my view,’ said Mr Reece, ‘the matter of enmity doesn’t arise. This has been from first to last a profitable enterprise. I’ve ascertained that “Strix” can ask what he likes for his photographs. It’s only a matter of time, one imagines, before they reappear in bookform. He’s hit on a money-spinner and unless we can catch him in the act he’ll go on spinning as long as the public interest lasts. Simple as that.’
‘If he concocted the letter,’ Alleyn said, ‘it’s hard to see how he’d make money out of that. He could hardly admit to forgery.’
Rupert Bartholomew said: ‘I think the letter was written out of pure spite. She thinks so, too: you heard her. A sort of black practical joke.’
He made this announcement with an air of defiance, almost of proprietorship. Alleyn saw Mr Reece look at him for several seconds with concentration as if his attention had been unexpectedly aroused. He thought: That boy’s getting himself into deep water.
Hanley had been speaking into the telephone. He stood up and said, ‘Sir Simon Marks, sir.’
Mr Reece took the call inaudibly. The others fell into an unrestful silence, not wishing to seem as if they listened but unable to find anything to say to each other. Alleyn was conscious of Rupert Bartholomew’s regard which as often as he caught it was hurriedly turned away. He’s making some sort of appeal, Alleyn thought and went over to him. They were now removed from the others.
‘Do tell me about your opera,’ he said. ‘I’ve only gathered the scantiest picture from our host of what is going to happen but it all sounds most exciting.’
Rupert muttered something about not being too sure of that.
‘But,’ said Alleyn, ‘it must be an enormous thing for you, isn’t it? For the greatest soprano of our time to bring it all about? A wonderful piece of good fortune, I’d have thought.’
‘Don’t,’ Rupert muttered. ‘Don’t say that.’
‘Hullo! What’s all this? First night nerves?’
Rupert shook his head. Good Lord, Alleyn thought, a bit more of this and he’ll be in tears. Rupert stared at him and seemed to be on the edge of speech when Mr Reece put back the receiver and rejoined the others. ‘Marks will attend to The Watchman,’ he said. ‘If the original is there he’ll see that we get it.’
‘Can you be sure of that?’ Ruby asked.
‘Certainly. He owns the group and controls the policy.’
They began to talk in a desultory way and for Alleyn their voices sounded a long way off and disembodied. The spectacular room became unsteady and its contents swelled, diminished and faded. I’m going to sleep on my feet, he thought and pulled himself together.
He said to his host, ‘As I can’t be of use, I wonder if I may be excused? It’s been a long day and one didn’t get much sleep on the plane.’
Mr Reece was all consideration. ‘How very thoughtless of us,’ he said. ‘Of course. Of course.’ He made appropriate hospitable remarks about hoping the Alleyns had everything they required, suggested that they breakfasted late in their room and ring when they were ready for it. He sounded as if he was playing some sort of internal cassette of his own recording. He glanced at Hanley who advanced, all eager to please.
‘We’re in unbelievable bliss,’ Alleyn assured them, scarcely knowing what he said. And to Hanley: ‘No, please don’t bother. I promise not to doze off on my way up. Good night, everyone.’
He crossed the hall which was now dimly lit. The pregnant woman loomed up and stared at him through slitted eyes. Behind her the fire, dwindled to a glow, pulsated quietly.
As he passed the drawing-room door he heard a scatter of desultory conversation: three voices at the most, he thought, and none of them belonging to Troy.
And, sure enough, when he reached their room he found her in bed and fast asleep. Before joining her he went to the heavy window curtains, parted them and saw the lake in moonlight close beneath him, stretching away like a silver plain into the mountains. Incongruous, he thought, and impertinent, for this little knot of noisy, self-important people with their self-imposed luxury and serio-comic concerns to be set down at the heart of such an immense serenity.
He let the curtain fall and went to bed.
He and Troy were coming back to earth in Mr Reece’s aeroplane. An endless road rushed towards them. Appallingly far below, the river thundered and water lapped at the side of their boat. He fell quietly into it and was immediately fathoms deep.
Troy slept heavily and woke at ten o’clock to find Alleyn up and dressed and the room full of sunshine.
‘I’ve never known you so unwakeable,’ he said. ‘Deep as the lake itself. I’ve asked for our breakfast.’
‘Have you been up long?’
‘About two hours. The bathroom’s tarted up to its eyebrows. Jets of water smack you up where you least expect it. I went downstairs. Not a soul about apart from the odd slave who looked at me as if I was dotty. So I went outside and had a bit of an explore. Troy, it really is quite extraordinarily beautiful, this place; so still; the lake clear, the trees motionless, everything new and fresh and yet, or so one feels, empty and belonging to primordial time. Dear me,’ said Alleyn, rubbing his nose, ‘I’d better not try. Let’s tell each other about what went on after that atrocious dinner party.’
‘I’ve nothing to tell. When we left you the diva merely said in a volcanic voice: ‘Excuse me, ladies,’ and swept upstairs. I gave her time to disappear and then followed suit. I can scarcely remember getting myself to bed. What about you?’
Alleyn told her.
‘If you ask me,’ Troy said, ‘it needs only another outrage like this and she’ll break down completely. She was literally shaking all over as if she had a rigor. She can’t go on like that. Don’t you agree?’
‘Not really. Not necessarily. Have you ever watched two Italians having a discussion in the street? Furious gestures, shrieks, glaring eyes, faces close together. Any moment, you think, it’ll be a free-for-all and then without warning they burst out laughing and hit each other’s shoulders in comradely accord. I’d say she was of the purest Italian – perhaps Sicilian – peasant stock and utterly uninhibited. Add to that the propensity of all public performers to cut up rough and throw temperaments right and left when they think they’ve been slighted and you’ve got La Sommita. You’ll see.’
But beyond staring bemusedly out of the windows, Troy was not given much chance of seeing for herself. Instead, she and Alleyn were to be taken on a tour of the house by Mr Reece, beginning with the ‘studio’ which turned out to be on the same level as their bedroom. Grand pianos being as chicken feed to Mr Reece, there was one in here and Troy was given to understand that the Sommita practised at it and that the multiple-gifted Rupert Bartholomew acted as her accompanist, having replaced an Australian lady in that capacity. She found, with astonishment, that an enormous easel of sophisticated design and a painter’s table and stool had been introduced into the room for her use. Mr Reece was anxious, he said, to know if they suited. Troy, tempted to ask if they were on sale or return, said they did and was daunted by their newness. There was also a studio throne with a fine lacquer screen on it. Mr Reece expressed a kind of drab displeasure that it was not large enough to accommodate the grand piano as well. Troy, who had already made up her mind what she wanted to do with her subject, said it was of no consequence. When, she asked, would she be able to start? Mr Reece, she thought, was slightly evasive. He had not spoken this morning to Madame, he said, but he understood there would be rehearsals for the greater part of the day. The orchestra was to arrive. They had been rehearsing, with frequent visits