A Poisonous Journey (23 page)
"Shall we abandon our search?" His voice is low, his gaze even. I shake my head, to pull myself into the present. He takes this gesture as an answer.
"No, I didn’t think so. Well," he pushes himself off the floor, towering over me and reaches out a hand, "better keep going. Briony will want to feed us soon, and I don’t think I can come here again today."
I reach up, liking the way our hands fit together, the contrast of my white and his tanned skin. He pulls me up, and for a moment we are only inches apart, his face close above my own. Then the spell is broken. I let go of his hand and take a tiny, clumsy, step backward. He is grieving and in need of comfort, I ought not fancy myself with ideas of anything else.
"I’ll start with the closet, shall I? You could search the little dresser by the bed, if you don’t mind." Daniel suggests. Turning away I bite my bottom lip, the sting waking me, bringing me back to the present.
Concentrate, Evie.
Concentrate, Evie.
Kneeling down again, I think how wise it had been to forgo stockings, for they would have been riddled with runs and holes from all of the kneeling on the bare wooden planks. Carefully, I open the first of the three narrow drawers in the bedside table. The top drawer contains a small, leatherbound Bible. On first glance, I think it is "the diary" and am about to alert Daniel when my eye falls on the etched in title. It would appear unlikely of Caspar to keep a Bible beside his bed.
"Was Caspar a religious man?" I ask, more to say something to interrupt the silence of our search, than out of genuine interest.
"Not particularly, why do you ask?"
"There is a Bible in his dresser."
Daniel grins. "Caspar opened it about as often as it snows on the
Acropolis
. It belonged to his mother. She was a devout woman, and he never met her. She died in childbirth, and he had little that belonged to her."
Acropolis
. It belonged to his mother. She was a devout woman, and he never met her. She died in childbirth, and he had little that belonged to her."
A cad, a philanderer, and a man who yearned for his mother.
I turn back to gently place the small book into it’s previous home.
I turn back to gently place the small book into it’s previous home.
The second drawer is empty, and even my ardent search around the inside produces nothing but a splinter in my finger. Opening the third, it looks as empty as the others, and wary of another painful sliver of rough oak wood ending up embedded in my hand, I cautiously feel around inside. I expect nothing and am stunned to touch something smooth with the tips of my fingers. Eager now, I reach further …
Can it be?
The spine of a book.
The diary?
Grasping the object, I pull it out. It had been standing propped vertically against the very back of the drawer. Niobe, dusting and cleaning would not have opened it far enough to even catch a glimpse of the precious item.
Can it be?
The spine of a book.
The diary?
Grasping the object, I pull it out. It had been standing propped vertically against the very back of the drawer. Niobe, dusting and cleaning would not have opened it far enough to even catch a glimpse of the precious item.
"Daniel!" I cannot hide my excitement, though I remain careful not to alert anybody else. "Look." He takes a sharp breath as he sees what I am holding. "Is this it? Do you recognize it?" I scramble up, holding the rectangular book bound in smooth, chocolate brown leather.
"I think it is." His eyes are wide as they meet mine. In unspoken union, we crouch on the edge of the bed, having, for the moment, forgotten its prior sanctity.
"Here." I hand the journal to him, the thought of opening it myself completely out of the question. He takes it and holds it for a moment as one might an object one has never encountered before.
"Yes, this is it. His latest journal." He presses his lips together, and his knuckles whiten as he clasps the book.
"What do you want to do?" I can barely disguise my eagerness to delve in. He swallows, blinks a few times, and for a terrible few seconds I fear he will begin to cry. What will I do then? I cannot think of anything to say. It would be worse for him. A man has his pride. Thank goodness, we avoid that awkward situation as he takes control of himself again. He glances at his wristwatch. I reach over to turn on the small lamp on the bedside table, which casts a surprisingly wide glow around the room.
"Thanks. It’s only twenty past."
He isn’t willing to say that this will give us a moment to have a look at the contents of the journal, before we have to go down for dinner and drinks. Keen as I am to know what Caspar has written, I feel uneasy about the idea of reading his private thoughts and trying to pry into a life I never had any part of.
"Daniel, I’ll give you some privacy. It would not be right for me to read this." Getting to my feet before I can change my mind, I take a few determined steps to the door. "I will see how Briony is. Take your time." Daniel, despite his solid frame and broad shoulders, looks lost and forlorn sitting on the corner of his dead friend’s bed in the meager yellow light, holding the journal like a hostile object.
"Thank you."
I linger for a moment on the precipice of walking back, putting an arm around his shoulders and a comforting hand on his, then restrain myself. He needs to do this on his own. He will tell me if he discovers anything important, of that I am certain.
Without another word, I turn on my heel and silently as a cat retrace my steps and descend the stairs.
CHAPTER 13
Once downstairs, I drift towards the sitting room where the quiet scratch and hum of a gramophone record is coming from. Entering, I recognize the melancholy voice of Bessie Smith singing the blues. I am surprised to hear it here, of all places. I would not have known the soulful jazz musician myself, had it not been for a dear friend in London who introduced me to her and taught me the Charleston when we should have attended the "Ladies Lecture on Etiquette."
Briony is sitting on one of the low settees, eyes closed, her foot tapping to an imaginary rhythm. As my heels click against the marble floor, she opens them, but doesn’t smile.
"Is everything all right? You look—" I break off, noticing the line of her mouth is one of anger, not sorrow.
"If I look upset, it’s probably because I am." She states this in a tone so reminiscent of the one she used as a child, I cannot help but smile.
"Why? What has happened?" I wander over and crouch on the seat across from her, resting against the cushions in my back.
"It’s not a lauging matter, Evie." She crosses her bare arms over her chest.
"Well, enlighten me. I have no mind for guessing tonight." My patience for childishness is not abundant after the serious scene I have come from. "Out with it!"
"It’s Jeffrey."
I groan inwardly. I have been here less than a week and find misery and discord in all the married couples I encounter. With the exception of Paul and Rosie, who may have other concerns.
"What has the man done now?" I should be more patient, yet I cannot deny I have the strong urge to take Jeffrey and Briony by the hands, like children who need to be guided, and lock tem into a room to sort themselves out, or at least to talk things through, like the adult couple they are. Such judgement is easy for me, I confess, as I have no experience with marriage or, for that matter, with any proper romantic attachments to draw from. Instantly repentant of my impatience, I smile and settle back to listen.
"He’s not here."
"Jeffrey?"
"Of course, Jeffrey, who else?" She shakes her head in exasperation.
"Sorry, go on."
"He promised he would be here by five. I told him I needed to talk to him. I said it was important, and he isn’t here!"
"It’s not yet half-past," I glance at the beautiful cherrywood grandfather clock in the corner. "He may well be here in a moment or two."
"He might have called, if he was going to be late."
"Perhaps he couldn’t. Didn’t have time or—"
"Stop defending him, Evie!" Oh, dear, now she is angry with me.
"I am sorry, I don’t like seeing you upset."
"Well, I am. This is not the first time. He does this
all the time
. Leaving me here, pleading with the cook to keep the food warm, trying entertain the guests,
his
guests, while he is busy with some pile of rubble, or bits of useless glass. I have a lower priority in his life than that rubbish!"
all the time
. Leaving me here, pleading with the cook to keep the food warm, trying entertain the guests,
his
guests, while he is busy with some pile of rubble, or bits of useless glass. I have a lower priority in his life than that rubbish!"
"Briony, I am certain it isn’t so." A weak answer, I know, but what am I to say? Jeffrey is not a bad man. Nevertheless, my loyality is always with Briony.
"Evie, he isn’t interested in me. I am just his little wife who sits at home or goes off to make social calls. I left my home for him to have this opportunity. I at least expect him to show some understanding."
Now we are heading into dangerous territory. I can hear the resentment in her voice and it worries me. "Briony, you know this isn’t fair. He adores you, you know he does."
"He may have, not anymore."
"You’ve not been married three years!"
"Exactly. How could he lose interest so quickly? I did everything he wanted, getting married so quickly, moving here, and what do I have to show for it? A distant husband and an empty nursery." We have arrived at the source. All that ails Briony inevitably leads back down this much-trodden path.
"Don’t blame Jeffrey. You have not been married long. Countless couples take longer to have children than you."
"Evie—" she twists the dainty fabric of her skirt in her clenched hands and whispers, "he has given up on even trying."
"Oh." I may be unmarried, but I have for sometime been quite clear on what is required for a preganancy to result.
"What do I do about that? He is busy. He has to go to work. We have to host a dinner. We have to go to a dinner, a function and so on. It is always about him and his work and fawning over his collegues, who make digging around long-gone people’s property appear crucial to the development of humanity! I am alive
now
, I want to be happy
now
!" Her voice has grown shrill, her cheeks pink to the point of feverishness.
now
, I want to be happy
now
!" Her voice has grown shrill, her cheeks pink to the point of feverishness.
"Please, Briony, calm yourself. You are right to be upset. Still, getting agitated will do nothing to improve the situation."
"Then help me." Briony looks at me, her eyes swimming with tears. I drape an arm around her shoulder, wishing that I could.
"What shall I do? I do not believe Jeffrey would take kindly to me ordering him to impregnate you." This produces a sliver of a smile on my cousin’s face.
"I suppose not."
"Well, you suppose correctly. I can talk to him, but I honestly doubt it would do much good, except make him believe that we are discussing him behind his back."
"Which we are."
"Indeed. Still, I doubt your relationship would benefit from him discovering this."
"Probably not."
"He would feel under attack in his own home, and, if anything, he ought to feel less so."
"You are right as usual," she concedes; a sentence I never tire of hearing, though in truth it is a rare occurrance.
"Give it time, Briony. I know you are struggling. Jeffrey loves you, I know it, and I am certain you do, too."
Her shoulders rise as she inhales deeply. I remove my arm and find a clean hankerchief in my cardigan pocket and press into her hand.
"Thank you." She dabs at her eyes.
"Better?"
"A little." She turns her head, giving me a sheepish look. "I am embarassed, Evie. I shouldn’t have said all of this. I am simply not feeling myself. Haven’t been for some time. I know people change when they get married, and I haven’t changed in a way I like. Maybe Jeffrey has become aware of that." Her quiet confession pains me.
"I don’t like you being sad." A banal thing to say, still it is out before I have heard it in my mind. Besides, if there is one person I do not have to impress with the elegance of my speech and thought, it is Briony.
"I am a terrible host. Luring you here under the pretense of a holiday, and now you get is misery all around; Caspar being killed and me moaning all waking hours. It isn’t right, and I am sorry."
"Don’t be. You know I am always on your side, though I will say, I am immensely relieved you have an alibi for the murder, so my loyalty must not be tested."
"You shouldn’t joke like that." She smiles, if faintly. The force of the storm has passed for now.
"You’re smiling again!"
"Yes. Thank you." She sniffles once or twice and tucks the hankerchief into her pocket. Just then, we can hear the sound of the heavy entry door fall shut, followed by footsteps. A moment later, Jeffrey appears in the doorway. He looks dissheveled and sun-burnt, the eggshell color of his shirt a strong contrast to the tomato-esque tone of his skin.
"Hello, sorry I am a bit late. Paul and I were drawn into a discussion with Darius, and he does go on."
"Oh, has Paul come with you?"
"No, no. Only dropped me off. Said he had to get home to see how Rosie was. I’ll wash up, and then we can eat. I am ravenous."
Without another word, he disappears and we can hear him plodding up the stairs. Everything in this open house creates an echo. This can be both impressive and at times startling. "You see? He apologized for being late!" I try to make this out to be a great and wonderful thing. Briony, not easily deluded by my ploys, only shrugs.
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