The More Deceived (15 page)

Gerda put her hand over his, and took the cigar from him and put it in her mouth and sucked on it before answering, exhaling an aromatic cloud. Edward gazed at her almost in pain from desire and, when she had returned the Havana to him, tasted her on his lips.

‘You’ll never have Verity in the sense you mean,’ she opined. ‘If you want the quiet life, my advice to you is find someone else. But you don’t want a quiet life, do you? Who needs to be
bored
to death when there are so many more interesting ways of dying? Verity cares for you more than she would ever admit. She’s a man’s woman. Most women don’t like her – have you noticed? She’s a threat to everything most of us value: home and beauty. You know what I mean? Don’t struggle after what you cannot have, Edward – just be grateful for what she is prepared to give you. Is there any more brandy, do you think? Oops, sorry, did you spill that or did I?’

At last the conversation slowed to a halt and Edward stared into the girl’s green eyes. She smiled enigmatically back at him and he knew he could take her to bed and she would come willingly.

‘I’ve just remembered,’ she said. ‘You know you were asking about that young man in the photograph – James Lyall?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I saw him yesterday.’

‘Where? Here in London?’

‘Of course! Where else have I been? He was walking down Piccadilly.’

‘Did you talk to him?’

‘I’m afraid not. You see I was on the top of a bus – smoking.’

‘You smoke too much,’ he reprimanded her absently. ‘So does Verity. I wonder,’ he said, reverting to James Lyall, ‘if he has been in touch with his father?’

‘I doubt it. I don’t think they get on.’

‘But his father worships him.’

Gerda shrugged. ‘I remember him telling me about some quarrel they had – about his mother, I think. Perhaps I got it wrong.’

Edward changed the subject. ‘That photograph of soldiers resting . . . I get the feeling, Gerda, between the frightening bits you had boring bits, just hanging around. Am I right?’ Gerda nodded. ‘You see,’ he went on, ‘I met a chum the other day – an old school friend, Eric Blair – who had just come back from Spain. He said his part of the front was very quiet. Just like in the Great War, he sat in a trench and read books. But then he’s a very modest man so he may have been playing it all down.’

‘It depends where you are. André and I found enough danger to satisfy our cravings.’ She smiled crookedly as though remembering what it was like to be in the middle of the fighting. ‘I’m afraid I’m a junkie when it comes to danger. I get all jagged up and feel . . . I don’t know what exactly . . . as if I’m untouchable.’

‘And after?’

‘When I come down I sit shivering, holding my knees and feel my brain turn to semolina.’

‘And it’s worth it . . . to feel so bad afterwards?’

‘Of course it’s worth it. It’s what makes life worth living. To snatch a photograph in a moment of danger – to live on the edge. I remember once . . . I had only been in Spain a few weeks . . . we met – Bandi and I – a group of soldiers, only they wore no uniform and we never did discover which side they were on. I don’t suppose they knew. Anyway, they waved their guns at us and shouted stuff we couldn’t understand. Bandi gave them smokes but they weren’t smiling. They began to paw me. They took my watch. I was sure as hell I was going to be raped. Then I had the bright idea of taking my Leica out of its bag. I showed it them and mimed that I wanted to take their photograph. They looked uncertain until I said “
journalista
”. They seemed to understand. I started clicking away and soon they were smiling and offering us some of their filthy brandy and we were all great friends. We parted with much goodwill – they even gave me back my watch – but when it was over my legs gave way under me and I burst into tears. Bandi wasn’t very sympathetic. But the odd thing was it made me crazy to do it again. I mean, I ought to have wanted to go back home and keep safe but it was the opposite. I could not wait to be in danger again. The thrill of it . . .’

‘But the boring bits – tell me about those. What did you do then?’

‘André would never stop taking pictures. He would photograph villagers tending their goats, or troops resting or training. Sometimes, when the photographs were developed – it was so long after he had taken them and he had taken so many – he couldn’t remember where or what was in them. You should see his Paris studio. It’s chaos.’

‘That must have been a problem when it came to captioning them?’

‘He didn’t bother or, if he was showing a photograph to someone and he couldn’t remember where he had taken it, he would invent a place and a time. “What did it matter?” he would say. “The picture shows the real truth.”’

‘So you don’t think photographs lie?’

She thought about this. ‘The photograph doesn’t but I suppose it can mean different things to different people.’

‘And people can be misled by the caption.’

‘What do you mean?’ Gerda demanded, suddenly angry. ‘Are you accusing André of something?’

‘No, I’m not,’ Edward said hurriedly. Suddenly they were intimate no longer and his head was clear. ‘I was only thinking out loud. Look, come back to Albany with me and Fenton can make us some more coffee.’

But it was too late. The charm of feeling at one with each other and the haze of physical desire had dissipated with the smoke from the cigar smouldering in the ashtray. Gerda got up. ‘No, I must go now. Thank you for my lunch.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I had no idea how late it was.’

She gave him her hand which he took. ‘You don’t know where Lyall might go if he didn’t go home?’ he asked, as the girl who minded the cloakroom helped her on with her coat.

‘No. Ask David. He might know.’

‘I thought he was in Spain.’

‘He goes back with us tomorrow. He’s still in Chester Square – or at least that’s where he’s sleeping tonight.’

They parted almost as strangers with no talk of when they would meet again.

When Edward got back to his rooms – a headache already on the horizon – he called on Fenton for an aspirin. On an impulse, he telephoned the Foreign Office and asked to be put through to Desmond Lyall.

‘Lord Edward? What is it? I’m afraid I am just going into a meeting.’

‘Sorry to bother you but I wondered if you had seen anything of your son?’

‘Of James? No, why? Have you seen him?’

‘No, but a friend told me he was in London.’

There was a pause before Lyall asked, ‘Do you know where he’s staying?’

‘No, but I might be able to find out. In any case, I expect he will let you know where he is.’

‘I expect so,’ Lyall said uneasily. ‘However, if you do find out where he is, will you call me?’

‘Of course,’ Edward said and hung up.

There had been a moment when he had contemplated spending the rest of the afternoon in bed with a beautiful, if untrustworthy, green-eyed, red-haired photographer but, since that temptation had been resisted or maybe had never been a reality, he decided he would look up David Griffiths-Jones. He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was five thirty. He wanted to find James Lyall. He had one of his ideas – nothing more than a notion – that the boy was in some sort of danger. It was probably his loathing for a man he considered a dangerous fanatic but the feeling in his gut was that, if Griffiths-Jones was giving him houseroom, the boy might need rescuing. As he went out of the door and thrust his hat on his head, the faintest shadow of Gerda’s scent caught him by the throat and left him momentarily breathless.

Feeling rather weary, he took a cab to Chester Square. It was a pleasant place to be on a cool spring evening and he felt immediately refreshed. Iron railings reserved the garden itself for residents but the stately houses which surrounded it were grave and tranquil. Its church, St Michael’s, might be a little gloomy but altogether the square had more charm than the smarter, more expensive squares nearby. Edward’s friend, Lord Benyon, lived in Gerald Road, just across the street from St Michael’s, and he thought that if Griffiths-Jones was not at home, he might call on him. Then he remembered Benyon was abroad at some conference on international finance – Frankfurt, he seemed to remember.

The houses in Chester Square were substantial and, though most were still occupied by families, a few were divided up into flats. As Edward checked in his notebook for the number of the house, a door opened a hundred yards from where he was standing and he saw Guy Baron on the steps of one of the biggest houses in the square. He looked first left and then right, as though he was an Edward G. Robinson gangster, and went back into the house leaving the front door open. Edward smiled to himself. Guy would never make a successful spy: he was just too theatrical.

Edward marched swiftly towards the open door and, as he approached the house, Bernard Hunt came out.

‘Hello, Hunt! I had no idea you knew Guy – or is it David Griffiths-Jones you’ve been seeing?’ Edward said in surprise.

Hunt looked flustered but managed a mumbled ‘How do you do?’

Guy put his head round the door. ‘Corinth? Is that you? Do I gather you two know each other?’

‘Oh yes, we know each other,’ Edward said. ‘We were on the
Queen Mary
together. How did you manage with that Poussin, Hunt?’

Bernard Hunt was an art historian and dealer who had been trying to have a painting he believed to be by Nicolas Poussin authenticated by an expert in New York.

‘The argument’s still going on,’ Hunt replied breezily. ‘I’m sorry, Corinth, I can’t stay and chat. I’m late for an appointment. We must have lunch sometime. Goodbye.’

He strode off hurriedly and Edward looked at Guy quizzically. It was all coming back to him. Hunt was homosexual and, if not a Communist, he was certainly a sympathizer. He suddenly felt rather sick. Guy was difficult not to like but he was hardly an admirable character. Hunt he had reason to suspect – Major Ferguson had called him a crook – and he loathed David Griffiths-Jones. If James Lyall had fallen in with these people, he certainly ought to be rescued.

Guy, quite sober for once, invited him in. Edward explained that he had called on the off-chance of seeing David. Guy said Griffiths-Jones was out and would not be back until late. Edward said in that case he would not stay. Guy insisted he had a drink before he went and Edward got the feeling he wanted company – any company. He asked if the house belonged to him.

‘No. It belongs to a friend,’ was all he would say.

The drawing-room into which he was shown was gloomy, under-furnished and dirty. A large American-made radiogram stood in one corner and, rather incongruously, a tank of tropical fish in another. The house had an air of being nobody’s home but just a place where men – there was no sign of a woman’s touch – were temporarily housed.

Several rather battered armchairs were scattered about the room but Guy made Edward sit on a sofa and, to his embarrassment, sat down beside him. Edward, still suffering from the wine he had disposed of so freely at lunch, did not want any more alcohol but decided that, since Guy would be drinking, he ought to drink with him. Guy was the sort of man for whom alcohol was an essential social lubricant and, if he wanted to pump him, he had to be companionable. He asked for a weak whisky and soda. Guy went over to an ancient-looking instrument resembling a pre-war telephone on the wall and started talking into it.

He returned to sit beside Edward on the sofa. It was rather awkward having a conversation with someone sitting beside one, involving as it did a constant twisting of the head as though watching tennis. Edward’s discomfort was increased by the feeling that Guy might put his hand on his knee, and he wanted to get up and walk about. At that moment the door opened and a man appeared carrying a tray with a whisky decanter and glasses. Edward looked once and then again. It was Hawthorne, the youth who had so comprehensively beaten up Guy at the football match in Hoxton.

‘You remember Jack?’ Guy said. ‘He’s working for me for the time being.’

Edward smiled weakly and was surprised when, after pouring out the whisky, Hawthorne sat down and opened a bottle of beer.

‘Do you like working for Guy?’ Edward inquired, for something to say.

‘He’s a good bloke, ain’t you, Guy? He’s a toff but that’s all right. I like him right enough.’

Guy looked pleased. ‘Do you know, Corinth, Jack’s a member of Mosley’s mob – a fully paid-up member of the British Union of Fascists. I’m thinking of joining myself.’

Edward presumed he was joking but it was hard to tell.

They touched glasses and Guy said, ‘Absent friends.’ Edward repeated the toast, wondering exactly which absent friends they shared. Guy, as if in response, spoke of Verity which gave Edward the opportunity to ask if he knew where James Lyall was staying.

‘He’s upstairs. Why? Do you want to talk to him?’

Managing to hide his surprise – not that James was in the house but that Guy admitted it so easily – he said, ‘I have a message for him from his father. He wants to see him . . .’

‘How did you know James was here?’

‘I didn’t but Gerda Meyer said she had seen him from the top of a bus and suggested he might be staying with you and David.’

‘Interfering little baggage,’ Guy said playfully but there was an edge to his voice. ‘He doesn’t want to see his father. They don’t get on.’

‘That’s odd because Desmond Lyall was saying to me only the other day how much he cared for him. In fact, I got the impression that, now he’s a widower, James is the only person he
does
care for.’

Guy hesitated. ‘The thing is, Corinth, James told his dad he was one of us and he didn’t like it.’

‘One of us? You mean a Communist or . . .’

‘Yes, a Communist,’ he giggled. ‘As far as I know, James likes girls – if that’s what you mean.’

‘Of course! I didn’t mean to suggest . . . ’

‘Talk to James if you like. Check I’m not holding him against his will – though what it is to do with you . . . You’re not a policeman, are you?’ Edward looked sheepish. ‘You
are
a policeman. I say, do Old Etonians and Trinity men go into the police force nowadays? How priceless!’