Part 19 (2/2)

'You finish that book, General. There's bills to pay.'

'I can finish the book and and go see him.' He bit into a piece of toast. 'What's happening?' go see him.' He bit into a piece of toast. 'What's happening?'

'Today, you mean? The usual. Mrs Char coming to do the rooms.'

'Good time for me to be out of the house. Don't let her into my room.'

'Cleanliness is next to G.o.dliness.'

'G.o.d isn't an author.'

He thought he needed a reason to visit Heseltine - he could hardly show up and say something like I thought as you'd been found guilty, I'd drop by I thought as you'd been found guilty, I'd drop by - so he put one of the photographic copies of Mary Thomason's drawing into a leather case and carried it along. And it would be an opportunity to try the art dealer, Geddys, again. Or hadn't he promised Munro to leave Mary Thomason to the police? Meaning to Guillam and his little empire. Who had done nothing. - so he put one of the photographic copies of Mary Thomason's drawing into a leather case and carried it along. And it would be an opportunity to try the art dealer, Geddys, again. Or hadn't he promised Munro to leave Mary Thomason to the police? Meaning to Guillam and his little empire. Who had done nothing.

A sleety rain was coming down. He put on a pair of heavy tweed trousers he'd had since his first winter in London, a single-breasted wool coat that matched nothing but its own waistcoat, and another of the high collars that he despised.

'Find me some s.h.i.+rts with soft collars,' he snarled to Atkins.

'Not proper.'

'To h.e.l.l with ”proper”. I feel as if I'm wearing a slave collar.'

'Have to get them made special, Colonel - cost you.'

'And worth it.'

He pulled on an unfitted tweed ulster that billowed around his legs, something else he had bought years before. It had the virtue of keeping the rain off, but it was as heavy as the flock of sheep it had come from. Only as wide as his shoulders at the top, it expanded to yards of circ.u.mference at the skirts.

'If the wind is blowing, I'll sail away over the rooftops of London,' he said as he went down to the front door. 'I'll send you a postcard from Paris.'

'If you'd had me when you bought that garment, you'd not have bought it.' Atkins handed him a soft tweed hat. 'This hat's really for shooting, mind.'

'Maybe I'll shoot somebody, then.' He didn't, however, take the new revolver, the danger supposedly over now that Jarrold-known-as-Cosgrove was in his luxurious detention.

He wanted to walk, but it was too foul a day - sleet blowing in sheets from the west, wet slush piling up along the edges of pavements; part of a newspaper came pelting down the street, head-high, and he backed out of its path. His elastic-sided boots were soaked by the time he reached Russell Square, and he gave in and waved over a cab.

Albany Court was deserted, its plane trees bare now, the old man who stood nominal watch at the gate huddled in a kiosk. He merely waved Denton through, not willing to suffer a wetting. Heseltine's 'man' - what was his name? Jenkins? Jenks? - opened the door. He was freshly shaven but his skin was blotchy, splashes of red on his nose and cheeks like stains. It was early in the day; he seemed sober. He even seemed to remember Denton.

'Mr Heseltine isn't well, sir.'

'I just thought he might like to look at something.' Denton lifted the leather case a few inches.

'I'll just see.' Jenks - the name was certainly Jenks; he was sure now - made a slow about-face and felt his way across the room. Presumably he was drunk, after all. Denton wondered if it suited Jenks best to have Heseltine 'ill', confined to his room, not out and about where he could check the level of the sherry and ask questions.

'Coming right out, sir. Tea? Or coffee? It's morning. Isn't it?'

'Nothing, thanks. And yes, it's morning.'

Heseltine appeared, again in a long dressing gown, a common wool scarf at his throat instead of collar and tie. They shook hands. Heseltine said, 'You heard, I'm sure.' He seemed quite calm.

'I'm sorry it turned out as it did.'

'It could have been worse.' Heseltine took a cigarette from a box, offered Denton one, then stood with his unlighted. 'There comes a point during the court martial when you say, ”What's the worst that can happen?” and you realize that the worst is is happening. That you're already there, already prepared.' He struck a match. 'My father was heartbroken. For me.' happening. That you're already there, already prepared.' He struck a match. 'My father was heartbroken. For me.'

'I'm sorry.'

'He's a clergyman. Had I told you that? Quiet little village, rather quintessentially English, quite out of date. He believes in goodness. Is a good man himself. He said, ”Come home. All will be well.”' He lit the cigarette.

'Will all be well?' Denton murmured.

Heseltine tried to laugh; the voice sounded cracked.

'I thought you might like to see this.' Denton opened the clasp on the leather envelope. 'It's a drawing of the young woman who wrote the note you found in your painting.' He looked towards the Wesselons.

'Wherever did you get it?'

'Probably somebody she modelled for did it.' He handed the drawing over. Heseltine looked at it, perhaps more out of politeness than real interest. Denton watched his eyes travel over the drawing, then down to the corners where the two miniatures were. For an instant, something happened to his face - a gathering between the brows, a dipping of the head to look more closely - and then there was an almost visibly conscious recovery that included a glance at Denton. 'Very nice,' he said. He handed the drawing back.

'I thought you'd seen something.'

'Oh, no. The little sketches are hard to see. The head is quite well done.'

'Some of the students at the Slade recognized her, anyway.'

'What's happened to her?'

Denton shook his head. 'I've reported it to the police. Nothing else to be done, I guess.'

'I've been thinking about that young woman. Rather looking for things to think about, you know. I wondered - you'll find this the morbid thought of a disappointed man, I suppose - I wondered if she put the note in the painting so it would be found.'

'And you found it.'

'Not by me. Somebody else. It sounds rather daft now I say it. I thought she might have meant it for the person who was trying to ”hurt” her - isn't that what you told me? Put in the back of the painting like that, it could have been for somebody at the shop. Or - I told you somebody else had been going to buy the Wesselons.'

'In an envelope with my name on it?'

'Yes, that's rather the sticking place, isn't it. Well, it was just a thought. Not much of one, as it turns out.'

Heseltine didn't seem really to care. If Mary Thomason had once had some interest for him, even some idea that he might achieve something by helping her, it was gone. They chatted in a desultory way for a few more minutes. Denton said, 'How's Jenks been behaving? '

'Oh, he's atrocious. I shall have to get rid of him.' But he had said that before. He came to the door with Denton and paused, fingers on the k.n.o.b as if he meant to hold it closed. 'My father wants me to come home.'

'It might be the best thing.'

'It sounds absurd, but I can't face those people.' He put his hand on the doork.n.o.b. 'I may go away.'

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