Death Of A Hollow Man (24 page)

“Make it latish. The rounds will be over then, and we can tell you how he’s been and where he’s going.”

“Won’t he stay here then?”

“No. This is just emergency admissions.”

“I see … well … good night then,” said Deidre to some orange folds of fabric. “And thank you.”

After a final look at her father, who already seemed to be part of another world, Deidre drifted back to the reception area. A young man was in the middle of a conversation, phone clamped to his ear supported by his shoulder. He said “Just a sec” to Deidre and went on talking. “Don’t talk to me about Miss Never on Sunday,” he said. “I saw her in the Boltons last night and she spent every other second in the john.” He listened for a moment, sucking his cheeks. “If promises were piecrusts, dear, she’d be in crumbs up to her armpits.” He was very dark. Deidre wondered if he could possibly be Italian. After he had hung up, she explained that she was now ready to go home.

“No can do, I’m afraid. Transport’s for emergencies only.”

“B … b … but …” Deidre stammered in her distress. “I live miles away.”

“That’s as may be, love. What would we do if there was a pileup on the motorway and you were out joyriding in the ambulance?”

“You’ve got more than one, surely …”

“Sorry. Those are the rules.”

Deidre stared blankly at him. In the close, hot air of the vestibule, her still-damp clothes started to steam. She was swaying from exhaustion. Now that her father was being safely cared for, all her emotions—fear, love, terror, despair-tumbled away. She was benumbed almost to the point of nonexistence.

“The buses start up at seven … you could have a little shut-eye.” He felt sorry for her, no doubt about that. She looked really zonked out. “If it was up to me, dear …” He always said that, it made them feel better. Made him feel better, too, come to that. “Or I could call you a taxi.”

“A taxi.” It wasn’t a question. She just repeated it like a child learning a lesson. Deidre struggled to think. The machinery of memory, like all her other psychological and physiological functions, seemed to have ground to a halt. A taxi meant money. She put her hands carefully into each of her pockets. She had no money. With great effort she forced herself to print a memory on the blank screen of her mind. She saw herself running from the Latimer. She was wearing her coat, and her hands were empty. That meant her bag must still be at the theater. So (her brows fretted with the effort of working out the next step) if she took a cab there, the driver could wait while she picked up her bag, then she could pay him and he could drive her home. Deidre, her face gray with exhaustion, labored over the details of this simple plan but could find no flaw.

“Yes,” she said. “A taxi.”

“Be double time,” said reception, cheerfully dialing. “After twelve, you see.”

Deidre declined the offer to relax on a settee while she was waiting, feeling that once she sat down, she would simply keel over and never get up. As it was, she could not understand how her legs supported her body. They felt as if they were made of broken pieces of china insecurely glued together. The car came almost immediately. The driver, a middle-aged man, regarded Deidre with some alarm.

And indeed she was an alarming sight. Her face was deathly pale, her eyes—dull and staring—were black-ringed. Her damp clothes showed patches of mud, and somewhere during the course of the evening she had lost a shoe. She was also (the cabbie could not help noticing) minus a handbag. This fact, combined with her bizarre appearance—he had already decided she was some sort of hippie—gave rise to the quite natural apprehension that his fare might not be forthcoming. Once reassured on this point, he offered his arm, which she did not ignore as much as not seem to see, and they left the building together.

“Animals is extra,” he said when they reached the car.

“What?”

“He is yours, ain’t he?” The man nodded at a small dog who had been patiently waiting outside the main doors and was now trotting alongside.

“Oh …” Deidre hesitated, looking down at the creature. The gargantuan task of trying to explain her lack of comprehension as to his background, ownership, and reason for being there was quite beyond her. “Yes.”

The roads were almost deserted, and they covered the twelve miles to Causton in under twenty minutes. It was not until they drew up outside the Latimer that the large snag in Deidre’s plan became apparent. There was no sign of life. The building was dark, the policeman outside had gone. Deidre stood on the pavement, having realized that not only were her house keys in her bag, so also were her keys to the Latimer.

The cabbie, all his suspicions reawakened, tooted his horn. Deidre moved toward the theater noticing as she did so a tall, gangling scarecrow of a figure with wild spiraling hair suddenly reflected in the glass. She pushed on one of the doors. It didn’t move. She leaned on it then with both hands, more for support than anything else, and felt it shift slightly. Then she pushed with all her might. It was like trying to roll a giant boulder up a hill. Deidre stepped into the darkened foyer. Surely, she thought, there must be someone still here, or why would the door be unlocked? Perhaps, with all the hubbub (light years ago, it now seemed), they’d just been forgotten. At least she would be able to get her bag. She regarded the dim outline of the steps leading, like a cliff face, to the auditorium, and the immense reaches of carpet to be covered before she could start to climb.

She took the first step. And tottered two more. Then light flooded the foyer as the auditorium doors swung open and two figures emerged. Dazzled, Deidre saw the still-moving doors fly slowly up into the air. The steps followed. Then she felt the sudden hard thud of the floor against the back of her head.

The Barnabys were at breakfast. Cully was enjoying some fresh pineapple and Greek yogurt. Barnaby was squaring up to the wobbly challenge of a half-cooked egg, and Joyce was putting two sprigs of
virbumum bodnantense
in a glass vase on a tray.

She was feeling very tired, but much calmer than she had expected. She was still living with the moment when Esslyn turned and, with the thin red weeping line across his throat, had put his hands on her shoulders and stared disbelievingly into her eyes. But she had talked about it over and over again to Cully, which had helped, and then, when he had finally come home at two o’clock bringing Deidre, to Tom. But as for offering any constructive ideas as to the reason for that terrible death, or on how or when the tape could have been removed, Joyce was as uninformative as the rest of the company. She felt keenly frustrated that this should be so. This was the first time in their long and happy marriage that she had been directly involved in one of her husband’s cases and in a position where, it might be supposed, she could be of some help. But waiting in the scene dock, intensely aware of her companions, when she had brought each of their names individually to the forefront of her mind and tried to imagine that it belonged to a murderer, all she experienced were mounting feelings of incredulity. She could not believe that even the hateful oily Everards could have set in motion such a formidably final train of events.

Tom had been neither surprised nor disappointed at her response. He knew how much she had to do during the course of the play and how little time was spent standing around and had had no expectations in that direction. What he hoped for was that, in casting her mind back over the weeks of rehearsal and clubroom conversation as he suggested, Joyce might remember a remark, an expression, a reaction that, put into the later context of Esslyn’s demise, might prove to be significant. Now, tuning in once more to the early morning conversation (still about
Amadeus),
she heard Cully say that at least Harold couldn’t complain on his first night about lack of verismo. Unbowed under her father’s criticism that such a remark showed a certain lack of sensitivity, she then asked if he thought the culprit was the merry widow in cahoots.

“Possibly.”

“I bet it is. Like in all those
films noirs. The Milkman Always Comes Twice. ”

“Don’t be rude, Cully.”

“Alternatively,” said Barnaby, shaking out a tablet, “it seems to be even-stevens on Diedre.”

“Poor Diedre,” Joyce said automatically. Then she tutted at her husband’s pill-taking, which she insisted on regarding as an amusing affectation.

“You ought to stop saying that. Everybody ought.”

“What do you mean, dear?” asked her mother.

“This persistent attitude toward her as an object of pathos.”

“It’s understandable,” argued Joyce. “She’s had a very sad life. You’ve had all the advantages. You should be kinder.”

“Since when does having all the advantages make you kind? You and Dad are sorry for her. That’s awful—so patronizing. Pitying people isn’t a kindness. It makes them supine. And those who seek it don’t deserve respect.” Barnaby looked at his bright, beautiful, clever daughter as she continued, “Last time I was home, Mum was going on about her losing some weight and getting contact lenses. I mean, it’s so sentimental. The Cinderella bit. Deidre’s quite interesting and intelligent enough as she is. I should think she could wipe the floor with the lot of them at the Latimer given half a chance. She’s got a grasp of stage management that would put Cardinal Wolsey to shame.” She added, as her mother took down a jar of instant coffee, “Don’t give her that, for godsake. It’s going to be hard enough waking up this morning as it is. Use one of my filters.”

Joyce took one of the Marks and Spencer individual coffee filters out of its box and set it on a cup. Cully always brought what she called protective rations home with her. One of the reasons her father looked forward to her visits so much. Now, she said, “Could I have the vegetable lasagne tonight? It’s in the freezer.”

“I’m doing a
bouillabaisse. ”

“Oh, Ma—don’t be silly.”

“It’s all in here.” Joyce indicated a book lying open near the breadboard. “Very plainly explained. I’m sure I shall cope perfectly.”

Cully finished her pineapple, crossed to her mother, and picked up the book.
“Floyd on Fish?
It’s not like you to be seduced by the telly.”

“Oh, I didn’t buy it. Harold gave it to me.”
“Harold?”
said her husband. “Harold wouldn’t give you the fluff from his navel.”

“He didn’t buy it, either. It turned up at the theater anonymously.
Toast
…”

Cully snatched the bread from the jaws of the toaster in the nick of time, saying, “What a peculiar thing to give to a place that doesn’t sell food.”

“I don’t think it was for the theater. It was addressed to him personally.”

“When did it arrive?” asked Barnaby.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Joyce put some butter in a saucer. “A few days ago.” The coffee drip-dripped through the fine-meshed gauze, its fragrance mingling with the scent of the
Viburnum.

“Let’s have a look.” Cully brought the book over, hissing “Burn it” in her father’s ear as she put it close to the egg, which had now congealed almost to the stage where he might just feel able to put a little in his mouth. He opened the book. There was no inscription.

“Did it come through the post?”

“No. Pushed through the letter box. So Diedre said.”

“Fancy.” Barnaby slipped the book in his pocket. “Tom! What about the
bouillabaisse?”

“A delight I fear we shall all have to postpone, my love.” Barnaby got up. “I’m off.”

As he left, he heard his daughter say, “Have you got the phone number of that boy who played Mozart?” and Joyce reply, “Open the door, Cully.”

Joyce bore the tray upstairs, put it down outside the spare room, and knocked gently.

Deidre had slept and slept. Even now, hours after she had been helped to bed after drinking a hot rum and lemon toddy, she was barely conscious. Sometimes she heard a voice, but very distantly, and occasionally chinking and chiming sounds that seemed to be part of a dream. She resisted wakefulness, already faintly aware that it was pregnant with such dismay that reaching it would make her long for oblivion again.

Joyce opened the door and crept in. She had already looked in twice, and found the girl so deeply asleep she had not had the heart to disturb her.

When Tom had brought Deidre home, she had been in a terrible state. Soaking wet and covered in mud, her face scratched and tearstained. Joyce had taken her temperature, and between them they had decided that she was simply distressed and exhausted and that there was no need to call out a doctor. Tom, when paying off the taxi, had discovered the starting point of Deidre’s journey, and Joyce had already rung the hospital before breakfast, hoping to have some cheerful news with which to wake the girl. But they had been very cagey (always a bad sign) and, when she admitted she was not a close relative, simply said he was as well as could be expected.

Now, she crossed to the side of the bed and watched consciousness wipe the look of sleepy confusion from Deidre’s face. Once awake, Deidre sat up immediately and cried, “I must go to the hospital!”

‘‘I’ve rung them. And the gas office. I just said you were a bit off color and wouldn’t be coming in for a couple of days.”

“What did they say? The hospital?”

“He’s doing … reasonably well. You can ring as soon as you’ve had breakfast. It’s nothing too complicated.” Joyce laid the tray across Deidre’s knees. “Just a little bit of toast and some coffee. Oh—and you’re not to worry about your dog. He’s being looked after at the station.”

“Joyce … you’re so kind … you and Tom. I don’t know what I would have done last night … if … if—”

“There, there.” Joyce took Deidre’s hand, thought the hell with being patronizing, and gave her a hug. “We were very glad to have the chance to take care of you.”

“What lovely flowers … everything’s so nice.” Deidre lifted her cup. “And delicious coffee.”

“You’ve Cully to thank for that. She didn’t think the instant was good enough. The nightie, too.”

“Oh.” Deidre’s face darkened. She looked down at her voluminous scarlet flannelly arms. She had forgotten Cully was home. She had known the Barnabys’ daughter since the child was nine years old, and was well aware of Cully’s opinion of the CADS, having heard it thoroughly bruited during her early teens. Now she was acting at Cambridge, no doubt she would be even more scathing. “I don’t think I can manage any toast.”