Skin settled his head on his crossed paws, gave a small sigh of contentment, and started to doze.
“You’re a big help,” she said. “I need some advice here. What do you say to a man who tried to have you murdered?”
Skin’s eyes were closed, so she was obliged to furnish her own reply.
“I say: Hello, Charlie, why don’t you tell me the story of your life?”
She called Lewis Leader the next day to find out whether Estabrook was still hospitalized. She was told he was, but that he’d been moved to a private clinic in Hampstead. Leader supplied details of his whereabouts, and Jude called to inquire both about Estabrook’s condition and visiting hours. She was told he was still under close scrutiny but seemed to be in better spirits than he’d been, and she was welcome to come and see him at any time. There seemed little purpose in delaying the meeting. She drove up to Hampstead that very evening, through another tumultuous rainstorm, arriving to a welcome from the psychiatric nurse in charge of Estabrook’s case, a chatty young man called Maurice who lost his top lip when he smiled, which was often, and talked with an almost indiscreet enthusiasm about the state of his patient’s mind.
“He has good days,” Maurice said brightly. Then, just as brightly: “But not many. He’s severely depressed. He made one attempt to kill himself before he came to us, but he’s settled down a lot.”
“Is he sedated?”
“We help keep the anxiety controllable, but he’s not drugged senseless. We can’t help him get to the root of the problem if he is.”
“Has he told you what that is?” she said, expecting accusations to be tossed in her direction.
“It’s pretty obscure,” Maurice said. “He talks about you very fondly, and I’m sure your coming will do him a great deal of good. But the problem’s obviously with his blood relatives. I’ve got him to talk a little about his father and his brother, but he’s very cagey. The father’s dead, of course, but maybe you can shed some light on the brother.”-“I never met him.”
“That’s a pity. Charles clearly feels a great deal of anger towards his brother, but I haven’t got to the root of why. I will. It’ll just take time. He’s very good at keeping his secrets to himself, isn’t he? But then you probably know that. Shall I take you along to see him? I did tell him you’d telephoned, so I think he’s expecting you.”Jude was irritated that the element of surprise had been removed, that Estabrook would have had time to prepare his feints and fabrications. But what was done was done, and rather than snap at the gleeful Maurice for his indiscretion she kept her displeasure to herself. She might need the man’s smiling assistance in the fullness of time.
Estabrook’s room was pleasant enough. Spacious and comfortable, its walls adorned with reproductions of Monet and Renoir, it was a soothing space. Even the piano concerto that played softly in the background seemed composed to placate a troubled mind. Estabrook was not in bed but sitting by the window, one of the curtains drawn aside so he could watch the rain. He was dressed in pajamas and his best dressing gown, smoking. As Maurice had said, he was clearly awaiting his visitor. There was no flicker of surprise when she appeared at the door. And, as she’d anticipated, he had his welcome ready.
“At last, a familiar face.”
He didn’t open his arms to embrace her, but she went to him and kissed him lightly on both cheeks.
“One of the nurses will get you something to drink, if you’d like,” he said.
“Yes, I’d like some coffee. It’s bitter out there.”
“Maybe Maurice’11 get it, if I promise to unburden my soul.”
“Do you?” said Maurice.
“I do. I promise. You’ll know the secrets of my potty training by this time tomorrow.”
“Milk and sugar?” Maurice asked.
“Just milk,” Charlie said. “Unless her tastes have changed.”
“No,” she told him.“Of course not. Judith doesn’t change. Judith’s eternal.”
Maurice withdrew, leaving them to talk. There was no embarrassed silence. He had his spiel ready, and while he delivered it—a speech about how glad he was that she’d come, and how much he hoped it meant she would begin to forgive him—she studied his changed face. He’d lost weight and was without his toupe’e, which revealed in his physiognomy qualities she’d never seen before. His large nose and tugged-down mouth, with jutting over-large lower lip, lent him the look of an aristocrat fallen on hard times. She doubted that she’d ever find it in her heart to love him again, but she could certainly manage a twinge of pity, seeing him so reduced.