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rs； and read them standing in the middle of the pavement； while harried muters nudged and tutted at him as they surged down the stairs into the station。
〃The death was announced today of Joseph Newzam Whitehead； the millionaire head of the Whitehead Corporation； whose pharmaceutical products had； until recent falls； made it one of the most successful panies in Western Europe。 Mr。 Whitehead； sixty…eight； was found at his hideaway sanctum in Oxfordshire in the early hours of yesterday morning by his chauffeur。 He is believed to have died of heart failure。 Police say there are no suspicious circumstances。 For Obituary； see page seven。〃 The obituary was the usual amalgam of information gleaned from the pages of Who's Who； with a brief outline of the fortunes of the Whitehead Corporation； plus a spicing of conjecture； mostly concerning the corporation's recent fall from financial grace。 There was a potted history of Whitehead's life； though the early years were skimpily reported； as though there was some doubt as to the details。 The rest of the design was there； albeit threadbare。 The marriage to Evangeline； the spectacular rise in the boom years of the late fifties； the decades of consolidation and achievement； then the withdrawal； after Evangeline's death； into mysterious and unilluminating silence。
He was dead。
Despite all the brave talk； all the defiance； all the contempt for the machinations of the European； the battle was lost。 Whether it was indeed a natural death； as the papers reported； or Mamoulian's doing； Marty could not know。 But there was no denying the curiosity he felt。 More than curiosity； grief。 That he had a capacity for sorrow at the old man's death came as a shock； perhaps more of a shock than the sorrow itself。 He hadn't counted on the ache of loss he felt。
He canceled the meeting with Raglan and went back to the flat； there to study the newspapers…over and over again； squeezing out every drop from the text about the circumstances of Whitehead's death。 There were few clues； of course： all the reports were couched in the bland and formal language of such announcements。 Having exhausted the written word he went next door and asked to borrow his neighbor's radio。 The young woman who occupied the room； a student； he thought； took some persuading； but she eventually relinquished it。 He listened to the half…hourly bulletins from midmorning on； while the heat rose in his room。 The story had some prominence until noon； but thereafter events in Beirut and a drugs coup in Southampton claimed the bulk of the time； the report of Whitehead's death steadily slipping from a major story to news…in…brief； and thence； by mid…afternoon； into invisibility。
He returned the radio； declining a cup of coffee with the girl and her cat； the smell of whose uneaten food hung around the narrow room like the threat of thunder； and returned to his own quarters to sit and think。 If Mamoulian had indeed murdered Whitehead…and he didn't doubt that the European had the skill to do it undetected by the acutest pathologist…it was indirectly his fault。 Perhaps； had he remained at the house； the old man would still be alive。 It was unlikely。 Far more likely； he too would be dead。 But the guilt still nagged。
For the next couple of days he did very little： entropy had poured lead into his bowels。 His thoughts were circular； almost obsessional。 In the private cinema of his skull he ran the home movies he'd accrued； from those first； uncertain glimpses of the private life of power to his later memories…almost too sharp； too detailed…of the man alone in a glassfloored cage； the dogs； the dark。 Through most； though not all； the face of Carys appeared； sometimes quizzical； sometimes careless： often sealed from him； peering up between the bars of her downcast lashes as if envying him。 Late at night； when the baby had fallen asleep in the flat below； and the only sound was the traffic on the High Road； he'd rerun those most private moments between them； moments too precious to be conjured up indiscriminately for fear their power to revive him wane with repetition。
For a time he had tried to forget her： it was more convenient that way。 Now he clung to thoughts of that face； bereft。 He wondered if he would see her again。
The Sunday newspapers all carried further reports on the death。 The Sunday Times gave over the front of its Review section to a thumbnail sketch Of BRITAIN'S MOST MYSTERIOUS MILLIONAIRE； written by Lawrence Dwoskin； 〃longtime associate and confidant of England's Howard Hughes。 〃 Marty read the piece through twice； unable to scan the printed words without hearing Dwoskin's insinuating tone in his ear 。 。 。 he was in many ways a paragon； 〃 it read； 〃。 … 。 though the almost hermitlike history of his latter years gave rise； inevitably； to reams of gossip and tittle…tattle； much of it hurtful to a man of Joseph's sensibilities。 Through all his years in public life； exposed to the scrutiny of a press that was not always beneficent； he never hardened himself to criticism； implied or explicit。 To we few who knew him well he revealed a nature more susceptible to barbs than his outward show of indifference would ever have suggested。 When he found rumors of misconduct or excess being circulated about him； the criticism bit deeply； especially as； since his beloved wife Evangeline's death in 1965； he had bee the most fastidious of sexual and moral beings。 〃 Marty read this simpering cant with a bitter taste in his throat。 The canonization of the old man had already begun。 Soon； presumably； would e the biographies； authorized…and then bowdlerized…by his estate； turning his life into a series of flattering fables by which he would be remembered。 The process nauseated him。 Reading the platitudes in Dwoskin's text he found himself fiercely and unpredictably defensive of the old man's foibles； as though everything that had made him unique…made him real…now stood in danger of being whitewashed away。
He read Dwoskin's article to its maudlin end and put it down。 The only detail in its length that was of interest was mention of the funeral service； which was to be held in a small church at Minster Lovell the following day。 The body was then to be cremated。 Dangerous though it might be； Marty felt the need to go and pay his last respects。
52
In fact the service attracted so many onlookers； from casual observers to diehard scandal…sniffers； Marty's presence went entirely unnoticed。 The whole event had an unreal air to it； as if contrived to have the entire world know that the great man was dead。 There were correspondents and photographers from all over Europe in addition to the clan from Fleet Street； and among the mourners some of the most famous faces in public life： politicians； professional pundits； captains of industry； even a smattering of movie stars whose only claim to fame was fame itself。 The presence of so many celebrities attracted dedicated Peeping Toms in their hundreds。 The small church； the yard around it； and the road around that were overrun。 The service itself was relayed to those outside the building via loudspeakers； a curious； dislocating detail。 The voice of the presiding clergyman sounded tinny and theatrical through the sound system； his eulogy punctuated by an amplified percussion of coughs and shufflings。
Marty didn't like hearing the service this way； any more than he liked the tourists； ill…dressed for a funeral； who lolled on the gravestones and littered the grass； waiting with barely suppressed impatience for this tiresome interruption in their stargazing to be concluded。 Whitehead had encouraged a dormant misanthropy in Marty： it now had a permanent place in his worldview。 Looking around the graveyard at this heat…flushed； dull…eyed congregation he felt contempt well up in him。 He itched to turn his back on the farrago and slip away。 But the desire to see this final scene played out overwhelmed the desire to leave； so he waited in the throng while wasps buzzed at children's sticky heads and a woman with the physique of a stick insect flirted with him from the top of a tomb。
Somebody was now reading the lesson。 An actor； to judge by the self…regarding tone。 It was announced as a passage from the Psalms； but Marty didn't recognize it。
As the reading was drawing to a close； a car drew up at the main gate。 Heads turned and cameras clicked as two figures emerged。 A buzz spread through the crowd； people who'd taken to lying down stood up again to see what could be seen。 Something roused Marty from his lethargy； and he too stood on tiptoe to glimpse the lateers： it was quite an entrance they were making。 He peered between the heads of the crowd to catch a look； caught sight； then lost it again； said 〃no；〃 quietly to himself； not believing； then pushed his way through the crowd trying to keep pace as Mamoulian； a veiled Carys at his side； glided down the pathway from gate to porch and disappeared into the church。 〃Who was it？〃 somebody asked him。 〃Do you know who it was？〃 Hell； he wanted to answer。 The Devil himself。
Mamoulian was here！ In broad daylight； sun on the back of his neck； walking with Carys arm in arm like man and wife； letting the cameras catch him for tomorrow's edition。 He had no fear； apparently。 This late appearance； so measured； so ironic； was a final gesture of contempt。 And why did she play his game？ Why didn't she throw off his hand and denounce him for the unnatural thing he was？ Because she'd gone willingly into his entourage； the very way Whitehead had told him she would。 In search of what？ Someone to celebrate that strain of nihilism in her； to educate her in the fine art of dying？ And what might she give in return？ Ah； there was the prickly question。
At long last the service came to an end。 Suddenly； to the delight and outrage of the congregation； a raucous saxophone broke the solemnity； and a jazz rendering of 〃Fools Rush In〃 was blaring over the loudspeakers。 Whitehead's final joke； presumably。 It earned its laughs； some of the crowd even applauded。 From inside the church there came the clatter of people rising from their pews。 Marty craned to get a better view of the porch； and failing； threaded his way back through the press of people to a tomb that offered a view。 There were birds in the heat…drooped trees； and their pursuits distracted him； catching him up in their swooping play。 When he looked back the coffin was almost parallel with him； shouldered； among others； by Ottaway and Curtsinger。 The plain box seemed almost indecently exposed。 He wondered what they'd dressed the old man in at the last； if they'd trimmed his beard and sewed his eyelids shut。
The procession of mourners followed on the heels of the pallbearers； a black cortege that parted the candy…colored sea of tourists。 To right and left the shutters tutted； some damn fool called； 〃Watch the birdy。〃 The jazz played on。 It was all gratifyingly absurd。 The old man； Marty guessed； would be smiling in his box。
Finally Carys and Mamoulian emerged from the shade of the porch into the brilliance of the afternoon； and Marty was sure he caught the girl cautiously scanning the crowd； fearful that her panion would notice。 She was looking for him； he was certain of it。 She knew he'd be there； somewhere； and she was looking for him。 His mind raced； tripping over itself in its turmoil。 If he made a sign to her； however subtle； there was every chance Mamoulian would see it； and that was surely dangerous for them both。 Better to hide his head then； painful as it was not to lock glances with her。
Reluctantly； he stepped down off the tomb as the clump of mourners came abreast of him； and spied what he could from the shelter of the crowd。 The European scarcely raised his head from its bowed position； and from what Marty could glimpse between the bobbing heads Carys had given up her search…perhaps despairing of his being there。 As the coffin and its black tail wound out of the churchyard； Marty ducked away and over the wall to watch events precede from a better vantage point。
In the road Mamoulian was speaking to one or two of the mourners。 Handshakes were exchanged； miserations offered to Carys。 Marty watched impatiently。 Perhaps she and the European would separate in the throng； and he'