Faces in the Pool (22 page)

‘There’s only one kind of love,’ Hahn said, interested despite himself. He still kept a weather eye on the sea, and had already clocked the two distant craft hurrying in our wake. He was a born killer made in the mould.

‘No, Hugo,’ I said. ‘Ask her. She knows all three.’ I looked directly at her. No watery eyes now. ‘Which was yours, in the end?’

‘Love is love, Lovejoy,’ she said, all defiance.

‘Three kinds?’ Hahn said, so I explained.

‘There’s larder love, Hugo – security, money, possessions. It’s a dog’s love for its master. The word
cynic
meant
dog-like
. It’s what moves a woman to leave one bloke for another, like catching a luxury express instead of some beat-up old trundler.’

‘Stop him talking, Hugo,’ she said. She was wrapped in a dressing gown, her hair mussier than I’d ever seen it.

‘Why shut me up when I don’t matter any more?’ I was talking for my life. ‘Hugo has a right to know where he stands. Didn’t you just promise him perfect sexual ecstasy for ever? I heard.’

‘Shut him up, darling.’

‘Let him talk, woman.’

‘The second kind of love is passion, Hugo.’ I kept my eyes on the face I’d loved with the same delirium I’d once believed only antiques could bring. ‘It is eagerness to vent,
learn, take on human desire at its uttermost.’

‘Third?’ said the killer.

‘Third is in the spirit, Hugo. It doesn’t depend on greed or passion. It transcends, and is unconditional. I felt it once. I’m not sure any more.’

‘Hugo, darling, you see what I had to put up with?’

‘Interesting,’ her man said.

‘Most blokes hope a woman has the last kind, when it’s only greed or passion disguised.’

‘You’re right, bitch,’ Hugo told her. ‘He is a fool.’ I knew now I was to be eliminated. He held the bat. ‘Get below. Dress. Be back here in five minutes.’

‘Yes, darling.’

And she really did simper at the command in his voice. Whatever power existed in their relationship was his, and she was his to rule. She wanted it. For a fleeting instant I was envious, but her betrayal of everything – antiques, friends – was beyond me. OK, I was angry. She’d only once said those words to me, the same words that she’d cried out to him.

Stumbling forward, steadying myself on the rail, I saw the sea below going faster. The ship was not so steady as it felt the sea drift. He was strolling easily behind, called something cheery to Lydia.

‘Yes, darling,’ she answered. Had she ever said that to me in that way?

Reaching where I’d been sick, I stepped over the ghastly patch. (Why do carrots never dissolve? Can’t the stomach handle the bloody things?) Knowing what was coming, I felt unsteady. The sickening realisation that Lydia of all people had betrayed me to join the vilest of killers, was
the end. The trace memory of the woman standing near Tansy the instant before she fell to her death in Lincoln Cathedral, returned. He told me to stop. I clung
one-handed
to the railing and turned to be killed.

If I’d been a hero I’d have tried to leap over the side, hoping to swim and somehow survive, though I’m a rotten swimmer.

He slipped on the patch of vomit and cursed. I shoved forward, clumsily grabbed for the baseball bat. He let go to clutch the rail, his gun in his other hand. Gibbering with fright, I swung the bat, letting go of the railing to do it. I hadn’t the sense to try for the thin end, so only flailed with the wrong end. He raised his gun hand to shield himself. I felt myself start to fall but thought, What the hell, reversed the stick and swung it. It clapped him on the temple. The bastard was still smiling, like he was about to say, ‘What does this oaf think he’s up to?’ All in an instant blood spouted from his head, a splash dotting my eye, then he slid down to the deck and lodged halfway over the side. His chest stopped any further movement.

Head down to the sea, he hung there. Hell, but we seemed to be going faster.

I dropped the bat thing over the side – did they float? Wood should. With luck it would bob over to Eire, maybe plant itself and like Joseph of Arimathea’s
Christmas-flowering
hawthorn Cretaegus at mystic Glastonbury. I clambered to my feet. I’d not intended to kill him. Fear, probably, or trying to get away. And it was nothing to do with losing Lydia. I’m not that kind of person. I mean that.

Wearily, I went to the bridge. No Lydia. She must be
tarting herself up. I judged the ship’s position, and turned the wheel so the vessel dragged her head round. At a rough estimate, she was now some three miles out on the Irish Sea. Four boats were scurrying after me with that odd bouncy grace little vessels have. Police? Time to get clear. I could come alongside North Pier if I got the speed right before Blackpool’s finest caught me. I increased the ship’s speed by a knot or two – more guesswork – then lodged the wheel with the hook, and went down the steps and knocked.

‘Coming, darling!’ she trilled. Well, I’d always had little or nothing, and she was onto a winner with hero Hugo Hahn. Once. In life.

Clambering back up to the bridge, I saw we seemed to be speeding. Had I misjudged the lever? Trembling, I was too tired to muck about. In any case, I wouldn’t know what I was doing. We were batting – sorry – along at a fair old pace towards the great North Pier. It didn’t look so pleasant now, but I could slow down to get off.

‘Is Lovejoy gone?’ she asked, bright as a button, coming up.

She looked dazzling. Had she ever dressed up like that for me? Yes, several times. Beside her I must have looked a tramp. Why had she never been ashamed of me? Or had she just kept quiet?

Her expression changed. She recoiled, staring. I realised I must be splattered with blood. Like a fool I raised a blood soaked hand to smooth my hair, with my usual success.

‘Hugo,’ she managed. Then with alarm, ‘Hugo?’

‘He had to go,’ I said, sorry for her. ‘He took the boat I came in.’

Blood seemed to drain away from her face like berry juice from a tapped flask.

‘Lovejoy?’ she said, making sure.

‘What did you think he was going to do, Lydia?’ Hard to keep bitterness out. ‘Talk crops and weather? Invite me to be there, advise international buyers? I’ve already done that for him.’

‘No.’ Her voice was flat.

‘He wanted to kill me.’

‘Yes.’

‘He had a gun.’

‘That’s blood,’ she said.

‘I know.’ I didn’t say it was Hugo’s. I have a sensitive side.

‘What happened?’

‘I persuaded him not to kill me.’ Her eyes were on my scraped knuckles. ‘I said I mistook the antiques, and that the genuine ones were those left ashore.’

‘That can’t be true. They were all burnt…’

‘In Somnell House?’ By now well into lies, I didn’t care. For once let her do the guessing. I was fed up doing it all the time. Everybody leaves me to work out which are the true lies.

‘Hugo wouldn’t leave me.’

‘Well, he has, love.’ True, true.

‘Did you do something to him?’

‘Me? To the only man who could be what you want?’ It was the precious phrase she’d used.
You are the only man who can be what I want.
I’d once been awarded that.

‘He will come back for me.’

‘Yes. He said so, Lydia.’ My kindly side, still there.

‘I knew it! He wouldn’t leave without me.’

Not strictly true. Uneasily, I glanced along the port side behind her, as if Hahn was going to come climbing back like in those double-ending Hollywood frighteners. In her voice was the contempt of a lifetime for the likes of me.

‘Did you always think that about me, Lydia?’

‘Of course. I finally saw you as the utter worm you will always be.’

She stood by the cabin gangway, above the steps that had taken her down to bliss with Hugo.

In that moment I saw how near we were to the pier. It was rising steadily from the dark sea and beginning to move at the bow of the ship with an alarming speed. What, a mile? Less? They measured distances in cables, nautical miles and such. Who knew what they meant?

‘Why did Hugo kill Tansy, Lydia?’

She blazed into a cold temper – she never did do hot. ‘You need to ask, Lovejoy? You preferred that tart, so she had to go. Hugo explained it and it all became clear. I too could have a destiny.
Me
. I have a right to own, to love, to progress. To have ambition.’

Hugo had done a good job in changing her. Or maybe it had simply been there in Miss Prim all the time, a murderous Lydia lurking latent within, waiting for the mighty Hugo Hahn to come along? I stared, appalled.

‘
You
killed Tansy?’

‘I had to. It was my commitment to Hugo.’

Well, poor Hugo was committed now. I told myself I’d never had any intention of hurting him, not the way I finished up doing. I must have gone berserk. I’d been driven by fear, not anger, nor hate. I mean that most sincerely. I felt sorry.

‘And Paltry?’

‘Hugo had special advisors. Paltry overheard Hugo telling me his ideas. Hugo’s friends did it.’

‘Old Mr Smethirst?’

‘Hugo’s syndicate bought that private hospital. He has bought a Mediterranean island for me, my wedding gift.’

She smiled tears at the beauty of their future together. Charming, truly romantic and full of gaiety. (And love. Mustn’t forget love.)

‘And me?’ I asked it without bitterness, because I love (sic) a sweet ending. Truly.

The pier’s black line was rising hugely from the sea. We were near and closing. I could hear the sloshing sea and faint shouts.

‘You, Lovejoy? Hugo has definite plans for you. We should say goodbye.’ She smiled with certainty at thoughts of my doom.

She pointed out to sea. Three chasing craft were closing in on us, the fourth racing for shore. One was hooting, searchlights wagging about the sky.

‘Hugo’s people, Lovejoy. He will leave you somewhere, I shouldn’t doubt. I shan’t mind where.’

‘Alive or dead, you mean?’ Two furlongs now at a guess, and lessening.

‘You expect me to plead for you, Lovejoy?’ Her luscious lip curled. ‘I wouldn’t lend a finger if you were in hell.’

‘Goodbye, Lydia.’

She looked her surprise and almost laughed.

‘Yes, Lovejoy. Goodbye.’

‘And farewell, love.’

She was still surprised as the bow struck the pier
uprights and careered sideways in an ugly twisting movement that flung Lydia on her back down the gangway steps. She struck her head on the first of the cabin doors. I heard the horrid crack. I was carried by the ship’s impetus and thumped into the side of the bridge, my head and shoulder ramming the control panel. Something
short-circuited
with a blue flash and shed sparks. The ship started a horrid whining, engines coughing as she tried to shake free of the tangle of metal, pier and bow caught together. She worried the metal struts like an attack dog does a felon.

Dizzily, I crawled to the hatch and made the side gangway. Down I slid, headfirst. The small craft was still there and afloat, its engine still muttering. I pulled the painter clear, got in and shoved off. People were yelling and sirens doing their whoop-whoop as I pushed the tiller and slowly sloshed clear to seaward. The
Maeonia
didn’t seem to be sinking.

‘Hey, you!’ some geezer bawled over some electric Tannoy thing.

My boat was caught in a searchlight, a coastguard vessel standing some furlongs off.

‘You! Pull clear this instant!’

‘I’m trying! I’m trying!’ I bawled back. ‘Can I help? I was night fishing near the pier when that bloody great thing came crashing—’

‘Pull away eastwards. That is an order!’

‘OK, mate,’ I called, then added feebly, ‘Aye aye, sir,’ trying for maritime yak. Where the hell was east? I chugged away, anywhere, from the scene.

The sea spray made my eyes sting so they ran sea tears
all the way to the sandy shore. How long was it, five minutes? No, more.

At the main beach, I nudged onto the sands and climbed out into the shallows.

Shivering at the cold – probably it was only the cold – I walked unseen into the night sea and sat down gasping for breath as the water soaked me. I let myself flop about as if I were half-drowned, rolling over and over. I stayed there for maybe half an hour until I heard the hullabaloo lessen. By then I hoped the blood and the rest of the gunge had washed off me, or that it was at least mixed up with enough of the sea’s contaminants to raise doubt in the most dedicated forensic pathologists. Crawling eventually to the dry sand, I dropped my stolen jacket into the sea and stood trembling. Then I walked up onto the beach.

Not once did I look back at the rescue ships and police boats clustering round the good ship
Maeonia
and the pier. I was just glad no flames had started. The antiques would be safe. They were sure to have packed them well. Great planners, after all.

Love is never needing to trust, I suppose.

Cold as an eskimo’s tool, I woke on a promenade bench. A bloke was sitting nearby, shouting into a mobile, demanding his taxi. The people I least admire are reporters. Worse scavengers than me. The giant Pleasure Beach, with its spectacular Big Wheel and Big Dipper, and the wahwahs hurtling about had roused me. The newshound yelled he was ‘working against the odds’. He snapped his phone shut.

‘Hard night?’ he asked, not caring.

‘You wouldn’t believe it.’

‘Couldn’t have been like mine.’ He spoke with the usual proud grievance. People who do sod all always want worship.

‘Bad? Good?’ Despite my exhaustion I felt interested. How would the local rags print my calamity? Was he airwave or muck – meaning a broadcaster or merely newspapers?

‘Brill.’ He felt compelled to talk. ‘Good for news. An ocean-goer got stolen, some maniac slammed it into the old North Pier. Didn’t sink. The plod’s gone berserk. Two dead aboard. Fucking
Marie Celeste.
’

‘Nobody was dead on the
Marie Celeste
.’

He eyed me curiously. ‘Right. I tried to get to it. The plod blocked it. Couldn’t even hire a fucking boat. Like D-Day out there. Coastguard, fire engines. Nobody knows what the frigging hell’s going on.’

‘Whose boat?’ Two dead, he’d just told me. Hugo and… I wasn’t going to be the one who told Mavis.

‘Some old-money syndicate. Antiques cargo.’

One of the open-topped trams, Art Deco in coloured livery, came slewing along the promenade doing its whoop-whoop. ‘One of the boats, so early?’ I said. A boat, in local parlance, is an open-topped promenade tram.

He gave the tourist tram a glance. ‘Sightseers love destruction.’

‘Who got topped?’

‘A bloke, battered to death. Then a bird on a gangway. Police spokesmen are prats.’

‘So you got the story.’ I felt wobbly and wanted to scarper.

‘Some Fraud Squad goon is up from the Smoke. The bastard never heard of press freedom.’

‘Who is the goon?’

He looked. ‘Do you know something I don’t? Tight-arse called Kine. Bela Lugosi from a Hammer Horror.’

‘What more do you need?’ I was drawn in.

‘Something’s going on. I’d get a frigging knighthood if I could dig it out. Big noon meeting in the Free Trade Hall.’

‘Manchester?’ Twenty miles off.

‘It’s their ploy to keep us from that fucking ship.’ A taxi drew up. He rose, paused. ‘Sure you don’t know anything?’

‘Me?’ I thought, God, they’re double-shrewd in Blackpool.

‘You haven’t even looked at the scene. A bit odd. And you look like you’ve spent time in the water. Know why I sat here?’ When I didn’t answer, he said, ‘I wondered what the hell a bloke was doing with no jacket, his shirt caked with sea salt, no shoes, hands a mess, kipping on a prom bench.’

‘Dozing, that’s all.’

‘You have nothing to do with anything, right?’

‘That’s it.’ As he walked to the car I called, ‘Mate? What’s your name?’

He stood looking back.

‘Frendolce, Jass Frendolce.’ He came back and gave me a card. ‘If you hear anything…Why exactly
are
you in such a state?’

‘My friends chucked me overboard.’ I stuck to lies, the way reporters do. ‘Somebody’s wedding.’

He was unconvinced. ‘Gelt in it, if you can help.’

‘My friend Liza might be in touch.’ I squinted up at him. ‘Mate?’

‘Yes?’ He stopped.

‘Lend us a note?’ He gave the cadaverous grin of the cynic and made to walk off. I called, ‘Best investment you never made, Jass.’

Pause. ‘How much do you need?’

‘Socks, sandals, breakfast and enough to telephone East Anglia. And the train fare.’

‘Where to?’ He scrutinised me, wary.

‘Manchester Free Trade Hall.’ I shrugged. ‘If you can’t, that’s OK. Don’t get yourself in trouble.’

He gave me a couple of notes. ‘Got a name yourself?’

‘You’ll hear it from Liza.’

‘Ring me, OK?’

He left. Caffs started opening. Getting on for eight o’clock, I crossed and had a mega-nosh.

New socks and plastic sandals later, wearing a scarf with a
Kiss Me Quick
legend, cheese rolls in reserve, I rang Liza, gave her a potted summary, then caught the bus to Manchester. I slept all the way, warmer than I’d been all week.

Manchester isn’t easy on strangers, though I was no stranger. I hung back to be last off the bus, and won a bloke’s hat off the rack. It felt as itchy as sandpaper. Warm, though.

The Free Trade Hall was once the epicentre of the world, when Lancashire textiles ruled. It’s a walk from the bus station, where new trams – are they not really trains? – run along streets. I remember seeing old news photos of Mahatma Ghandi on that very spot. He was told the drop in exports of Manchester’s cotton dhotis was purely temporary. I’ll bet he thought, Yeah, right.

Strolling in the lovely city’s centre, I lurked, like any criminal suspecting things were not quite right. I had a pal on Dartmoor doing time, who said that hesitation spells failure. He’ll be free in four years, extra delaying time. Still, I lurked. There’s truly nothing like Manchester’s grand old buildings. Spectacularly beautiful, they were created in the conviction that life was brilliant, as long as
Manchesterturm
was mankind’s sole faith and people worked for pennies. Half a century of meaningless conflicts that politicians swear are not really wars at all, have cured us all of that, and of the religions that go along with it.

Finally, they started coming in their limousines, none
with police, so they must still have been in the clear. And it was still legal to sell antiques. The plod must have been too busy with the
Maeonia
to pay the Faces any attention. Especially, I thought with bitterness, if most were diplomats. I found a newspaper and folded it.

Counting, I got to forty-seven witnesses, gave them an hour, then entered. Lovely central walkway straight out of Dickens, walls and ceilings embellished with the industrial skills I love. Is that what Empire was?

Signs
To The Conference Room
led me upstairs. Uniformed ploddites loitered with comatose vigilance. I followed the signs. The room was at the end of a corridor. I heard a babble of voices, as if the meeting was starting. A ploddite said, ‘You all right?’ No politeness for the likes of me in plastic sandals.

‘In here, is it?’

He nodded. I stepped inside a room vacant except for Mr Kine. He looked up from his
Guardian
.

‘I always read at least one newspaper, Lovejoy, to get my bearings.’

‘It used to be the
Manchester Guardian
.’ I realised I’d been had all along. ‘Is it true they once banned Jews?’

‘History does things to the mind.’ He snapped, ‘Somebody turn that bloody racket off.’ It silenced. ‘Too little history leads to mistakes.’

Nowhere to sit. ‘I’d kill for scrambled eggs on toast.’

He raised is eyebrows in admonition. I went red and said, ‘Sorry.’

‘If you’d learnt anything at school, you’d have known the Maeonians conquered the ancient city of Lydia. Name of Hahn’s ship, the
Maeonia
?’

‘Your point being?’

‘The conquest of Lydia gave the king of the Maeonians the art of minting money, weaving, dyeing, inventions. Including’, he said with a smile from midwinter, ‘the Lydian mode of music, his particular love. I believe Beethoven composed an oddity,
In The Lydian Mode
. Was it Opus 132 in A?’

‘What is this to do with me?’

‘Didn’t you know? It’s in all the papers. The good ship
Maeonia
got wrecked on Blackpool’s North Pier. Dreadful. Know anything about it?’

‘No.’

‘Your apprentice, Miss Lydia, was dead on board. Hugo Hahn was battered to death. Your fingerprints were on everything.’

‘I remember Hugo. Best man at my wedding.’

‘In Somnell House.’ He eyed me, so affable he should have been in rep theatre. ‘Which you, Lovejoy, burnt down. Tragic. All those antiques inside.’

‘Believe that, you’ll believe anything.’

He sighed, so weary after his monstrous ten-minute day when he could have been at Goodwood Races quaffing champers.

‘Let’s stop this, Lovejoy. He stole your Lydia.’

‘She was never my Lydia.’

‘Shut it. You pirated the entire ship and killed him. Two birds with one stone, eh, Lovejoy?’

‘Look—’

‘He caught you at it. You took the chance to do her in too. Close?’

‘Not even near.’

‘Revenge plus unlimited profit. Does life get any sweeter for a bum like you, Lovejoy?’

You have to be patient. ‘Mr Kine, you should leave your snooker club more often. You ploddites get delusions.’

‘Then explain what happened. I’m willing to listen.’

‘Got your recording box? Then here it is: I remember nothing of the past three days, from some accident. If you find out what I did, please let me know.’

‘I have witnesses.’

‘Can’t recall a thing.’

He stood and gave me the arrest patter. I listened politely. It is the most absurd prattle ever, and I include Parliament. Formidable competition.

‘You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention now something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

Could anything be sillier? If things weren’t dire, I’d have laughed. ‘May’ only means ‘maybe not’, so it’s heads or tails. And the bit about evidence is preposterous, because the prosecution – namely, the plod – don’t have to disclose all their evidence,
even if they know it proves your innocence
. Laws are only for the law-abiding. There’s none for the rest. Law is therefore a swizz.

‘Can I go now, Mr Kine?’

‘To the London nick, Lovejoy. With me.’

‘I get car sick, Mr Kine. Can I go by train, please?’

His first hesitation. ‘Very well.’

‘I won’t run, I promise. Can I borrow a coat? And some grub?’

‘You’ll be looked after, Lovejoy.’

‘Ta, sir.’ The kindest words I’d received in a twelvemonth. Our policemen are wonderful.

This thought recurred because my arrest was phoney. They have to serve you with a written notice, giving the name of the officer concerned and other crud. It’s their silly Code C under the Act. I could wander off any time.

We caught the train at twenty minutes past twelve with two plain-clothes men. Mr Kine sat in a first class carriage, me opposite and the two suited goons between me and the aisle. I was served with a good meal, and wanted to sleep the sleep of the just. Do I keep saying that?

Mr Kine kept up a desultory chat, asking things – Mortimer, Tinker, and what really happened at Somnell House to cause that terrible fire. Lucky old me, I couldn’t remember. I said I’d help his inquiries, and meant it most sincerely. The two guard plods seethed. It’s a sad reflection on humanity. I thought of telling Mr Kine to send them on one of those anger management courses. I asked them politely to wake me up if the ticket inspectors came by so I could explain why I didn’t have a legit ticket. Mr Kine finally told me to shut it.

Euston, the train was on time. I was in the police nick before nightfall. Travelling in a Black Maria feels strange, like a great city is out there and inside it is almost silent. Mr Kine and his two nerks were replaced by uniformed ploddites. I thought of everyone except Lydia. My cell mattress was lumpy. A former inhabitant had tried to scrawl William Blake’s lines about
Tyger tyger burning bright/In the forest of the night,
but had petered out. It reminded me that lately an old folio of Blake’s watercolours, found in a Glasgow bookshop for a bawbee,
was under the hammer in New York, expected price over 18 million zlotniks. ‘Cost a jam butty,’ the trade always grieves. Maybe I’d be lucky one day.

Sleep’s always easy in clink. Being so safe, you see.

After breakfast they told me my lawyer was coming to discuss bail. I told the screw I needed no lawyer, being innocent, and I hadn’t any money to bribe one.

‘Shut it, Lovejoy,’ the turnkey ordered. ‘LF Volkenheid, Inns of Court, is appointed.’

‘Who’ll pay? I’m broke.’

‘Friend guaranteed lawyer fees.’ He chuckled, a witticism coming. ‘Surprised you’ve got a friend.’ Harf-harf. He cautioned me, and took me down to the interview room.

Four minutes later in walked Laura, radiant as ever. Stunned, I shook the hand she offered.

‘Volkenheid,’ she announced to uniformed plods. ‘Can I have a moment alone with my client, please?’

‘Right, lady.’ They were clearly influenced by a beautiful woman.

‘Please be on hand, in case he proves troublesome.’

‘Certainly.’

‘Lovejoy?’ She sat facing me as they left. Slowly I sat in the other chair, a tacky table between us. ‘I am your lawyer.’

‘How come?’

‘Your expenses will be paid in full. They are a present from your biggest fan.’ She opened her briefcase – the only item nicks fail to search. She brought out a sheaf of papers. I relaxed.

‘Fan? Who?’

‘Time for you to perform the only action I require.’

She puzzled me. I’d never seen her so jubilant, like somebody opting for madness.

‘Look, Laura. I’ve no intention of spending my life going in and out of court to please you lawyers.’

‘You must accept, Lovejoy. I intend to apply to have you out on remand today.’

‘Sorry, Laura. I won’t trust anyone or anything except antiques from now on. So long.’ She gestured me down.

‘You entered into a contract with me, Lovejoy.’

‘To marry you? And divvy a load of antiques so you and Hero Hugo could abscond? Stealing the dreams and wealth of all your pals?’

‘Please do not be silly. That’s hysteria.’

‘Leaving me to burn to death in Somnell House?’

‘Stop it.’ No joy now, just a pale face with thin lips.

‘Killing my friend Tansy, you murdering cow?’

‘That was Lydia,’ she said dully. ‘You saw her.’

‘I couldn’t be sure, but she told me on the yacht.’

She suddenly went like a pricked balloon, deflated and listless. ‘It’s astonishing how far a woman will go once she convinces herself. After Hugo first took her that night, she became utterly transported. Having’, she went on with spite, ‘found a real man to commit himself to her.’