The Little Walls by Winston Graham

  I said: ‘‘I don’t believe for a minute that Grevil did kill himself, but if he did, then on the evidence we’ve got at the moment that was inexcusable. Wasn’t it In fact if what you’ve told me so far is true, no motive that we know of existed at all.’’

  ‘‘No motive that we know of.’’

  ‘‘Anyway, that’s my story.’’

  She looked at me thoughtfully. ‘‘I don’t think I can be as frank as you.’’

  ‘‘You can be. It’s whether you want to be.’’

  She shook her head. ‘‘You have a loyalty. Perhaps I have too.’’

  I waited but she didn’t speak for a minute or so. There seemed to be some peculiar sound from outside, so I paddled right up to the entrance.

  The daylight was bright on our eyes. At first it looked as if the sea outside was alive with fish. Then I saw that the bubbles were caused by rain—a tremendous downpour hissing on the face of the sea. There was another flicker of lightning and a muffled rumble of thunder. I turned the boat away again and moved off into the semi-dark.

  The rain was like a thick wet curtain that cut off interference from outside.

  I said: ‘‘We’re here for some time.’’

  ‘‘Yes … Are you going to swim?’’

  ‘‘Well, I didn’t bring anything. It didn’t occur to me. Did you?’’

  ‘‘Yes. But——’’

  ‘‘Swim if you want. I’m in no hurry.’’

  ‘‘If I tell you as much as I can, will you—as a favour—promise to cut this and leave Capri?’’

  ‘‘Will what you tell me explain what I want to know?’’

  ‘‘No. I don’t know myself.’’

  ‘‘Then the answer’s what you must expect.’’

  ‘‘You won’t leave?’’

  ‘‘No, Leonie, you’re wasting your breath in asking.’’

  ‘‘Yes—oh yes, I suppose I am.’’

  ‘‘I’m not at all sure I’d be willing to leave right away, even if you were able to tell me all about Grevil.’’

  ‘‘Why not?’’

  I watched her trailing her fingers in the water. ‘‘Go on, swim. I’m sorry I can’t join you.’’

  ‘‘It’s putting off the evil moment.’’

  ‘‘Ten minutes. You can’t get away this time.’’

  She hesitated a second or two longer. ‘‘Perhaps it will help to clear my brain.’’ She got out a white bathing-cap and pulled it on, tucking in bits of hair. She was already wearing her swim-suit underneath the jersey and slacks she had come in.

  I said: ‘‘ I’ll pull in to the side.’’

  The boat wobbled as she stood up, then rocked violently as she dived. For a few seconds the splash and the settling water hid everything—then as it cleared I saw her swimming under water near the boat.

  I suppose I should have expected it but hadn’t. Her whole body was lit by the pale blue incandescence. It was like some sort of a miracle in which fire and water met to make a new element. She swam easily, lazily, as if water came natural to her. Every movement of her long finely rounded arms and legs, every balanced thickening of her beautiful body was outlined by this incandescence. But it was etherealised, intellectualised, above and beyond ordinary sexual attraction. She was more like something but of the brain of Praxiteles.

  She came to the surface and swam away. The ripples of shot-silk ran in lines towards the walls of the cavern. The water broke and glittered fiercely as she found some handhold on the rock.

  ‘‘This is the ledge over here. I wonder where the steps are.’’

  As she left the water all the jewels fell from her and she abruptly disappeared from view. I paddled slowly nearer. ‘‘Can you see them?’’

  ‘‘There’s an opening of some sort, but I can’t see how far it goes.’’

  I waited but she said no more. I couldn’t see anything of her at all. After a bit I saw an iron hook in the rock and hitched the bow-rope to it. Then I climbed on the ledge after her. It was much darker here because we were away from the reflection of the water. As I went in she turned suddenly and almost bumped into me.

  She said: ‘‘Heavens! I didn’t hear you. I thought you were Tiberius.’’

  ‘‘No. He’s older and fatter.’’

  She went back to the edge of the rock and looked down. I stood beside her. Then she looked up at me, taking rather deep breaths.

  I said: ‘‘There isn’t anything I can say to you now that won’t sound forced and phoney. And there isn’t anything else that I want to say.’’

  Her mouth curved in a quick smile. ‘‘ I don’t think it was ever phoney, Philip. Forced perhaps. But what you say now doesn’t—come from the same stable at all.’’ She added: ‘‘All the same, I don’t want you to say it.’’

  She took a step forward, put her hands up and dived cleanly into the water—and instantly was changed again into that inhuman, elemental thing she’d been before.

  For some minutes she played about in the water, turning over, twisting, changing her strokes. I climbed down into the boat and paddled round. The sea was slapping up and down at the entrance to the cavern.

  Presently she came to the side of the boat and began to pull herself in. I leaned to help her, grasping her elbow and hand, the boat tilting. She got in, and again the change took place, only this time it was the other way round. She sat in the back of the boat and I sat near her and looked at her. She pulled off her cap and shook out her hair. She looked a creamy colour in the half dark.

  After a minute she said uncertainly: ‘‘Philip, let’s go. The rain won’t matter.’’

  ‘‘No,’’ I said, ‘‘the rain won’t matter.’’

  She never took her eyes off mine. ‘‘It’s time we had … the Thermos is in the bag.’’

  I put my hands on her shoulders. It was like grasping a warm fish. The droplets of cold-water were still clingnig to her skin. I bent over her and kissed her. She didn’t make a fuss but she didn’t play back. My hands slid under her arms and I began to kiss her face and neck. She tried to speak but did not. Then she suddenly kissed me back, but at the same time tried to free herself. She slipped in my hands as if still partly a fish.

  ‘‘Philip, don’t,’’ she said. Her eyes were half shut.

  I looked very closely at her facer so much closer than it had ever been before, watching the movement of brow and cheek and lip.

  ‘‘In case of doubt,’’ I said, ‘‘this is the other reason why I won’t leave.’’

  ‘‘If that was true——’’

  ‘‘It’s true.’’

  But after a few seconds she began to struggle again, and when I looked into her eyes I saw they were brimming with tears.

  ‘‘Oh God,’’ I said, ‘‘if Grevil didn’t commit suicide because of you, I could.’’ I let her go. ‘‘What is it, Leonie? Why are you like, this? I can’t keep pace with your moods or begin to guess what they mean. You say nothing, give nothing, take nothing. If I could have one minute’s insight into what goes on inside … If I had one single clue as to why none of the normal lines run straight …’’

  She sat up, put a hand across her eyes. ‘‘I’m s-sorry. Blast …’’

  ‘‘I’m sorry too.’’ I moved back to my seat by the oars.

  ‘‘Could you throw me my things, please.’’

  I handed her her clothes and she began to struggle into her sweater.

  ‘‘You can’t sit in that wet suit,’’ I said. ‘‘We may be here for ages yet.’’

  ‘‘I’ll be all right.’’

  ‘‘Don’t be a fool. I’ll turn my back.’’

  ‘‘Oh. All right.’’

  I did so. After a bit she said: ‘‘I’m O.K. now.’’

  In silence I paddled nearer the entrance. It was still raining heavily.

  I said: ‘‘ Drink?’’

  ‘‘Thank you.’’

  I poured some coffee into one of the cups and she took it. I swallowed some myself. I needed it.<
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  She said: ‘‘I’m sorry I’m so unsatisfactory.’’

  ‘‘It depends which way you mean.’’

  ‘‘You know which way I mean.’’

  ‘‘Well, I don’t want to be unfair. Æsthetically you’re a pleasure to look at.’’

  ‘‘Thank you very much.’’

  There was a long silence. At last she said slowly: ‘‘What I’ve done, what I do now, may seem out of focus to you. It doesn’t to me. Perhaps when I’ve explained as much as I can, perhaps then it’ll seem slightly more reasonable. I’ve got to go back to when Tom and Richard died—or soon after. It’ll be a bore for you, but it all dates from then.’’

  ‘‘It won’t be a bore at all.’’

  ‘‘After they died I rather let go of the reins for a bit. There didn’t seem any clear way for me to go or any reason for me to go anywhere. Then in this sort of drift state I met a man. It was at St Jean de Luz. He had come in there for a few days. He was older than me, nice to be with, cultured, attentive, all the sort of things I seemed to need.’’ She stopped, wrinkling her brows. ‘‘I think, right from the beginning, he appealed to something, a recklessness if you like. He didn’t run to pattern. You could be with him and know him and yet still wonder about him, where he’d been, the exciting things he’d done. There was always something new that you didn’t know, because you’d missed the earlier instalments. And I think he had—has the kind of imagination that can get inside someone else’s mind and interest itself in what it finds there. It could be a great gift—it is; but a dangerous one too … Well, at the time there didn’t seem much reason to me in anything; but there was reason in him.’’ She paused again, thinking it over. ‘‘We teamed up.’’

  ‘‘I see.’’

  ‘‘It didn’t seem to matter then—and, after a while I came to care a lot more about him. That sort of feeling isn’t to rule, is it? You can’t turn the page, say that’s that, just when you want to or think you ought to. That’s something that doesn’t follow the normal lines.’’

  The warmth of the coffee was welcome. I unwrapped the sandwiches and she took one.

  ‘‘But after a time, after about three months with him, I couldn’t any longer make things read quite right even to myself. And there were hitches over money; we ran through what I had that wasn’t tied up; his attitude is queer, not exactly dishonest, but he acts sometimes as if he’s above the ordinary rules … We made efforts to patch things up. Then he went out to the Far East and I heard nothing of him except two letters in nearly twelve months … One day I got a cable. It was sent from Jakarta—you know, it used to be called Batavia.’’

  ‘‘Yes, I know.’’

  ‘‘He asked me to meet him in Amsterdam. I had to go … I—had to go. When you’re attached to someone, you forget some of the things you didn’t like, and those you don’t forget you hope have changed. So it was a bitter disappointment to find that they hadn’t changed.’’

  ‘‘Was Grevil with him?’’

  ‘‘Yes. And he was travelling under another name.’’

  ‘‘Buckingham?’’

  She looked at me. ‘‘Yes. They were very friendly, this man and your brother. I could tell Grevil was sincere, even though I’d only just met him, it was obviously an honest affection, very strong, good. But Buckingham— the false name to begin—I could tell, knowing him, that somehow he was going to cheat. I wasn’t sure how but I know the signs. I wanted no part in it. If that was the price of coming to terms again—helping him in something shady that he wasn’t even prepared to explain—then the price was too high.’’ She stopped, rubbed her finger carefully along the edge of the boat. ‘‘You can guess the rest.’’

  ‘‘You mean that your letter was meant for Buckingham? But how did it get into Grevil’s pocket?’’

  ‘‘I gave it to him to give to Buckingham. I didn’t want to see Buckingham again. With him it isn’t just a question of uttering the words … Or it might have been if I’d cared nothing at all—but when you’re still divided within yourself and have to face a man who isn’t and always has a terrific talent for getting his own way …’’

  ‘‘He wanted you to go back to him?’’

  ‘‘Yes. He talked as if he’d made money—or was coming into it wanted me to stay with him on the Continent, spoke of settling somewhere on the Mediterranean. But of course I didn’t know how much notice to take of that. He’s always a man who, as soon as he has some money, speaks as if he has an unlimited amount … I’m sorry I’m not saying this very well.’’

  ‘‘What I still don’t understand is what made you give the note to Grevil.’’

  She put her bare feet into her sandals and buckled them. Her feet were still damp and the straps seemed tight I said: ‘‘ You haven’t eaten your sandwich.’’

  She straightened up and bit at the bread. Some ends of her hair which had been wet were beginning to dry and curl.

  ‘‘When I got to Holland I stayed at a hotel in the Nieuwe Doelenstraat The next day they came. Dr. Turner stayed at a hotel called the Grotius. Buckingham would have put up at the hotel where I was, but it was full. We spent quite a bit of that first day together, and the second day we’d all arranged to meet at the Grotius. There was some sort of arrangement that Dr. Turner should take us—or take me—to the Indies Museum. But by then I felt it was no good to go on.’’

  She hesitated. ‘‘ Of course I could just have left and caught a plane without a word, but I didn’t want ever afterwards to shout coward after my own shadow. So I decided to face—Buckingham. And then when I went round he was out. So I went to Grevil’s hotel to see if he was already there, but he wasn’t, and the receptionist said Grevil was engaged, so I waited. And while I waited either for Buckingham to come or Grevil to come down, my good intentions began to side-slip. If I stayed and Grevil came down first the opportunity would be gone; I couldn’t say what I wanted to in front of him. So I wrote a note. I was going to take it back to Buckingham’s hotel, but just as I was writing it Grevil came downstairs with two men. I scribbled the last few lines while he was seeing them off and then gave him the letter and said would he give it to Buckingham when he came. He said he would and that was the last I ever saw of him.’’

  I offered her another sandwich but she shook her head. I put the top on the Thermos, wrapped up the other sandwiches, put them back in the carrier.

  ‘‘Did you seal the letter?’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  ‘‘The envelope wasn’t torn. I suppose the water soaked the gum off it and the flap came open. Did you address it?’’

  ‘‘No. There seemed no need—and the whole thing was done in a hurry.’’

  ‘‘These two men who were seeing Grevil, what were they like?’’

  ‘‘I don’t remember much. Dutchmen I should have thought, middle-aged, in grey overcoats.’’

  ‘‘Did Grevil look worried when you met him?’’

  She folded back one sleeve of her jersey where the cuff had come down. ‘‘Yes. Yes.’’

  ‘‘Did he say anything unusual?’’

  ‘‘I don’t think so. He said he was waiting for—Buckingham.’’

  ‘‘And then?’’

  ‘‘Well, that’s all l can tell you, Philip.’’

  There was a silence. I said: ‘‘I think it’s stopped raining.’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  I began to speak and then waited.

  She said: ‘‘Do you believe me?’’

  ‘‘Of course—so far as it goes.’’

  ‘‘There’s no ‘of course’ about it.’’

  ‘‘Well, there is for me.’’

  She glanced at me with a queer, rather worried look. ‘‘You’re still determined to stay—to make things worse by——’’

  ‘‘By staying. Yes. I’ve told you. There are two reasons now.’’

  ‘‘There shouldn’t be.’’

  ‘‘There are.’’

  I rowed the boat back to the opening.
It was risky, but we could get through if we picked our time.

  ‘‘And you won’t tell me any more?’’

  ‘‘As it is, I’ve said too much.’’

  ‘‘Did you tell him you were going to tell me this much?’’ She glanced up swiftly. ‘‘I believe we should go now, Philip.’’

  The light coming through from outside was unbearably bright. I stared at her a minute longer and then gave it up.

  ‘‘Ready?’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  I shipped the oars and hurriedly clutched the chain. We lurched through into the morning. Warmth met us and a dazzling brilliance. From under the roots of the cloud the sun was shining across a rough grey-brown sea that was not recognisably Neapolitan.

  For a bit I could see nothing, and anyway was too busy pulling the boat away from the cliff. Then I saw a boat; the one that came each day to collect the admission fees. The two Italians in it looked astonished to see us shoot out. But it didn’t take them long to get the thing straightened out in their own minds. I started up he engine and puttered over to them.

  ‘‘How much?’’

  ‘‘Two hundred lire, if you please, signore.’’

  Two notes changed hands. I said: ‘‘The colour is very fine today.’’

  One of the men glanced at Leonie and smiled at me sympathetically. ‘‘Oh, signore, please do not mention it: I feel as you feel.’’

  Chapter Fourteen

  I said: ‘‘ We’d better make for the Marina Grande. The sea may be too heavy at the other side.’’

  ‘‘All right.’’

  As the cloud lifted, the sea on the horizon was already changing colour.

  I said: ‘‘Leonie, why have you changed your mind from when you were in Holland?’’

  ‘‘How?’’

  ‘‘Well, there you were finished with this Buckingham apparently. Now you’re trying to protect him from me.’’

  ‘‘I’m not sure that that’s the way round I think of it’’

  ‘‘He’s on this island, isn’t he?’’

  She bent to pick up her bathing-suit. I looked at her crouched figure, the ruffled shining hair, the long curve of the dark jersey.

  ‘‘If telling you anything more, Philip, would bring your brother back to life … But it won’t. And you have your own life to live.’’