‘I don’t know their names. Nobody does. Not all of them. Charnwood knew, of course. He must have had them listed like a directory in his head. Who I Made Who. That’s what he did. Made some. And broke others. like me.’ He frowned, as if in painful recollection, then rubbed at his chin. ‘Maybe they found out about his financial problems and were afraid of what he might reveal – if he thought he needed to. Maybe they just grew tired of depending on his discretion.’
‘Are you talking about clients of his?’
‘Clients? Yes, you could call them that. Clients – and co-conspirators.’
‘Co-conspirators in what?’
He stared at me for a moment, flexing his lower lip abstractedly. Then he said: ‘I’m saying no more until I can be sure where you and Wingate stand. If you were working for them … But I don’t think you were.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Not quite their type. And too young to have been in from the beginning. They wouldn’t have used outsiders.’ I was still puzzling over this remark when he leant across the table and said: ‘Wingate may have seen or heard something. A glimpse. A whisper. He might think it’s insignificant. A word from Charnwood before he died. A sign he made or left behind. But it could be the connection we need.’
His intensity was becoming disturbing. I shrugged and drew back. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘You don’t have to. Just tell Wingate what I’ve told you. I may be able to help him. But only if he can help me.’
‘I can’t tell him anything. I haven’t seen him since the night of the murder.’
‘Pull the other one. Somebody’s sheltering him. Stands to reason it has to be you.’
‘Well, it isn’t.’
He grunted, then drained his glass and sucked the last of the beer from his moustache. ‘Have it your way, Mr Horton. Another drink?’
‘No thanks. I’m leaving.’
‘But you don’t know how to get in touch with me.’
‘Why should I want to?’
‘Because I’m your friend’s only chance. With my help, with what I know—’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘With what’s up here, he might be able to expose the whole pack of them. But, on his own, he’ll do no better than I ever have. So, if you see him, if your paths just happen to cross, tell him what I said. Fair enough?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘I can be found at this address.’ He pulled out a notebook, the covers of which were in danger of being parted from the spine by the pressure of folded scraps of paper wedged inside them. Separating a nicotine-stained calling card from the chaos, he laid it on the table before me. ‘By letter or telephone.’
I picked the card up and stared with some surprise at what was printed on it.
ALNWICK ADVERTISER
BONDGATE WITHIN
ALNWICK
NORTHUMBERLAND
Telephone: 88 Telegrams: Advertiser, Alnwick
‘Northumberland’s a long way from Fleet Street, Mr Duggan. I thought you claimed to be free-lance.’
‘So I am, when I’m not knocking out six hundred words for the Advertiser on the price of herrings. And I was in Fleet Street. Foreign correspondent with The Topical. So don’t worry. I still have my foot in the door. If Wingate has something for me, I can ensure it gets splash treatment.’
‘And you came all the way from Alnwick to tell me so?’
‘Yes. Because it’s important. And not just to me. Fight in the war, did you?’
‘As a matter of fact, I did.’
‘Lose many comrades?’
‘A few.’
‘They’re why it’s important. Every Armistice Day, we promise to remember them. But what do we actually do for them?’
‘What can we do? They’re dead.’
‘Exactly. Millions of them. Dead.’ He stared at his empty glass. ‘I need another drink.’
‘I’ll leave you to it.’
‘Do that. But pass the message on, Mr Horton.’ The note of desperation had returned to his voice. ‘They may have made a mistake when they killed Charnwood. If they did, we can make them regret it.’
I nodded non-committally, slipped his card into my wallet and left. He was already at the bar when I glanced back from the door. I was inclined to attribute his wild talk to however much he had drunk before calling at the Eccleston and was most of the way back to the hotel before an odd coincidence in his remarks occurred to my mind. Both he and Charnwood had spoken about the war as if it had ended yesterday. ‘Always there is the war,’ Charnwood had said. And ‘What do we actually do for them?’ Duggan had asked of the fallen. Why this shared preoccupation with a conflict buried thirteen years in the past?
I diverted to the Grosvenor to consider the point over a Manhattan. By the time I had finished it and ordered another, along with a gin sling for the sloe-eyed vamp whose gaze met mine in the mirror behind the bar, I had concluded that it meant nothing. Charnwood was dead. Duggan was just a mouthy old drunk. Max had disappeared. And for me … there were always consolations.
But disentanglement from the posthumous affairs of Fabian Charnwood was not as easy as I had supposed. I had a meeting with Maundy Gregory fixed for Monday evening, when I hoped to be paid what I was due from our successful negotiations with the boot and shoe magnate. Nor was I disappointed. Gregory proved to be prompt as well as generous. But touting honours among the landed gentry was not, it transpired, the only task he had in mind for me.
He paid me two hundred pounds in hard cash without my needing to ask for it, dispensed some champagne chilled in expectation of my arrival and forced a couple of Havana cigars on me – one to smoke, one to take away. Such a lavish reception put me in good spirits and I smiled tolerantly as he claimed long foreknowledge of the suspension of the gold standard announced that morning.
‘It was Charnwood who first told me it was bound to happen. He predicted the event to the very day. “They’ll have gone off gold by the autumn.” Those were his actual words. And what is today?’
‘Er … the twenty-first of September.’
‘Which happens to be the first day of autumn.’ Gregory grinned. ‘Uncanny, eh? It’s just a pity he’s not here to see his prediction come true.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Yes, Fabian Charnwood was a clever man. Very clever. You could have learned a lot from him, dear boy.’
Irked by the term dear boy with which he had recently been making free, I decided I could afford to be mildly provocative. ‘Doesn’t the collapse of his company suggest he wasn’t quite as clever as he needed to be?’
‘It would, if one thought he truly had lost all his money – and that of his investors – in American stocks and Austrian banks. But I don’t. And nor do many others who financed his speculations.’
‘You were one of them?’
‘I freely admit I was. And I never had any cause to regret it – until now. On which subject …’ He paused to puff at his cigar. ‘You may be able to assist me. And those who, for these purposes, I represent.’ Another puff was followed by a cocking of his head and a conspiratorial narrowing of his gaze. ‘You are on good terms with the younger Miss Charnwood, I’m told.’
I sipped some champagne and tried to frame a casual response. ‘Really? Told by whom?’
‘I have spies everywhere, dear boy. A day at the races. An evening at the ballet. Such things do not escape notice.’
‘Well, I certainly escorted her a couple of times. But—’
‘And now she and her aunt have fled to warmer climes. Will you be following them?’
‘No. Of course not. I—’
‘But you should. That’s the whole point. I’d like you to. We’d like you to.’
‘What?’
He leaned forward across the desk, his monocle swinging ahead of him on its cord, setting the lens winking in the lamplight. Lowering his voice as if afraid of being overheard, he said: ‘I have agreed to do all I can to recover the money entrusted to Fabian Charnwood. None of us believe it to be l
ost. He was too shrewd a financier for that to be credible. He may have suffered one or two reverses, but not the wholesale failure with which his clients have been presented. No, no. We may take it as certain that he salted away the greater part of his assets – our assets – in a safe place. More likely, many safe places. The question is: where?’
Gregory’s reasoning sounded like the kind of straw-clutching which often follows bankruptcy. But I did not propose to tell him so. I merely shrugged and spread my hands.
‘The aunt and the daughter hold the key. One of them knows, possibly both. Hence their precipitate flight abroad, to avoid awkward questions. Charnwood will have let one of them in on his secret with just this contingency – his sudden death – in mind. His sister is, I suppose, the likelier of the two. But she will have confided in her niece by now, so it makes no odds. Besides, the elder Miss Charnwood has proved impervious to Faraday’s charms.’
There could be little doubt, then, that Faraday was also a victim of Charnwood’s insolvency. This conclusion planted two disturbing thoughts in my mind. Firstly, it implied that a concerted attempt to glean information on behalf of Charnwood’s clients had already begun when Max and I walked unwittingly into his tangled world. Secondly, it confirmed my suspicion that Faraday had not recommended me to Gregory for altruistic reasons. Despairing of Vita, they had decided to resort to Diana. And I was to be their instrument.
‘Follow them to Venice, dear boy. Invent whatever motive or pretext you like. The abject lover or the platonic friend, it makes no difference. But win the daughter’s confidence and find out what she knows. Where the money is. And how we can lay our hands on it.’
My every instinct rebelled against such a notion. To deceive Diana would be to deceive Max all over again, even supposing Charnwood really had secreted his money in a Swiss bank vault or similar hiding-place. ‘I can’t imagine any way in which she could be persuaded to part with such information – assuming she possesses it.’
‘Come, come. You are a handsome and charming young man. The beautiful Miss Charnwood will soon look for distractions in her self-imposed exile. So, all you have to do is cater for her needs. Entertain her. Satisfy her. Break down her defences in whatever way seems most appropriate. I will meet your expenses. And, should you be successful … well, it is fair to say that your reward would make the sums we deal with in the honours trade appear trivial by comparison.’
‘Trivial, you say? Can such a large amount really be involved?’
‘Oh, yes.’ He grew suddenly solemn. ‘The total is scarcely calculable. Numerous extremely wealthy people have an interest in this matter. Their collective loss is … immense. Hence the inconceivability of its truly being lost.’
I hesitated, painfully conscious that every principle of mine – every scruple – had hitherto had its price. If I refused, Gregory would probably dispense with my services altogether. In a country of three million unemployed, with winter in the wings and all too few money-making ideas in my head, a grand gesture might swiftly lead to squalor and regret. And I had never had much taste for either commodity. Venice, Diana and the promise of riches constituted an irresistible alternative. Faraday and Gregory must have realized this. Indeed, they were relying on it. ‘Very well,’ I said at last. ‘You’ve persuaded me. Clearly, this game is worth the candle.’
‘Splendid.’ Gregory beamed approvingly at me. ‘I felt sure you’d see the merits of it in the end.’
And so, stifling my misgivings, I prepared to play my part in a conspiracy of which I knew all too little. Gregory was keen for me to set off immediately, but I invented reasons why I could not do so and he relented. The truth was that I distrusted everyone and everything associated with my mission. I needed time in which to unearth as much reliable information as I could. But what I succeeded in obtaining did not in the end amount to much.
Ostensibly as a peace offering following the Atkinson-White débâcle, I stood Trojan Doyle lunch at the Waldorf. He could tell me little about the scale of losses in Charnwood Investments or the identity of those suffering the losses.
‘Lots of foreign money involved. Lots of secrecy. Rumour has it that the source of some of the cash wouldn’t bear close scrutiny. Which might explain why the creditors are keeping so quiet. It must be galling for them. But what can they do? Charnwood’s outwitted them from the grave.’
About a different subject he offered, under the influence of brandy and cigars, to see what he could discover. A chum of his was financial correspondent for one of the national dailies. The Topical, we both reckoned, had closed some time in the early twenties, but enough of its staff survived on other papers for it to be ascertainable whether George Duggan had ever been one of its foreign correspondents. After what Gregory had said, Duggan’s ramblings did not seem quite as aimless as I had first thought, so I had decided to find out just what his vaunted Fleet Street credentials were.
I did not write to Diana about my impending visit for fear she might withdraw her invitation. This also meant I did not have to decide what reason I would advance for following her until the last possible moment. Nor did I give Chief Inspector Hornby the chance either to object to my leaving the country or to query my choice of destination. I planned to post a letter to him on the morning of my departure stating where I was going and promising to inform the British Consul of my address at all times. He would then be free to make as much or as little of it as he pleased.
Gregory had booked me aboard the Orient Express leaving London on Sunday the twenty-seventh of September. By Friday, I had still heard nothing from Trojan about Duggan, so I called at his club early that evening, hoping to find him on the premises. I was in luck and he emerged from the bar to sign me in. In truth, my luck did not have to be considerable: his absence at such an hour would have been a major surprise, according to the porter.
‘You want to know about the Topical hack, I suppose,’ Trojan chided me as we settled over our drinks. ‘Though God knows why.’
‘Our paths crossed recently. I simply wanted to check whether what he said was true.’
‘Been hanging round Clapham Common late at night, have you?’
‘No. What do you mean?’
‘Well, it seems George Duggan was a foreign correspondent for The Topical. Before the war. A rising star, even. Then there was a sudden fall from grace. He was caught by the police on Clapham Common one night buggering a sailor. A prison sentence put paid to his career with The Topical and he’s not been seen or heard of in Fleet Street since.’
‘I see.’
‘Not sure I do. Something you want to confess, is there? Something I didn’t get to hear about at Winchester?’
‘No, on both counts.’ I forced a smile. ‘But thanks for the information.’
I went down to the Embankment after leaving Trojan and walked slowly east towards Waterloo Bridge. Darkness was descending swiftly from the cloud-shrouded sky, turning the river to a wide and inky gulf. I paused by Cleopatra’s Needle and stared down into the unreflecting surface of the water, reminding myself once more why common sense and self-interest dictated that I should go to Venice. My reservations were vague and insubstantial. Certainly it seemed best to ignore Duggan’s allegations. I assumed they were about as reliable as his reputation. As for Max—
I spun round, suddenly convinced I was being watched from close quarters. But there was nobody there. The pavement was empty. And, if anyone had been observing me from the gardens on the other side of the road, it was too dark to know. Beyond the gardens soared the night-etched outline of Adelphi Terrace, beneath which I had searched in vain for Max two weeks before. Was it him I had seen in the Strand? Was it his gaze I had just sensed resting on me? Surely not. Wherever he was hiding, it could not be close by. To have eluded the police as long as he had, he must have hidden himself well – and far from me. Yet the suspicion – the itch of a doubt I could not scratch away – persisted. Perhaps my own flight was the answer. Perhaps Venice could be my refuge from a bad con
science – or whatever it was that had dogged my footsteps in London.
‘Your fault, Max,’ I muttered as I turned up my coat collar and started back towards Westminster. ‘Not mine.’
7
‘VILLA PRIMAVERA.’
‘Ah. Buon giorno. Could I speak to Miss Diana Charnwood, please?’
‘La Signorina Charnwood? Chi parla?’
‘Er … My name’s Guy Horton.’
‘Signor Horton. Un attimo, per favore.’
Rather more than a moment passed, then Diana’s voice came on the line. ‘Hello? Guy?’
‘Yes, Diana, it’s me.’
‘But … you’re so clear. I can hardly believe you’re in England.’
‘I’m not. I’m here in Venice.’
‘In Venice? This is wonderful. I had no—’
‘I decided to take up your invitation. I hope it’s still open.’
‘Of course it is. Where are you at the moment?’
‘The Danieli. I arrived yesterday.’
‘Then book out instantly. You must stay with us.’
‘Well, there’s really no—’
‘I insist. And it’s not gentlemanly to refuse a lady’s request, so …’
‘All right. I accept.’
‘Come over straightaway. In fact, better still, I’ll come and meet you. Quadri’s in the Piazza in an hour. How would that be?’
‘It would be perfect. I’ll see you there.’
I put the telephone down and smiled at how easy it had been. She had sounded genuinely pleased to hear from me and, now our re-acquaintance was imminent, I realized how much I was looking forward to seeing her again. I strolled to the window of my hotel room and opened it wide to the warm Adriatic air. Below, on the Riva degli Schiavoni, Venetians ambled between the news-stands and art-stalls, squinting in the late September sun. Gondolas bobbed at their moorings. A vaporetto chugged slowly away from its pontoon, heading out across the sparkling lagoon towards the Lido – and Diana. Venice at its most benign stood ready to enchant us. And I for one was happy to let it do so. Now I was here – far from England, my chequered past and troublesome present – I felt free of all the doubts and anxieties I had so long laboured under. They still existed, of course. I knew they did. But, for a little while, the illusion that they did not could be indulged.
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