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‘How comforting!’ Drabble’s reply was sarcastic, but softly modulated. ‘But not for me.’
‘Would you like to tell me why you feel you’re not a very nice person?’
Drabble laughed, and it was a genuine laugh of pleasure. ‘Oh, Susan! I hope you don’t mind me calling you Susan? But in the circumstances, I’d like to. You really don’t give up, do you? Well, yes I would like to tell you. I need to tell someone, and you’re the one I’d like it to be. No sanctimonious confession to a priest for me.’ She laughed again, but her face had turned serious, deadly serious. ‘I’ll tell you, and you only. And it goes no further than us two! All right?!’
‘You have my word.’
‘Well, that’s good enough by me. I just hope you don’t hate me by the end, because if it wasn’t for me your Karen would still very likely be alive.’
Holden felt tears welling up again, and she swallowed hard as she tried to regain control of her emotions. ‘I think I know that already,’ she said. ‘It’s the detail I don’t know.’
‘Would you mind just straightening me up, first? I’ve got a bit uncomfortable.’
It took a couple of minutes for Holden to complete the task of plumping pillows, pulling tighter the sheets to remove folds, and hoisting the admittedly rather lightweight old woman into a more upright position. The cancer had taken its toll. Holden gave her a glass of water, and poured herself the lukewarm remains of tea from the pot. Then she went back to her chair, sipped at her cup and waited for Marjorie Drabble to begin.
‘What stupid, stupid things we do with our lives!’ She was looking past Holden, and out of the window, her eyes apparently focused on some distant point where everything made sense.
‘Lucy first came to me on the Thursday, the Thursday before Maria’s death. She came, as I told you before, to plead for her father. My son Graham was all for throwing the book at Alan for failing to diagnose my cancer, but I never really wanted to, and when she started to cry, I couldn’t deny her. Why should I want to? Her mother Christine and I had been such good friends. And I guess it’s no surprise that it was Christine who we talked about most, because Lucy really wanted to know all about her – the mother she never really knew. So I told her how Christine loved Laura Ashley dresses, and Indian skirts, and joss sticks and Chinese takeaways, and Edna O’Brien’s novels and all that sort of thing. You name it and we talked about it!’ Drabble stopped, and a smile crossed her face as she remembered her friend of long ago.
‘And did you discuss Christine’s death?’ The question popped out of Holden’s mouth almost new born, for it had only been conceived in the recesses of her mind as she listened to Drabble, and yet it seemed suddenly so obvious when the key link between the women was Christine Tull.
‘Yes, we did.’ She nodded slowly as she said this, but otherwise went silent.
Holden waited. Outside the door, footsteps approached, but then passed on further down the corridor. ‘And?’ she finally prompted.
‘I told her the truth. Just as I will now tell you the truth. But I don’t want to be interrupted, so just let me tell it the way I want to, and at the end – maybe – I’ll answer any questions you have. Right?’
‘Right,’ Holden agreed. After all, what else could she say?
‘You know some of the details, I’m sure. There must be a police report on it somewhere, and it’s no secret. It’s just not something people talk about any more. In fact, they never did. Christine died driving home from Leamington Spa. She lost control of the car, and ran into a tree, and died instantly. When they ran tests, they found she was way over the alcohol limit, so it looked like it was her own stupid fault. The only problem for that theory was that it seemed out of character. Christine was a one or two glasses of wine at the most type, and of course she left behind Lucy, who was barely one year old, so it was just not something people much cared to talk about, at least not anywhere near Dr Tull. But that isn’t the whole story.’ She stopped then, though whether to get her breath or whether to get some sort of feedback, Holden wasn’t sure, and anyway it didn’t actually matter.
‘Are you OK?’ Holden asked. ‘Would you like some water?’
‘You see,’ Drabble continued, ignoring the question, ‘she was in Leamington Spa at a publishing event. She was a books editor, and they were doing a launch for a new series of arts books, and one of the contributors was Dominic Russell. So he was there too, and one thing led to another, and he seduced her. He always fancied himself, did Dominic, not to mention anyone young and pretty in a short skirt, and poor Christine was completely taken in.’
Holden’s mind was in overdrive as she took in and assessed this new information. Could she fully trust Marjorie Drabble? She had thought that in these circumstances she could, but she wasn’t entirely sure. ‘How do you know?’ she interrupted.
‘Christine told me, of course. How else? We were the best of friends, and she rang me in a complete state about 9.30 that evening. She was so upset she was almost incoherent. She told me how Dominic had invited her round to his room before supper to discuss some ideas he had for future books, and the next thing was he was plying her with drink and … well, she didn’t have a chance. She was almost hysterical when she told me. I tried to calm her down, and I thought at the time that I had managed it, but no. She was meant to stay in Leamington that night, and I assumed she had, but apparently she checked out at about 10.15, telling the receptionist she had to go home because her daughter was ill. And, of course, she never made it.’
‘So, when you told Lucy all this, how did she react?’
‘How do you think she reacted? She was almost apoplectic with rage.’
‘I see.’ But in reality Holden saw as through a glass darkly, and even as she thought about what Drabble had said, a string of questions were accelerating round her head like hyperactive children at a four-year-old’s party, running wild and refusing to be controlled. For example, when exactly did this conversation take place? And when Drabble told Lucy all this, were Maria and Jack already dead? And did she know that Lucy had killed them? And if so, why did she tell Lucy about it? Because she wanted Dominic dead? And if so why? And if so, did she encourage Lucy to kill Maria and Jack too? What the hell was Drabble’s motive in all of this?
Holden stood up, and turned to look out the window, though her brain was so overloaded that it barely registered what the eyes saw. After several seconds, she turned back and looked down at the sick old woman in the bed, trying to divine what was going on inside her head. Mens sana in corpore sano. It was a Latin verse that her father had
taken delight in claiming in his lighter moments. So was the opposite true too? Sick minds in sick bodies. How sick in the head was Marjorie Drabble?
‘Did you want Lucy to kill Dominic?’
‘Does it matter?’
For someone who only a short while previously had appeared keen to make a confession, this was a curious answer. Was she playing some more complicated game? And of course it mattered. It was integral to her own desire for resolution. She felt the tide of anger, rising through her body, invading her head, and she fought to hold it back. ‘Did you encourage Lucy to kill Maria?’
‘Why should I?’ The reply was instant.
‘Yes, or no? I thought we were being truthful towards each other.’
