Rose by Martin Cruz Smith

they’re both here.” Blair returned to the shelf, flipped through the Bible and books and stood them upright. They stayed. They hadn’t leaned long enough for the bindings to warp. “Is anything missing?”
    With a deep breath, Leveret said, “A journal. John recorded his thoughts. It’s the one item that’s gone. It was the first thing I looked for.”
    “Why?”
    “In case it might tell where he was going or what he was thinking.”
    “Have you ever read it?”
    “No, it was private.”
    Blair walked around the room and to the window, which was dirty enough to serve as a shade. “Did he ever have visitors?”
    “John chaired meetings here for the Explosion Fund and the Society for the Improvement of the Working Classes, not to mention the Home for Women.”
    “Practically a radical.” Blair sniffed. “He didn’t smoke?”
    “No, and he didn’t allow smoking here.”
    “Leveret, you described yourself in your letter as notonly Maypole’s friend but his confidant. Which suggests that he confided in you. What?”
    “Personal matters.”
    “Do you think this is a good time to hold out, after he’s been gone for two months?”
    “If I thought that the sentiments John shared with me in the intimacy of friendship had anything to do with his disappearance, naturally I would divulge them to you.”
    “How intimate were you? Damon and Pythias, Jesus and John, Punch and Judy?”
    “You’re trying to provoke me.”
    “I’m trying to provoke the truth. The sort of saint you describe doesn’t exist. I’m not writing his tombstone, I’m trying to find the son of a bitch.”
    “I wish you wouldn’t use that language.”
    “Leveret, you’re a specimen, you really are.”
    Even in the dusk of the room, Blair saw the estate manager’s face heat to red. He lifted the painting and felt the back of the canvas. He paced off the linoleum: ten by twenty feet, ending in walls of whitewashed brick. He touched the plaster ceiling; seven feet high in one corner, six in another. He went to the center of the room and knelt.
    “Now what are you doing?” Leveret asked.
    “The way Bushmen teach their children to track is to give them turtles as pets. The father releases the turtle and the child has to find it by following scratches the turtle claws make on bare rock.”
    “You’re looking for scratches?”
    “I was looking for blood, actually, but scratches would do.”
    “What do you see?”
    “Not a damn thing. I’m not a Bushman.”
    Leveret pulled out his watch. “I’ll leave you now. I have to invite Reverend Chubb for tonight.”
    “Why will he be there?”
    Leveret answered reluctantly. “Reverend Chubb has expressed some concerns about your fitness.”
    “My fitness?”
    “Not your intelligence,” Leveret said quickly. “Your moral fitness.”
    “Thank you. This promises to be a delightful dinner party. Will there be other guests concerned about my moral fitness?”
    Leveret backed toward the door. “A few.”
    “Well, I’ll try to stay sober.”
    “The Bishop has faith in you.”
    “The Bishop?” Blair could hardly keep from laughing.
    The night before, darkness had softened the row houses on the eastern side of Scholes Bridge; now daylight and soot outlined every brick and slate. The mystery cast by gas lamps was replaced by a meanness of block after block of back-to-back construction that showed in leaning walls and the reek of privies. The daytime sound was different because women and children were in the streets and the din of their clogs on stone rang through the singsong of vendors and tinkers. Miners wore clogs, mill workers wore clogs, everyone in Scholes wore clogs. What had Rose Molyneux called Wigan? A black hole? It was a loud hole.
    John Maypole had met her at the bridge. It was a logical place to follow the martyr’s steps.
    It wasn’t quite the Via Dolorosa. The corner beerhouse was a parlor with long tables, barrels of beer and cider, and the commercial hospitality of