Now that Edmund had got Crispin more or less under control again, he was rather enjoying talking to these two men who had appeared from somewhere or other, and who had driven him to a large and very quiet house.
He was not absolutely clear about that journey: he hoped he had not fallen asleep during it, because he had always thought it the height of discourtesy to fall asleep in a car. Nor was he entirely clear who the men were, because he was so extremely tired. An odd kind of tiredness it was as well: almost as if he was enclosed behind a glass panel, and as if he was hearing and seeing everything from a distance. Occasionally he had to give his attention to Crispin, who kept forcing his way to the surface and trying to speak through Edmund. It was very tiring to have to keep forcing Crispin down, and it was also rather sad; once upon a time Edmund would have been very glad to let Crispin take over – to sit back and smile to see Crispin handle these men with his customary panache and charm. But in view of what had happened earlier on, it was clear that Crispin could no longer be trusted. Edmund was afraid that Crispin might start to shout those shameful embarrassing details again – how he had made love to that bitch, Lucretia von Wolff, how he had killed Conrad Kline, butchering him like some maniac.
Still, he would try to find out where he was, and just who these two men were who were sitting with him so pleasantly. He realized that he did not even know their names. Had they told him who they were, and had he been too taken up with Crispin to hear? If so, he would have to find out their names in a roundabout way. The trouble was that every time he started to frame a suitably polite question, they seemed to jump in with a question of their own. Not pushy, not discourteous, just interested in Edmund and in Crispin.
Having listened to them for a while, Edmund had discarded his first idea that they were researching into melancholia and began to think they might be planning to write a book. There was no denying that the years of Crispin’s youth would make a very good story; Edmund had sometimes thought of writing it all down himself.
He said so to the man who seemed more senior, and the man was at once interested. An extremely good idea, he said. They would very much like to read that. Would Edmund really undertake it? It might be quite a long project, but they could probably fund it – perhaps set him up with a laptop and some research facilities. He might as well stay here to write it, as well – that would not be a problem, would it?
Edmund saw at once that this was one of their sly tricks. They thought they were going to find out about Crispin – about the real Crispin – from him. But he knew a trick worth two of that! He would agree to write the story though – he had always thought he had a book in him. Not one of your bonk-busters, not what they called a sex-and-shopping story – just a plain straightforward tale of a young man who had loved a black-haired seductive adventuress, and who had been deceived by her. Crispin’s life story. The more he thought about it, the more he thought it would be the best service he could render Crispin. The story as it ought to have been. Crispin’s life story as it would have been if that bitch had not lured him into her bed.
He said, in a rather disinterested voice, that he supposed he could take a swing at the thing. He might be able to leave the office in the hands of his staff for a week or two – although he would have to be in constant touch with them by phone, that would have to be understood at the outset. Legal practices were not things you picked up and put down as the mood took you. There were responsibilities – clients who relied on Edmund.