“No, sir.”
“Good. Well, now I have some news for you. Warboys and I have talked it over. From now on Bellmaster is your boy. You’ve got a free hand. That’s what we gave Polidor. You get him. But don’t forget how Polidor finished up. If he wants you before you go to Washington, play ball. If he ever gets to Washington, go on playing it. From now—all the Bellmaster and allied files are open to you. I’ve brought this one down to you——” he slid the file he had been holding across the floor to Kerslake, “——because I thought you might like to read it as a cautionary tale—a short one but illustrative of Bellmaster’s methods. And I must add that it was done for us . . . for our benefit. But it illustrates his methods.”
“Thank you, sir.” Kerslake picked up the file. The cover was endorsed—Very Reverend Albert Reginald Dalmat, M.A. He put it on his desk and asked, “Is there a file on Lady Jean?”
“There is.”
“Could I ask how she got involved with Lord Bellmaster?”
“You may. She was Irish, as you know. Old title, but the family didn’t have a bean between them. Damn great house in Galway and her father lived mostly—to put it picturesquely— on potatoes and poteen, and worshipped only one god, Equus caballus. Her mother had a little money he couldn’t touch and she saw that Lady Jean was well educated and did a London season. After that she had to work and she got a job in the Foreign Office as a secretary. Bellmaster spotted her and took her up and made her his mistress. He found she was the material he needed and he completed her education the way he wanted it. But he never killed the mettle in her. In fact, sometimes I think he regretted his choice.” Quint paused and then with a little sigh went on, “When she wanted to be she could be the most charming of women. She was also pure Eve, and I would lay odds against any normally endowed man resisting her if she had decided otherwise. Anyway, you read the file.” He stood up and looked out of the window, gave a little grunt as though he had seen something unpleasing and then turned and went to the door. Holding it open he looked over his shoulder and said with almost a compassionate note, “You’re a very long way from Barnstaple, my lad . . . a very long way.”
When he was gone Kerslake allowed himself a smile. The emphasised words carried the notes of nostalgia, but he knew that none was intended. It was a recognised way of Quint’s to emphasise that a Birdcage man was a Birdcage man first, last and always. When you came in here there was no going back, no escape.
He put the Dalmat file on the desk before him and began to read it. Compared with most files it was brief. The Very Reverend Albert Reginald Dalmat, M.A., had been a Canon Residentiary of a provincial diocese in the nineteen-fifties. Forty years old, married to the daughter of a bishop, he had been a modern, outspoken churchman far from shunning publicity, an activist in organisations opposed to the atom bomb, a great joiner of protest marches, a Christian socialist and an advocate of closer cultural and ideological relations with Russia. The world, he believed, need only be a few steps away from paradise if the good will of all peoples could be awakened and set marching under the banner of universal peace. He was always ready to take a platform or to write his views for the popular press. In addition he was charming, good-looking and persuasive—and an embarrassment to the Establishment.
He was small fry but with the prospect of growing into a big fish rapidly. No note was in the file of where the need for a move against him had originated—but there would have been no file, Kerslake knew, unless it had been tacitly decided somewhere between Whitehall and more pious purlieus that he should be rusticated to some lesser Eden than the one he envisaged for the world’s proletariat. Lord Bellmaster had been given the assignment and he had wasted little time or finesse over it. Dalmat—who democratically made no distinction between croft or castle—had been invited first of all to Conary Castle. Here he had met Lady Jean who had made it her business to give him all her sympathy for his views while not neglecting the most obvious show of admiration for him as a man as well as a crusading priest. A short sequence of letters to her from him on the file marked the progression from ready friendship to heart-felt and warm admiration. While he condemned flattery, on being in receipt of it he very soon convinced himself that in his case it was not unseemly since it so obviously sprang from so charming and virtuous a source. He was invited to spend a few days on the Lion de Mer during a cruise among the Western Isles where, as they watched the Aurora Borealis together, he first put an arm round Lady Jean’s waist in a brotherly way. There was in the file a wickedly funny minute written in that lady’s hand for Bellmaster who had broken the cruise to go off to Conary Castle on urgent business for a couple of days, so leaving them alone. The following night—seduced by moonlight, Bellmaster’s wine, and the charms of Lady Jean—Dalmat had made the mistake of going to her suite for a nightcap and had found himself in bed with her. Full of remorse and mentally and spiritually flagellating himself he had left the yacht the next day. But there had been no escape for him. Penances aplenty might shrive his soul and restore him to blessedness, but the record of his temptation and fall was forever fixed in black and white on the film which a hidden cine-camera had taken.
The rest was child’s play for Birdcage. The Very Reverend Albert Reginald Dalmat retired from a too-public life and accepted a living in a remote parish in Wales. Six stills taken from the camera film were in an envelope attached to the inside of the back cover of the folder. Kerslake looked at them briefly and then closed the file.
With a sudden touch of sentiment, remembering his meetings with Sarah Branton, he found it hard to believe that she could have been this woman’s daughter. But undoubtedly she was— and Lord Bellmaster her father.
He spent the rest of the day reading the files which had been released to him. The biggest and the most interesting was Lord Bellmaster’s.
* * * *
Within the next three or four days Farley read through Lady Jean’s diary at intervals when he knew that he would be free of interruption from Sarah. She was happy and busy sorting out her clothes and making arrangements for their trip to England. Her father had replied to her letter in amicable terms, expressing his happiness about her intention of marrying and insisting that, of course, they must come and stay with him. Usually he kept the diary locked in his suitcase. Very quickly he found that he could read it quite unemotionally—almost as though it were a work of fiction with no power to intrude on his personal life and relationship with Sarah. It spread itself over a wide range of years and there were gaps in the record sometimes of months and once of a whole year . . . the period, in fact, which covered Lady Jean’s marriage to Lieutenant-Colonel Branton and the birth of Sarah. Through all its pages ran a continuous, almost love-hate relationship with Lord Bellmaster. It became clear to him that Lord Bellmaster had—maybe still did have—some confidential foreign interests, which he combined with his own private interests, that now and again—as in the entry about the death of the man Polidor—had involved the two of them in dangerous and lawless activities. In some odd way Farley found himself now and again being less shocked than almost incredulous of some of Lady Jean’s record. She had been promiscuous and unprincipled almost to the point of—the only word he could find for himself was—paganism. Now and again despite himself anger broke into his reading; anger that she should ever have seen fit to cache it away with even the remotest chance of Sarah’s ever reading it.
Loving Sarah turned him to find some excuse for her mother and the only one that came his way—and it was apparent enough in Lady Jean’s not unfrequent outbursts in the diary— was that Lord Bellmaster with a Svengali-like fascination had dominated and controlled her. The more he read, the more there arose in him an angry pity and compassion for Lady Jean and a clear, robust detestation of Lord Bellmaster. With every page he turned he hated the man’s guts more and more. Having no conception of what he looked like more and more the little sketch made by Lady Jean of a Satanic creature lolling in an armchair holding a cigar and a glass of port came i
nto his mind. Tenuously at first, but more and more firmly as he read, he realised too that with the breakup of Lady Jean’s marriage there could have been from her and Lord Bellmaster—and from Colonel Branton, too, though he was a lay and probably a helpless figure—subtle pressures put on Sarah to turn her towards the idea of life as a nun since none of them wanted her around to impede in the slightest way their freedom. Sarah had been a sacrificial figure.
There were times when he had to put the diary aside and go for a walk to calm himself down. That the man was a murderer was quite clear, for a little further on in the entry where she had written that Bellmaster had finally made her an accomplice to murder she had briefly set out the facts of an arranged boating accident staged to cover the killing of a man called Polidor. Despite her loyalty—under duress or not—he had gone on to cheat her over the girdle of Venus. In an entry a month later she had written that Bellmaster had taken the belt away to be re-valued and for its insurance to be re-adjusted. That his nature would provoke him to do something, Farley knew. But just what eluded him. In many ways he was glad that they were going to drive leisurely to England. He would have plenty of time to think over things and sort them out. In the meantime he was absolutely determined still that Sarah should never read the diary.
Luckily for him she was so absorbed with her day-to-day life and the prospect of going to England that the diary—which she had not missed from her desk—seemed to have gone from her mind.
To his surprise, however, two days before they were to leave for England, as they lay in bed together in the early morning, she said to him idly, “Have you got my mother’s diary, darling? I was going to put it away in the safe before we went off.”
Casually he said, “Yes, I’ve got it, my love. But I haven’t got far with reading it.” He had in fact finished it.
“Do you find it amusing?”
“Very. I’ll put in in the safe for you before we take off. Now, what are we going to do today? Shall we make up a picnic and I’ll drive you out to Cape Saint Vincent?”
“Oh yes, I’d like that. Giorgio drove us there once and there was a terrific gale blowing and the Rolls got covered in salt sea spray. He was furious.”
“AH right—we’ll go.”
That evening before they went to bed he came into her room with the diary, got the keys from her bureau and locked the diary in the safe as she watched him from the bed. But when they left the villa the next morning it was in his suitcase, and he already was beginning to see what he probably—as a matter of policy and good form—would first have to do about it. Lord Bellmaster inhabited a world of which he knew little. He would have to have good sound advice from the most discreet source. Probably someone like the Branton family solicitor, or even Colonel Branton himself to begin with. But that he would have to decide after he had met the man. Lady Jean had married him, and although she had often written cutting things about him in the diary, she had obviously been very fond of him, but not to the point of ever considering being faithful to him.
As they drove up the Lisbon road, Sarah beside him full of happiness and high spirits, he decided to put the matter from his mind until they reached England. Whatever happened they had their whole future before them and the idea of buying a place in the Dordogne and running a hotel had become one of which they talked more and more.
Listening to her chattering away he was suddenly overwhelmed by the joyful fact of the enormous change which had come over himself and his life in a few short weeks. Not just himself either. They had both, it seemed, been reborn to a newer, brighter world—against which bloody Lord Bellmaster was no more than the smallest of dark clouds lingering on the horizon of their bliss.
* * * *
Lord Bellmaster at the sideboard, his back to Kerslake, smiled to himself. For the first time in the flat the young man had accepted the offer of a drink. Outside evening was shadowing the Park and car lights moved in erratic chains of gold and silver.
“Soda or water, Kerslake?”
“Neat, please, sir.”
Over his shoulder as he poured whisky from the decanter Lord Bellmaster said, “Good of you to come along, Kerslake. Nothing official about this. Just a casual chat . . . personal stuff. I thought you might be able to fill me out on a few points.”
“Anything I can do to help you, sir, I will.”
“Decent of you.” Not, thought Bellmaster, that he was deceived by the slight change towards. . . perhaps not affability but certainly mildness in Kerslake’s manner. Quint would have talked to him. Oh, he knew his Quint. Probably mentioned Washington already.
He carried the glass to Kerslake and went on, “Forgive me if I don’t join you. Heavy lunch you know—and I’ve got a big City dinner date tonight. Captains of industry and finance are like any other captains, drink eases the strains of high command. So you take your whisky neat, eh?”
Kerslake smiled. “I’m Devon born, my lord—but my father and mother were both Scots.”
“Point taken. Now ..He walked to the window and pulled the curtains to shut out the evening. “You met Geddy, the solicitor, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir. Before I went to Portugal.”
Still standing, the little, engrained habit of psychological dominance so natural now that he never marked it himself, Bellmaster said, “Just had a letter from him. Tells me that he’s heard from Sarah Branton that she’s going to get married. Did you know that?”
“Yes, sir. Mr Geddy informed Mr Quint.”
“Oh, did he?” He felt no surprise. “So dear old Geddy still sings now and then for Birdcage. But who, once having been there, doesn’t? I suppose you’ve been through my file there?”
“Yes, my lord. Mr Quint thought it would be helpful in view of certain . . . well, possible developments which might occur in a few weeks’ time.”
Lord Bellmaster laughed. Yes, he liked Kerslake. He knew just how far to go, handled himself well. Rough granite now being well polished by Birdcage. “Delicately expressed. And to keep it that way, then you’ll know that I have a more than friendly regard and concern for Miss Branton?”
“Yes, sir. I know that she is your daughter.”
“Yes, indeed she is. That’s why I wanted to know something about this man Richard Farley. You’ve met him. Tell me about him.”
“He’s a nice chap, sir. I liked him. I’ve naturally been into his background for other reasons than your present one. There’s nothing against him whatsoever in . . . well, sir, shall we say our terms.”
“Is he a Catholic?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, that can be sorted out. All right, give me all you’ve got, and your own personal impression of him.” Lord Bellmaster sat down in a deep armchair and lit himself a cigarette and listened, fingering his gold case, while Kerslake gave him all the details he had of Richard Farley’s life and background. When he had finished Bellmaster asked, “What’s his nearest family? There must be some.”
“He did mention when he had dinner with me that he had a very old widowed aunt—no children—who lived somewhere in Wales.”
“You liked him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bom loafer—or just not found a slot?”
“Not born. I think he let the family tragedy get to him too much. I should think personally that marriage and its responsibilities might be the answer. He’s no fool and he comes from good stock. Perhaps I should add that Miss Branton clearly felt very warmly towards him.”
“Why shouldn’t she? He saved her life. Still, what you tell me is very gratifying. I wouldn’t want her to be mixed up with some loafer or ne’er-do-well. Well . . .” Lord Bellmaster stood up. “I’m grateful to you, Kerslake. I’m sure that in the not too distant future we shall find ourselves getting on very well together. Now——” he went to the mantelshelf and took two theatre tickets from it. Handing them to Kerslake, he said, “Couple of theatre tickets for tomorrow night. Can’t use them myself. Find yourself a pretty girl and have a night out
.”
“That’s very kind of you, my lord.”
“Nothing at all. And thank you again, dear fellow.”
Going down in the lift Kerslake looked at the tickets and saw that they were for the National Theatre. He would ordinarily have used them for he was fond of the theatre. But since they came from Lord Bellmaster he tore them up when he reached the street and like a good citizen put the scraps in a litter bin.
In his flat Lord Bellmaster sat thinking about Richard Farley. The chap sounded all right. Good Service family. Pretty bloody end they had had . . . but there. Marriage would pull him together. Later he might be able to do something for him discreetly. Always ways of working it so that he need never know the true source of his good luck. But the real point was that the man was going to marry his daughter. Lady Jean had she been alive would probably have wanted Sarah to fly higher . . . she would certainly have wanted a slap-up wedding. Saint Margaret’s, Westminster. Pages, bridesmaids. No quiet family affair. Big reception with a sprinkling of royalty, home and foreign. He smiled. She had known how to manage that kind of thing. Well, that’s what he wanted. She was his daughter and—for the girl’s sake and out of sentiment for Lady Jean—that was what he would like for her. The only problem was how the hell to arrange it. The only open status he had was that of godfather. That allowed him to make her a handsome wedding present. Odd, how this business of giving her a grand wedding had grown in his mind since he had heard the news. Perhaps he was growing sentimental and soft with age. Well, as far as Sarah was concerned he could allow himself that indulgence. The trouble would be handling Colonel Branton. He might be stuffy about being only a front man and allowing things to be taken out of his hands. Would he though? These Service people liked pomp and ceremony. If he were a wealthy man he might well have settled for it himself. He would have to handle him carefully but in the end he knew that he could work it. A fat cheque would ease the bite of wounded pride. The only basic problem was the right approach. Go and see him and talk it over? Or write him a letter to give him time to think it over and adjust himself to the idea before they had a man-to-man talk about the practicalities and the quid pro quo for allowing him a surrogate but masked position as the real father? He wanted to do the big thing for his daughter. The American union had only thrown boys—a bloody handful, the two of them. He smiled fondly. Chips off the old block. But a girl was something else. Sarah was his girl. If the Boston millionairess had produced a filly he would not be thinking like this now—no, not true. He still would have wanted it for Lady Jean’s sake. He had never truly loved anyone else. All right—there was self-interest too. This would be a good-will offering through Sarah to the gods that Lady Jean had not decided one day to reach out from the grave and put him in jeopardy. She must have thought long and hard about that. Being Irish and a gambler like her father she would have—her mind once made up—gambled on the wildest chance to get at him. Being Catholic, though, she had no doubt forgiven him for the sake of her immortal soul. Now, a letter or a personal visit to Branton?
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