toasted, wanly smiling, ‘sir.’
The Commander got up to refill his glass, and from the table murmured: ‘Dreadful. Incredible. I mean, literally—incredible.’
When he looked round he saw that Greg Ramsey was sitting on the edge of his chair, chin on his chest, moving his head from side to side. His awkward blue-denimed limbs looked broken.
‘I say,’ said the Commander, ‘Greg—’
‘I didn’t really know her until yesterday,’ the boy said, in a boy’s voice. ‘Last night I gave her a hug, she was so nice. She was so nice.’
‘Dreadful,’ the Commander said again. A shy impulse drove him to lay a hand on the thin blue shoulder turned away from him, before taking his drink to his chair.
‘You don’t know what to do,’ Greg said, into the fire. ‘You don’t know what to think. It’s so—so wanton. There’s no sense, no feeling, not even of hate, no motive.’
‘There might be, you know,’ said the Commander. ‘I mean to say, it’s hard to believe that a lively widow, who must have been quite attractive once, had no man at all in her life for forty years. I’m sure there is a motive to be found, however mad it may be, somewhere in her past.’
‘Yes,’ Greg said, with one of his unhelpful gestures. ‘Oh yes. They’ll be rummaging through her past now, as they’re rummaging through everything she had.’
‘It has to be done, my boy. Nobody does such a thing entirely without motive.’
Greg turned his head. ‘And my brother?’
‘Well, there, too,’ said the Commander, a little flustered, ‘there probably was one. Nothing discreditable to your brother, I’m sure, and I didn’t mean to imply that, any more than I meant to suggest anything fishy in the background of that poor, nice little woman. But dammit, Greg, man is a motivated animal. There must be some reason, some connection that makes sense, even if only to a deranged mind.’
‘Did I look offended?’ Greg asked. ‘Sorry. I wasn’t. My mind was wandering.’
‘I’ll tell you what, young fella,’ the Commander said, ‘you’d do well to get out of that house and go back to where you came from. Even when the circumstances are normal, it’s not easy to live in the middle of—another person’s clutter.’
The young man shook his head, and took a token sip of his whisky. After a moment he said: ‘I would always have to keep in touch, anyway. I’m a suspect, I suppose.’
‘You!’ exclaimed the Commander, feigning shock. ‘Oh, what rot. Why, you weren’t even here—the first time.’
‘No,’ Greg agreed. ‘But I left London rather early on a Sunday morning. There might be somebody who could swear to seeing my car parked there all night; but I doubt that, in the heart of bedsitter-land. I can’t think of anyone there who would know my car, or me, either.’
The Commander mused about that. ‘Seems odd to me, the idea of being so totally anonymous. Of course, Conrad was right: a sailor leads the most sedentary of lives, taking his house with him like a snail. It’s you bedsitter-dwellers who navigate the unknown.’
‘Not me,’ Greg said, ‘not normally. I just borrowed this place in London for a few weeks. So sailors do read Conrad, Commander?’
‘Some do,’ said the Commander. ‘I used to. Rather deep. Not very cheerful, but—well, that’s true to life, isn’t it?’
‘Someone who knew him,’ Greg said, ‘I think it was Bertrand Russell, said he was like a man walking on a crust over molten lava, expecting at any minute to fall through. In the last eight days I’ve come to understand what that means. Oh God. When I saw her, I had a feeling—apart from what I was feeling for her—a feeling for myself, of dread, of absolute dread.’
‘
You
saw her?’ said the Commander, staring. ‘I understood that Harry Ufford—’
‘I was with him,’ Greg said, sounding tired. ‘Apparently she’d invited us there for breakfast, and Harry held me to that, although it was lateish, near
The Commander got up to refill his glass, and from the table murmured: ‘Dreadful. Incredible. I mean, literally—incredible.’
When he looked round he saw that Greg Ramsey was sitting on the edge of his chair, chin on his chest, moving his head from side to side. His awkward blue-denimed limbs looked broken.
‘I say,’ said the Commander, ‘Greg—’
‘I didn’t really know her until yesterday,’ the boy said, in a boy’s voice. ‘Last night I gave her a hug, she was so nice. She was so nice.’
‘Dreadful,’ the Commander said again. A shy impulse drove him to lay a hand on the thin blue shoulder turned away from him, before taking his drink to his chair.
‘You don’t know what to do,’ Greg said, into the fire. ‘You don’t know what to think. It’s so—so wanton. There’s no sense, no feeling, not even of hate, no motive.’
‘There might be, you know,’ said the Commander. ‘I mean to say, it’s hard to believe that a lively widow, who must have been quite attractive once, had no man at all in her life for forty years. I’m sure there is a motive to be found, however mad it may be, somewhere in her past.’
‘Yes,’ Greg said, with one of his unhelpful gestures. ‘Oh yes. They’ll be rummaging through her past now, as they’re rummaging through everything she had.’
‘It has to be done, my boy. Nobody does such a thing entirely without motive.’
Greg turned his head. ‘And my brother?’
‘Well, there, too,’ said the Commander, a little flustered, ‘there probably was one. Nothing discreditable to your brother, I’m sure, and I didn’t mean to imply that, any more than I meant to suggest anything fishy in the background of that poor, nice little woman. But dammit, Greg, man is a motivated animal. There must be some reason, some connection that makes sense, even if only to a deranged mind.’
‘Did I look offended?’ Greg asked. ‘Sorry. I wasn’t. My mind was wandering.’
‘I’ll tell you what, young fella,’ the Commander said, ‘you’d do well to get out of that house and go back to where you came from. Even when the circumstances are normal, it’s not easy to live in the middle of—another person’s clutter.’
The young man shook his head, and took a token sip of his whisky. After a moment he said: ‘I would always have to keep in touch, anyway. I’m a suspect, I suppose.’
‘You!’ exclaimed the Commander, feigning shock. ‘Oh, what rot. Why, you weren’t even here—the first time.’
‘No,’ Greg agreed. ‘But I left London rather early on a Sunday morning. There might be somebody who could swear to seeing my car parked there all night; but I doubt that, in the heart of bedsitter-land. I can’t think of anyone there who would know my car, or me, either.’
The Commander mused about that. ‘Seems odd to me, the idea of being so totally anonymous. Of course, Conrad was right: a sailor leads the most sedentary of lives, taking his house with him like a snail. It’s you bedsitter-dwellers who navigate the unknown.’
‘Not me,’ Greg said, ‘not normally. I just borrowed this place in London for a few weeks. So sailors do read Conrad, Commander?’
‘Some do,’ said the Commander. ‘I used to. Rather deep. Not very cheerful, but—well, that’s true to life, isn’t it?’
‘Someone who knew him,’ Greg said, ‘I think it was Bertrand Russell, said he was like a man walking on a crust over molten lava, expecting at any minute to fall through. In the last eight days I’ve come to understand what that means. Oh God. When I saw her, I had a feeling—apart from what I was feeling for her—a feeling for myself, of dread, of absolute dread.’
‘
You
saw her?’ said the Commander, staring. ‘I understood that Harry Ufford—’
‘I was with him,’ Greg said, sounding tired. ‘Apparently she’d invited us there for breakfast, and Harry held me to that, although it was lateish, near
Similar Books
