The Twenty-Third Man Read Free Page B

the bathers and the sun-bathers, until Caroline Lockerby, in a short, elegant wrap of orange and white towelling, open down the front to show the briefest of bathing costumes, came and sat on the sand beside her.
    ‘I can’t get Telham to come out of the water,’ she said, ‘and I’m dying for a cup of tea. Do come back to the hotel and let’s have it on the terrace. I’m sorry about lunch,’ she went on, as they climbed towards the shady gardens, ‘but, if I tell you the circumstances, you’ll probably understand. What have you been doing with yourself?’
    ‘I met one of the hotel inhabitants who appears to have gone native,’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘He was asking all about the new arrivals at the hotel. I don’t think he found my descriptions interesting.’
    They climbed to the terrace and sat down. Below them the mountainous coast, bent like a friendly arm around the bay, stretched to the shadowy distance. To the right the Mole, the shape of a dog’s hind leg, separated Puerto de Reales from the tree-lined Avenida Maritima, a newly constructed road which had become a favourite promenade for the townspeople when the heat of the day was over. Far away, but easily distinguishable because of its height and the everlasting snow on its mountain summit, towered Santa Maria de Nieves. It had always been regarded as sacred by the natives of Hombres Muertos and had been dedicated by the Spaniards to Our Lady of Snows. From where they sat, Monte Negro, with its cave of dead men, was not visible.
    ‘It is a beautiful place,’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘I’m very sorry Laura couldn’t come.’
    ‘Laura? Your daughter?’
    ‘My secretary. I am the personification of Macbeth’s wish for Lady Macbeth – I bring forth men children only. Laura is no luckier. She has just had a boy. I remained in England long enough to stand godmother and then I came here to muse upon the mutability of secretaries and the tendency of young women to substitute husband and baby for the services of morbid psychology.’
    ‘Morbid psychology?’ Caroline suddenly stiffened. ‘Could you cure Telham?’ she asked.
    ‘Cure him?’
    ‘Take him out of himself. You saw what he was like at lunch. He was there when Ian was killed. He doesn’t get over it. That’s why I want to talk to you. What happened was fairly beastly. Ian was my husband. Well, they were out together one night, coming home from a rather vulgar pub-crawl. They got mixed up with some louts in a street fight. I don’t know how it began. Telham ran away, but Ian, who was always hot-tempered, stood his ground. Telham felt ashamed after a bit, and went back. Ian was dead. Somebody had – what they call “attended to” him. I wasn’t allowed to see the body. His father identified him at the inquest. The police couldn’t find any evidence. There were no witnesses – at least, no one came forward, and Telham wasn’t able to describe any of the youths well enough to be much help. I ought to tell you that I was almost through with Ian, but, all the same, it was a rotten way for him to finish up. Telham can’t forgive himself. That’s why he reacted as he did when that awful young man talked about hitting too hard and not knowing his own strength. Telham’s quite raw inside. It’s driving him mad to think he ran away and left Ian to face it all.’
    ‘Remorse acts like that,’ said Dame Beatrice. There was a pause. ‘I couldn’t treat him without his consent and cooperation, you know,’ she added in a tone of finality.
    ‘It’s not as though he could have done anything if he had stuck by Ian,’ said Caroline angrily. ‘He’d have been killed, too – or maimed for life – and where’s the sense in that?’
    There was another short pause. Caroline looked defiant, as though she sensed disapproval in the air. But Dame Beatrice expressed nothing of that kind. She said:
    ‘But isn’t he maimed for life now? I don’t think any treatment could restore his peace of