Dead End

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  ‘Very well. We’ll keep the case, then. And we’ll keep off the television for the time being. I think the likelihood of gain is outweighed by the disadvantage of the publicity.’ Barrington got up and began pacing again. ‘And I’ll handle the press on this one. I want you to have a free hand.’

  Free to win fame or to fuck up. ‘Thank you, sir,’ Slider said.

  Barrington paced, and Slider began to feel restless. He had better things to do than to wait on Mad Ivan’s thought processes.

  ‘Will that be all, sir?’ he prompted, Jeeves-like.

  Barrington turned and stared thoughtfully at him. ‘Yes. Carry on. But don’t forget what I said. Discipline, and attention to detail. You can’t run a successful campaign without them.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Slider said dutifully, and removed himself. Definitely cracking up, he thought. And who was likely to get the rubble coming down on his head?

  Radek’s house, now the house of sorrow, was one of those large, handsome, four-storeyed, nineteenth-century town-houses, white stone rendering over yellow London brick, porch with white pillars, steps up over a semi-basement. It was one of a terrace set back a little from Holland Park Avenue, with a private access road divided from the common pavement by iron railings, a shrubbery and a row of ancient plane trees seventy feet high. They soared with magnificent disproportion over the little cars and the little people down in the street, like members of an alien culture so advanced it did not even need to acknowledge the host infestation.

  Inside the house was gracious and beautiful in a way that you simply had to be born to money to achieve. Slider appreciated, but knew he could never have emulated it, even if he won the pools. It was as many light years away from the Sunday supplement, Marilyn Cripps good-taste of Irene’s wistful dreams as that was from the Ruislip Moderne she was fleeing so hard, poor thing. And oddly enough, Buster Keaton fitted into it, and looked not nearly so odd amidst the quiet elegance as he had in the ordinary world. He was short, stout and shiningly bald, but his features held the remnants of what must once have been a remarkable beauty, and he moved among the glowing treasures with the ease of custom.

  ‘Yes, it is a lovely house,’ Keaton said, leading Slider into the first-floor drawing-room. ‘I have been very happy here. I count myself fortunate to have been able to share all this, as well as the life of a great genius.’ In himself he was immaculate, clean enough to have eaten off, and even indoors and at a time like this was dressed in grey flannels with a knife-edge crease, pale blue shirt, striped tie and navy blazer.

  ‘Was Sir Stefan a genius?’ Slider asked. Keaton looked at him sharply, and he smiled disarmingly. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know much about music.’

  Keaton examined him for bona fides, and his hackles slowly lowered. ‘Yes. Yes, he was a genius. It’s a word that’s over-used and often misapplied, but in his case it was justified. He was a man of rare and extraordinary talent. Of course like most geniuses he was misunderstood by lesser people.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Oh, they sometimes thought him rude and intolerant. I’ve heard the things people say – musicians – but they didn’t understand. He lived to serve Music: he didn’t have the time or energy to worry about their petty feelings.’ He settled himself on the end of a chaise-longue, sitting very upright, his back unsupported, and waved Slider to a chair. ‘Of course his dedication took its toll of him. Not that he counted the cost: he never spared himself. But it was killing him.’

  ‘Killing him?’

  Keaton’s large pale eyes seemed to widen further. ‘His heart,’ he said. ‘He was not a well man. I’ve been trying for eighteen months to persuade him to do less, to go into semi-retirement, but he couldn’t live without his work. “If I go tomorrow,” he’d say to me, “I want to go with my stick in my hand.”’ Slider began to detect a very faint residual Yorkshire accent in the otherwise cultured tones. It seemed to grow with the increasing cosiness of the prose-style. ‘I warned him. I said, “You’re not as young as you used to be. Take it easy,” I said. “Does it matter if you do one concert a week instead of two or three?” Well, he did slow down a bit, but not as much as I wanted him to. And now—’ the eyes shone with tears, ‘and now he’s gone, even if it was the way he wanted.’ He had to pause a moment to regain control. ‘He could have gone at any time, I knew that,’ he went on, shaking his head slowly. ‘I shouldn’t be surprised.’

  Slider was sitting forward, hands clasped between his knees, staring at the carpet while he listened. Now he looked up. ‘But it wasn’t his heart that killed him, Mr Keaton.’

  For a moment Keaton looked quite blank, as though he’d been spoken to in a foreign language. Then he drew out a handkerchief and slowly and carefully wiped his eyes. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I was forgetting. You must forgive me. This has been such a dreadful shock for me, I hardly know what I’m thinking.’

  ‘You’d been with Sir Stefan a long time,’ said Slider, to get him going again.

  ‘More than forty years,’ he answered with a touch of mournful pride. ‘It was June 1953 when my wife and I joined him. Of course he wasn’t Sir Stefan in those days, but he was already world-famous. We came as a couple. My wife was cook-housekeeper and I was chauffeur-handyman.’

  ‘Your wife?’

  A gleam of something appeared in the depths of Keaton’s eyes at the interjection – perhaps annoyance or even amusement that Slider had obviously been writing him down as a lifelong bachelor.

  ‘My wife Doreen died in 1960.’ He spread his hands in a little deprecatory gesture. ‘I was not always as you see me now. In my youth I was thought quite handsome. Let me show you.’

  He got up and went across the room to a bureau, opened a drawer, and took out a large photograph album. As he walked back, he turned the pages over and then turned it round and presented it to Slider open, holding it for him rather than entrusting it to his grasp. Alone on the page was an eleven-by-eight black-and-white print of a smiling young woman in the rolled-over hairstyle and high-shouldered print dress of the forties. Her arm was linked through that of a young man in a double-breasted suit, his thin light hair Brylcreemed down and his pale eyes almost disappearing by some trick of the light. They were standing on grass and amid shrubs, and in the background was part of a building, the sort of vast Victorian pile which usually turned out to be either a private school or a lunatic asylum – not, Slider thought, that there was always much difference. Yes, he had been good-looking. A little on the short side, perhaps, but women didn’t usually mind that too much.

  ‘What’s this place?’ he asked.

  ‘Fitzpayne School,’ Keaton replied. ‘Not my alma mater, I hasten to add. I taught there after the war.’

  ‘Classics?’ Slider suggested, following the Latin clue.

  Again that faint gleam. ‘Biology. Botany was my subject, but I taught zoology as well. I shouldn’t have liked to be known as The Bot Master.’

  Slider smiled dutifully at what was obviously a well-rehearsed joke. He could just see Keaton telling it daringly over the sherry at parents’ evenings, to indulgent and faintly shocked laughter.

  ‘What did you do during the war?’

  ‘I was at university. Cambridge. I did research there for the Ministry of Food as part of my degree – how to make two ears of wheat grow where one grew before, that sort of thing.’

  It was said defensively, as though he had been accused of dodging the call-up. Slider decided to ease one sting with another. ‘You’re obviously an educated man. What made you give up teaching to become a chauffeur? Didn’t you find it rather a come-down to go into service?’

  Keaton looked away for a moment, and Slider thought he might have gone too far; but after a moment he said, without apparent offence, ‘I didn’t enjoy teaching. I didn’t really like children, you see, especially little boys – their minds are so undisciplined. And then I decided I wanted to write. I suppose most of us feel we have a book in us somewhere, don’t we?’ Slider assented disho
nestly. He had never had the least urge to write – real life, at least in his case, being a lot stranger than fiction.

  ‘But of course I needed some kind of employment to keep me until I made my fortune,’ Keaton went on with a little self-deprecatory smile, ‘and when I saw the advertisement for a couple for Sir Stefan’s house, it seemed like the answer to a prayer. Accommodation was such a problem after the war, you see, with so much of the housing stock destroyed by the Blitz and no money left in the kitty to replace it. Doreen and I looked at some rooms, but the ones we could have afforded would have given me acute spiritual pain to live in.’

  Slider nodded sympathetically. ‘And the advertisement related to this house, did it?’

  ‘Yes. The Radeks had just moved in here. His wife, Lady Susan, inherited it from her father.’ He smiled faintly. ‘When I took the job on, I looked on it as a part-time job. I thought I’d have plenty of time to myself to write. But it was impossible to live under the same roof as Sir Stefan and stay aloof, especially after his wife died. Little by little I was drawn in, and eventually – when Doreen died as well – he became my whole life.’ His eyes were distant again, and shining. ‘Serving him so that he could serve Music. It was a great cause. I have been part of something noble and valuable. My life has not been wasted.’

  The old-fashioned ideal of service, Slider thought, half amused, half admiring. Nowadays no-one would publicly espouse it for fear of being thought a prat, though it was still what drew most of the recruits into the police service. But the fashion was to claim to be cynical and self-serving. It was quite refreshing talking to old Buster, he thought.

  ‘Tell me about Sir Stefan,’ he asked now. ‘He wasn’t English, was he?’

  Keaton gave Slider a sharp look. ‘He was a British citizen, and proud of it,’ he said almost crossly. ‘He was knighted for his services to music, and they don’t give knighthoods to foreigners, you know.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to suggest – but his name doesn’t sound English. I thought I read somewhere that he was of Czech origin.’

  ‘Polish,’ Keaton corrected shortly. ‘But he took nationality in 1950. He came to England with his mother after the fall of Poland, when his father was killed. Stefan joined the infantry in 1940 and fought right through the war. He finished as a major and won the MC. He had a very good war.’ Keaton was obviously immensely proud of Radek’s record. Slider had the feeling he’d get shown the medals if he wasn’t careful. ‘He didn’t have to fight, you know. They wouldn’t have called him up. And he risked more than most people to do it, because he was already a brilliant musician. Imagine if he’d been blinded, or deafened, or lost a hand? For him, it was a great personal sacrifice to put his career to one side for five years.’

  ‘And why did he?’

  ‘Duty,’ said Keaton simply. ‘He felt that music couldn’t exist in the same world with the Nazis. To give himself to music would be pointless if they were not destroyed.’

  A truly noble, selfless man, Slider thought. Can this be the same Radek I’ve been hearing about, or is it just a case of power corrupting absolutely?

  ‘Did he have any family? His wife is dead, I think you said?’

  ‘Lady Susan died in 1959. It was tragic – they were devoted, you know. He never married again. There was just one child, Fenella – but she’s always called Fay. She was born in 1950. She married Alec Coleraine, the solicitor, and they’ve just the one son, Marcus.’

  ‘How did Sir Stefan get on with them? Were they close?’

  Keaton pursed his lips. ‘Stefan adored Fay, but she was always a headstrong girl, and they often quarrelled. He didn’t want her to marry Alec Coleraine – didn’t think he was good enough for her – which he wasn’t in my opinion. But she waited until she was twenty-one and then told her father he couldn’t stop her any more. Well, Stefan put a brave face on it, and they were always very loving when they met without Alec, but if Alec was around there was friction.’ He paused as though hearing himself, and added, ‘It was nothing serious, though, just family bickerings.’

  ‘It happens in the best of families,’ Slider said reassuringly.

  Keaton went on confidentially. ‘Stefan didn’t like the way they were bringing up Marcus. Between them they spoiled him, gave him everything he wanted, and when Sir Stefan tried to instil a bit of discipline in the boy, they’d take his side. So of course, he always knew he could appeal to his mother and father against his grandfather, and there’s nothing spoils a child quicker. Sir Stefan did his best; he wanted Marcus to come and stay with us much more often, but Alec wouldn’t let him. I’m afraid,’ he added, as though forced to reveal a deeply unpalatable truth, ‘that Alec Coleraine doesn’t regard music as a proper thing to spend one’s life on. Marcus could have been a talented soloist, but his father thought it was prissy to play the violin. He wanted him to go into a profession and make lots of money – as if that was the test of manhood, how many zeros you have in your bank balance. Well, he’s only got himself to blame if the boy’s turning out wild.’ He sighed. ‘But it all added to the strain on Stefan. It all helped wear him out.’

  ‘Has there been any specific cause of quarrel between them recently?’ Slider asked.

  Keaton opened his eyes wide. ‘Good lord no! This is just ordinary family tensions I’m talking about. I hope you aren’t suggesting that Alec Coleraine would ever dream of—?’ The tears came again quite suddenly. ‘Oh dear, I’m sorry. Just for a minute I’d forgotten. I just can’t believe he’s – the thought of anyone doing such a thing is so very—’

  He disappeared into his handkerchief.

  ‘This is all so distressing for you,’ Slider said kindly after a moment. ‘Can I make you a cup of tea or something? If you just tell me where the kitchen is—?’

  ‘Oh, no, no thank you,’ Keaton said through the muffling folds. In a moment he re-emerged, blew his nose and straightened his shoulders and his tie, with his generation’s desire always to keep up appearance. ‘No, I’ll do it. I should have offered you something, I’m sorry. Will you have some tea now? Or would you like something stronger?’

  Slider thought it would give the old man time and privacy to compose himself, so he said, ‘Thank you, tea would be very nice. Are you sure I can’t make it for you?’

  ‘No, no, that would never do. Besides, I know where everything is. I shan’t be long.’

  He went out, and Slider stood up and walked across to look out of the window. Here at the back of the house was a handsome, high-walled garden with several magnificent trees, and a stretch of lawn which curved back and forth round borders and archipelagos of herbaceous plants and shrubs. From ground level, he thought, it would present an artfully simple appearance of intriguing vistas and inviting walks. He could see that the planting had been done to present blocks of sympathetic colour in the way that was fashionable nowadays: no cottage-garden riot of oranges, purples and yellows, no eye-bashing cheerfulness of vermilion muddled up with magenta. Just below him, for instance, was a long bed planted with nothing but blue flowers set amongst silvery foliage: at the back tall spires of delphinium, rocket and Mexican lupins were having their second flowering; in front of them pale flax, deep-blue cornflowers and feathery love-in-a-mist; and to the front of the bed the lower-growing blue salvia, cherry pie, cranesbill, and an edging of clumps of campanula. It was exquisite and restful, the outdoor equivalent of the cool, elegant drawing-room he was standing in.

  That was the kind of gardening that he’d always wanted the time and space to do, and never had. It was the frustrated architect in him, he supposed. When he was younger, when he’d had time to spare, he’d enjoyed going to visit great houses and walking round their gardens, gathering ideas. It had bored the children rigid, though Irene had liked looking round the houses, as long as they were fully furnished and no older than eighteenth century. But she had no interest in gardening – or anything to do with the outdoors, really. She, having been born there, saw no romance in the countryside:
she regarded it with suspicion and dislike as a source of mud, creepy-crawlies and rude animals. To her the modern world was the apogee of civilisation, for there was no need for a person ever to step out of doors (except from building to car and car to building again) or to encounter the inconveniently dirty habits of old mother Gaia. A centrally-heated, double-glazed conservatory was as near to God in a garden as she wanted to get.

  Well, he thought, now she’d gone and the garden was his to do again. Perhaps a resuscitation of his interest in gardening would help to fill all the lonely hours ahead of him. It looked as though it would have to do it for Buster, who seemed to have nothing else.

  A sound made Slider turn. He saw Keaton coming in with a large tray, and hastened over in case he needed a table cleared. But Keaton anticipated the move and said, ‘I can manage quite well, thank you. I’m used to this.’

  He had tidied away the evidence of his tears, but he looked frightfully old and worn – pale in cheek and blue-shadowed around the eyes. I wouldn’t be surprised, Slider thought, if the old boy didn’t last much longer. It was often the way when people lived closely together for a long time, that one could not outlive the other.

  ‘I’m sorry to have to put you through this,’ Slider said. ‘Just a few more questions, and then I’ll leave you in peace.’

  ‘You must do your job,’ Keaton said, sorting out the tray. ‘We all have to do our duty. How do you like your tea?’

  When they were both settled with their cups, Slider said, ‘I’d like you to tell me, if you would, about Sir Stefan’s friends. Who was there who was close to him?’

  Keaton shook his head almost reprovingly. ‘You’ve got the wrong idea. I told you he was dedicated to his work; it took up all his time and his spiritual energy. There was nothing left over for anything else. Friends, socialising and such, would have been a useless drain on him. He didn’t have time to go to parties, you know.’ He spoke the word witheringly. ‘It was all he could do to keep up with his daughter and her family.’