Clouds among the Stars. Victoria Clayton

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       SIX

      The sound of the telephone woke me. I opened my eyes, aware that something was terribly wrong. Then with the violence of a fist in the face, I remembered everything. For the first time for years I said the waking prayer the nuns had taught us, as fervently as when I was a child. From the age of sixteen I had declared myself an atheist but now I could not afford intellectual pride. I stared gloomily through the window. All the brightness of the previous day had dissolved in swollen grey clouds, piled ominously high.

      I listened to the insistent monotone, hating it, hoping it would stop or that someone else would answer it. For the first part of the night I had been unable to sleep for more than a few minutes before a subconscious prompting had made my eyes snap open to confront some awful danger. I had had to visit the lavatory several times, whether because of the indigestibility of Yell’s cake or the affect of terror on my bowels I did not know. My mind was in rags.

      When the telephone went on ringing, I rolled out from beneath the weight of Mark Antony and ran down two flights to the first-floor landing, my bare feet recoiling from the coldness and hardness of the stairs.

      ‘Hello?’

      ‘Chief Inspector Foy speaking.’

      The cleft in his chin flashed into my mind. ‘It’s Harriet.’

      ‘Ah. I was hoping to speak to your mother.’

      ‘What’s the time?’

      ‘A quarter past eight.’

      ‘Could you ring back later? She doesn’t like to be disturbed before half-past ten.’

      There was a pause followed by some pom-pomming up and down the scale. ‘Perhaps you’ll tell her that Mr Byng is due to appear in court this morning at nine fifteen.’

      ‘Oh. Oh dear!’ I immediately felt sick. I could not deal with reality following so swiftly on sleep.

      ‘Don’t worry. It’s only a formality. He’ll be put on remand. No need for you to be there.’

      ‘Isn’t there any chance they’ll find him not guilty?’

      ‘This is only the preliminary hearing. The case won’t come to court until we’ve had a chance to sift the evidence. Probably not for months.’

      ‘He didn’t do it. He’s not the sort of man who could kill someone.’ A crushing misery made my throat tight. Tears began to roll down my face.

      ‘Harriet, listen to me. Can I call you Harriet?’ I let out a kind of bleat because I was suppressing a howl. He took it as assent. ‘You’ve got to be brave, Harriet, both for him and for you. British justice is slow and often the way it goes about things seems pretty asinine but it’s the fairest legal system in the world. I know that perhaps isn’t saying much but, believe me, the idea of sending an innocent man to prison is as abhorrent to me as it will be to the judge and the twelve men and women of the jury. Be patient, and trust me.’

      It did not seem to me that I had any alternative but I was grateful for the kindness in his voice. ‘All right. Thank you.’ I tried to sniff quietly.

      ‘Good girl. He won’t be without friends. Mr Sickert-Greene will be with him.’ The cleft in Inspector Foy’s chin was swiftly replaced by a mental snapshot of Sickly Grin’s neck, which bulged in a fleshy roll over his starched collar. I could not imagine him being a comfort to anyone. ‘If I were you I’d spend the day quietly at home. The press will be merciless for the next few days. You might get Mr Sickert-Greene to give them some sort of statement on behalf of the family.’

      ‘All right. Thank you,’ I added, though probably it was silly to thank the man who was accusing my father of murder.

      ‘Chin up.’

      The line went dead. I put back the receiver and the telephone rang again immediately.

      ‘Hello, it’s Crispin. Who’s that?’

      ‘Harriet.’

      ‘Oh, good.’ There was a shade of relief in Crispin’s cultured tones. ‘I hoped it might be you.’

      ‘Shall I go and get Ophelia?’

      ‘Ah – no. Hang on a sec – don’t disturb her. Just tell her I called, will you?’

      ‘Any particular message?’

      ‘Er – just say I’ve gone down to the Towers for a few days. Awful bore – m’uncle’s birthday. Mother insists I show the phisog for a spot of celebrating. He’s nearly ninety and expected to pip out before long.’

      ‘Oh.’ I did not know whether to sound pleased or sorry.

      ‘Tell Ophelia I’ll ring her when I get back. By-ee.’

      ‘The low-down, snivelling, craven wretch,’ said Ophelia when I gave her the substance of the conversation. ‘He’s going to rat!’ She punched her pillow violently. ‘Well, I hate that hideous Mallilieu Towers, anyway. All pinnacles and gargoyles and nasty blue bricks. Henrietta Slotts is welcome. I don’t care.’

      She put the pillow over her face and refused to say another word. After I had closed the door behind me I heard what might have been a stifled sob. I went downstairs to make myself some tea.

      Maria-Alba was washing up the supper things.

      ‘Che c’e? You look beaky.’

      ‘Peaky, I think you mean. I’m all right.’ I could feel my chin trembling ‘It’s delayed shock or something. It seems worse this morning but I expect I’ll be better when I’ve woken up properly.’

      I managed a smile, which changed to a scream as a man with several cameras round his neck jumped from the front garden down into the area outside the kitchen window. He pressed his face against the glass, which clouded with his breath.

      ‘Basta così!’ exclaimed Maria-Alba, picking up a soup ladle that lay to hand. She threw open the kitchen door and ran out. ‘Va fottere la cucina della Mamma!’ she screamed. It was one of her favourite insults. I heard the СКАЧАТЬ