The Murder Room (12 page)

As soon as he opened the door and took her umbrella and raincoat from her, he saw that the trouble was serious. From childhood Sarah had never been able to control, let alone disguise, the intensity of her feelings. Her rages from her babyhood had been passionate and exhausting, her moments of happiness and excitement were frenetic, her despairs infected both parents with her gloom. Always how she looked, what she wore, betrayed the tumult of her inner life. He remembered one evening—was it five years ago?—when she had found it convenient for her latest lover to call for her at this address. She had stood where she stood now, her dark hair intricately piled, her cheeks flushed with joy. Looking at her he had been surprised to find her beautiful. Now her body seemed to have slumped into premature middle age. Her hair, unbrushed, was tied back from a face sullen with despair. Looking at her face, so like his own and yet so mysteriously different, he saw her unhappiness in the dark-shadowed eyes which seemed focused on her own wretchedness. She dumped herself in an armchair.

He said, “What would you like? Wine, coffee, tea?”

“Wine will do. Anything you've got opened.”

“White or red?”

“Oh, for God's sake, Dad! What does it matter? All right, red.”

He took the nearest bottle from the wine cupboard and brought it in with two glasses. “What about food? Have you eaten? I'm just about to heat up some supper.”

“I'm not hungry. I've come because there are things we have to settle. First of all, you may as well know, Simon has walked out.”

So that was it. He wasn't surprised. He had only met her live-in lover once and had known then, with a rush of confused pity and irritation, that it was another mistake. It was the recurring pattern of her life. Her loves had always been consuming, impulsive and intense, and now that she was nearing thirty-four, her need of a loving commitment was fuelled by increasing desperation. He knew that there was nothing he could say which would give her comfort and that anything he said would be resented. His job had deprived her in adolescence of his interest and concern and the divorce had afforded her an earlier opportunity for grievance. All she ever demanded of him now was practical help.

He said, “When did this happen?”

“Three days ago.”

“And it's final?”

“Of course it's final, it's been final for the last month but I didn't see it. And now I've got to get away, really away. I want to go abroad.”

“What about the job, the school?”

“I've chucked that.”

“You mean you've given a term's notice?”

“I haven't given any notice. I've walked out. I wasn't going back to that bloody bear garden to have the kids sniggering about my sex life.”

“But would they? How could they know?”

“For God's sake, Dad, live in the real world! Of course they know. They make it their business to know. It's bad enough being told that I wouldn't be a teacher if I was fit for anything else without having sexual failure flung in my face.”

“But you teach middle school. They're children.”

“These kids know more about sex at eleven than I did at twenty. And I was trained to teach, not to spend half my time filling in forms and the rest trying to keep order among twenty-five disruptive, foul-mouthed, aggressive kids with absolutely no interest in learning. I've been wasting my life. No more.”

“They can't all be like that.”

“Of course they're not, but there are enough of them to make a class unteachable. I've got two boys who've been diagnosed as needing psychiatric in-patient treatment. They've been assessed but there's no place for them. So what happens? They're thrown back at us. You're a psychiatrist. They're your responsibility, not mine.”

“But walking out! That isn't like you. It's hard on the rest of the staff.”

“The Head can cope with that. I've had precious little support from him these last few terms. Anyway, I've left.”

“And the flat?” They had, he knew, bought it jointly. He had loaned her the capital for the deposit and he supposed that it was her salary that had paid the mortgage.

She said, “We'll sell it of course. But there's no hope now of dividing the profit. There won't be any profit. That hostel they're putting up opposite for homeless juvenile offenders has put a stop to that. Our solicitor should have found out about it, but it's no good suing him for negligence. We need to get the place sold for what we can get. I'm leaving that to Simon. He'll get on with it efficiently because he knows he's legally liable with me for the mortgage. I'm getting out. The thing is, Dad, I need money.”

He asked, “How much?”

“Enough to live comfortably abroad for a year. I'm not asking you for it—at least not directly. I want my share of the profits from the museum. I want it closed. Then I can take a decent loan from you—about twenty thousand—and pay you back when the place has shut down. We're all entitled to something, aren't we, I mean, the trustees and the grandchildren?”

He said, “I don't know how much. Under the trust deed all the valuable objects, including the pictures, will be offered to other museums. We get a share of what's left once it's sold. It could be as much as twenty thousand each, I suppose. I haven't calculated.”

“It'll be enough. There's a trustees' meeting tomorrow, isn't there? I phoned Aunt Caroline to inquire. You don't want it to go on, do you? I mean, you've always known that Grandad cared more for it than he did for you or any of his family. It was always a private indulgence. It isn't doing any good anyway. Uncle Marcus may think he can make a go of it, but he can't. He'll just keep spending money until he'll have to let it go. I want you to promise not to sign the new lease. That way I can borrow from you with a clear conscience. I'm not taking money from you otherwise, money I can't hope to pay back. I'm sick of being indebted, of having to be grateful.”

“Sarah, you don't have to be grateful.”

“Don't I? I'm not stupid, Dad. I know handing out cash is easier for you than loving me, I've always accepted that. I knew when I was a kid that love is what you gave to your patients, not to Mummy or me.”

It was an old complaint and he had heard it many times before, both from his wife and from Sarah. He knew there was some truth in it, but not as much as she and her mother had actually believed. The grievance had been too obvious, too simplistic and too convenient. The relationship between them had been subtler and far more complex than this easy psychological theorizing could explain. He didn't argue, but waited.

She said, “You want the museum closed, don't you? You've always known what it did to you and Granny. It's the past, Dad. It's about dead people and dead years. You've always said that we're too obsessed with our past, with hoarding and collecting for the sake of it. For God's sake, can't you stand up for once to your brother and sister?”

The bottle of wine had remained unopened. Now, with his back to her, steadying his hand by an act of will, he uncorked the Margaux and poured two glasses. He said, “I think the museum should be closed and I have it in mind to say so at tomorrow's meeting. I don't expect the others to agree. It's bound to be a battle of wills.”

“What do you mean, have it in mind? You sound like Uncle Marcus. You must know by now what you want to happen. And you don't have to do anything, do you? You don't even have to convince them. I know you'd rather do anything than face a family quarrel. All you've got to do is to refuse to sign the new lease by the due date and keep out of their way. They can't force you.”

Taking the wine over to her, he said, “How soon do you need the money?”

“I want it within days. I'm thinking of flying to New Zealand. Betty Carter is there. I don't suppose you remember her, but we trained together. She married a New Zealander and she's always been keen for me to take a holiday with them. I thought of starting in the South Island and then maybe move on to Australia and then California. I want to be able to live for a year without having to work. After that I can decide what I want to do next. It won't be teaching.”

“You can't do anything in a hurry. There may be visa requirements, plane seats to be booked. It isn't a good time to leave England. The world couldn't be more unsettled, more dangerous.”

“You could argue that's a case for getting out and going as far as you can. I'm not worried about terrorism here or anywhere else. I've got to leave. I've been a failure at everything I've touched. I think I'll go mad if I have to stay another month in this bloody country.”

He could have said,
But you'll be taking yourself with you.
He didn't. He knew what scorn—and it would be justifiable scorn—she would pour on that platitude. Any agony aunt in any women's magazine could have done as much for her as he was doing. But there was the money. He said, “I could let you have a cheque tonight if you want it. And I'll stand firm on closing the museum. It's the right thing to do.”

He sat opposite her. They didn't look at each other, but at least they were sipping wine together. He was swept with a sudden yearning towards her so strong that, had they been standing, he might impulsively have moved to take her into his arms. Was this love? But he knew that it was something less iconoclastic and disturbing, something with which he could deal. It was that mixture of pity and guilt which he had felt for the Gearings. But he had made a promise and it was one he knew he would have to keep. He knew, too, and the realization came in a wave of self-disgust, that he was glad she would be moving. His over-burdened life would be easier with his only child at the other end of the world.

12

The time of the trustees' meeting on Wednesday 30 October—three o'clock—was arranged, so Neville understood, to suit Caroline, who had morning and evening commitments. It didn't suit him. He was never at his liveliest after lunch and it had meant rearranging his afternoon domiciliary visits. They were to meet in the library on the first floor as they usually did on these rare occasions when, as trustees, they had business to transact. With the room's rectangular central table, the three fixed lights under parchment shades, it was the obvious place, but it was not the one he would have chosen. He had too many memories of entering it as a child summoned by his father, his hands clammy and his heart thudding. His father had never struck him; his verbal cruelty and undisguised contempt for his middle child had been a more sophisticated abuse and had left invisible but lasting scars. He had never discussed their father with Marcus and Caroline except in the most general terms. They apparently had suffered less or not at all. Marcus had always been a self-contained, solitary and uncommunicative child, later brilliant at school and at university, and armed against the tensions of family life by an unimaginative self-sufficiency. Caroline, as the youngest and only daughter, had always been their father's favourite in so far as he was capable of demonstrating affection. The museum had been his life, and his wife, unable to compete and finding small consolation in her children, had opted out of the competition by dying before she was forty.

He arrived on time but Marcus and Caroline were there before him. He wondered if this was by prior arrangement. Had they discussed their strategy in advance? But of course they had; every manoeuvre in this battle would have been planned in advance. As he entered they were standing together at the far end of the room and now came towards him, Marcus carrying a black briefcase.

Caroline looked dressed for battle. She was wearing black trousers with an open-necked grey-and-white-striped shirt in fine wool, a red silk scarf knotted at her throat, the ends flowing like a flag of defiance. Marcus, as if to emphasize the official importance of the meeting, was formally dressed for the office, the stereotype of an immaculate civil servant. Beside him Neville felt that his own shabby raincoat, the well-worn grey suit, inadequately brushed, made him look like a supplicant poor relation. He was, after all, a consultant; now without even the obligation of alimony, he wasn't poor. A new suit could well have been afforded if he hadn't lacked the time and energy to buy it. Now for the first time when meeting his siblings, he felt himself at a sartorial disadvantage; that the feeling was both irrational and demeaning made it the more irritating. He had only rarely seen Marcus in his non-working holiday clothes, the khaki shorts, the striped T-shirt or thick round-necked jersey he wore on vacations. So far from transforming him, the careful casualness had emphasized his essential conformity. Informally dressed he always looked to Neville's eyes a little ridiculous, like an overgrown boy scout. Only in his well-tailored formal suits did he appear at ease. He was very much at ease now.

Neville pulled off his raincoat, tossed it on a chair and moved across to the central table. Three chairs had been pulled out between the lights. At each place were a manila document folder and a glass tumbler. A carafe of water was set on a salver between two of the lights. Because it was the nearest, Neville moved to the single chair, then realized as he sat that he would be physically and psychologically disadvantaged from the start. But having sat he couldn't bring himself to change.

Marcus and Caroline took their places. Only by a swift glance did Marcus betray that the single chair had been intended for him. He put down the briefcase at his side. To Neville the table looked prepared for a viva voce examination. There could be no doubt which of them was the examiner; no doubt either who was expected to fail. The ceiling-high filled shelves with their locked glass seemed to bear down on him, bringing back his childish imagining that they were inadequately constructed and would break away from the wall, at first in slow motion, then in a thunder of falling leather, to bury him under the killing weight of the books. The dark recesses of the jutting piers at his back induced the same remembered terror of lurking peril. The Murder Room, which might have been expected to exert a more powerful if less personal terror, had evoked only pity and curiosity. As an adolescent he had stood looking in silent contemplation at those unreadable faces, as if the intensity of his gaze could somehow wrest from them some insight into their dreadful secrets. He would stare at Rouse's bland and stupid face. Here was a man who had offered a tramp a lift with the intention of burning him alive. Neville could imagine the gratitude with which the weary traveller had climbed into the car and to his death. At least Rouse had had the mercy to club or throttle him unconscious before setting him alight, but surely that had been expedience rather than pity. The tramp had been unacknowledged, unnamed, unwanted, still unidentified. Only in his terrible death had he gained a fleeting notoriety. Society, which had cared so little for him in life, had avenged him with the full panoply of the law.