On the bed was an open box of chocolates, and a tissue with an imprint of bright red lipstick. He couldn't help smiling. It was all delightfully feminine. A book with a fraying spine was lying open but facedown on the counterpane next to the box of chocolates. He glanced at the title: Mind to Hermes. Obviously a page-turner.
As he picked it up, he took care to keep it open at the original page. The book looked as though it had been read and reread from cover to cover several times. The coated paper was soft from use; the print was smudged. A passage, heavily underlined in pencil, drew his attention: "If you embrace in thought all things at once, time, place, substance… you will comprehend God." In the margin someone had written in a cramped, but looping feminine hand: The divine has been banished from the universe we live in. We are creating the ultimate mind machine but we have lost the alchemical impulse and the desire to transform ourselves into divine man. Instead of allowing us to embrace
the riches of the universe, the mind machine has left our brains empty as a paper cup, a thing of no value, a lump of tissue only able to reflect the knowledge of the universe, not absorb it!!!
He grimaced. Mind machine… a computer? And what alchemical impulse? The words themselves were pretty obscure, but the passionate conviction behind the words was hard to miss. The liberal use of exclamation marks was proof enough.
Well, whatever rubs your Buddha, as Isidore would say. Transforming himself into divine man was not exactly high on his own list of priorities. He subscribed to the motto: "Living well is the best revenge."
He was just about to replace the book, when the cell phone clipped to his belt went off. The sudden noise made him jerk.
"Hello?"
"Gabriel." One word only, but Frankie sounded tired.
"Frankie, hi. What's up?" He glanced at his watch as he spoke. He had been inside the house for sixty minutes. Over at Casa Whit-tington they probably hadn't started on the caviar appetizer yet.
"They're on their way back. Actually they left just over a quarter of an hour ago."
"What? Why didn't you call me?" Fifteen minutes. Hell. They were probably about to walk through the front door.
"I'm sorry. But William took ill. That's why the party broke up." A deep breath. Her voice tight. "As you can imagine, calling you was not exactly my first priority."
"OK. I must get out of here." A thought occurred to him. "Your husband. How is he?"
"He'll be fine. This happens quite often these days. But thank you for asking. Now go!"
He clipped the phone onto his belt again. Time to split. He turned to look at the cat, which was still giving him the evil eye from the top of the wardrobe. He was going to have to forget about shooing the animal out of the room and just hope the sisters would think they had neglected to close the door themselves. The book was back on the bed where he had found it, so that was taken care of. What else? The light. He should switch off the light.
As he walked out onto the landing, his eye fell on the door on the other side of the tallboy, which was still closed. Maybe he had time for a quick peek? Cautiously he opened the door and poked his head inside. Another bedroom, this one in shades of lilac and yellow. He was able to see without trouble because a lamp had been left on. Shell pink opera gloves were draped over a tilted mirror, which reflected a four-poster bed with a swath of gauze netting. But what drew his attention was the wall on the far side of the room. He had been looking for photographs and here they were, a veritable gallery. Snapshots, studio photographs, black-and-white, color. Dozens of pictures: many tacked up casually against a bulletin board, the edges overlapping; others elegantly framed.
Frankie had told him the sisters were attractive, and the glimpse he'd had of them when they left the house earlier this evening had seemed to confirm her judgment. But as he looked at these faces, encapsulated in silence, he realized "attractive" was far too anemic a word. These women were not merely conventionally pretty. They were startlingly-throat-catchingly-beautiful.
Minnaloushe-the redhead-was the softer of the two. Her cheekbones were as high as her sister's, but the planes of her face were more rounded, less sharp. Her mouth was full and blurred, her eyes pale green, their expression unfocused as though she had just tumbled out of bed and was looking at the world with dreamy eyes. Her figure bordered on the voluptuous: tiny waist, but quite heavy breasts.
Morrighan, in contrast, had the muscle definition of an athlete. Her arms were slim and corded; her long legs elegant but strong. She had blue eyes, the color so intense it looked almost fake. In one picture she was riding a horse, looking Andalusian in a severe black riding jacket and Spanish hat, at her throat a swirl of lace. It was an arresting picture, taken in profile. You could see the head of the horse, the black arch of its neck and one mad staring eye. The gloved hands of the rider held the reins in a steely grip. The overriding impression was of strength, concentration, grace.
There was very little family likeness between the two women, he thought, except that both had heart-shaped faces. As children, however, they had looked almost like twins. There were several pictures of them as little girls-gaps in their teeth, hair scraped back into tight little pigtails-and their mother had preferred to dress them in identical clothes, all sashed dresses, frilly socks and round-toed baby doll shoes. Rather old-fashioned, actually. No pictures of them in jeans and sneakers and baseball caps. As he looked at the photographs, he was reminded of a line by John Galsworthy: "One's eyes are what one is, one's mouth what one becomes." The faces of the little girls bore scant resemblance to their grown-up selves, but even at that early age, there was a surprisingly mature humor and intelligence in their gaze.
As his eyes continued to travel over the pictures on the wall in front of him, his heart skipped a beat. He had been searching for Robert Whittington tonight and suddenly, without warning, he had found him. There he was: thin, ascetic face, vulnerable eyes, a smile brimming over with delight. He was standing side by side with the sisters, and the picture had been taken against the backdrop of what looked like a public park. Hampstead Heath? In the background was green grass, flower beds and a number of colorful kites flying against a washed-out sky.
Whittington looked happy. He was staring straight at the camera. On his right side was Minnaloushe, one hand trying to keep her hair from blowing in the wind. Standing to his left and slightly behind him was Morrighan. Her slender fingers rested on his shoulder; her gaze was focused on a spot somewhere behind the photographer.
There were other pictures as well. In most of them Whittington was alone. In one he was in the garden, lying in a hammock, one long leg dangling over the side. In another he was sitting with his back propped against a tree trunk. It was the tree that grew next to the swimming pool-no mistaking those flame red flowers. There was a photograph of him pulling a funny face, eyes crossed comically, wearing a T-shirt stamped with the words Hugs not Drugs. Gabriel recognized the room. It was the living room at Monk House: those African masks on the wall were unmistakable. And peeping from behind Whittington's shoulder, the distinct design of the Monas.
There was also a framed eight-by-ten black-and-white photograph that for some reason he found disturbing. It showed Robert Whittington and the two sisters at what looked like the opening of an exhibition in some trendy art gallery. Whittington was peering earnestly at an oil painting. In the background were the sisters, each with a champagne flute in her hand. They were not looking at the painting, but at Whittington. And it was the expression on their faces that made him pause. Alert, eager, curious. There it was again: curiosity. Just like the woman at the swimming pool. They were watching Robert Whittington with a curiosity bordering on greediness. They seemed excited, fascinated, turned on. As though all their senses were quivering. Why?