Ripley Under Water (34 page)

Tom was at that moment thoughtful, biting his underlip. Maybe Ed knew what he was thinking: that he had to inform Heloise soon about the Pritchards. If Heloise had asked about them during lunch, Tom was prepared to be evasive. He was happy that she didn’t mention them.

Chapter 23

No one wanted coffee after lunch. Ed said that he felt like taking a longer walk, “all through the village.” “Do you think you’ll ring Jeff—really?” Ed asked.

Tom explained to Heloise, who was having a cigarette at the table. He and Ed thought that their old friend Jeff Constant, a photographer, might like to come over to visit for a couple of days. “We happen to know he’s free now,” Tom said. “He’s a freelancer, like Ed.”

“Mais oui, Tome! Why not? Where will he sleep? Your atelier?”

“I’d thought of that. Unless I join you for a couple of days and he takes my room.” Tom smiled. “As you wish, my sweet.” It had been done before, Tom recalled, several times: it was easier for him to sleep chez Heloise, somehow, than for her to move necessities into his room. Each of their rooms had a double bed.

“But of course, Tome,” Heloise said in French. She stood up, and then Tom and Ed did.

“Excuse me a sec,” Tom said, mainly to Ed, and went off to the kitchen.

Mme Annette was putting plates into the dishwasher, just as on any other day.

“Madame, an excellent lunch—thank you. And two matters.” Tom lowered his voice, and said, “I shall tell Madame Heloise now about the Preechard affair—so that she does not

hear it from a stranger in—well, so it is not such a shock, perhaps.”

“Oui, M’sieur Tome. You are right.”

“And the second thing, I shall invite another English friend to come tomorrow. I’m not sure he can, but I shall inform you. In which case he’ll have my room. I’m going to telephone London in a few minutes, then I’ll let you know.”

“Very good, m’sieur. But about the meals—le menu?”

Tom smiled. “If there are difficulties, we’ll dine out somewhere tomorrow evening.” Tomorrow was Sunday, Tom realized, but the village butcher was open tomorrow morning.

He then hurried up the stairs, thinking that at any minute the telephone could ring—the Grais, for instance, who knew Heloise was due home—and someone might start talking about the Pritchards. The upstairs telephone was now in Tom’s room, not in Heloise’s as it usually was, but she would likely answer it if it rang in his room.

Heloise was in her own room, unpacking. Tom noticed a couple of cotton blouses that he had not seen before.

“Do you like this, Tome?” Heloise held a vertically striped skirt against her waist. The stripes were of purple, green and red.

“It is different,” Tom said.

“Yes! That’s why I bought it. And this belt? Then I have something for Madame Annette too! Let me—”

“Darling,” Tom interrupted, “I have to tell you—something—rather unpleasant.” Now he had her attention. “You remember the Pritchards—”

“Oh, the Prtfechards,” she repeated, as if she thought them the most boring or unattractive people on earth. “Alors?”

“They—” It was painful to get the words out, even though he knew Heloise disliked the Pritchards. “They had an accident—or committed suicide. I don’t know which, but the police can probably tell.”

“They are dead?” Heloise’s lips stayed parted.

“Agnes Grais told me this morning. She telephoned. They were found in that pond on the lawn. Remember? The pond we saw when we went to look at that house”

“Oh, yes, I remember.” She was standing with the brown belt in her hands.

“They may have slipped—one could have dragged the other in, I don’t know. Then the bottom’s mud—de la boue—not easy perhaps to get out of.” Tom winced as he spoke, as if he felt sympathy for the Pritchards, but it was the sheer horror of that muddy drowning that made him wince, the nothing underfoot but mush and softness, mud in the shoes. Tom hated the thought of drowning. He continued, and told Heloise of the two boys selling raffle tickets, who had come running to the Grais’ house afterward, scared, with the news of seeing two people in the pond.

“Sacrebleu!” Heloise whispered, and sat down on the edge of her bed. “And Agnes called the police?”

“No doubt. And then—I don’t know how she heard, or I forgot, the police found below the Pritchards a bag of human bones.”

“Quoi?” Heloise gasped with shock. “Bones?”

“They were odd—strange. The Pritchards.” Now Tom sat down in a chair. “All this was just a few hours ago, darling. We’ll learn more later, I suppose. But I wanted to tell you before Agnes or someone else did.”

“I should telephone Agnes. They’re so close there. I wonder—that bag of bones! What were they doing with it?”

Tom shook his head and stood up. “And what else will they find in that house? Instruments of torture? Chains? Those two belong in Krafft-Ebing! Maybe the police will find more bones.”

“How terrible! People they have killed?”

“Who knows?” And in fact Tom didn’t know, and thought it a possibility that David Pritchard might have among his treasures some human bones that he had dug up somewhere, or which were just possibly of someone he had done in; Pritchard was a good liar. “Don’t forget, David Pritchard liked to beat his wife. Maybe he has beaten other wives.”

“Tome!” Heloise put her hands over her face.

Tom went and pulled her to him, put his arms around her waist. “I shouldn’t have said that. But it is possible, that’s all.”

She held him tightly. “I thought—this afternoon—could be for us. But not with this horrible story!”

“But there’s tonight—and lots of time ahead! You want to ring Agnes, I know, dear. And then I’ll telephone Jeff.” Tom stepped away. “Didn’t you meet Jeff once in London? A little taller and heavier than Ed? Also fair-haired?” Tom did not want to remind her just now that Jeff and Ed were among the original Buckmaster Gallery founders, as was Tom, because that would evoke Bernard Tufts, with whom Heloise had never been comfortable, Bernard having been visibly cracked and peculiar.

“I remember the name. You should ring him first. Agnes will know more if I wait.”

“True!” Tom laughed. “By the way—Madame Annette of course heard the news about the pond this morning, from her friend Marie-Louise, I think.” Tom had to smile. “With Madame Annette’s telephone network, she’ll probably know more now than Agnes!”

Tom found that his personal address book was not in his room, therefore probably down on the hall table. He went downstairs, looked up Jeff Constant’s number and dialed. On the seventh ring, he had luck.

“Tom here, Jeff. Now look—all is at the moment quiet, so why don’t you come over for a short holiday with Ed and me—or a longer one, if you can. How about tomorrow?” Tom realized that he was speaking as cautiously as if his line might be tapped, but so far it had never been. “Ed’s out for a walk just now.”

“Tomorrow. Well, yes, tomorrow, I suppose I could. With pleasure, airlines permitting. You’re sure there’s room for me?”

“Absolutely, Jeff!”

“Thank you, Tom. I’ll look into the plane schedules and ring you back—I hope in less than an hour. Is that all right?”

Of course it was all right. And Tom assured Jeff that he would be happy to pick him up at the airport.

Tom informed Heloise that the telephone was free, and that it looked as if Jeff Constant could come over tomorrow and stay for a couple of days.

“Very nice, Tome. So now I telephone Agnes.”

Tom drifted off, downstairs again. He wanted to check the charcoal grill, get it ready for tonight. He was thinking, as he folded up the waterproof cover and rolled the grill to a convenient place, what if Pritchard had informed Mrs. Murchison about his find, saying he was sure the bones were those of her husband, because of the class ring on the little finger of the right hand?

Why hadn’t the police rung him by now?

His problems were perhaps far from over. Pritchard, if he had informed Mrs. Murchison—and maybe informed Cynthia Gradnor also, good God—might have added that he had dumped or intended to dump the bones on Tom Ripley’s doorstep. He wouldn’t have said dump, Tom thought, but deliver or deposit, certainly to Mrs. Murchison.

On the other hand—and Tom had to smile at his wandering thoughts—in speaking to Mrs. Murchison, Pritchard might not have said he intended to deliver the bones anywhere, because there would have been something disrespectful in doing so: the correct thing, Tom supposed, would be to have transported the bones to his house, Pritchard’s, as Pritchard had done, and then called the police. In view of Tom’s old undisturbed ropes, maybe Pritchard hadn’t looked for rings.

Still another possibility, Pritchard having made small gashes in the old canvas, was that Pritchard might have removed the wedding ring himself, stored it in his house somewhere, and the police just might find it. If Mrs. Murchison had been informed of the bones by Pritchard she might have mentioned the two rings that her husband had always worn, and might be able to identify the wedding ring—if the police found it.

His thoughts were becoming ever thinner, wispier, Tom felt—meaning that he could not believe in the reality of the last: suppose Pritchard had hidden the ring in a place only he knew of (this was assuming that the wedding ring had not fallen off in the Loing), that place might be so unlikely that no one would ever find it unless the house were burnt quite down, and the ashes sifted through. Did Teddy possibly -

“Tom?”

Tom started, and turned. “Ed! Hi!”

Ed had come round the house and was behind Tom. “Didn’t mean to scare you!” Ed had his sweater tied around his neck by its arms.

Tom had to laugh. He had jumped as if shot. “I was daydreaming. I reached Jeff and it sounds as if he can come tomorrow. Isn’t that great?”

“Is it? It sounds nice for me. And what’s the latest news?” he asked in a lower tone. “Anything?”

Tom carried the charcoal bag to a corner of the terrace. “I think the ladies are comparing notes now.” He could just hear the voices of Heloise and Mme Annette in lively discourse near the front hall. They were talking simultaneously, but Tom knew that each was understanding the other perfectly, albeit after some repetition. “Let’s go and see.”

They walked into the living room via a French window.

“Tome, they have searched—hello, M’sieur Ed.”

“Ed, please,” said Ed.

”—searched the house, the police,” Heloise continued, while Mme Annette appeared to listen, though Heloise spoke in English. “The police were there till after three this afternoon, Agnes told me. They even came again to talk with the Grais.”

“That was to be expected,” Tom replied. “Do they say it was an accident?”

“There was no suicide note!” Heloise replied. “The police—maybe they think it could have been an accident, Agnes said, when they were throwing these—these—”

Tom glanced at Mme Annette. “Bones,” he said softly. 

”—bones—in. Ugh!” Heloise waved her hands with nervous revulsion.

Mme Annette moved away, with an air of returning to her duties, as if she had not known what the word bones meant, and probably she hadn’t.

“Didn’t the police find out whose bones?” Tom asked.

“The police don’t know—or they don’t say,” Heloise answered.

Tom frowned. “Did Agnes and Antoine see the bag of bones?”

“Non—but the two children went over and they say they saw it—on the grass—before the police asked them to leave. I think there is a cordon around the house and a police car—which stays. Oh—Agnes said the bones were old. The officer of police told her that. Some years old—and had been in the water.”

Tom glanced at Ed, who was listening with admirable seriousness and interest, Tom thought. “Maybe they fell in—trying to pull the bones out?”

“Ah, oui! Agnes said the police thought something like that, because there was a—utensil—for the garden with a crochet in the water with them.”

Ed said, “They’re taking the bones to Paris—or somewhere, I suppose, for identification? Who owned that house before?”

“I dunno,” said Tom, “but it’s easily found out. I’m sure the police have looked that up by now.”

“The water was so clear!” Heloise said. “I remember the time I saw it. I thought, pretty fish could even live there.”

“But the bottom was mud, Heloise. Something could sink and—What a subject,” Tom said, “when life is usually so quiet here.”

They now stood near the sofa, but no one sat.

“And do you know, Tome, Noelle knows already? She heard it on one o’clock radio news, not tele.” Heloise pushed her hair back. “Tome, I think tea would be nice. Maybe M’sieur Ed, too? Can you tell madame, Tome? Now I want to walk by myself—in the garden.”

Tom was pleased, because some moments alone would make Heloise relax. “You do that, my sweet! Of course I’ll ask madame to make some tea.”

Heloise went off, and she ran down the few steps to the grass. She wore white slacks and tennis shoes.

Tom went off to find Mme Annette, and had just told her that they would all like tea when the telephone rang.

“I think that’s our friend in London,” Tom said to Mme Annette, and went back through the living room to get it.

Ed was at the moment not in view.

It was Jeff, and he had his time of arrival: 11:25 tomorrow morning, BA flight 826. “Open end,” Jeff said, “in case.”

“Thank you, Jeff. We all look forward! Lovely weather but bring a sweater.”

“Can I bring you anything, Tom?”

“Just yourself.” Tom laughed. “Oh! A pound of cheddar if convenient. It always tastes better from London.”

Tea. This the three of them enjoyed in the living room. Heloise sat back with her cup in a corner of the sofa, and hardly talked. Tom didn’t mind. Tom was thinking of the six o’clock news on television, some twenty minutes from now, when he saw Henri’s huge figure near a corner of the greenhouse.

“Well, well, Henri,” said Tom, setting his cup down. “I’ll go see what he wants—if anything. Excuse me, please.”

“You have a rendezvous with him, Tome?”

“No, dear, I have not.” Tom explained to Ed. “He’s my informal gardener, the friendly giant.”

Tom went out. As he had suspected, Henri was not about to begin work at this hour on a Saturday evening, but wanted to talk about les evenements at the maison Preechard. Even a double suicide, as Henri called it, did not stir his great form into liveliness, or even cause tension, that Tom could see.