P. James: The Skull Beneath The Skin

'Good evening, Cordelia. Have you eaten? I didn't wait dinner, such as it is. I cooked myself some soup and a herb omelette. Would you care for one?'

Cordelia moved into the drawing-room. Here only the wall lights and one table lamp were lit, making a cosy circle of light by the fire. The corners of the room were dark and long shadows moved like fingers over the carpet and the walls. The fire must have been lit for some time. A single large log was burning steadily. She slipped off her shoulder-bag and asked:

'Where is everyone?'

'Ivo's in bed, not at all well, I'm afraid. He'll be going home tomorrow if he's fit for the journey. Roma has left. She was anxious to get back to London. Sir George had one of his mysterious calls to a meeting at Southampton and she took the launch with him. They won't be returning, although they'll both be in Speymouth tomorrow for the inquest. Simon said that he wasn't hungry. He's gone to bed.'

So they were alone after all, alone except for the sick Ivo and a boy. She asked, hoping that her voice didn't betray her dismay:

'Why wasn't the launch at Speymouth? Oldfield was supposed to meet me at six.'

'He or I must have misunderstood. He'll be back with Shearwater, but not until the morning. He's visiting his daughter in Bournemouth for the night.'

'I did ring, but whoever answered put down the receiver.'

'I'm afraid that's been my stock response to the telephone today. Too many calls, too many reporters.'

They stood together in front of the fire. She took the newspaper photograph from her bag and held it out to him.

'I went to Speymouth to find this.'

He didn't touch it or even glance at it.

'I did wonder. I congratulate you. I didn't think you'd succeed.'

'Because you'd already cut it out of the newspaper archives?' He said calmly:

'Yes, I destroyed it about a year ago. It seemed a sensible precaution.'

'I found another.' 'So I see.'

Suddenly he said gently:

'You look tired, Cordelia, hadn't you better sit down? May I get you some claret or brandy?' 'I'd like a glass of claret, please.'

She had to keep her mind clear, but the thought of the wine was irresistible. Her mouth was so dry that she could hardly frame her words. He fetched a glass for her from the dining-room, poured her wine and refilled his own glass, then sat with the decanter close at hand. They settled themselves one each side of the fireplace. It seemed to Cordelia that no chair had ever been more welcoming or as comfortable, no wine had ever tasted so good. He began to speak as calmly and unemotionally as if they were sitting together after dinner discussing the ordinary events of an unremarkable day.

'I came back to visit my uncle. I was his heir and he wanted to see me. I don't think he understood that I couldn't return and still have a tax-free year. That wasn't the way his mind worked. It would never have occurred to him that a man could spend a year of his life doing what he didn't want to do, living where he didn't want to live, because of money. I wish you'd known him. You would have liked each other. It wasn't difficult getting here unnoticed. I flew from Paris to Dublin and took an Aer Lingus flight to Heathrow. Then I travelled by rail to Speymouth and rang the castle for my uncle's servant William Mogg to meet me after dark with the launch. They'd lived together here for nearly forty years. I asked Mogg not to tell anyone that he'd seen me, but it wasn't necessary. He never spoke of his master's business. Three months after my uncle died he turned his face to the wall and followed him. So you see, there wasn't really any risk. He asked me to come. I came.'

'And if you hadn't, perhaps he would have altered his will.'

'Unkind, Cordelia. You probably won't believe me, but I wasn't influenced by that disagreeable possibility. I didn't even believe that it was a possibility. I liked him. I seldom saw him – he didn't encourage visits even from his heir – but when I did pay my annual homage there was something between us which both of us recognized. Not love. I think he only loved William Mogg and I'm not sure that I know what the word means. But whatever it was I valued it. And I valued him. He had toughness, obstinacy, courage. He was his own man. He lay in that immense bedroom like some ancient chieftain gazing out over the sea and fearing nothing: nothing, nothing. And then he asked me to get for him something he fancied, a last taste of Blue Stilton. He can't have tasted it for thirty years. He and William Mogg practically lived off the island, making their own butter and cheese. God knows what put that need into his mind. He could have asked Mogg to get it for him. But he didn't, he asked me.'

'So that's why you went to Speymouth?'

'That's why. If I hadn't done that simple act of filial kindness Clarissa wouldn't have seen that press photograph, wouldn't have forced me into staging The Duchess of Malfi, would still be alive. Odd, isn't it? It makes nonsense of any theory of the beneficent governance of human life. But then I learned that lesson when I was eight and my mother died because she was one minute late for the plane home and the one she caught crashed. It was a matter, you see, of whether the Paris traffic lights were red or green. We live by chance and we die by chance. With Clarissa if you look back far enough, it was a matter of eight ounces, of Blue Stilton. Evil coming out of good if those two words mean something to you.'

Ivo had asked her much the same question. But this time she wasn't expected to answer. He went on:

'A man should have the courage to live by his beliefs. If you accept, as I do absolutely, that this life is all that we have, that we die as animals, that everything about us is finally lost irrevocably, that we go into the night without hope, then that belief must influence how you live your life.'

'Millions of people live with that knowledge and still live good and kindly and useful lives.'

'Because goodness and usefulness and kindness are expedient. I have my share of them. It is necessary for comfort to beat least a little liked. And perhaps some of the virtuous unbelievers still retain a vestigial hope or fear that there could be an after-life, a measure of reward or punishment, a rebirth. There isn't, Cordelia. There isn't. There's nothing but darkness, and we go into it without hope.'

Remembering how he had sent Clarissa into her darkness, she gazed appalled at the gently smiling face with its look of spurious sorrow, as if the full knowledge of what he had done had only now come home to her.

'You smashed in her face! Not once, time and time again! You could make yourself do that!'

'It wasn't agreeable. And if it's any consolation to you, I had to close my eyes. And it seemed to go on for so long. The sensation was horribly specific, softness cushioning the brittleness of bones. And so many bones. I could feel them splintering, like smashing a tin of toffee in childhood. Our old cook used to let me make it. Smashing it when it had cooled was the best part. And when I opened my eyes and made myself gaze, Clarissa wasn't there. Of course, she hadn't been there before, but once her face was gone I couldn't even remember what she had looked like. More than anyone I know, Clarissa was her face. That demolished, I knew afresh what I'd always known, the ridiculous presumption of supposing that she had a soul.'

Cordelia told herself: I won't be sick. I won't. And I must stay calm. I mustn't panic.

His voice came to her faintly but very clear:

'When I was sixteen and first came to this island as a schoolboy I knew for the first time what I wanted of life. Not power, not success, not sex, with men or women. That has always been to me an expense of spirit in a waste of shame. It wasn't even money, except as it contributed to my passion. I wanted a place. This place. I wanted a house. This house. I wanted this view, this sea, this island. My uncle wanted to die on it. I wanted to live on it. It's the only real passion I've ever known. And I wasn't going to let a nymphomaniac second-rate actress take it from me.'