The Lamorna Wink

never will, I think.

Even as a child you showed no interest in aristocratic trappings. You wanted to be a “plain old fellow” (your words) and go to the local comprehensive school. Your father, of course, wouldn’t hear of it; he was, he said, “scandalized” by the very notion.

Once you went missing for a whole day and we found you in Sidbury on a picket line demanding more government subsidies for the farmers. You carried a sign you had made yourself. Every word in it was misspelled except for “the,” “and,” and “Hell.” Your father was mortified.

I asked him if it was because of the spelling.

Melrose laughed. He always did, here.

You were always “organizing.” You organized the servants, the dogs, your friends, my clothes. The servants you said could all have a better time of it if they were on strike. More money, more time off. (Ruthven told me and with a straight face that there was something in what you said. It was one of the few times Ruthven tried to be witty.)

I don’t know what you told the dogs, but I did see you outside by the hydrangea bush, lecturing them. Their behavior, however, remained pretty much the same.

You organized your school friends, and all of you marched into the kitchen at school to complain about the sticky toffee pudding. You organized me, too: my luncheons, my Women’s Reading Club, my days in London, my clothes.

You always seemed to see a world of possibilities, things that needed changing, the sort of thing the aristocracy wanted to keep at bay. Change made us anxious and uncomfortable. “We’ve got to get organized, Mum. We’ve got to get organized.”

It could still catch him unawares, this letter, the concreteness of it, which made him live these scenes over again, or the sense of loss, washing across him like those waves at the bottom of the cliff. The letter answered some questions but opened up others: Why hadn’t she divorced her husband or, at least, gone off with Nicholas Grey? He remembered her as a very independent woman. Had she been stopped by her husband’s threat to keep Melrose? She had left these important issues unexamined.

Or perhaps she hadn’t. Perhaps she felt that the “important issues” were exactly what she had written: Nicholas’s idealism, the sticky-toffee pud, the dogs being lectured, the sign with the misspelled words.

He must have been very important to her, even more than Nicholas Grey had been.

Melrose had all but forgotten the drab landscape at which he’d been looking; he had certainly forgotten the bunched sheets, but they were now doing service as a handkerchief he could wipe his eyes on.

Remember, remember.

Here he was, a gloomy person in an empty house looking out on gray cliffs and sea, wondering what he was doing here…

Just trying to get organized, Mum.

14

He took the pile of sheets into the big kitchen (getting closer, surely, to some meaningful laundry-disposal system). He deposited the sheets by a door that led down to some underworld he had no intention of venturing into unless Dante were with him. He would have made a hopeless detective, if a cellar could cause him such trepidation.

Turning to the making of tea, he took an old tin kettle from a shelf above the cooker, filled it, and set it over the gas flame. He watched it. Would a watched kettle ever boil? He decided not to subject it to this particular laboratory study and turned again to the shelves. Crockery abounded; he saw three tea-pots of various sizes. Cups ranged from stout white to slender floral ones. From a small market in town he had purchased the bare necessities (tea, milk, sugar, butter) and from the Woodbine Tearoom had bought several hot-cross buns.

When the kettle boiled, he poured water over the tea leaves and then arranged everything on a metal tray that he carried into the snuggery. This was the small library, with a view similar to the one above in the piano room (as he had christened it). It looked out over the broad-shouldered rock, the edge of the cliff, but had not that feeling of suspension above the rocks. If one were given to vertigo, the view from the piano room might present difficulties.

Melrose sipped his tea and ate his bun in perfect peace. How wonderful! Solitude even at Ardry End was hard to come by. Perhaps he was fit for the life of a hermit. Give up all of his worldly possessions and go live in a hut on a shelf of rock and watch the sunrise every morning. Up before the sun! What a dreadful idea; he shuddered.

He thought of the Bletchleys. He could empathize with them and their painful memories; what had happened in this house was too painful for them to continue here. And yet… memories could never be eradicated. Was it even possible that they gathered force from having been torn from a place one no longer came to?

He regretted selling the Belgravia house. He saw that gesture now for what it was: an act of revenge or, worse, spite. Punishing his mother and Nicholas Grey. His memories of Nicholas Grey were even more abundant or, at least, more finely wrought because now they couldn’t be diffused.

Melrose tried not to think of this Nicholas Grey-of heroism and courage and self- denial-preferring instead to picture him as the snake in the Eden grass, the betrayer of his father and seducer of his mother.

The trouble was, he could not love his father much because he always drew back from Melrose. This did not happen because his father knew the boy was not his son; Lady Marjorie would never have admitted this. Had his father known, she would have had to pay a high price; there would literally have been hell to pay. He would not have divorced her, no. That would have rewarded her behavior, for she could then have gone immediately to Grey.

What he realized now was that he had rescinded the titles not because it was the honorable thing to do but because he hadn’t wanted them. It would have been nice to believe that he felt like an impostor, unfair to the Caverness line and especially unfair to his father. He would have preferred to believe he was doing the honorable thing, only it wasn’t so. He just wanted to be rid of the Earl of Caverness and be, as his mother had written, “a plain old fellow.”

15

Melrose was seated at his regular table in the Drowned Man’s dining room, trying to stare down the dogs in the doorway, when Johnny Wells slapped through the swinging door of the kitchen with a jug of water and a basket of bread.

“Ah!” exclaimed Melrose. “We’ve looked for you at your various places of employment. That is to say, the Devon and Cornwall police looked.”

Johnny took a step back, wide-eyed. He still held the jug of water, slices of lemon floating on top like pale flowers. “Me? Why?”

“I’m glad you were gone. Police were called to a place-Lamorna Cove, you know it?” Johnny nodded, waiting. “A woman-not your aunt; not, I repeat, your Aunt Chris-was found dead, probably murdered. I was, as I said, extremely glad you weren’t here to be asked to look at the police photos taken at the scene.” Melrose went on to describe what Brenda Friel had said.

“Christ! I’m glad I wasn’t here, too.” He filled Melrose’s water glass and handed him the tasseled wine list. “I was in Penzance. My uncle lives there, and I thought he might know something.” Johnny shrugged. “He didn’t. I didn’t expect him to. I’d already rung him up once. I guess I just wanted someone to worry along with me. And you: you’re leaving, Mr. Pfinn says.”

There was that note of accusation in his tone over Melrose’s hurried-and irresponsible?-return to Northamptonshire. He was flattered to be included in those people Johnny chose to worry along with him, and said, “But I’ll be back in no time, within the next few days, as soon as I can pack up a few clothes and my car. I’ve rented