the vehicle on to the highway, against the predominant flow of traffic, and with the city behind them they soon picked up speed.
‘So much for Patashoqua,’ Gentle said as the walls became a mirage.
‘No great loss,’ Pie remarked.
‘But I wanted to see the Merrow Ti’ Ti’,’ Gentle said.
‘No chance,’ Pie returned.
‘Why?’
‘It was pure invention,’ Pie said. ‘Like all my favourite things, including myself! Pure invention!’
1
Though Jude had made an oath, in all sobriety, to follow Gentle wherever she’d seen him go, her plans for pursuit were stymied by a number of claims upon her energies, the most pressing of which was Clem’s. He needed her advice, comfort and organizational skills in the dreary, rainy days that followed New Year, and despite the urgency of her agenda she could scarcely turn her back on him. Taylor’s funeral took place on the ninth of January, with a Memorial Service which Clem took great pains to perfect. It was a melancholy triumph: a time for Taylor’s friends and relations to mingle and express their affections for the departed man. Jude met people she’d not seen in many years, and few, if any, failed to comment on the one conspicuous absentee: Gentle. She told everybody what she’d told Clem. That Gentle had been going through a bad time, and the last she’d heard he was planning to leave on holiday. Clem, of course, would not be fobbed off with such vague excuses. Gentle had left knowing that Taylor was dead, and Clem viewed his departure as a kind of cowardice. Jude didn’t attempt to defend the wanderer. She simply tried to make as little mention of Gentle in Clem’s presence as she could.
But the subject would keep coming up, one way or another. Sorting through Taylor’s belongings after the funeral, Clem came upon three watercolours, painted by Gentle in the style of Samuel Palmer, but signed with his own name, and dedicated to Taylor. Pictures of idealized landscapes, they couldn’t help but turn Clem’s thoughts back to Taylor’s unrequited love for the vanished man, and Jude’s to the place he had vanished for. They were among the few items that Clem, perhaps vengefully, wanted to destroy, but Jude persuaded him otherwise. He kept one in memory of Taylor, gave one to Klein, and the third to Jude.
Her duty to Clem took its toll not only upon her time but upon her focus. When, in the middle of the month, he suddenly announced that he was going to leave the next day for Tenerife, there to tan his troubles away for a fortnight, she was glad to be released from the daily duties of friend and comforter, but found herself unable to rekindle the heat of ambition that had flared in her at the month’s first hour. She had one unlikely touchstone, however: the dog. She only had to look at the mutt and she remembered - as though it were an hour ago - standing at the door of Gentle’s flat, and seeing the pair dissolving in front of her astonished eyes. And on the heels of that memory came thoughts of the news she had been carrying to Gentle that night: the dream-journey induced by the stone that was now wrapped up and hidden from sight and seeing in her wardrobe. She was not a great lover of dogs, but she’d taken the mongrel home that night, knowing it would perish if she didn’t. It quickly ingratiated itself, wagging a furious welcome when she returned home each night after being with Clem; sneaking into her bedroom in the early hours and making a nest for itself in her soiled clothes. She called it Skin, because it had so little fur, and while she didn’t dote on it the way it doted upon her she was still glad of its company. More than once she found herself talking to it at great length, while it licked its paws or its balls, these monologues a means to refocus her thoughts without worrying that she was losing her mind. Three days after Clem’s departure for sunnier climes, discussing with Skin how she should best proceed, Estabrook’s name came up.
‘You haven’t met Estabrook,’ she told Skin. ‘But I’ll guarantee you won’t like him. He tried to have me killed, you know?’
The dog looked up from its toilet.
‘Yeah, I was amazed, too,’ she said. ‘I mean, that’s worse than an animal, right? No disrespect, but it is. I was his wife. I am his wife. And he tried to have me killed. What would you do, if you were me? Yeah, I know, I should see him. He had the blue eye in his safe. And that book! Remind me to tell you about the book some time. No, maybe I shouldn’t. It’ll give you ideas.’
Skin settled his head on his crossed paws, gave a small sigh of contentment, and started to doze.
‘You’re a big help,’ she said, I need some advice here. What do you say to a man who tried to have you murdered?’
Skin’s eyes were closed, so she was obliged to furnish her own reply.
‘I say: Hello, Charlie, why don’t you tell me the story of your life?’
2
She called Lewis Leader the next day to find out whether Estabrook was still hospitalized. She was told he was, but that he’d been moved to a private clinic in Hampstead. Leader supplied details of his whereabouts, and Jude called to enquire both about Estabrook’s condition and visiting hours. She was told he was still under close scrutiny, but seemed to be in better spirits than he’d been, and she was welcome to come and see him at any time. There seemed little purpose in delaying the meeting. She drove up to Hampstead that very evening, through another tumultuous rainstorm, arriving to a welcome from the psychiatric nurse in charge of Estabrook’s case, a chatty young man called Maurice who lost his top lip when he smiled, which was often, and talked with an almost indiscreet enthusiasm about the state of his patient’s mind.
‘He has good days,’ Maurice said brightly. Then, just as brightly: ‘But not many. He’s severely depressed. He made one attempt to kill himself before he came to us, but he’s settled down a lot.’
‘Is he sedated?’
‘We help keep the anxiety controllable, but he’s not drugged senseless. We can’t help him get to the root of the problem if he is.’
‘Has he told you what that is?’ she said, expecting accusations to be tossed in her direction.
‘It’s pretty obscure,’ Maurice said. ‘He talks about you very fondly, and I’m sure your coming will do him a great deal of good. But the problem’s obviously with his blood relatives. I’ve got him to talk a little about his father and his brother but he’s very cagey. The father’s dead of course, but maybe you can shed some light on the brother.’
‘I never met him.’
‘That’s a pity. Charles clearly feels a great deal of anger towards his brother, but I haven’t got to the root of why. I will. It’ll just take time. He’s very good at keeping his secrets to himself, isn’t he? But then you probably know that. Shall I take you along to see him? I did tell him you’d telephoned, so I think he’s expecting you.’
Jude was irritated that the element of surprise had been removed; that Estabrook would have had time to prepare his feints and fabrications. But what was done was done, and rather than snap at the gleeful Maurice for his indiscretion she kept her displeasure to herself. She might need the man’s smiling assistance in the fullness of time.
Estabrook’s room was pleasant enough. Spacious and comfortable, its walls adorned with reproductions
