Roger Curtis - Lights in a Western Sky

As soon as Clarice had finished writing Samantha rose from the sofa as if, Greville thought, a matter of some triviality had been transacted. The same cold fear he had experienced the night before returned. He watched the two women staring down at the glistening instruments on the workbench. Something passed between them but he could not hear what was said. Their bodies seemed unnaturally close together, suggesting an intimacy he had not expected. Then he rebuked himself inwardly for his suspicious mind; after all, they were cousins, for heaven’s sake. Why should they not have developed a relationship outside his own.

Before following Clarice out of the door, Samantha cast one lingering look – or so Greville thought – over the items on the workbench. That decided him. ‘You two go on ahead,’ he said. ‘I have a quick call to make.’

‘What can we get you to drink?’ Clarice asked.

‘A G&T please.’

He watched them walk along the towpath. As soon as they were out of sight of the window he checked the charge of his inquiscope, then put it into his pocket. He folded up his laptop, set the house alarm and followed the path the women had taken.

From outside the restaurant he watched them being led to a table at the far end of the dining room. Once inside, instead of walking between the tables he took the stairs to the gallery above, where he knew from experience there would be tables free. And why did he know that? Why, because it was from a table overlooking the floor below that he had watched Emma, his erstwhile wife, entertaining the man he presumed was her lover. And it was here that the idea of the inquiscope was born – and what had driven the rapidity of its development so that it could be put to practical use.

Below him in the distance the two women were already seated. To Greville they seemed at ease with one another, though neither smiled. Hidden behind a plastic fern he connected the instrument to the laptop and discreetly pointed it at them. In seconds their faces appeared on the screen. Hastily he muted the sound and plugged in his earphones.

Below him the waiter appeared with their drinks, including his G&T. Then the conversation between the women became serious.

‘Before he gets here,’ Clarice said. ‘You’re quite sure you want to go through with it?’

‘As sure as I’ve ever been. Having met the man, I think I can just about tolerate him. For a while.’

‘You still have suspicions about your sister’s death – about Emma?’

‘More than just suspicions. It was a preposterous story – about the jellyfish.’

‘I think so too.’ A fleeting smile crossed Clarice’s lips. ‘But it’s his imagination that has got him where he is. I mean, like with his clever instruments.’

‘Aren’t they just! No wonder he’s made a fortune. You think he resented sharing it, with Emma?’

‘No, I’m sure it wasn’t that. After all, it was her capital that started their electronics business. No, I think it was more that she’d become an encumbrance.’

‘We’ll just have to see, won’t we?’

‘But in the meantime don’t forget we have a deal.’

‘Dividing the spoils, you mean?’

‘Only fair,’ Clarice said. ‘I’m the blood relative.’

They raised their glasses and reached across the table. ‘To our future spoils,’ they said.

Clarice put down her glass. ‘Now, to practicalities. Have you got all your new paperwork – passport, birth certificate, fostering papers?’

‘Our Pakistani friends in Camden were most obliging.’

‘Will you ever tell Greville – that you’re actually his wife’s little sister?’

A look of contempt crossed Samantha’s face. ‘When I look into his eyes for the very last time I’ll wave Emma’s letter in front of his nose. So it’s the last thing he’ll ever see.’

‘Oh? What letter?’

‘The one telling me she was frightened, that she was convinced something was about to happen to her. Sent the day before she… was drowned.’

‘My God! I’m not sure I want to be part of this.’ For the first time Clarice laughed. ‘I thought we were into it just for the money.’

‘Well, we’re in too deep to stop now.’

The waiter arrived with their main courses. Their conversation drifted towards more womanly matters. Greville, still glued to his screen and listening, saw his hands were trembling. In spite of all the women had revealed something was missing. But for the moment he could not grasp what it was.

Instinct told him to confront them, to go below and end the whole sordid business. Yet… He watched Samantha’s elegant and sinuous passage between the tables towards the door – and thought back to their night of passion at Maple Lodge. Anyone who could behave like that towards him in the face of the hatred she must bear deserved… well… his admiration. And he, knowing the score, had a challenge. Like playing a dangerous fish and bringing it aboard to its death while at the same time avoiding its sharp teeth. A delicious tingle passed down his spine.

As he was about to disconnect the inquiscope he noticed Clarice’s forgotten handbag hanging from the back of her chair. They would be walking back to the house, wondering why he had not appeared. He would run after them with it and so begin the next phase of their… interesting… relationship.

He descended to the floor below, walked to the chair and grasped the bag. There was a voice at his shoulder.

‘Excuse me Sir, but are you sure this bag is yours?’ Greville turned to see the waiter standing there.

‘It belongs to my friend who was here just now.’

‘I’m sure that’s right, Sir, but I must ask you to identify it.’

‘In the wallet you’ll see that…’

His voice tailed off as he saw the contents of the bag. The first item to catch his eye was a school class photograph in which Clarice and Samantha were standing side by side. The second was a thin plastic tube containing a swab, with Samantha’s name on the label, just as he had seen it written before his eyes; Clarice, then, must have substituted her own one, to cover the lie. And that, he said to himself, made her a legitimate second target.

There was a spring in his step as he walked briskly back to Maple Lodge.

The little church of Santa Maria Maggiore stands in a back street some two hundred metres from the Piazza Publica, where the great cathedral of San Marco casts its shadows over hordes of tourists taking coffee at the myriad tables. Those dazzled by the splendour of the cathedral generally have little time for anything else but resting their feet, restoring their fluid balance and heading back to their hotels – and certainly little interest in the lesser church, in spite of it possessing paintings by Titian and Veronese and a campanile taller and more beautiful than any other in the city. But it was none of these that first drew Theodore there; rather, a need to find tranquillity and darkness to help still a mind suddenly and unexpectedly troubled. For he had in his pocket the letter from the hospital containing the results of blood tests telling him that he had myeloid leukaemia and needed to return home as soon as was practicable to discuss treatment with his doctor. He regretted opening the letter at all, knowing that it could spoil his holiday. Yet, strangely, it had cleared his mind, in the sense that a need to establish order in his life had suddenly become a priority.

He had come upon the church by accident, its dark interior just visible through the narrow door, beckoning him in. He’d visited other Catholic churches before, but seldom stayed long, finding the decoration excessive and the messages of the paintings and statuary unbelievable. So, now, he wondered again if this was what the Christ-figure would have wanted; and whether he would have identified with the effigies strung up on crosses or bleeding copiously from spear thrusts and thorn wounds. For sure, he thought, from what he knew of the New Testament, the Jesus of history would not have approved of the gilt crucifixes, the fantastically elaborate wood carvings and other extreme paraphernalia. But he might have welcomed the cool interior, as he would have done in the synagogues of Galilee after days of humility and ridicule.