conducting an oral exam, remaining unruffled even after Milo had drawn his arms behind him and cuffed him. It was then that the full extent of his disturbance hit me.
I shouldn't have been surprised, because it had been simmering inside him for forty years; the pain and humiliation of living under the shadow of another man. Of losing a woman to him only to see her atrophy and die, of running like a mutt to her sister, only to be rejected again. Of yearning for full partnership and having to settle for token rewards. The constant relegation to second fiddle.
Black Jack Cadmus had understood what that kind of thing could do, and it had worried him.
'So I figure down deep he's got to hate my guts,' he'd written, 'and I'm wondering how to diffuse it.' His solution had been cynical and self-serving: 'A little charity camouflaged as gratitude could go a long way. Got to keep H. in his place but also make him feel important.'
But in the end it had been Souza who'd diffused it himself, defending against his feelings by prostituting himself emotionally, deifying the man he unconsciously despised and worshipping him dutifully, maintaining the adoration even after death: Faithful Retainer Horace, with no family of his own, always available for the crises that seemed to afflict the Cadmuses like some morbid allergy to life. On twenty-four-hour call, ever ready to serve.
Reaction formation Freud had termed it: the embrace of noble deeds in order to mask festering impulses. It was a tough defence to maintain, like walking a tightrope backward. And it had become the modus operandi of Souza's adult life.
But his anger when I'd asked him about his involvement with the Cadmus family was evidence that the grout around the edges of his defences had begun to come loose. Softened by the heat of pent-up rage. Eroded by time, opportunity, and the availability of another Cadmus woman. The release of his passions had turned him into a murderer, a life taker of monstrous proportions, but like all grotesques, he'd shunned his reflection.
Now the mirror was being held before his eyes, and he'd
withdrawn behind a wall of denial. A belle indifference that Marie Antoinette would have been proud of.
Milo finished reading and looked from Heather to Dwight.
'Eeny meeny miny,' said Cash, reading his mind.
Before he made his choice, the door opened, and Cal Whitehead walked in, dressed in a bottle green suit with white-piped lapels and carrying a gleaming lizardskin case, its handle wrapped in clear plastic and tagged. Managing to chew gum and grin at the same time. Swinging the case onto the table, he said: 'How come all the long faces?'
'Just wrapping up,' said Milo. 'Mr. Souza's not impressed with our case.'
'Tsk-tsk,' said Whitehead. 'Maybe this'll help.'
He donned plastic surgical gloves, pulled a tagged key out of his pocket, and inserted it into the lock of the case. 'You're a very confident lady,' he said to Heather, 'leaving this right in your bureau drawer, tucked underneath all those nice silk undies. Right next to your diaphragm.'
A turn of his wrist opened the case. The interior was thick lavender velvet. Twenty hexagonal depressions had been formed in the velvet. Occupying each one was a small crystal jar held in place by a velvet strap, containing greyish and brownish powders and coarser substances that appeared to be dried leaves and twigs. Strapped to the lid of the case were a small porcelain mortar and pestle, a porcelain dish, three metal hypodermic syringes, and a platinum cigarette lighter.
'Best-looking works I've ever seen,' said Whitehead. 'Very ladylike.'
Heather pulled up her veil again. Stared at the evening purse. Souza looked up at the ceiling, seemingly oblivious. A log crackled in the fireplace.
'Still not impressed?' asked Whitehead with feigned hurt that turned suddenly to genuine annoyance. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a stack of photographs.
'Detective Whitehead,' said Milo, but before he could complete his sentence, the sheriffs investigator had fanned the photos like a deck of cards and begun dealing. First to Souza, who ignored them, then to Heather, who took one
look and let out an agonised moan, a gargling, raw noise from deep in her belly, so primal and pain-racked it verged on the unbearable.
Tearing at the pictures with palsied hands, she succeeded only in bending them. Moaning again, she lowered her head so that her brow was level with the table leg and began to dry-retch.
'What are those?' said Dwight sharply.
'You wanna see them, too?' said Whitehead.
'Cal,' said Milo meaningfully.
Whitehead dismissed him with the wave of a hand. 'Sure, why not?' And he tossed a handful in front of Dwight, who scooped them up, inspected them, and began to tremble violently.
I understood the reactions because I'd seen the pictures: grainy black-and-white photographs, taken surreptitiously through door cracks and behind lace-curtained windows but clear enough to do damage - Heather and Souza making love. In his office, she lying belly down on his carved desk, skirt hiked over her narrow hips, placid and bored, as he pumped, squinting, grinning, from behind. In his bedroom, on a four-poster bed, she taking him in her mouth, wide-eyed, one spidery hand compressing a meaty buttock. In the back seat of the Rolls, a two- backed beast contorting amid a disarray of hastily unfastened clothing. And so on. A graphic chronicle of adultery, repugnant yet possessing the smarmy allure of crude pornography.
His insurance policy Antrim had called the photos. A nasty collection assembled over a two-year period. Rendered feasible because he was a servant and servants were psychologically invisible. Just as his presence had been overlooked during the false notarisation of the trust fund, so had his hungry, jailyard eyes been disregarded in the heat of the rut.
Heather dry-heaved again.
Dwight stood and shook a finger at her.
'You goddamn slut!' he shouted across the table. 'Goddamn lying whore!'
The epithets jerked her upright. She pulled herself shakily
to her feet. Eyeswild, cheeks spotted with colour, hair coming loose on one side, fingers groping at the clutch purse. Sobbing. Breathing hard, on the verge of hyperventilation.
'Two-faced bitch,1 spat Dwight, shaking his fist at her.
'Easy,' said Cash, with one hand on his shoulder.
'You,' said Heather, sobbing, gulping air. 'You . . . have . . . the nerve ... to preach ... to me ...'
'Two-faced whore!' he roared. 'This is the thanks I get. Fucking bitch.'
'Who are . . . you to ... judge?' she screamed, raising her hands, the fingers curling into talons.
He held up a snapshot. 'I kill myself for you, and this is my thanks!'
'I don't. . . owe you . . . anything.'
He reached across the table, picked up the decanter, and threw whiskey in her face.
She stood there drenched, shuddering, mouth working soundlessly.
'Enough,' said Milo.
'Come on,' said Cash, holding Dwight back. 'Settle down.'
'Fucking frigid whore!' screamed Dwight, flailing at her.
She wailed and pulled something out of the purse. A shiny little revolver, not much bigger than a derringer. Silver-plated, engraved. Almost toylike. Two-handing it, she aimed it at her husband.
Three .38 police specials were out in a flash, trained on
her.
'Put the gun down,' said Milo. 'Put it down.'
'You worm,' she said to Dwight, still fighting for control.
'Wait a second,' he said feebly, and retreated a step.
'The nerve of you ... to preach to me. You worm.' To no one in particular: 'He's a worm. A sick worm.'
The gun wavered.
'Put it down. Now,' said Milo.
'Come on, Heather,' said Dwight, sweating, holding one hand against his chest in a futile effort at self- protection. 'Stop it. There's no need to-'
'Oh.' She laughed. 'Now he's scared. Now he wants to stop it. Gutless, castrated worm.' To no one in particular: 'He's a eunuch. And a murderer, too.'
