An Artist and a Magician Page 11

  What did she mean….

  ‘Well if this boy didn’t do it, who do you think did?’

  ‘Oh I don’t know, my dear,’ Betty said—and, strangely, laughed. ‘As I say, we’ll probably never know.’

  ‘The police are fairly certain that it wasn’t that person who’s been living with Jim for the last few months.’

  ‘I know. Tell me, what was he like?’

  ‘Chuck? Oh, unspeakable. And quite capable of having killed Jim, I’m sure.’

  Betty laughed again. ‘We were all quite capable of that.’ And then—narrowing her eyes slightly?—she said ‘I read in one of the papers that you’d been to visit him that afternoon. They were reconstructing—you know, the last day in the life of.’

  ‘I didn’t see that,’ Wilbur breathed. Just how much had been reconstructed? What details had the police given to the press? His asking for money? Jim’s refusal? No, surely not. Yet it was possible. Perhaps Chuck had talked to some journalists, too; he would have loved to see his insinuations in print, knowing how humiliating they would be. But he didn’t dare ask; and in any case, Betty would probably tell him, sooner or later. He said, ‘But I did go, yes. That was all the more reason for it being such a shock. To see someone just hours before they’re killed.’

  ‘The police didn’t suspect you’d done it, did they?’

  ‘No. Good heavens no. At least,’ Wilbur added, ‘I don’t think so.’ That he might have been suspected of the actual crime—and not merely in some poetic way—had never occurred to him. And yet, he thought now, it should have done, with all those questions he had been asked. That it hadn’t was probably due to the way that policeman had gotten—or not gotten—to the point; stringing out his questions without ever saying, until the end, that Jim was dead. Either that, or he had been so shocked, his collapse had been so sudden and so total when he had been told—and he had been so convinced that he was spiritually, as it were, responsible for the crime—that he hadn’t been able to think that he might be held materially responsible as well.

  ‘Though I guess they might have. My guests left here at one, and they estimated that Jim was killed at one-thirty.’

  Betty smiled. ‘I was quite alone myself at that hour.’ She said it encouragingly; as if she hoped that her availability, too, for the crime, would prompt Wilbur on to further confessions of some nature….

  And as she smiled, contentedly, towards the window and the cold raw January afternoon, Wilbur, who had felt wretched when she had arrived, believing that she, too, might subscribe to the theory of his having released evil spirits or some such thing, now, suddenly, felt absolutely amazed. Because—and he was getting slow—it all at once became clear to him that Betty didn’t just think he had killed Jim poetically—but believed he had done it in actual fact. He felt so amazed—not stunned, or sickened, as he had been when he had realized that everyone had suspected him of Pam’s death—that for a moment he couldn’t speak, and all he could do, or wanted to do, was gape at Betty. She honestly believed that he, her old friend Wilbur, her court fool and magician, had murdered Jim Simpson. And not by giving him an amiable shove in his garden, but in the most foul and abominable way possible. What was most amazing of all, he told himself as he gaped at her sitting there, the corners of her mouth just twitching slightly, her eyelids trembling, her green wool dress pulled chastely over her knees, was that she not only didn’t appear to mind about this new crime she believed he had committed, but actually approved of it. Was delighted by it, for all its foulness!

  ‘Betty dear,’ he finally gasped, unable to contain himself any longer, in spite of the fact that the words sounded almost hilarious to him now, ‘you don’t think I killed Jim too, do you?’

  Oh why, he asked himself immediately he had said it, had he added that ‘too’….

  Not that it mattered; Betty didn’t appear to have heard it, so taken was she with his question. Her eyes sparkled, her teeth flashed, her head shook; and then, leaning over and laying a gracious hand on his arm, she cooed, ‘Well of course you did my dear. You don’t have to pretend with your old Betty.’ Then she lowered her voice confidentially. ‘What’s more my dear, I’m glad you did. Because I’ll tell you something now I’ve never told anyone. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard any stories about one of Jim’s young friends?’

  Wilbur nodded; not because he knew which young friend Betty was talking about, but simply as a sort of reflex action; he was too speechless to do anything else.

  ‘Well dear, twenty-six years ago, when I came to Rome—two years before I met you—and as I say, this is something I’ve never told anyone; it’s been too painful for me to even think about—I didn’t come alone. And it wasn’t Hubert I came with, either—we were already divorced by then. Nor any other husband or lover. No—well, you’ve met Richard and Sheila and Virginia—but you didn’t know I had another son, did you? Tommy….’ Betty’s voice became veiled for a second, as if a white silk scarf had been languidly draped over it. ‘He was the youngest, and—oh, he was so beautiful Wilbur. In every way. You’d have adored him. In fact I came to Rome because of him. Because I thought after he’d finished school we’d come to Europe together, and stay a year here, a year in Paris, and a year in London. To round him off, if you know what I mean. We didn’t see anyone when we first arrived—just went everywhere together. The museums, churches, the opera—down to Sicily, to Florence, to Venice. And it was so wonderful to see things with Tommy. He had such enthusiasm, he could bring even the stalest view to life, reawake one’s interest in even the most reproduced painting. Everything we saw—it was like seeing it for the first time with him. Even the sky in the morning—the flowers. Oh Wilbur, I remember when we first saw the Grand Canal together. It was a late afternoon in October, everything pale and gold and with that incredible transparent, violet light—and we stood on the Rialto for about half an hour, just soaking it in, until Tommy turned to me and whispered—as if we were alone there, which we were in a way—“Mother, I’ve just discovered the vein that leads to the perfect human heart.” And oh, Wilbur, he was right. That was exactly it. One was looking at—oh dear, the very centre of perfection, the very heart of the entire human spirit.’ Betty swallowed deeply. ‘Anyway, after about six months here I thought that maybe we should see one or two people. I mean—we got on so well together it was wonderful. But I didn’t want Tommy to risk getting bored—and besides, I thought that to meet some “characters” was all part of his education too. So I took him round to see some old countesses and people I’d known before the war, and a few of the more interesting foreign residents. One of these—though I’d never met her before, but had a letter of introduction to her—was Pam Winter. I didn’t like her from the word go—I thought she was a venomous creature—but Tommy was quite amused by her. I mean she did look very odd, and with that voice of hers and everything—and she fairly doted on him. It was almost obscene—she couldn’t keep her hands off him. I think part of it was that she knew I didn’t like her, and wanted to spite me. Anyway, one day she phoned and very pointedly asked Tommy to dinner and not me. Well I didn’t care of course, and told him to go if he wanted to—which he did. And there, who should he meet—who had Pam invited him to meet—but Jim Simpson, who was passing through town. Jim of course fell madly in love with Tommy immediately, and the very next morning was calling to invite him here, there and everywhere, asking how long he was going to be in Rome, etc. At the time of course I didn’t know Jim or what he was like. And I think Tommy was flattered by all his attention. Naturally, for a boy his age. However, after about a week, I told him to invite Jim over to the apartment where we were staying, and of course I got the picture right away. Well you know I’ve always been very liberal, and have always thought that everyone has the perfect right to do exactly what they like with their life, in every way. But I did think it was my duty to warn Tommy what he might be getting into. He said yes, he knew, so I told myself “Betty, don’t be a jealous mother, and the experience wo
n’t hurt the boy.”’ Betty closed her eyes dramatically now, and a spasm of something—pain?—passed over her smooth and stretched skin. ‘But after a month Tommy came up to me one day and said, “Mother, I want to stay in Rome and take an apartment with Jim.” That made my eyebrows shoot up, I can tell you. But I said, “Oh yes dear, why?” And do you know what he said? “Because I’m in love with him.” Well, I’m afraid, with all my liberality, that really shocked me. Because—I mean—well—if Jim had been young and attractive or something. Or particularly intelligent. Or—something. But he was an uncultured forty-year-old man whose only purpose in life seemed to be spending money and seducing young boys. But I controlled myself and asked Tommy why he thought he was in love. And he said it was because he found there was a quality of fatality in Jim, a sense of despair that—and these were his exact words—rang deep and pure like a bell tolling from une cathédrale engloutée. I told him I didn’t think that was a very good reason for falling in love with someone, nor did it promise well for the future of any relationship. But Tommy said he’d never heard a note so deep, and—well, he was attracted to it. Fatally attracted….’ Betty shivered. ‘So they set up house together, and I stayed on, trying to make the best of a bad situation. And for about six months it seemed I might be wrong. Tommy’s love seemed to do wonders for Jim, made him lose weight, become more serious—everything. Probably because it was a unique experience for him. For not only had someone fallen in love with him, but here was someone who was young, beautiful, and couldn’t possibly have any interest in his financial situation. It should have been perfect. But it was just this that—’ Betty stopped for a second, gathering her forces for the final assault on her story. ‘Jim was too corrupted. Too truly wicked. And having found what was, I say, in every respect an almost perfect relationship—couldn’t cope with it. He longed to be humiliated, to be used, to be cheated. I’m not saying he didn’t love Tommy himself. He did. But he hated him just because he did love him, and because Tommy loved him. Anyway, one night about three o’clock in the morning I got this hysterical phone call from Jim, telling me to come over immediately. I thought that perhaps he and Tommy had had a great fight. But when I arrived—Jim told me that indeed he and Tommy had had a fight earlier in the evening, as a result of which he had gone out to the cinema and then for a walk. He had come back in just a minute before he called me. And then he took me into the bedroom and—oh, Wilbur, it was the most appalling moment of my whole life. And I shall never, to the day I die, understand how Jim, however much he hated me, could have done such a thing to me, shown me such a thing. Because there, in a bedroom that was simply a lake of blood, was my Tommy—or all that was left of him. Because—oh Wilbur—my Tommy, my beautiful Tommy, had been killed and mutilated beyond recognition. There were pieces of him everywhere. Everywhere. And I remember that all I could do was say to Jim, “Have you called the police yet?” and when he told me no, go to the phone and say in the coldest possible way, “Will you please come immediately, there’s been a murder.”’

  Some time passed before Wilbur dared break the silence, and whisper, ‘Oh Betty.’

  ‘I was cold like that for a week—through all the investigations and post-mortem and funeral—and then I went mad. Completely, utterly insane. I was taken to a clinic and kept there for six months. When I came out I heard that some boy had been arrested, charged with Tommy’s murder, tried, found guilty, and sentenced to life imprisonment. But I know that Tommy didn’t, couldn’t have picked up any boy. It was Jim. It had to be Jim. It had to be Jim who had paid the boy—paid him lavishly I don’t doubt—to do what he had done, and go to prison if necessary.’ Betty gave a tiny smile. ‘Of course he was released years ago, and is probably living in a villa in the south of France at this very moment with the money Jim gave him. And Jim did it just because he couldn’t bear to love or be loved. I know it. When I came out of the clinic I thought for a while that as soon as I had my strength back I would leave Rome, and try to pick up some sort of life again. But just as I was getting ready to—I met you, Wilbur dear. And you—of course you didn’t know what I’d been through, and nor did anyone else, because with a great deal of bribes we were able to keep everything out of the papers, and when people asked I said Tommy had gone back to America. But you gave me strength, my dear, to live again. Because you had that same magic quality that Tommy had—that way of bringing even the most inanimate object to life with a word, or a gesture. No, you didn’t know it, but you taught me how to live again. You gave me back my faith in life. In the magic of life. And for this I shall be eternally grateful. Eternally grateful. And as soon as I met you I knew, too, that through your—magic powers, one day I would have my revenge on Jim Simpson. On Jim, and on Pam. And then when first Pam—and then the other day, when I read in the paper what had happened to Jim—well, I knew. I knew that you had done it for me. Done it without knowing my story, done it for reasons of your own. But it was all so perfect, only you could have done it. Only an artist could have managed such symmetry, drawn such a perfect parabola. Oh Wilbur dear—thank you. Thank you for everything. And now’, Betty said, suddenly standing up and gazing bravely towards the cold grey window pane, ‘if you’ll excuse me dear, I must go. I’m a little upset. And you must be, too, after all this. In fact dear, if you don’t mind, tomorrow I think I shall whisk you off to the country, and we’ll just sit round the fire together for a week, and eat chestnuts and be kind to each other.’ She looked at him urgently. ‘You will come dear, won’t you? Please. We both need it. Say you’ll come.’

  Obediently, but with a lump in his throat—and still sitting down—Wilbur murmured, ‘Of course I’ll come, my dear.’

  How could he have refused?…

  ‘Oh thank you my love. I’ll call tomorrow morning, and we’ll set off after lunch. All right?’

  ‘All right,’ Wilbur whispered.

  ‘And don’t you move. I can let myself out. And—’ and then Betty leaned over and kissed him—‘God bless you.’

  When she got to the door she turned and said, ‘Oh, and do you know what Jim did when I came out of the clinic? I guess he was trying to convince himself that he wasn’t guilty. He wrote me a letter saying it was all my fault what had happened. That I had always tried to come between him and Tommy, and they had had that fight that night because of me. Because Tommy wanted to come back to me. He even said that it was because of me, because I had kept Tommy away from the real, sordid world, kept him away so much that he longed for it, that Tommy had betrayed him—betrayed him!—and had gone out searching for the boy who would kill him. Can you imagine. Can you imagine?’

  Wilbur, as he sat in his chair for an hour or so after Betty had left, could imagine anything at this point. But he went on sitting, without moving, because he was too weak to move. Too weak to do anything but tell himself that Betty believed he had murdered Jim, that tomorrow Betty was going to take him off to the country for a week—and he had no choice but to go; he was no longer the court fool, but the slave; a will-less, right-less slave—and above all, too weak to do anything but repeat to himself over and over again that though Betty’s story had been gripping, and horrifying, and convincing in every detail—he didn’t believe a word of it. Not one word….

  It was dark before he did move, and in spite of the heating, he was very cold. He was rigid with cold; and even after he had stumbled across the room and switched on a lamp—how dull the bulb was; how gloomy the light that illuminated his lifetime’s collection of toys, and tack—poured himself a whisky, drunk it neat, then gone into the bathroom and had a hot bath, he was still cold. As cold as the grave….

  Wrapped in sweaters and a heavy woollen jacket, he went into his study and started to work on his novel. It was the only thing he could do, he thought, as he reeled from page to page, his freezing hand clutching the pen as desperately as Pam had clutched her stick. The only possible thing; to create, and lose himself in another world. Because this world, the world he had created and lived in a
nd functioned so well in for so long, had suddenly gone spinning off its axis; gone wildly, crazily out of control. Of course, he muttered to the wall in front of him, he would have liked to call someone, and talk to them, but if he did, he knew it would be Bernard he would call. Just to hear him, too, say that it was a damn good thing he had done, killing Jim Simpson; just to hear him, too, make up some story that justified this attitude. And for the moment he couldn’t face that. So he called no one, and stayed on in his study, writing and writing, until his teeth were chattering and his hand shaking so much that he couldn’t continue.

  Then, clutching Philip to him to get, maybe, some warmth from him—and in fact the cat, after a while, began to succeed where radiators, whisky and baths had failed—he went, slowly, to bed.

  *

  He was unable to call anyone the following morning, too—unable, that is, to call Bernard—and told Lillian that he was only at home to Betty. And having spoken to her and agreed to be ready to be collected at two, and having asked Lillian if she would stay in the apartment to look after Philip—of course with her Chinese friend, if she and he wanted—and having decided that he had too much to do to be able to settle down and write, he simply spent the morning pottering around, doing nothing; and realizing that he felt, for the first time in his life, extraordinarily lonely. And it wasn’t at all a pleasant feeling. Rather it was terrible, and frightening. Lonely. Exiled … To be cut off from the world. To be deported, alone, to an unknown country. To a country one had had no hand in the making of. To a country where one was condemned to live with a word tattooed, however unjustly, on one’s forehead. ‘Murderer’….

  EIGHT

  Betty’s house in the country was on the Argentario, a mile or two from Porto Ercole; a small, warm, comfortable house set in the middle of fifteen acres of olive groves and vineyards, overlooked by the wooded, iron-filled mountains, and near enough to the sea for the smell of it to come drifting through the cypresses and pines—when the wind was in the right direction. In the summer, if Betty was there, and often if she wasn’t, it was filled with people trailing their way to the swimming pool, all looking determinedly happy beneath their sun-tans, as if holidays alone in the year called for good nature and smiles. But in the winter there was never anyone there apart, occasionally, from Betty, and this was normally the time that Wilbur, when he went up to spend a weekend, enjoyed the most. He preferred the swimming pool when it was empty, and full of leaves; and he preferred the sound of the wind shaking the shutters, to the voices of sun-drunk people insisting on the good time they were having.