by John Pearson
That summer Richard and Marjorie were forced to delay their usual summer holiday. There were the sea trials up at Scapa Flow of the Royal George, the very latest, very costly, very secret eighty-thousand-ton addition to the Royal Navy. Richard was the member of the government deputed to attend, and for a week he braved the elements—and Admiral of the Fleet Lord Fisher’s tongue—as the great ironclad ploughed its way through the summer storms of the Atlantic. He was unusually impressed. The ship responded wonderfully, the men’s morale was quite magnificent, and the gunnery trials, on an abandoned coaster off the West of Ireland, were a great success. Richard agreed with Fisher that the Royal George could “lick the pants off anything the Kaiser cares to throw at us.” And he reported back, in words to this effect, to a meeting of the Cabinet on his return to London.
There was still powerful opposition in the Cabinet, and in the Party as a whole, to the expanded dreadnought policy. Balfour, as usual, seemed to vacillate. But Richard and his favourable report appeared to influence him. What remained uncertain was whether he would back the plan for the four more versions of the Royal George that Fisher wanted.
Richard had returned intending to take Marjorie up to Norfolk for a few days on the Broads. It would have been a good chance for him to see his mother. It was six months since he had seen her now, and he knew that she had had some sort of fall. As usual, he was feeling guilty at his failure to visit her, especially as he knew the pleasure his visits gave the frail old lady.
At the same time Lord Selbourne, his new chief at the Admiralty, had invited him and Marjorie to his place outside Kings Lynn for a few days’ holiday, making the trip an opportunity to combine business with some days of quiet pleasure.
Marjorie was not enthusiastic. “Norfolk, how very boring at this time of year, and I suppose that I’ll be stuck all day with Lady Selbourne while you discuss your precious naval programme with his lordship.”
“What would you suggest instead?” he said, trying to be tactful and realising that Marjorie’s life was becoming somewhat tedious.
“Well, dearest,” Marjorie said, putting on her most appealing look. “Alex has invited both of us to his place near Deauville for the summer. Couldn’t we forget Lord Selbourne and just slip across? I always win at the casino, and there’s that little restaurant that you love outside Étaples.”
France, gambling and food—normally the three combined would have proved quite irresistible to Richard. But to Marjorie’s surprise and disappointment, he grunted, “Not if it means enduring that Steiner fellow.”
“What’s wrong with him?” she said.
Richard shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know, but he seems a little too damned rich. And he hasn’t bought us—yet.”
Norfolk in fact was beautiful. Old Mrs. Bellamy was so thrilled to see them that Marjorie was glad she went, and the Selbournes were delightful. When they got back to London, Richard took Marjorie on to Paris for a fortnight, which they both enjoyed. It was romantic to be back in the city where they met and they spent days revisiting the places they remembered all too well—the Gare du Nord, Maxim’s, the town house of the Duke d’Amboise. (The Duke was dead and a distant cousin had inherited the place. “To think,” said Richard, “if it had not been for me, this would have been all yours.” “I prefer Eaton Place,” said Marjorie loyally.)
For Marjorie it was wonderful to have Richard to herself again and be able to forget the Admiralty. For Richard it was marvellous to rediscover the passionate and tender woman he was married to and not hear about Alex Steiner and his money.
But Steiner hadn’t done with them. No sooner were they back in Eaton Place than the invitations started once again. Richard was cool and Marjorie was forced to refuse them. Steiner became more pressing, and finally, for Marjorie’s sake, Richard agreed that they would dine with him. Apparently quite unaffected by Richard’s recent coolness, he was as welcoming and brash and the food as sumptuous as ever.
He flattered Marjorie in his usual way, sang Richard’s praises, and after dinner, over the vintage port and very fine cigars, he suddenly said to Richard, “Bellamy, I feel I should be doing something for you.”
“How very kind,” said Richard. “What do you suggest?”
Steiner smiled his funny twisted smile and said, “I am a rich man; you are relatively poor. I know something of the work and the responsibility you have to bear. It would be my privilege to make things easier, financially, for you.”
“How delightful,” said Richard drily. “How could you do that?”
Steiner laughed. “Don’t be offended. There’d be no charity involved, simply a few straightforward business deals and share transactions. They would be in your name, but I’d suggest you let your lawyer handle them. I’d tell them what to buy and sell and I could guarantee you, shall we say, a useful profit.”
“But I’m in no position to buy anything. I’m not just ‘relatively poor.’ I have no capital whatsoever.”
“You don’t need it. It will all be done on credit, and I will willingly stand guarantee for you. I know your lawyer, Geoffrey Dillon, and the directors of your bank are friends of mine. Take my advice, Bellamy. Let those who like and admire you help you.”
Richard was very much tempted. His lack of capital had always been a source of concern. It was not that he wanted for anything. A new suit or two, perhaps, more books, more vintage wines would be pleasant to acquire, of course, but there was no pressing need for them. As a rule, any extra cash he had he spent on Marjorie or the children, for he had learned from sheer necessity the virtues of frugality. Throughout his marriage he never had had much to spend upon himself—and now at forty-nine he did not want it.
But capital was something different. He knew full well the uncertainties of politics as a career. He also knew Lord Southwold would not last forever. Once the old man went, Richard and Marjorie would have no assurance about their income. A plump portfolio of shares and a few thousand on deposit in the bank would make their future much rosier.
And Geoffrey Dillon added to the temptation. Over the past few years that slippery gentleman had been advancing his career. An astute marriage to a Birmingham paint manufacturer’s only daughter and some risk-free dabbling on the Stock Exchange had assured his fortune. He had recently been working for the Treasury Solicitor, and thanks to his old Southwold connections had made his mark as something of an unofficial legal adviser to the Party. His knighthood was expected in the New Year’s Honours. He had worked hard for it—even Richard conceded that—for these days Geoffrey Dillon knew a lot of politicians, and Richard was amused by the unaccustomed deference with which Lord Southwold’s lawyer treated him.
It was a most judicious and respectful Geoffrey Dillon who called at 165 a few days later to discuss Steiner’s offer. He was all in favour of it. “A great man, Alex Steiner,” he murmured solemnly. “You’re very fortunate to have him as a friend. Between us, he and I are sure that we can guarantee your future and that of Lady Marjorie and the children. For your sake, for the family’s sake, I am delighted.”
“I’m still a little worried, though,” said Richard. “You’re the lawyer. You must know these things, but surely as a member of the government I must be rather careful.”
“Careful, Richard?” Dillon smiled his old, familiar fish-like smile. “Surely you don’t imagine I’d advise you to embark on anything at all improper.”
The way Dillon spoke the word “improper” made Richard laugh. “Good heavens, no! It’s simply that I’m not sure that I trust friend Steiner.”
“Don’t trust him, Richard? But he’s a millionaire! You’ve always been too cautious, Richard. These things are done. You’d be surprised at what is done these days.”
“I’m sure I would,” said Richard.
In the end, Richard thanked the lawyer, promised to consider Steiner’s offer, and said he would give him a decision in a day or two. In fact the Admiralty took up all his time for the next ten days, for the battle still wen
t on within the Cabinet over the dangers and expense of the dreadnought programme. Richard, now a convinced supporter of Admiral Fisher, was at the heart of it, and this left him little time to spare for Steiner or for Dillon. Then something happened which made up his mind for him.
James was now stationed down at Windsor. This meant that he and Marjorie saw rather less of him, but on that Sunday morning, whilst the whole household was still in bed, there was a honking from the street outside.
“What on earth is that?” said Marjorie.
“Ought to be arrested, whoever it is, making such a filthy noise at this time on a Sunday!” said Richard.
But the noise went on. Still grumbling, Richard climbed out of bed, pulled back the curtains, and peered out.
“Good God,” he said, “it’s James!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Marjorie said sleeply. “How could it be?” “I tell you that it’s James. He’s got a motor car.”
There was naturally great excitement. Apart from the eccentric Lord John Prizeman several doors away, who had recently bought a thundering Daimler-Benz from Germany, no one in Eaton Place had been so daring or extravagant as to own a car. Hudson and the servants were all most impressed, and over breakfast James was quite lyrical about the new machine. It was a six-horse-power De Dion, and it had made the journey up from Windsor in an hour. One or two officers had motor cars, but James was insistent that his was the best.
“Incredible the speed it does! On the road from Brentford I was going thirty-five!”
“How dangerous, my dear,” said Marjorie. “Do take care!”
But it was not the speed of James’s car that worried Richard, it was the price. Three hundred pounds.
“How could you possibly afford it?” he asked finally.
James tried to look mysterious.
“Ah, that’s a secret, Father,” he replied, and grinned cheerfully towards his mother. Marjorie smiled back, and Richard sensed that something had gone on behind his back.
“James,” he said angrily. “I insist on knowing!”
James still smiled boyishly. “I tell you, it’s a secret, Father. It was a friend who paid, and I’ve promised not to say …”
“And I tell you that I insist!” said Richard, who was now thoroughly alarmed at the thought of someone spending all that money on his son.
“Really, Father, when an officer and a gentleman gives his word, how could you possibly try to make him break it?”
“James, for the last time,” said Richard, struggling to keep his temper, “I demand to know.”
Marjorie prevented what would certainly have been an uproar between her husband and her son. “It’s quite all right, Richard,” she said calmly. “The man who paid could easily afford it. It was Alex Steiner.”
It was the De Dion that ultimately saved Richard Bellamy, for it was the shining gold-and-scarlet car that finally aroused his slumbering suspicions.
“I’m sorry, old chap,” he said to James. “It’s going back.”
“Going back, Father? What d’you mean?”
“I mean exactly what I say. The motor car is going back immediately to the garage where you bought it—and I will see that Mr. Steiner is repaid in full.”
It was a great deal to expect of somebody like James to accept this ultimatum. But something in Richard’s manner told his son that this was not the time to argue. Nor did Marjorie argue when Richard said that any gifts she’d had from Steiner were to go back too. That same morning he sent a telegram to Geoffrey Dillon.
“On no account, repeat no account, agree to Steiner offer.”
“Interesting,” said the small man with the round, rubicund face. “Extremely interesting. We had an idea this was happening, but it is clearly on a larger scale than we imagined. I must compliment you, sir, on the way you’ve handled it. I can see it must have been embarrassing for you, but that’s nothing to the trouble it could have caused you in the end.”
“You really think Steiner has been up to something, then?” Richard asked.
“Up to something? Admiral Sir Adam Hall, the head of Naval Intelligence, began to laugh and his jolly face became still redder. “Well, yes, you could say he was up to something. Up to a very great deal, to tell the truth. We’ve a dossier on him as thick as my arm. You were a natural target for him from the start.”
“But why? I still don’t really understand.”
The Admiral paused to light a stubby sailor’s pipe. “I take it you don’t know how Mr. Steiner makes his money?”
“Some sort of banking business, I suppose,” Richard said vaguely.
“Banking? Oh, dear me, no! Banking’s too tame a business for the Steiners of this world. Not enough profit either, for his taste. No, Steiner’s in armaments. He doesn’t advertise the fact, of course, but all his real investments are in Germany—Essen, Hamburg—Hamburg in particular. He has a lot of money tied up in their naval programme and I suspect that’s where his real loyalties lie.”
“So he was hoping he could pick up information from me? Not much hope of that.”
“Information? Oh, God bless you, no! Steiner was no common-or-garden spy.”
“What did he want then?”
“He was out to break you, sir! And a lot of other people too, if he’d had the chance. He can’t have cared much for the way that you’ve been championing our Admiral Fisher in the Cabinet. The expanded dreadnought programme doesn’t suit the Germans, not a bit. He knows how delicate the matter is in Parliament, and he also must have known the scandal there’d have been if the news leaked out that the Undersecretary at the Admiralty and his whole family had been receiving bribes.”
“Bribes?” said Richard. “Come now, Admiral!”
“Oh, I know, sir, that it was all quite innocent. And thanks to your action now no harm’s been done. But you have no idea what some of Steiner’s cronies in the British press would have made of it all when he decided that the time was ripe: expensive gifts and holidays for your lady wife, a brand new motor car for your son, and then a mass of carefully rigged shares for you. No, Mr. Bellamy, you’d have been mincemeat by the time the press and Mr. Steiner had had done with you!”
This set the Admiral off again, and for some moments he sat laughing jovially at the idea. Richard, however, didn’t laugh, and when the merriment subsided he asked the Admiral what would happen now.
“Nothing,” the little man said briskly. “Fortunately nothing. And if we keep our fingers crossed—and Mr. Balfour’s sums come out—Jackie will get his battleships.”
“And Steiner?”
“The man’s committed no crime, and he has a lot of powerful friends. But I’ve an idea that—thanks to you, sir—we’ll soon be able to take care of him.”
Steiner’s departure two months later caused considerable regret, not least in 165. The servants missed his lavish tips, and Marjorie knew that the next St. Mildred’s Ball would never find so generous a backer. Neither Marjorie nor James ever really understood why Richard had suddenly become so scrupulous, and for years to come James would regret that superb De Dion. Dillon missed Steiner too, and when he became Sir Geoffrey Dillon, he never knew how much he owed Richard for his title.
1905
12. A Lady and Her Lover
There are essentially two sorts of husband: those who blame their wives when they discover they have been unfaithful, and those who blame themselves. Fortunately for Marjorie, and for the peace of 165, Richard was among the latter. Not that it wasn’t a grave shock to him when he realised, without the shadow of a doubt, that the woman he had been married to for twenty-seven years had wantonly deceived him.
For without being over-subtle on the precise meaning of the verb “to love,” Richard undoubtedly still loved his wife. For twenty-seven years he had been technically faithful to her. He depended on her for his emotional security and physical release. He admired her, looked up to her, and in his way was still extraordinarily sentimental about her. Small things she did—the way
she organized her dressing table or addressed a letter or arranged a vase of flowers—never failed to move him. And he still found her beautiful—as indeed she was—so that the discovery that she was having an affair with one of his son’s brother officers caused him considerable pain. It was not simply jealousy. He was no longer anything like as jealous as he had been ten years earlier. (Does jealousy in some merciful manner subside in time with a man’s virility?) What really caused the pain was the natural feeling that the one person he had thought he could trust completely had suddenly betrayed him; and without Marjorie, everything was lost.
“But why?” he asked himself. “Why did she have to do it?” And since he was the sort of husband that he was, he spent some days of agony and doubt trying to decide just where and how he’d failed.
When a good-looking, wealthy, middle-aged woman finds herself suddenly in bed with someone other than her husband, there can be several explanations for her conduct. In Marjorie’s case the obvious reason was the best: her lover, Captain Charles Hammond of the Indian Army, was six foot two, lean, bronzed and eager, and she found him irresistible. James had brought him to visit at Eaton Square. An uneventful evening at the opera followed, and then purely by chance Marjorie met him in the book department of the Army and Navy Stores. From then on, innocence was over. When he invited her back to his lodgings in the Ebury Road to read some poetry, she knew exactly what would happen, and when it did she thoroughly enjoyed herself. The captain was a skilful lover. Marjorie, who had read this phrase in novels, had always wondered what it meant. Now she discovered. Richard, for all his youthful indiscretions years ago in Paris, was not particularly imaginative. Politics and age and years of familiarity had rather sapped his energies as well. The contrast between him and the captain startled her. Not for nothing had Captain Hammond served in India, home of the Kama Sutra and the temple prostitutes of Kerala. Unlike your decent Englishman who had been taught that sex hadn’t much to do with female pleasure, he was an uninhibited young sensualist who taught Marjorie things that Richard would have said were too depraved for honest women. Had she been younger she might have felt the same, for a while at least. But she was of an age now where she was grateful to be discovering pleasures rather than losing them, and at forty-seven she was more passionate and more frustrated than ever in her life.
