Closed Circle

by Robert Goddard

  Not that it mattered. I seemed unlikely to have the chance to share my secret with anyone. Out there, somewhere, as solid and invisible as the fog had made every landmark of London, stood the Concentric Alliance, barring the door to my future. I could not blame Caversham for walking away. I would have done the same in his shoes. But no such choice was open to me. Walk or run or crawl, I still could not hope to escape.

  Suddenly, fear boiled into anger. I rushed out of the Hospital and hailed the first east-bound cab.

  ‘Where to, guv’?’

  ‘Euston Hotel. And step on it.’

  Collecting the car from the hotel garage entailed some risk, since Diana knew I had left it there. But even the Concentric Alliance could not be everywhere. With the car, I could be in Dorking by early evening. And, with the gun, I could make Diana pay the same penalty as she had wished on me. If I could not escape, then why should she? They meant to kill me. I had no doubt of it. And they were beyond my reach. But she was not. And it would give me some satisfaction to study her face as she realized as much. I could not beat them. I knew that now. But at least I could fix the terms of my defeat.

  Nobody was lying in wait for me at the Euston Hotel. I filled the Talbot with petrol and let the engine rip as soon as I was past Putney. Speed was what I craved above all: the speed to outrun them. But no matter how fast I went, I knew they could travel faster – and reach further.

  I pulled off the road south of Leatherhead and confronted the futility of my journey over a cigarette. Diana might not be at Amber Court. Even if she were, could I really kill her in cold blood? And even if I could, might I not simply be doing the Concentric Alliance’s work for them? Perhaps, if I simply created enough of a disturbance to be arrested, I could tell Hornby the whole story and hand him the evidence. But did I seriously think he would ever be allowed to use it? ‘You can’t destroy such people,’ Caversham had said. And he was right. ‘If I can’t, they’ll destroy me,’ I had replied. And I too was right.

  I drove slowly up the lanes towards the house, the headlamps funnelling before me into the night. Some way short of the entrance, I stowed the car beneath some trees and continued on foot. Surrey was pitch black and silent after the glare and bustle of London, the squelching of my shoes on the leaf-mush of the verge and the crack of the occasional twig beneath my heel amplified in my mind till I could believe the whole world knew where I was – and what I was about.

  I reached the entrance and found the gate closed, as I had never known it to be. And padlocked into the bargain. It was reassuring to know somebody else might also be frightened. Was Diana living in fear, I wondered – fear of my coming by night, armed and desperate, to make her pay for what she had done? She must have hoped they would kill me in Dublin. She must have laid her plans on the assumption that it would end there. But it had not. For both of us, the end remained uncertain.

  I was about to climb over the gate when I heard a car approaching, then saw the glimmer of its headlamps. There was just time for me to scuttle into the undergrowth before it appeared, growling up the lane and braking to a halt as it turned into the entrance. I shrank back and watched as a figure clambered out and walked up to the gate: the burly unmistakable figure of Quincy Z. McGowan.

  Quincy! Of course. I should have thought of him sooner. Only someone with a personal grudge against the Concentric Alliance would be foolhardy enough to help me. And Quincy would have such a grudge, once he knew of their indirect responsibility for Maud Charnwood’s death. His love for his sister had been complete and unconditional. He had tried to avenge her by fighting the Germans in 1918. And he would not hesitate to do so again by fighting the true culprits in 1931. Here at last was the ally I needed.

  As he fumbled with the padlock, I stepped forward and spoke his name.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he barked, whirling round.

  ‘Guy Horton.’

  ‘Guy!’

  ‘For God’s sake keep your voice down. I must speak to you. It’s a matter of life and death.’

  ‘Well, I’ve been wanting to speak with you since you didn’t show up for our dinner with Maundy Gregory last week. But I didn’t reckon on getting my chance like this. Why don’t we go up to the house?’

  ‘Is Diana there?’

  ‘Hell, no. But you must know that. Isn’t she with you?’

  ‘No. What about Vita?’

  ‘Oh, she’s at home. Has been ever since you and Diana left. This damned padlock’s on her account. She’s been twitchier than a cat with fleas. Lord knows why.’

  ‘I know why.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Can we go somewhere quiet? Not the house. Not anywhere we’ll be seen. I’ll explain everything. Believe me, you’ll want to hear what I have to say. It concerns your sister.’

  ‘Maudie?’

  ‘You were fond of her, weren’t you?’

  ‘I worship her memory. But what—’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know who killed her?’

  ‘A German U-boat commander called Schwieger killed her. Her and twelve hundred other souls aboard the Lusitania.’

  ‘There’s more to it than that.’

  ‘What do you mean? What are you driving at?’

  ‘The truth, Quincy. The whole truth. I can tell it to you – if you’re willing to listen.’

  I heard him take a long thoughtful breath. Then he said: ‘Where do you want to go?’

  The car we drove away in was, ironically, Charnwood’s Bentley. It had stood neglected in the garage at Amber Court till Quincy’s decision to commandeer it. He took me up to Box Hill and stopped on the crest, with the lights of Dorking winking at us from below. In one of the black voids between the lights was Dorking Cemetery – and the grave of Fabian Charnwood. But his body was not to be found there. As for his spirit, perhaps that hovered about me as I spoke, clinging to the leather upholstery he had so often sat on, watching me in the mirror that had reflected his face so many more times than mine.

  I told Quincy everything, from start to finish. Every step I had taken since our last meeting. Every secret I had learned. From the murder of Hildebrand Lightfoot, back through the annals of the Concentric Alliance to the assassination in Sarajevo. What had happened on and since the night I was supposed to dine with him and Gregory at the Deepdene Hotel. How his brother-in-law had really met his death. And why, when everything else was stripped away, his sister had met hers.

  At first, he was incredulous. Surely Diana and Vita could not have done what I alleged. Surely they could not have deceived him so completely. He was angry with me for saying such things, unwilling to entertain the possibility that they might be true.

  But they were true. As his anger abated, he began to recall and acknowledge the contradictions and inconsistencies that proved them so: the mystery of the missing money; of Max’s journey to Venice; of Diana’s abrupt departure from Amber Court; of Vita’s subsequent anxiety; and of the letter delivered to the Villa Primavera containing the Concentric Alliance’s secret symbol. To that above all he reverted. To that and the past it hinted at. It seemed to strike some stubborn chord in his mind, to convince him where nothing else could.

  By the time I had finished, his mood had changed. He was no longer either sceptical or outraged. He had become glum and thoughtful, picking his way through the tangled threads I had laid before him.

  ‘Fabian’s documents fix responsibility for the war squarely on the organization he set up?’

  ‘Yes. They’re proof positive. Of what was done. And who did it.’

  ‘And the documents are in your possession?’

  ‘They’re safely hidden.’

  ‘Waiting for you to find someone willing to help you nail these bastards?’

  ‘If I ever do.’

  ‘Oh, you just have, Guy. You just have.’ He drew a hip-flask from his pocket, took a swig from it, then offered it to me. ‘Bourbon. I reckon we both need a shot, don’t you?’

  I felt immensely grateful as the first
mouthful seeped into my senses. With the second came a lessening of the tension. I had given him what I had promised: the truth. The next move was his to choose. Knowing that was to have a great weight lifted from my shoulders.

  ‘They’re not going to get away with this, Guy. None of them are. My own niece, for God’s sake. How could she make a deal with these people? How could she bear to do it?’

  ‘I’d like to be able to ask her.’

  ‘Where’s she hiding?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Does Vita, do you think?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I’ll wring it out of her if I have to. She’s sat in that house for the past week nursing her secret like some old witch cradling a dead child. She’s only been out once. Into Dorking, last Friday. We know why now, don’t we? To mail a letter to a dead man. Whose side is she really on?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Does it matter?’

  Quincy sighed. ‘I reckon not. Not when you boil it down. The lies all come to one thing in the end. The god-damn war. And Maudie’s death. To think I was on the point of paying good money to her murderers. And why? To save the necks of a pair of conniving coldhearted …’ As his words petered out, I saw his right hand wrap itself round the steering-wheel and squeeze tightly. ‘Diana’s always looked like her mother. I’ve let that make me think she almost is her mother. But no. She has her father’s nature. Maudie’s image. But Fabian Charnwood’s soul. May it rot in Hell.’

  I was glad to hear him speak so bitterly. The truth had turned his avuncular concern for Diana and her aunt to a sudden hatred of the Charnwoods and all their works. I could only hope it was sufficient to blind him to the dangers involved in an attack on the Concentric Alliance.

  ‘I’ll bet you weren’t sure I’d believe you,’ he said, releasing the steering-wheel.

  ‘How could I be? It is … difficult to believe.’

  ‘Not for me, Guy. It makes sense, you see. It tallies.’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘Maudie’s trip home in the spring of fifteen. There was something on her mind. Something she wanted to share. About Fabian, she said. An affair, I thought at first. Better discussed with her mother than her kid brother. But she kept hinting it was about business. Well, I didn’t want to know about that. She was always … morally fastidious. A few strokes our old man pulled would have set her back on her heels. So, whether Fabian was kicking over the marital traces or cutting some commercial corners … it seemed best for her to forget it, whatever it was. And I told her so.’

  ‘Was she never more specific?’

  ‘Not until the day the Lusitania sailed for England. May first, 1915. Graven in my memory. Graven deep. I’d travelled with her from Pittsburgh to see her off. Mother hadn’t been well enough to come with us. Father and Theo had been … too busy. So, I was the family representative. The last one to see her alive, as it turned out. She seemed preoccupied that morning. Gloomy and distracted. I went aboard with her and opened a bottle of champagne in her cabin. It didn’t brighten her mood. Sorry to be saying goodbye, I supposed. But that wasn’t it. She’d never been one for tearful farewells. Anyhow, she wasn’t upset. She was … weighed down. “What do you do, Quincy,” she asked, “when you find out someone you love has done something truly terrible?” Well, I didn’t think she meant truly terrible. I still thought she was over-reacting. But now …’

  ‘You think she knew?’

  ‘She’d found out something. It has to have been about the Concentric Alliance, doesn’t it? Someone she loved. And something truly terrible. She’d come home for advice. But she was leaving without it.’

  ‘What answer did you give her?’

  ‘A useless one, Guy. A smart young man’s fat-headed piece of champagne wisdom. “You forget it, Maudie,” I said. “You forget all about it. You let it blow over.” She looked at me so … pityingly. She must have realized then there was no-one she could turn to. No-one to share the burden with.’

  ‘You can’t be sure what she meant.’

  ‘No. I can’t be absolutely sure. But I can wonder. What she’d decided to do when she got back to England. What she would have done, but for that torpedo off the Irish coast.’

  It was as if he was beginning to think Charnwood had deliberately engineered Maud’s death. Surely I could hear the suspicion forming in his voice. Nothing in the documents suggested anything of the kind. But he did not know that. Nor was there any reason for me to force the knowledge on him. ‘Whether directly or indirectly I can’t say, Quincy, but the Concentric Alliance was certainly responsible for your sister’s death. And for every other casualty of the war.’

  ‘And even if Fabian’s dead, there are plenty of his co-conspirators living high on the proceeds to this day?’

  ‘Yes. There are.’

  ‘Then we’ll have them, Guy. By God, we’ll have them.’

  ‘But how? According to Caversham, no newspaper would dare to—’

  ‘No British newspaper, maybe. But what about the American press? From what you’ve said, the Concentric Alliance doesn’t have any American connections.’

  ‘Not as far as I—’

  ‘There’s your answer, then. We’ll take the story to the New York Times. Or the Washington Post. We’ll give them the proof. And I can guarantee they’ll want to use it. More than a hundred thousand Americans died in the war. And hundreds of thousands more couldn’t understand why they had to. Well, now they will, won’t they?’

  He was right. The Concentric Alliance did not wield enough influence in the United States to prevent the truth about it being told. And once told there, it would echo round the world. There was a way out for me after all. And Quincy McGowan was pointing me towards it.

  ‘Together, we can pull this off, Guy. We’ll have the power and wealth of the McGowan Steel Corporation at our backs. We’ll have everything we need to bring these people to book. Are you willing to give it a try?’

  ‘Of course I am.’ The decision was a simple one, because there was simply no alternative.

  ‘The Babcock business may catch up with you in the States. You realize that?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ It seemed indeed scarcely significant, a trivial appendage of a forgotten existence.

  ‘Good. In that case, we must get you – and the documents – across the Atlantic as soon as possible.’

  ‘How? I can’t just—’

  ‘Oh, but you can. Listen. I’ll go up to London first thing tomorrow morning and buy us a couple of tickets for the next sailing to New York. When the time comes, I’ll tell Vita I have to visit some foundries in the north on business. Instead, I’ll meet you in Southampton and we’ll slip away with the documents. A week later, we can have them sitting on the desk of whichever newspaper editor we choose.’

  It sounded easy. And why should it not be? Faraday was looking for me, not following Quincy. I had only to lie low until sailing day, recover the bag from the bank and present myself in Southampton. Quincy would do the rest.

  ‘So long as we’re careful, nothing can go wrong. After I’ve bought the tickets, I’ll drive out to the Anglo-American Club at Iver. Call me there tomorrow afternoon. Let’s say three o’clock. I’ll make sure I’m in the lounge, where they can easily page me. Then I’ll be able to tell you when we’re leaving. The day before we sail, I’ll take the train to London, double-back to Southampton and stay overnight at the hotel near the docks.’

  ‘The South Western?’

  ‘That’s the one. Meet me there two hours before sailing. We’ll go aboard at the last moment. Don’t use the boat-train.’

  It was going to happen. Soon, very soon, I would be free. ‘Quincy, I—’

  ‘If you’re going to thank me, Guy, don’t bother. I’m doing this for Maudie.’

  ‘I know. But even so …’

  ‘Save it till we’re at sea, eh?’ He plucked the hip-flask from my grasp and held it up to his lips. ‘Here’s to the torpedo we’re going to fire.’

  �
�So long as we’re careful,’ Quincy had said, ‘nothing can go wrong.’ And I was determined to ensure it did not. I drove back as far as Wimbledon that night, left the car on the Common, walked down to the station and took the Tube to South Kensington. The area boasted plenty of obscure hotels. I booked into one more obscure than most – the Bute Court in Queen’s Gate – and vanished from sight. The following afternoon, promptly at three o’clock, I rang the Anglo-American Club from a call-box near the Albert Hall, praying Quincy would come to the telephone before my money ran out. My prayer was answered.

  ‘I’ll keep this short and sweet, Guy. We’re booked aboard the Leviathan. She sails Tuesday at noon. Can you be in Southampton by ten o’clock that morning?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Till then, keep your head down.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I will.’

  * * *

  I walked out across Hyde Park, feeling safe among the nannies wheeling their charges by the Serpentine. A Salvation Army band was playing hymn music with righteous gusto in Kensington Gardens. Weak sunlight was breaking through the clouds to gild the drifts of fallen leaves. Ducks were squabbling over breadcrumbs, dogs chasing sticks, children kicking footballs. The mundane clockwork of England was ticking serenely on. But not for much longer. For I was about to serve my complacent fellow-countrymen an unpalatable dish: the truth. After that, nothing would ever taste the same again.

  17

  BY TUESDAY, I was grateful to have done with lying low. I left the Bute Court before dawn, my only luggage comprising the Gladstone bag I had collected from the bank the previous afternoon. I was relying on the stewards of the Leviathan to smarten me up once we were at sea. Until then, my fellow-travellers would have to take me as they found me.

  I took a cab to Clapham Junction and boarded a stopping train to Southampton, burying myself behind a newspaper in a third-class compartment. A bleak grey morning made its lethargic appearance as the train wheezed and rattled through Surrey and Hampshire. We reached Winchester, where I did my best to ignore the name-board and its associations. What Max required of me was resolution, not regret. The train drew out and I left memory behind.