She must get home and get the letter and destroy it; it was the first and most important thing that this new woman had to do.
‘Barty, dear, come along in. I’m afraid I have a bit of a disappointment for you.’
Barty was used to disappointment; her short life had had more than its fair share of it. Nevertheless, looking at Janet Gould’s kindly face, she felt tears well in her eyes, a large lump in her throat. She knew what it must be, this particular disappointment: Wol couldn’t come to the concert. Something had happened, some crisis had occurred, he had had to leave the office. And since Aunt Celia was not to come either, no one would be at the concert to hear her play.
She bit her lip, trying to stop it trembling. ‘Yes?’ she said carefully. ‘Mr Lytton has had to go out for an hour or so. A meeting at the printers with Mr Jack. So he won’t be able to travel to the concert with you. But he told me to tell you that he would be there, in plenty of time, and that you were to go ahead. He will be in the audience, in the front row—’ she stopped and smiled – ‘holding his thumbs, exactly as he promised.’
‘Oh,’ said Barty and although it would have been nice go with Wol, and although it would add slightly to the anxiety, fearing he might be late as he sometimes was, she felt almost perfectly happy again. ‘Oh, that’s fine, Mrs Gould. Thank you.’
And then she remembered the letter.
‘Mrs Gould, will he be coming back here before the concert?’
‘Oh, I think so dear, yes.’
‘Well – could you give him this?’ She rummaged in her music case.
‘It’s very important.’
Mrs Gould took the letter. ‘Yes of course. And good luck, Barty. I will hold my thumbs too. I’m sure you’ll be splendid.’
‘Thank you.’
She turned, walked down the stairs, got into the car.
‘We’re to meet Mr Lytton at the concert hall, Daniels, after all.’
‘Righty ho, milady. Off we jolly well go then.’
Daniels was much given to such racy expressions: reserved for the occasions when his employers were not listening. He was also given to admiring pretty girls and to enjoying their new short skirts; had that not been the case, had not one not just come into view at the end of Paternoster Row, had he not been eyeing her intently in the rear view mirror as he started the car and edged forward – perhaps more slowly than if she had not been there – he would not have seen Janet Gould running out of Lytton House and looking frantically after him, waving a letter. He stopped the car with a screech of brakes.
‘Yes, Mrs Gould?’
‘Oh, thank goodness I caught you. Here, Barty, you had better give this to Mr Lytton yourself. He isn’t coming back here after all, he just telephoned. He’ll go straight to the concert from the printers. All right, dear?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Barty.
Dr Perring watched Celia thoughtfully as she pulled on her coat and hat with feverish haste, told him she had to get home quickly, at once, indeed, and told him that yes, of course she would take care of herself, and would come back in a fortnight for a further examination and she would give up smoking at once.
Finally, as she said goodbye to him at the door, he said, ‘Would you like me to arrange for you to have a test?’
‘A test?’
‘Yes, a pregnancy test. Such things are now available. It seems to me you need to be absolutely certain about this. So that you can make your plans—’
He knows, Celia thought, aware of it, even through her panic and her fear; he knows, he has guessed. And was grateful; without being sure why.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes, pease I would like that.’
‘Well, let me have a sample of your urine. A morning specimen if possible.’
She was fascinated. ‘And what do you do with it?’
‘It goes to a laboratory, where it’s injected it into the body of a female toad. Then after twenty-one days, we do a dissection. If she has ovulated, it means that without doubt your pregnancy is confirmed.’
‘Poor toad,’ said Celia, amazed that even in her anguish she could feel such concern, and then, ‘Dr Perring, I have to go. I’ll bring you a specimen tomorrow. It would be very nice, as you say, to be sure.’
But driving down Harley Street, rather too fast, energised with adrenalin and panic, she thought that however sure she might be that she was pregnant, she could never, ever, be sure by whom. It was a dreadfully frightening thought.
‘Oh – Brunson, hallo.’
‘Lady Celia! We were not expecting you.’ He sounded almost reproachful.
‘No,’ said Celia, ‘no, I know.’
‘A gentleman phoned for you, Lady Celia. Mr Brooke.’
Sebastian! She had forgotten about him. Waiting for her, waiting to greet her, to welcome her. Just forgotten him: had thought only of Oliver. Of keeping the letter from Oliver. How extraordinary.
‘Thank you, Brunson. I’ll – I’ll telephone him. Now – I just wanted to get something. From Mr Lytton’s study. And then I think – could you ask Cook to make me a cup of tea? Please.’
‘Nothing else, Lady Celia?’
‘No. No thank you. I may have something to eat later.’
‘Very well.’
He disappeared through the door at the top of the kitchen stairs; Celia went into Oliver’s study. The letter was not there.
‘Susan! Susan are you down there? Brunson!’ She stood at the top of the stairs, calling down to the kitchen.
‘Yes, Lady Celia!’
Susan came up, looking nervous. She hadn’t been with them very long and she was clumsy; she had already broken a small looking-glass and a china ornament. Lady Celia had been very nice about it but—
‘Susan, there was a letter in Mr Lytton’s study. On his desk. You haven’t moved it, have you?’
‘No, Lady Celia. It was there, I remember it when I was dusting. I didn’t touch it.’
‘Brunson, have you seen it?’
‘No, Lady Celia. Here is your tea—’
‘Leave it in the morning-room, Brunson. I have to find the letter, it’s terribly important. Has anyone else been in there?’
‘No, Lady Celia. No one at all.’
‘Oh, God,’ she felt furious suddenly, with herself, but more so with them.
‘It’s ridiculous. It must be found. It’s terribly important. Someone must have moved it. Susan, would you go and look for it at once. A large white envelope, it must have been knocked on to the study floor – I’ll go and look upstairs. Quickly now. I want it found.’
Fifteen minutes later the letter was not found. And Sebastian, telephoning again, anxious about her, heard her voice hysterically informing him that she couldn’t talk to him now and that she would not be up at lunchtime as she had said and – and then the phone being slammed down again.
She felt suddenly faint; she sat down in the dining-room, put her head betwen her knees. And then, wearily straightening up, saw Brunson looking at her anxiously.
‘Have you found the letter?’
‘No. Lady Celia, are you all right?’
‘I’m perfectly well, Brunson, thank you.’
‘Lady Celia – forgive me. I think perhaps Miss Barty might have taken the letter. It has just occurred to me.’
‘Barty! What one earth was she doing, taking my – Mr Lytton’s letters? Why was she in his study at all? Why did you allow it? That was terribly irresponsible of you, Brunson.’
‘She was in the study, taking a newspaper to read, and she was going to Lyttons, if you remember, Lady Celia.’ His face was courteous, but his voice was mildly reproachful. ‘It seems to me quite likely that she would have taken the letter to give to Mr Lytton.’
‘Oh – yes. Yes, I see. Well I suppose it’s possible. It was very naughty of her though, taking a personal letter like that. I’ll – I’ll telephone Mrs Gould, see what she says.’
They arrived at the concert hall about three quarters of an hour early. There was a smal
l queue waiting outside; Daniels leapt out of his seat, opened the door for Barty with a flourish, half-bowed as she got out, handed her the music case. The small queue stared; Barty wasn’t sure if she was glad or sorry.
‘Good luck, Milady Barty. I’m sure it will go very well. I shall be waiting here for you afterwards.’
‘Thank you, Daniels,’ said Barty. If she hadn’t felt so sick, she would have giggled. ‘You can’t see Wol – Mr Lytton anywhere can you?’
‘Not yet. I should go in, if I were you. There’s a lady there beckoning to you.’
‘Oh – yes. It’s Miss Harris.’
Miss Harris was her teacher; she smiled and came over.
‘Barty dear, hallo. How nice you’re in such good time. We can go through, and even have a run-through if you like.’
‘That would be nice. Tell Mr Lytton, will you, Daniels, that I’ve gone in.’
‘Of course.’
Celia felt quite calm suddenly; the eye of the storm, she supposed. It was certainly going to get very violent again. She had to get the letter. After that she could allow herself to think, to work out what she wanted, what she might do. But she could not be pressured by Oliver’s unhappiness, Sebastian’s rage; neither could she even begin to think what she would tell either of them.
The concert started at two thirty; it was only quarter to two now. Oliver would probably get there at the last minute. She could wait outside for Barty and get the letter. It was the greatest luck, Oliver having to go to the printers. She ran down the steps and into her car and drove very fast towards Wigmore Street.
Barty came out on to the platform. She was the last to play before the interval. It had seemed a very long wait; all the others were terribly good. One boy had played an amazing violin solo: another girl a movement of the Elgar cello concerto. Hers was going to sound pretty silly. Miss Harris had kept smiling at her encouragingly, but it didn’t help much. At one point she thought she might pass out, her heart was beating so fast and her hands were sweaty with fright. How could she possibly do this? She wouldn’t even make it to the piano, never mind manage to play any notes at all.
But she did: she got there, to the piano and bowed, very slightly to the audience. And there, in the front row, was Wol; smiling up at her, looking so proud and yet so calm, so confident in her, and beside him, which was really lovely, was Uncle Jack, who grinned at her and gave her a huge wink. She suddenly felt quite different: calm and confident herself. She sat down at the piano, set her music down on the stand, and began to play.
‘Daniels! Hallo.’
‘Lady Celia. Good afternoon. Are you going in? The concert’s started, I’m afraid. They’ve shut the doors.’
‘Oh – have they?’ She felt like crying. ‘There was an accident on the Embankment. The car in front of me. The woman was hurt, the police came and I had to give a statement. I thought I’d never get here. Is – is my husband here?’
‘He is indeed, Lady Celia. And Mr Jack Lytton as well.’
Jack! what was he doing here?
‘I see,’ she said. Her voice sounded bleak, even to her.
‘Are you all right, Lady Celia? You look a little pale.’
‘I – well, no, I don’t feel terribly well, Daniels, no. So sorry. Perhaps I could—’
And for the second time that day, she almost fainted; Daniels was there, just in time, catching her as she half-slumped against him, making soothing noises, helping her to the car, easing her into the back seat.
‘You sit there, Lady Celia. That’s right. Put your head between your knees, gently now. Deep breaths. And again. That’s very good.’
Gradually the nausea eased, the faintness passed. She sat up, slowly and cautiously. Daniels was standing by the side of the car, looking at her, very concerned.
‘Is that better now?’
‘Yes. Yes, thank you, Daniels. Thank you so much.’
‘I have some brandy here.’ He produced a small flask from the cocktail cabinet in the car, together with a cut-glass tumbler and poured a little of the brandy into it.
‘Take just a few sips. Very slowly. It’ll do you good.’
‘I didn’t know you had medical training, Daniels,’ she said, smiling at him.
‘Well – not exactly. My mother was a nurse.’
‘I see.’ She took a sip and then another; she felt much better: so much better that she could feel the panic rising again.
She was too late. Oliver was inside the concert hall and so was Barty; Barty would have given him the letter, he might even have read it. Whatever the case, there was no way she could get it now. Short of having a scene and demanding it back. Either from Barty or from Oliver himself. It couldn’t be worse. It was a disaster. She was a disaster. Causing dreadful unhappiness whatever she did, wherever she went.
She sat back, leaned her head back wearily against the window. And suddenly saw on the dashboard, in front of Daniels, a large envelope. A large white envelope. With her own writing on it. Her own rather flamboyant writing, in black ink. Oliver, it said, Personal and Urgent.
It seemed to Celia the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Half-laughing, half-crying, she said, ‘Daniels, could you give me that letter, please. It’s for my husband. I’ll give it to him myself.’
Later, driving herself home, having assured Daniels that she was absolutely fine, she thought, with intense weariness, that in recovering the letter, she might have won a battle in the field of conflict that her life had become. But she didn’t see how she could win the war. Or indeed what form winning the war might possibly take.
CHAPTER 26
‘I’ll tell you anything I can, of course. But I don’t know how helpful it will be.’
‘Anything would help. Anything that would clarify matters even a bit.’
‘Yes, of course. I’m so sorry about this.’ Jeremy Bateson picked up his coffee cup. ‘I feel rather responsible.’
Peter Briscoe looked at him. He and Guy Worsley were astonishingly alike. They could have been brothers. Almost twins. Their mothers were sisters, of course, and they had grown up together; even so—
‘I don’t think you should feel responsible,’ he said drily, and then managing a rather wintry smile, ‘your cousin perhaps . . .’
‘Oh don’t,’ said Guy. ‘Please don’t. I feel bad enough already. Mind if I smoke?’
‘No, of course not. Help yourself.’
Briscoe passed him the silver cigarette box which stood on his desk, lit one himself, inhaled and blew out a line of smoke rings. They both gazed at him in awe. He smiled. ‘Party trick. Now then, Mr Bateson. The thing is, we really need to know a great deal about these people. So that we can assess how close the libel might be, and how likely they really are to go ahead with trying to get an injunction.’
‘Right-o. Fire away.’
‘Well – first of all, this man, Lothian, what was he really like?’
‘Oh – rather ridiculous, I’d say.’
‘Ridiculous!’
‘Yes. Dressed for an audience. All the time. Flowing cloaks, huge bow ties, that sort of thing. Long wavy hair. And he smoked through a long cigarette holder. I tell you, if it hadn’t been for the wife and children, you might have thought he was, you know, queer.’
‘Yes, I see. And what was the wife like?’
‘Oh – rather grand. Very good-looking. Dark red hair, green eyes. Wore marvellous clothes. Even had a little car of her own. Always dashing about. She was the talk of the college. Most of the masters’ wives were rather dowdy. Lot of money of her own.’
‘And in the book,’ said Guy, ‘she certainly wasn’t very attractive. She was rich, and all right, quite well-dressed and so on, but there the similiarity ends. Mrs Buchanan has a rather severe, forbidding personality. Although the students all like her, once they get to know her, especially the girls. Which is how it was this particular one, the one he has the affair with, comes to be at the house so often. And of course, she does leave Buchanan, when the affair c
omes to light. Mrs Lothian’s still there, isn’t she?’ he added. His voice sounded rather desperate.
‘Yes. And I certainly don’t think people liked Mrs Lothian,’ said Bateson, ‘she didn’t seem to have many friends. Certainly not in the university. In fact if anyone was having an affair in the family, it would have been her.’
Briscoe looked at him. ‘Interesting. I wonder – well, let’s get back to the facts. The children? What were they like?’
‘Well, the daughter was a very nice girl. She was about twenty, I suppose in 1912. That’s when I went up,’ he added.
‘And you completed your course? Left in 1915?’
‘Yes. There wasn’t conscription in those early years and I thought I would like to finish, get my degree. I took a bit of stick for it, even then.’
‘That’s why I made the son a conchie,’ said Guy, ‘They came under a lot of fire, those chaps, people said they were cowards. I thought it was really interesting.’
‘Anyway,’ said Bateson, ‘Lothian’s son certainly wasn’t a conchie. He enlisted, went off to the war the minute he could. I remember seeing Lothian in the town, the day he went. He was sitting on a bench, and I said, “Hallo, sir”, and he looked at me and his eyes were full of tears. I felt quite upset.’
‘Did Lothian have much of a following? Among the students?’
‘Yes, he was quite charismatic.’
‘Let’s get back to the children. This daughter, was she pretty?’
‘No, not really. Shame, because both the parents were attractive. She was very shy, too. Everyone was quite surprised when she got engaged. Anyway, they never married, of course. He – well he got both his arms blown off.’
‘How appalling,’ said Briscoe.
‘Yes. Quite early in the war, about 1916, I’d say. I’d gone by then, but we all kept in touch, and a friend who joined up after me, who was still there, told me. She still wanted to marry him, but he absolutely refused, said she’d be sacrificing herself. He went to live with his parents in Scotland or somewhere.’
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