Slaying is Such Sweet Sorrow (4 page)

She was beautifully groomed herself, her straight brown hair parted in the middle and falling smoothly to frame a serene, oval face, her long blue dress perfectly fitted to her tall, slender figure.

“You know quite well it was that book got you your professorship, Aubrey,” said Dorothy bluntly. “When old Morehouse retired in the year it came out, you were the only possibility.”

“Dorothy is working on her own interesting theory,” Peter said, “with regard to Webster.”

“We all of us have our interesting theories,” Tom put in.

“Quite,” said Cyril Aubrey. “ ‘Lighting our candles from their torches,’ to paraphrase the
Anatomy of Melancholy
.”

“Yes,” said Dorothy, “I’m seeking to prove Webster actually practiced law—his plays are notable for their trial scenes, and someone of his name
was
admitted to the Middle Temple in 1598. I’m on the trail of some trial records that may mention him, hoping my luck will prove equal to Aubrey’s.”

“I’m sure we’re boring Mrs. Penny most awfully,” he said. “It must seem extremely odd to outsiders, this devotion of ours to authors of whom most people have never heard.”

“
Catherine,
” I said. “And no, I don’t think fame is what makes a writer worth reading.”

“Tyler, don’t you expect Mrs.—er, Catherine would like some refreshment?” Aubrey suggested. He had finally succeeded in changing the subject. Peter apologized and hurried off to a long table set with plates and glasses. I turned to call after him that I had eaten and would do perfectly well with a glass of ginger ale, but my voice died in my throat as I found myself face-to-face with my ex-husband. I’d had no idea he’d been standing right behind me. I stepped back quickly. Emily was watching us apprehensively, over by the fireplace.

“Listen, Kit,” he said, lowering his voice, “I just want to say, whatever happened last year, we had a lot of good years together and we shouldn’t forget them.”

I could only stare at him, speechless. Did he actually think I’d agree with that load of bunk?

“You know it’s not fair for Emily and Peter to have to divide up like this to keep us apart. They deserve a regular family, they need us to get along, to enjoy our grandchild together. Come over and meet Janet. I don’t expect the two of you to be friends, but won’t it be easier for the kids if you get down off your high horse and act civil to us?”

Peter stood frozen by the refreshment table, and Emily was slowly shaking her head, silently begging me to behave.

I took a deep breath and almost whispered, struggling to control my voice, “If Emily suffers, it’s your fault and nobody else’s—except that cheap bimbo you’re dragging around. Just don’t you ever dare to speak to me again!”

Now Emily was beside us, murmuring urgently, “Dad, don’t keep trying. She doesn’t
want
to talk to you. Please, please, both of you, don’t ruin Peter’s evening.”

I turned and left them. Sorrow squeezed my heart as memories flashed through my mind of the three of us in our apartment on West Eighty-third, on vacations, at ballet recitals and soccer games—all those shared moments that had made us so close, as we would never be again. How could such a dreary-looking woman have been the cause of such total destruction?

I went and stood by myself near the door. The dons had noticed that little scene, of course, and cast discreet glances toward me, but they were far too polite to show their curiosity openly. Peter started toward me with a plate and glass, but I waved him away. I didn’t want to try to talk until I could get my breath back. He joined Emily and Quin, standing together in uncomfortable silence. But the other member of the group, Quin’s new woman, wasn’t with them.

I saw her with Edgar Stone, over by the window. He was leaning over her, his eyes fixed on hers as if she were the only person in the room, his smile wide with delight at whatever it was she was saying. And she gazed up at him with similar fascination. I noticed the dark-haired girl who had been in the same favored position before, standing apart, watching them and smoldering. Tom Ivey spoke urgently to her, turning eyes full of hatred on Stone when the girl flounced away without answering him.

“Edgar the Dreadful, Peter and Tom call him.” I hadn’t realized Emily had come over to me until she spoke. “He’s only after Gemma because hurting Tom is his idea of fun. But the silly little thing takes him seriously, when everyone else knows she’s only the latest in a long line of women he’s tumbled and then dumped.”

“It’s no wonder his wife needs your services,” I said.

We both looked over at Mrs. Stone, seated at the far end of the room, accepting a glass of sherry from Cyril Aubrey. She wore a fitted green dress that emphasized her too-thin figure, her chest as flat as a boy’s, her hip bones jutting out. Her dark eyes seemed huge, like pictures I’d seen of starving third world children. They were fixed on her husband, who smiled a little private smile as Quin, frowning, led his girlfriend away.

Emily sighed. “Obvious sadomasochistic motivation on both sides. But of course she’s the one who’s losing their little game. Let me introduce you to her.”

We went over and Emily presented us to each other. Mrs. Stone’s given name was Perdita, with the accent on the first syllable. I was going to remark how lovely it was, but she spoke first, fixing those haunted dark eyes on my skirt without smiling.

“There’s blood on your dress,” she said, and again I was struck by the deep, dramatic timbre of her voice. “You’ve cut somebody, haven’t you?”

“No, it’s only wine,” I said. “You’re right, though, it does look like blood.”

“Entirely my fault,” I heard Geoffrey Pidgeon say. He was standing a couple of feet behind her, in the shadows, so I hadn’t noticed him.

“I hate these gatherings,” she went on, “but Edgar always makes me come, so he can watch me watching him. Look how happy he is! My
husband
—he enjoys flaunting his latest conquest in public while I look on.”

“So does mine,” I responded.

“Oh, Mother,” Emily moaned. “He’s not actually—”

“I think Mrs. Stone put it very well,” I said.

She cocked her head and regarded me curiously, and then burst out laughing, with a slight edge of hysteria. People stopped talking and looked over uneasily.

“Have you taken your medication, Mrs. Stone?” Emily asked her in a low voice.

“No,” she retorted loudly, “I haven’t taken it. I’ve just had rather a large glass of sherry instead, and it’s made me feel much better than medicine does. What do you think of that?”

Emily replied, “I think you showed good judgment in not mixing drugs and alcohol.”

Perdita’s defiant attitude disappeared in a second. Her eyes lighted with excitement, and she grabbed Emily’s hand. “I didn’t want to be all muzzy tonight. I wanted to enjoy your husband’s success with you like a friend, not like a patient—”

“Yes, I’d like that too,” Emily said, smiling down at her.

We heard Cyril Aubrey’s diffident voice and turned to see him standing in the middle of the room, rumpling his hair nervously as he said, “I suppose it’s time we fulfilled our purpose in gathering tonight.”

All eyes turned to him, and people grew quiet. Emily stepped over to Peter and took hold of his arm, and they smiled at each other happily.

“It has been almost twenty years since I established the faculty of non-Shakespearean Elizabethan drama at Mercy,” Cyril Aubrey began, “and very satisfying years they have been. But it’s time now to hand the reins, as it were, to another. Time to start down a different path.”

“You’re far too young to retire,” Dorothy said. “Ought to wait until you’re a weary old party.”

“Well, Ann would not agree,” he went on, smiling at his wife. “She has all sorts of plans for us, travel, study—I’m rather vague as to the details, but she can give you the complete schedule.”

“I’ve been waiting for years, quite like Patient Griselda,” Ann said.

“The choice of successor to a headship at Mercy is traditionally the decision of the retiring head alone,” he went on, getting more nervous as the big moment approached. “Once he—or, in these days, I should say she as well—has informed the college council of that decision, the office is considered conferred. Mercy is fortunate in its faculty, fortunate indeed, and so the choice has not been an easy one.”

Emily was hugging Peter’s arm, and he was doing his best to look as if all this was of only casual interest to him.

Aubrey fumbled with his glasses, taking them off, wiping them with his handkerchief, putting them back on and blinking at us nervously through them.

“Oh, do get on with it,” Dorothy demanded. “Don’t keep the poor fellow in suspense!”

“Well,” he resumed, “I have finally come to the conclusion that the headship will be best bestowed upon our longtime colleague Edgar Stone, and have so informed the council.”

Complete silence fell over the room. The faculty stared in astonishment as he shook Edgar’s hand, and then a hoarse cry startled everyone.

“No!” Perdita Stone was on her feet, staring wide-eyed at the two men. “No, you can’t do that!” she cried. “You can’t reward
murder,
you can’t—”

She stepped toward them, shaking her head in disbelief.

“I’ve told you,” she said pleadingly to Aubrey, “I’ve written you letters telling you what he did—didn’t you get my letters?”

“We’ve all got your letters, my dear,” said Dorothy sadly.

Everyone watched her in acute discomfort, except for Edgar. His eyes glittered, and that unpleasant smile twitched his lips. He was enjoying this.

“Yes, you’ve done your best to humiliate me and destroy my career, sending those ridiculous missives to everyone who knows me—haven’t you,
darling
?” he said mockingly. “Fortunately, they all know you’re barking mad.”

Emily threw him a dirty look as she and Geoffrey tried to get Perdita to sit down quietly. But she shook them off.

“You want
punishing,
for what you did to Simon—and instead you are rewarded!” She finally sank into her chair and then cried out in a voice that shook with genuine passion, “ ‘Justice! Oh, justice! Oh, my son, my son—my son whom naught can ransom or redeem!’ ”

Edgar clapped his hands three times, slowly. “Brava!” he cried, still grinning. “A bit melodramatic, perhaps, but then
The Spanish Tragedy
is that kind of play.”

“Oh, I say,” Cyril Aubrey exclaimed, “you make the poor woman feel—”

“ ‘Roscius, when once he spake a speech in Rome—’ ” Edgar began, gazing at him steadily. Cyril broke off and turned away sadly.

“Heywood?” Dorothy ventured, but Edgar ignored her.

Geoffrey threw him a glance of sheer hatred before turning his attention back to Perdita. “Come along, let me escort you home,” he begged.

“Yes, Mrs. Stone,” Emily joined in, kneeling beside the chair to look into her eyes. “It would be best if you went home now. I’ll come with you, if you like.”

Her anger had subsided into dull despair now. “It can’t be allowed,” she said, as if to herself, then she stood up. “Yes, I want to be out of this place, away from these people. Not one of you understands what simple justice is!” she flung at them.

She left with Geoffrey, refusing Emily’s offer to go along.

Edgar looked around at the faces of his colleagues, his eyes glittering with amusement. “Well, I’m surprised too! Aubrey, dear fellow, you’ve staged a coup! Didn’t we all expect the wunderkind, Tyler, to be chosen, just because he’d written a popular book?”

“Now, now, old fellow,” Aubrey said, “we all know Tyler’s book is more than just ‘popular,’ it’s an extremely important work that casts a whole new light—”

“Important?” Stone laughed aloud. “It’s a sensationalist hodgepodge of unbsubstantiated guesswork. It’s the kind of vulgar popularization these young fellows coming up call ‘scholarship’ because they’re too lazy to do proper research.”

“Unfair, Edgar!” Dorothy snorted angrily.

Cyril Aubrey, increasingly woebegone, exclaimed, “Oh, I say, there’s no call to insult Tyler’s work.” He turned to Peter and begged, “I was sure you’d understand, Tyler, age and experience, you know…”

Peter, although he had become paler as Edgar Stone went on, controlled what he must have been feeling and said in a steady voice, “Quite right. I’ll say nothing, Stone, except for ‘Congratulations.’ ”

“What noble restraint!” Stone sneered.

“Indeed,” said Dorothy indignantly, “ ‘Calumnies are answered best with silence.’ ” She looked around with fire in her blurry eyes. “Jonson,
Volpone
!”

“By God, if no one else will say it, I shall,” Tom Ivey burst out. “Edgar Stone isn’t fit to be head of college! He’ll discourage every sign of original thinking and run the place like a petty dictatorship.”

“Come along, Tom,” Aubrey pleaded, “I know Edgar better than any of you, and I know you’re wrong about him. I hate to say it, but I fear you are letting personal animus over—well, romantic matters affect your judgment. Peter, who could just as well do the same, is able to keep his feelings subordinate to his judgment, and you might—”