The Old Contemptibles Read online

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  Contents

  Epigraph

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Part I

  Our Old Flame

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Part II

  Fat Man’s Agony

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Part III

  Kill All the Lawyers

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Part IV

  Death Past-Posted

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  To my son, Kent

  Je serais bien l’enfant abandonné sur la

  jetée partie à la haute mer, le petit valet

  suivant l’allée dont le front touche le ciel.

  ARTHUR RIMBAUD

  Acknowledgments

  Fiona thanks Janine Adams for saving her skin; Alex thanks Chris Havrilesko for the track and the table; and I thank, in addition to the works of the Lake poets themselves, Arthur Wainwright for his guides to the Lakeland fells; Don Gifford for The Farther Shore; and Richard Holmes for Coleridge: Early Visions.

  Prologue

  It was a rainy day in Camden Passage, umbrellas tenting the smaller antiques dealers who had set up their folding tables in the square, opened their trunks and cases and arranged bits and bobs of what was real or what was fake.

  Jury and the beautiful second-floor tenant who lived in his terraced Islington house were searching for a gift for their mutual friend who occupied the basement flat.

  “How much for these ones?” asked Carole-anne, holding out a pair of turquoise combs stuck about with bits of blue glass and scalloped on the edges.

  The flogger in the fake lizard jacket had a smile to match. “Two quid to you, love.”

  It was worth two quid, thought Jury, just for a deco at Carole-anne Palutski, standing there with her red-gold hair under a pink umbrella.

  “Fifty p’s more like it,” she said, holding out the coin.

  “Them’s real sapphire stones,” said the dealer, reknotting his purple polka-dot tie, shoving it up to his prominent Adam’s apple. Then, with a leer, “Just like your eyes, gorgeous.”

  “My eyes ain’t glass,” she said, still holding out her final offer.

  Jury drew back the hand that held the money and removed the bright combs from the other. He himself was inspecting a pair of jet combs that would look handsome in Mrs. Wassermann’s hair, once it was returned to its original style.

  “Well, Super, but it’s just to cheer Mrs. W. up a bit. Awful down in the mouth she is about her hair. Always fiddling pins into it.”

  “Her down-in-the-mouthness, love, is because she’s been scrunched to death by Sassoon in one of your ideas of a Wassermann ‘do.’ ” Jury held out the ebony combs. “How much?”

  “Three quid, those ones. Pure jet.”

  “Don’t be daft. Seventy-five p.” Once again she held out the money.

  As the lizard haggled, Jury looked around the enclosed square, almost automatically checking for a runner named Gladd who was a presence in the Passage. He’d been done twice for handling, and Jury was fairly certain whatever he’d brought today hadn’t been purchased from dealers elsewhere. He also ran an eye over the crowd for Jimmy the Dip, one of his favorite minor villains. His glance came to rest on a woman in a white mackintosh on the other side of the square made by the arrangement of tables. She was studying either herself or the mirror of a small bureau-top dressing case. Very attractive, even in the damp coat and scarf. She had no umbrella.

  “. . . and don’t try and fiddle him,” Carole-anne said, leaning toward Jury. “He’s a policeman.”

  “One pound-fifty and that’s my final offer.”

  “A quid, then,” said Carole-anne, for whom final offers were her provenance alone.

  From the flogger came a mixture of grumbled acquiescence and lascivious looks at Carole-anne’s jade green sweater that the first set of combs would have matched nicely, Jury hadn’t failed to notice.

  He also hadn’t failed to notice that the lady in the white mac had moved on to a display of a delicate satin and lace negligee and had just cut a glance away from Jury as he looked at her again. Indeed, she seemed to be hiding a blush by putting her face very close to it. He smiled slightly. Buy it. It was dark gold, more gold than her brown-gold hair, but a material that would have enhanced both her hair and her eyes.

  As the dealer was wrapping the black combs in tissue and trying to date up Carole-anne, who merely twirled her pink umbrella, unmindful of the tweeds and eyes she managed to catch within its rib-ends, Jury noticed, at the end of the table, what looked like a coronet. Oh, Lord, don’t let her see that!

  The Lord met Jury on their usual terms and the next thing he knew Carole-anne was pulling at his sleeve. “Wouldya look there, Super? A crown.” And how could she help but touch that hair of hers, clearly a crown’s proper home.

  “Forget it, Carole-anne.”

  Which of course, she didn’t. She thrust the baleful black comb package into Jury’s hands and went for the coronet.

  Even before she could put the question, the flogger of Crowns and Grails said, “That’ll cost you ten quid, beautiful. Look at them jewels.”

  “I looked. Four quid.” She was turning the small coronet round and round.

  “Carole-anne, for God’s sake, you don’t need a coronet. You look too queenly already.”

  “I’ll second that one, mate,” said the dealer.

  Carole-anne glared at him. “Superintendent, to the likes of you.”

  To the likes of others besides lizardy cut-rate dealers, Jury hoped.

  He had spotted Jimmy, who had nonchalantly bumped into a middle-aged woman who had thrust the antique bracelet she had just purchased into her bag (why would women push their bags out of sight behind their backs while looking at merchandise?).

  The sly-smiling dealer said, “Look, that coronet belonged to an Austrian princess. Descendent of one of the czars—”

  “Any particular one?” asked Jury, noticing the lady in the white mac smile. She seemed clearly to be delighting in the haggling.

  The dealer pretended Jury wasn’t there. “Seven quid and we’re square,” he said to Carole-anne.

  “Five and we’re crooked,” she replied and pulled a five-pound note from her little purse.

  Miss Palutski was not born to sue, but to command. The headgear was in place.

  Jury
noticed the attractive woman smiling again, cutting him another glance. Now she was holding up a yellow-stoned necklace, topaz also, like the material, holding it to the neck of the mackintosh and looking in a mirror. Buy that, too. It sparked her eyes, even in the gloom of Camden Passage.

  Said Carole-anne, as the beleaguered flogger looked about for a wrapping for the crown, “It’ll just suit my new costume.”

  “What costume? The Queen of Soho?” Jury had moved to the next table and was inspecting the supposedly “antique” scrimshaw and ivory elephant tusks too new to be anything but illegally imported. From this collection of poacher’s spoilage he divided his glances between Jimmy, the runner Gladd, and the lady in the white mac.

  “Well, I’m tired of that Arabian thing. Anyway, Super, I’ve got to get to the Starrdust.” She hitched up her shoulder bag. “There’s a lady in a white mac over there been giving you the eye. About as much your type as SB-slash-H. Ta.”

  No one, as far as Carole-anne was concerned, was or would ever be Jury’s type. Carole-anne had turned all sorts of “types” away from the Islington first-floor flat, the rental of which was in her hands; she had convinced the building’s owner she was doing him such a favor by “showing” it that he had even agreed to knock a few quid off her rent. Jury was not one to weep tears for a London landlord, but this one could wait until hell froze over before someone “suitable” came along.

  He shook his head and watched the men part for Carole-anne, their own dripping black umbrellas synchronizing to cover her bright pink one. It was like watching something from an old musical routine.

  • • •

  Jury wasn’t about to nick Jimmy, who seemed to be apologizing to the middle-aged woman for bumping into her. Hell, it wasn’t Jury’s job and they were almost pals, Jimmy being a font of information about villains that did more than just work the Passage.

  At least that was the way he put it to himself as the woman in white was getting closer to him, moving from table to table. And from “The Lady in the White Mac” was an easy step to The Woman in White, except that Wilkie Collins’s heroine had suddenly and mysteriously appeared in front of a carriage out in the middle of a dark and forlorn country road. And had as mysteriously disappeared.

  It was pretty hard to square rainy, umbrella-laden Camden Passage with a ghostly figure on a foggy road.

  They were now closing in on the same table and the same opportunity to examine, hold up to the tepid light, and make a casual remark about whatever-it-might-be’s authenticity.

  But the remarks had turned out to be even more banal: the weather, and neither of them with an umbrella. She had laughed and asked him if he’d never been to the Lake District. That was rain and fog. They had moved off together then as if by mutual consent, and it was she, rather than he, who had suggested a drink “before the pubs close.”

  Jury had smiled. “You’re not from London, then? Some pubs here are open all day now since the licensing laws changed.”

  “Oh, I’d forgot. What a shame, really; it somehow makes a drink less appealing if you can get one anytime.” She paused and looked up at him. “It’s the end of something.”

  Jury smiled. “I hope not.”

  • • •

  The King’s Head pub was never bright on the best of days; this afternoon it seemed as damp and pallid as the pavement outside. The ceiling fixtures cast bands of yellowish light across the polished bar like streetlamps in the mist; the colored panes of the leaded-glass window by their table were tracked with rain.

  Even the lank hair of the unhappy-looking girl who gave the wet-ringed table a swipe before transferring their drinks from her damp tray to the table looked rained on. “Rotter, innit?”

  As the waitress walked away, Jane Holdsworth smiled. “She should live up North if she’s put off by this drizzle.” She ran her hands through her hair, damp and curling at the ends where the scarf had missed covering it.

  “Which part are you from?” asked Jury, raising his pint of bitter in a toast to their meeting.

  “I? I’m not, at least not any longer. I have relations there, though. A sister of my own and a few in-laws. I was married. I’m not, now. He’s dead.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She merely nodded. “The relations are all on my former husband’s side. Except for my one sister. They live near Wast Water—one of the lakes—in one of those old manorial houses the rich threw up in the last century after the poets and painters decided that mountain scenery was worth painting and writing about. I still visit. I have a son and it seems only fair to let his grandparents see him now and then.” She laughed.

  But the hard expression in the eyes that regarded him over the rim of her glass suggested she didn’t much care for the visits. “I have a small house in the Lewisham Road. It’s near Blackheath. The unfashionable side of the Thames, according to my relations.” Her expression softened. “That’s all there is to me; what about you?”

  “I doubt that’s all there is. But me, I live here. In Islington, I mean.”

  “Ah! Very gentrified and fashionable.”

  “Not my digs; it’s a terraced house. But only the ground-floor flat of one.” He signaled the waitress, who gave him a pathetic little look. Couldn’t he see how rushed she was? All this custom? This rotten weather?

  “I loved the coronet. That actressy girl could have haggled him out of his whole tableful of wares.” She leaned her chin on her hands. “Beauty drives a hard bargain.”

  “Then you should have got that gown for very little yourself.” He looked at the brown paper bag. She would take it as a compliment, but he wasn’t sure it was entirely one. It surprised him that he was annoyed by her comment about Carole-anne.

  Jane picked the bag from the table, set it down again and laughed. “How did you know about the gown?” She was rummaging in the outsized paper bag as happily as a child searching for a promised gift. The topaz satin strap was resting over her finger.

  “Ooh!” The weary waitress had just come up behind Jane. “ ’D’ja get that at market? You’ll look a right treat in that. Two more, then?” She picked up the glasses. “If only the bloody rain’d stop.”

  Hastily, Jane had bunched up the paper bag and was gathering up her coat. “No, thanks. I really must be getting back.”

  “Suit yerself.” Almost as if the remark had wounded her, she walked away.

  “In this rain? And south of the Thames?” But she had already risen and so did he to help her on with the white raincoat that she couldn’t seem to get her arms into.

  “I don’t care much for pubs. It’s more comfortable at home. Even in Lewisham.” Instead of looking at him, she started buttoning up the coat, shoving the top button in the wrong buttonhole.

  Jury sighed and took her hands away. “It’ll hang all lopsided.” He rebuttoned the top ones.

  She was tying on the scarf. “In weather like this, what is there to do but go home and read a book?”

  “Can’t imagine.” Jury straightened her collar and they walked toward the door.

  • • •

  He closed the door of his flat and took longer than necessary to help her out of her coat, hoping it would give her a bit of time to examine the room and settle on something to say.

  She settled on its neatness, which made him laugh. “Carole-anne takes it upon herself every once in a while to play char.” He looked at the tiled hearth. “I only have an electric bar in the fireplace, but your coat will probably dry out by the time you leave.”

  “It’s pretty wet.” She looked at him quite openly.

  He had been about to say something suiting the occasion—Perhaps you’ll have to stay longer, then. . . . How about the rest of your clothes? . . . Borrow a dressing gown of mine. . . . Shall I put the kettle on . . . ? To delay the inevitable, however pleasurable; to increase the sexual tension; to put them at their ease. The variations on the theme were endless. He smiled slightly, looking at his old stereo, thinking there was always music, bu
t thinking Kiss of Death (Carole-anne’s favorite) might not be quite the ticket. She was always finding new groups—here was What the Cat Dragged In. And here was her favorite: Julio and Willie and all the girls they’d ever loved. He thought about those girls and their vulnerability and how chauvinistic that song was. Revolving doors full of women . . .

  He felt Jane’s hand on his arm. Her cough was light and she said, “What are you thinking of?”

  “Nothing.” He smiled.

  “It was a long silence for a nothing.” Her own smile was unconvincing. She was nervous.

  “Well, then, I was thinking of all the girls I ever loved before.”

  Jane didn’t seem to know where to look as her eyes roved the featureless (to him) room and she asked, “Have there been that many?”

  He put his hands very lightly on her shoulders. “Practically none. It’s the name of a song—my upstairs neighbor’s favorite. But I’m sure the men don’t send her out their doors. She leaves them when she wants to.”

  There was a silence as she seemed to be studying his shirtfront. “It sounds awfully final, though.”

  Jury smiled. “Oh, she can always go back whenever she wants.”

  “Lucky girl.”

  He pulled her closer but not so close that their bodies touched. “I can’t promise an endless succession of afternoons, since this is the first one I haven’t been working in God knows how long.” He smiled. “But I might be able to do evenings.”

  It happened so suddenly it amazed him, how quickly she put her arms round his neck and how tightly she held on, their bodies more than touching, melting. His voice was very low when he said, “Should I put the kettle on?”

  • • •

  His bed faced the window and through it, above the little park, he watched a flight of swallows rise; with the sun behind them they drifted up like burning leaves darkening, coiling. Suddenly, he rose up on both elbows, disturbing the drape of her arm. The swallows lifted, circled and then the dark V of them vanished. For some reason, he thought of a funeral pyre; he thought of Aeneas.

  “ ‘Vestigia flammae,’ ” Jury said, without thinking.