The Lying Tongue (29 page)

“That’s wonderful,” I said. “I’m sure Mr. Crace would like that too.”

“But please don’t tell him. I wouldn’t want him to think I was running before I could walk, if you see what I mean.”

“No, of course not. I promise to keep it just between us.”

The waiter came over to take our order. Lavinia decided to have the smoked trout and horseradish sauce and then the sea bass, and I went for the wood pigeon with beetroot followed by the lamb shank with beans. We ordered another bottle of wine.

“How long have you been a writer?” I asked.

“Oh, gosh, over thirty years now, it must be. What a thought.”

“How did you start? I mean, how did you get into it?”

“After university I took a job on the literary pages of a Sunday newspaper. While I was there I wrote my first book, a biography of Constance Fenimore Woolson, which did very well and won a couple of prizes. Anyway, that enabled me to leave and write full-time.”

“That was very fortunate.”

“Yes, it was, rather. I always say it’s the only thing I’m fit for.”

“I noticed on the way back from the bar that you keep a notebook.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Is that a diary or—”

“It’s not really what you’d call a diary, nor is it a proper writer’s notebook. More just a reminder of whom I’ve met and occasionally what they’ve said. First impressions, feelings, physical descriptions, those kinds of things. Aspects of a person you cannot capture on an audiotape.”

“Yes, I see. What a good idea. Do you carry it with you everywhere?”

“Yes, I suppose I do. It’s become second-nature now. Scribbling things down here and there.”

I took another couple of gulps of wine and leaned forward toward her.

“So you’d write about meeting me, would you?”

She smiled, her gray eyes sparkling.

“I might, if I felt so inspired.”

“I see,” I said. “And what might you say?”

“I’m afraid, Mr. Woods,” she said in a mock-pompous tone, “that would be between my notebook and me. Strictly for my eyes only.”

“You mean you don’t even show your husband?”

She laughed.

“Especially not my husband!” she said as the waiter placed a plate in front of her. “The truth of the matter is that Ian and I have not really spoken since our divorce seven years ago. Silly really, after bringing up two children together, all those years, but—”

“I see. And is there anyone else? Anyone you—”

“If you’re trying to find out whether I’m single, well, the answer is yes. And resolutely, determinedly so. And happy with it. And what about you?”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“I did have a girlfriend—Eliza—at college, but that ended on a bit of a sour note.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m over her now, as they say. Got her out of my system.”

“Good. Good for you.”

Lavinia started to laugh again, forcing her to bring her napkin to her mouth.

“I’m sorry, sorry, excuse me,” she managed to say, waving her hand in the air in a gesture of apology.

“What is it?”

“No, I couldn’t, really. Just me being ridiculous.”

“No, what?”

“Oh, very well. But you promise you won’t hold it against me?”

“Yes.”

“Promise?”

“Yes.”

“Just that I thought—I don’t know why—that you were, you know, you and Mr. Crace were—”

“What?”

“That you were…together.”

“What?”

“It was just a stupid thought, a whimsy, nothing more.”

“What on earth made you think that?”

“I don’t know. My impression is that you seem to be so close to him, that you hold him very dear. And little things, like when you talk about him, your eyes light up. I haven’t offended you, have I?”

“No, of course not. Don’t be so silly.”

“Really? You would tell me if I had, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, I would. But after what you’ve just said, I could do with another drink.”

I smiled, but I was seething inside. What had made her say that? Why did everyone seem to think that?

“If you don’t mind me asking, how did you become friendly with Gordon Crace?”

“I rather fell into the job by accident,” I said, cutting into the wood pigeon. “My original job—teaching English to the teenage son of an Italian family—fell through after he got himself in a little hot water. I wanted to stay on in Venice, because I had this mad idea of wanting to write a novel partly set there. And so when the job with Mr. Crace came up, I took it. It seemed to suit my needs at the time.”

“I see. I didn’t realize you wrote.”

“Well, the book is not going quite as planned.”

After lunch, which I insisted on paying for, we took our coffee in the elegant morning room at the front of the house. Sunlight streamed through the grand windows, casting everything in a pale, golden glow. As I ran my fingers through my hair, I caught Lavinia gazing at me with a puzzled expression, her eyes almost squinting, her brows so knotted that a very definite line seemed to split her forehead in two. Then a moment later, her eyes widened ever so slightly and her mouth dropped open.

“I don’t believe it,” she whispered.

“Sorry?”

“No, it’s just too ridiculous,” she said as she continued to stare at me in bewilderment. “It can’t be.”

“I’m afraid you’ve lost me, rather.”

I knew what she had seen.

“Why didn’t I ever see it before?” she said.

“What?”

“Have you ever come across the name Christopher Davidson?”

“No,” I said. “Should I have?”

“And you’ve never seen a photograph of him?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Come with me,” she said, placing her cup down on the table and standing up.

“Sorry?”

“Upstairs. I want to show you something.”

She almost ran out of the room and up the wide, wooden staircase.

“Are you going to tell me what you’re talking about?”

We walked down a corridor lined with prints of the house and Dorset landscapes.

“In a minute. I just want to show you something.”

At the end of the corridor, she fumbled in her bag for her key.

“Come in,” she said.

She threw her bag onto the large bed and walked across the room to the triple-mirrored dressing table. As I shut the door and followed her, joining her by the mirrors, our reflections looked back at us, a strange triptych. She started to search through a pile of papers, some of which were in plastic wallet files. So it was true—she had built up quite a substantial amount of material on Crace, documents that might prove very useful indeed.

“I know it’s in here somewhere,” she said, her brows furrowing once more.

“What are you looking for?”

“Here, I’ve got it,” she said, holding up a copy of a black-and-white photograph. “Have you seen this before? Seen a picture of him before?”

“No. Why?”

“Can’t you see?”

“See what?”

“You and him—that you could be twins.”

I took the photograph from her hand and pretended to study it.

“I suppose there is some kind of superficial resemblance,” I said.

“No, it’s more than that. In a certain light, you look exactly the same. And when you ran your hand through your hair—”

“So what? Who is this?”

“It’s Christopher Davidson. Gordon Crace’s lover.”

I did the best I could to look shocked.

“Oh my God,” I said. “Yes, I see what you mean. But—”

“Exactly. Why did Gordon Crace choose you?”

“What happened to him, to this Christopher Davidson?”

“He died—committed suicide in 1967.”

I didn’t say anything, just continued to stare at the photograph.

“Do you think you’re going to confront him with this?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “It does seem odd, unsettling.”

“Yes, I can imagine,” she said, biting the corner of her lip. “Do you feel he’s been totally honest with you?”

“Come to think of it, no, I don’t—especially after seeing this,” I said, gesturing toward the photograph. “I can’t quite get my head around it.”

“I suggest you think it over,” she said. “Give it some time.”

I took a deep breath. I wanted to give her the impression I was thinking aloud.

“Even though it is very strange, I’m sure there has to be some logical explanation for this. There must be. And to be honest, I do have to go back to Venice anyway. I need to get on with my novel.”

“Oh, really? So what will you do?”

“So, I’m going to return to Mr. Crace and, for the time being, not say anything at all.”

“Are you really sure? I wouldn’t want you to do it just for my sake.”

“No, no, I’m totally confident that’s the right thing to do. And I can’t afford not to go back.”

“And what will you say about Christopher Davidson?”

“Nothing. I’ll keep it to myself. After all, Mr. Crace’s private life is hardly my business, is it?”

Lavinia sat on the bed and ran her fingers through her hair.

“It does seem rather noble of you. I mean, if I were you, I’m not certain how I would have reacted.”

“Best not to think about it, that’s always been my philosophy,” I said, looking around the room. “But as I am going to go back, I may as well as take those documents you were talking about.”

“Oh yes, of course.”

She stood up and went over to the dressing table once more, where she began rifling through her files.

“Which ones did you say would be helpful?”

“I think Mr. Crace said he was missing things like his birth certificate, genealogical records, material that he said would help fix his place in the world.”

“You should be able to find a few things in here.”

She passed me a plastic file bulging with pieces of paper. Inside was a copy of his birth certificate, a large folded A3-size piece of paper on which someone had traced a spider’s trail of a family tree and some typed notes about Crace’s early life growing up in Edinburgh and the school where his father had once taught science.

“Thank you,” I said. “Mr. Crace will find this very helpful indeed. And…”

“Yes?”

“Did you manage to lay your hands on the synopsis we talked about as well?”

“Oh, surely now Mr. Crace had made his decision, he won’t be needing to see that any longer.”

“I do think he would feel more comfortable if he did see a copy of it.”

“I’m afraid I can’t give it to you just at this moment.”

“Never mind,” I said. “I’ll get this copied, and perhaps when I give the papers back to you, you could have it ready then. I’m conscious about not leaving Mr. Crace for too long.”

“Very well,” she said as she walked me to the door. “Thank you again for lunch, Adam. It’s really very kind of you.”

“No, it was my pleasure.”

As I opened the door and turned to say good-bye, Lavinia stepped forward and kissed me, lightly, on the cheek. She smelt of honeysuckle, the same sickly sweet fragrance that Signora Gondolini had been wearing the first time I heard Crace’s name.

“Thank you,” she said. “For everything.”

She thought she was so clever. She thought she had me wrapped around her little finger. I imagined her in her hotel room, sitting quietly and smiling to herself, enjoying the twinned sensations of anticipation and achievement. Not only did she believe that she was going to write Crace’s biography, that she had been given approval by the reclusive author himself, but she had spotted the physical similarity between Christopher Davidson and myself and, as such, had started to understand that she had a much stranger—and even more salable—subject on her hands than she had previously thought.