‘Take this,’ he said, pushing the reddish-brown notebook into her hands. His fingers came into momentary contact with hers; they felt cold and clammy. ‘You look like a wise and decent woman. Take good care of it, would you? I wrote it all down. What I saw.’
His left hand continued to be clenched in a fist. Was he holding something in it?
‘In case something happens to me. If – if I don’t come back. If I were to – disappear. I’m not mad. You don’t understand. Get someone from the High Commission. Tell them –’
‘Mr Julian Knight?’ The waiter was standing outside the folly, looking up at Antonia’s companion.
The man ducked his head and stared like an animal that couldn’t make up its mind whether to bolt or not. ‘Yes? What is it?’
(Couldn’t he have said he was not Julian Knight? Couldn’t he have refused to go – made a scene – shouted that he was being kidnapped – that there had been a murder? All these ideas were to occur to Antonia later, after he had gone. Why did good ideas always come when it was too late?)
‘A phone call for you, sir. They said it was urgent. The telephone in the vestibule.’
‘Who is it? Did the caller give a name?’
‘No, sir. No name.’
‘Man or woman?’ He was sweating really badly now. His hands were shaking. His face had turned the colour of a dead fish.
‘A lady, sir, I think. I am not sure.’ The name tag on the waiter’s chest gave his name as Patricio. ‘I was only told to say it was urgent.’
‘Urgent . . .’ The man rose to his feet. He didn’t look at Antonia. He held his left hand clenched in a fist across his chest, in the manner of one taking some kind of a formal oath, which seemed strangely appropriate. Knight by name, knight by nature?
Antonia watched him shamble wearily across the lawn. She expected him to turn his head and cast one last imploring glance at her over his shoulder, but he didn’t. He looked oddly resigned. He walked with his head and shoulders slightly bowed. Like a lamb to the slaughter, she thought, telling herself at once not to be absurd. What could possibly happen to him?
She glanced at her watch. Sixteen minutes past six. She discovered she was clutching at the reddish-brown notebook with both her hands. After a moment’s thought she placed it inside her own diary. She cast a furtive glance round. No, no one was watching her.
Well, Julian Knight’s paranoia seemed to be infectious.
14
Never Come Back
Antonia sat very still and waited for him to come back, which she told herself he would do before long. She smoothed out her dress and looked down at the subdued splash of peonies, the full-blown roses and ivy – a sort of a William Morris print swooning after a pink gin, as Hugh had put it. She then watched two wasps buzz over the empty glass Julian Knight had left on the bench. They were so large, she could see their black and yellow stripes quite clearly. She tried to remain calm. She told herself she needed to keep an open mind, to neither believe nor disbelieve the incredible story she had heard. Don’t jump to any conclusions, she ordered herself.
Stay cool.
Easier to say than to do – especially in this heat.
She tried to arrange her thoughts in a rational manner. Julian Knight was probably an alcoholic. She had smelled alcohol the moment he had staggered into the folly. His hands had been shaking. His left hand must be worse than his right, hence the fist. He had been a funny colour. Alcoholics were often delusional. They saw things, which weren’t there – giant lizards, armies of spiders, talking bears or, for that matter, English girls having their necks snapped.
He hadn’t actually lisped or slurred. He had spoken quite clearly. And he had given specific names, which added verisimilitude to his incredible tale: Marigold Leighton, Lord Justice Leighton. These names could be checked easily.
His left hand continued to be clenched in a fist. Was he holding something in it?
‘In case something happens to me. If – if I don’t come back. If I were to – disappear. I’m not mad. You don’t understand. Get someone from the High Commission. Tell them –’
‘Mr Julian Knight?’ The waiter was standing outside the folly, looking up at Antonia’s companion.
The man ducked his head and stared like an animal that couldn’t make up its mind whether to bolt or not. ‘Yes? What is it?’
(Couldn’t he have said he was not Julian Knight? Couldn’t he have refused to go – made a scene – shouted that he was being kidnapped – that there had been a murder? All these ideas were to occur to Antonia later, after he had gone. Why did good ideas always come when it was too late?)
‘A phone call for you, sir. They said it was urgent. The telephone in the vestibule.’
‘Who is it? Did the caller give a name?’
‘No, sir. No name.’
‘Man or woman?’ He was sweating really badly now. His hands were shaking. His face had turned the colour of a dead fish.
‘A lady, sir, I think. I am not sure.’ The name tag on the waiter’s chest gave his name as Patricio. ‘I was only told to say it was urgent.’
‘Urgent . . .’ The man rose to his feet. He didn’t look at Antonia. He held his left hand clenched in a fist across his chest, in the manner of one taking some kind of a formal oath, which seemed strangely appropriate. Knight by name, knight by nature?
Antonia watched him shamble wearily across the lawn. She expected him to turn his head and cast one last imploring glance at her over his shoulder, but he didn’t. He looked oddly resigned. He walked with his head and shoulders slightly bowed. Like a lamb to the slaughter, she thought, telling herself at once not to be absurd. What could possibly happen to him?
She glanced at her watch. Sixteen minutes past six. She discovered she was clutching at the reddish-brown notebook with both her hands. After a moment’s thought she placed it inside her own diary. She cast a furtive glance round. No, no one was watching her.
Well, Julian Knight’s paranoia seemed to be infectious.
14
Never Come Back
Antonia sat very still and waited for him to come back, which she told herself he would do before long. She smoothed out her dress and looked down at the subdued splash of peonies, the full-blown roses and ivy – a sort of a William Morris print swooning after a pink gin, as Hugh had put it. She then watched two wasps buzz over the empty glass Julian Knight had left on the bench. They were so large, she could see their black and yellow stripes quite clearly. She tried to remain calm. She told herself she needed to keep an open mind, to neither believe nor disbelieve the incredible story she had heard. Don’t jump to any conclusions, she ordered herself.
Stay cool.
Easier to say than to do – especially in this heat.
She tried to arrange her thoughts in a rational manner. Julian Knight was probably an alcoholic. She had smelled alcohol the moment he had staggered into the folly. His hands had been shaking. His left hand must be worse than his right, hence the fist. He had been a funny colour. Alcoholics were often delusional. They saw things, which weren’t there – giant lizards, armies of spiders, talking bears or, for that matter, English girls having their necks snapped.
He hadn’t actually lisped or slurred. He had spoken quite clearly. And he had given specific names, which added verisimilitude to his incredible tale: Marigold Leighton, Lord Justice Leighton. These names could be checked easily.
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