Benjamin Black - Elegy For April

From that day on he thought of life as a voyage of discovery- scant and often trivial discovery, it was true- and himself as a lone lookout among a shipful of purblind mariners, casting the plumb line and hauling it in and casting it again. All around lay the surface of the ocean, seeming all that there was to see and know, in calm or tempest, while, underneath, lay a wholly other world of things, hidden, with other kinds of creatures, flashing darkly in the deeps.

The early twilight was coming on when he climbed the steps again to the house in Herbert Place and fetched the key from under the broken flagstone and let himself in. The hall was silent, and dark save for a faint glow from the streetlamp coming through the transom, but he did not switch on the light, out of a vague unwillingness to disturb the lie of things. The house was in the ownership of the estate of Lord Somebody- he had forgotten the name- who lived in En gland, an absentee landlord. He had looked up Thom’s Directory and found only two tenants listed, April Latimer and a Helen St. J. Leetch. Quirke’s daughter had told him which flat this other person, this Leetch person, lived in, but he could not remember what she had said. He knocked on the door of the ground-floor flat, but from the hollow sound his knuckles made he knew it was unoccupied. He climbed past April’s door on the first floor without stopping and continued on, leaning on the banister rail and breathing hard. The landing above was so dark that he had to feel along the walls for the light switch, and when he found it and flicked it no light came on. There was no light either under the door here, and when he leaned down and put an eye to the keyhole he could see nothing within but blackness. Yet one of his policeman’s extra senses told him this flat was not empty. He raised a hand to knock but hesitated. Something was near him, some presence; all at once he could feel it. He was not fanciful; it was by no means the first dark place he had stood in with a human presence nearby making not a sound, not even breathing, for fear of being found and pounced on. He cleared his throat, the noise sounding very loud in the silence.

When he knocked on the door it was immediately wrenched open with a bang, and a waft of dead, cold air came out at him. “What do you want?” a hoarse voice demanded, rapid and urgent. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

He could see her dimly against a vague glow that must be coming in from the street through a window behind her. She was a stark, stooped form, leaning on something, a stick, it must be. She gave off a stale smell, of old wool, tea leaves, cigarette smoke. She must have heard him coming up the stairs and waited for him, pressing herself against the door inside, listening.

“My name is Hackett,” he said, in a voice deliberately loud. “Inspector Hackett. Are you Mrs. Leetch?”

“Helen St. John Leetch is my name, yes yes- why?”

He sighed; this was going to be a tricky one. “Do you think I could come in, Mrs.-”

“Miss.”

“-just for a minute?”

He heard her fingers scrabbling along the wall, and then a weak bulb above her head came on. Halo of tangled gray hair, face all fissures, a sharp, black, gleaming eye. “Who are you?” Her voice now was surprisingly firm, commanding, he might have said. She had what he thought of as a refined accent. Protestant; relic of old decency. Every other house in these parts would have a Miss not Mrs. St. John Leetch, waiting behind the door for someone, anyone, to knock.

“I’m a detective, ma’am.”

“Come in, then, come in, come in, you’re letting in the cold.” She shuffled a step backwards in a quarter circle, making angry jabs at the floor with her stick. She wore a calf-length skirt that seemed made of sacking, and at least three woolen jumpers that he could count, one over the other. Hen’s claw, agued, on the handle of the stick. She spoke headlong, staccato, her dentures rattling. “If it’s about the rent, you’re wasting your time.”

“No, ma’am, it’s not about the rent.”

Tentatively he stepped inside. He had a glimpse of a darkened kitchen with lurking furniture shapes and a tall sash window, curtainless. The air was very cold and felt damp. He hovered uncertainly. “In there, in there!” she said, pointing. “Go on!”

She shuffled after him into what he supposed was the living room and turned on the light. The place was a chaos. Things were dumped everywhere, clothes, pairs of shoes, outmoded hats, cardboard boxes overflowing with jumbles of ancient stuff. There was a strong smell of cat, and when he looked closely he saw a sort of slow billowing in a number of places under the dumped rags, where stealthy creatures crept. When he turned he was startled to find the woman standing immediately at his shoulder, scrutinizing him. “You’re not a detective,” she said with broad contempt. “Tell the truth- what are you, some sort of a salesman? Insurance, is it?” She scowled. “You’re not a Jehovah’s Witness, I hope?”

“No,” he said patiently, “no, I’m a policeman.”

“Because they come here, you know, knocking at the door and offering me that magazine- what is it?- The Tower ? I took it once, and the fellow had the cheek to ask me to pay sixpence for it. I told him to be off or I’d call the police.”

He took out his wallet and showed her his dog-eared identity card. “Hackett,” he said. “Inspector Hackett. You see?”

She did not look at the card but went on peering at him with deep suspicion. Then she pressed something into his hand. It was a box of matches. “Here,” she said, “I’ve been trying to get that blasted fire going; you can do it for me.”

He crossed to the fireplace and crouched by the gas fire and struck a match and turned the spigot. He looked up at her. “There’s no gas,” he said.

She nodded. “I know, I know. They turned it off.”

He got to his feet. He realized he had not taken off his hat, and did so now. “How long have you lived here, Miss Leetch?”

“I can’t remember. Why do you want to know?”

A scrawny black-and-white tomcat came slinking out from under a pile of yellowed newspapers and wrapped itself sinuously around his ankle, making a deep gurgling sound.

“Did you- do you know Miss Latimer,” he asked, “in the flat below? Dr. Latimer, I mean.”

She was looking past him at the dead gas fire, scowling. “I could die,” she said. “I could die of the cold, and then what would they do?” She started, and stared at him, as if she had forgotten he was there. “What?” Her eyes were black and had a piercing light.

“The young woman,” he said, “in the flat downstairs. April Latimer.”

“What about her?”

“Do you know her? Do you know who I mean?”

She snorted. “Know her?” she said. “Know her? No, I don’t know her. She’s a doctor, you say? What kind of a doctor? I didn’t know there was a surgery in this house.”

Rain had begun to fall again; he could hear it hissing faintly in the trees across the road. “Maybe,” he said gently, “we could sit down for a minute?”

He put his hat on the table and drew out one of the bentwood chairs. The table was round, with bowed legs the ends of which were carved in the shape of a lion’s claws. The top of it had a thick, dull sheen and was sticky to the touch. He offered the chair to the woman, and after a moment of distrustful hesitation she sat down and leaned forward intently with her hands clasped one over the other on the knob of her stick.

“Have you seen her recently?” Hackett asked, taking a second chair for himself. “Miss Latimer, that is- Dr. Latimer?”

“How would I see her? I don’t go out.”

“You’ve never spoken to her?”