Outside after the service, she was alone again while Bertram went to fetch the car for the journey to the crematorium, or the garden of remembrance, as he insisted on calling it. She felt a hand on her sleeve and turned, coming face-to-face with a handsome man she’d never seen before. He held out his hand and she noticed as she took it how clean and graceful his fingers were, like those of a pianist.
‘I’m Charles,’ he said, looking straight into her eyes as if he were confiding something important. ‘Charles Seaforth. I’m sorry for your loss. Your father was a great man, Mrs Brive. He will be sorely missed. I can assure you of that.’
Her head was full of questions. How did this stranger know who she was? What was his connection to her father? Why would he say that her father was great when it was such a strange word to use? In her confusion, she could only nod her head.
‘It must be very hard for you,’ he went on. ‘Not just to lose your father, but to lose him like this. I hope they will soon find the person responsible.’
She knew she ought to have been upset by the man’s direct reference to the murder, but in fact she felt the opposite. She hated the way Bertram and the vicar seemed determined to pretend that her father’s violent death had never happened. Talking about it was like a breath of fresh air.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I don’t want the person who did it to get away with it. I want him to pay.’
With what? With his life? She was surprised at her own vehemence. It was as if she hadn’t chosen her words, but that they had been pulled out of her by some force beyond her control. She felt as though she hadn’t meant anything she’d said about the murder until now.
‘I understand,’ said the stranger. ‘I felt the same when my father died, except that he was killed in the last war and so there was no one to take responsibility, no one to punish. I was angry, but there was nothing I could do.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. She felt she should step back or look away, but she didn’t. The stranger’s crystal-blue eyes drew her, held her where she was. ‘How did you know my father?’ she asked.
‘We worked together. Not for very long, but there was enough time for me to understand his value even if others did not.’
‘What work? What did my father do?’ Ava asked the question quickly, without thinking, and then immediately dropped her eyes, ashamed at the way she’d revealed her ignorance; mortified that this complete stranger should know more about her father than she did. But Seaforth didn’t seem to notice her discomfort, or at least he didn’t show that he did.
‘I can’t tell you, I’m afraid,’ he said apologetically. ‘It’s against the rules.’
‘I understand,’ she said hurriedly, trying to hide her confusion. ‘Really I do. I’m sorry I asked. I-’
‘Don’t be. It’s not easy. Nothing about death is ever easy,’ he said, laying his hand on her arm for a moment. It made her skin tingle, even through the cloth.
She felt tears spring into her eyes. This stranger was the first person since the young policeman on the night of the murder to show her any genuine sympathy. She wanted to thank him but couldn’t find the words. And there was no time. People were converging on her. She could see Bertram making his way through the crowd, but first there was Alec, come to express his condolences. She breathed hard — she knew that this was going to be a difficult conversation. But then she realized that he wasn’t even looking at her; his attention was focused on Seaforth, and he looked angry, angrier than she had ever seen him before.
He took hold of Seaforth’s arm and pulled him around, away from Ava.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he demanded with cold fury, making an obvious effort to keep his voice in check. ‘Why are you here?’
Seaforth’s reaction surprised Ava. He didn’t say anything; instead he smiled, looked down at Thorn’s hand on his arm, and then slowly took hold of Thorn’s wrist with his free hand and lifted it away. He acted as though he had all the time in the world. Ava could see that Thorn was trying to resist, but he was powerless in the face of Seaforth’s superior strength.
Seaforth held Thorn’s hand suspended in mid-air for a moment. Thorn’s face was screwed up as if he were in pain, and then Seaforth let go and Thorn sagged over to one side.
‘I’m here for the same reason I assume you are,’ Seaforth said evenly. ‘To pay my respects to Albert Morrison and to express my sympathy to his bereaved daughter. Perhaps you should consider doing the same.’
‘You hardly knew him,’ said Thorn through gritted teeth. He was still nursing his wrist.
Seaforth’s face was turned away from Ava, so she didn’t know if he was going to respond, but there was no opportunity in any event. Bertram had now appeared at her side, apparently unaware of any trouble. He looked unfamiliar for a moment. She thought perhaps that it was seeing him in a black suit and necktie instead of his customary bow tie and tweeds. If pressed, she’d have said that the new outfit was something of an improvement.
‘We need to go, my dear,’ he said, rubbing his hands. She couldn’t tell if it was against the cold or because he was pleased with the results of his meticulous planning of the day’s events — both, perhaps. ‘Father Harris has gone on ahead with the undertaker. I must say I think Hodson has done a first-class job with the arrangements. I wasn’t sure whether to instruct him or the funeral directors up on Lavender Hill, but I really think my choice has been fully vindicated. Everything has gone like clockwork,’ he added pompously.
‘Where’s the car?’ Ava asked, wanting to get away. She realized with surprise that she didn’t want Seaforth to see her with her husband.
‘Over there,’ said Bertram, pointing to the other side of the road.
She allowed Bertram to take her arm and started to walk away, but then she stopped, hearing Alec calling her name. ‘Go on ahead,’ she said to her husband. ‘I won’t be a minute.’
Bertram scowled, looking back and seeing Alec Thorn coming up behind them. He’d never liked Thorn, sensing that he had more than friendly feelings towards his wife, and he’d welcomed Thorn’s increasing absence from their lives since his marriage. But now was not the time to make a scene. ‘Don’t be long,’ he said to Ava. ‘We don’t want to be late.’
She turned around to face Alec and felt an unexpected wave of anger pass through her. What business did he have making a scene at her father’s funeral? Had he no respect? No sense of decorum?
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, looking abject. ‘I don’t know what possessed me.’
‘Nor do I,’ she said coldly. She wanted to leave, to get the whole awful day over with.
‘Listen, Ava, if there’s anything I can do to help, you know you can call me. Look, here’s my phone number,’ he added, pushing his card into her hand as if it were some kind of peace offering.
But she wasn’t looking at him. Instead she was staring over his shoulder to where Charles Seaforth was standing, watching her. He smiled as he caught her eye, and at that moment, almost as if it were scripted, the sun peeped out from behind the thick grey clouds that had been swirling across the sky ever since the rain stopped, and picked him out in its beam. It was as if he were being shown to her, she thought; identified as someone who was going to be significant in her life. As if he were some kind of angel sent down from heaven. She laughed at the thought. There was no such thing as angels. Not in this God-forsaken world.
‘Ava!’ Bertram was calling to her. She had to go. She nodded half to Alec, half to herself, as if registering all that had happened, and then she turned to walk away, catching sight as she crossed the road of the young policeman Trave, watching her intently from the steps of the church. She wondered how much he’d seen of what had passed.
CHAPTER 6
The next morning, Seaforth was waiting for Ava on the other side of the street from her flat when she went out to do her shopping. She was shocked and even a little alarmed to see him. It made no sense that this complete stranger was suddenly so intereste
d in her, unless it had something to do with her father’s death. Anyone could be the murderer. It could be Bertram; it could be this man, except that he didn’t feel like a killer to her — which was a stupid way to think, she told herself. Seaforth’s sparkling blue eyes, which seemed to promise humour, tenderness, and understanding all at the same time — everything that had been missing from her life up to now — had nothing to do with it. She needed to watch herself, to stay on her guard. Now more than ever.
‘I’m sorry to show up like this. Unannounced, I mean,’ he said, falling into step beside her as she walked towards the bus stop. ‘I got your address from the phone book. I wanted to see you — to apologize.’
‘Apologize?’ she repeated, surprised. ‘Apologize for what?’
‘For what happened with Alec Thorn yesterday. It was inappropriate; it should never have happened.’
‘It wasn’t your fault. Alec attacked you, not the other way round. I can’t imagine why. I’ve never seen him do anything like that before.’
‘He’s changed.’
‘Changed?’
‘Yes, it’s the war. When did you last see him?’
‘A few months ago, maybe more. I’m not sure.’
‘Months are a long time nowadays. They seem like years. We’re under a lot of pressure at work, and Alec feels it more than most — perhaps because he’s a bit older than the rest of us. He’s closer to your father’s generation than to mine.’
‘Us! Who are us?’ she asked, stopping and turning to face her companion. ‘Please tell me, Mr Seaforth. I need to know.’
‘Charles,’ he said, meeting her gaze. ‘You must call me Charles.’
‘Charles, then,’ she said, sounding the name on her tongue, liking it, feeling it fit. There was no place for caution if this stranger could tell her who her father was — as she’d said, she needed to know. ‘Can’t you help me?’ she asked, putting her hand on his arm. ‘No one else will. I feel like I said goodbye to a stranger yesterday, not my father.’
Seaforth said nothing, so she guessed. ‘It’s the Secret Service,’ she said. ‘You’re spies. That’s what you are, aren’t you?’ It was framed as a question, but she didn’t need an answer. As soon as the words had left her mouth, she’d known she was right. It was as though she’d known the truth for years but had never been prepared to admit it to herself until now.
‘We’re patriots,’ Seaforth said quietly. ‘That’s all. Everyone does their part in different ways.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I can understand that.’
‘You can’t tell anyone I told you. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t.’
The first emotion she’d felt was relief. At least there had been a reason for her father’s silence; at least he’d done something worthwhile with his life. But now she felt something else — a surge of spontaneous gratitude towards Seaforth. He hadn’t told her the truth because he couldn’t, but he’d certainly enabled her to find it. He’d taken her seriously. Not like her father and Alec Thorn, shutting her out because she was a woman and couldn’t be trusted.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It helps to know.’
‘You have nothing to thank me for. I came here to apologize. Remember?’
‘Yes,’ she said, smiling. ‘I remember.’ She relaxed for a moment, but then her nervous curiosity about the reasons for Seaforth’s interest in her returned, and with it a sense of unease. ‘Why does Alec hate you?’ she asked, remembering Alec’s unseemly rage outside the church and the effortless way that Seaforth had held Alec’s hand suspended in mid-air for a moment before he let go.
‘He thinks I want his job,’ Seaforth said carefully. It was as if he were measuring his words, working out how much he could say.
‘Do you?’
‘I want what’s best for the country.’ He smiled, noticing the frown on her face. ‘Sorry, that’s not good enough, I know. The fact is this is a young man’s war, and if we’re going to win it, a lot of the old guard will have to be swept away. Some of that happened after the last war, but not enough. It’s what works that matters now. There’s no place for a sense of entitlement when our backs are up against the wall. I think people like Alec Thorn find that hard to understand.’
‘Because he doesn’t want to be swept away?’
Seaforth nodded.
‘Like my father was?’
‘I told you at the funeral that your father was a great man. He could have accomplished great things, but no one would listen to him. He understood what was at stake with Germany when Hitler came to power, but everyone was obsessed with Joe Stalin and the Reds, and then it was too late. He was a voice crying in the wilderness.’
They walked on in silence until they reached the bus shelter, where Ava stopped, turning to look again at her companion. She sensed there was something else he wanted to say — something personal, nothing to do with Hitler and Communism. She could tell from the look of indecision on his face.
‘What is it, Charles?’ she asked. ‘There’s something else, isn’t there? What is it you want with me?’
‘I can’t tell you here,’ he said. ‘Could we meet sometime — somewhere we can talk?’
‘Why?’ she asked, taking a step back. ‘You need to tell me why.’
‘Because there are other things I’ve got to tell you, things you need to know — about your father, about his death. I only need a few minutes. It isn’t much to ask.’
A bus was coming, and she reached out her hand, hailing it to stop. She turned away from him, getting out her purse for the fare. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.
The bus came to a halt beside her and she took hold of the grab pole in her hand but didn’t mount the platform. She knew Seaforth was waiting for an answer, but she felt unable to respond — caught between curiosity and suspicion.
‘Please,’ he said. ‘You won’t regret it.’
‘The Lyons Corner House — the big one in the West End, by Piccadilly Circus,’ she said, saying the first place that came into her head. Only later did she realize its unsuitability — it was the same restaurant where Bertram had proposed to her over tea and cake three years before.
‘Come on, dearie, make up your mind. Are you getting on or are you getting off?’ asked the conductress impatiently. ‘We haven’t got all day.’
Ava stepped onto the platform and the conductress rang the bell. The bus moved off, away from the kerb.
‘When?’ asked Seaforth, shouting over the noise of the engine.
‘Tomorrow,’ she shouted back. ‘Twelve o’clock.’
Seaforth raised his hand as if in acknowledgement, but she didn’t know for sure whether he’d heard her. And as she sat down, it occurred to her that she didn’t even know whether she’d wanted him to.
She closed her eyes, and out of nowhere a memory rushed to meet her from the remote past. She was a small child in a snow-suit, standing with her father at the top of a steep hill. The world was white and he was bent over a wooden toboggan that he was holding in position a few inches back from the beginning of the slope. He was telling her to get in — she could hear his voice, and she could remember how his face was red in the cold — but she continued to hesitate, frightened that they would crash and that she would be smashed to pieces against the line of ice-laden birch trees that she could see in the valley below.
‘Are you coming or not?’ her father demanded, impatient just as the bus conductress had been a moment before. But try as she might, she couldn’t remember whether she had got in the toboggan and gone screaming down the hill or given in to her fears and slunk away. It was too long ago.
In the afternoon, Bertram got out the car and drove them over the river to Scotland Yard. The young policeman Trave had rung up in the morning to say that their statements were ready for them to read through and sign.
And then halfway down the Embankment, Bertram announced in a self-important voice that the next day at 12.30 had be
en fixed for the reading of her father’s will at the solicitor’s office — a champagne moment for him at which he wanted her present. Ava was taken aback. She’d been worrying all day that she had made a mistake agreeing to meet Seaforth in the West End, but it hadn’t occurred to her that the arrangement would cause her a problem with Bertram. He’d been out a lot in recent days, revelling in his new role as her father’s executor, and she’d thought it safe to assume that her absence from the flat for several hours in the middle of the day would go unnoticed.
Now, without warning, she was faced with a choice between lying to her husband and not going to her meeting with Seaforth. She had no means of contacting Seaforth to change the time, and she was sure he would assume that she’d decided not to see him if she didn’t show up. Moments before, she had been contemplating staying away, but she felt differently now that the decision was being forced on her. Talking to Seaforth for a few minutes had enabled her to find out more about her father than she had discovered in all the years he was alive, and Seaforth had told her at the bus stop that he had more to tell her. She didn’t trust Seaforth. How could she, when he had descended on her out of the blue without giving any adequate reason for his sudden interest? But she couldn’t give up on the chance to know more about her father, even if the price was lying — something she had always hated doing.
‘I can’t go,’ she said. ‘I’ve got plans.’
‘What plans?’ asked Bertram, sounding annoyed. ‘What are you doing?’ He seemed surprised that she should be doing anything, which spoke volumes, she thought, about what he thought her life was worth.
‘I’m seeing someone at twelve o’clock for lunch — my mother’s cousin. She was at the funeral,’ Ava lied, naming the first person who came into her head. But it was a bad choice.
‘Do you mean Mrs Willoughby?’ asked Bertram. ‘I thought she was only up in London for the day.’
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