Criminals Page 6

  Then Sadie had shown up with a dead duck. Mollie began to weep profusely for the second time in a few hours and, between sobs, to blame herself. Ewan stood by helplessly on the muddy bank of the pond. “It’s not your fault,” he kept saying with transparent falsity. The amazing thing was that something like this had not happened sooner. Finally the baby began to cry too, and he told Mollie to take her inside. “I’ll bury them,” he said.

  She stumbled off across the sodden grass, while he fetched a spade from the gardening shed. When he came back, Sadie was investigating another of the bodies. “No, Sadie, drop it,” he said and, to his surprise, she did. He was tempted to throw the ducks on the compost heap, or simply bury them in the vegetable garden, where the soil was soft, but some obscure sense of duty made him carry them to the orchard. As he laid them under one of the apple trees, he noticed that they were more or less unmarked by their ordeal; the fox had broken their necks and made not the slightest effort to eat them. This had been done for sport, Ewan thought, with a mixture of admiration and disapproval.

  He prospected, trying the ground, until he found a place, roughly equidistant between two trees, where the spade went in with relative ease. Sadie, after a second reprimand, left the bodies alone and settled down on the wet grass, her paws neatly crossed, to observe his labours. He measured out a small square and pushed down on the spade. What were they called, again? Richard Tiger, Albertine, Lucifer (known as Lucy) … and the fourth? For the life of him, Ewan was unable to bring the name to mind. Millie? Mabel? Marguerite, or maybe Marvin? The ducks had been named, without regard for gender, by Chae’s children. The forgetfulness nagged at him, but he could not ask Mollie, at least for a while.

  Other things, however, he would ask. In order to extricate her from this absurd house, he needed to know her financial situation. When their parents died, six years ago within a few months of one another, each of the three siblings had received a little over thirty thousand pounds. Ewan had offered to invest the sum on behalf of his sisters. Both had turned him down. Bridget had taken her share to the States to start a printing business, but he had no idea what Mollie had done with hers. She and Chae had gone to Tangiers for a holiday, but that could hardly have cost more than a few hundred pounds. Now he suspected the entire sum had been frittered away on livestock and Wellington boots. Was that the point of her long speech, last night, about the cost of hens? Whatever mismanagement was revealed, he promised himself, he would not lose his temper.

  And a job must be found for Mollie, some satisfying occupation that would earn her a living, though he could certainly support her through this transitional period. Well, not certainly, he thought, touching the wooden handle of the spade for luck. She’d been so young when she met Chae, still muddling around in the temporary jobs of an ex-student. Then they’d moved to Mill of Fortune and she’d become a part-time stepmother, a gardener, a weaver, active in various local causes—a graceful, sensible life that had often made Ewan feel like a grubby materialist, but all of which, it now emerged, was based on her relationship with Chae. Without him, nothing was left. Even the weaving, at which Mollie was both skilled and successful, was somehow inextricably connected with her difficult mate.

  He looked down at the hole and over at the pile of ducks. A little deeper, he decided, stooping to remove a stone. He’d forgotten what hard work digging was. Didn’t children have some story about how you could dig through to China—no, it was Australia. And when you emerged on the other side of the earth, you would walk upside down. Ewan couldn’t remember ever believing this; an Edinburgh childhood was inimical to such fantasies. He’d built towers out of Lego blocks and Meccano bridges—large, sensible structures—while his sisters painted and made papier-mâché animals and wrote plays. Suddenly he recalled The Dark Forest. The book seemed like a good way to broach the difficult topic of Chae.

  He lifted out a few more stones and, judging the grave ready, laid in the ducks one by one. There was something melancholy about the brown plumage mingling with the dark soil, but by the time he’d shovelled the earth back in and piled the loose stones on top, his sadness had given way to satisfaction. The apple trees were just coming into leaf, and he remembered the excellent cider Mollie had used to make. As he returned the spade to the shed, he realised he was not yet ready to go back indoors. Inside lay difficulties and tears, the demands of the baby, Mollie’s wobbly state, and his own problems, which might gain the upper hand at any moment.

  “Come on, Sadie.” He whistled, starting up the hill again. The dog followed at heel until it was clear he was indeed going for a walk, then darted ahead.

  This time Ewan ignored the path and climbed directly through the woods. He glimpsed Sadie as she nosed back and forth among the damp leaves that covered the ground. He heard rustling nearby and, once, further off, the sound of a branch breaking: a bird, perhaps, or a rabbit. Chae had told him the deer were plentiful, but you never saw them if you took the dog. He climbed on, breathing hard, until he reached the path and followed it west to the edge of the moors. On his last visit, the previous summer, he’d walked an entire day and met no one. Today he went only a short distance, just far enough to experience the heather underfoot and hear the peculiar singing of the wind as it travelled mile after empty mile across the bare hills. Several small birds flew up from beneath his feet, and a pair of grouse hurtled into ungainly flight with their barking cries.

  Back at the house, he was taking off Chae’s boots in the scullery when Mollie flung open the inner door and seized his arm, nearly toppling him. “Where were you? I called and called, and you didn’t come.”

  “I walked up the hill with Sadie. I’m sorry, I didn’t think you’d notice. But it’s all right, Mollie. I’m here. Everything’s fine.”

  He took off his second boot and led her back into the kitchen, promising a fresh pot of tea. Mollie sat at the table without a word. Except for a livid blotch on each cheek, her face was pale as chalk. He could hear her tremulous breathing. “Last month,” he said, swirling hot water into the teapot, “I was at a concert with Aunt Hester and Uncle Godfrey, and there was a man in the row behind us who’d been at Harrow with Godfrey.” He ignored a gulping sound. “I wish you’d heard the two of them calling each other Tubby and Owl-eyes. But what was really interesting was that afterwards Godfrey was terribly upset at how ancient the other chap looked. Hester and I pointed out that his own hair is grey, that he uses a hearing aid, but it didn’t help. He still felt Tubby had betrayed him. Here you are,” he concluded, passing Mollie a mug of tea.

  “Thanks.” The hectic colour of her cheeks had faded a little. She took a sip and said, “I think we should name her Olivia.”

  “Name who?” For a confused second he thought she was referring to the ducks.

  “The baby, of course. Just for the next twenty-four hours. I can’t stand calling her it or she or baby.”

  “Won’t she have a name? Even if her parents didn’t want her, they must’ve called her something.” He saw Mollie’s eyes grow watery—was it at the notion of the baby being unwanted?

  “Please,” she said.

  “Olivia is a lovely name,” he said quickly. “I think it suits her.” If his sister had suggested Quasimodo, Ewan would have praised her choice. He watched, baffled, as her face brightened. Such a small thing, but wasn’t inappropriate affect one of the classic signs of disturbance? Not being able to distinguish the crucial from the trivial? He remembered his earlier plan of using Chae’s novel to introduce awkward subjects and, with some idea of beginning on this task, said, “I started The Dark Forest last night. It’s interesting to read about a place you know.”

  It was as if he had pressed a lever, ejecting Mollie from her chair. She shot to her feet. There was a crash, and the mug she’d been holding lay shattered on the stone floor. Ewan thought she might start to cry again, but her face, still pale, was set with fury.

  At school Mollie had been famous for her temper. Once, she had brought her satchel do
wn so hard on the head of a rival that the girl had fallen out of her desk. And at university, one time when Ewan met her for a drink, her left hand had been swathed in bandages. “Oh, Neal and I had a row,” she’d said airily. Neal, her current boyfriend, was a burly young man from a Welsh mining family.

  “But what about your hand?” Ewan demanded. “Did he hurt you?”

  “No.” Mollie blushed. “I smashed a window. It was either it or him.”

  Later, when he recounted this to Bridget, she had laughed and said, “Thank goodness Mollie isn’t a boy. She’d always be getting into fights. You know,” she added, “sometimes I wonder if it has to do with her being adopted. I’ve never heard Mum or Dad raise their voices, and you and I may sulk, but we don’t shout. But Mollie, mostly she’s quiet as a mouse and then, occasionally, it’s just like fireworks. She scares me.”

  Now Ewan sat at the table, not moving or speaking, afraid of what she might do next.

  “You can read the book,” she said in a stifled voice. “In fact it’s a good thing if you do. Then you’ll know …” But she did not explain what his new knowledge would consist of.

  He counted to thirty before fetching a dustpan and brush and kneeling at her feet to sweep up the pieces of blue pottery. Fortunately the baby, awoken by the crash, uttered a lusty yell. As Mollie bent over her, the frightening anger left her face. “Olivia,” she cooed, “you’re awake.”

  She picked her up and circled the room, talking softly. Had Olivia liked the walk? What would she like to do next? How about supper? A story? She was in the midst of this prattle when the phone rang. The sound startled Ewan almost as much as the fallen mug. Since his arrival there had been no phone calls. Mollie hesitated, as if of two minds whether to answer, then stepped out into the hall, still holding the baby.

  If Ewan had been asked to justify why he listened so keenly, he would’ve claimed his deep concern for Mollie’s well-being. He was hoping the caller was a friend, someone who would relieve his burdensome sense of being her sole support. He heard her say, “Hello” and “Yes, my brother. I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.” Her voice was anxious, tentative. There was a pause. Then her tone changed. “Who is this?” she said sharply. “No, that won’t be necessary.” He heard the click of the phone being replaced, and silence.

  Ewan stood holding the dustpan and brush, waiting for her to return. What was she doing out there—thinking about calling back? Crying? At last she stepped through the door, clasping the baby tightly with both arms. She was biting her lower lip. “Who was it?” he said, bending to retrieve a splinter of china.

  “Brr, it’s cold out there. I don’t know—some crank.”

  “A salesman? A heavy breather?”

  “No, no, nothing like that. A local farmer was having an argument with Chae about a right-of-way. I seem to have inherited the quarrel. I think you or Sadie must have walked across his land.”

  “We just walked up the forestry track to the moors.”

  “Probably it was Sadie. He’s a bit mad on the subject. He wants us to keep her on a lead the whole time. Anyway, thanks for cleaning up the mess. The mug slipped through my fingers. I’m afraid any mention of Chae has a bad effect on me. And as for the book. Well …” She trailed off. “You’ll see.”

  It was then that Ewan knew she was lying. She had a secret, a secret she wanted to keep from him so badly she was prepared even to talk about Chae. What could it be, he wondered, and should he press her? He fetched a floor cloth to wipe up the tea. As he reached for a distant splash, it occurred to him that perhaps her mendacity was a good sign, an indication of returning sanity, of independence. Yes, Mollie was prepared to lie to him.

  That night he went up to bed as early as possible. He yawned and praised the country air in an effort to conceal his motives, but no advertisement could have made him as eager to read The Dark Forest as the mug his sister had dropped or, more likely, hurled at the kitchen floor. While putting the floor cloth away he had discovered a hot-water bottle—the British substitute for sex, one of his Italian clients had joked—and with this at his feet, he sat up in bed and gave the novel the kind of attention he usually reserved for financial reports. Of course Leo had agreed to his brother’s proposition.

  • • •

  Next morning at breakfast Roman broke the news to Maudie. From his blustering tone I guessed he was edgy about her reaction. He thumped the table and at one point—tut-tut—even used the word damn. The night before he’d swept me along. Now, amidst the cornflakes and coffee, my older brother was turning into a certifiable nutter before my very eyes. As for Maudie, she didn’t have a second’s doubt. “What’s got into you, Roman?” she said. “This is the stupidest thing I ever heard of.”

  “But it was your idea,” he protested. “When we saw that film, you said Leo and I could easily pass for each other.”

  “I said the two of you weren’t as different as you both like to pretend. You know perfectly well I wasn’t suggesting anything like this. It’s absurd, it’s wrong, and, what’s more, it won’t work. People don’t go around impersonating each other, or if they do, they don’t fool anyone.”

  “The fact it’s absurd is precisely why it will work. We’re only trying to fool one person and she’s eighty-seven. If Leo claims to be me, why would Helen doubt him for a second?” He glared at us in turn. Neither of us spoke. I pretended intense interest in the marmalade jar and Maudie stared back at him. “I know you like to rise above material things,” he went on, “but half a million dollars would make quite a difference to us. Just because I’m not artistic, it doesn’t follow I want to spend the rest of my life selling whisky.”

  Maudie blushed and I realised he was making a dig about supporting her. I heard her knuckles crack, clickety-click. “And you can’t go yourself?” she asked in a low voice.

  “Not in the way Helen wants. We’ve had three redundancies in my department in the last month. Even if I could talk David into letting me go, I wouldn’t risk it.”

  She turned to me. “And what about you, Leo? What’s your excuse for this insanity?”

  “Money,” I blurted out, not knowing what else to say.

  I thought I’d really put my foot in it, but Maudie seemed to relent. “You’re both cuckoo,” she laughed. “It must run in the family. I’m off to the pottery. Call me when it’s lunchtime.”

  Over coffee we set out to prepare my script. Roman was the worst possible collaborator. Helen took me to the museum, he said. She hates Whistler. Her lawyer’s name is Art Savage. Oh, don’t forget she still has porridge every morning. After an hour of this kind of scattershot information, I suggested we drive into Perth to buy a guidebook to Boston. Then I sat him down at the table and made him go through the important landmarks: the Charles River, the State House, Back Bay, the museum, a baseball stadium called Fenway Park, the various universities, Cambridge, and Arlington, the suburb where Aunt Helen clung to life.

  “I don’t suppose she’ll remember everything either,” I said, trying to cheer us both up.

  “The trouble is, you can’t count on her forgetfulness. Last time she phoned she suddenly mentioned the pistachio ice cream I ate after we went to the Fogg Museum.”

  “Pistachio, Fogg,” I said, making a note. “Maybe you ought to be paying me more.”

  “Oh, come off it, Leo. I probably won’t see a penny of my inheritance for years. Do you think you’ll be ready to phone her tomorrow? We need to warn her she’s getting what she asked for.”

  “More or less,” I grinned.

  For a moment Roman was glaring again, then he grinned back.

  • • •

  It was clever of Chae, Ewan thought, to put Aunt Helen in Boston, where he could check American details with Bridget. He reached to move the hot-water bottle and, as he did so, realised that Bridget had not been Chae’s only source. A few years ago he had visited Mill of Fortune right after a trip to Boston; he remembered bringing American tee shirts for the children. The firs
t evening, sitting at the table and drinking whisky, Chae had questioned him in a strangely naive way. What do the people look like? Did you find the money tricky? What sort of restaurants did you go to? Gratified by Chae’s interest, he had rambled on about the quaint wooden houses, the unfenced gardens, the large portions in restaurants, the newspapers sold in boxes. Now he felt a delayed embarrassment at his own gullibility: he had mistaken one kind of interest for another. And why hadn’t Chae told him what he was doing? He would’ve been flattered to be asked for his help. Grumpily he turned to the next chapter.

  And found, tucked between the pages, a small piece of newspaper, from The Scotsman. “After his moving third novel, Debts and Trespasses, Chae Lafferty seeks to extend his fictional territory in The Dark Forest,” Ewan read. He skimmed the review, waiting for praise or blame.

  The plot has a somewhat old-fashioned flavour—wills play a more prominent part in nineteenth-century fiction than they do today—but Leo’s masquerade of Roman is nicely rendered, though Mr. Lafferty makes comparatively little of the psychological aspects of impersonation, perhaps intimidated by such brilliant predecessors as Patricia Highsmith. Leo is a lively, if not particularly likeable, narrator. But being likeable is not the job of this novel, and perhaps the only truly sympathetic character is Maudie, Roman’s wife. Let us hope that Mr. Lafferty, having shown that he can write about more exotic places, will now return to Edinburgh, the city he knows so well and has written about with such insight and energy.