Gone to Ground (9 page)

They made small talk until their coffees arrived, and then Lesley plunged in, unable to contain herself any longer. "You saw Stephen, didn't you? After ... the body, I mean ... the other day..."

"Yes."

"The police officer..."

"Irving."

"Yes, him. He'd warned me, of course. Warned all three of us, mum and dad and I. But we never ... I never..." Lesley stopped and gulped down air. "I just wasn't prepared."

"No."

"If I hadn't known him. He was unrecognizable. At first."

"I know."

"His poor face ... Whoever did that to him..."

"They're sick," McKusick said. "Whoever it was. I know it's a cliché, but it's true. It must be. Sick. Truly sick."

Lesley turned her own face away. "Do you think it had anything to do with the fact he was gay?"

McKusick sighed. "Maybe."

"That seems to be what the police are thinking."

McKusick nodded. "When they're not thinking it was me."

Lesley shook her head in disbelief.

"You know, spurned lover, hell hath no fury, that sort of thing."

"Mark, that's ridiculous."

"A little obvious, maybe. Convenient, though. For them, I mean. Not for me." He tried for a smile that wasn't quite there.

Lesley was making patterns in the foam on top of her coffee with a spoon. "What the police were suggesting to me, one possibility, is that Stephen went out and picked up the wrong man."

"I know."

"How likely is it, though? I mean, you knew Stephen far better than me. That aspect of his life, at least. I just don't know if Stephen ... if that was the kind of thing he'd do. Meet someone casually and then invite them back."

McKusick lingered a little over his coffee. "It's hard to say. The whole gay scene, he hated it really—I can't see him going actively looking—but if he met someone he fancied, then yes, I suppose so. Why not? He was single, after all."

"But surely there's a risk."

"There's always a risk. Gay or straight, there's always risk."

Lesley nodded, knowing it to be the truth. "Had you seen Stephen?" she asked. "Recently, I mean."

"Not since we broke up."

"I'm sorry."

"Actually, that's not quite true. I did see him. Just the once. I was crossing Trinity Street, on my way to Heffers, and there was Stephen, some tome or other under his arm."

"And he didn't see you?"

"No."

"How did he seem?"

"Oh, you know Stephen. A little bit absent. Preoccupied."

"With his teaching, you mean?"

"That and the book he was working on."

"The Stella Leonard thing?"

"Yes. He was getting quite obsessed by it, it seemed to me."

"I remember him writing to me about it when I was in Wellington. It must have been around the time he was starting his research. It was obviously a big deal to him, but I'd never heard of her, I'm afraid."

"She was in some soap for a while, back in the eighties. Early eighties. I was vaguely aware of her from that, but that's all."

"So why was Stephen so interested in her, do you know?"

McKusick smiled. "He must have told me at length, but you know how it is when someone's carrying on about somebody and you don't have much of a clue who they are. It all tends to go in one ear, out the other."

"I'd like to read what he'd written so far."

"As far as I know the police have got all his papers. Boxed them up and carted them away. Just about everything. What's going to happen to them eventually, I've no idea. They'll go up to your parents, probably. Or to you."

"I'll get in touch with the officer in charge."

"Grayson?"

Lesley nodded.

"You've met him?"

"The other day."

"Not a bad bloke, considering." McKusick surprised her by grinning. "Straight as a poker, sadly."

Lesley laughed. When the waitress appeared and asked if they wanted any more coffee, both declined. Outside, the air seemed, if anything, a little colder, the sky more overcast. Perhaps they were due some more snow.

"You driving back right away?" Lesley asked.

McKusick shook his head. "I thought I'd nose around for a bit while I'm here. Do a little shopping. Take a look at the new Paul Smith shop, maybe. In a Georgian town house or something?"

"Well, enjoy," Lesley said. "Just don't end up having to take out a second mortgage. And Mark..."

"Yes?"

"Keep in touch."

"Of course."

They waited as a tram made its stately way past and on down toward the station, then crossed toward the opposite pavement, said goodbye again, and headed off in opposite directions.

The recital had just finished as Helen arrived, and she had to make her way through quite large numbers of people who were only slowly beginning to move away, others continuing to stand in small groups of three or four, talking about what they'd heard.

Some of the attendants were standing at the edges of the room, collecting donations, while others were starting to stack away the folding chairs. Helen asked where she could find room five, and was directed through a small, squarish space into a rectangular gallery that was largely empty of visitors. To her immediate right, a man stood with his back to her, looking at the paintings on the adjoining walls.

"Mr. Rouse?"

"Jack." He turned smartly, holding out his hand.

He was a light-toned black man, smart in a camel-coloured coat, dark loose-fitting trousers, tan leather shoes. His hand, Helen thought, was as smooth as his voice had been on the phone.

"How was your concert?" Helen asked.

"Oh, you know, pretty good. Some Handel. A piece or two by Lord Fitzwilliam himself. It's good to have an excuse to just sit for the best part of an hour, doing nothing. And I'm always happy for the chance to take another look at these."

There were several paintings in the corner, hung at varying heights: portraits, interiors, still lifes. The canvas immediately in front of Helen showed a woman sitting with her hands clasped in her lap, staring off into space. The heavy blue-gray dress she was wearing was difficult to pick out from the background, which was a not dissimilar muddy blue splotched with gray flowers. Just to the woman's left, a blue-and-white cup stood on a smudge of yellow tablecloth and, behind her, in the opposite corner, a door opened to what looked like the bathroom.

"Marvelous, isn't it?" Rouse said.

Helen was looking at the woman's almost featureless face. Whoever the artist was who had painted this, he couldn't do faces to save his life.

"Look at it long enough, and that woman's life, it's all there. It's like a story. A really good short story. Someone like Alice Munro."

Helen was sorry. She just didn't get it.

Edauard Vuillard. Seated Woman: Cup of Coffee. 1893.

On her feet, the woman seemed to be wearing trainers, but Helen was sure that couldn't be right.

"You wanted to talk about Stephen," Rouse said.

"Yes, if we could."

"Well, you have to understand, until he started here at the university, I'd only met him on a couple of occasions, through mutual friends. But once he was here, we saw a good deal more of one another."

"You were in the same department?"

"No, not at all. Philosophy, that's my thing. But I teach a course on modern aesthetics and that's an area in which Stephen took quite an interest. Generally, though, it was more casual, social. We'd pass the time in the cafeteria, bump into one another in the town, meet at dinner from time to time with friends."

"You liked him?"

"What was not to like? He was bright, outgoing—not like some of those film academics who seem to spend the best part of their time in the dark, the entire contents of their lives in an old carrier bag down between their feet."

"And his partner, Mark? You knew him, too?"

Rouse nodded. "I met him a few times. At Stephen's house, when we had supper there, and maybe one or two other occasions. I wouldn't claim to know him well."

"Well enough to have some impression of them as a couple?"

Rouse smiled. "I'll tell you a story. My maternal grandfather, back in the States, he was in vaudeville. Music hall, I guess you called it over here. He used to do magic tricks. Not very good magic tricks. And juggle." Rouse raised his eyebrows toward the ceiling. "Is it any wonder vaudeville died? Anyway, there he'd be on stage, all decked out in this black cloak, top hat, the whole works. The Great Whatever. He used to change his stage name every few years so as to keep getting bookings. But whatever he was called, there was always Maureen. She was the one standing off to the side of the stage in a little skirt and high heels, handing him things, clapping her hands in amazement whenever he pulled a pigeon out from beneath his cloak. The Great Whosit and Maureen. That's how they were billed. That's how they lived their lives. They were married for almost forty years. And she was always 'and Maureen.' An afterthought. An extra. All that time, she never got to keep four boxes in the air at once, or pull a rabbit out from a hat. And that's what I think they were like, Stephen and Mark. That's who they reminded me of."

"And Mark was Maureen?"

"Absolutely."

"Second fiddle."

"You've got it."

"How do you think he felt about that?"

Rouse fixed Helen with his gaze. "How would you?"

"I wouldn't know." It came out more sharply than she'd intended.

"I think most of the time," Rouse said, "it was fine. For both of them, it was fine. But I couldn't help thinking there were occasions when Stephen wished Mark was more, well, intellectual. That he could contribute to some discussion they were having about hegemonic structures or signs and signifiers or whatever. Instead of sitting there trying not to look bored."

"Stephen looked down on him, is that what you're saying?"

"I suppose it is, in a way."

"And Mark must have been aware of that?"

Rouse lifted his shoulders. "I guess."

"You think it led to any real animosity between them?"

Rouse's eyes widened a little. "You're asking me if Mark might have had reason to kill him?"

"I'm asking you if you thought there was any real animosity between them."

Rouse smiled. "More than the average?"

"More than the average."

Two Japanese tourists were hovering close, intent on examining the paintings in that particular corner, and Rouse motioned toward the opposite end of the gallery. "They only allow themselves forty-seven seconds per painting, it's a shame to stand in their way."

"Stephen and Mark," Helen said, when they'd stopped walking.

"All right," Rouse said, "I'm going to tell you another story."

"As long as the last one?"

"Quite possibly longer. But more to the point."

Helen smiled and waited.

"This was only a few months ago, toward the end of November. Dinner at a friend's house in Waterbeach. Eight of us there would have been, mostly academics of one shade or another. It was a nice enough evening, the food was good, and as usual there was too much wine. Mark, it seemed, was the designated driver out of Stephen and himself, which was okay, except toward the end of the evening, having kept himself to a single glass earlier, he started in on the brandy like there was no tomorrow. Stephen said something to him, nothing too heavy, but Mark just seemed to ignore him.

"Well, they left a little before me, and I didn't know what they were going to do about the driving, whether Stephen was going to drive himself—something I'd hardly ever known him do—or maybe leave the car there and get a lift back with someone else. Anyway, the man whose house it was and I had some business to discuss, which we did for a while, and then, when I left—it must have been half an hour later—I heard all this shouting coming from the end of the drive. And there were Stephen and Mark, standing on either side of Mark's car, airing their dirty linen in public, as you Brits like to say, for all the world to hear."

"All the world being you."

"Exactly. And it was Mark that was doing most of the shouting."

"Can you remember what he said?"

"I certainly do. 'For years all I've been to you is something warm to take home and fuck and now you don't even do that,'—that was one of the choicer bits. Stephen told him not to be so stupid, that he was acting like a spoiled kid, and, of course, that only made things worse."

"They didn't know you were listening?"

"Not then. Stephen said something I didn't hear, turned around and started to walk away. Mark ran after him. Grabbed hold of Stephen and tried to pull him back. Stephen—I don't know, maybe he swung an arm—tried to get Mark off him, anyway. Which was when Mark hit him."

"He hit him?"

"Put two hands together and brought them down on the back of Stephen's neck. Stephen staggered, almost lost his footing, and then Mark hit him again. Next thing, Stephen was on his back, all sort of hunched up, and Mark was bending down and punching him and shouting. 'If you ever do that again, I'll fucking kill you!'"

"What happened then?"

"I coughed and said something limp and ineffectual, like, 'Excuse me, is everything all right?' and that acted like a bucket of ice water. Mark broke off and moved away, and Stephen picked himself up from the ground and brushed himself down and said something like, just a little family squabble. Trying to make a joke out of it. But I could see he had a nasty cut over one eye, that at least. I offered to help him back inside and get it seen to, but he shrugged it off and said it would be fine, and that was about that. Stephen assured me they'd get home safely and everything would be okay. The next time I saw him he didn't mention it and neither did I."

"And you don't know," Helen said, "if that incident was a one off or part of a pattern?"

"I'm afraid I've no idea."

"And there were no other witnesses to this?"

Rouse shook his head. "The argument might have been heard from the house, but the end of the drive's quite a long way off."

"There's nothing else you can tell me," Helen said, "that might be relevant?"

"Relevant, no. But come back and have a look at the Vuil-lards again some time. He's a great painter. You should give him another chance."