“Yes. A year or two after the bullying incident we drifted apart. I suddenly became pretty burly and mad-keen on games. Eventually I went up to Cambridge while Ivor was travelling all over the place with his father. I didn’t see him for a hell of a time. In fact, not till 1923—just after
“What happened to Trent in the war?”
“He was decorated for bravery and was slightly wounded in 1917. Our next meeting was rather dramatic. I’d been badly smashed up just before the Armistice. Since then I’d had treatment of all kinds, operations, and God knows what. Finally, I was told that I’d go on crutches for the rest of my life. It’s probable that I should have done myself in if I hadn’t run into Ivor again.”
“You’d not seen him for years?”
“Not since we left school. I ran into him one night in Regent Street, quite by chance. I was just getting out of a taxi with great difficulty as Ivor emerged from a restaurant with a woman—an imperious lady with a disdainful stare and a magnificent figure. He put her in the taxi I had just left and let her wait while he talked to me. She was very impatient and clearly resented the delay. I believe it amused him to keep her waiting. Anyway, he soon discovered that I was at the end of things. I told him I was living in a cottage in Surrey. A few days later he came down and stayed with me.”
Marsden broke off and remained silent for some moments, then added:
“I admit I was flattered by his visit, Rendell. Ivor was then thirty, very handsome, very much in demand.
“Brought you back to life!”
“Yes. He stayed some weeks. He talked a lot about literature and read a number of books to me. He’s a first-rate critic. I’d always read a fair amount but he opened another world. He revealed the spiritual structure of the books we read. Well—to cut the story short—he eventually got me a job as a publisher’s reader. Later, I became a reviewer. And now I do a good deal of free-lance journalism.”
“You certainly owe him a lot, Marsden. Everything—it seems to me. I suppose you see him pretty frequently nowadays.”
“No, I don’t. I told you, about once a year. For one thing, he frequently goes abroad for long periods to work. He writes a book every two or three years, and, when he’s working, no one hears a word from him.”
“I take it his work means everything to him?”
There was a long silence, then Marsden said slowly:
“I’m damned if I know.”
“Why? What do you mean?”
“I sometimes think, Rendell, that his books are only a by-product of an intense interior activity. He never discusses them and he does not mix with literary people. You hear queer odds and ends about him occasionally.”
“What sort of things?”
“Oh I don’t know! They are probably all nonsense. I doubt if anyone knows more about him than I do—and I don’t know much.”
“Do you know many of his friends?”
“Scarcely any. I met a woman, quite by chance, a year or two ago in Paris, who knew him. I told her very much what I’ve just told you. Her only comment was that I had a greater gift for fiction than Ivor Trent.”
Marsden laughed, then added:
“And now
There was a long silence, then Rendell said deliberately:
“I’ve a question to ask, but I doubt if you’d like it.”
“I’ll risk it”
“Are you jealous of Trent?”
“Not in the least.”
“You’re certain?”
“Certain!”
“You’re resentful then.”
Marsden’s attempt at a laugh was a failure. Evidently he recognised it, for there was no bravado in his tone when he asked:
“How did you guess?”
“So it’s true?”
“Of course it’s true! I told you just now about that bullying incident, but I only revealed what it meant to me at the time. I’ve regarded it from a less romantic level for a number of years.”
“I don’t know what you’re driving at, Marsden.”
“I believe Ivor was concerned wholly with himself—not with me.”
“I still don’t follow you.”
“I didn’t think you would. Well, let’s put it this way. To Ivor, that bully was an opportunity to test himself. He wanted to prove the power of his own will. The fact that I was being knocked about was entirely secondary.”
“How the hell can you know that?”
“I don’t know it,” Marsden replied with intense irritability. “I’m telling you what I feel. And I feel it, too, about that visit of his to my cottage. It was another opportunity to demonstrate his power. Here was a man at the end of things. It interested Ivor to identify himself with my state—and then deliver me from it. I believe he regards me in exactly the same way as he regards a character he’s created in one of his books.”
Rendell gave a short laugh.
“Well, you’ve certainly made me want to meet him. The trouble is, I should probably bore him to death.”