The pouch was made of fine black leather, was zip-operated and had the initials H.P. on it. Hugh Payne. Major Payne. Antonia Darcy’s husband. Colville had found it on the small table beside one of the armchairs. He had been right. He had suspected Payne from the very start. He had been right.
The sitting room reeked of Payne’s tobacco. Payne had been smoking his pipe. Payne had made himself at home, clearly. Payne had had drinks with Bee. His glass was on the little table beside his pouch. Colville picked it up and sniffed at it. Whisky. Bee had drunk brandy; her glass was smeared with her dark-rose lipstick. No third glass – there had been only the two of them. Antonia Darcy, he was sure, had no idea. Of course not. So much for the famous intuition of women. So much for crime writers’ much vaunted powers of observation! He gave a mirthless laugh, but tears were already rolling down his face. Bee must have called Payne as soon as he, Colville, had left the house. Perhaps Bee had initiated the row with that aim in view? It was Payne she had been to see the other day when she said she’d been to the hairdresser’s!
There were CDs strewn around on the floor. ‘The Way You Look Tonight’. ‘Moonlight Becomes You’. ‘Unforgettable’. ‘Fools Rush In’. These, as it happened, were some of his favourite songs. He picked them up and replaced them automatically on the shelf. Things seemed to have got… passionate… rough… Perhaps that was how Bee liked things. He swallowed. Yes. Payne had pushed Bee against the shelves and started kissing her throat -
Falling down on all fours, Colville started examining the carpet. Crumpled – closer to the door than it had been before – the fringe disarranged. One didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce that Bee and Payne had been dancing. Yes. Smooching. Pressed together, shamelessly close. Colville saw them very clearly in his mind’s eye. Payne’s arms around Bee’s body, Bee’s golden head on Payne’s shoulder, her fingers linked behind his neck… Whispering in each other’s ears – laughing… People often danced as a prelude to greater intimacies.
Colville swallowed. He was remembering how Bee managed to get rid of her clothes – it was a trick she had – she did a sort of shrug and everything slithered to the ground – it was as though skirt, blouse and pants were all a bit of a piece. What a revelation that had been. It had left him breathless. It had happened on the first day of their honeymoon in Java. He recalled the double bed with the silk sheets – the green window shutters – the hot tropical afternoon pulsing outside
… It all felt like a dream now…
Colville felt sure Payne was a marvellous dancer. Payne had carried Bee along with sinuous and effortless grace. Colville could hear Bee’s laughter, her exclamations of delight, her gasps as she clung to her lover. She might even have wept, the way women did when they were in the throes of ecstasy.
He gripped the back of a chair. Everything was crumbling round him. His mind felt as though it was going to explode. His greatest fear was that he might be going mad. Become like Ingrid -
An hour earlier he had given himself a fatuous injunction: Nil desperandum. Well, he had convinced himself that all would be well after he had discussed matters with Bee. He had returned intent on reconciliation. He had been going to say sorry. He had meant to ask for forgiveness. Fall to his knees, if necessary. He’d have done anything for her smile – for her touch – for the lightest of her kisses – anything!
He was a fool. No fool like an old fool. So Ingrid had been right when she said all those ghastly, those truly shocking things about Bee when he had first moved into the house. Ingrid had regaled him with lurid tales of Bee seducing strangers, of trying to persuade Ingrid to procure for her – even while she had still been wheelchair-bound and then after her recovery – and of how, on two occasions, Ingrid had succumbed. Ingrid called Bee a ‘voracious bird’. She claimed that Bee had even had an affair with her doctor, Dr Aylard, who must be at least sixty… Colville had been convinced Ingrid was trying to poison his mind against Bee.
Well, Ingrid was jealous of him – resentful of his prox-imity to Bee, of his very presence in the house – she had a name for him – ‘the interloper’! He had absolutely refused to believe that Bee had taken lovers, but now he wondered. Yes, he wondered very much… Could the devil speak true?
Suddenly he was eager to know and he felt at once impatient and terrified – rather like Bluebeard’s young bride nerving herself to enter the forbidden chamber. He wanted to go and ransack those old velvet and satin hatboxes Bee kept in her wardrobe – tear them apart. The boxes had belonged to Bee’s mother and seemed to be full of papers. He might find something – love letters – suggestive notes – mementoes – photos -
Photos other men had taken of Bee? Bee wearing outrageous outfits – naked – in suggestive poses – per-forming unspeakable lewd acts -
He passed his hand across his face. He started walking towards the door – halted. No. He needed to attend to other, more important, things first. There was the letter from his solicitor about that damned court case – he needed to write back as soon as possible. A bonfire. He needed to make a bonfire as a matter of some urgency, though he couldn’t remember the exact reason for it. Burn dead leaves? Burn all of Bee’s dresses, as an act of revenge? All those damned expensive Chanels and Balenciagas and Valentinos… No, it was something else he needed to burn – what was it? I am going mad, he whispered.
Had Payne and Bee gone to a hotel? Or were they per-haps at that very moment in the back of Payne’s car? It must be Payne’s car, since her Mini was in the garage. Were they lying on a blanket in the grass in some secluded spot – the obvious thing to do on a warm day like that. He could just see them. Smoking Bee’s Turkish cigarettes – Bee’s golden head on Payne’s chest – discussing their future together – making plans – laughing – wondering about the most tactful and painless way of breaking the news to him.
Colville walked slowly into the hall, he didn’t quite know why, and stood examining his reflection in the mir-ror. He looked distraught – wild-eyed – pouchy. He had aged over the last couple of hours. No woman would want to go with him – unless he paid her. Well, he had employed the services of tarts once or twice – years ago, when his first marriage had started going wrong – he deemed it a most unsatisfactory experience. He didn’t want a tart. He wanted Bee. He wanted Bee.
But perhaps – perhaps everything was not yet lost? Suddenly he felt a surge of optimism, heady and intoxicating – the kind of euphoria he had experienced when Bee said yes to his marriage proposal. Perhaps Bee was merely infatuated with Payne. It might be nothing but a crush. She might already have recovered from it, the way people recovered from bouts of illness. Yes. She might have resisted Payne’s advances. The ultimate might not have taken place yet. Perhaps at that very moment she was saying, ‘I am sorry, Hugh, but this is totally wrong. Please, take your hands off me. I don’t know what possessed me. I must go back to my husband at once.’
Yes… He saw his reflection in the mirror smile back at him. I must go and make that bonfire, he thought. My future happiness depends on it. The next moment he noticed a small folded sheet of paper lying on the floor underneath the mirror. He stooped over and picked it up.
Please, darling, forgive, forgive. I love you. I want you so. Do not be cross. H.
H. for Hugh. Hugh Payne. Major Hugh Payne. Payne had written to her. She had dropped Payne’s note. Not very careful, was she? Or maybe she no longer saw any point in concealing the affair. ‘Forgive’ and ‘Do not be cross’ suggested of course a previous secret meeting. They appeared to have had a tiff. A lovers’ tiff. Well, Bee had clearly forgiven Payne. She had engineered the row with Colville, so that she could get Colville out of the house. She had then phoned Payne and asked him to come over -