The Running Lie

by Jennifer Young

  ‘They’re coming this way.’ John’s sip of his drink looked relaxed, but Max could feel the tension in his body.

  Uncle Marcus held out an expansive arm as he approached.

  ‘Lodge, allow me to introduce this charming creature, my nearly goddaughter. Dr Maxine Falkland, known as Max. Timothy Lodge. And I assume you know Brian Gould and certainly John Knox.’

  ‘Hello, sir,’ John said.

  ‘And you’re here why, Knox?’ Mr Lodge asked.

  ‘I’m on leave, sir. Visiting the Falklands. I’m back next week.’

  ‘Of course.’ Lodge reached for Max’s hand, and his lips barely skimmed the back of it. ‘You’re—how do you say it?—involved with my foreign manager?’

  ‘Yes, sir. It’s a pleasure to meet you.’ She wanted her hand back, but she forced herself to relax. He examined her. Anyone else she would have thought they measured the worth of each item of clothing, each earring. But with him, it seemed he measured how far he could go before she cracked. ‘Have you been to Norfolk before, Mr Lodge?’

  ‘Hmm? Oh. No. Saw little enough from the car. Off tomorrow.’ He relinquished her hand, and she wouldn’t let herself flex her fingers. ‘Gould? What are you doing out of London? I didn’t think they let you slip the Embassy walls.’

  ‘Brian’s wife Vivian is a childhood friend,’ Max said. ‘She’s recovering here.’

  ‘Recovering?’

  ‘We’ve just had our second child, sir. A girl, Samantha.’

  ‘Why, Max, how many men can a girl gather around her?’ Catherine slid into the group, sparkling in her gold dress. Did she wear it again only to needle Max?

  ‘Catherine Dinsmore, Sir Marcus Caldwell and Timothy Lodge. You remember Brian, of course.’

  Catherine smiled as the men kissed her hand. Surely, they knew who she was and of John’s suspicions, but Uncle Marcus and Mr Lodge acted as if nothing unusual was happening.

  ‘You must be Samuel Dinsmore’s daughter,’ Uncle Marcus said. ‘I was sorry to hear of his passing.’

  Catherine’s scarlet mouth nearly disappeared as she pulled her lips inward. ‘We all were.’

  Max waited for the thank you that should follow, but Catherine didn’t offer one.

  ‘Could I have a cigarette, John?’ Catherine asked.

  Uncle Marcus passed her one before John could. His lighter flame hovered in front of Catherine, casting shadows on her face. Then she sucked air in quickly, and Uncle Marcus pocketed his lighter. The lines on her face didn’t ease. Clearly thinking of her father’s death caused her distress. But then again Max had never looked in a mirror when someone asked her about George.

  ‘How did you know my father?’ Catherine asked. She cradled the cigarette in the crux of her fingers, but quickly took another drag.

  ‘Acquaintances only. Bartlemas introduced us a few times.’

  Usually, Catherine smoked as a performative, sexual act. Now she smoked as if she needed it.

  ‘Is Mrs Dinsmore not coming tonight?’ asked Uncle Marcus.

  ‘She’s otherwise engaged.’ Catherine let ash fall to the floor. ‘Has Max introduced you to her paramour here?’

  Anger rose, but Max took a deep breath. ‘John’s already met Uncle Marcus. And how long have the two of you known each other?’ She glanced at Brian, but Mr Lodge spoke.

  ‘Can you remember, Knox?’

  ‘Not precisely, sir.’ John’s hand stayed against her back, but the pressure increased slightly. She glanced up at his face as he smiled. ‘It feels like years.’

  ‘And obviously I’ve known Max for ages,’ Brian said.

  Why wouldn’t Brian answer the question? Any of her questions?

  ‘Mr Lodge,’ Catherine said. ‘What’s your view on people who use aliases?’

  ‘Depends on the reason. Same goes for people who commit suicide.’

  Colour drained from Catherine’s face, but then it blazed red. Her cigarette fell to the wooden floor, and her foot rose.

  ‘Catherine.’ Max’s voice held all the sharpness of her Mother’s.

  Catherine glared at her, but her stiletto froze just above the butt.

  ‘Let me get you a drink,’ Uncle Marcus said. He led Catherine away.

  Mr Lodge bent—more easily than Max would have imagined—and lifted the cigarette. ‘No damage.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Ashtrays were usually dotted around—there. On the piano. ‘I’ll take it.’ She pinched it gingerly, trying to avoid Catherine’s lipstick stain. She walked to the piano.

  ‘Oh Max, are you smoking?’ Sybil asked. ‘I always knew you would one day.’

  Max laughed. ‘No. Just tidying.’ How could Catherine react so badly? But then again, Mr Lodge asking about suicide was extreme. If anyone had asked about plane crashes, Max would have been outraged.

  Sybil started telling her about her family, and Max stubbed the cigarette out and then rubbed her fingers. Brian, John and Mr Lodge spoke quickly together. And Uncle Marcus had installed Catherine in a chair with a drink. He perched on the arm beside her.

  ‘Do you think he’d propose?’ Sybil asked.

  ‘Who? John?’

  Sybil laughed. ‘Well, that was my next question. But I meant that man talking to Catherine.’

  ‘No. I mean, I doubt it. He’s—he was George’s godfather.’ And the head of the Intelligence Services in Britain. What information was he extracting from Catherine?

  ‘How are you all managing? I haven’t seen you since the memorial service.’

  Max shrugged. ‘Some days are easy.’

  ‘And some aren’t? Your mother looks well.’

  ‘She lives for this party.’

  Sybil’s husband approached them, and they chatted for a few minutes before Max extracted herself. She walked back towards John, Brian and Mr Lodge. John immediately stepped back to allow her in the circle, but she didn’t miss that they stopped talking as soon as she came in a three-foot radius.

  ‘What have you been talking about?’ Max asked.

  ‘The Olympics,’ Brian said. ‘Exciting summer, really. Have you ever been to Helsinki?’

  Max didn’t know who he was addressing, but neither John nor Mr Lodge replied. ‘I’ve been through Helsinki, but we didn’t stay there long. It was for a dig.’

  Conversation moved more broadly to the Olympics, and the hopes of the American team. Eventually Mr Lodge and Brian left to talk to the ambassador.

  ‘Are you all right?’ John asked.

  ‘About Catherine or Mother?’

  ‘Max, splendid colour.’ Victor stopped next to them. ‘I do believe you’re good for her, Mr Knox.’

  John laughed. ‘I hope so.’

  Max glanced down at her geranium pink dress. ‘I bought this before I met John, I’ll have you know.’ They chatted for a while, until Mother started floating by with people to introduce to John. She stuck with ‘beau’.

  The party had begun to wind down before Max had another chance to talk to John alone. ‘If Mr Lodge is the deputy editor, who is the editor?’

  ‘Josiah Brown. Equally fierce, but differently. I mostly—some of the managers—mostly report to Lodge.’

  Max nodded. Did the newspaper have a regular staff? And would any of them know what the rest did? ‘Guess you don’t have to tell them about me now.’

  ‘No. Are you okay?’

  Max smiled. ‘Shouldn’t I be asking you that? My father’s the one who sprang this on you.’

  ‘They knew already. This is an inspection.’

  ‘Did I pass?’

  ‘Of course.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘I only asked for some extra hands, not for them to turn out in full force.’

  ‘Literally,’ Max said. She peered out the window and saw two men in suits casually walking around the building. ‘So upstairs…?’

  John nodded. ‘Lord Bartlemas handed over keys. I told them not to bother Vivian.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I’ve asked for a straight-backed chair to be placed in
your room. Put it under the door knob when you go to bed. It won’t stop anybody, but it should wake you up.’ John whispered a kiss across her cheek. ‘I’ll be…busy. Outside. I’ll see you in the morning. It’ll be okay, I promise.’

  Max unlocked George’s door. She inhaled, expecting the potent rush of George’s cologne. Cigarette smoke clung to the air. Had John’s men smoked in here? She closed the door and moved a chair under the handle. The carpet bore no depressions, but of course staff would be in here cleaning regularly. His wrestling trophies had shifted. Or had they? She crossed to his chest of drawers, a twin to her own. His decanter always held bourbon, hers whiskey. They’d drunk his bourbon the last time they came to Norfolk. Barely a quarter inch covered the bottom of the decanter. But her mother’s edict that the room remain unchanged didn’t cover staff helping themselves to a small tipple. And it’d been nearly two years since George had been here.

  Max crossed to the mirror, where George had stuffed photos. No amount of her mother leaving frames temptingly on his bed had convinced George that he should have some form of organisation. What was that girl’s name? Edith. They’d had quite a fling, George’s final term at Cambridge. Mother and Dad had liked her, but it ended rather suddenly. Max had read she’d married… her fingers found the cold glass of the mirror. A gap. Her own photo had been there. George had taken it on the beach at Sheringham, the summer after she’d broken up with Daniel. To show prospective dates at Cambridge, he’d said. She’d laughed and wedged it into the mirror. She didn’t want to date eighteen-year olds, she’d said.

  The photo had been there at Christmas, and none of the staff would have moved it.

  Why would any of the men checking the house take a random photo of a girl in a swimsuit?

  She opened the desk drawer. His coin collection remained. The photo could have been moved ages ago. She hadn’t been in the room for months.

  George wouldn’t have minded her sleeping here. The staff must have changed the bed after George’s last visit. He’d left from London, and everyone expected him to return.

  But stale smoke wafted up as she threw back the covers. Not detergent. Max fought down nausea. Someone had been here. Had slept here. Next door to her room.

  Where on earth could she go? Mrs Gould would have a lot to say if Max emerged from John’s room in the morning. Brian would be with Vivian. She didn’t know which guest rooms were empty, and God help her if she walked in on Uncle Marcus, or worse, John’s boss.

  Could she sleep on Charlie’s floor? She went back to her room and drew on her robe. She shifted from foot to foot for a moment, and then crept down the stairs to the library and curled up on the sofa. After a moment, she rose to get a book. Let the staff think she’d fallen asleep reading. She’d done it before, as a teenager.

  She startled awake. Predawn light barely crept through the curtains. Max held her breath. That sound—footsteps. Soft, but definitely footsteps. She cracked the library door. Multiple tall shapes pivoted towards her. Six. Against that many, she’d have no chance. Max backed away from the door and ran to the table. The vase felt heavy in her hands, and, God help her, her mother would kill her. Her pulse thudded in her ears.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ‘STOP.’ JOHN’S VOICE cut across her fear, and the men halted. The sixth figure rushed back out the door, but John didn’t turn. ‘It’s okay. Go back to your rooms.’ The other four men filed out of the library before she could properly process their faces, although she couldn’t miss the guns in their hands. What good would a vase be against guns? Surely the last one out of the room was Mr Rawls?

  Max replaced the vase, and John hugged her. She burrowed into his chest, inhaling pine and damp.

  ‘What are you doing down here?’ His voice rumbled under her ear.

  ‘Someone’s been in George’s room. They’ve slept in his bed. A photo of me is…’

  ‘Hang on.’ He clicked a lamp on and pulled her to the sofa. ‘Let’s sit down.’

  Max took a deep breath. ‘Did you find anything?’

  ‘Not a damn thing. Why were you in his room? Where is his room?’

  ‘Next to mine. I can show you.’ She linked their fingers. ‘I had the chair, but I just couldn’t stay in mine. I figured no one would be looking for me there, and then… I came here.’ The steadiness of his hand made the shaking of her own more obvious.

  John pressed a kiss to her hair.

  ‘I simply didn’t expect to be rushed by a group of men.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Max took a deep breath. ‘You found nothing at all?’

  ‘Well, they searched the house during the party, and we searched the grounds. But it’s a big estate, we could have missed something.’ He squeezed her. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine. Better than this morning, anyway.’

  ‘Could you show me his room then?’

  Max stood. ‘Does my mother know you’re all here tromping about?’

  ‘I doubt it. Hang on.’ He unlaced his boots and followed her in his sock feet.

  Max walked to George’s room as quietly as she could, but John grabbed her hand before she could open the door. ‘Let me.’ His whisper tickled her ear. ‘Stay here,’ he added and preceded her into the room. Seconds later he opened the door again and she eased in.

  ‘You’re taking this very seriously, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ He crossed to the bed and flipped the covers back. ‘I see what you mean. The photo?’

  The mirror was cold under her fingers again. ‘It was of me, at Sheringham. He took it for getting me dates, but I wouldn’t let him.’ She pointed at Anne, Edith and Debbie. ‘Look at these girls—there’s loads of them, and they’re wearing bikinis. Mine was a one-piece and…’ She swallowed. The kiss and her underwear.

  ‘It doesn’t feel random,’ John said flatly.

  Max drew her robe more tightly around her.

  John hugged her. ‘We’ll figure this out. I promise.’

  ‘Nothing else has been taken, although I think they’ve drunk his bourbon.’ She never thought she’d be in George’s room like this. Scrapes, fights, long conversations. But not this scared and with George dead thousands of miles away. ‘Is it odd to be here?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘In George’s room.’

  John shifted in her arms and eased back. ‘We didn’t talk about decorating styles.’

  Max laughed. It wasn’t a great laugh, but she tried. ‘I didn’t think you would have.’

  ‘It’s nearly four,’ John said. ‘We should get back to our own rooms. But I want to check yours first.’ He lifted his boots, and they tiptoed out. She waited in the corridor while he went into her room. He opened the door again quickly and motioned her in.

  ‘Don’t go,’ Max said. She leaned against the closed door. If they were caught, the whole decision would be taken out of her hands. Was that what she wanted?

  ‘Max.’

  ‘Please.’ Would he be practical? Logical?

  He stared at her for a long moment, and then he kissed her. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’re leaving?’

  ‘I’m sorry this has happened. That it’s here.’ He stroked her cheek. ‘Of course I’ll stay. I’ll stay till your mother walks in and screams the house down, if you want.’

  Max found a smile. ‘Maybe not quite that long. She doesn’t wake up that early, and Dad already knows I was at your flat after the party.’

  ‘There’s knowing that and then there’s seeing me stroll out of your bedroom. Are you sure?’

  Max wrapped her arms around his waist, and then slid them up to his shoulders. Her fingers brushed the leather of his holster. ‘Can you take this off?’

  ‘Everything or just the gun?’ John stepped back and shrugged out of the holster, depositing it on her chest of drawers. He returned to the door. ‘And now?’

  ‘Hold me.’ He folded her into his arms and Max exhaled a long breath. When did she get so clingy? ‘I never needed this be
fore,’ she murmured.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just being held.’ Daniel wouldn’t have, even if she’d asked. But had she been so frightened before?

  John’s grip tightened, and then he lifted and carried her to her bed. It was still made, and he curled on top of the counterpane with her.

  Max tucked her face under his chin and smelled outdoors, smoke, a faint trace of the old fashioneds they’d had earlier. ‘I don’t like being scared.’

  ‘No.’ He sighed.

  ‘Do you think he would have gone further?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You’re lying.’

  John stared in her eyes for a long moment. Finally, he nodded. ‘I don’t understand this case. There’s the amateur crap from the Dinsmores, and then the tree. And drugging you—it was positive—and coming in your room.’

  ‘What if they are all unrelated?’

  ‘Where’s Hagan?’

  Max’s laugh held no humour. ‘New York, I assume. This couldn’t be him. If anything, maybe at the time, given I threatened him, but not now.’

  ‘You? Threaten?’ John smiled.

  ‘He’d written an indiscreet letter about his colleagues. I volunteered to share it if he spread lies. Except I’d already thrown it away, so thank God he took me seriously.’

  John laughed.

  ‘What if Catherine is just here to wind me up? Could she have nothing to do with the tree, my room, the thefts?’

  ‘Sure. But the intelligence I saw pointed to something being worth looking into with them.’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  John took a deep breath, and then buried his face in her hair. ‘Some information that…’ He paused. ‘Some information that the Soviets want. A German minister seemed to be a leak, but my colleague stopped him.’

  ‘We’ve had loads of British and American government people here. And nothing bloody happened.’

  ‘No.’ He lifted his head. ‘I wasn’t supposed to tell you even that much, Max.’

  Max nodded. ‘Would they have the same information? I don’t want to know what it is.’

  ‘I suspect at least some of them would.’