This Rough Magic (19 page)

‘Was it Manoulis who brought you home?’

Sir Julian focused. ‘Home?’

‘Back here?’ amended Max quickly.

The older man hesitated. ‘The thing was, I had to ask him in. When he came in for petrol and saw me
there, you might say he had to offer the lift, but all the same, one has to be civil. I’m sorry, Max.’

‘It’s all right, I understand. Of course one must. He brought you home, and you felt you’d have to ask him in, so you bought the gin?’

‘Gin?’ Sir Julian was drifting again. I thought I could see something struggling in his face, some intelligence half drowned with gin and sleep, holding on by a gleam of cunning. ‘That’s Turkish gin, too, terrible stuff, God knows what they put in it. It was what he said he liked … We stopped at that taverna – Constantinos’ it used to be, but I forget the name now – two miles out of Ipsos. I think he must have guessed there wouldn’t be any in the house.’

Max was silent. I couldn’t see his face.

Adoni broke the pause. ‘Max, look.’ I had seen him stoop to pick something up, and now he held out a hand, with some small object on the palm; a cigarette stub. ‘It was down there, by the stove. It’s not one of yours, is it?’

‘No.’ Max picked the thing up, and held it closer to the light.

Adoni said: ‘It is, isn’t it?’

‘Obviously.’ Their eyes met again, over the old man’s head. There was a silence, in which the cat suddenly purred. ‘“
Thing to discuss
.”’ Max quoted it softly, but with a new note in his voice that I found frightening. ‘What the sweet hell can
he
have wanted to discuss with my father?’

‘This meeting,’ said Adoni, ‘could it be accidental?’

‘It must have been. He was driving by, and picked
my father up. Pure chance. Who could have foreseen that? Damn and damn and damn.’

‘And getting him … like this?’

‘Letting him get like this. There’s a difference. That can’t have been deliberate Nobody knew he was like this except us, and Michael and the Karithis’.’

Adoni said: ‘Maybe he’s been talking this sort of nonsense all evening. Maybe
he
couldn’t get any sense out of him, either.’

‘He couldn’t get any sense out of me,’ said Sir Julian, with intense satisfaction.

‘Oh, my God,’ said Max, ‘let’s hope he’s right.’ He flicked the cigarette butt back towards the stove, and straightened his shoulders. ‘Well, I’ll get him to bed. Be a good chap and look after Miss Lucy, will you? Show her the bathroom – the one my father uses is the least repulsive, I think. Find her a towel and show her a spare bedroom – the one Michael sleeps in. There’s an electric fire there.’

‘All right, but what about your hand? Haven’t you seen to it at all?’

‘Not yet, but I will in a moment … Go on, man, don’t fuss. Believe me, I’d fuss plenty if I thought it was serious; I’m a pianist of a sort, don’t forget! Lucy, I’m sorry about this. Will you go with him now?’

‘Of course.’

‘This way,’ said Adoni.

The massive door swung shut behind us, and our steps rattled across the chequer-board marble of the hall floor.

It would have taken Dali and Ronald Searle, working overtime on alternate jags of mescal and Benzedrine, to design the interior of the Castello dei Fiori. At one end of a hall was a massive curved staircase, with a wrought-iron banister and bare stone treads. The walls were panelled in the darkest possible oak, and what small rugs lay islanded on the marble sea were (as far as I could judge in the gloom) done in uniform shades of drab and olive-green. A colossal open fireplace, built for roasting oxen whole, by men who had never roasted, and would never roast, an ox whole in their lives, half-filled one wall. The hearth of this bristled with spits and dogs and tongs and cauldrons and a hundred other mediæval kitchen gadgets whose functions I couldn’t even guess at; they looked like – and probably were – instruments of torture. For the rest, the hall was cluttered like a bargain basement: the Gales must have thrown most of the furniture out of their big living-room to clear the acoustics – or perhaps merely in the interests of sane living – and as a result the hall was crammed full of enormous, over-stuffed furniture in various shades of mud, with innumerable extras in the way of bamboo tables, Chinese screens, and whatnots in spindly and very shiny wood. I thought I glimpsed a harmonium, but might have been wrong, because there was a full-sized organ, pipes and all, in the darkness beyond a fretwork dresser and a coat-rack made of stags’ antlers. There was certainly a harp, and a small forest of pampas grass stuck in what I am sure was the severed foot of an elephant. These riches were lit with a merciful dimness by a single weak
bulb in a torch held by a fully armed Javanese warrior who looked a bit like a gila monster in rut.

Adoni ran gracefully up the wide stairs in front of me. I followed more slowly, hampered by my icily clinging clothes, my sandals leaving horrible wet marks on the treads. He paused to wait for me, eyeing me curiously.

‘What happened to you and Max?’

‘The dolphin – Spiro’s dolphin – was stranded on the beach, and he helped me to float it again. It pulled us both in.’

‘No, did it really?’ He laughed. ‘I’d like to have seen that!’

‘I’m sure you would.’ At least his spirits didn’t seem to have been damped by the recent scene in the music-room. I wondered if he were used to it.

‘When you ran into Max, then, you were coming for help? I see! But why were you out on the beach in the dark?’

‘Now don’t
you
start!’ I said warmly. ‘I had plenty of that from Max! I was down there picking up a ring – this ring – that my sister had left this morning.’

His eyes and mouth rounded at the sight of the diamond. ‘
Po po po!
That must be worth a few drachs, that one! No wonder you didn’t mind making a journey in the dark!’

‘Worth more than your journey?’ I asked innocently.

The beautiful eyes danced. ‘I wouldn’t say that.’

‘No?’ I regarded him uneasily. What on earth – what in heaven – could they have been up to? Drugs? Surely not! Arms? Ridiculous! But then, what did I know
about Max, after all? And his worry in case his father might have ‘talked’ hadn’t just been worry; it had been fear. As for Adoni – I had few illusions as to what my young Byzantine saint would be capable of …

He asked: ‘When you first went out through the wood, you saw nobody?’

‘Max asked me that. I heard Sir Julian playing the tape recorder, but I’ve no idea if his visitor was still there. I gather you know who it was?’

‘I think so. It’s a guess, but I think so. Sir Gale may tell Max when they are alone, I don’t know.’

‘Max doesn’t normally have drink in the house at all?’

‘None that his – none that can be found.’

‘I see.’

I did indeed see. I saw how the rumours had arisen, and just how false Phyl’s picture of the situation had been. Except in so far as this sort of periodic ‘bender’ was a symptom of mental strain, Sir Julian Gale was sane enough. And now that I thought even further back, there had been whispers in the theatre world, possibly strong ones among those who knew him, but on my level the merest breath … rumours scotched once and for all by Sir Julian’s faultless performances right up to the moment of retirement. Well, I had had a personal demonstration tonight of how it had been done.

‘We thought he was better,’ said Adoni. ‘He has not done this for, oh, a long time. This will make Max very …’ He searched for a word and came up with one that was, I felt, not quite adequate … ‘unhappy.’

‘I’m sorry. But he does seem to have been pushed into it this time.’

‘Pushed in? Oh, yes, I understand. That is true. Well, Max will deal with it.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘Poor Max, he gets everything to deal with. Look, we had better hurry, or you will get cold, and then Max will deal with
me
!’

‘Could he?’

‘Easily. He pays my wages.’

He paused, and pressed a switch in the panelling, invisible except to its intimates. Another dim light faltered into life, this time held aloft by a startling figure in flesh-pink marble, carved by some robust Victorian with a mind above fig-leaves. A wide corridor now stretched ahead of us, lined on one side by massive, iron-studded doors, and on the other by what would, in daylight, be stained-glass windows of a peculiarly repulsive design.

‘This way.’

He led the way quickly along the corridor. To either side the light glimmered yellow on the pathetic heads of deer and ibexes, and case after case where stuffed birds stood enthroned and moth-eaten. Every other available foot of wall-space was filled with weapons – axes, swords, daggers, and ancient firearms which I (who had furnished a few period plays in my time) identified as flintlocks and muskets, probably dating from the Greek War of Independence. It was to be hoped that Sir Julian and his son were as blind to the murderous décor as Adoni appeared to be.

‘Your bathroom is along there.’ He pointed ahead to
a vast door, opposite which hung a tasteful design in crossed whips and spurs. ‘I’ll just show you where everything is, then I must go and dress his wrist.’

‘How badly is he hurt? He wouldn’t say.’

‘Not badly at all. I think it’s only a graze, for all it bled a lot. Don’t worry, Max is sensible, he’ll take all the care he should.’

‘And you?’ I said.

He looked surprised. ‘I?’

‘Will you take care of yourself as well? Oh, I know it’s nothing to do with me, Adoni, but … well, be careful. For Miranda’s sake, if not for your own.’

He laughed at me, and touched a thin silver chain at his neck which must have held a cross or some sort of medal. ‘Don’t you worry about me, either, Miss Lucy. The Saint looks after his own.’ A vivid look. ‘Believe me, he does.’

‘I take it you did well tonight?’ I said, a little dryly.

‘I think so. Here we are.’ He shoved the door wide, and found another switch. I glimpsed the splendours of marble and mahogany beyond him. ‘The bedroom is the next one, through there. I’ll find you a towel, and later I shall make you something hot to drink. You can find the way down?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

He rummaged in a cupboard the size of a small garage, and emerged with a couple of towels. ‘Here you are. You have everything now?’

‘I think so. The only thing is – do I have to touch that thing?’

‘That thing’ was a fearsome contraption which, apparently, heated the water. It looked like a stranded
mine, and sat on a panel of dials and switches that might have come straight off the flight deck of an airliner designed by Emmett.

‘You are as bad as Sir Gale,’ said Adoni indulgently. ‘He calls it Lolita, and refuses to touch it. It’s perfectly safe, Spiro made it.’

‘Oh.’

‘It did go on fire once, but it’s all right now. We rewired it only last month, Spiro and I.’

Another dazzling smile, and the door shut gently. I was alone with Lolita.

You had to climb three steps to the bath, which was about the size of a swimming-pool, and fairly bristling with gadgets in blackened brass. But I forgave the Castello everything when I turned the tap marked C, and the water rushed out in a boiling cloud of steam. I hoped poor Max wouldn’t be long before he achieved a similar state of bliss – it was to be assumed there was another bathroom, and another Lolita as efficient as mine – but just at the moment I spared Max no more than the most passing of thoughts, and none whatever for the rest of the night’s adventures. All I wanted was to be out of those dreadful, sodden clothes, and into that glorious bath …

By the time I was languidly drying a body broiled all over to a glowing pink, my underclothing, which was mostly nylon, was dry. The dress and coat were still wet, so I left them spread over the hot pipes, put on the dressing-gown which hung behind the door, then padded through into the bedroom to attend to my face and hair.

I had what I had salvaged of Phyl’s make-up, which included a comb, so I did the best I could with the inevitable dim light, and a cheval-glass, swinging between two mahogany pillars, that seemed designed to hang perpetually facing the carpet, until I found on the floor and replaced the wedge of newspaper that had held it in position since, apparently, July 20th, 1917.

In the greenish glass my reflection swam like something that might well have startled the Lady of Shalott out of her few wits. The dressing-gown was obviously one of Sir Julian’s stagier efforts; it was long, of thick, dark red silk, and made one think of Coward comedies. With Phyl’s lipstick, and my short, damply curling hair, and the enormous diamond on my hand, it made a pretty high camp effect.

Well, it was no odder than the other guises he had seen me in up to now. I wondered if this, too, would qualify as ‘half-naked’. Not that it mattered, just now he would have other things very much on his mind.

I grimaced briefly at the image in the glass, then went out, back along Murder Alley, and down the stairs.

The very instant that I saw you, did
My heart fly to your service, there resides
To make me slave to it
.

III
. 1.

The music-room door was standing open, but, though the lamp still burned, there was no one there. The gin had vanished, too, and in its place was something that looked like the remains of a stiff Alka-Seltzer, and a cup that had probably contained coffee.

As I hesitated in the doorway, I heard a quick step, and the service door under the stairway opened with a swish of chilly air.

‘Lucy? Ah, I thought I heard you. You’re all right? Warm now?’

‘Lovely, thank you.’ He himself looked a different person. I noticed that there was a fresh white bandage on his wrist, and that his dry clothes – another thick sweater and dark trousers – made him look as tough as before, but younger, rather nearer Adoni’s league. So did the look in his face; he looked tired still, but with a tautness that now seemed to have some sort of affinity with Adoni’s dark glow of excitement. A worthwhile trip, indeed …

I said quickly: ‘Your clothes … You’re surely not planning to go out again?’

‘Only to drive you home, don’t worry. Come along to the kitchen, will you? It’s warm there, and there’s coffee. Adoni and I have been having something to eat.’