The Book Collector Read online

  But then she looked up to see Archie staring at her strangely.

  ‘Why were you looking at me like that?’ she asked. He looked surprised. She hardly ever saw him surprised. It was as if everything that happened to him had already been expected by him.

  ‘Was I, darling? I didn’t mean to. Probably just admiring the perfection of the scene.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘You weren’t staring like that, it was more as if you didn’t recognise who I was, that I was a strange object you were hoping to add to your collection.’

  He laughed. ‘I collect books. Not people. But if I did collect people I would certainly collect you.’

  He was pandering to her but she felt reassured. She needed to know she was special to him. Felix clambered off her and started to crawl across the garden, just as Clara was coming up the path, carrying a basket of fruit she had picked from the greenhouses. Violet glanced at Archie to see if he had seen Clara approach in her white muslin dress and a large-brimmed straw hat, her golden hair overshadowing her face so Violet couldn’t see her expression, just the shape of her voluptuous body, but Archie was looking at Felix.

  Clara bent down to take Felix. Archie returned to reading his newspaper. Violet thought it odd that Archie did not acknowledge Clara. It was as if he were deliberately ignoring her. It was out of character, as he had the manners of a gentleman. Clara didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘Can you give Felix his tea?’ Violet asked her. ‘Archie and I want to stay out in the sun a little longer.’

  ‘Of course, Lady Murray,’ the nanny said. ‘He is in the sun.’

  And Violet felt a mild rebuke in her conversational tone, then thought, it’s just my imagination and he has his hat on, anyway.

  Later, in the kitchen, she asked, ‘Clara, do you not miss having anyone in your life?’

  ‘I need a husband like yours!’

  ‘Well, he doesn’t have to be exactly like Archie,’ Violet replied with a laugh. And a pain struck her heart at the thought she could have married anyone else.

  ‘I don’t like men,’ Clara said quickly.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They do repulsive things.’

  Violet was astonished. Clara hadn’t seemed puritanical.

  ‘You mean making love?’

  But Clara blushed furiously at the phrase. Violet laughed.

  ‘I know it seems repulsive but it’s not when you’re actually doing it. It’s strange, it becomes more than it is.

  ‘It’s what animals do.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘But we’re not animals. We are made in the image of our Creator.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Violet said, hastily. ‘So, you’ve never had a suitor? Even a kiss?’

  Clara shook her head vehemently. ‘A man’s lips on mine.’ She pursed her beautiful lips in a moue of disgust. ‘It makes me shudder.’

  Chapter 20

  THE FOLLOWING WEEK there was a knock on the front door. The housemaid was busy polishing the silver, so Violet went to answer it. An hunched old man, stinking of drink, was standing there, looking at her lewdly. His eyes were bloodshot and his brown suit covered in patches. She noticed he had a convict’s number tattooed on his neck. She wanted to shut the door immediately but he had wedged his foot in the doorframe.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’ve come to see Clara.’

  ‘Clara!’ She was astonished. She couldn’t put her fragrant Clara and this man together.

  ‘Why do you want to see Clara?’

  ‘Important business.’ He fell towards her and she quickly stepped out of his way and now he was standing inside the hall entrance. He was a big man; she couldn’t force him out.

  ‘Come into the kitchen.’

  She led him to the kitchen where he sprawled on a chair. Seeing the astonished look on the cook’s round homely face, Violet dismissed her.

  ‘Clara has done very well for herself,’ he said.

  ‘She’s a wonderful nanny.’

  A look of panic crossed his deeply lined, hard features.

  ‘A nanny?’

  ‘Yes. You seem surprised.’

  ‘No. No. Clara with children, that’s all.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing. Didn’t think she got on with children, that’s all.’

  She was puzzled. Archie had told her she had helped bring up her two younger brothers.

  ‘She gets on fine with Felix. He adores her.’

  Again that look of anxiety. Why was he looking so worried?

  Just at that moment Clara came into the kitchen. As she saw the man sitting there, a look of utter horror crossed her face, quickly replaced by a forced smile of welcome.

  ‘Father!’ she said.

  ‘Dearest,’ he said as he got up and staggered towards her to embrace her.

  She could see Clara trying not to take a step back.

  ‘They’ve let you out.’

  ‘Indeed. Finally.’

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ Violet said, though she could see in Clara’s eyes it was not.

  ‘So where are you staying?’

  ‘Down in the village. The inn. I’m looking for work.’

  Clara looked at Violet quickly and then looked away.

  ‘What kind of work?’

  ‘Any. Gardening, hard labour.’

  Violet felt speechless. Was she supposed to say something? Offer this uncouth man some kind of employment?

  He suddenly looked very pale. ‘May I lie down? I’m feeling tired.’

  His eyelids were drooping and his movements languid. He was moving more slowly and clumsily than ever.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’ll take him to my room,’ Clara said.

  ‘Use one of the spare bedrooms. It will be fine.’

  ‘Thank you, madam.’

  She heard his faltering footsteps on the staircase and then Clara returning.

  She looked sheepish.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Lady Murray. Someone must have told him where I was working.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  Clara was looking down at the floor. Violet knew what she was feeling and thinking, as she often had that feeling of being over-responsible.

  ‘Would you like me to find him some work, Clara? I could ask Bea if she needs anyone. She is very fond of you and I’m sure would like to help.’

  ‘That would be wonderful.’

  Her face lit up.

  ‘I know all about madness,’ Clara added.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It runs in my family. My father.’

  This explained Clara’s self-contained nature, Violet thought. It was not about emotional placidity but about secrecy. She was very private. She now knew why Clara worked so assiduously. She wondered what form her father’s madness took.

  That night at dinner she discussed the subject with Archie. She told him that Bea had agreed to take on Clara’s father to help her in the garden, that she didn’t mind his background.

  ‘So, Clara’s father. A drunkard and convict. There’s a surprise. And her so prim and proper.’

  He seemed amused.

  ‘And you’re not worried about him harming Felix?’

  ‘No. He will do him no harm. If he’s Clara’s father, he’ll be too scared. He’ll probably keep away.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean? Clara isn’t scary.’

  Archie looked non-plussed. ‘Scared is the wrong word. I meant he won’t want to let her down. She sets such high standards.’

  ‘Oh yes, I see what you mean.’

  She toyed with her duck breast. She felt it slightly odd the way he talked about Clara, as if he knew her in ways she didn’t.

  ‘You do like Clara, don’t you?’ Archie asked. ‘You don’t think her too reserved? Not enough fun for Felix? After what happened he needs fun.’

  ‘Of course I like her. And she’s good for him.’

  ‘He needs security. Even more
than fun,’ Archie continued. ‘And that is what Clara gives him. Put her father to work in Bea’s garden. Then everyone will be happy.’

  A few days later, Violet was in the drawing room when she heard persistent crying coming from the nursery. Thinking Clara must be outside, she went upstairs but to her surprise, Clara was already in the nursery, standing by the cot. Her arms were outstretched as if about to pick up Felix, who had his arms lifted up towards her. But Clara, with an odd smile on her face, then slowly let her arms fall to her side. Felix’s crying intensified. He didn’t understand what was happening.

  ‘Clara, what on earth are you doing? You’re upsetting him. He thinks you are going to pick him up!’

  Clara turned around, surprised, not having seen Violet come in.

  ‘It’s just a game.’

  ‘Well, it’s a cruel game. Please don’t play it any more.’

  Clara immediately reached down into the cot and Felix tottered into her arms, ecstatic. That behaviour, Violet thought, will make him more dependent on her. If he thinks he may lose her, he will crave her comfort all the more. Is that why she was doing it? Or was it, as she said, just a silly game? She thought of Archie, his absences, and how dependent on him she had grown. Do people learn to manipulate the emotions of others instinctively, she wondered?

  ‘Can I have him, Clara?’ she asked.

  But Felix started to cry again when Clara tried to give him over to Violet. He clung to Clara fiercely as if frightened to let go.

  ‘Keep him, Clara.’

  Was there that odd smile again, about Clara’s lips, or had she just imagined it? Perhaps it was just delight that Felix loved her so much. But that game Clara had been playing with Felix – she didn’t like it.

  That evening she mentioned what had happened to Archie, expecting him to understand her concern. But instead he looked cross.

  ‘Clara is doing a very good job. In fact you would be lost without her.’

  ‘I know. I’m grateful. But I thought it a strange game. Even cruel.’

  ‘I don’t think you are in the right position to judge.’

  She took a sharp intake of breath.

  ‘I was ill. That’s unfair.’

  He was so good at echoing her own critical thoughts, confirming what she already thought about herself.

  ‘Yes, I am sorry,’ he said, with a smile, and came over and put his arms around her. ‘Don’t worry. Clara would not have meant to be cruel. She would just have been playing with him. She’s been a Godsend to us. Please don’t do anything to lose her. Look how Felix loves her.’

  And she could see Felix how loved Clara. He would crawl over to her, and Clara would take him in her arms and lift him up and swing him round as he giggled.

  She didn’t really want to think any more about what she had seen – she wanted to consider Clara as pure as she looked, like an angel from heaven. She wanted to block out any vision of Clara other than the one she needed her to be. Her own version of herself had become unstable and various.

  From the drawing room window, the next day, she observed Clara in the garden with Felix. It was a halcyon picture, Clara sitting on the lawn, her hair shining in the sunlight as Felix crawled around her in circles, laughing infectiously, his smile lighting up his ecstatic face. Violet saw Archie strolling across the garden towards them. She watched as he bent down and picked up Felix, cradling him in his arms. He exchanged a few words with Clara, who looked bashfully down, as he addressed her. They made a handsome couple, Violet thought, the two of them together: one charismatic, the other passive.

  That night she dreamt she was following Archie down a tunnel. It was a dark labyrinth carved into a cliff face. Tunnels were veering off in all directions but she could follow his imprints in the dusty rocky ground, as if they were breadcrumbs. She heard vague screams from the end of the tunnel, a woman’s screams. Her heart was beating faster. She turned round and ran back out through the tunnel into the sunlight.

  Chapter 21

  ARCHIE HAD BEEN away on a business trip for days and Violet had woken up during a hot summer’s night, warm and restless, her long white cotton nightgown clinging to her skin. Compelled, as if she were sleepwalking, pulled along by a power external to herself, she went downstairs to the drawing room where the piano stood by the window. She opened the lid and put her hands on the keys. The ivory was cool and hard to her touch, reassuringly solid compared to the unreality of her feelings and surroundings. The moon was shining through the window, reflecting off the polished wood of the piano as if it were made of glass.

  She had not played music since giving birth to Felix. It seemed too risky, as if somehow she would be giving something up of herself that she could not afford to spare. She tried a few notes, but it was as if she had forgotten how to play. She stood up and closed the lid.

  ‘Why don’t you play a tune, madam?’

  Startled, she turned around. Clara was standing in the doorway. How long had she been standing there, watching her?

  ‘I don’t feel like it, Clara.’

  ‘Lord Murray told me you play well.’

  An uneasy discovery that they talked to each other behind her back, even if it was to compliment her on her piano playing. She was being paranoid again. She should be flattered. It was since she had returned from the asylum that she had become worried that people were talking about her behind her back.

  ‘Oh,’ she said.

  ‘He was just being nice,’ Clara said and quietly left the room.

  Violet sat down at the piano again and opened the lid. As if her hands were possessed, she started to play the piano with a passion and intensity new to her. It was only after she had started playing that she realised it was Schumann, his visionary intensity flowing through her fingers.

  She felt unable to stop. Sweat began to pour down her face and she was growing tired. Only after an hour did her fingers finally stop moving and she lifted her hands from the keyboard. She leant her cheek on the surface of the piano, the wood cool against her hot skin.

  Betsy had been let out of the asylum a few weeks before and was walking down the village high street, late at night. She had been sewing all day at her mother’s house and was exhausted. She couldn’t wait to get back to her little house. Her husband would be out as usual, drinking in the local pub. She had brought back the shirt that had been ordered. The customer was coming round that night. Soon after she returned home, there was a knock on the door. A figure stood in the doorway, in the shadows so she couldn’t see his face.

  ‘Have you my shirt?’

  ‘I do.’

  He spoke with a posh accent. Betsy felt impressed. She wanted to impress him.

  ‘I need to check it will fit. Would you mind accompanying me to my home? Put on your cloak.’

  They walked down the dark streets of the village and up a long driveway. She could see no lights.

  ‘It’s a long walk,’ she murmured.

  ‘Indeed it is.’ And she felt the knife go into her side, between the ribs, long and hot pain. Her heavy cloak soaked up the blood and he lay her down gently in the driveway in the darkness.

  ‘What do you want from me?’ she asked.

  ‘What is skin deep,’ he replied.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘What I mean is I want nothing from you at all.’

  He watched her die under the branches of the tree. Her head fell back to catch the moonlight so he could see her face more clearly. Her dark complexion paled as the lifeblood seeped from her. He lifted her up over his shoulder, easily. She was light and ill fed.

  He walked through the forest until he reached the tunnel that led into the underground rooms. It had once been a rich man’s folly. He lit the candles. It was so still down there. No wind stirred. He lay her down on the ground and pulled the knife from her side. Without it, she looked just as though she were sleeping.

  Should he take the skin off first? He took off her heavy woollen cloak, which left heavy bloodstains on h
is hands. She was wearing a corset beneath her grey linen dress. He laid out her arms so they were outstretched. He then brought the blade of his knife down beneath the arm socket.

  He then hung her up on the hook and finally began to peel off her skin. It was all so elaborate, he thought, as he left the skin to dry. He had to be patient. The process took days.

  That afternoon, Clara rushed into the kitchen, where Violet was telling the cook what to prepare for supper. Clara’s face was flushed with excitement. She was carrying a book concealed under her arm. She stopped, startled to see Violet in the kitchen, as if she had been waiting for her. The cook, sensing a strained atmosphere, left to gather herbs from the garden.

  ‘What on earth have you got there?’ Violet asked. She could see the gilt edge of the pages.

  She was puzzled. Sometimes she forgot Clara had a life apart from her life helping her. It was a shock she might have plans and secrets of her own. What was Clara really like under her quiet placid manner, playing with Felix, cutting up his fruit into the shape of hearts with her small knowing hands? Clara looked up with her wide eyes.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘just a book. Archie has asked me to fetch him a book.’

  Violet noticed pinpricks on her neck like red dots of infectious marks.

  ‘Have you hurt your neck?’

  Clara put her hand to her neck.

  ‘Oh no. I noticed those, too. Insect bites, I suppose.’

  She gave her that sweet smile. Violet tried to look beyond the sweetness, to read duplicity into it, but could not. She was just going to ask her again about the book but Felix came in and the moment passed as Clara quickly took Felix into the garden to play ball.

  A forest of heavy oaks surrounded the garden of the house. Violet rarely went in to it. The trees grew too close together and blocked out the light. They murmured when the wind blew through their leaves. At winter they looked bare, like skeletons. In summer they looked dense and impenetrable as if hiding secrets. Sometimes she wondered if the forest was like her marriage. Full of secrets, obscure, and underneath as hard and unforgiving as bone.