Thus Was Adonis Murdered (25 page)

“Are you,” asked Ragwort, in the kind but severe tone in which he sometimes reminds Julia to buy enough food for the weekend, “going to be all right?”

“Yes,” said the sculptor, “I’ll be all right,” and smiled—whether at the absurdity of Ragwort’s question or the conventional untruthfulness of his own answer—a surprisingly beautiful smile.

The interview had left me feeling dispirited, for I perceived now that the sculptor’s attachment to

Ned had been one of great intensity and passion, such as one rarely sees. One could not wish, for oneself or for one’s friends, any first-hand experience of such extremity of feeling—it is not conducive to comfortable living. And yet there is about it, when observed, something curiously touching and attractive, so that one almost, absurdly, regrets one’s own inability to entertain it.

Ragwort could not be persuaded that our expedition had been a success. Kenneth, he said, was plainly too dazed to remember anything not of great importance to him. We had told a great many lies and learnt nothing.

“We have learnt,” I said, “that Kenneth was the person in charge of the Tiverton Collection last week.”

“It’s an interesting coincidence,” said Ragwort, “but it can’t have anything to do with the murder.”

“Don’t you think so? You are surely forgetting, my dear Ragwort, that it is a very valuable collection and that Eleanor, in particular, is most anxious to acquire certain items in it. We know she is not unduly scrupulous. When Kenneth refused to cooperate, do you think it impossible that she employed her friend Bruce to acquire them by more direct methods? And if Ned found out about it and threatened to tell his friend, would that be an insufficient motive for murder? Using the same accomplice, and ensuring that it was committed while she herself was safely elsewhere?”

Ragwort looked sceptical; but agreed to stop at the first post office we passed and telephone Selena to tell her that all was well and that Marylou should proceed with her journey. In the meantime I took the opportunity to send those telegrams which I thought necessary to ensure that on the following day everyone would be in the right place at the right time.

“This idea of yours about Bruce and Eleanor,” said Ragwort afterwards, “is it what you really believe, Hilary?”

“I would suggest,” I answered, “that it is not unworthy of your consideration.”

It is very wrong to tease Ragwort; but one cannot always help it. My readers will not have doubted for a moment that the theory was pure moonshine; I mentioned at the beginning of Chapter 6 that the designs of Eleanor and the Major on the personal effects of the late Miss Tiverton had not caused or contributed in any way to the murder, and my readers will not suppose that I would deceive them in such a matter.

“I take it,” said Ragwort, as he left me at Islington, “that we shall be seeing you in Chambers tomorrow?”

“Yes,” I said. “But not unduly early. Nothing can happen before eleven o’clock.”

Nothing could happen before eleven o’clock. The instructions in my telegram to Timothy had been clear: whatever time Marylou arrived at the café beside the Accademia, he was not to approach her until eleven-thirty—it would then, by English time, be half past ten. After that, it could scarcely take less than half an hour for people and events to move towards the point of resolution; and if things fell out as I expected, there would be some further delay before Timothy was able to telephone with news of them. Timothy does not always show that unquestioning acceptance of my judgement which one would hope to see in a former pupil; but I had relied on him to think it prudent, presented with a
fait accompli,
to abide to the letter by my instructions. Nothing, therefore, could happen before eleven o’clock. All the same—

At half past nine on Friday morning I found myself climbing the stone stairs which lead to the second floor of 62 New Square. The members of the

Nursery were already gathered in the largest of its three rooms, Ragwort and Cantrip at their desks, Selena in the large leather armchair. Ragwort had been explaining, it seemed, the theory I had suggested to him on the previous afternoon. It was not going down well—they all looked despondent.

“If I was advising a client,” said Cantrip, “I’d say that if that’s our case we jolly well ought to settle.”

“I understand,” said Ragwort, “that one cannot dispose of a criminal charge by way of compromise. I suppose one can offer to plead guilty to manslaughter if they’ll drop the more serious charge.”

“I dare say,” said Selena, “that one would so advise a client. But this is not a matter where we should allow our professional judgement to interfere with our personal feelings.”

I assured them that there was no need for anxiety and that matters were proceeding satisfactorily.

“Well, I’m glad you think so, Hilary,” said Cantrip. “As far as I can see, they’re proceeding with total loopiness. Even if there’s anything in this idea that Eleanor’s in cahoots with the Bruce chap—and personally I think it’s a dead loss—it still wouldn’t get us anywhere, because we don’t know who the Bruce chap is. And why on earth you think he’s still in Venice—”

“And even if he is,” said Ragwort, “why you think Marylou’s going to recognize him—”

“I don’t,” I said.

“But Hilary,” said Selena, with something less than her customary composure, “you have led Marylou to believe—”

“Nonsense,” I said. “I have done nothing of the kind.”

“But we were discussing,” said Selena, “how we could find out who Bruce was and you asked Marylou if she could go to Venice.”

“Ah yes,” I said. “I remember now that you were discussing something of that kind. It was, however, mere coincidence; I was paying but little attention. No, I don’t expect her to recognize Bruce. My dear children, it is surely clear to you by now that Bruce does not exist?”

They were rather cross with me, on two alternative grounds, apparently; that Bruce did exist and I was wantonly deceiving them; or, if he did not, that by some remarkable alchemy I had mischievously caused his nonexistence. Such expressions as “frivolous dilettante” and “irresponsible academic” were freely used. They quietened at last, however, to the point of demanding an explanation.

“I suppose,” I said, “that none of you have ever studied the science of textual criticism and that you are all, therefore, unfamiliar with the principle of the
lectum difficillimum?”

“You suppose,” said Selena, “correctly.”

“Very well. I shall begin accordingly with a brief exposition of that principle.”

“I say, Hilary,” said Cantrip, “do you absolutely have to?”

“Yes. I must begin by reminding you that a great part of Scholarship consists of the study of ancient or medieval documents. It is but rarely, however, that we are fortunate enough to have available the original manuscript in the hand of the author. The older the document, the more probable it is that we shall have to rely on a copy. Or a copy of a copy. So multiplies the possibility of error, through the carelessness or ignorance of the copyist. The reconstruction in such cases of the original—the discovery of the correct reading—that is the art of textual criticism.”

“A moment ago,” said Ragwort, “you called it a science.”

“It is both an art and a science. It demands the exercise, to the highest degree, of every aspect of human genius. It requires the most rigorous logic, the most diligent application of experience, the most heroic flights of creative imagination.”

“Yes, Hilary,” said Selena. “I’m sure it does. Could we return to the point?”

“Certainly. As I would by now have explained, if Ragwort had abstained from captious interruption, there have been developed by scholars versed in the art or science of textual criticism certain principles. Among the most important of these is that of the
lectum difficillimum
—that is to say, that the most difficult reading is to be preferred. Suppose, to take a simple case, that you have variant readings between two copies of the same manuscript, one using a very common word and the other an unusual one. You may conclude without hesitation that the version using the rarer word is correct. The mistake in the other can be explained by a copyist misreading an unfamiliar word for one which is known to him—that is the most natural thing in the world. The reverse, on the other hand, is inconceivable.”

“Hilary,” said Selena, “please—”

“The same phenomenon, of course, occurs in the context of the spoken word. We all know, for example, that Cantrip, being, due to the deficiencies of his education—for which, as I have always said, he is rather to be pitied than censured—unfamiliar with the term ‘rococo’, is under the impression that there is a style of architecture known as rocky cocoa—after, I suppose, some beverage of popular consumption in Cambridge.”

“What,” said Ragwort, “has all this to do with Julia?”

“It has everything to do with Julia. And everything to do with Bruce. For you will remember that the only evidence of Bruce’s existence is a conversation between Eleanor and Kenneth as overheard by Julia.”

“But there is,” said Ragwort, “no alternative reading. We have no other account of the conversation.”

“No direct account, no. There is, however, secondary evidence which conflicts with Julia’s, in that both Eleanor and Kenneth deny knowing anyone called Bruce. We must consider, therefore, the possibility of an error in Julia’s account. Reporting the conversation in
oratio obliqua,
she tells us that Eleanor said that Bruce had stolen an armchair and a rococo mirror which she rather liked. The precise words, presumably, which Julia thought she heard were, ‘Bruce stole an armchair and a rococo mirror which I rather liked.’ ”

“Well?” said Selena.

“One of the most celebrated makers of furniture in Venice in the seventeenth century was Andrea di Brustolon—Benjamin, you may remember, mentioned him the other evening. Julia, however, has probably never heard of him—she is not well up on the baroque and rococo periods.”

I cannot say that they yielded gracefully; but I eventually persuaded them that a mention by Eleanor of a “Brustolon armchair,” as an item in the Tiverton Collection which she would like to acquire, was more probable than any reference to some unknown larcenist; that the person against whom she had warned Kenneth in the earlier part of the conversation was almost certainly, in the light of what we had since learnt about him, the Major; and that what had to be kept under lock and key was not some mysterious object of value kept by Kenneth in his room, but the Collection itself, Eleanor having inadvertently disclosed to the Major Kenneth’s connection with it.

“But if Bruce doesn’t exist,” said Selena, “what’s Marylou doing in Venice?”

“That,” I answered, “I am expecting to learn very shortly. But nothing can happen before eleven o’clock. It’s now only just after half past ten—there’s plenty of time for someone to make some coffee.”

There was, while we drank our coffee, an absence of conversation rare in Lincoln’s Inn. My companions kept looking warily at the telephone, as if it might spontaneously deliver some Delphic utterance.

“Selena,” said Ragwort, at about quarter to the hour, “did you tell them downstairs that any calls for you should come through to this room?”

“Yes,” said Selena. “Of course.” And at ten to rang the Clerks’ Room to remind them.

We drank more coffee. The clocks within earshot of Lincoln’s Inn began to strike the hour.

“From your statement, Hilary,” said Ragwort, at five minutes past, “that nothing would happen before eleven, we have been assuming that something would happen after that time. You are now going, I suppose, to explain to us the fallacy in our reasoning.”

“My dear Ragwort, I would not dream of such heartless casuistry. Something will certainly happen—but how long after eleven, I cannot definitely say. Timothy may have difficulty getting in touch with us.”

At twenty past eleven the telephone emitted a buzz. Ragwort stretched out his hand towards the receiver.

The door, at the same moment, was thrown open with such intemperate violence as caused it to bang against the skirting-board and there irrupted into the room a young man of threatening aspect. I recognized, from seeing him at Heathrow, the belligerent thrust of the shoulders and the pugnacious jut of the wide jaw.

“Which of you,” asked our visitor, glaring furiously about him, “is Desmond Ragwort?” His accent was similar to Marylou’s, but his tone far less agreeable.

“I am,” answered Ragwort, without hesitation. He was, after all, among friends, and divided from the visitor by a substantial oak desk. “May I ask who you are and how I can assist you?”

The interruption had stayed his hand in its movement towards the telephone. Selena, sitting on the floor beside the kettle, contrived to amalgamate in a single movement of great rapidity the act of rising to her feet and that of crossing the room: most graceful and attractive if one had leisure to observe it. She lifted the receiver.

“My name,” said our visitor, “is Stanford Bredon and I want to know where my wife is. I want to know what the hell’s going on round here. I want to know—”

“Yes, Henry, of course I’m here,” said Selena. “Do please put Mr. Shepherd through as quickly as possible. No, Henry, I know you don’t know what it’s about. But I do, and it’s a matter of some urgency. Please, Henry.”

“I want to know,” continued Stanford, “why when I got home last night I found a note from my wife saying she’d had to go stay with her mother’s cousin Alice, because Alice was very sick. And when I called my wife’s mother in New York, because Alice is not on the telephone but I figured if something was wrong with her my wife’s mother would know about it—”

The resonance of his indignation prevented me, though I was now standing next to Selena and within twelve inches of the telephone, from hearing the other end of her conversation.

“She told me that her cousin Alice was right there with her in New York on a visit and had never felt better in her life.”

“Mr. Bredon,” said Ragwort, “the good health of your wife’s relative is a matter for rejoicing rather than condolence. If, however, it displeases you, you should surely address your complaint to her doctor, rather than myself.”