A Traitor to Memory

“For what?” Nkata had been standing close to the door as he wrote, as if hoping a near contact with the outside environment might spare his fine wool charcoal suit from the worst of the dust that permeated the work room's air. But now he took a step closer to Robson, and he cast a glance towards Lynley, who indicated with his hand that they would wait for the violinist to continue. Silence on their part was as useful a tool as silence on his part was revealing.

Robson finally said, “When she was born, Eugenie didn't love her instantly the way she thought she was supposed to love her. At first she was just exhausted because the birth had been difficult and all she wanted was to recover from it. And that's not unnatural, when a woman's been in labour so long—thirty hours, it was—and she's got nothing left in her even to cuddle a newborn. That is not a sin.”

“I wouldn't disagree,” Lynley said.

“And they didn't know at first anyway, about the baby. Yes, of course, there were signs, but the birth had been rough. She didn't come out pink and perfect like a birth that's been orchestrated for a Hollywood production. So the doctors didn't know till she was examined and then … Good God, anyone would be slaughtered by the news. Anyone would have to adjust and that takes time. But she thought she should have been different, Eugenie. She thought she should have loved her at once, felt like a fighter, had plans how to care for her, known what to do, what to expect, how to be. When she couldn't do that, she hated herself. And the rest of them didn't make it easier for her to accept the baby, did they, especially Richard's father—that mad bastard—who expected another prodigy from them, and when he got the reverse—there was just too much for Eugenie to cope with. Sonia's physical problems, Gideon's needs—which were mounting daily and what else could you expect when it comes to dealing with a prodigy?—mad Jack's raving, Richard's second failure—”

“Second failure?”

“Another damaged child, if you can believe it. He'd had an earlier one. From another marriage. So when a second one was born … It was terrible for all of them, but Eugenie couldn't see that it was normal to feel the anguish at first, to curse God, to do whatever one has to do to get through a bad time. Instead, she heard her bloody father's voice, ‘God speaks to us directly. There is no mystery in His message. Examine your soul and your conscience to read God's handwriting therein, Eugenie.’ That's what he wrote to her, if you can believe it. That was his blessing and comfort upon the birth of that pathetic little baby. As if an infant were a punishment from God. And there was no one to talk her out of feeling like that, do you see? Oh there was the nun, but she talked about God's will as if the entire situation were predetermined and Eugenie was meant to understand that, accept it, not to rage against it, grieve about it, feel whatever despair she needed to feel and then just get on with life. So then when the baby died … and the way she died … I expect there were moments when Eugenie had actually thought, ‘better she be dead than have to live like this, with doctors and operations and lungs going bad and heart barely beating and stomach not working and ears not hearing and not even being able to shit properly for the love of God … Better she be dead.’ And then, she actually was dead. It was as if someone had heard her and granted a wish that wasn't a real wish at all but just an expression of one moment's despair. So what was she to feel but guilt? And what was she to do to make reparation but deny herself everything that might mean comfort?”

“Until Major Wiley came along,” Lynley noted.

“I suppose so.” Robson's words were hollow. “Wiley was a new beginning for her. Or at least that's how she said she thought of it.”

“But you disagreed.”

“I think he was just another form of imprisonment. But worse than before because he'd be wearing the guise of something new.”

“So you argued about it.”

“And then I wanted to apologise,” Robson added. “I was desperate to apologise—don't you see—because we'd shared years of friendship, the two of us, Eugenie and I, and I couldn't see sending them down the drain because of Wiley. I wanted her to know that. That's all. For whatever it was worth.”

Lynley set these words against what he'd learned from both Gideon and Richard Davies. “She ended contact with her family long ago, but not with you, then? Were you once lovers with Mrs. Davies, Mr. Robson?”

Colour flared into Robson's face, an unattractive smearing of crimson that battled with the various patches of his damaged skin. “We met twice a month,” he said in answer.

“Where?”

“In London. In the country. Wherever she wanted. She asked for news of Gideon, and I provided it. That was the extent of what she and I had together.”