The Reichenbach Problem, Page 20

  “Hugo is drinking with friends. He will not be back this evening.”

  She released a smile and it embraced me.

  I swallowed hard, resisting all that was within me. I was afraid I might succumb to the pleasantness and gentleness that was assaulting me. I drove myself to address her. Quickly, before things were said that might be regretted later.

  “Francesca, may I speak first, and may I speak frankly?”

  “Of course.”

  She wore a loose-fitting robe. Her rich black hair framed her face; one twist of fringe fell over her left eye. Her golden earrings danced and glittered whenever she moved her head. She sat with her legs tucked up beneath her in the armchair in a most Bohemian manner. She looked small and vulnerable… and embraceable. I felt that awful ache again. A need to clasp, to protect. To own. Father Vernon had said all those who succumbed to this intoxicating woman had believed they were her knight in shining armour… I became all too aware of such beliefs. The effort to raise myself above this, to refuse to allow any thoughts such as those I had begun to entertain to gain dominion over me, was almost physical and close to unbearable. I knew I had to speak immediately, or fall and be lost for ever.

  “Francesca…” I was astounded at how even and calm my voice was, especially since the feel of her name upon my lips enveloped me with that all-too-alluring warmth again, “I do not mean to be rude, and what I propose to say you must believe is for your own good.”

  She smiled pleasantly and unsuspectingly and swept the lock of black hair from her eye with a gentle hand. “Do you wish to discuss Hugo?”

  “Yes and no. It is most particularly about you. And your mediumship.”

  “My mediumship?” She did not recognize the word.

  “Your gift, as people like you describe it.”

  “Ah, my gift.” She was teasing me for my earnestness. I grew somewhat cross with the thought that she might not be taking this quite as seriously as she should. Especially considering I was about to deliver her a dreadfully hurtful blow. So I became firm and direct.

  “In private and never to be repeated by me beyond these four walls… I do not believe that act you and your husband gave us last night.” I looked at her. Her eyes were still shining at me, though she had the courtesy to replace the smile on her full, red lips to something thinner and straighter. Far more appropriate for the views that I had begun to impart. “Let me tell you what I believe. I believe that the row between you and Hugo was staged and has been much-practised over the years. The idea is to create in your clients a sense of disquiet and disorientation, thereby rendering them more suggestible. This would also serve to remove a degree of objectivity and rational thought. It also enables you to give the impression that at that precise moment, you and your husband could not possibly be in collusion. It also gives a reason for Hugo to sit in the room and yet, to all intents and purposes, not be part of the event. In fact, to appear actively opposed to the event. He is there only, we are led to believe, in order to keep an eye on his wife. She is, judging by the late witnessed arguments, wild, wilful and unorthodox. This all lends an authenticity to your psychic persona. Having established this, it is a simple matter once the lights are out for your husband, who is your accomplice, to physically move objects unobserved and unsuspected. Such as, for example, an old table.”

  Her eyes were not shining now, but she remained composed and comfortable in her armchair. She did not speak, so I proceeded.

  “I am sure that, in terms of giving the public what they want, or think they want, your work performs a certain function. In this, I do not accuse you of anything. However, I hope that you will take this as simple well-meant advice. Your act is transparent. It does neither you nor the psychic world any justice, and my recommendation to you is to desist immediately.”

  Still she remained silent.

  “Francesca…” Despite myself and my lecture, I was still enjoying rolling her name around in my mouth. Although its initial sweetness was beginning to turn bitter. “I am afraid that I do not worry if I hurt you, or hurt whatever slight friendship we may have established between us in the short time we have known one another. I wonder if, perhaps, it is Hugo’s influence over you? Perhaps you are obliged, even forced, to re-enact this pantomime on every conceivable occasion…?” I stopped. Here was the knight in shining armour, I realized. Failing to accuse such a beautiful woman of anything, and laying all the blame squarely at the feet of her husband. Someone I had now, conveniently, cast in the role of her oppressor.

  Still, I told myself, it had to be said.

  “… If there are difficulties between you and your husband of this nature, then I suppose you would be best advised to bring them to the attention of your priest. I am sure that he would be most considerate in assisting you and Hugo to shake off these practices for the benefit of all concerned, not least yourselves.”

  I had finished my address. I sat back in my chair and looked steadily at the young woman sitting, feline, curled up in her armchair.

  “Have you finished?” she said at length, her voice soft and low and thick. She neither scowled nor smiled.

  “I have.”

  “Then I would ask you to leave, please.” She unfolded herself from her chair and walked to the door. She held it open, indicating that I should precede her along the hallway and out through the front door.

  I stood up. “I am neither concerned nor surprised that you wish me to remain in your home not a moment longer.” It was a feeble attempt at dignity when in truth, I was scarcely able to think at all. My emotions were howling like an autumn gale beneath my upright exterior. “I do not doubt that as you reflect upon what I have said to you, you will become increasingly indignant, if not, indeed, outraged. Nevertheless, I trust that one day, some day, you might understand why I felt I had to say what I did. While you may never thank me for it, you may at least grant that I spoke from the highest motives. I would hope that some day you might even grow to have sympathy with me and the position I was in.”

  “You may go now.”

  I stepped into the hallway. The silence was as burdensome as the attraction I had experienced towards her just a few minutes earlier. I broke it. “Did you not have something to say to me?”

  “I did.”

  “At the risk of causing further offence…” I stopped and turned. She looked beautiful and tearful and my heart burst with remorse for the pain that I had inflicted. I began again, more uncertainly. “At the risk of causing further offence, may I ask what it was that you had wished to say to me?”

  We stood there in the hallway: she unbearably sad and a suddenly lonely, vulnerable figure; I an abject creature who was only just at that point realizing the immensity of what I had done. I had stormed in without any thought or care, and had launched into my ill-conceived tirade, simply as an act of self-preservation. Coward and bully. How dare I accuse her husband of such things when I was guilty of more insidious crimes? I had been afraid; driven to pre-empt anything that she might have to say for fear that I might like whatever it was. I had ignorantly chosen attack as the best form of defence, just so that Father Vernon, for one, could not claim that I was just another foolish male swept away on a wave of desire. I had clumsily and cruelly trampled all over her feelings so that she could not begin to play with mine. What sort of a gentleman was I? And here we were, standing facing one another, and I could only wish that I were just coming in for the first time, rather than being ushered unceremoniously out into the cold night air.

  “You want to know what it was that I wished to tell you?”

  “Yes.”

  “It does not seem to me that you are at all interested in what I have to tell you. It seems to me that you are only ever interested in what you have to say on any subject. And this that you have to tell me is saying how much you despise me and my life. So, if I am so terrible, why should you be interested in what I have to say? I am a foolish, deceitful, nasty woman whom you do not like and you do not care that you hu
rt me. And yet, even so, you pretend that you are interested in what I have to say.”

  How could I blame her? Everything she said was true and born of the pain and disappointment I had brought. She had invited me into her home, probably at great risk to herself – not least where her husband was concerned – and her reputation. She had made me welcome. There was no indication in her manner that suggested that she was proposing anything improper or untoward. Yet here I was, accusing her of deception and folly. No, I could not blame her. I had behaved abominably towards her.

  “I will tell you because even if you do not care for me, I care for you. That is to say, I know something about you that you must know about, and if I do not tell you it will go very bad for you.”

  “What is it?”

  “You are in very much danger. You will fall. Another will push you.”

  “Who told you this?”

  Was this the village gossip machine running again? Or was it some more sinister connection to which she was privy? Perhaps she knew whoever it was that had pushed Brown until he fell, flailing, over the precipice.

  “Nobody tells me this.” She fixed me with those deep brown eyes. “At least, nobody in this life. It is my gift that you so despise.”

  “Your gift? A premonition? You have seen this?”

  “No, I have not seen this.” She paused, seeking a way to describe whatever it was that had happened. “I just… understand. It comes, and suddenly I know it. And it is true.”

  “True?”

  “Yes, but you do not have to believe this, because you say all I do is cheat, so you cannot believe it.”

  “Francesca…” I began, hoping that perhaps here I had an opportunity to expand upon my previous clumsiness, explain myself and maybe even soften that blow a little.

  “What?” Her eyes gleamed with suppressed tears. Was it an act?

  “If you will spare me just five more minutes, we should try and talk some more.”

  “I would like you to go.”

  “Five more minutes. That is all I ask.”

  She shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

  “Five minutes.” She led me back into her room.

  We sat down again. This time, though, she sat upright, with her hands resting lightly on her knees, as if she were a princess hearing an unwelcome suitor’s inept petition. Attentive, yet distant.

  “Francesca,” I began, carefully, “I do not claim that you have a gift. I do not consider that you do not. I do not know.”

  “Yes. You do not know.”

  “But if you are true to your heart, if you are honest with yourself, then you know if what you are doing in your séances is false, or if they are true.” She opened her mouth to speak, but I continued before she could interject. “I do not know. I do not care if they are true or false. That is for you to know. It is for you to decide what to do about it. I would only say this. Sometimes, I understand people who believe they have a gift convince themselves that it is true and, whether it is or not, live their lives as if it were true. They tell themselves that they hear and understand things. And maybe they do, maybe they don’t. I have only started exploring these things for myself. I cannot say either way. I will not say either way. But whether it is real or not, to create a situation where a person pretends it is real for others, to make money from other people by it, to lead people into areas and end up having control over those lives by such tricks… this cannot be right.”

  She chose not to respond.

  I stood up. “Now, as I said, you may not thank me. You may never wish to speak to me again, but I would never forgive myself if I had not told you this. For your sake, not for mine.”

  I left the room and let myself out. I did not hear whether she had followed me into the hallway; I do not think that she did.

  I was disgusted with myself; with my prejudices, my presumption, my insensitivity, my cruelty and my weakness. It was unwarranted and boorish behaviour and I felt ashamed. I walked along through the streets immersed in shadow by the setting sun. I chose to skulk sullenly behind the buildings. I half wanted to run back to her, fling myself at her feet and beg forgiveness. The other half longed to hear her footfall behind me. To feel her gentle hand slip into mine. To hear her whisper that it was all right and that she understood.

  But above and beyond and beneath and beside and behind it all was a stronger desire. The desire to do absolutely the right thing. To behave properly and correctly. Despite the hideous way I had behaved, the fons et origo of my motivation was to slay the dragon.

  Temptation.

  I could not pretend that what I had done was in any wise noble, but the intention had been to kill any possibility of me falling in love with that woman. I had achieved, at least, that ambition.

  I was alone and lonely. I was a thousand miles away from Touie. Through all the recent events, I had been worn down and rendered vulnerable. I should have wanted nothing better than a warm embrace, a soft caress and the sense of security a woman brings. I did not know what it was that Francesca was going to say to me, I told myself. I was only most afraid that it was going to be tender; persuasive. I simply could not allow that to happen. Why I had gone at all, contrary to Father Vernon’s wise counsel, I would never know. But once there, I had known that it was wrong. So I had lashed out. It was ugly. It was unforgivable. But I knew it was better than any alternative. Even if all she truly had to say to me was whatever her… what might I call it?… intuition had told her. I only hoped Touie would be grateful for what I did. Not that I could ever possibly tell her. Not that she would ever be proud of the manner in which I did it.

  Having thrashed myself to a bloody rag with all that remorse, recrimination and self-pity, I took note of my surroundings again. I realized that I was approaching my hotel. I was just a few steps away from the front door when a figure, dark, wild and burly, leapt out from the alley alongside the building. It grabbed me in a frenzy and hauled me, before I could understand what was happening, bodily back down into that dark, dank, foetid place.

  I was still writhing and struggling to break free from the bear-like embrace of the man when the first blow landed. It was on the side of my head and it was as shocking as it was painful. I opened my mouth to cry out for help, but a further severe blow lashed across my lower face and I was spun sideways by its force and down onto my knees. Here I remained, gasping with the speed and shock of it all. Again I raised my head to yell for help, but before I could draw breath, the toe of a boot landed right in the centre of my stomach. It expelled every last gill of breath that I had in me. I pitched onto my forehead, clasping my midriff, fighting for air. Two blows in quick succession hammered onto my back. Then my assailant, aware that apart from producing a few bruises there was little to be gained from beating me, shuffled sideways and landed a mighty kick into my right kidney.

  I let loose a howl and rolled over onto my back on the verge of collapse. Absurdly, as I lay there for that brief instant, moaning and clutching the small of my back, I noticed that I was viewing this whole event objectively. It was as if I were standing to one side and observing the beating I was taking from a purely analytical point of view. The pain was real and my immersion in it complete. Yet there was another part of me that found the whole sequence thoroughly fascinating. I realized that this was not the beating of a calculating and clever person. This was the frenzied attack of someone bent purely on vengeance. I had no time to speculate whom because another kick was launched in my direction.

  My eyes, despite the reeling and gasping I was doing, were becoming more accustomed to my murky surroundings. This time, therefore, I could see the foot being drawn back and the lower leg being cocked ready to deliver the excruciating blow. I instantly hugged my own knees to myself, and the toe of my assailant’s boot landed on my left shin with a thud. The pain shot through me like a bolt of lightning. However, the action and the unexpected resistance the blow had met with caused my attacker to lose balance for a moment. He had to put both feet
firmly on the ground in order to stabilize himself. I knew that if I were to stand any chance of coming out of this assault without further grievous injury, I would have to get to my own two feet as swiftly as I could. I also knew that the moment I made a move from this foetal position I would receive a further debilitating clout to my kidneys.

  I therefore did the only thing I could think of to buy time. I lunged with my legs, shooting them out from their tucked position as if they had sprung from a trap. I aimed them straight at the legs of my antagonist. I ensured that both feet landed on the shins, one just above the ankles and the other just below the knees. Whoever it was was jolted backwards a few steps by the violence of it. Already suspecting it was a man, I could now be sure from the roar of surprise and the curses he emitted. Not that I had had any real doubts that my assailant was male. The weight of the blows told their own story.

  During that brief moment he took in order to recover, I hauled myself groggily and painfully to my feet and staggered quickly backwards two, three paces.

  Now there was no-man’s-land between us. Now, if he were to lunge, he would put himself more at risk than heretofore. This realization seemed to hold him. For a brief moment that uncertainty gave me a further breathing space, which was worth its weight in gold.