House of the Hanged. Mark Mills
Union . . . all have come out in favour of voluntary sterilization.’
‘Oh, that makes it all right, does it? The so-called intelligentsia are for it.’
‘Something has to be done. A biological disaster is looming. Reckless breeding by the “social problem group” is leading to an irreversible degeneration of the racial stock. The very future of civilization is at stake.’
Lucy fought hard to restrain herself. ‘I know some who would say that civilization has considerably more to fear from the self-interest and prejudice of the privileged classes.’
‘When she says “some” she means her godfather,’ chipped in Mother. ‘She likes to parrot his opinions.’
‘I happen to agree with some of them,’ retorted Lucy.
‘You mean Tom?’ exclaimed Barbara. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t think so. I talked with him last night at some considerable length on the subject.’
‘And what did he say?’
Barbara Chittenden hesitated. ‘Well, not very much, as it happens. Although, I think I can safely say he was persuaded of my argument.’
Lucy found that hard to believe. ‘Oh really?’
‘Absolutely. He said that up until now he had never been fully convinced of the grave threat posed to society by the mentally deficient.’
Mr Chittenden erupted in a loud guffaw, and Mother only just managed to contain her own laughter.
‘What, Harold?’
Mr Chittenden, still heaving in his chair, waved her question away.
‘Ignore him,’ said Barbara. ‘He’s an archaeologist. All he cares about is stones and bones.’
The little dinner for four hadn’t been the most propitious start to the holiday, but at least it meant that things could only get better. The Chittendens would be leaving immediately after breakfast, motoring west to Spain, and Leonard would be back from Cannes in time for lunch. He liked to sneak off there from time to time with Yevgeny for a round or two of golf at the Old Course, and his return would offer a welcome buffer against Mother, who was on particularly malicious form right now.
The barbed and belittling comments were coming thick and fast, rising to a peak, the usual prelude to one of their explosive confrontations. This would be followed by a tearful reconciliation, which in turn would give way to a lengthy period of calm. Then gradually the comments would begin to intrude again – a small note of criticism here, a gentle reprimand there – the heat building once more by barely perceptible degrees.
This was the fixed pattern of their relationship, the drearily predictable cycle into which they had settled, though not by mutual consent. Lucy dreamed of an alternative future, one without the endless round of highs and lows, of war and peace. Tom was less hopeful. He had never known Mother to be any different, and not just with Lucy. They all suffered the same treatment at her hands. It was the price you paid for being loved by her.
‘It’s not so bad. You cry in her arms, you laugh in her arms, and every so often you scream blue murder at each other. I’d take that any day over the indifference I knew as a child.’
Leonard had found his own way of dealing with it, somehow managing to remain immune to her moods. Things hadn’t always been this way. Lucy could remember the rows when she was younger, the look of quiet satisfaction on her mother’s face when she succeeded in piercing his carapace of self-control and getting a rise out of him. Those days were long gone. Leonard now displayed an almost saintly forbearance in the face of her moods. Maybe he had simply been numbed into a kind of stupor. Maybe with time the same thing would happen to her.
Thoughts of Mother put paid to any possibility of dozing on for another hour or so, and Lucy swung her legs off the bed, making for the bathroom. The bathtub was still desperately in need of a new coat of enamel, and the crumbling cork mat had disintegrated further since last year, but the water was as hot as ever.
She stripped off her clothes, catching sight of her naked self in the long mirror screwed to the wall beside the sink. She examined the reflection with a cold and critical eye: too tall for the tastes of most men, and still too thin, although she had finally begun to fill out a little in the past year, her narrow hips losing some of their bony angularity.
She cupped her breasts in her hands, weighing them, as if judging between two pieces of fruit at a market stall – small fruit, sadly, oranges rather than grapefruits. There was little hope on that front, if Mother was anything to go by. Only pregnancy might improve on their modest proportions. Ten years behind the times, she mused wearily. Her lean look would have gone down a storm a decade ago. Nowadays, it was associated with poverty and deprivation and all the other unwelcome associations of the Depression.
Thank God for Claudette Colbert, the standard-bearer of small-breasted women everywhere. Only a few years before she had been prepared to frolic naked in a bath of wild asses’ milk in The Sign of the Cross – a picture which George and Harry had trooped off to watch half a dozen times, ostensibly as fans of Cecil B. DeMille, although Lucy suspected the fleeting glimpse of Miss Colbert’s nipples above the milky froth might have had more to do with her brothers’ devotion to that particular entry in the director’s oeuvre.
She ran a hand down over her pale belly, her fingers curling through the dark arrowhead of hair at the fork of her thighs, darker than dark, as good as black. That, she owed to the Spanish blood on her father’s side, along with the large eyes and the strong mouth whose lips were a touch too full for beauty.
Fortunately, the swirls of steam rising from the bath clouded the mirror, dimming her unforgiving gaze.
Chapter Six
Tom picked his moment carefully, arriving at the Hôtel de la Réserve when he judged most of the guests would be taking their breakfast. He knew that breakfast was a case of all hands on deck. The reception area was unlikely to be manned, allowing him to slip inside unnoticed, and maybe even sneak a look at the register in the process.
His instinct proved correct, although the register had been locked in the back office; he could see it lying on the desk. It didn’t matter. With any luck he’d find everything he needed in the room.
He hurried past the doors to the dining room, glancing briefly inside to assure himself that he hadn’t been spotted. The hum of conversation and the clatter of cutlery on crockery swiftly receded as he made his way up the main staircase to the third floor.
Room 312 turned out to be at the far end of the corridor, a corner room with views over the sea and to the west, both served by balconies, Tom knew. The Italian had obviously decided to treat himself.
Tom knocked softly and pressed his ear to the door to be sure.
The Italian’s failure to show up for breakfast would be noted but was unlikely to arouse any undue suspicion for now. The maids wouldn’t be round to clean the rooms until the guests had taken to the beach, which meant plenty of time for a thorough search.
The moment Tom let himself into the room he realized he was wrong. A quick survey revealed that the Italian had lied to him. He wasn’t on his own, and his travelling companion appeared to be a woman. Her diaphanous pale blue peignoir lay discarded on the unmade bed next to a wide-brimmed raffia sun hat, and her cosmetics were spread out on the dressing table.
He was going to have to move fast, very fast.
Pulling on his doeskin driving gloves, he started with the writing desk, tugging out the empty drawers and checking that nothing was taped to their undersides. Both bedside cabinets were also empty, although there was a German novel resting on one of them beside a glass of water and a pair of ladies’ reading glasses. He checked the first few pages of the book for a dedication, a name, but it obviously hadn’t been a gift.
There was nothing under the bed, and the drawers of the dressing table were stuffed with women’s underwear, brassieres, stockings and so on. Like the novel, the cosmetics were German,