Читать книгу Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 11: Photo-Finish, Light Thickens, Black Beech and Honeydew - Ngaio Marsh, Stella Duffy - Страница 15

Troy slept heavily and woke at ten o’clock to find Alleyn up and dressed and the room full of sunshine.

‘I’ve never known you so unwakeable,’ he said. ‘Deep as the lake itself. I’ve asked for our breakfast.’

‘Have you been up long?’

‘About two hours. The bathroom’s tarted up to its eyebrows. Jets of water smack you up where you least expect it. I went downstairs. Not a soul about apart from the odd slave who looked at me as if I was dotty. So I went outside and had a bit of an explore. Troy, it really is quite extraordinarily beautiful, this place; so still; the lake clear, the trees motionless, everything new and fresh and yet, or so one feels, empty and belonging to primordial time. Dear me,’ said Alleyn, rubbing his nose, ‘I’d better not try. Let’s tell each other about what went on after that atrocious dinner party.’

‘I’ve nothing to tell. When we left you the diva merely said in a volcanic voice: ‘Excuse me, ladies,’ and swept upstairs. I gave her time to disappear and then followed suit. I can scarcely remember getting myself to bed. What about you?’

Alleyn told her.

‘If you ask me,’ Troy said, ‘it needs only another outrage like this and she’ll break down completely. She was literally shaking all over as if she had a rigor. She can’t go on like that. Don’t you agree?’

‘Not really. Not necessarily. Have you ever watched two Italians having a discussion in the street? Furious gestures, shrieks, glaring eyes, faces close together. Any moment, you think, it’ll be a free-for-all and then without warning they burst out laughing and hit each other’s shoulders in comradely accord. I’d say she was of the purest Italian – perhaps Sicilian – peasant stock and utterly uninhibited. Add to that the propensity of all public performers to cut up rough and throw temperaments right and left when they think they’ve been slighted and you’ve got La Sommita. You’ll see.’

But beyond staring bemusedly out of the windows, Troy was not given much chance of seeing for herself. Instead, she and Alleyn were to be taken on a tour of the house by Mr Reece, beginning with the ‘studio’ which turned out to be on the same level as their bedroom. Grand pianos being as chicken feed to Mr Reece, there was one in here and Troy was given to understand that the Sommita practised at it and that the multiple-gifted Rupert Bartholomew acted as her accompanist, having replaced an Australian lady in that capacity. She found, with astonishment, that an enormous easel of sophisticated design and a painter’s table and stool had been introduced into the room for her use. Mr Reece was anxious, he said, to know if they suited. Troy, tempted to ask if they were on sale or return, said they did and was daunted by their newness. There was also a studio throne with a fine lacquer screen on it. Mr Reece expressed a kind of drab displeasure that it was not large enough to accommodate the grand piano as well. Troy, who had already made up her mind what she wanted to do with her subject, said it was of no consequence. When, she asked, would she be able to start? Mr Reece, she thought, was slightly evasive. He had not spoken this morning to Madame, he said, but he understood there would be rehearsals for the greater part of the day. The orchestra was to arrive. They had been rehearsing, with frequent visits from Bartholomew, and would arrive by bus. The remaining guests were expected tomorrow.

The studio window was of the enormous plate-glass kind. Through it they had a new view of lake and mountains. Immediately beneath them, adjoining the house, was a patio and close by an artificially enclosed swimming pool, round which and in which members of the house party were displayed. On the extreme right, separated from the pool and surrounded by native bush, was an open space and a hangar which, Mr Reece said, accommodated the helicopter.

Mr Reece was moved to talk about the view which he did in a grey, factual manner, stating that the lake was so deep in many parts that it had never been sounded and that the region was famous for a storm, known locally as The Rosser, which rose unheralded in the mountains and whipped the lake into fury and had been responsible for many fatal accidents.

He also made one or two remarks on the potential for ‘development’ and Alleyn saw the look of horrified incredulity on his wife’s face. Fortunately, it appeared, pettifogging legislation about land-tenure and restrictions on imported labour would prohibit what Mr Reece called ‘worthwhile touristic planning’ so that the prospect of marinas, high-rise hotels, speedboats, loud music and floodlit bathing pools did not threaten those primordial shores. Sandflies by day and mosquitoes by night, Mr Reece thought, could be dealt with and Troy envisaged low-flying aircraft delivering millions of gallons of kerosene upon the immaculate face of the lake.

Without warning she was overcome by a return of fatigue and felt quite unable to face an extended pilgrimage of this unending mansion. Seeing her dilemma, Alleyn asked Mr Reece if he might fetch her gear and unpack it. There was immediate talk of summoning a ‘man’ but they managed to avoid this. And then a ‘man’ in fact did appear, the dark, Italianate-looking person who had brought their breakfast. He had a message for Mr Reece. Madame Sommita wished to see him urgently.

‘I think I had better attend to this,’ he said. ‘We all meet on the patio at eleven for drinks. I hope you will both join us there.’

So they were left in peace. Alleyn fetched Troy’s painting gear and unpacked it. He opened up her old warrior of a paintbox, unstrapped her canvases and set out her sketchbook, and the collection of materials that were like signatures written across any place where Troy worked. She sat in a chair by the window and watched him and felt better.

Alleyn said: ‘This room will be de-sterilized when it smells of turpentine and there are splotches of flake white on the ledge of that easel and paint rags on the table.’

‘At the moment it can not be said to beckon one to work. They might as well have hung Please Don’t Touch notices on everything.’

‘You won’t mind once you get going.’

‘You think? P’raps you’re right,’ she said, cheering up. She looked down at the house party round the pool. ‘That’s quite something,’ she said. ‘Very frisky colour and do notice Signor Lattienzo’s stomach. Isn’t it superb!’

Signor Lattienzo was extended on an orange-coloured chaise longue. He wore a green bathrobe which had slid away from his generous torso upon which a book with a scarlet cover was perched. He glistened.

Prompted, perhaps by that curious telepathy which informs people that they are being stared at, he threw back his head, saw Troy and Alleyn and waved energetically. They responded. He made eloquent Italianate gestures which he wound up by kissing both his hands at once to Troy.

‘You’ve got off, darling,’ said Alleyn.

‘I like him, I think. But I’m afraid he’s rather malicious. I didn’t tell you. He thinks that poor beautiful young man’s opera is awful. Isn’t that sad?’

‘Is that what’s the matter with the boy!’ Alleyn exclaimed. ‘Does he know it’s no good?’

‘Signor Lattienzo thinks he might.’

‘And yet they’re going on with all this wildly extravagant business.’

‘She insists, I imagine.’

‘Ah.’

‘Signor Lattienzo says she’s as stupid as an owl.’

‘Musically?’

‘Yes. But I rather gathered generally, as well.’

‘The finer points of attitudes towards a hostess don’t seem to worry Signor Lattienzo.’

‘Well, if we’re going to be accurate, I suppose she’s not his hostess. She’s his ex-pupil.’

‘True.’

Troy said: ‘That boy’s out of his depth altogether. She’s made a nonsense of him. She’s a monster and I can’t wait to get it on canvas. A monster,’ Troy repeated with relish.

‘He’s not down there with the rest of them,’ Alleyn pointed out. ‘I suppose he’s concerned with the arrival of his orchestra.’

‘I can’t bear to think of it. Imagine! All these musical VIPs converging on him and he knowing, if he does know, that it’s going to be a fiasco. He’s going to conduct. Imagine!’

‘Awful. Rubbing his nose in it.’

‘We’ll have to be there.’

‘I’m afraid so, darling.’

Troy had turned away from the window and now faced the door of the room. She was just in time to see it gently closing.

‘What’s wrong?’ Alleyn asked quickly.

Troy whispered: ‘The door. Someone’s just shut it.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Truly.’

He went to the door and opened it. Troy saw him look to his right.

‘Hullo, Bartholomew,’ he said. ‘Good morning to you. Looking for Troy, by any chance?’

There was a pause and then Rupert’s Australian voice, unevenly pitched, not fully audible: ‘Oh, good morning. I – yes – matter of fact – message –’

‘She’s here. Come in.’

He came in, white-faced and hesitant. Troy welcomed him with what she felt might be overdone cordiality and asked if his message was for her.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘yes, it is. She – I mean Madame Sommita – asked me to say she’s very sorry but in case you might be expecting her she can’t – she’s afraid she won’t be able – to sit for you today because – because –’

‘Because of rehearsals and everything? Of course. I wasn’t expecting it and in fact I’d rather not start today.’

‘Oh,’ he said, ‘yes. I see. Good-oh, then. I’ll tell her.’

He made as if to go but seemed inclined to stay.

‘Do sit down,’ said Alleyn, ‘unless you’re in a hurry, of course. We’re hoping someone – you, if you’ve time – will tell us a little more about tomorrow night.’

He made a movement with both hands almost as if he wanted to cover his ears but checked it and asked if they minded if he smoked. He produced a cigarette case; gold with a jewelled motif.

‘Will you?’ he said to Troy and when she declined, turned to Alleyn. The open case slipped out of his uncertain grasp. He said: ‘Oh. Sorry,’ and looked as if he’d been caught shoplifting. Alleyn picked it up. The inside of the lid was inscribed. There in all its flamboyance was the now familiar signature: Isabella Sommita.

Rupert was making a dreadfully clumsy business of shutting the case and lighting his cigarette. Alleyn, as if continuing a conversation, asked Troy where she would like him to put the easel. They improvised an argument about light and the possibility of the bathing pool as a subject. This enabled them both to look out of the window.

‘Very tricky subject,’ Troy said. ‘I don’t think I’m up to it!’

‘Better maintain a masterly inactivity, you think?’ Alleyn cheerfully rejoined. ‘You may be right.’

They turned back into the room and there was Rupert Bartholomew, sitting on the edge of the model’s throne and crying.

He possessed male physical beauty to such a remarkable degree that there was something unreal about his tears. They trickled over the perfect contours of his face and might have been drops of water on a Greek mask. They were distressing but they were also incongruous.

Alleyn said: ‘My dear chap, what’s the matter?’ and Troy: ‘Would you like to talk about it? We’re very discreet.’

He talked. Disjointedly at first and with deprecating interruptions – they didn’t want to hear all this – he didn’t want them to think he was imposing – it could be of no interest to them. He wiped his eyes, blew his nose, drew hard on his cigarette and became articulate.

At first it was simply a statement that The Alien Corn was no good, that the realization had come upon him out of the blue and with absolute conviction. ‘It was ghastly,’ he said. ‘I was pouring out drinks and suddenly, without warning, I knew. Nothing could alter it: the thing’s punk.’

‘Was this performance already under consideration?’ Alleyn asked him.

‘She had it all planned. It was meant to be a – well – a huge surprise. And the ghastly thing is,’ said Rupert, his startlingly blue eyes opened in horror, ‘I’d thought it all fantastic. Like one of those schmaltzy young-genius-makes-it films. I’d been in – well – in ecstasy.’

‘Did you tell her, there and then?’ asked Troy.

‘Not then. Mr Reece and Ben Ruby were there. I – well, I was so – you know – shattered. Sort of. I waited,’ said Rupert, and blushed, ‘until that evening.’

‘How did she take it?’

‘She didn’t take it. I mean she simply wouldn’t listen. I mean she simply swept it aside. She said – my God, she said genius always had moments like these, moments of what she called divine despair. She said she did. Over her singing. And then, when I sort of tried to stick it out, she – was – well, very angry. And you see – I mean she had cause. All her plans and arrangements. She’d written to Beppo Lattienzo and Sir David Baumgartner and she’d fixed up with Rodolfo and Hilda and Sylvia and the others. And the press. The big names. All that. I did hang out for a bit but –’

He broke off, looked quickly at Alleyn and then at the floor. ‘There were other things. It’s more complicated than I’ve made it sound,’ he muttered.

‘Human relationships can be hellishly awkward, can’t they?’ Alleyn said.

‘You’re telling me,’ Rupert fervently agreed. Then he burst out: ‘I think I must have been mad! Or ill, even. Like running a temperature and now it’s gone and – and – I’m cleaned out and left with tomorrow.’

‘And you are sure?’ Troy asked. ‘What about the company and the orchestra? Do you know what they think? And Signor Lattienzo?’

‘She made me promise not to show it to him. I don’t know if she’s shown it. I think she has. He’ll have seen at once that it’s awful, of course. And the company: they know all right. Rodolfo Romano very tactfully suggests alterations. I’ve seen them looking at each other. They stop talking when I turn up. Do you know what they call it? They think I haven’t heard but I’ve heard all right. They call it Corn. Very funny. Oh,’ Rupert cried out, ‘she shouldn’t have done it! It hasn’t been a fair go: I hadn’t got a hope. Not a hope in hell. My God, she’s making me conduct. There I’ll stand, before those VIPs, waving my arms like a bloody puppet and they won’t know which way to look for embarrassment.’

There was a long silence, broken at last by Troy.

‘Well,’ she said vigorously, ‘refuse. Never mind about the celebrities and the fuss and the phoney publicity. It’ll be very unpleasant and it’ll take a lot of guts but at least it’ll be honest. To the devil with the lot of them. Refuse.’

He got to his feet. He had been bathing and his short yellow robe had fallen open. He’s apricot-coloured, Troy noted, not blackish tan and coarsened by exposure like most sun addicts. He’s really too much of a treat. No wonder she grabbed him. He’s a collector’s piece, poor chap.

‘I don’t think,’ Rupert said, ‘I’m any more chicken than the next guy. It’s not that. It’s her – Isabella. You saw last night what she can be like. And coming on top of this letter business – look, she’d either break down and make herself ill or – or go berserk and murder somebody. Me, for preference.’

‘Oh, come on!’ said Troy.

‘No,’ he said, ‘it’s not nonsense. Really. She’s a Sicilian.’

‘Not all Sicilians are tigers,’ Alleyn remarked.

‘Her kind are.’

Troy said, ‘I’m going to leave you to Rory. I think this calls for male-chauvinist gossip.’

When she had gone, Rupert began apologizing again. What, he asked, would Mrs Alleyn think of him?

‘Don’t start worrying about that,’ Alleyn said. ‘She’s sorry, she’s not shocked and she’s certainly not bored. And I think she may be right. However unpleasant it may be, I think perhaps you should refuse. But I’m afraid it’s got to be your decision and nobody else’s.’

‘Yes, but you see you don’t know the worst of it. I couldn’t bring it out with Mrs Alleyn here. I – Isabella – we –’

‘Good Lord, my dear chap –’ Alleyn began and then pulled himself up. ‘You’re lovers, aren’t you?’ he said.

‘If you can call it that,’ he muttered.

‘And you think if you take this stand against her you’ll lose her? That it?’

‘Not exactly – I mean, yes, of course, I suppose she’d kick me out.’

‘Would that be such a very bad thing?’

‘It’d be a bloody good thing,’ he burst out.

‘Well, then –’

‘I can’t expect you to understand. I don’t understand myself. At first it was marvellous: magical. I felt equal to anything. Way up. Out of this world. To hear her sing, to stand at the back of the theatre and see two thousand people go mad about her and to know that for me it didn’t end with the curtain calls and flowers and ovations but that for me the best was still to come. Talk about the crest of the wave – gosh, it was super.’

‘I can imagine.’

‘And then, after that – you know – that moment of truth about the opera, the whole picture changed. You could say that the same thing happened about her. I saw all at once what she really is like and that she only approved of that bloody fiasco because she saw herself making a success in it and that she ought never, never to have given me the encouragement she did. And I knew she had no real musical judgement and that I was lost.’

‘All the more reason –’ Alleyn began and was shouted down.

‘You can’t tell me anything I don’t know. But I was in it. Up to my eyes. Presents – like this thing, this cigarette case. Clothes, even. A fantastic salary. At first I was so far gone in – I suppose you could call it – rapture, that it didn’t seem degrading. And now, in spite of seeing it all as it really is, I can’t get out. I can’t.’

Alleyn waited. Rupert got to his feet. He squared his shoulders, pocketed his awful cigarette case and actually produced a laugh of sorts.

‘Silly, isn’t it?’ he said, with an unhappy attempt at lightness. ‘Sorry to have bored you.’

Alleyn said: ‘Are you familiar with Shakespeare’s sonnets?’

‘No. Why?’

‘There’s a celebrated one that starts off by saying the expense of spirit in a waste of shame is lust in action. I suppose it’s the most devastating statement you can find of the sense of degradation that accompanies passion without love. La Belle Dame Sans Merci is schmaltz alongside it. That’s your trouble, isn’t it? The gilt’s gone off the gingerbread but the gingerbread is still compulsive eating. And that’s why you can’t make the break.’

Rupert twisted his hands together and bit his knuckles.

‘You could put it like that,’ he said.

The silence that followed was interrupted by an outbreak of voices on the patio down below: exclamations, sounds of arrival and unmistakably the musical hoots that were the Sommita’s form of greeting.

‘Those are the players,’ said Rupert. ‘I must go down. We have to rehearse.’