The Little Walls by Winston Graham

  ‘‘I don’t think she knows any more, except Buckingham’s real name—or what she supposes is his real name. It may very well not be.’’

  ‘‘But you’ll come back?’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  We reached a place where the path opened out, and from this point you could see most of the Bay of Naples, moonshot and starlit. But his face was in shadow. ‘‘You want me to stay on here, Philip?’’

  ‘‘I shall be gone no time. Beautiful, isn’t it?’’

  ‘‘Yes … ‘ The Gods in bliss scrabble a baby jargon on the skies for us to analyse.’ How does it go after that?’’

  I said: ‘‘I don’t think chemical analysis provides all the answers any more than psycho-analysis.’’

  ‘‘What guff we were talking tonight. It’s all this bogus deification of the ego. Did you get any information in that letter from Java this morning? I saw one in your pigeon-hole before you got back.’’

  I stared after a firefly that flickered across the path. ‘‘It was from Pangkal—that’s the man who was Grevil’s assistant and fell ill and Buckingham took his place. You can read it if you like.’’

  I felt in my pocket and took out one or two letters. ‘‘Oh, it doesn’t seem to be here. Anyway, it wasn’t very helpful. Pangkal doesn’t seem to have liked Buckingham.’’

  We walked on.

  ‘‘Grevil must have liked him,’’ I said. ‘‘I still don’t understand why.’’

  ‘‘Buckingham is a very intelligent fellow. It’s not unlikely that they got on well. He knows a lot.’’

  ‘‘A lot of what? Cheap tricks and sharp practices and shoddy ways of making do.’’

  Martin stopped to light a cigarette. The long lines of his pale wicked face seemed for a few seconds cut out hung up in the darkness of his thoughts.

  ‘‘You’d make a mistake to underrate Buckingham, Philip. If your brother was an exceptional man, so is he. There’s nothing second-rate.’’

  I said: ‘‘I wonder if there’s something of the split personality about him, the schizophrenic.’’

  He shook his head emphatically. ‘‘People like all of a piece. They’re more not less consistent than the ordinary man. If you want press-button-A reflexes and Mr. Wet-Mrs. Fine personalities, go to the man who has toed the line all his life because the sham laws he’s hedged about with have prevented him from behaving as he wants to behave—not to the natural renegade who’s always done what he wanted.’’

  ‘‘Sometimes you give me the impression you have a sneaking admiration for the fellow.’’

  The light flickered out.

  After waiting a minute I said: ‘‘Seriously, he seems to me no more than a prize bounder and small-time racketeer. If he had any exceptional quality he ought by the time he’s forty to have been able to live off his past coups, not be a seamy down-and-out in Java.’’

  ‘‘Taking risks is part of his temperament.’’

  ‘‘I doubt it. These dunghill cocks usually run at the sight of danger.’’

  He made an abrupt impatient movement of his cigarette. ‘‘Oh, hell, forget it … You don’t know him—and probably never will. I do—a little. I think maybe I understand why he does some of the things he does. I don’t necessarily like him any better for them—or necessarily condemn. It’s an attitude of mind. I think of Juvenal’s ‘Fœdius hoc aliquid quandoque audebis.’ ’’

  We walked on without saying any more. It gave me great satisfaction to feel I had touched him on the raw. It seemed to me just then that the hatred I felt for Martin Coxon now didn’t stem from today and the definite knowing that had come to me today. Its roots were deep, in our first or second meeting, and had been growing hardly noticed because judgment had been held back, in abeyance. Now judgment was no longer held back, and suddenly I found the thing already grown to fit the new certainty.

  And it seemed in that moment of distorted clarity that the hatred was deeper, far deeper because its roots were in liking and trust Just perhaps the same as Grevil’s had been—except that Grevil had not had a chance of recognising the true man until it was too late.

  I wondered if what I felt would show. It would be very risky to let it show. Martin Coxon had killed Grevil, or been present at the killing, in some manner and for some reason I had yet to discover. If he knew I knew, he and I would be on the verge of the same thing.

  It was very necessary just now for me to walk carefully. Otherwise it might not only be Mme Weber who lived with an uncomfortable companion at her elbow.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I woke in the night and knew he was in my room. I’m a light sleeper, and he may have made some slight sound.

  After a second or two I went on breathing at a slow regular rate, and after a second or two he began to move again.

  I’d never done any fighting except a bit of boxing in the Navy, and I knew that against a man who would know every trick in the bag, such genteel experience would be as useful as an umbrella in a typhoon.

  But I saw he had moved towards the wardrobe, and although I did not stir I guessed he was searching my pockets. So men I knew what he was after.

  I waited. Next he went to the dressing-table and looked all over it He got the two top drawers open without a sound, looked through them, shut them again, bent to a chair on which I’d thrown a few things in my usual untidy way.

  I must have changed my breathing slightly without intending to; at once he was up and watching. It’s very hard to sound as if you’re asleep when under stress. Presently he began to move towards the bed.

  I knew the shape of his hands and what they’d feel like. Trouble was I had to keep my eyes shut.

  I’m not sure, but I think he bent over the bed. In—out; now wait; not too hurried; in—out; boat-race crew approaching Putney; in—out, don’t let it catch. He began to move away again. As I opened my eyes he was going out through the open window.

  I’d re-read Pangkal’s letter just before going to sleep and pushed it under the pillow, otherwise he would have found it And Grevil’s notes—which might at least have told him I had access to information he knew nothing of—were under the bed.

  As he went out some light from outside caught his face. It seemed to me that the look on it made it thinner and more tense than I had ever seen it before.

  I said. ‘‘I’m so sorry to disturb your breakfast, but I came to apologise about the portrait I certainly hope to get down to it when I come back.’’

  ‘‘There’s no hurry, dear boy,’’ said Mme Weber, pulling down the sleeve of her Japanese kimono. ‘‘I don’t suppose I shall change much before the end of the month; my hairdresser’s away. Are you sure you want to go on with it?’’

  ‘‘Quite sure. I should be back tomorrow evening or Friday morning.’’

  She salvaged a wriggling Bergdorf who was about to take a plunge off the silk counterpane, and stared into his ear, ‘‘I had a maystiff once that had a canker. Most distressin’. Philip, are you and Leonie … Is there some possibility …’’

  ‘‘No … At least I’m afraid not.’’

  ‘‘Be still, Bergdorf, I’ll not ‘‘hurt you. You must learn to trust Mother. A pity. Or I think it’s a pity. She needs to marry again. It’s time she did. This over-developed sense of loyalty.’’

  ‘‘I’m not sure if it’s quite the sort of loyalty you think.’’

  ‘‘Down, dog. Keep your paws to yourself. She’d be happier if she was more fickle. I’ve told her so. A woman needs a man—keeps her metabolism right. And I think you’d do for her, Philip.’’

  ‘‘Tell her that some time, will you.’’

  ‘‘Being an artist you’ve finesse, could humour without spoilin’. And tenacity. Women who won’t remarry—very difficult; especially when they’re lookers. Deceivin’ pity for a girl with all the guns not to use them.’’

  I said: ‘‘ She uses them.’’

  ‘‘I remember when I met her first after Tom Winter had died, I said sorry, sorry, sorry
, how she must feel—trying to be comfortin’—you know. And she said: ‘Oh, that’s all right; you’re tough when you’re young.’ ’’ Charlotte Weber dropped the wriggling puppy gently over the side of the bed. His paws made a plop on the floor. ‘‘As a generalisation, nothing ever truer. But about herself—couldn’t be wronger. Wronger—is there a word? Leonie’s toughness wouldn’t fool a child. What’s more, she’s driftin’. Seems to me half the time she doesn’t know her own mind, because what she’s been thinking of and remembering doesn’t make good knowing.’’

  ‘‘Or doesn’t bear knowing.’’

  ‘‘Quite so, dear boy. It’s like buyin’ furniture. There are certain things in the mind one can live with and certain things one can’t. When it’s the ‘ can’t’, it usually means you’ve got to get out of yourself’—as the sayin’ is—in order to live at all.’’

  As I stood up to go she looked at me and smiled tolerantly. ‘‘And don’t bother about the portrait in the least. I’ll keep. I’ve kept so long.’’

  I knew I shouldn’t have much difficulty in persuading Martin to stay on the island until I got back. I knew I was taking a chance in proposing it, but it was a definite line now for me first time since the very beginning, and the chance had to be taken. As I waved to him as he leaned over the wall watching the steamer leave, I wondered what his own dark thoughts were and what they had been all through the process of this grim farce. With the boat moving out of the harbour I saw him turn and take a book out of his pocket and walk slowly off the quay towards the funicular. Good-bye, Martin, I thought what shall I bring you back tomorrow?

  It wasn’t until I’d been on the boat for about half an hour that I saw that the Master of Kyle was among the passengers. When I joined him he stared at me resentfully from under his cap as if he half expected me to do him some injury. When I didn’t, he unbent sufficiently to explain that his financial arrangements were with the Banca d’Italia, which did not have a branch on Capri, and I told him I had to fly to Amsterdam on a business matter.

  He said: ‘‘I notice Martin isn’t going with you.’’

  ‘‘No, I shall be back soon. We were talking of you last night sir. You were a close friend of his grandfather’s?’’

  ‘‘His closest.’’ Kyle lifted a hand from his stick to pull the cap more firmly over the ancient monument where his eyebrows had been. ‘‘Callard and I were friends and neighbours for five and twenty years. I doubt Martin has been telling you a long story of the fine times he had at Gaitweed when he was a lad. I have not seen the sight of him since Callard met his death. The present earl, his uncle, will have no truck with him.’’

  ‘‘Why is that?’’

  Kyle hesitated, chewing something. ‘‘Ah, well, that’s how he feels, and no doubt he’s entitled to his opinion.’’

  A tall yacht was sliding out of Sorrento harbour, its sails gilded with the sun. I said: ‘‘Is Martin the son of a younger son?’’

  ‘‘Very much so. His father was born on the wrong side of the blanket. Callard had an affair with some actress, and Fred Coxon was the result. Fred died young, but Callard took a fancy to Martin and made much of him—too much of him.’’

  I said: ‘‘ I’ve known Martin only a very little time.’’

  Kyle grunted but did not rise to the bait. Whatever he was chewing obviously didn’t please him. We sailed on.

  I tried again. ‘‘ He’s very amusing company.’’

  ‘‘Who?’’

  ‘‘Martin.’’

  ‘‘Oh, aye, he’s all that, I grant you.’’

  ‘‘What the cocktail-shakers would call good value.’’

  ‘‘I’ve no doubt they would.’’ Kyle stopped chewing. ‘‘And sometimes they have to pay for their good value, eh, just when they’re least expecting to.’’

  ‘‘I haven’t known him long enough to know if that’s true of him.’’

  ‘‘Well, he’s your friend, Mr. Norton.’’

  Kyle wasn’t the easiest of men to pump. I gave him three or four minutes. ‘‘ Martin is very devoted to his mother.’’

  ‘‘You surprise me. I have never met her.’’

  ‘‘Did Lord Callard bring him up?’’

  ‘‘He paid for his education. Then Martin would come up for his holidays and they would go shooting and climbing together. Wild as a young eagle, he was, and as handsome. He was ever at cross with the rest of the family because they thought he was too much the favourite. And so he was. So he was.’’ Kyle turned up the collar of his jacket and moved his back to the wind. ‘‘Martin used to act as if he was the heir. Callard would come to me and complain of the young man’s extravagances, and I’d say, Pshaw, you encourage him—what else can ye expect?’’

  I waited. But he had begun to chew again. ‘‘And that all changed when Lord Callard died?’’

  ‘‘Aye, that all changed.’’

  Had Martin no claims on the rest of the family?’’

  ‘‘How should he have?’’

  A boy came across selling sweets and cigarettes, but the old man waved him irritably away. He muttered for a minute to himself. Presently I heard what he was saying. ‘‘… a stroke. One day Callard was a hale and hearty man of sixty-odd, the next he was helpless as a felled tree, snoring his life away.’’ Kyle stared angrily across the water at Vesuvius, as if he would like to lay the blame somewhere. ‘‘Nasty shock for Martin Coxon. He expected to have been well taken care of, but Callard’s will was fifteen years old. So Martin got a couple of thousand and went his way. He had always had the true aristocrat’s attitude to money, had Martin—that it existed only to buy him what he needed, and that it must always exist in a sufficient quantity for him to have the best … It would be different when he had to start cutting his coat …’’

  I said: ‘‘But all that makes me sympathise; I still don’t see why you dislike him, sir.’’

  ‘‘I didn’t say I disliked him,’’ Kyle snapped. ‘‘That’s putting words in my mouth.’’

  ‘‘Words into your mouth perhaps but not thoughts into your head.’’

  Kyle stared at me suspicious. ‘‘I’m not at all sure, my friend, that you like him so much yourself.’’

  ‘‘Well … supposing I don’t?’’

  Kyle grunted ‘‘ Well, then, ye don’t, eh? And why do you not?’’

  ‘‘My reasons are vague. I think that yours are not.’’

  ‘‘I would not be so sure. But I dislike him, for one thing because of his damned charm, Mr. Norton, that’s what I may say I never had the least difficulty in resisting it myself, but I saw others go down before it like—like icicles in the sun. His grandfather for one, a hard-bitten old campaigner you would think, but the boy had him on a string. Then there was his cousin, Mary Falconer, and his aunt, Lady Maud Falconer, and at least two girls and … Well there were plenty.’’

  ‘‘Did he ever marry?’’

  ‘‘Yes, in the thirties. But she divorced him. I’ve forgotten her name; it was in the papers because of some marriage settlement. I do not believe he has cared a finger’s snap for any one of the people who have loved him; he has taken their friendship and sacrifices for granted. And you can tell him that from me if you’ve the mind to carry tales.’’ Old Kyle tapped me on the arm. ‘‘Oh, charm, yes, no doubt. But ye judge a tree by its fruit, and his has been bitter. He has taken what others have had to give him—all his life, young man—and very few there have been who have been the better off for knowing him—many have been worse off, let me tell you that, badly worse off. There has always been a darkness to him, a pessimism, even in his youth—ye heard him the other night—always he was a destroyer, a puller-down of good things.’’

  I nodded but did not speak. Kyle stopped there and I didn’t pursue the subject. In a very small way the old man had given me a glimpse of Martin Coxon’s beginnings. I thought I might myself possibly be able to fill in the end.

  I had cabled Tholen, and when I got to Schiphol he had sent a car to
meet me. I saw him about eight that evening, and I was surprised to find Van Renkum there as well.

  Tholen said: ‘‘It is good for you to come. I have not wished to feel that anything has been left undone. Perhaps now we can clear your mind of this distress. Mr. Van Renkum is here for our Foreign Department, and I shall ask him to explain. His English language is so good, and much that he has to say is concerning his office, too. So that is the best way.’’

  Van Renkum said: ‘‘Will you take water with it, Mr. Turner? Some English prefer that, I know, but I have forgotten …’’

  Thanks. Either way.’’ I was not interested in the glass he was filling.

  ‘‘Perhaps we should apologise about your last visit, Mr. Turner. Then we were not in a position … how shall I put it?—the net was still out. To draw it men would have been to lose some of the fish. But now it is different—the sweep is over.’’

  ‘‘I’m glad to know it. Thank you.’’

  He took a second glass to Tholen. ‘‘I think I must plunge in and tell you what is the worst from your point of view. We now have evidence to bear out what Hermina Maas told us.’’

  I stared at him. ‘‘You mean about my brother?’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  I looked at Tholen. He had put down his drink and was nipping the end of a cigar. ‘‘You mean about him having—jumped into the canal?’’

  He looked up. ‘‘ Yes, Mr. Turner. I know you did not believe that, but I am sorry to tell you that there is the truth.’’

  After a minute I said: ‘‘What sort of evidence?’’

  Van Renkum said: ‘‘We had always hoped that someone else might have seen what happened on the bridge that night. You remember we said we were still searching. But the difficulty was in tracing them. People who visit De Walletjes are not usually forthcoming. We offered a reward. In the end we found a man, one connected with the Harbour Board. He had been in the house opposite, had seen what the Maas woman had seen.’’ Van Renkum took a typewritten sheet from Tholen’s desk. ‘‘The evidence is here for you to read if you would like it. The English translation is on the back. Also, the man speaks a little English, and if you wish it we can arrange for you to meet him in the morning. We want you to be quite certain in your own mind.’’