‘I’m Mrs Delahunty.’
He nodded, not saying who he was because no doubt he assumed that no one else was expected just then. He stood there, not seeming interested in anything, waiting for me to say something else. It was a little after six in the evening; the cocktail hour, as the Americans call it. A certain weariness about his features intimated that Mr Riversmith could do with a drink.
‘Drink?’ he repeated when I suggested this. He shook his head. He had better wash, he said. He had a way of looking at you intently when he spoke, while giving the impression that he didn’t see you. Beneath the scrutiny I felt foolish, the way you do with some people.
‘Quinty’ll take you up, Mr Riversmith.’
‘After that I should see my niece.’
‘Of course. Simply when you’re ready, Mr Riversmith, please join us in the salotto.’
He followed Quinty upstairs. I made my way to my private room. Earlier in the day an accumulation of fan mail had come, forwarded from the publisher’s offices in London. After that brief encounter with Mr Riversmith I found it something of an antidote. People endeavour to explain how much a story means to them, or how they identify. I quite felt I was Rosalind. Years ago, of course. I’m in my eighties now. Occasionally a small gift is enclosed, a papier mâché puzzle from Japan, a pressed flower, inexpensive jewellery. Was Lucinda really furious or just pretending? Will Mark forgive her, utterly and completely? Oh, I do so hope he can! Little adhesive labels come, for autographs. I have all your stories, but dare not trust them to the post. Return postage enclosed. I do my best to reply, aptly, but sometimes become exhausted, faced with so much. What a lovely birthday party Ms Penny Court had! It reminded me so much of my own when I was twenty-one and Dad made a key out of plaster of Paris and silver paint! I’m forty now, with kiddies of my own and Alec (husband) is no longer here so I do my best on my own. I always think of her as Ms Penny Court, I don’t know why. I envy her her independence. Dad and I were close, that’s why he made the key for my twenty-first, you remember things like that. I’m fond of the kiddies of course, it goes without saying, and they wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t married Alec. He went off two years ago, a woman security officer. Often the letters go on for many pages, the ink changing colour more than once, the writing-paper acquiring stains. When gifts of food are sent I am naturally touched, but I throw the food away, having been warned that this is advisable.
Dear Ron, I wrote on the evening of Thomas Riversmith’s arrival, addressing my correspondent so familiarly because I’d been supplied with that name only. Thank you for your nice letter. I am glad you enjoyed ‘More than the Brave.’ It is interesting what you say about Annabella and Roger being acquainted in a previous life. I quite accept this may be so, and I am interested in what you tell me about your pets. I do not believe your wife would be in the least aggrieved to know you find Fred a comfort. In fact, I’m sure she’s delighted. I added another sentence about the ferret, Fred, then placed the letter in an envelope and sealed it. I never supply strangers with my address, having been warned that this is inadvisable also. And some correspondents I really do have to ignore. Correspondence with the disturbed is not a good idea.
Mr Riversmith was standing in silence in the salotto when I entered.
‘Would I mix you a drink, sir?’ Quinty offered.
‘A drink?’
‘Would you care for a refreshment after your journey, sir?’
Mr Riversmith requested an Old Fashioned, then noticed my presence and addressed me. He remarked that his niece was pretty.
‘Yes, indeed.’ But I added that Aimée was still mentally fragile. I said that Dr Innocenti would visit us in the morning. He would explain about that.
‘I greatly appreciate what Dr Innocenti has done for my niece.’ Mr Riversmith paused. ‘And I appreciate your looking after her in her convalescence, Mrs Delahunty.’
I explained about the tourists who stayed in my house when the hotels were full. It was no trouble was how I put it; we were used to visitors.
‘You’ll let me have an account?’ Mr Riversmith went on, as if anxious to deal with all the formalities at once. ‘I would wish to have that in order before we leave.’
I said that was Quinty’s department, and Quinty nodded as he handed Mr Riversmith his glass. ‘G and t would it be tonight?’ he murmured. He rolls that ‘g and t’ off his tongue in a twinkling manner, appearing to take pleasure in the sound, heaven knows why.
‘Thank you, Quinty,’ I said, and as I spoke the General entered the room.
I introduced the two men, revealing in lowered tones that the General had been only a couple of seats away from Aimée on the train. I mentioned Otmar in case Mr Riversmith had forgotten what I’d said on the telephone. Lowering my voice further, I mentioned the old man’s daughter and son-in-law, and Madeleine. In the circumstances I considered that necessary.
‘You’ve come for the child,’ the General said.
‘Yes, I have.’
There was a silence. Quinty poured the General some whisky, and noted the drinks in the little red notebook he keeps by the tray of bottles. The old man nodded, acknowledging what had been said. In order to ease a certain stickiness that had developed I asked a question to which I knew the answer. ‘You do not know Aimée well?’ I remarked to Mr Riversmith.
‘I met my niece for the first time in my life half an hour ago.’
‘What?’ The General frowned. ‘What?’ he said again.
‘I never knew either of my sister’s children.’ He appeared not to wish to say anything more, to leave the matter there. But then, unexpectedly, he added what I knew also: that there’d been a family quarrel.
‘So the child’s a stranger to you?’ the General persisted. ‘And you to her?’
‘That is so.’
His wife would have accompanied him, Mr Riversmith continued, apropos of another question the General asked, but unfortunately it had been impossible for her to get away. He referred to his wife as Francine, a name new to me. In answer to a question of my own he supplied the information that his wife was in the academic world also.
‘We should be calling you professor,’ I put in. ‘We weren’t entirely certain.’
He replied that he didn’t much use the title. Academic distinctions were unimportant, he said. The General asked him what his line of scholarship was, and Mr Riversmith replied – his tone unchanged – that the bark-ant was his subject. He spoke of this insect as if it were a creature as familiar to us as the horse or the dog.
The General shook his head. He did not know the bark-ant, he confessed. Mr Riversmith made a very slight, scarcely perceptible shrugging motion. The interdependency of bark-ant colonies in acacia trees, he stated, revealed behaviour that was similar to human beings’. It was an esoteric area of research where the layman was concerned, he admitted in the end, and changed the subject.
‘My niece will not forget the time she’s spent here.’
‘No, she’ll hardly do that,’ the General agreed.
Otmar came in, his hand grasping one of Aimée’s. I introduced him to Mr Riversmith, and I thought for a moment that he might click his heels, for Otmar’s manner can be formal on occasion. But he only bowed. Quinty, still hovering near the drinks’ tray, poured Aimée a Coca-Cola and Otmar a Stella Artois. He made the entries in the notebook and then sloped away.