The Thirteenth Tale-第51章

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g　the　magic　words。　they　were　not　my　own　words；　but　my　father’s。　words　that　i　knew　would　work；　because　they　had　always　worked　for　me。　”hush；“　i　whispered。　”i　know。　it　will　pass。“

the　convulsions　did　not　stop；　nor　the　cries　bee　less　painful；　but　they　gradually　became　less　violent。　she　had　time　between　each　new　paroxysm　to　take　in　desperate；　shuddering　breaths　of　air。

‘you’re　not　alone。　i’m　with　you。“

eventually　she　was　quiet。　the　curve　of　her　skull　pressed　into　my　cheek。　wisps　of　her　hair　touched　my　lips。　against　my　ribs　i　could　feel　her　little　flutters　of　breath；　the　tender　convulsions　in　her　lungs。　her　hands　were　very　cold　in　mine。

‘there。　there　now。“

we　sat　in　silence　for　minutes。　i　pulled　the　shawl　up　and　arranged　it　more　warmly　around　her　shoulders；　and　tried　to　rub　some　warmth　into　her　hands。　her　face　was　ravaged。　she　could　scarcely　see　out　of　her　swollen　eyelids；　and　her　lips　were　sore　and　cracked。　the　birth　of　a　bruise　marked　the　spot　where　her　head　had　been　shaken　against　the　desk。

‘he　was　a　good　man；“　i　said。　”a　good　man。　and　he　loved　you。“　slowly　she　nodded。　her　mouth　quivered。　had　she　tried　to　say　something？　again　her　lips　moved。

the　safety　catch？　was　that　what　she　had　said？　“was　it　your　sister　who　interfered　with　the　safety　catch？　”　it　seems　a　brutal　question　now；　but　at　the　time；　with　that　flood　of　tears　having　swept　all　etiquette　away；　the　directness　did　not　feel　out　of　place。

my　question　caused　her　one　last　spasm　of　pain；　but　when　she　spoke；　she　was　unequivocal。

‘not　emmeline。　not　her。　not　her。“

“who；　then？”

she　squeezed　her　eyes　shut；　began　to　sway　and　shook　her　head　from　side　to　side。　i　have　seen　the　same　movement　in　animals　in　zoos　when　hey　have　been　driven　mad　by　their　captivity。　beginning　to　fear　the　renewal　of　her　agony；　i　remembered　what　it　was　that　my　father　used　to　do　to　console　me　when　i　was　a　child。　gently；　tenderly；　i　stroked　her　hair　until；　soothed；　she　came　to　rest　her　head　on　my　shoulder。

finally　she　was　quiet　enough　for　judith　to　be　able　to　put　her　to　bed。　in　a　sleepy；　childlike　voice　she　asked　for　me　to　stay；　and　so　i　stayed　with　her；　kneeling　by　her　bedside　and　watching　her　fall　asleep。　from　time　to　time　a　shiver　disturbed　her　slumber　and　a　look　of　fear　came　on　her　sleeping　face；　when　this　happened　i　smoothed　her　hair　until　her　eyelids　settled　back　into　peace。

when　was　it　that　my　father　had　consoled　me　like　this？　an　incident　rose　out　of　the　depths　of　my　memory。　i　must　have　been　twelve　or　so。　it　was　sunday；　father　and　i　were　eating　sandwiches　by　the　river　when　twins　appeared。　two　blond　girls　with　their　blond　parents；　day…trippers　e　to　admire　the　architecture　and　enjoy　the　sunshine。　everyone　noticed　them；　they　must　have　been　used　to　the　stares　of　strangers。　but　not　mine。　i　saw　them　and　my　heart　leaped。　it　was　like　looking　into　a　mirror　and　seeing　myself　plete。　with　what　ardor　i　stared　at　them。　with　what　hunger。　nervous；　they　turned　away　from　the　girl　with　the　devouring　stare　and　reached　for　their　parents’　hands。　i　saw　their　fear；　and　a　hard　hand　squeezed　my　lungs　until　the　sky　went　dark。　then　later；　in　the　shop。　i　on　the　window　seat；　between　sleep　and　a　nightmare；　he；　crouched　on　the　floor；　stroking　my　hair；　murmuring　his　incantation；　“hush；　it　will　pass。　it’s　all　right。　you’re　not　alone。”

sometime　later；　dr。　clifton　came。　when　i　turned　to　see　him　in　the　doorway　i　got　the　feeling　that　he　may　have　been　there　for　some　time　already。　i　slipped　past　him　on　my　way　out；　and　there　was　something　in　his　expression　i　did　not　know　how　to　read。

　。。



UNDERWATER　CRYPTOGRAPHY

．．．
i　returned　to　my　own　rooms；　my　feet　moving　as　slowly　as　my　thoughts。　nothing　made　sense。　why　had　john…the…dig　died？　because　someone　had　interfered　with　the　safety　catch　on　the　ladder。　it　can’t　have　been　the　boy。　miss　winter’s　story　gave　him　a　clear　alibi：　while　john　and　his　ladder　were　tumbling　from　the　balustrade　through　the　empty　air　to　the　ground；　the　boy　was　eyeing　her　cigarette；　not　daring　to　ask　for　a　drag。　then　surely　it　must　have　been　emmeline。　except　that　nothing　in　the　story　suggests　that　emmeline　would　do　such　a　thing。　she　was　a　harmless　child；　even　hester　said　so。　and　miss　winter　herself　couldn’t　have　been　clearer。　no。　not　emmeline。　then　who？　isabelle　was　dead。　charlie　was　gone。

i　came　to　my　rooms；　went　in；　stood　by　the　window。　it　was　too　dark　to　see；　there　was　only　my　reflection；　a　pale　shadow　you　could　see　the　night　through。　“who？”　i　asked　it。

at　last　i　listened　to　the　quiet；　persistent　voice　in　my　head　that　i　had　been　trying　to　ignore。　adeline。

no；　i　said。

yes；　it　said。　adeline。

it　was　not　possible。　the　cries　of　grief　for　john…the…dig　were　still　fresh　in　my　mind。　no　one　could　mourn　a　man　like　that　if　she　had　killed　him；　could　she？　no　one　could　murder　a　man　she　loved　enough　to　cry　those　tears　for？

but　the　voice　in　my　head　recounted　episode　after　episode　from　the　story　i　knew　so　well。　the　violence　in　the　topiary　garden；　each　swipe　of　the　shears　a　blow　to　john’s　heart。　the　attacks　on　emmeline；　the　hair…pulling；　the　battering；　the　biting。　the　baby　removed　from　the　perambulator　and　left　carelessly；　to　die　or　to　be　found。　one　of　the　twins　was　not　quite　right；　they　said　in　the　village。　i　remembered　and　i　wondered。　was　it　possible？　had　the　tears　i　had　just　witnessed　been　tears　of　guilt？　tears　of　remorse？　was　it　a　murderess　i　had　held　in　my　arms　and　forted？　was　this　the　secret　miss　winter　had　hidden　from　the　world　for　so　long？　an　unpleasant　suspicion　revealed　itself　to　me。　was　this　the　point　of　miss　winter’s　story？　to　make　me　sympathize　with　her；　exonerate　her；　forgive　her？　i　shivered。

but　one　thing　at　least　i　was　sure　of。　she　had　loved　him。　how　could　it　be　otherwise？　i　remembered　holding　her　racked　and　tormented　body　against　mine　and　knew　that　only　broken　love　can　cause　such　despair。　i　remembered　the　child　adeline　reaching　into　john’s　loneliness　after　the　death　of　the　missus；　drawing　him　back　to　life　by　getting　him　to　teach　her　to　prune　the　topiary。

the　topiary　she　had　damaged。

oh；　perhaps　i　wasn’t　sure　after　all！

my　eyes　roamed　over　the　darkness　outside　the　window。　her　fabulous　garden。　was　it　her　homage　to　john…the…dig？　her　lifelong　penitence　for　the　damage　she　had　wrought？

i　rubbed　my　tired　eyes　and　knew　i　ought　to　go　to　bed。　but　i　was　too　tired　to　sleep。　my　thoughts；　if　i　did　nothing　to　stop　them；　would　go　round　in　circles　all　night　long。　i　decided　to　have　a　bath。

while　i　waited　for　the　tub　to　fill；　i　cast　about　for　something　to　occupy　my　mind。　a　ball　of　paper　half　visible　beneath　the　dressing　table　caught　my　attention。　i　unfolded　it；　flattened　it　out。　a　row　of　phonetic　script。

in　the　bathroom；　with　the　water　thundering　in　the　background；　i　made　a　few　short…lived　attempts　at　picking　some　kind　of　meaning　out　of　my　string　of　symbols。　always　there　was　that　undermining　feeling　that　i　hadn’t　captured　emmeline’s　utterance　quite　accurately。　i　pictured　the　moonlit　garden；　the　contortions　of　the　witch　hazel；　the　grotesque；　urgent　face；　i　heard　again　the　abruptness　of　emmeline’s　voice。　but　however　hard　i　tried；　i　could　not　recall　the　pronouncement　itself。

i　climbed　into　the　bath；　leaving　the　scrap　of　paper　on　the　edge。　the　water；　warm　to　my　feet；　legs；　back；　felt　distinctly　cooler　against　the　macula　on　my　side。　eyes　closed；　i　slid　right　under　the　surface。　ears；　nose；　eyes；　right　to　the　top　of　my　head。　the　water　rang　in　my　ears；　my　hair　lifted　from　its　roots。

i　came　up　for　air；　then　instantly　plunged　underwater　again。　more　air；　then　water。

in　a　loose；　underwater　fashion；　thoughts　began　to　swim　in　my　mind。　i　knew　enough　about　twin　language　to　know　that　it　was　never　totally　invented。　in　the　case　of　emmeline　and　adeline；　it　would　be　based　on　english　or　french　or　could　contain　elements　of　both。

air。　water。

introduced　distortions。　in　the　intonation；　maybe。　or　the　vowels。　and　sometimes　extra　bits；　added　to　camouflage　rather　than　to　carry　meaning。

air。　water。

a　puzzle。　a　secret　code。　a　cryptograph。　it　wouldn’t　be　as　hard　as　the　egyptian　hieroglyphs　or　mycenaean　linear　b。　how　would　you　have　to　go　about　it？　take　each　syllable　separately。　it　could　be　a　word　or　a　part　of　a　word。　remove　the　intonation　first。　play　with　the　stress。　experiment　with　lengthening；　shortening；　flattening　the　vowel　sounds。　then　what　did　the　syllable　suggest　in　english？　in　french？　and　what　if　you　left　it　out　and　played　with　the　syllables　on　either　side　instead？　there　would　be　a　vast　number　of　possible　binations。　thousands。　but　not　an　infinite　number。　a　puting　machine　could　do　it。　so　could　a　human　brain；　given　a　year　or　two。

the　dead　go　underground。

what？　i　sat　bolt　upright　in　shock。　the　words　came　to　me　out　of　nowhere。

they　beat　painfully　in　my　chest。　it　was　ridiculous。　it　couldn’t　be！

trembling；　i　reached　to　the　edge　of　the　bath　where　i　had　left　my　jottings；　and　drew　the　paper　near　to　me。　anxiously　i　scanned　it。　my　notes；　my　symbols　and　signs；　my　squiggles　and　dots；　were　gone。　they　had　been　sitting　in　a　pool　of　water　and　had　drowned。

i　tried　once　more　to　remember　the　sounds　as　they　had　e　to　me　underwater。　but　they　were　wiped　from　my　memory。　all　i　could　remember　was　her　fraught；　intent　face　and　the　five…note　sequence