Part 13 (2/2)

'Do you think I care?'

'I would, and then you would.'

'We could go somewhere else.'

'Yes, Florence is favoured for that sort of thing. Or Deauville. A little expatriate colony of the unchaste. We'd disgust ourselves and each other. Who's that in your garden? Oh, good heavens, it's Cohan. I thought for a moment-'

He craned his neck and looked past her. 'You see how it is when you have an Albert Cosgrove? Always looking behind you.'

She folded her arms over the one of his that was around her waist, then shuddered.

'What is it?'

'You and me.' She broke away. 'Now I must dress and find a way to face your servant. Can he be trusted?'

'He's made his living being trusted.'

'Let's hope so.' She kissed him lightly. 'Go away while I dress.'

He almost said something about the dress, about all of her clothes - something about his buying her new ones - and wisely stopped himself. His grandmother had often told him to mind his own beeswax. The way Janet looked, dressed, acted, talked, was her own beeswax. The beeswax was in fact, he thought, her poverty, but she would let him into that room only when she was ready.

Anyway, he wanted to think over what she had said about insanity and Albert Cosgrove.

Atkins, of course, was perfect with her. They breakfasted; Denton kissed her; she left.

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Two more letters came from Albert Cosgrove that day. The first apologized for the one of two days before; he'd been 'nervously agitated' and not himself. Denton wondered what it meant to Albert Cosgrove to be 'himself'.

The second letter was quite the opposite - angry; it returned to the earlier tone.

I trusted you, I respected you, and now you have turned on me in this treacherous manner. I know what you are doing! You are worn out; your mind has got rusty and slow; you want my novel as new blood to freshen your own. You have become degenerate. GIVE ME BACK MY BOOK!!!!! If you do not return it, I will have recourse to English law. Or worse. There are quicker ways to the recovery of what is mine than the lawyers.

Denton turned the letters over to Atkins. 'Send them to Sergeant Markson at the Met. I can't be bothered now.' Albert Cosgrove was more right than he knew, Denton thought - having tried to rewrite his novel too fast, he did feel worn out, rusty and slow.

Atkins was reading the letters. 'How does he suppose you'd return his slop, even if you had it? He never gives an address.'

'Maybe it never occurs to him. He wants the book; it should be made to appear.'

'Like a kiddie with the t.i.t - bawling until it gets stuck in his maw. b.l.o.o.d.y loony!'

Denton waved a hand at him to get him out of the room. When Atkins was gone, he sat on, his head leaned on his left hand, staring down at the ma.n.u.script - portrait of the author at his desk, by our artist, portrait of the author at his desk, by our artist, he thought. The morning's contentment was of course gone. The novel had reached the worst of the marriage, deeply personal scenes that came in good part from his own life and were preserved in the ambers of guilt and humiliation. The morning's dream, its sense of release, made the writing harder, even the memory of contentment a distraction. And Janet Striker was a distraction, too. Instead of working, he sat and wondered why he was so drawn to her: she wasn't pretty; she was sometimes distant; she went out of her way not to be compliant. Yet he wanted her - more than any woman in a long time, perhaps ever. She didn't intend that it would be easy, he knew - although she had asked to stay, had said she wanted to, and had proved so during the night. he thought. The morning's contentment was of course gone. The novel had reached the worst of the marriage, deeply personal scenes that came in good part from his own life and were preserved in the ambers of guilt and humiliation. The morning's dream, its sense of release, made the writing harder, even the memory of contentment a distraction. And Janet Striker was a distraction, too. Instead of working, he sat and wondered why he was so drawn to her: she wasn't pretty; she was sometimes distant; she went out of her way not to be compliant. Yet he wanted her - more than any woman in a long time, perhaps ever. She didn't intend that it would be easy, he knew - although she had asked to stay, had said she wanted to, and had proved so during the night.

I think that I don't want it to be easy, either.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

When he finally stopped in late afternoon his knees cracked when he stood. He felt dimly light-headed, as if he'd drawn in lungfuls of tobacco smoke. He expected to totter when he walked. It was almost five o'clock.

'I'm thinking of going out later,' he said to Atkins. The soldier-servant had picked up the photographic copies of the drawing that they'd found in Mary Thomason's trunk; despite his telling Munro that the Mary Thomason business was over, he wanted to find somebody to identify the drawing. Ever hopeful, or stupidly persistent? Or obsessed? Or cracked?

'Best do, unless you want supper from the Lamb.'

'You could do eggs.'

'Now, Colonel, we've been through this. I don't mind the odd rasher and eggs at breakfast or a light lunch, but we agreed I don't cook in the evening.'

'We did, yes. I thought you might take pity on me.'

'Got to draw the line somewhere. Give an employer an inch, he'll take a you-know-what.'

Denton stretched, then bent to touch his toes. He poured himself sherry, sat, said to Atkins, 'Have some yourself, if you like.'

Atkins shook his head. 'I'm thinking. Might have stumbled on a new business interest.' He had been standing there since Denton had come downstairs; pretty clearly, he had something on his mind. Denton hoped it was not about Mrs Striker; he didn't have time for morals just then. He needn't have worried, however, because Atkins surprised him by saying, 'What d'you know about the kinema?'

'Nothing. What's there to know? And isn't it cinema?'

'We say kinema.'

'We?'

Atkins cleared his throat and looked at the ceiling. This was a learned behaviour, the source East End melodrama - Making a Reluctant Suggestion. 'Pal of mine has bought himself a kinema machine.'

Denton made a face at the sherry. He could guess what Atkins was leading up to. Atkins had a weakness for new technologies, what he called 'business opportunities for a chap with vision', into which he'd put small amounts of money, hoping for a big return that never materialized. 'What happened to the vacuum cleaner?'

Before they had gone off to Transylvania, Atkins had got involved in a hand-pumped machine that looked like an oversized clyster and had been supposed to replace the broom. Now, Atkins said, 'The enterprise died while we was away and I wasn't here to manage it. Boon to women, but they complained they was getting muscles like a barrel-lapper from using it. Two housemaids developed elbows and had to have medical attention. Under threat of lawsuit, the firm dissolved.'

'So now it's cinema.'

'Yes, well, yes - chap has a first-cla.s.s Polish picture-taking machine, needed a bit of cash to grease the skids, as it were. Him and me are thinking of making what's called a kinema picture.'

'You're going to make a moving picture?'

'Something up to date and educational, yes.'

Denton put his chin in his hands. 'What?'

'The war. The Boer War, that is.'

'It isn't over yet.'

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