Home Before Dark (48 page)

We sat up on the launch ramp, exhausted and shivering, arms
around each other just trying to get warm. I could hear the
sound of sirens in the distance and saw to my relief the blue
flashes of rotating dome lights right across the bay, making
their way slowly towards us along the shore road from the
old boathouse.
The approaching police and emergency services meant
that Campbell had been found alive and in a fit enough state
to have pointed them in our direction. Although she seemed
all right now, I knew Jelly would also need medical attention.
'This doesn’t change anything,’ she murmured.
'What are you talking about?’
There was a silence. I said, 'I came back for you, didn’t I?’
She laughed. 'Yeah, took your time about it too.’
Earlier, soon after we scrambled ashore, I’d heard faint
splashing out on the river. There was no way of knowing if
it was Ward, but it made me wonder what had persuaded
him to come after us in the water. Perhaps he realised there
was a chance I might succeed in rescuing Jelly from the
submerged station-wagon; and decided it was too risky for
him to wait on the beach.
The police report concluded that he probably drowned in
the Hudson that night and his body was swept out to sea. I
went along with the theory, if only to give Jelly some peace
of mind, but no trace of Ward was ever found.
'He’s gone now,’ I said quietly, 'gone for good.’
'But what if—’ she began.
'Jelly, from now on I promise—’
'Don’t.’ She put a finger across my lips. 'Just because you
saved my damned life … oh Jesus, Ed, I let him in.’ She
started crying. “I let him in.’
'It’s all over now.’
'Is it?’
'Try not to talk,’ I shushed her.

I waited until the recital had begun and the ensemble had
almost completed the Chopin section of the programme
before quietly opening the door near the top of the auditorium
and stepping inside.
It was early evening and the Salle de l’Orgue was dark
enough for the back rows to be almost invisible from the
stage. I found a pillar to lean against and partly conceal myself
behind – there were plenty of empty seats in the small subterranean
amphitheatre (it was an informal concert by the
students), but I didn’t want her to know I was in the audience.
On stage, sitting very straight at the concert grand, Jelly
looked thinner and older, a little more drawn about the face,
than I remembered, but still just as beautiful. Since we last
saw each other in New York we’d stayed loosely in touch, but
had let the old connection between us drop. She’d e-mailed
me that she’d taken up her place at the Conservatoire and I
was pleased to know that at least something good had come
out of the nightmare I’d put her through.
After I got back from the States, I gave Laura a full uncensored
account of everything that had happened. I was honest
and open with her because, frankly, I had no reason not to
be. Her reaction was unexpected. When I’d finished, she just
smiled sadly and said, 'This doesn’t make it any easier to say
what I have to say to you, Ed.’ Then she broke the news that
there was someone else in her life, and that it had been going
on for some time – from even before Sophie was murdered.
Laura wanted an annulment, the Catholic way of divorce, on
the basis of clandestinity – which strikes me now as a little
ironic – meaning that our union was invalid because we were
not married before a priest.
I am still coming to terms with all that that entails.
The ensemble reached the end of a Chopin Polonaise, the
strings pulling back to let the last gliding notes of the piano
hang on the air. The audience showed its appreciation as the
violinist and cellist stepped forward to take a bow. Jelly
remained seated while the applause died down and the other
two musicians left the stage.
She waited for the audience to settle, then began her solo
piece. It was a Schubert Impromptu, slow and melancholy,
with a flowing melody line that soared high above the darker,
more passionate phrases, which she played with such delicacy
of touch and feeling, it was impossible not to be moved. I
listened more or less spellbound until I realised I’d lost track
of time and was going to be late for another engagement. I
slipped out, closing the door soundlessly behind me.
I lingered for a moment in the dark hallway. A tightness rose
up through my chest and formed a hard knot at the back of
my throat. I thought of waiting till the end of the concert and
just saying hello, perhaps asking her out for a drink.
It would have been simple to change my plans. But something
in me resisted. I felt a reluctance to get involved again,
even though my feelings for her hadn’t really changed, even
though the situation at home had. Irrevocably. I don’t know
why, I just decided it was best to leave things as they were.
I could hear muted but enthusiastic clapping from the
auditorium. For an encore she struck up a bright Scott Joplin
rag – one I hadn’t heard before. The tumbling, relentlessly
cheerful barrelhouse sound made me smile. I turned then
and began to climb the shallow stairs that curved upwards
between walls of black slate and exited into the main hall. I’d
almost reached the top when I noticed someone standing
there, a tall familiar figure.
The clothes he was wearing – suit, shirt, tie, even the shoes – were either mine or identical to mine. Then I saw his hand
reach for the rail at the same moment I did and realised my
mistake; there was no one there. I was simply walking towards
my own reflection in a full-length mirror on the back of the
half-open door.

I sent letters of condolence to Sam Metcalf’s parents and the
family of Linda Jack, the other girl on the train. I found it
easier to write now that I could tell them that justice of a
kind had been done, the murder of their children avenged.
Vengeance stirs primitive emotions. I’m not proud of the
satisfaction it has given me, but I can’t pretend that I don’t
rejoice in the removal of Ernest 'Ward’ Seaton from the face
of the earth. The person who best understands and shares
that sentiment (he told me once he had a Sicilian grandmother)
is Andrea Morelli. I underestimated Morelli. If it
hadn’t been for his quiet perseverance and a tough but
compassionate nature, the outcome might have been very
different. He received a citation for his role in tracking down
the murderer of three foreign residents of Florence and I’ve
heard is in line for a promotion.
I also found a way privately to express my gratitude.
Campbell Armour made a full recovery from his injuries.
He was lucky and, when it really mattered, his luck held. The
beating he took from Ward’s hammer left him with a fractured
skull and an epidural haematoma (an accumulation of blood
in the lining of the brain), which required emergency surgery.
His wife and daughter flew up from Tampa and I arranged
for them to stay at La Rochelle so they could be near the
hospital in Englewood. The other day I received an e-mail
from Campbell saying it felt good to be home, debt-free and
hoping to be playing tennis again by Christmas. His claim
to have been permanently cured of his gambling habit I found
less convincing.
I still have dreams about Sophie’s murder. I haven’t stopped
grieving for my daughter and doubt that I ever will. Just as
I don’t expect to get past the idea that I was in some way
responsible for what happened. But life goes on, and the fact
that it does seems less cruel, less unfair now. I can’t say I’m
at peace with myself, I neither expect nor want 'closure’, but
I have at least found a degree of acceptance.
I’m sure that Jelena with her 'get over it, move on’ philosophy
has been a positive influence – I have her to thank for
helping me find the way to a new life.
The night of the concert, when I got back to the hotel,
there was a note from her in my system tray. She had spotted
me at the back of the Salle de l’Orgue, lurking in the shadows,
as she put it, and was furious that I’d had the nerve to drop
by and then sneak away without even telling her. She said that
she’d looked everywhere for me after the recital but I’d already
left. I replied with a brief apology, explaining that I’d had
other plans.
When I returned to Paris a week later I called Jelly up, and
the next evening took her out to dinner at a restaurant called
L’Ami Louis.
It felt a little uncomfortable at first being together again.
Maybe it had something to do with finding ourselves at last
in circumstances that could be described as nearly normal.
Strangers but not strangers, we weren’t so much awkward
with each other as reserved and a little wary. It was like
picking up the old conversation where we’d left off, and yet
at the same time starting over from scratch. We didn’t mention
Ward during dinner, or at any point that evening.
After leaving the restaurant, I had the taxi drop us off at
the Pont de la Concorde and we walked back to the Ritz
along the banks of the Seine. More or less as I had once
imagined. We stopped at the same spot where months ago
I’d stood and, looking upriver at the illuminated towers of
Notre Dame through an arch of the Pont des Arts, wished
Jelly could have been at my side. Now she was.
I walked on, taking her arm, and maybe fifty yards further
along the riverbank paused again. It was then something
occurred that I have no explanation for.
We were standing on the quayside by an empty landing
stage, sharing a cigarette (she had switched to smoking
Gauloises) and talking. I have to say it was neither peaceful
by the water’s edge nor particularly romantic. It had just
started to rain and we could hardly make ourselves heard
over the blaring tourist commentary from a passing Bateau
Mouche; but then, as the river grew quiet again, cutting
through the slapping of the boat’s wash against the quayside,
I detected a faint thin sound that sent a shiver through me.
It was impossible to tell where the music was coming
from. I looked around but we were between bridges and
there was no sign of anyone on the embankment above.
The quay was deserted.
'Is that your cell?’ Jelly asked with a frown.
I shook my head, unsure whether it was a ring-tone I could
hear or another kind of recording or just somebody whistling
the tune, but we’d both recognised the first limpid seesawing
notes of 'Fur Elise’.
It didn’t last more than a few seconds. As the melody began
to pick up the pace and swell into the graceful flourish of
arpeggios that modulate back to the main theme, the music
suddenly cut out.
I could feel my heart hammering against my ribs as I stood
very still, gripping Jelly’s arm, determined not to over-react.
I wanted to run up the stone steps to the Tuileries in case
he was there somewhere, watching us, but it would only have
scared her. She was unaware of the significance of what we’d
just heard and I couldn’t possibly enlighten her now. I made
some flippant remark about how in Iran garbage trucks play
the tune to warn people to bring out their trash.
There was nothing more. And there’s been nothing since.
I’m not a great believer in coincidence, but it was almost
certainly just that. Nevertheless, I’ve had to accept that as
far as Ward’s demise is concerned there will always be the
shadow of a doubt.
Jelly and I see quite a bit of each other now, mostly when
I’m in Paris. I don’t know what the future holds for us. She
believes in taking life a day at a time. I have plans to take
my life in new directions that I can’t easily envisage her fitting
in with. There’s a lot to work through, and we may never
resolve our differences, but it seems at least possible that I
wasn’t wrong when I told her that this was always 'meant to
happen’.
In fact it was Ward who wrote those words, as Jelly was
quick to point out. But then she smiled and said it didn’t
make them any less true. Which made me think about the
moment when I saw her step out of that taxi at Lincoln
Center and knew somehow that it was really her.

The End.