tick of an old longcase clock by the door added to the impression of another time and place. In front of the window was a large mahogany leather-topped desk and, in front of that, a leather-seated, wheelback swivel chair.
This, clearly, was the desk where Sellick had originally found the Memoir. Either side of the inkstand were the framed photographs that must have drawn Strafford’s eye every time he sat there. On the left was a studied portrait of a couple, the man elderly, with a walrus moustache but a ramrod back, the woman middle aged and elegant—surely Strafford’s parents.
On the right was a less formal portrait of a young lady. She wore a high-necked dress, fastened with a brooch. Her dark hair was drawn up high and evenly from her face, with just a few strands hanging by her cheeks. Her eyes were large, dark and intent and her lips, slightly parted, seemed just about to smile. To me, she was a stranger—or so I thought. To Strafford, she must have meant, at some time, almost everything. That certainty charged not only her look but the very placing of her photograph.
Strafford could have sat there and seen those eyes and, beyond, the ocean, both so deep and distant, every day of his life on Madeira. But only his Memoir could tell me what the frozen past of this room never would: what he felt when he looked at the confident, confiding tilt of her chin, fixed in time by the camera, or gazed out across the placid infinity of the ocean.
42
R O B E R T G O D D A R D
“It’s as if Strafford had just left the room,” I said at last.
“Isn’t it?” said Sellick. “I feared it might seem morbid to leave it like this, but with so much space to spare, why not? It’s easy to imagine him sitting at that desk.”
“I just have. Presumably, one of these pictures is of his parents. What about the other one?”
“There’s really only one person it can be.”
“His fiancée?”
“That’s right: Elizabeth Latimer. My enquiries have revealed that she is still alive in England, under her married name of Couchman . . . You look surprised, Martin.”
“The name . . . Then she . . .”
“Married Gerald Couchman. That’s right. But I’m sorry. I really shouldn’t give so much away like this. Still, you must have wondered why Strafford made such a point of that friendship.”
I had, and this explained it. But it wasn’t the irony of Strafford losing his fiancée to his discredited former friend that dismayed me, though I was happy for Sellick to think that it was.
It was the echo in my own past that his words caused. No longer was there just a coincidence of surnames. Seven years before, at my own wedding, I’d met the redoubtable Elizabeth Couchman, Helen’s grandmother, then a hale old widow of eighty, and still, it appeared, alive and well. It was the achievement of her generation of Couchmans that made my marriage the social coup my family thought it was and which, in the end, helped to unmake it.
Now, in Strafford’s study on Madeira, I encountered my ex-wife’s grandmother as the beautiful young Edwardian lady she once was and the woman who won—and broke—the heart of a famous man.
After dismay came caution. It was still possible—just—that this wasn’t the person I thought. But if it was, how would Sellick react to my connection with a family that was to form part of my investigations? Not well, my instincts told me. And they went further: don’t risk this golden opportunity, don’t tell him. So I didn’t.
“It makes it all the sadder,” I said. “That and the atmosphere of this room.”
“Yes,” said Sellick. “There are so many echoes.”
For a moment, I was alarmed. Had he found me out? No. How
P A S T C A R I N G
43
could he? There were echoes enough of Strafford’s past without him needing to guess at those of mine—weren’t there?
“I know what you mean.” The truth was, I hoped I knew what he meant. “In fact, the Memoir seems so much more real
This, clearly, was the desk where Sellick had originally found the Memoir. Either side of the inkstand were the framed photographs that must have drawn Strafford’s eye every time he sat there. On the left was a studied portrait of a couple, the man elderly, with a walrus moustache but a ramrod back, the woman middle aged and elegant—surely Strafford’s parents.
On the right was a less formal portrait of a young lady. She wore a high-necked dress, fastened with a brooch. Her dark hair was drawn up high and evenly from her face, with just a few strands hanging by her cheeks. Her eyes were large, dark and intent and her lips, slightly parted, seemed just about to smile. To me, she was a stranger—or so I thought. To Strafford, she must have meant, at some time, almost everything. That certainty charged not only her look but the very placing of her photograph.
Strafford could have sat there and seen those eyes and, beyond, the ocean, both so deep and distant, every day of his life on Madeira. But only his Memoir could tell me what the frozen past of this room never would: what he felt when he looked at the confident, confiding tilt of her chin, fixed in time by the camera, or gazed out across the placid infinity of the ocean.
42
R O B E R T G O D D A R D
“It’s as if Strafford had just left the room,” I said at last.
“Isn’t it?” said Sellick. “I feared it might seem morbid to leave it like this, but with so much space to spare, why not? It’s easy to imagine him sitting at that desk.”
“I just have. Presumably, one of these pictures is of his parents. What about the other one?”
“There’s really only one person it can be.”
“His fiancée?”
“That’s right: Elizabeth Latimer. My enquiries have revealed that she is still alive in England, under her married name of Couchman . . . You look surprised, Martin.”
“The name . . . Then she . . .”
“Married Gerald Couchman. That’s right. But I’m sorry. I really shouldn’t give so much away like this. Still, you must have wondered why Strafford made such a point of that friendship.”
I had, and this explained it. But it wasn’t the irony of Strafford losing his fiancée to his discredited former friend that dismayed me, though I was happy for Sellick to think that it was.
It was the echo in my own past that his words caused. No longer was there just a coincidence of surnames. Seven years before, at my own wedding, I’d met the redoubtable Elizabeth Couchman, Helen’s grandmother, then a hale old widow of eighty, and still, it appeared, alive and well. It was the achievement of her generation of Couchmans that made my marriage the social coup my family thought it was and which, in the end, helped to unmake it.
Now, in Strafford’s study on Madeira, I encountered my ex-wife’s grandmother as the beautiful young Edwardian lady she once was and the woman who won—and broke—the heart of a famous man.
After dismay came caution. It was still possible—just—that this wasn’t the person I thought. But if it was, how would Sellick react to my connection with a family that was to form part of my investigations? Not well, my instincts told me. And they went further: don’t risk this golden opportunity, don’t tell him. So I didn’t.
“It makes it all the sadder,” I said. “That and the atmosphere of this room.”
“Yes,” said Sellick. “There are so many echoes.”
For a moment, I was alarmed. Had he found me out? No. How
P A S T C A R I N G
43
could he? There were echoes enough of Strafford’s past without him needing to guess at those of mine—weren’t there?
“I know what you mean.” The truth was, I hoped I knew what he meant. “In fact, the Memoir seems so much more real
Similar Books
