‘Eccleston Hotel, Eccleston Square, SW1. Duly noted, sir. Is there a telephone number?’
‘Victoria 8042.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Well, if you have all that, I’ll—’
‘One thing before you ring off, Mr Horton. We’ve finished with your car. For the moment, anyway, although we must insist you notify us if you propose to sell it or take it out of the country. It may be needed as evidence, you understand. Meanwhile, you’re free to collect it from the station in Winchester at any time you like.’
‘From Winchester?’
‘Well, we don’t operate a chauffeur service, you know, sir.’
‘No. Of course not.’
‘Goodbye, sir.’
I put the receiver down and remembered walking out of College with Max for the very last time in July 1915, resplendent in our Rifle Corps uniform, strutting like a pair of bantam-cocks, proud of the ringing tone of our boot-studs on the cobbles. Later, we had both agreed we would probably never return, that to go back was always a mistake. But Max had gone back. And so too, it seemed, must I.
Winchester lay mellow and unaltered beneath a cloudless sky when I reached it the following morning. But for the day’s sudden peak of late summer ripeness, I might have collected the Talbot from the police station and driven straight back to London. I might have, though I doubt it. In the event, it seemed impossible not to divert to the precincts of the College, to park beneath the boundary wall of the Close and to walk down Kingsgate Street, wondering what had brought Max back to this place of high walls and familiar windows – with the bloodstains I had just touched fresh on the steering-wheel of the car.
I turned in through War Memorial Gate. This had in my time commemorated the College dead of the Boer War, but I was vaguely aware that those who had fallen in the Great War were now recorded in a cloister just beyond. I had read something about an appeal to finance its construction in the pages of The Wykehamist, a journal which had pursued Max and me by post across many years and several continents. Needless to say, I had not contributed a penny, but clearly others had been more generous, for I found myself in a grandly conceived and expensively executed quadrangle of flints and flagstones, twin-pillared stone arches running round an immaculately kept garden, with a cross at its centre, while, along the inner walls of the cloister were arrayed on plaques the names of several hundred dead Wykehamists, year by year, regiment by regiment.
I began to follow the entrance year headings towards 1910, wondering just how many of my contemporaries would be listed there. But, before I had passed 1900, a figure rounded the north-west corner of the cloister: a slim elegant young woman in a black suit, her eyes shaded by the brim of a matching hat; it was Diana.
We pulled up at the sight of each other, then she raised a hand and smiled in recognition. ‘Hello, Guy.’ I walked forward to join her in a sun-filled archway, struck more than ever by her exceptional beauty, which jewel-less mourning seemed only to enhance. ‘This is … What brings you here, Diana?’
‘What brings you?’
‘I came to collect the car. The police have finished with it.’
‘I suppose you could say I came for the same reason. Chief Inspector Hornby told me they’d found it here and I wanted to …’ She shook her head. ‘Well, I suppose I thought it might help me to appreciate Max’s state of mind if I retraced his steps.’
‘And has it?’
‘No.’
‘Me neither.’
She sighed and glanced up at the dazzling sky. ‘You know about the letter, of course?’
‘Yes.’
‘He thinks we betrayed him, you and I. I suppose I did, in a sense, by yielding to Papa’s wishes. But …’ She looked directly at me. ‘Betrayal is too strong a word, isn’t it?’
‘I think it is, yes.’
‘And what does he blame you for?’
‘I …’ Deception is cumulative, one lie breeding a dozen others and those a dozen each in turn. Diana’s question marked another stage in the ever more complicated process. ‘I really have no idea. I thought I understood Max. It seems I was wrong.’
‘If you don’t, who can? You share so much with him. Most of both your pasts.’
‘Yes. Starting here.’
‘It’s such a beautiful place.’ She glanced around. ‘Yet so empty.’
‘Only for a few more weeks. Once Short-Half begins—’ I smiled at her evident puzzlement. ‘Sorry. That’s what Wykehamists call the autumn term. Let’s walk through to Meads.’ I smiled again. ‘The school field.’
A wrought-iron gate led us from the eastern side of the cloister directly into Meads, green and verdant beyond my recollection, the plane trees motionless as sentinels, the memories pressing in upon me of days far less idyllic than those conjured up by the scene before us.
‘I wish I could have come here with Max,’ said Diana softly. ‘In happier circumstances.’
‘I wish you could, too.’
We walked slowly on towards School Court for a few minutes in silence, then Diana said: ‘Papa’s to be buried on Friday. Will you come?’
‘If you’d like me to. I had the impression … when I spoke to your aunt on the telephone …’
‘Pay no attention to what Aunt Vita says. I would value your attendance – as a friend.’
‘Then I’ll be there.’
‘Thank you—’ She stopped and held my hand briefly in hers, gazing at me with an earnestness I found intimidating and, yes, let it be said, somehow enticing. ‘I think we may both need the support of a friend in the times ahead. Max has turned his back on me. You won’t do the same, will you, Guy?’
‘No. Don’t worry. You can rely on me.’
We spent several hours in Winchester, exploring the College and Cathedral Close and strolling by the river. Over tea at the George Hotel, Diana reminisced about her father. I found myself talking about Max and our schooldays in a similar vein, as if I no more expected to see and speak to him again than I did Fabian Charnwood. It was strange and bewildering and oddly easy. Diana’s beauty, her trusting nature, seemed almost to compel confidence. I held back, of course, veiling my thoughts, but there was a contagion of frankness in the air which I had to steel myself to resist. Was this the birth of a friendship? Of course not. But, if Diana had said she hoped it was, I would not have demurred. To Max, I knew, it would have seemed altogether different – and treacherous into the bargain. ‘There’s no such thing as friendship between a man and a woman,’ he had often said. And he was right.
We drove out of Winchester in the declining light of late afternoon, following the same route, straight and fast to Guildford, where our paths divided. Somewhere on the Hog’s Back I watched her Imp accelerate away till it was a dot in the distance. I did not follow. But the memory of her face and the recollection of her voice were imprinted on my mind with disconcerting clarity. I could and did assure myself that the encounter meant nothing. But, all the same, she had left her mark upon me. And that meant rather more than nothing.
A message had been left for me at the Eccleston by none other than ‘Trojan’ Doyle. Hoping to hear that Atkinson-White had been raining money on him and that my share of the commission was immediately payable, I proceeded to his office in Holborn first thing the following morning. But Trojan’s expression – akin to a bulldog with toothache – told me before the words were out of his mouth that the news was not good.
‘Your friend Atkinson-White has contracted cold feet. He won’t be entrusting his nest egg to me.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you recommended me. And your name’s been in the papers recently, along with Max Wingate’s and the late lamented Fabian Charnwood’s. Murder and mayhem tend to undermine confidence, don’t you find?’
‘Charnwood’s murder is nothing to do with me.’
‘Maybe not. But blood sticks even faster than mud in this game. Atkinson-White prefers to deal with people who go to bed at ten with a good book rather th
an rampaging round the woods of Surrey battering protective parents over the head.’
‘Couldn’t you have persuaded him to … think it over?’
‘He had thought it over. And I can’t say I blame him. What the devil have you and Wingate been playing at?’
‘We haven’t been playing at anything. It was between Max and Charnwood.’
‘Come off it. You were pumping me for information about Charnwood. You said you might be doing some business with him.’
‘It fell through.’
Trojan grunted. ‘Count yourself lucky.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’ve been hearing some strange rumours about Charnwood Investments. Without the man himself, it’s nothing. People put money in because they trusted his judgement. Now they want their money back. And some question whether it’s all there for them to retrieve.’
Could others have had the same experience as me? I had supposed till now that the dud cheque represented a personal act of spite. But perhaps it was nothing of the kind. ‘You assured me he was doing well,’ I said, with a frown of accusation.
Trojan spread his arms wide, disclaiming responsibility. ‘He was. But he was also highly secretive. He handled everything himself. Took all the decisions. Made all the moves. His staff were just puppets. Without him, they’re helpless. Presumably, the business will be inherited by his family. But it’s too soon to say what they’ll make of it. And while we wait to see if they can come to grips with Charnwood’s tangle of international investments, a lot of people are becoming nervous. Very nervous indeed.’
* * *
Fabian Charnwood’s funeral took place in Dorking the following day and gave no hint of the worries which those who had invested in his company were allegedly harbouring. St Martin’s Church was filled with an eclectic gathering of mourners, in which relatives, employees and local worthies were heavily outnumbered by what I took to be a representative sample of Charnwood’s business associates: prosperous men of his own generation, many of whom looked as if they had continental origins and some of whom had the faintly familiar appearance of people I might once have seen or heard of – though where or in what circumstances I could not recall. Into which category Faraday fitted I did not know, but there he nevertheless was, bobbing and pouting in the pew immediately behind Vita and Diana.
They, for their part, bore themselves in the contrasting fashions I might have expected: Vita tearful and unsteady, forever raising a heavy veil to dry her eyes; Diana thoughtfully subdued and more concerned for her aunt’s condition than her own. Lessons were read by a viscount and two baronets and rounded off by an orotund eulogy from a huge and bearded Slav whom the printed order of service credited with the rank of general in some unspecified army. He contrived to be both extravagant in his praise yet reticent about how he had met the deceased. I supposed he thought a man’s funeral no place to reminisce about sealing their friendship over a contract for the supply of ten thousand rifles.
The committal at Dorking Cemetery was a brief and restrained ceremony. I kept to the rear of the mourning group, hoping to avoid Faraday. In this I was successful, but only at the expense of finding myself shoulder to shoulder with Chief Inspector Hornby, who was more poker-faced than usual but no less sharp-tongued.
‘Eyeing the headstones are you, Mr Horton, in case Mr Wingate’s hiding behind one?’
‘You think I should be?’
‘You tell me. Is he still in England?’
‘How should I know?’
‘The coroner may ask for your opinion on the point. I should think of a less sarcastic answer, if I were you.’
‘The coroner?’
‘At the inquest. We haven’t fixed a date yet, but, when we do, you’ll be one of the witnesses we call.’
My heart sank. Here, looming close, was another occasion when I would be hard put not to strengthen the case against Max – and to compound my treachery in his eyes.
‘Look on it as an appetizer, sir. The main course will come later.’ As I glanced round at him, he nodded. ‘We’ll bring him to trial in the end. Mark my words.’
The priest had finished and, as I peered past the hunched shoulders and bowed heads, I saw Diana step forward to scatter her handful of dust on the coffin.
‘Not such a bad way to be laid to rest, is it?’ murmured Hornby, almost to himself. ‘There’s a certain dignity about it. And it’s a nice setting, with the downs on either side.’ He paused, then, as the people ahead of us began shuffling towards the grave, he added: ‘A pleasanter plot than the patch of prison yard they’ll bury his murderer in, that’s for certain.’
Mercifully, Hornby was not among those who returned to Amber Court after the funeral for tea, sandwiches and respectful small talk. Diana and Vita were surrounded by attentive sympathizers, so I drifted to the window and gazed out at the garden Charnwood had once escorted Max round while explaining his unsuitability as a son-in-law. As I sipped my tea and pondered the agonizing irreversibility of events, I failed to notice the approach of a familiar figure. When I did, it was as a suddenly coalescing reflection in the glass, followed almost immediately by the honey-rich sound of his voice in my ear.
‘Who would have thought it, eh, Mr Horton? That we should meet again – in such tragic and unexpected circumstances.’
I did not trouble to disguise my pained expression, but, turning, could see no easy way to escape him. ‘The circumstances are not of my making, Mr Faraday.’
‘Nor of anybody present, eh? Do you know, I haven’t been in this house for nearly a year. How time flies.’
‘Quite.’
‘And rings in its changes.’ He glanced round, then lowered his voice. ‘Where’s Barker, I wonder.’
‘Who?’
‘Mr Charnwood’s valet. I expected to see him here.’
‘I wasn’t aware he had a valet.’
‘He used to have. But perhaps … It’s my impression he was making some economies in recent months. Poor Barker may have been one of them.’
‘Maybe he was.’
‘You concur with my impression, then?’
‘I never said so.’
‘No, but …’ He smiled and gazed slowly round the room. ‘Do you think it fair to judge a man by the people who attend his funeral, Mr Horton? If so, we must accord Mr Charnwood a colourful reputation, mustn’t we? Take General Vasaritch, for instance, our eloquent eulogist.’ The mountainous general was at that moment not far from us, talking to, or rather bellowing at, a stout little man with a monocle and excessively greased centre-parted black hair, who was listening attentively to every word, his ear approximately level with the forked end of the general’s beard. ‘He hides a few secrets behind the guffaws and anecdotes, I would venture to suggest. But, like a good soldier, he understands the value of camouflage.’
‘What army did he serve in?’
‘I’m not entirely sure. He calls himself a Yugoslav. But what does that mean?’ Faraday paused and frowned at me, then said: ‘Have you found a suitable outlet for your talents since returning to these shores, by the way?’
Endeavouring to seem scornful of the question, I shrugged and replied: ‘These are early days.’
‘I don’t mean to pry. It’s simply that the man with whom General Vasaritch is conversing may have just the opening for a fellow of your particular talents. He’s the proprietor of the Ambassador Club. Ah, I see you’ve heard of it. He’s also recently acquired the Deepdene Hotel here in Dorking. On Mr Charnwood’s recommendation, I believe. Would you like me to introduce you?’
I hesitated, weighing several competing considerations in my mind. Charnwood had made no bones about what sort of club the Ambassador was. Its proprietor might provide me with an entrée to a wide world of money-spinning schemes. He was therefore a man I ought logically to cultivate. But I did not trust Faraday, especially when he was offering to be helpful. On the other hand, I could not afford to be unduly suspicious. I was short of contacts in London society and wo
uld soon be short of money as well. I could not neglect the only occupation I knew for Max’s sake. Indeed, I told myself he would not want me to. So, what was there to hold me back?
‘I think Mr Gregory and you may find you have a great deal in common,’ Faraday continued. ‘A view of the world based on the same principles. It might prove a fruitful association.’
‘Gregory?’ The name rang several bells. And then they played an unmistakable tune. The Ambassador’s proprietor had won his spurs as an honours broker for Lloyd George in the years immediately following the Great War. So, at all events, it had reliably been rumoured. Of course, the sale of honours had since become illegal. Hence the need for a more discreet setting in which to conduct such business, a gentleman’s luncheon club off Bond Street being ideal. And hence, it occurred to me, the higher profit margin appropriate to an illegal trade. ‘You mean Maundy Gregory?’
‘The very same.’
‘Then, yes, perhaps you would be so kind as to introduce us.’
‘Excellent. I—’
‘Excuse me, Mr Faraday.’ Suddenly, Diana was between us. ‘My aunt would like to speak to you. Would you mind …?’
‘Of course not, my dear.’ There was the merest hint of irritation in his tone and in the pursing of his lips. ‘I am hers to command.’ He moved smartly away, raising one regretful eyebrow at me as he passed.
‘Thank you for coming, Guy,’ said Diana, motioning me towards the greater privacy of the bay window. ‘It can’t have been easy for you.’
‘Don’t worry about me. How are you bearing up?’
‘Well enough, so long as I don’t have to endure the company of that nauseating little man. I’m sorry he should have inflicted himself on you.’
‘He was asking me what had become of somebody called Barker.’
‘Barker?’ She frowned. ‘He was Papa’s valet – until Papa decided he no longer needed one. But I really don’t see …’
‘I’m sorry. Forget I mentioned it.’
‘I wish I could forget Mr Faraday altogether. Aunt Vita’s enthusiasm for his advice is quite baffling.’
‘What does he advise her about?’
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