For the Sake of Elena (Inspector Lynley, #5)(152)

23





Justine met him at the front door. He’d only inserted his key into the lock when she opened it for him. She was, he saw, still dressed for her working day, and although she had worn the black suit and pearl grey blouse for at least thirteen hours now, they remained unwrinkled. She might have just put them on.

She looked beyond him to the receding lights of the panda car in the drive. “Where have you been?” she asked. “Where’s the Citro?n? Anthony, where are your glasses?”

She followed him to his study and stood in the doorway while he rooted through his desk for an old pair of horn-rimmed spectacles that he hadn’t used in years. His Woody Allen specs, Elena had called them. You look like a clod with those on, Dad. He hadn’t worn them again.

He looked up at the window in whose reflection he could see himself and his wife behind him. She was a lovely woman. For the ten years of their marriage, she had asked for little enough from him, only that he love her, only that he be with her. And in return she had created this home, into it she had welcomed his colleagues. She had given him support, she had believed in his career, she had been perfectly loyal. But she had not been able to give him that ineffable connection that exists between people when their souls are one.

As long as they’d had a mutual goal towards which they were working—scouting round for a house, painting and decorating, purchasing furniture, looking at cars, design ing a garden—they’d existed quite securely within the illusion of their ideal marriage. He had even thought: I’ve got a happy marriage this time round. It’s regenerative, devoted, committed, tender, loving, and strong. We’re even the same astrological sign, Gemini, the twins. It’s as if we were meant for each other from birth.

But when the superficial commonalities had disappeared—when the house had been purchased and furnished to perfection, when the gardens had been planted and the sleek French cars sat shining in the garage—he had found himself left with an indefinable emptiness and a sense of vague, uneasy incompletion. He wanted something more.

It’s the absence of an outlet for creativity, he had thought. I’ve spent more than twenty years of my life in dusty academia, writing, giving lectures, meeting students, climbing up. It’s time to broaden my horizons and stretch my experience.

As in everything else, she had supported him in this. She did not join him—she had no abiding interest in the arts—but she admired his sketches, she mounted and framed his watercolours, and she clipped out of the local newspaper the announcement of the class that Sarah Gordon would teach. This is something you might like to take, darling, she had told him. I’ve never heard of her myself, but the paper says she’s quite an astounding talent. Wouldn’t it be wonderful for you to get to know a real artist?

That, he felt, was the greatest of the ironies. That Justine should have been the instrument of their acquaintance. But then, her having made him aware of Sarah Gordon’s presence in Grantchester in the first place actually completed the circle of the story in a well-balanced fashion. Justine, after all, was uniquely responsible for the final set of events in this obscene tragedy, so it was only appropriate that she also would have been instrumental in setting in motion the initial events that began with a life-drawing class in Sarah Gordon’s studio.

If it’s over between you, get rid of the painting, Justine had said. Destroy it. Get it out of my life. Get her out of my life.

But it hadn’t been enough when he defaced it with oils. Only its complete destruction would appease Justine’s anger and assuage the pain of his infidelity. And at only one time, in only one place, could this act of destruction be carried out in order to convince his wife of the sincerity with which he was putting an end to his affair with Sarah. So three times he had driven the knife through the canvas as Justine looked on. In the end, however, he’d been unable to bring himself to leave the ruined painting behind.

If she’d only been what I needed in the first place, none of this would have happened, he thought. If she’d only been willing to open her heart, if she’d got in touch with her spirit, if creating meant more to her than merely possessing, if she’d done more than just listen and appear sympathetic, if she’d had something to say about herself, about life, if she’d tried to understand me at the deepest level of who and what I am…

“Where’s the Citro?n, Anthony?” Justine repeated. “Where are your glasses? Where on earth have you been? It’s after nine o’clock.”

“Where’s Glyn?” he asked.

“Having a bath. And using most of the hot water in the house to do it.”

“She’ll be gone tomorrow afternoon. I’d think you could manage to put up with her that much longer. After all—”

“Yes. I know. She’s lost her daughter. She’s been crushed and devastated and I ought to be able to overlook everything she does—and every rotten thing she says—because of that fact. Well, I won’t buy it. And you’re a fool if you do.”

“Then I suppose I’m a fool.” He turned from the window. “But that’s something you’ve used to your advantage more than once, isn’t it?”

A spot of deep ruby appeared on each of her cheeks. “We’re husband and wife. We made a commitment. We made vows in a church. At least I did. And I’ve never broken them. I wasn’t the one—”