Closed Circle

by Robert Goddard

  ‘No need to get shirty about it. Do as you please.’

  ‘Thanks. I believe I will.’

  Max set off for Surrey on Tuesday, bright-eyed and confident. I wished him luck, though no more sincerely than I wished it for myself. Millington’s analysis of England in the summer of 1931 seemed only too accurate to me as I wandered London’s streets in weather more suited to February than July, read gloom-laden newspaper articles about the state of the economy and generally did my best to work up a fine sense of self-pity.

  Tea with the Atkinson-Whites in Windsor on the afternoon of Max’s departure supplied some welcome solace. Cheered by their willingness to follow my financial advice, I arranged to have lunch the following day with ‘Trojan’ Doyle. He had been a year below me at Winchester and was still making, as he had been in 1922, a comfortable living out of managing other people’s money. Negotiating a share of the commission he would charge the Atkinson-Whites was unlikely to make me rich, but would at least keep me busy until Max brought home the bacon. Besides, Trojan – who had earned his sobriquet by continually mispronouncing the name of the Latin poet Horace – kept his ear to the ground in City circles. I wanted to know what he could tell me about Charnwood Investments. So, as soon as we had reached agreement where the Atkinson-Whites were concerned, I changed the subject.

  ‘Charnwood Investments, Trojan. Ever had occasion to give it the once-over?’

  ‘Can’t say I have. Fabian Charnwood plays his cards close to his chest. Always has.’

  ‘But doing well?’

  ‘Better than most.’ Trojan’s eyebrows, which had developed into a pair of tangled hedges over the years, bunched together in a frown. ‘What’s your interest?’

  ‘I might – just might – do some business with him, that’s all.’

  ‘I wouldn’t if I were you. A slippery customer.’

  ‘More slippery than you?’

  He grinned. ‘A sea-serpent to my eel. Simply no comparison. His father was in munitions before the war.’ I let the slight inaccuracy pass, calculating that the more ignorant he thought me, the more informative he might be. ‘Charnwood started with the firm as a salesman, flogging howitzers to Balkan hotheads. Ended up on the board. Became chairman when his father died. Then, within a year, he sold up. Lock, stock and barrel.’ He laughed at the aptness of the phrase. ‘That must be nearly twenty-five years ago. Since then, he’s contented himself with investing in all manner of enterprises, here and overseas. Armaments, of course, but also shipbuilding, aircraft production, banking, gold mines, telephones, newspapers. He chooses well – and profitably. And he takes risks. He’s said to be active in all the currency and futures markets. Well, they’re no place for the faint-hearted. Never have been. But he goes from strength to strength. His judgement can’t be faulted.’

  ‘But something else can?’

  ‘Did I say so?’

  ‘No. But your expression implied it.’

  He shrugged. ‘I told you he plays his cards close to his chest. Well, that’s the point. Altogether too close. Too mysterious. And mystery is worrying. Some find it fascinating, I suppose. Plenty of people – big companies, not just individuals – have backed Charnwood’s investments. And they’ve done well out of them. But he’s too unfathomable for my taste. And for yours, I should guess. Which reminds me … Didn’t I hear you and Max Wingate were in business in America with Richard Babcock, the banker’s son?’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Yes. And now I read he and his father, Hiram Babcock – the chairman, or should I say ex-chairman, of the Housatonic Bank – have been arrested for fraud, embezzlement and God knows what else. You must have still been in New York when that happened. What can you tell me about it?’

  ‘Nothing.’ I summoned my most disingenuous smile. ‘Nothing at all.’

  ‘Come off it.’

  ‘It’s true. The Babcock affair is a closed book to me.’ And so it was, along with a great many other affairs I preferred to forget. But Fabian Charnwood was different. He was a closed book only because he had not yet been opened.

  Doyle’s parting remark after lunch was a recommendation to back Poor Lad in the Stewards’ Cup at Goodwood that afternoon. Naturally, I did nothing about it, only to learn from the evening paper that the wretched horse had romped home at nine to one. I hoped Max was having better luck in Surrey – or making more of whatever came his way – and a telephone call from him the following evening suggested he was.

  ‘I’m in a call-box near the house, old man. Ostensibly taking a stroll before dinner. Actually, I thought you’d like to know the state of play.’

  ‘I would. Very much.’

  ‘Everything’s going famously. Diana and I seem to be made for each other. Likes, dislikes, sense of humour, approach to life – we see eye to eye on everything. I was afraid it might be different on her home ground, but I needn’t have worried. She’s a lovely girl, she really is. I wish I’d met her years ago.’

  ‘Sounds like you might be popping the question any day.’

  ‘I might at that. But don’t rush me.’

  ‘What about her father? Have you met him yet?’

  ‘We dine with him nightly. Seems a perfect gent. I think he’s taken a shine to me.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘It’s not so strange. I am a charming fellow, after all. And at the moment I can do no wrong. Diana’s been showing me round the neighbourhood in her sports car and you could wish for no more fetching chauffeuse, believe you me. We took Vita to Goodwood yesterday and had a couple of big wins.’

  ‘Including Poor Lad in the Stewards’ Cup?’

  ‘Yes. Did you back it too?’

  Before I could reply, the pips intervened.

  ‘I’ll be staying until after the week-end,’ Max bellowed in their wake. ‘See you on Tuesday.’

  ‘Good luck,’ I managed to respond through gritted teeth. There was every reason to be exultant at how well he was doing, but such is human nature that I could not help resenting it. After he had rung off, there really seemed to be nothing for it but to become horribly drunk. And to dream of Diana Charnwood riding naked on horseback.

  I was roused on Friday morning, head splitting, by a hammering at the door. Blundering down, I found a uniformed messenger standing outside. No sooner had I confirmed my identity than he thrust a letter into my hand and bustled off. I tore the envelope open and found myself squinting in puzzlement at a wholly unexpected invitation, written on the headed notepaper of Charnwood Investments, Cornhill, London EC2.

  31st July 1931

  Dear Mr Horton,

  I should esteem it a favour if you would join me for luncheon at the Ambassador Club, 26 Conduit Street, this afternoon at one o’clock.

  Yours truly,

  Fabian Charnwood.

  After throwing on some clothes and forcing down a cup of strong black coffee, I re-read the letter, but was none the wiser about Charnwood’s intentions. What he wanted with me as opposed to Max I could not imagine, but fortunately I did not have long to wait in order to find out.

  The Ambassador Club had not existed in 1922, so far as I could recall. From what circles it drew its membership I did not know. The Gresham was synonymous with banking and the St James’ with diplomacy. I might not have felt at home in either of them, but at least I would have understood why Fabian Charnwood should. Perhaps that was why he had chosen to meet me instead in the mirror-walled dining-room of the Ambassador, where Doric columns, multifarious reflections and roseate light from a tinted glass roof created a thoroughly bemusing environment.

  In that sense it was also highly appropriate, since Fabian Charnwood was a thoroughly bemusing man. The frock-coat, wing-collar, carnation button-hole and stiff-backed bearing all confirmed Max’s description of him as ‘a perfect gent’, but he was far from being the stout red-faced sexagenarian I had expected. There was something almost athletic in his build. His hair, though white, was as plentiful as mine, his features regular and singular
ly unlined, his gaze uncomfortably direct. He spoke quietly but firmly, as if used to being obeyed without question and came to the point as soon as we had settled ourselves at a corner table and ordered our meals, with which, I noticed, he specified wine for me and Malvern water for himself.

  ‘I’m obliged to you for coming at such short notice, Mr Horton. I wish to discuss the blossoming romance between my daughter Diana and your friend, Max Wingate.’

  ‘What can we possibly discuss on that score, Mr Charnwood?’

  ‘We can discuss how it’s to be brought to an end.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Mr Wingate has been a guest in my house for the past three days. I have been left in no doubt as to how matters stand between him and Diana. She has told me she loves him. I think it only a question of time before he proclaims his love for her and asks me for her hand in marriage. Don’t you?’

  ‘Well … I … I’m pleased for Max if …’

  ‘Spare me your pleasure, Mr Horton. There’s none to be felt by a father whose daughter is entangled with such a man.’

  ‘Damn it,’ I said, simulating outrage on my friend’s behalf, ‘if that’s the way—’

  ‘Spare me your play-acting too. It really isn’t necessary. I know exactly what you’re up to. Both of you. You are a pair of unprincipled adventurers who understand the value of nothing except money.’ A silence fell while his mineral water and my aperitif arrived, but his eyes never left me. When the waiter had retreated, he said: ‘Happily, I have no difficulty with people such as you. We agree a price and we have done with it.’

  ‘Your frankness, Mr Charnwood … er …’ I struggled to frame a response, disarmed by the blatancy of his approach. ‘It takes me somewhat aback.’

  ‘My frankness is the product of my knowledge. That is naturally not confined to what Mr Wingate has told Diana about himself, which is true as far as it goes but goes hardly anywhere. You were contemporaries at Winchester, I believe, and served together during the war in the King’s Royal Rifle Corps. In 1919, Mr Wingate went up to Oxford, while you took up a junior position with the firm for which your father worked: the Goddess Foundation Garment Company in Letchworth. Mr Wingate described you as “a corsetry clerk”, unflattering but presumably accurate.’

  ‘Very amusing,’ I said levelly.

  ‘Your friend’s joke, Mr Horton, not mine. Besides, you cannot help coming from a poorer background than him. I do not blame you for that. I do not even blame you for throwing it all up two years later to join Mr Wingate in business. He has told my daughter he left Oxford of his own accord, but you and I know he was actually sent down for acting as an agent for an illegal lottery. A humble start to a career of fraud and trickery, in which you have been his loyal partner.’

  ‘Who dug this rubbish up for you?’ I countered. ‘Faraday?’

  He frowned at me. ‘Who is Faraday?’

  ‘Your spy on the Empress of Britain.’

  ‘I do not employ spies, on land or sea. My information has been given to me by a fellow-member of this club whose name will be familiar to you: Sir Antony Toogood.’

  ‘Toogood? I’m not sure I …’

  ‘You met him at Le Touquet in 1924, when his daughter was the object of your attentions just as mine is now the object of Mr Wingate’s.’ He smiled. ‘Perhaps you think it unfortunate that I should be acquainted with Sir Antony. You should not, for two reasons.’

  Soup arrived. I had little stomach for it, but gulped some wine and waited for Charnwood to continue between spoonfuls of vichyssoise.

  ‘Firstly, because it saves time for both of us. It means I know who I am dealing with and what they want. Sir Antony was most illuminating about the activities you and Mr Wingate engaged in between 1921 and 1924. You began as minor figures in Horatio Bottomley’s empire of corruption, touring the country to post illegal lottery material for him and, of course, those vital winning entries from fictitious members of the public. You operated accommodation addresses for him in Paris, Geneva and Lausanne in connection with his fraudulent overseas bond clubs. After Bottomley’s imprisonment, you remained on the continent and turned freelance. You carried out specious enquiries on behalf of English relatives seeking news of their loved ones who had been posted missing during the war and who you implied might still be alive. You blackmailed ex-servicemen on behalf of their former French and Belgian mistresses and alleged offspring. You returned to this country solely for the purpose of libelling an unsavoury individual named Smallbone and splitting the resulting damages with him. And then you descended upon Le Touquet in search of a rich man’s daughter. Who, should you be interested, is now happily married to a gentleman farmer in Shropshire and the mother of two children with a third on the way.’

  It sounded even worse in Charnwood’s rounded phrases than I remembered. There was nothing I could do but smile weakly. ‘Well, motherhood will have suited Caroline. She certainly had the hips for it.’

  He did not laugh. I had indeed the greatest difficulty imagining him ever doing so. ‘Secondly,’ he implacably resumed, ‘the ethos of the Ambassador Club is one for which you should have some sympathy. Were the grouse season not imminent, I would probably be able to point to a lively cross-section of the peerage at adjoining tables. Not to mention the baronetage and knightage. Politicians of all parties. Traders in every commodity. Exponents of almost every way of life. Eclecticism is the club’s watchword. What binds us together is an understanding that everything and everyone has a price. I take it you agree?’

  ‘Yes,’ I murmured. ‘I suppose I do.’

  ‘So I thought. To business, then.’ He finished his soup. ‘A peerage fetches thirty thousand pounds these days, a knighthood ten thousand. On that sort of sliding scale, I estimate the value of Mr Wingate abandoning my daughter at no more than fifteen hundred. But I am prepared to offer a bonus for early settlement. Shall we say two thousand?’

  I gaped at him, unable to disguise my astonishment. A moment before he had been anatomizing the long-ago frauds and shady practices by which Max and I had endeavoured to make the kind of living we thought we were owed for wasting more than three years of our youth in a mosquito-ridden wilderness called Macedonia. He had done so calmly and mercilessly. Now, without altering his tone in any way, he had virtually admitted that the club of which he was a member was no better than a mart at which honours and sundry other favours were bought and sold at fixed prices. ‘That being so,’ I said slowly, ‘you and your friends, Mr Charnwood, are no better than me and mine.’

  ‘Perhaps so.’ Our soup dishes were removed, our glasses recharged. ‘But I never said we were, did I?’

  ‘No. Not exactly. But—’

  ‘And I haven’t asked what you’ve been doing in America for the past seven years, have I? Nor why you’ve suddenly returned home.’

  ‘No. You haven’t.’

  ‘So, can we agree on two thousand pounds?’

  ‘Well, I’d have to consult Max, of course, but …’

  ‘Consult him as soon as he returns to London. I believe we are to have the pleasure of his company throughout this week-end. I shall say nothing to him about our conversation, of course. That I shall leave to you. The money is payable on condition that he breaks with my daughter cleanly and irrevocably. And without telling her the real reason why. He may invent whatever lie he pleases.’

  ‘Aren’t you worried how Diana may react?’

  ‘She is resilient. I would be a great deal more worried if the illusion of happiness Mr Wingate has planted in her mind persisted for any length of time. My sister should have prevented it taking root in the first place, but she is incurably soft-hearted. I am not.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘Are we agreed then, Mr Horton?’

  Two thousand pounds was a fair price, indeed a generous one. There was nothing to be gained by haggling. ‘I believe we are, yes.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘But I do have one question.’ The arrival of our main cou
rses interrupted me and I wondered if, after all, I should put such a point to him. The last thing I wanted to do at this stage was antagonize him. But, in the end, I reckoned he would take it in good part. ‘If honours are so readily available, why is a man of your means and connections still plain Mr Charnwood?’

  ‘Because I do not want what is readily available.’

  ‘What do you want, then?’

  A faraway look entered his eyes. When he replied, it was wistfully, with no hint of dissimulation. ‘The past over again.’ He smiled at me. ‘Can you arrange that, Mr Horton? I would pay you every penny I possessed if you could.’

  I shook my head. ‘Nobody can. Not even … Not even God.’ The profundity sounded strange and unfamiliar on my lips. I doubt I had spoken of the Almighty, other than profanely, in more than ten years. To find myself doing so now, in such a setting, was bizarre, as Charnwood seemed to acknowledge.

  ‘A strange thought, eh? If you could change one thing, just one, that the past has placed beyond your reach, what would it be?’

  Unaccountably, I heard myself reply honestly and instinctively. ‘I would give my brother Felix back his sanity. He lost it …’ My words failed as I realized how revealing my answer was. It was the first time I had mentioned Felix’s name to a stranger since leaving Letchworth. ‘He lost it in the war,’ I concluded.

  ‘Ah, the war,’ said Charnwood reflectively. ‘Always there is the war.’

  ‘What would you change?’

  ‘I would prevent my wife boarding the Lusitania in New York on the first of May 1915. The war again, you see?’ We eyed each other warily, suspicious of the intimate direction our exchanges had taken. Both of us, I think, were happy to draw back. ‘The present is so much simpler, Mr Horton. Take your money and leave my daughter alone. It’s all you have to do. It’s all either of us can reasonably ask. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘Yes. I do.’

  ‘Then enjoy your meal. And drink your wine.’ He raised his glass and stretched across the table to touch it against mine. ‘May you spend your ill-gotten gains wisely.’