I myself didn’t smile.
“But his asking for a snapshot—didn’t that make your parents feel uneasy? (Your parents, at the very least.) A bona fide address? A bona fide occupant of that address?”
“Well, yes, I suppose it did, a little. But we wanted to help. And he assured us we had nothing to worry about. No one was ever going to call.”
Sybella laughed.
“Uncle Ewen, the soothsayer!”
“No. Uncle Ewen the incredible optimist. Did he honestly imagine we wouldn’t bother ourselves to check up?” I suddenly felt angry. Not only indignant—angry.
Yet, annoyingly, I also had a duty to be fair. I remembered Franz Mannheim’s opinion—with which, actually, I had been partly in agreement. “In fact, Anders, do you know what I think? That in sending you over to England we’re wasting your time.”
But even this couldn’t soften my resentment.
“Check up on what, exactly?” Sybella’s tone had become wistful. “The contents of those letters? Although Ewen told me many bits and pieces regarding the set-up in general, naturally he couldn’t tell me anything of its underlying purpose. I’ve no idea who wrote those letters—nor to whom they were going or what they said. None whatsoever.”
She made me chuckle.
“Oh Lord … my own, sweet, shameless little Mata Hari!”
“And I thought I was being so crafty.”
“Only sweet. Only shameless.”
“But I don’t see why I shouldn’t know.”
“I’m not sure that I do. Even if careless talk does cost lives and clergymen who look like Friar Tuck are never to be trusted.”
However, I swiftly returned to my study of the small print.
“Ewen Montague clearly confided all those ‘bits and pieces’ while he was priming you for Aldershot. He can’t have had a lot of time in which to get you ready.”
“I might say that’s the understatement of the year!”
“I think I was hoping you might say a little more.”
“All right, then. What? That last Friday we were playing at Biggin Hill? That when we arrived he was already waiting near the main gates? That when I saw him I felt not only flabbergasted but scared, guessing immediately what he was there for? That on Friday night Peggy went on as Freda but in spite of this Ewen kept me up until practically half past four.”
“And I don’t suppose you slept very much even after that.”
“Well, that’s something! I’m glad you understand at least a fraction of the inconvenience you’ve been putting us through.”
I smiled. “But he must have been so quick off the mark!” I exclaimed. “What time did your coach arrive at Biggin Hill?”
“We’d come down from the north. Shortly after four?”
“You’re pulling my leg!”
“No. Why?”
“Because I wasn’t at the solicitor’s till shortly after two!”
She didn’t understand the reference.
“All I know is, you spoke to my mother on Thursday; the family happened to be out that evening. She alerted Ewen almost the minute you’d put down the phone.”
I gave a whistle.
“Was your mother an actress, too?” I remembered how relaxed she had sounded. “In that case I’d say you could easily employ her as your understudy.”
“I’ll tell her. She’ll be pleased. Shall I also pass on your apologies for having cut her off?”
“Oh, how could she possibly have thought that?”
“Search me. But there’s one thing I won’t let her think, not even as my understudy. That she could ever have learnt such an incredibly complex part half as swiftly as her daughter!”
“Could anyone—Ewen Montague included? Did he stay in touch with you over the weekend?”
“Oh, yes. On Saturday he phoned twice. First during one of the matinée intervals. Then back at camp, after the evening show. Seemed surprised that I hadn’t heard anything. Was it you, though, waiting there opposite the stage door?”
“It was!”
“Oh, you poor love! How pathetic!”
“Utterly.”
“Of course, I rang him on Sunday as soon as I’d received your card. He called straight back—spoke for nearly two hours. That’s why I couldn’t make it to the pub a little earlier.”
She raised a hand, spread wide her fingers, pouted. “Scarcely had the time to paint my nails!”
“Well, from your own point of view it might have been better if you hadn’t. Although I’ve got to say that they looked good. So—by the way—did the rest of you.”
“Well, thank you. But I’ve got to say that Ewen thinks of everything—no matter how rushed he may have been. On Friday afternoon, would you believe, he even turned up with clothing coupons! So I had a lovely time, Saturday morning, taking my mind off scary thoughts of you and ransacking the shops for an outfit that would boost a nervous girl’s morale.”
She laughed.
“Well, thinks of practically everything … I couldn’t get any silk stockings! Why might it have been better if I hadn’t painted my nails?”
“Because Freda’s weren’t painted the night before. So, naturally, I had to put you down as a duplicitous little baggage right from the beginning.”
“I don’t see why.”
“Oh, alas and alack, I only got your note about an hour ago, while I still lay sleeping in my bed!”
“In other words,” she said, severely, “you’re talking of nothing more than everyday, universally accepted, totally endearing feminine wiles?”
“Is that what I’m talking of? Mmm.”
But, despite the grin I gave, I was still feeling peeved by her earlier comment: Ewen thinks of everything! (It had been qualified, of course, but not seriously.) Oh, no, he doesn’t, I wanted to say. Oh, no, he does not!
Because—a case in point! He’d coached Sybella for roughly a dozen hours altogether. Why, then, hadn’t he coached Mr Gwatkin in the same manner, even if he’d had only the Friday morning in which to do it?
Although—to be fair again, tediously fair—perhaps he had. As with Sybella, that later conversation might have been more in the nature of a refresher course, a last-minute pep talk. And if he hadn’t, there could still have been a valid reason. That he had simply believed no sound purpose would be served by alarming Mr Gwatkin. He may have thought my investigations would confine themselves to Sybella.
Had he known, however, from where I had been telephoning his brother-in-law’s housekeeper, things would no doubt have been different. But she was the only one who might have traced that call and presumably she hadn’t thought of it in time. So Mr Gwatkin, who would surely have been supplied at some earlier stage with copies of any correspondence concerning McKenna & Co—as well as a codeword to use in the event of an emergency—had not been warned that a surprise visit could, just conceivably, be imminent. The thoroughness of any lone German spy had clearly been as underestimated as the thoroughness of the whole department which had sent him.
(Yet, on the other hand, could that call have been traced? If so, it would certainly explain the solicitor’s pretentious rigmarole woven around The Importance of Being Earnest.)
“But anyhow,” said Sybella, “moving on, if we may, from all that tiresome mockery, I seem to remember you asked me a question? The one about Ewen keeping in touch with me over the weekend.”
“I know—I hadn’t forgotten it.”
“Well, I’m not convinced you even deserve to be answered, but never mind; I have a lovely and forgiving nature. After that very long top-up yesterday morning I spoke to him again last night. He seemed pleased by what he heard and thought everything appeared to be going well. How was I to know that you’d already had such very grave misgivings? Duplicitous, indeed!”
She glared at me accusingly. Took my hand and placed a kiss upon the back of it. Then asked:
“Had you, in fact, already had such very grave misgivings? Rising now above cosmetics—if you’re capab
le.”
“Yes, I’m afraid I had.”
“Tell me.”
“Well, those love letters, for example. I can’t understand why they didn’t get you to write them yourself, wholly in your own style.”
She shrugged.
“I don’t even think I could have done it. They were written by a woman working in one of Ewen’s offices. He gave her complete freedom; only stipulated that the second of them should have a line or two relating to the theatre. In case—although he didn’t think it likely—in case anyone should ever come making enquiries about that incredible young beauty in the snapshot. Oh, and I assume he also wanted some mention of the diamond ring.”
“Of course you could have done it.”
“Well, anyway, I wasn’t asked. And this woman in the office was there. No messing about, you see.”
“All the same. I think it was an astonishing oversight. There were such grave issues at stake and so many lives being risked and everything dependent on his getting every detail right.”
“In theory,” she said.
“What do you mean: in theory?”
“As I’ve said, I don’t know anything at all about the issues involved, but I do know he never foresaw someone like yourself turning up. Turning up complete with bloodhound and magnifying glass and sweet little deerstalker! He never foresaw that it would get to be so complicated.”
“Well, that’s my point! He should have foreseen it; of course he should! That he didn’t do so—to my mind that’s not only arrogant but slapdash!”
She offered no reply; began to stroke my hair again.
“Arrogant and slapdash,” I repeated. “That’s how it appears to me.”
“Oh, but it would, wouldn’t it? You’re so thoroughly German and pedantic and repressed.”
Yet already I felt better. It had helped, being able to get all that out of my system. I turned my head and smiled.
“Why repressed?”
She answered airily: “No particular reason. I felt I needed a makeweight.”
Then she went on stroking my hair whilst she returned, in an indirect way, to the championship of her adoptive uncle. “And in any case we British always seem to muddle through—don’t ask me how!”
This sentiment, even on the lips of somebody I loved, didn’t suddenly acquire an unsuspected charm. Added to which, it was the second time that I had heard it from her.
“Well, to me that sounds both woolly and fat-headed, especially in view of the circumstances. I hope you don’t mind my being so frank?” Plainly, a good time for getting rid of all my grievances. Probably mentioned as such in that day’s horoscope.
“Oh, no, it’s a free country,” she answered calmly. I wondered if she meant to draw comparisons.
“Thank you. As that’s so, may I ask another question? When will you next be talking to Ewen?”
“Tonight,” she said. “We’ve never been so close; I’ve already spoken to him once today.”
“You have? And what did you tell him?”
“Simply that everything was fine. In fact, I didn’t tell him just how fine! Didn’t happen to mention that I’d gone and lost my heart. Nor about the man I’d lost it to being so pedantic and repressed. But perhaps I’ll acquaint him with all of that this evening. I said I’d give him the latest update when I got home. After the show.”
“After the show which you won’t have seen.”
“Not tonight; not ever. I know that’s very slapdash.”
“Not ever? Do you know—stupidly, that hadn’t occurred to me?” I brought up my wrist. “Oh, but come on; we could easily make the second half!”
“Could we?”
“And what’s more we’ll now be in the mood for it! I mean, really in the mood for it!”
“I would have been in the mood for it, anyway. Until sometime around a quarter to five!”
Her tone might have sounded reproachful, but she was already standing up and putting on her hat.
“Tell me,” she asked, “does that look okay? And—oh, God, I hadn’t thought—how my mascara must have run! And my nose is probably all shiny. Why can I never find my compact when I’m most in need of it?”
I suggested she should empty her things out on the bench. She did so and the compact turned up. I also saw my fountain pen but didn’t allude to it. She repaired her make-up without fuss, put a comb to the back of her hair, smoothed down her skirt and jacket. I brushed her possessions back into her handbag and snapped shut the heavy clasps.
“You look wonderful,” I said.
“And so do you. By the bye, I was lying. I don’t think you’re so thoroughly German.”
“Never mind. Don’t give up hope. We’ll work on it.”
34
We cut up Villiers Street, where we stopped off briefly for our seriously delayed cup of tea and a very necessary—well, in my case, anyway—cheese-and-pickle sandwich (I had two; plus a cake). We then skirted Trafalgar Square, heading towards Coventry Street and the theatre. “By the way,” I said casually. “Have you seen your flatmate Lucy since you got back?”
“Lucy? No-o-o! Now what the dickens do you know about Lucy?”
“Actually very little. Only that she has a boyfriend named Reggie who was somewhat out of favour when I spoke to her on Friday night. Oh, yes—and I suppose as well—that she’s now fully aware of your being engaged to a fellow called Bill Martin. Major Bill Martin of the Royal Marines. I mention this simply because I feel you ought to be prepared.”
“Oh, no!” She gave a groan. This groan was undoubtedly more genuine than the one she had given yesterday on hearing the name of the film now being shown at the Aldershot Ritz.
“I really am sorry,” I said. “But can’t you merely say you were asked to keep it secret? And just leave her to imagine it was Bill who did the asking.” I realized I was again talking about him, and even thinking about him, as if indeed he had been real.
“But a man I never mentioned? Not even once?”
“Yes, she did suggest you’d been a little cagey.”
“Hmm.”
“Furthermore I’ll bet Lieutenant Commander Ewen Montague, or someone, was also being a little cagey when enquiring where you’d be playing on Friday and Saturday and whether she’d recently had anybody else asking that same question. Which might also demand a spot of explanation.”
“You’re quite enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Oh, come now! Me? But in any case whoever was making those enquiries could easily have got the first of those answers from Drury Lane. Depending on whether Lucy was at home on Thursday night.”
She looked at me as if to say: And do you really think that is going to make things better?
“Lucy or your other flatmate,” I added, comprehensively.
“Anything else you feel I ought to know?”
“No. I believe that’s it for the present. Though, naturally, if anything does spring to mind I shan’t hesitate to pass it on.” Momentarily I watched the excitement of a child in schoolcap, blazer and short trousers who’d just had a pigeon alight on his head; and the disappointment of his young friend who hadn’t been similarly earmarked for distinction. “As a matter of fact, you know, a further thing has just sprung to mind. I am sorry.”
“Oh, no!” she said again. “Please not.”
“But what can I do?”
She sighed. “Well, I suppose you’d better break it to me. Very gently.”
“All right. It won’t be easy. And I shan’t be saying this with Teutonic presumptuousness, you understand. More with Uriah Heep humility.”
Despite a certain flippancy in the words the feeling which prompted them was very far from flippant.
“You see, I’m asking you to marry me.”
She came to a standstill. We both did. But whereas, for the moment, the situation had clearly deprived Sybella of speech—one of those old platitudes that can so frequently prove true—my own problem (as usual) appeared to be precisely the opposite.
“Oh, you idiot.” At last she had found her voice. “But you surely weren’t being serious, were you?”
“What do you mean … about marriage or about knees? About marriage, never more so. All right, about knees as well, if that would really make a difference. At least the pavement’s dry.”
We were now standing very close to one another. The evening crowd surged around us tolerantly. Well, for the most part tolerantly.
“Okay, then,” I said. “Even if the pavement were wet. It seems to me you drive a hard bargain. And covered in birds’ droppings … which actually, on closer inspection, I discover that it is. (Oh, now you should be happy!) And yes—very well, I give in, I give in—down on both knees … ‘all or nothing’ is sometimes in my nature, too. Because I love you and I know for a fact that I shall never meet anybody half so wonderful. And because it would help me, help me immeasurably—oh, how self-centred can a person get?—if through all the months or years we’ve got to be apart I knew I truly had something to live for—someone to live for—a woman whose presence in my world would make the whole earth seem so beautifully radiant. Would send down a soft and cleansing rain and spread bluebells and daffodils and make the angels sing.”
She said, “Darling, you are being serious, aren’t you?”
I answered, “Darling, I am.”
“You may be marginally unbalanced, too.”
“Well, if that’s so, I’m hoping you can match it.”
“I’m very much afraid I can. Besides. I’ve always been a sucker for cheap poetry, flowery speeches, romantic gobbledegook.”
Letters for a Spy Page 21
