Elizabeth Speller - The Return of Captain John Emmett

She stopped quite suddenly and then looked at her watch.

'So,' she went on, 'we could use some of that for your fictitious patient. You could say to the Holmwood people that your brother is presenting with hysterical conversion—that's the proper name for John's arm problem—plus insomnia, sudden alteration in mood and feelings of guilt after this head injury; they're classic symptoms.'

Laurence stopped her. 'Would you mind if I wrote this down?' he said. As he scrawled on another piece of paper, he looked up at her; she looked much more cheerful and seemed almost to be enjoying the fiction.

'Say it seems obvious that he'l always be an invalid. They'l like that if they're dishonest: the thought that they might keep him and his pension for ever.' She attempted a scowl. 'You could say he has mostly refused medical help until now. That might help explain the lack of a medical report, and emphasise that he generaly had a bad war. You men like those sort of euphemisms. And you can say that poor Dr Fortune—the MO at our field hospital—died last year.'

Laurence raised his eyebrows.

'Heart attack at work,' she said. 'Unjust after al he'd been through. Though you could make up a few horror stories from your own experience, no doubt.'

'I was quite lucky actualy,' said Laurence, quickly. 'Nothing realy terrible ever happened to me. Nothing especialy bad. Not to me personaly.'

Eleanor looked at him for a long time. He felt uneasy under her gaze.

'Didn't it?' she said finaly.

They sat over the table for another half an hour or so while he scribbled notes. She even suggested that he give her name to Dr Chilvers. She had at least been John's nurse and she was prepared to blur the time and place where she had looked after her patient.

'Anything to make life a bit more difficult for these charlatans,' she said. 'They should be struck off. If they're real doctors to start with,' she added portentously.

Laurence thought that Eleanor made an impressive enemy but he didn't want her to see that he was amused.

At four, just as she had warned she must, Eleanor rose to leave. As she was pushing her chair back, he suddenly thought of something else.

'Do you know whereabouts in Bavaria Minna came from?' he asked. 'Does Coburg ring a bel?'

'Sorry,' she said, shaking her head. 'I don't think I ever knew.'

'Did you know her ful name?'

'No. He didn't talk much about her. Not to me. Though I think her first name was realy Wilhelmina. She had an older brother; I do remember that.'

'Did you see John again?' Laurence asked as he helped her on with her coat. 'After the war?'

'No,' she said. 'No. I married not so long after the war ended. But we kept in touch by letter from time to time. I liked him. He was special. And very alone.'

'I suppose John had a pen-name too?' he said, just as they reached the door. Why the hel hadn't he got his ideas together until she was on the point of leaving?

She thought for a while. 'It was Charon,' she said rather sadly. 'The bearer of the dead.'

Chapter Eleven

There were two letters waiting for him when he returned home. He tore open the one from Mary as he walked upstairs. Out fel two photographs. One was a cheerful portrait of John in a rowing vest, taken at Oxford, he guessed. The other was of the group of soldiers; the picture he'd seen that day in Cambridge. Even alowing for the fact it was of poor quality, there was something grim and defeated about the men. He picked up the letter.

Dear Laurence,

It goes without saying that the happy photograph is precious to me. John never looked so carefree after he returned from France.

I am sorry I've been slow to write—I've been quite busy and my mother has been unwel. It occurred to me that I know so little about you, although talking to you helped me. You have a skil for understanding—maybe because you are a writer.

Perhaps we could meet once you have been to Holmwood? The set-up there is not quite what it seems, I think. But I don't want to influence you.

Yours,

Mary

Laurence was stil sufficiently objective to recognise that she was being disingenuous in the last sentence. Nor was research into Norman architecture likely to fit anyone for insights into the human condition. Stil, he wondered whether he might bring Mary back to his rooms one day. What would she think of it? The rooms were wel proportioned, and she would like the views over London. He opened the piano lid and pressed a key; it reverberated endlessly. God knows when it had last been tuned. It had been Louise's pride and joy; in the end it was the only thing of hers he could not face putting in a sale. The piano stool was covered with a worn tapestry of a horn of plenty, embroidered by his mother.

The bedroom, on the north-east corner of the building, was always colder than the other rooms and tonight the wind was wailing round the corner of the building. He felt suddenly despondent; his reactions were those of a boy, not of a man, a former soldier and a widower. Underneath his romantic fantasies he recognised a much darker physical desire for her. It had first swept over him when Charles had implied that she was not the innocent girl he had taken her to be. Surprised by the knowledge of her passionate affair, he had also been aroused by it, as wel as the fact that, unknown to her, he possessed this piece of her secret self. He lay there in his chily bed, remembering what it felt like to have a woman beside him, her naked legs against his where her nightgown had ridden up, her back curved into him and his arms around her warmth.

He woke feeling sick and shivery. His eiderdown had slipped off and the sheets had bunched down the bed, leaving the rough blankets irritating his skin. His ears were hot and ringing. The usual formless horrors slipped away from him once he switched on the light and straightened his sheets. He lay back. How could he ever explain al this to Mary or to any woman, he wondered, and despaired.

He knew it was useless to stay in bed; sleep would not return. As he walked into the other room he remembered that he had forgotten to open the second letter. There was the large, even handwriting: perfectly straight across the page as if Charles had internalised the ruled lines of the nursery. It took him three sides to communicate that he had been away for the weekend, that the Alvis was a marvel, that a group of friends Laurence had never heard of were on particularly good form, and that he had something quite rum to tel Laurence. It ended firmly: 'We need dinner, old man. Not the Club. Fancy a bit of a change. How about the Café Royal? At seven on Thursday?'

Although he woke up tired, the folowing day was clear. He decided to go over to the Bolithos and show Wiliam the photograph. It crossed his mind that the implicit bargain in exchange for Eleanor's help with Holmwood, was that he didn't bother her husband, but he promised himself that he would not linger.

Eleanor was out when he arrived. Their charwoman opened the door. He felt a degree of relief. Wiliam seemed genuinely pleased to see him. Despite the chil from half-opened windows and a strong smel of paint, the main room had taken on a feel of spring since his last visit.

'Chinese yelow,' Wiliam said, 'Eleanor's work.' He looked down ruefuly at the floor where a couple of yelow drips had hardened. 'She's a rather impulsive handywoman. But sit down. Ethel wil make some tea.'

'Look, I can't stay,' Laurence said, 'and I am awfuly sorry to pester you again but I wondered if I might show you a picture? I'm simply trying to identify the men in it.'

Wiliam seemed perfectly calm when he took the photograph. Though Eleanor had said he needed to move forward, he showed no sign of distress. If he hadn't known otherwise, Laurence would have thought he was a man glad of company and eager for something to do.