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Authors: Muriel Spark
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with newspaper pages and cuttings. “What, Lacey, brings you to this manhunt?”
“I’m going to write a book.”
“And you think you’ll find him where everyone else has failed?-the journalists, the police and others-who knows? There have been sightings, no findings, for a quarter century.”
“What a fascinating subject it is,” said Joe. “I want to help Lacey all I can.”
“Would you tip off the police if you found him?” said Ambrose.
“Yes,” said Lacey. “No,” said Joe, simultaneously. They laughed. “I think he must have had a lot of hardships,” Joe said. “He made a blunder.”
“Oh, but he fully intended to kill his wife,” said Lacey. “The intention was there. Which one he killed is basically irrelevant. He had been talking about murdering his wife.”
“People talk, they talk,” said Ambrose. “It was a dreadful, frightful affair, there’s no doubt about that.” “Why is it,” said Lacey, “that most people-those who didn’t know him as well as his friends and acquaintances-didn’t at all believe he would take his own life? He was driving round the very night of the murder seeing friends of his and phoning his mother, and he also wrote some letters to his friends. Instructions about his overdrafts, garbled explanations, a declaration that he was going to lie low, but no good-byes, no hint that he might end his life, and no remorse, not a word of sorrow about the death of young Sandra, poor young Sandra. Yes, if I located him tomorrow I would tip off the police.”
“And you, Ambrose?” said Joe.
“Oh, in my trade you know how it is,” said the priest, and left it at that.
They were on their way south, gladly leaving behind them the flatlands of the north, the pearl-gray skies full of watery foreboding and squawking seafowl. Lacey had with her a pile of press cuttings-there would be about thirty-which Ambrose had arranged to be photocopied for her. He had been anxious to get rid of the couple, had not even offered to show them round the fairly new monastery.
“The man we are looking for is stupid but cunning, not clever,” she said.
“That’s very true. One would think you’d known him, Lacey, as I did. He was stupid and boring. You had to draw him out. Sometimes, if you succeeded in drawing him out, he could be quite amusing though.” “But not clever.”
“Oh no, not clever. He had a flair for gambling. Always lost in the end but he had a physical presence, so that a gaming house would find him an asset, egging on the novices and so on.”
“Are you sure you’d recognize him?” said Lacey.
“No. I don’t think I would. At least, not face on because I’d bet that he’s had facial surgery. But you know, I might recognize him from the back. His shape, his movements, the way he walked. Now, if you find him, what are you going to do?”
“Arrange an interview.”
“He’d never agree to that.”
“Perhaps he would have to agree,” said Lacey. “Or face exposure.”
Joe did not reply. Plainly, he thought, she has it both romantically and practically worked out. Why doesn’t she just write the book? A book about Lucan. Why bother with Lucan himself?
Lacey went on, “You see I’ll do a deal with him.” “I was under the impression,” said Joe, “that you wanted to get him arrested and tried.”
“In a way,” she said. “Because I think he is guilty.” “Oh, you could never be sure. As I remember him he was an unpredictable fellow. Although I didn’t care for him much to begin with, well as I say, he rather grew on me.”
They were silent for a good while. Then suddenly Lacey said, “Oh my God!”
“What’s the matter?” He was driving, and slowed down.
“Did you see from the window that monk getting into a station wagon? He was saying good-bye to that lay brother. Then he drove off.”
“Yes, I did look out just then. I saw you were looking.”
“That couldn’t be Lucan, could it?”
Joe thought for a moment. “I
“I’m going to write a book.”
“And you think you’ll find him where everyone else has failed?-the journalists, the police and others-who knows? There have been sightings, no findings, for a quarter century.”
“What a fascinating subject it is,” said Joe. “I want to help Lacey all I can.”
“Would you tip off the police if you found him?” said Ambrose.
“Yes,” said Lacey. “No,” said Joe, simultaneously. They laughed. “I think he must have had a lot of hardships,” Joe said. “He made a blunder.”
“Oh, but he fully intended to kill his wife,” said Lacey. “The intention was there. Which one he killed is basically irrelevant. He had been talking about murdering his wife.”
“People talk, they talk,” said Ambrose. “It was a dreadful, frightful affair, there’s no doubt about that.” “Why is it,” said Lacey, “that most people-those who didn’t know him as well as his friends and acquaintances-didn’t at all believe he would take his own life? He was driving round the very night of the murder seeing friends of his and phoning his mother, and he also wrote some letters to his friends. Instructions about his overdrafts, garbled explanations, a declaration that he was going to lie low, but no good-byes, no hint that he might end his life, and no remorse, not a word of sorrow about the death of young Sandra, poor young Sandra. Yes, if I located him tomorrow I would tip off the police.”
“And you, Ambrose?” said Joe.
“Oh, in my trade you know how it is,” said the priest, and left it at that.
They were on their way south, gladly leaving behind them the flatlands of the north, the pearl-gray skies full of watery foreboding and squawking seafowl. Lacey had with her a pile of press cuttings-there would be about thirty-which Ambrose had arranged to be photocopied for her. He had been anxious to get rid of the couple, had not even offered to show them round the fairly new monastery.
“The man we are looking for is stupid but cunning, not clever,” she said.
“That’s very true. One would think you’d known him, Lacey, as I did. He was stupid and boring. You had to draw him out. Sometimes, if you succeeded in drawing him out, he could be quite amusing though.” “But not clever.”
“Oh no, not clever. He had a flair for gambling. Always lost in the end but he had a physical presence, so that a gaming house would find him an asset, egging on the novices and so on.”
“Are you sure you’d recognize him?” said Lacey.
“No. I don’t think I would. At least, not face on because I’d bet that he’s had facial surgery. But you know, I might recognize him from the back. His shape, his movements, the way he walked. Now, if you find him, what are you going to do?”
“Arrange an interview.”
“He’d never agree to that.”
“Perhaps he would have to agree,” said Lacey. “Or face exposure.”
Joe did not reply. Plainly, he thought, she has it both romantically and practically worked out. Why doesn’t she just write the book? A book about Lucan. Why bother with Lucan himself?
Lacey went on, “You see I’ll do a deal with him.” “I was under the impression,” said Joe, “that you wanted to get him arrested and tried.”
“In a way,” she said. “Because I think he is guilty.” “Oh, you could never be sure. As I remember him he was an unpredictable fellow. Although I didn’t care for him much to begin with, well as I say, he rather grew on me.”
They were silent for a good while. Then suddenly Lacey said, “Oh my God!”
“What’s the matter?” He was driving, and slowed down.
“Did you see from the window that monk getting into a station wagon? He was saying good-bye to that lay brother. Then he drove off.”
“Yes, I did look out just then. I saw you were looking.”
“That couldn’t be Lucan, could it?”
Joe thought for a moment. “I
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