‘No, he turned up a couple of years later. First day of the autumn term it was, and that makes it fourteen years ago almost to the day. We had a couple of newcomers to the staff, a science man and a second-string classics bloke. That was Denys. The Head introduced us veterans and, of course, I was thrilled to see Denys.’
‘But naturally,’ said Wexford.
Marriott gave him an injured look. ‘I thought his behaviour very odd, most peculiar. But then Denys is odd, the complete misanthropist. “What a stroke of luck for you,” I said, “knowing me. I can take you around and introduce you to anyone who is anyone.” You’d have thought he’d have been overjoyed, but not a bit of it. He just gave me one of his sick looks, but I thought I’d better make allowances.’
‘Allowances for what?’
‘Well, he’s a poet, as you know, and poets are curious creatures. There’s no getting away from it. I see you didn’t know. Oh, dear me, yes. Several very charming little verses of his had appeared in the New Statesman by that time, and I’d just read his collection of essays on the Lake Poets.
Most scholarly. So, as I say, I made allowances. “Perhaps you’re relying on your sister to give you the entr6e,” I said. “Don’t forget she’s new here herself.” “My sister here?” he said, going quite white. “You don’t mean you didn’t know?” I said. “Christ,” he said, “I thought this was the last place she’d want to show her face in.” ‘
‘But you made sure they got together?’ said Wexford.
‘Naturally, my dear. I had Denys and his wife up there the same evening.’
‘His wife?’ Wexford almost shouted. ‘But he’s only been married a year.’
‘No need to blow your cool, dear old boy. His first wife. You weren’t joking when you said you didn’t know anything about these people, were you? His first wife, June, a most ...’
‘Look, don’t let’s get on to her yet,’ groaned Wexford. ‘Why was Villiers so upset when you said his sister was here?'
‘I asked myself the same thing at the time, but we were all together quite a lot after that and it was plain they couldn’t stand each other.
Odd when you think how sweet Elizabeth was to everyone else. Frankly, Reg, she acted towards him as if he’d done her some injury, and as for him ... The man’s rudeness to her was beyond belief. But you mustn’t lay too much stress on that. Denys is foul to everyone except Quentin. He’s quite different with Quen and, of course, Quen adores him. But Elizabeth and Denys were never friends. As children they were always quarrelling. Even now I can remember Mrs Villiers and my poor wife discussing it, how trying it was, you know, and how helpless it made Mrs Villiers feel. But if you want to know why they carried on with this feud of theirs, I can’t help you. Elizabeth never discussed her brother if she could help it, and if she didn’t confide in me, whom did she confide in? We were very close friends, intimate, you might say.’
‘Might I?’ said Wexford thoughtfully. ‘Might I indeed?' He fixed Marriott with a searching look and would have pursued this further but for the entry of Hypatia, bathed, perfumed and dressed in gold trousers and a black and gold tunic.
She had a cool smile for Wexford, a maternal one for Marriott. ‘Still nattering? Pam and Ian are here, Leo. I’ve just seen their car turn into the alley.’ She said pointedly to Wexford,’Must you go?’
Wexford got up, shaking off Marriott’s restraining hand. ‘Will you be having another party tomorrow night, Lionel?’
‘Really, Reg, I’m not a complete sybarite. Tomorrow night I’ll be utterly prostrate after my tussles with the sons of yeomen, burgesses and those of the better sort. Spots before the eyes, no less.’
‘In that case,’ said Wexford, grinning, ‘I’ll pick you up from school and give you a lift home.’
‘Lovely,’ said Marriott, showing for the first time a vague uneasiness. He escorted Wexford to the door, let him out and admitted two bright elderly people. ‘How marvellous to see you, my dears. You’re looking good enough to eat, Pam darling. Now do let me ..
Wexford slipped quietly away.
7
THE Burden children were going back to school and from the bungalow bathroom came the sounds of retching. Pat was always sick on the first morning of term. Her parents stood in the kitchen listening to these sounds with the helpless misery of people who are just beginning to realise that their children are human beings as well as their children and that there is a point beyond which they cannot help them. This child would vomit on the first day of every term, before every interview for a job, probably too on her wedding morning.
‘Oh, Mike,’ said jean Burden, ‘ought we to send for Dr Crocker? Sometimes I even think about sending her to a psychiatrist.’
‘When you know she’ll be as right as rain as soon as she sets foot in the classroom? Keep a sense of proportion, love.’
‘I just wish I could help her. We’ve never been nervy. I never thought I’d have a child who was a mass of nerves.’
‘I’m not nervy,’ said John, coming in with satchel and shining morning face. ‘If I ever have kids and they go on like her I’ll give them a right walloping.’
Burden looked at his son with distaste. His children, though only two years apart in age, brought up by loving and happily married parents in a solid middle-class background, had never got on. From quarrelling ever since John was a toddler and Pat able only to scream at him from her pram they had progressed through physical fights to their current daily fripping.
He said severely: ‘You’re to stop speaking about your sister like that. I’m sick of telling you. Suppose,’ he said, a thought coming to him from the case he was engaged on, ‘suppose you and Pat were to be separated now and knew you wouldn’t see each other again till you were grown up, how would you feel then? You’d be very sorry you were so unkind to her. You don’t know how much you’d miss her.’
‘I wouldn’t miss her,’ said John. ‘I wish I was an only child.’
'I can’t understand this dislike,’ Burden said helplessly. ‘It’s not natural.’ He put out his hand as his daughter, white-faced and with hanging head, came in under the shelter of her mother’s arm. ‘I’ll drive you to school, sweetheart. I’ll come right inside with you.’
‘You never drive me to school,’ said John. ‘And I’ve got further to go, a dirty great mile to walk.’
‘Don’t say “dirty great”,’ said Burden mechanically, and then: ‘I’ll drive you both. But, for heaven’s sake, don’t quarrel in the car.’
The forecourt of the King’s School was thronged with boys. Burden edged the car up the drive, sending the littlest ones, John’s contemporaries, scuttling out of the way, squealing and whooping at the tops of their voices. Sixth-formers, draped against the wall in languid groups, their ignominious caps folded and tucked into their pockets, stared at him with lofty insolence. John jumped out of the car while it was still moving and was immediately absorbed by the whooping mob.
‘You see, John isn’t a bit worried,’ Burden said encouragingly. ‘You know you were both bored stiff being at home so long and he’s glad to be back with his friends.’
‘I hate him,’said Pat.
‘That’s no way to talk about your brother.’ Burden reversed carefully and, making a three-point turn just inside the gates, came face to face with Denys Villiers. He nodded courteously, just raising his hand.
Villiers looked through him, thrust his hands into his pockets, and marched in the direction of the new wing.
‘Stop the car, Daddy,’ Pat said as soon as they reached the open road.
‘I’m going to be sick again.’