and shining.
Linus looked into Guy’s eyes and said, “That’ll give you breathing space, man. That’ll give you time.”
Guy felt happy, he felt an enormous relief. Newton was dead, so Leonora couldn’t marry him. Now he could discover at his leisure the slanderer who had poisoned her mind against him. He bent over the dead man, feeling grateful to him, almost caring for him. The masked man, in a single swift gesture, took off his mask and revealed to Guy, who was now trembling and horrified, his identity. It was Con Mulvanney.
In the morning, still quite shaken from the dream, Guy looked up Newton’s number in the phone book, found his address in Georgiana Street, which he then looked up in the ABC London Street Atlas. Linus’s opinion in the dream, that getting Newton out of the way would give him time, now returned to him. Newton might not, as a man, be a serious threat, but he was there and Leonora would marry him on September 16, no doubt soon regretting the step she had taken, though by then it would be too late. One thing to be glad about was that divorce was relatively easy.
Why had Con Mulvanney come to him in the dream? If Guy had inherited little from that hopeless feckless mother of his, and derived less, he had at any rate brought with him, through the years and changes, some of her superstitions. To this day he would not walk under ladders. His broken-down push-chair had been made to take avoiding detours, often to the very real danger from passing cars to its dirty-faced infant occupant. He touched wood in times of anxiety, and threw salt over his left shoulder when some was spilt. Omens he trusted, while saying he didn’t believe in them. Premonitions he recognized in sudden vague apprehensions. The totally unexpected appearance of Con Mulvanney in his dream, something that had never happened before—he had never before dreamt of Mulvanney—was a clear omen. What else could it be?
He began to wonder if it was possible anyone had told Leonora about Con Mulvanney. On the face of it it seemed unlikely. Very few people knew. Of course hundreds, thousands knew who he was and what had happened to him, though no doubt most of them had now forgotten; but surely only he himself and that woman knew his own connection with Mulvanney’s death.
The police knew. Correction—the police had been told. It wasn’t the same thing. They had found nothing, they had probably in the end not believed her or knew it would be hopeless to prove it.
The woman had a name he would never forget, no one could forget; she was called Poppy Vasari. She had threatened to tell everyone she knew. But what would be the point in naming him to people as the supplier of LSD to Mulvanney when his name would mean nothing? To the police … now, that was another story.
But suppose she had carried out her threat and talked of it to friends and acquaintances, given some sort of description of him? “A handsome dark man, very young.” He had been only twenty-five at the time. Or, “Very well-off, the way these people are, living in one of those pretty houses in a mews in South Ken.” Those details would be enough to arouse the suspicions of anyone who knew him only slightly. Robin Chisholm, say, or Rachel Lingard. Suppose they had then asked his name? Poppy Vasari would tell them, of course she would. She had nothing to lose.
And they would have told Leonora.
No surer way could have been found to put her off him. Four years ago. That was about the time she began radically to change towards him, to change her mind about that holiday, to turn down his invitations, to wean herself gradually away from him, to refuse his offer of money to buy that flat. And once she was in the flat, to cease altogether to go out with him in the evenings, to cease kissing him (except in the way she kissed Maeve, on both cheeks), sending others to answer the phone when he rang, gradually achieving the present situation of daily phone calls and lunch on
Linus looked into Guy’s eyes and said, “That’ll give you breathing space, man. That’ll give you time.”
Guy felt happy, he felt an enormous relief. Newton was dead, so Leonora couldn’t marry him. Now he could discover at his leisure the slanderer who had poisoned her mind against him. He bent over the dead man, feeling grateful to him, almost caring for him. The masked man, in a single swift gesture, took off his mask and revealed to Guy, who was now trembling and horrified, his identity. It was Con Mulvanney.
In the morning, still quite shaken from the dream, Guy looked up Newton’s number in the phone book, found his address in Georgiana Street, which he then looked up in the ABC London Street Atlas. Linus’s opinion in the dream, that getting Newton out of the way would give him time, now returned to him. Newton might not, as a man, be a serious threat, but he was there and Leonora would marry him on September 16, no doubt soon regretting the step she had taken, though by then it would be too late. One thing to be glad about was that divorce was relatively easy.
Why had Con Mulvanney come to him in the dream? If Guy had inherited little from that hopeless feckless mother of his, and derived less, he had at any rate brought with him, through the years and changes, some of her superstitions. To this day he would not walk under ladders. His broken-down push-chair had been made to take avoiding detours, often to the very real danger from passing cars to its dirty-faced infant occupant. He touched wood in times of anxiety, and threw salt over his left shoulder when some was spilt. Omens he trusted, while saying he didn’t believe in them. Premonitions he recognized in sudden vague apprehensions. The totally unexpected appearance of Con Mulvanney in his dream, something that had never happened before—he had never before dreamt of Mulvanney—was a clear omen. What else could it be?
He began to wonder if it was possible anyone had told Leonora about Con Mulvanney. On the face of it it seemed unlikely. Very few people knew. Of course hundreds, thousands knew who he was and what had happened to him, though no doubt most of them had now forgotten; but surely only he himself and that woman knew his own connection with Mulvanney’s death.
The police knew. Correction—the police had been told. It wasn’t the same thing. They had found nothing, they had probably in the end not believed her or knew it would be hopeless to prove it.
The woman had a name he would never forget, no one could forget; she was called Poppy Vasari. She had threatened to tell everyone she knew. But what would be the point in naming him to people as the supplier of LSD to Mulvanney when his name would mean nothing? To the police … now, that was another story.
But suppose she had carried out her threat and talked of it to friends and acquaintances, given some sort of description of him? “A handsome dark man, very young.” He had been only twenty-five at the time. Or, “Very well-off, the way these people are, living in one of those pretty houses in a mews in South Ken.” Those details would be enough to arouse the suspicions of anyone who knew him only slightly. Robin Chisholm, say, or Rachel Lingard. Suppose they had then asked his name? Poppy Vasari would tell them, of course she would. She had nothing to lose.
And they would have told Leonora.
No surer way could have been found to put her off him. Four years ago. That was about the time she began radically to change towards him, to change her mind about that holiday, to turn down his invitations, to wean herself gradually away from him, to refuse his offer of money to buy that flat. And once she was in the flat, to cease altogether to go out with him in the evenings, to cease kissing him (except in the way she kissed Maeve, on both cheeks), sending others to answer the phone when he rang, gradually achieving the present situation of daily phone calls and lunch on
Similar Books
