The Lying Tongue (7 page)

“It’s probably fine where it is.”

“Why don’t you go and make of us both a nice drink?” he said, sighing. “Look, it’s nearly six o’clock, and I think we both deserve a little tonic, don’t you?”

“What would you like?” I asked.

“Let’s see…what about a Campari soda or even…a Negroni. Do you know how to make a Negroni?”

I told him I did.

“Well, that’s what it will be then,” he said, putting the gun back into the urn and ushering me out of the room. “Cocktail hour approaches.”

I poured equal measures of Campari, gin and sweet vermouth into the cocktail shaker, mixed them together, strained the alcohol into glasses filled with cracked ice and a slice of orange and passed one of the tumblers to him. As I drank down a draft of the bitter-tasting pink liquid, I noticed Crace staring at me with a curious expression on his face.

“Salute!” he said, looking away.

“Salute!” I repeated.

Despite my employer’s eccentricities, we settled into our respective roles quite easily. Although Crace loathed the idea of venturing over his little bridge that linked his house to the alleys, streets and squares, I could tell that he enjoyed my company. Perhaps I was a little flattered that he took such a keen interest in me and felt relaxed in my presence. He was, or at least had been, a famous writer, and I was on the very lowest rung of the literary ladder looking up at him. He was genuinely grateful that I was helping him and he cheered up a good deal after he realized it was much more pleasant to live in clean rather than dirty surroundings.

After I had done everything I could to make the place look superficially respectable and had taken an inventory of his art collection, I asked him if there was anything else that needed to be done. I was finding it difficult to get down to writing the novel and was looking for an excuse not to work. What about the letters in his study? Did he want me to tackle those? He decided that would be, after all, a good idea and so one morning, after breakfast, about a month after I had first started, we walked into his study to see what could be done.

Although the desk had been cleaned and the room looked much tidier, the letters were still sprawled across the surface in a chaotic heap, piled high in the middle like a paper pyramid.

“When did you last open a letter?” I asked.

“Apart from yours, which you took the trouble to deliver by hand, it was some time ago, I’m afraid,” said Crace. “But I do hope you’ll be able to sort them out for me. I got so bored of reading the same letter over and over again, so I stopped opening them.”

His face flushed as he grew angrier and angrier.

“Always probing, always wanting answers to why I wrote the first book and why I stopped writing. Graduate students, mostly, dreadful creatures. Looking for significances where there aren’t any—at all. However, aspiring, overly curious biographers, it has to be said, are much, much worse. Vultures circling around me, waiting for me to die, eager to get the first bite at the wizened flesh on my corpse. Asking to come and look at my papers, my journals, my diaries. Wondering whether I had, during all this time, actually carried on writing but refused to have my work published. I mean, what an idea! Inquiring whether they can come and talk for an hour or so, completely off the record, of course. Bloodsuckers and vampires and ghouls, jumped-up vulgarians no better than those who stand by and gawp at the scene of an accident. They make me sick, the lot of them.”

Crace looked at the pile of mail with disgust and then realized the violence of his outburst.

“Sorry. I—”

“Would you rather I weed out such inquiries?”

“Oh, would you? That would be marvellous,” he said. “In fact, you could probably throw most of them away.”

He paused.

“Although I’m sure it’s mostly rubbish, you’ll probably find the occasional check from my publisher, which I suppose will come in useful. To be honest, if I didn’t need the money, I’d rather burn the checks. Damned royalties keep rolling in, a constant reminder.”

Crace’s eyes misted over. Silence.

“Of what?” I asked quietly.

He pursed his lips, was about to speak and then decided against it.

“Oh, nothing, nothing,” he said, trying to smile. “A reminder of my previous foolishness, that’s all.”

“I’ll start on these right away,” I said, gesturing toward the letters. “Don’t worry, I’ll soon have it sorted out.”

Before disappearing to read, Crace had given me a paper knife and, slowly, I started on the mass of correspondence. I began at the top of the pile, working my way downward, looking for both checks and requests of a biographical nature. I was also curious to find out more about Crace.

I sliced into the letters, scanning them quickly to see whether they contained anything of importance. Although they were mostly the usual, predictable dross that Crace had suggested, one of the letters, in an expensive buttermilk-colored vellum envelope, stood out. The handwritten note was written on headed notepaper, and the name—Lavinia Maddon—and the address and telephone number were embossed in black ink at the top.

I read through it once more. A letter from an aspiring biographer, one of the so-called vultures that Crace had described. I felt pleased with myself at having found it and hoped that Crace would be appreciative of my work. But this incident in 1967 intrigued me. What was Lavinia Maddon referring to? She seemed serious and respectable, so I set the letter aside, intending to show it to Crace at the end of the day. I continued to rip open the envelopes, tossing most of the letters into the bin, but I still couldn’t find any checks. They were probably at the bottom of the pile, knowing my luck. I pushed my hand deep into the pile’s papery heart, fished around with my fingers, and pulled out a clutch of letters. One, a request for Crace to appear at a literary festival, was postmarked 12 April 1998—four years ago.

I stood up and stretched, yawning. The small study was hot and airless. I couldn’t breathe. I needed a drink. I’d do a few more and then I’d have a break. I took another one from the pile and was immediately struck by the messy, almost indecipherable scrawl on the envelope. You could hardly make out Crace’s name, let alone the address of his publisher. It was amazing it ever got to them. The short note was written in blue Biro, the ink smudged in places, and spelling mistakes littered the page.

How odd. Crace would have to see this. Perhaps it was blackmail. There was no date on the letter itself, but it was postmarked Dorset, 17 May—two months ago.

I grabbed the two letters—Lavinia Maddon’s and the one from the mysterious Mrs. M. Shaw—and walked through the palazzo to find Crace.

“Mr. Crace? Mr. Crace?”

My voice echoed down the portego. There was no answer. I entered the drawing room, where I found Crace in his chair, his chin resting on his shirt collar, snoring. I backed out of the room quietly and tiptoed down the hall and into the kitchen. I’d show him the letters later. I’d use the afternoon, or as long as it would take, to try and find the other letters sent by these two very different women and show him the lot. That way the matter could be settled easily and with the minimum of fuss. He could decide whether to proceed with the project suggested by Lavinia Maddon and what should be done about the suspicious-sounding Mrs. Shaw. I would try to do as much groundwork as possible before talking to him about both subjects. My diligence, I was sure, would please him.

I left Crace dozing and enjoyed a lunch of salami, bread and tomatoes, reading Aretino’s
Selected Letters
as I ate. Afterward, I went back to the study and worked on the correspondence. I sifted through the pile looking for the telltale handwriting on the envelopes—one style elegant and learned, the other childlike and primitive. As I sorted, placing the letters that I had examined to my left, I thought about Crace and the mysteries of his past.

For all his oddness—well, perhaps, precisely because of it—he was a fascinating man. No wonder there was so much interest in him. Despite what Lavinia Maddon said about using Crace’s story as a metaphor for fame and failure or whatever it was, it was clear she was interested in the story of his life, especially this incident in 1967. And what kind of hold did this half-educated woman from Dorset have over him? Crace had told me that he no longer wrote, but I had no idea why he had decided to stop.

Before I went any further, I thought it was probably worthwhile to try and find out a little more so that when I did take the letters to Crace, I would understand what he told me. I stood up and looked around the room, listening for Crace’s approach. It was all part of my job, it was research. He’d thank me for it once he knew the circumstances. To be on the safe side, I left the study, walked through his bedroom, back down the portego toward the drawing room and peeked around the double doors. Crace was still in his chair, asleep, his eyes fluttering like butterflies on a pair of withered leaves.