Sea of Lost Love (11 page)

“What did he say?” Celestria asked in a small voice.

Pamela's face crumpled with distress. “He got so angry, he didn't look like himself at all. It was like a stranger had suddenly got inside of him. He told me his flirting was harmless. That it was just a bit of fun. It made him feel alive, he said. He argued that he worked his backside off so that you and I could have nothing but the best, and that Harry could have the finest education England has to offer. He raged that Elizabeth pushes and pushes him to be perfect and that her standards are so high he can't possibly meet them all of the time. He said he was weary of being corroded by us, like a rock in a vast sea of demanding people, wearing him down little by little until he'd have nothing left to give. He told me I was spoiled and greedy.” Her shoulders began to shake. “He said the sooner you married, the better, because you were only going to turn out like me, driving him insane with your demands.”

“He said that?”

“He said some terrible things, darling. It must have been the alcohol. I swear, I have never seen him like that before. Now it's going to haunt me for the rest of my life because that is the way I will remember him.”

Celestria sat in silence, a frown lining her brow. She felt as if her mother had just cut out the bottom of her world, sending her tumbling into a hole where there was nothing to grab hold of to stop her falling. She swallowed hard and tried to ignore the ache in her throat.

“Did he kill himself to punish us?” Celestria asked. Her voice came out thin and reedy. “Because we made too many demands? Well, that's nothing compared to the hell he's putting everyone through, is it? Father Dalgliesh says that suicide is a mortal sin and that he's gone straight to hell.”

“He said that?” Pamela asked. “Monty is in hell?”

“I don't know why you're looking so surprised, you don't believe in heaven and hell.”

“No, I don't. There is no hell, just other people.” She laughed cynically.

Celestria sighed and stood up. “Well, Mama, don't forget to wire Grandpa. He needs to know. I'm going to write to him myself.”

 

That afternoon, Celestria sat at her uncle's desk and opened the top left-hand drawer. Inside, in neat piles, were letterheads and cards for correspondence. She tried to imagine her father's frame of mind as he had sat there in the middle of the night, deliberating what to write in his suicide note. Surely, she thought, if one is about to take one's life, one would want to explain to one's family, to leave them with some peace of mind. Instead, her father had written two meaningless words. Forgive him for what? Taking his own life? Putting his family through hell? Fighting with his wife? For saying such horrid things about his daughter, who was determined never to turn out like her mother, by the way?

She pictured him standing by the window, where she had found him the night of the party. He had looked so different. Solemn and troubled. There had been a ruthlessness to his face that had frightened her. When he had seen her there, his features had softened, restoring to her once again the ebullient father she loved. Slowly she began to put together the pieces gleaned from the conversations she had had with her mother and Aunt Julia and from the couple of times she had spied on him when he had not known that he was being watched. She was more certain than ever that while the rest of the family had blithely enjoyed their summer holiday, Robert Montague had been hiding a dark secret.

She pulled out a sheet of paper and took a pen from the tray on top of the desk.
Darling Grandpa,
she began.
Something terrible has happened, and I need your help…

 

Elizabeth Montague stood in Father Dalgliesh's parlor, gazing out of the window into the garden. Her hand gripped her walking stick, and her face was rigid with indignation. He offered her a chair, but she would not take it. “My son is not dead,” she declared, without looking at the priest. She sensed pity in his expression, and, if there was one thing she abhorred, it was pity. “You don't know my son, do you, Father?”

“I haven't had that pleasure, Mrs. Montague,” he replied.

“Well, let me tell you about him, then. He is an exceptional man—a wonderful son to me and a wonderful husband, father, brother, and friend. He wouldn't let us down like this. It isn't in his nature. He shines brighter than the brightest star. Everyone loves him. I'll wager there isn't a person in Pendrift who doesn't think the world of him. Now why would a man so beloved take his own life?” Her chin wobbled, but she restrained it with a determined stiffening of the jaw.

“I am at a loss,” he replied.

“He is a success. Everything he touches turns to gold. He has that Montague charm, like his father. Young Bouncy has it; Celestria, too, though what good is it in a girl as superficial as Celestria? It's wasted. You know, Robert made his first fortune when he was a very young man. He traveled the world determined to prove himself. Archie came into the world with a niche already carved out for him. His destiny was here at Pendrift. Robert had to carve his niche on his own. I never doubted he'd return in glory. Robert has more ability, intelligence, and wit than my other two children put together. He persuaded us to invest in a sugar venture in Brazil. We didn't hesitate, and we were right to trust him. Robert made us all rich.” She turned her rheumy eyes to the priest. “I know a mother shouldn't love one child over and above her other children, but I do. I love Robert the best. He makes me very proud.”

Father Dalgliesh didn't know what to say. He stood awkwardly knitting his fingers while this formidable woman stared at him defiantly. He wished God would inspire him with the right words to comfort her, but he heard nothing.

“It is in God's hands,” he said clumsily.

“Perhaps,” she snapped, turning to face the garden again. “I expected to outlive my husband, but I never expected to outlive my son. My youngest child. My most beloved Robert. No, I will not accept it. If he was in trouble, he would have told me. I'm his mother. He would have come to me.”

“All we can do is pray for his deliverance.”

“Prayer,” she sniffed dismissively. “I'm devout. I pray constantly. Where has it got me?” She shuffled past him. “I was rather hoping you'd offer me a miracle, Father Dalgliesh.”

“I wish I were able to.”

“Well, if you can't turn water into wine, you had better pray. I shall pray, too, with the rest of my family. He's in God's hands now. There's nothing more we can do.”

T
hree days passed and nothing was seen of Robert Montague. Pendrift descended into a state of mourning. There no longer remained any doubt of his suicide, not even in the Snout & Hound, that hotbed of gossip and intrigue. The family grieved for him, except for Elizabeth, who resolutely declared that no child of hers would ever do such a thing.

Father Dalgliesh spent most of his time counseling the townspeople. The air in his parlor was thick with the perfume of weeping women who had all loved Monty, not as a lover, but as a good and kind man who had always put others before himself. How, they asked, could a man who had everything to live for throw his life away? Father Dalgliesh answered as best he could, drawing on the training he had received at the seminary. During these visits he began to gain a better understanding of the man everyone knew as Mr. Monty. He had touched each and every one of them in some way or other, from a simple chat in the Snout & Hound to paying young Rewan Craddick's hospital bills. Whatever form it took, there was no doubt that Mr. Monty had improved people's lives. And yet, Father Dalgliesh was no wiser than they were. “Why,” he asked himself, repeating the question he had been asked over and over again, “would a man who had everything to live for throw his life away?”

Then, on Thursday morning, he received an unexpected visitor.

Father Dalgliesh was at his desk, seeing to his correspondence, for which he had had little time in the last few days, when there was a knock at the door. He heaved a sigh. Another troubled soul to attend to in the parlor, no doubt. He put down his pen. “Come in,” he replied. The young curate, Howel Brock, poked his face around the door.

“I'm sorry to disturb you, Father, but there's a lady here to see you. She says it's important.”

“Did she say her name?”

“No. She says it's a private matter.” Father Brock raised his eyebrows. “She's wearing a hat and dark glasses,” he added. “Very mysterious.”

Father Dalgliesh's curiosity was aroused. He got up, straightened his waistcoat, then proceeded to the parlor. Miss Hoddel was cleaning the tiled floor in the corridor with a shabby mop. When she saw Father Dalgliesh, she stood up and leaned on the handle, wiping a grubby hand on her floral apron.

“You've got Greta Garbo in there,” she said with a chuckle. Father Dalgliesh ignored her and opened the door.

The strange woman perched awkwardly on the edge of the sofa, a small, fluffy dog lying sleepily on her knee. She was strikingly beautiful in a black tailored jacket and skirt and black lizard shoes that were pressed together at an angle to her body. Around her neck she wore a pearl and diamond choker. Her hat was small and pinned to the side of her head, from where a thin veil of netting fell down to her nose. When she saw him, she did not smile, but took off her dark glasses to reveal icy blue eyes that were cold but captivating. Father Dalgliesh's heart missed a beat. She was the image of her daughter.

“My name is Pamela Bancroft Montague,” she said in an American accent. “My husband is Robert.” At the mention of his name, she lowered her eyes so that her long black lashes almost brushed her cheeks. She was very carefully made up, but powder and lipstick could not disguise her distress. She stroked her dog with a gloved hand.

“I'm very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Bancroft Montague,” said the priest, sinking into the armchair opposite.

She inhaled with difficulty and shook her head. “My husband was a devout Catholic, as I'm sure you are aware.”

“Indeed.”

“I, on the other hand, am nothing. I'm an atheist.”

“You don't believe in God?”

“I don't know,” she mumbled, not able to look him in the eye.

“Then you are agnostic.” He smiled at her reassuringly.

“That doesn't sound so bad, does it?”

“God is there, Mrs. Bancroft Montague, whether you believe in Him or not. He waits patiently for you to open your heart and eyes. His love is unconditional.”

“I want to believe, Father. I do.” She heard Miss Hoddel knock her mop against the door. “This will remain confidential, won't it?” she murmured.

“Of course.”

“I don't want my husband's family to know that I have come.”

“One moment,” he said, getting up. Father Dalgliesh walked over to the door. When he opened it, a blushing Miss Hoddel almost tumbled in. She straightened up and smoothed down her apron. “Would you be very kind, Miss Hoddel, and make us a pot of tea. Perhaps you might tidy my study afterwards. I have noticed it's got quite dusty lately.”

“I'll have to clean around your books, Father,” she replied irritably.

“I'm afraid I still haven't had time to sort them all out.”

“As you wish,” she said, bending down to pick up the steel bucket of dirty water. “Though it does my back no good at all.” As she moved away she cast a glance into the parlor, where the strange woman sat with her back to the door.

“I've got no one to turn to,” Pamela continued when Father Dalgliesh returned to his seat. “I have to be strong for my children, you see.”

“Celestria and Harry,” he said, nodding.

“You've met them. I'm afraid the day you came for lunch I was suffering from a migraine. I get them occasionally. Well, Monty was my rock, Father. He was my whole world. Now he's gone, I feel I'm all alone.”

“What about your husband's family?”

“They're all terribly British, if you know what I mean. Penelope acts as if nothing has happened. Milton's gone very quiet and contained. Archie's tormented and not very strong. Julia, his wife, is as distraught as I am, but it's that stiff-upper-lip thing. It's all very dignified and what one would expect from a Montague, but my feelings are laid bare for everyone to see, and I feel I'm such a burden to them all.”

“What about your children?”

“Oh, Harry is easily distracted, thank heavens, but Celestria now thinks her father has been murdered. But she would, wouldn't she? Little girls always adore their fathers. Well, most of them do.” She lowered her eyes.

“Celestria mentioned a grandfather who lives in New York,” he said. “I assume that is your father.”

“Yes, he's my father, all right.” Her face grew hard. “I have a troubled relationship with him. Celestria adores him. I took her to America for the duration of the war. Harry wasn't born then, so it was just the two of us. My father has always been a rather distant figure in my life, the kind of man who never had the time, but thought gifts would make up for it. He was too busy making money. Besides, he wanted a son. A Richard Bancroft III to take on his empire after he retired. Well, he got a Pamela instead. That wasn't good enough. I think by the time Celestria came to stay, he had realized what he had missed out on, because, boy, did he shower her with love and affection.” She chuckled bitterly. “I've never forgiven him for that. But Celestria thinks the sun shines out of—” She stopped suddenly, remembering where she was, and added, “She thinks he's perfect.”

“I can't imagine you get to see him very often.”

“We used to spend a week with him at this ridiculously flamboyant castle he owns in Scotland, but I hated the cold. So did my mother, who prefers to stay in America. We haven't been for years. And we used to go spend the whole of July in Nantucket, which was where I spent my summers as a child, but we haven't been for the last two years. What with one thing and another…” Her voice trailed off.

“Celestria must miss him.”

“She was devastated when we returned to London at the end of the war. She didn't recognize her father and missed her grandfather dreadfully. Monty tried so hard, and, in the end, they got on like a house on fire. Well, he had that charm. It was impossible not to love him.” Her voice grew quiet as she spoke about him. “London was a gray city in comparison to New York. Postwar rations and all that. It was hard to adjust. Then Harry was born. My darling Harry.” Her eyes lit up. “He loved his father, too, but he's always been my little boy. Children have a way of just getting on with life, don't they? Harry's not moping about in a heap, like me. He's back in the woods with his cousins, trapping vermin and shooting rabbits with David. I wonder what goes through his head at night when there aren't any distractions.”

“Children might seem to handle bereavement better than adults, but it doesn't mean they aren't scarred by it. They just have a different way of coping, that's all.”

“My heart bleeds to think of the pain my husband has caused him. Didn't he think of that the night he took his life? It's the most selfish act imaginable. My children are left fatherless, and I'm a widow.” She began to cry. “Black really isn't my color, either.”

“Mrs. Bancroft Montague,” Father Dalgliesh began, but Pamela cut him off with a melodramatic sob.

“What am I going to do? How am I going to go on? He should have taken me with him.”

“You have your children to think of. They need you now more than ever.”

“I'm of no use to anyone. That's the truth of it. I'm a hopeless mother.” She clicked open the black handbag on the sofa beside her and pulled out a white handkerchief. Dabbing her eyes, she continued, “Monty was never around, you see. He traveled so much on business. When we first married, it wasn't like that. He'd invest in some scam, which would either make him a lot of money or it wouldn't, but he was around. Then after the war he established an office in Paris, spending half the week there and half the week in London. Those weeks then turned to fortnights. He became hard to pin down. I could never get hold of him. Then he'd return and try to be a good father and husband, and in many ways he was. He bought me beautiful gifts, told me how lovely I was, took Celestria to tea at Fortnums and Harry to Hamley's, where he treated him to a new train set or something. He was perfect, and yet so damn
imperfect.
I look back now and realize that he was only skating on the surface of our family life together, never penetrating beneath because he never gave us his time and he never shared his thoughts. He was always so…” She struggled to find the right word. “Detached, as if his heart and mind were somewhere else—yet always charming, always funny, the life and soul of every party. I was the envy of every wife in London, believe me. The reality was less glamorous.” She sighed and sniffed delicately. “I just wanted him to be around. His business grew. More time in Paris. He seemed to have his fingers in every pie. Perhaps I shouldn't begrudge him; after all, he was working so hard—for us. You'll think I'm awfully spoiled, Father, but sometimes I felt he gave so much of himself to people he barely knew, he had little to give to us.”

“I don't think you're spoiled at all,” said Father Dalgliesh kindly. “I think you're lost, that's all.”

“How will I ever find myself?” she asked, stifling a sob. “I don't know where to look.”

“God will help you.”

“If I can't see Him, how do I know He's there?”

“Close your eyes and look inside your heart.”

“But they all say that. How can I look inside my heart? I don't have eyes on the inside of my head.”

Father Dalgliesh wanted to laugh. But Pamela was deadly serious.

“Next time there is a beautiful sunset, stop a while to look at it. Next time you see a beautiful view or a magical dawn, hear the birdsong at the end of the day, next time you are struck by the magnificence of nature, when your heart is flooded with that melancholy feeling of awe, turn your mind to He who made it all. Let His love flow into your heart. Stand up and say ‘I open my heart to You, God, so that You may fill it with Your love and make me whole.'”

She sniffed and put the handkerchief back into her handbag, clipping it shut. “I'll try,” she said softly. “I trust God can find all the pieces.”

Miss Hoddel knocked on the door and staggered in behind a tray of cups and teapot, complete with a yellow tea cozy she had knitted herself. Father Dalgliesh leapt up to help her. “I'll go and put my feet up now if you don't mind. I did your study yesterday and don't wish to repeat the exercise until I absolutely have to. Might help myself to a cup of tea. These are trying times.” She feasted her eyes on the elegant visitor, hoping to woo her into conversation. There was almost a scuffle as Father Dalgliesh had to push her through the door.

“You certainly deserve a cup of tea, Miss Hoddel. Thank you very much for ours.” Miss Hoddel returned to the kitchen scowling and sat eating cake while Father Dalgliesh remained in the parlor for another hour.

Finally, they emerged and Father Dalgliesh showed Mrs. Bancroft Montague to the door. “You are most welcome to come and see me any time you need to. Perhaps you will come to Mass on Sunday. I think you'll find church a great comfort.”

She turned to him and took his hand in hers. “I want you to know, Father, I'm not a good person.”

“I don't judge people, Mrs. Bancroft Montague. That is not my right nor my interest. I guide them in the way that I believe is right. We are all sinners.”