I’m sorry. I can’t discuss this.’

‘So when did it change? In Oxford—that lunch?’

‘No, before. When she spoke to you on the telephone in Yorkshire; maybe before that. I thought of her, when I was away in Scotland. Colin; I don’t
know
…’

‘You wouldn’t make her happy, Rowland.’ Colin gave him an anxious look. ‘I think you’d end up making her very unhappy. If I thought you’d make her happy, and go on doing so, I’d walk away from this myself—I promise you that. I’d remove myself from the scene with as much grace as I could muster and I’d go off and lick my wounds in private. I’d hate you for a bit, obviously, but that would wear off.’ He paused, his blue eyes resting on Rowland’s troubled face. ‘But I would do it, Rowland. You see, I love her very much.’