The Bohemian Girl

‘I resent the very idea that I’m doing this for some egoistical purpose of my own.’

‘It’s my mind. I don’t like you looking into it. And dreams aren’t much of a window.’

‘Well, they’re not meaningless, either. The German, what’s-his-name, says that’s the point — dreams aren’t some sort of accident caused by eating too much toasted cheese. They have profound meaning. It is our task to find that out.’

Denton was still smarting from Munro’s visit. To a degree, he had found Gallichan’s interest flattering, the exploration itself interesting, but it had run its course and his mood was bad. ‘Get out of my stomach,’ he said.

‘But we’re making progress! We have identified feeling — fear, guilt — and persons: your dead wife, the laughing child, the man with the shotgun.’

‘I never said I felt guilt, doctor. Sorrow, yes — the two aren’t the same thing. And I didn’t say the person with the shotgun was a man.’

‘Well, it wasn’t a woman, surely. Forgive me, but I think you are deliberately avoiding the obvious conclusion — that the man with the shotgun is yourself.’ He seemed very pleased with that.

Denton simply looked at him. Then he burst out laughing — real laughter. When he was done, he said, ‘I think you need to read another book. My dreams aren’t well-made plays, doctor. They’re a mess. I don’t know about your dreams, but mine are a train wreck — bodies on the track, wreckage everywhere, people staggering around with blood running down their faces. If mine have meaning, it’s for the feelings I have, not some neat tale that’s like King Lear reduced to a bedtime story.’ Before Gallichan could object, Denton raised a hand and said, ‘Enough. Get me out of here.’

The portly doctor shook his head. ‘Even your imagery is full of violence. You are a violent man, Mr Denton.’

‘I don’t need you to tell me that.’

Gallichan stood, not entirely willingly. ‘We could go so much deeper,’ he said.

‘Let’s not.’

The doctor shrugged. ‘What a pity.’

‘I want to go home.’

Next day, Munro came back. He was apologetic. Between the two men was a mostly unacknowledged respect, even friendship; if it was made difficult by Denton’s putting his oversized nose into police business, Munro still didn’t want the relationship to end. He said he was sorry about yesterday; he said he had been to some extent carrying on for Markson’s benefit. ‘I don’t like for a youngster to think we let the public make up our minds for us.’

‘Are you going to do anything about France?’

Munro sighed. ‘I’ve been thinking about it.’ He lowered his bulk into the metal chair and put his bowler on the bed. It was raining out, and water dripped from it on the sheet. ‘Tell it to me — all of it.’

Denton tried. Munro groaned when he went all the way back to Mary Thomason, but there was no other way to tell it — the Wesselons, the note to Denton, the remarques on the drawing, the Mayflower Baths. The only thing Denton skimmed over was the trunk, because of Janet; Munro saw the omission, frowned, said, ‘About this drawing-’

‘Don’t interrupt.’

‘Where’d you get the drawing?’

‘What the hell does it matter? I got it and I know it was hers!’

Munro gave him a long look. ‘So you’re hiding something. Better to tell me, you know.’

‘No.’

Munro shrugged. ‘You’ll have to, if I really ask.’

Denton groaned with disgust and finished his story.

‘Are you telling me that you believe the missing woman and the servant who went to France are connected?’

‘If she did the little drawings of Lazarus and the Mayflower Baths, that’s all the connection that’s needed.’

‘And now you think the brother or Crum, or whoever he is, is missing?’

‘He disappeared from the scene.’

‘In France?’

‘Yes.’

‘So you have a man who may or may not exist, who did or did not disappear at some later time, but there’s a body buried in a barn in Normandy, and it may be his.’ Munro shook his head.

‘I don’t have all of it, Munro. But something happened there. And Crum’s disappearance later is a matter of one letter Himple wrote to his valet — Crum could have been dead for weeks. Who would know?’ When he saw Munro’s pained expression, he said, ‘If something happened to the brother in France, then maybe something happened earlier to the girl, as well. Ask the French to dig in the barn!’

‘You mean, I should do exactly what Georgie Guillam got sent to Siberia for — use the Metropolitan Police to forward a scheme of a private party.’ He picked up his hat and looked into it as if something that made him unhappy lived in there. ‘It just doesn’t hang together. It’s all speculation. Look — bring me somebody who knows this man Crum and misses him. Bring me a mother, the sister, a wife, a lover — anybody who’s close to him and knows he’s gone. You’re talking about a man you’ve never seen, and you want me to act as if he’s missing. Denton, he’s something you’ve created out of whole cloth!’

‘The valet knew him. The housekeeper knew him.’

‘Have they reported him missing?’

‘All right. I’m going home tomorrow. I’ll handle it myself.’

‘Don’t do it! Now, I’m warning you-!’

‘What are you going to do, break my other leg?’

Munro, standing now, looked down at him. He shook his head. ‘You get well. You look like death warmed over. Stop tormenting yourself with this business and get better.’ At the door, he said, ‘I think you’re on to about half of something. Keep it under your hat until you get the other half.’

Janet Striker came later the same day. She shook an expensive-looking waterproof cape and leaned a new umbrella in the corner. She looked almost pretty. She had come into her money. Rain was driving against the window, which shook from the power of the wind; distant lightning appeared only as a glow on the glass, as if a dim lamp had been turned on and off.

‘I’m going home tomorrow,’ he said.

‘The doctor wants to keep you here.’

‘No point. I can make my way about now. I think I’m ready for a walking stick, get me off those damned crutches. Gallichan just wants to keep on playing with my dreams.’ He told her about Munro’s return visit, his refusal to get in touch with the French police. ‘If I could handle a shovel, I’d do it myself!’

‘I’ll do it.’ She lifted her chin. Her skin was pink from the storm she’d come through; she’d put on a few pounds since she’d got her money, too, looked healthier and happier. ‘I’ll take the Cohans — he can dig, she can make me look respectable. What a good idea.’

‘Cohan can’t go near dead bodies — it comes with being kohanim.’

‘No matter. I’ll do the digging myself. Or I’ll find myself a labourer.’

‘You don’t speak French.’

‘Of course I do. It’s one of those things my mother thought would make me more saleable.’ Her mother had died, she told him, while Denton had been unconscious; the death made Janet neither more nor less outspoken about her. She stood. ‘There’s just time to pack and be off first thing.’

‘You just got here.’

‘And I’m leaving. I’ll confess it now; I hate places like this. I’m so glad you’re coming home.’ She pulled the cape over her shoulders. ‘Let’s move this matter forward, is what I say.’

‘You want to get away from me again.’

‘I don’t.’

‘The doctor told me I’m a violent man.’

‘And so you are, but I suspect he doesn’t have the slightest notion what that means.’ She gave him a quick kiss. ‘I’ll be back by the weekend. To stay. In London, I mean.’