Lady of Fortune

by Graham Masterton

  She said, ‘I shall probably try to sleep.’

  Mr Niblets said, ‘You do understand, don’t you, that I feel deeply sympathetic? I hope you’ll accept my condolences without thinking that I’m being impertinent.’

  ‘No, you’re not being impertinent,’ said Effie. ‘You knew the Count von Ahlbeck, too.’

  Mr Niblets was quiet for a moment or two, and then he said, ‘You do know that I was sent along to spy on you, when you were in Germany?’

  Effie raised her eyes. ‘It did occur to me.’

  ‘Mr Robert – well, he always likes to know what’s going on. He’s a man who believes that knowledge is power, if you understand what I mean.’

  There was a pause, and then Effie said, ‘I’m not entirely sure that I do. Are you trying to tell me something, Mr Niblets?’

  Mr Niblets took off his pince-nez, and angled the lenses this way and that to see if they were clean. ‘The fact of the matter is, Miss Watson, that the moment you first came into the bank at Cornhill, you found a place in my humble affections.’

  ‘You’re trying to tell me that –’

  ‘I’m simply saying that I considered you a lady of unusual beauty and outstanding character, and that, in the most respectful of ways, I fell in love with you. I –’ and here he hesitated, to give himself a little more courage, because Effie could tell that there was a shrill voice inside his head which was shrieking at him, what are you saying? what are you saying? do you want to sacrifice your whole career?

  ‘I collected newspaper and magazine clippings of you,’ he said. ‘Pictures, and stories, which I pasted into my scrapbook.’

  Effie said quietly, ‘That is really very flattering. I am not at all offended, and I thank you for your care.’

  Mr Niblets said, ‘Do you mind if I help myself to one of your ginger-ales?’

  ‘Please. Help yourself.’

  Mr Niblets poured himself a drink, and cleared his throat. Then he said, ‘It has been inordinately difficult for me, Miss Watson, keeping up the supply of intelligence from London that Mr Robert has required of me; while at the same time feeling so strongly for your good self. I can’t say that I haven’t done well out of it. I’m manager of the investment and securities division now, and I’ve my own house in Wimbledon Common, and a lady who does for me. But I know that your feelings about how the bank should be run are different from Mr Robert’s, and I know that you are also a lady of great independence and talent.’

  ‘Mr Niblets –’ said Effie.

  But Mr Niblets had to say now what he had to say, or he would lose his nerve. ‘I wonder, Miss Watson,’ he blurted, staring at her with that odd glazed squint of someone who has just removed their glasses, ‘I wonder if I might somehow be of service to you. I mean as far as bank information is concerned. And if perhaps we might regularly meet, over dare-I-suggest-it-dinner-perhaps, monthly, if that’s to your convenience, perhaps we could do that, I mean if that’s acceptable to you, and I might pass on to you all the information that I’ve been able to glean throughout the month, as it were.’

  Effie stared at him. The man was actually in love with her. The manager of the investment and securities division of Watson’s Bank was in love with her. He even kept a scrap-book of pictures of her. And here he was, offering to keep her in touch with all the gossip and manipulations within the bank, for the sake of a monthly dinner together.

  In a way, Effie despised him. But don’t we always despise those who offer us their love, and their eternal devotion, unconditionally? In another way, she found his affection touching. Most of all, though, she saw the value of what he was proposing. Information on Robert’s most devious doings. An edge, at last, over Robert.

  Slowly, though, cautiously, she said, ‘What kind of information, Mr Niblets?’

  Mr Niblets said, ‘Anything you like. Anything you wish to know. Say the word, say the word, that’s all. Just say the word.’

  ‘Give me an example.’

  ‘Well, whatever you like. Did you know, for instance, that Mr Robert is planning to move Mr Cockburn over to overseas investments, so that he can put Mr Dunning in charge of the London end? Good move, you see, as far as Mr Robert’s concerned. Mr Cockburn does whatever he’s told to do, on account of what Mrs Cockburn has been spending, and on account of how much Mr Robert has been lending him interest-free to keep out of debt; and Mr Dunning has been using his position as head of the personal credits division to feather his own nest, as it were, and now he’ll find his past swindles answerable to none other than himself. Mr Robert likes a bit of poetic justice.’

  ‘Well,’ said Effie, impressed.

  ‘Something else, too,’ said Mr Niblets, warming to his gossip, ‘did you know that Watson’s Bank are still lending money to the Germans?’

  Effie went cold. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘It’s true. I took the trouble one day to follow it through. Watson’s Bank raised a loan of £55 million last autumn, with the help of Brazil, and Uruguay, and the German community within the New York banking district. It was all quite above board. You approved it yourself.’

  ‘You mean the loan for helping the South African campaign in German East Africa?’

  ‘That’s correct. The money didn’t go to Botha or de Wet, as it was supposed to. It went through an agency called the South African War Assistance Board, and then to a company in Cape Town called African & Empire Investments, where it was used to buy diamonds and coffee and rubber futures, which were converted back into gold in Johannesburg and then transported by lorry to Dar-es-Salaam, and handed over to von Lettow, the German commander. Von Lettow kept a proportion of the gold to assist his own campaign, and sent the rest to Germany.’

  Effie said, ‘Who knows about this?’

  ‘Hardly anybody. I’m not supposed to know myself. Mr Robert, of course, and Mr Cockburn, but nobody else, unless they took the trouble to follow the money all the way down the line, which I did. We’re not the only bank doing it, I can assure you. At least two other British banks have been sending money to Austria. One of them is –’ and here Mr Niblets leaned forward and whispered the name close to Effie’s ear.

  Effie looked at Mr Niblets unblinkingly. On the platform outside, the guard shrilled his whistle, and the train shuddered and hissed and rattled as the brakes were released.

  ‘Mr Niblets,’ said Effie, ‘I believe you have won yourself a monthly dinner invitation. You’ll have to go now. But keep me informed, especially about any further attempts to send money to Germany.’

  ‘I thank you for your trust, Miss Watson,’ said Mr Niblets. He stood up, and awkwardly took her hand, although he didn’t quite have the nerve to kiss it.

  As the express drew away from King’s Cross, the steam locomotive blowing and clanking as it emerged from the station’s canopy roof, and breasted the sunshine of the new day, Effie sat by the window staring down at the gleaming rails, at the way they ran and then divided and then swung back again, and she felt more betrayed and lonely than she had ever done in her whole life. Karl had deserted her, by dying. Robert had betrayed her, with financial treachery.

  The pain she felt was greater than anything she had ever known. She felt very close to the point of screaming. But she would not scream. Neither would she be the kind of woman whose meek and graceful decorum made her the object of admiration and respect throughout the world. She would be the greatest bitch on earth, and she would relish every moment of it.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Her strength, however, began to fade as the train carried her closer through the evening to Edinburgh. She felt exhausted, both physically and mentally by the time she alighted from her carriage at Waverley Station; and she could say nothing to McVitie but, Take me straight back. You can come and collect my suitcases later.’

  Robert, she learned, was out to dinner with the Morrisons, entertaining two representatives from the Morgan Bank in New York. Morgan’s had raised over £100 million for the Allied cause during the course of the war
, and they were purchasing agents for the Allies in the United States. Robert was naturally keen that Watson’s and Morgan’s should do business together, in case of a dramatic reversal of fortunes on the Western Front. In case Germany couldn’t pay back its debts, Effie thought sourly.

  Effie went straight up to her rooms, where she undressed, bathed, and changed into a simple evening gown of pleated shell-pink silk. Tessie was away in Dundee, helping her family: her brother had come home from the Somme blinded, and her mother was suffering from chronic arthritis. Effie sat in front of her dressing-table, brushing out her hair, and listening to Mozart on her gramophone. Arrayed in front of her were all the gold and lapis-backed combs and brushes which Alfred Rothschild had sent her for her last birthday, and beside her stood an electric lamp in the shape of a burning torch being held up by a naked Spirit of Ecstasy.

  She had almost finished pinning up her hair when there was a polite knock at the door. She said, ‘Who is it?’

  The door opened, and in came Alisdair. He was very tall now, almost five feet eight, and built as athletically as Dougal had always been. In fact, apart from his slightly different eyes, and his darker colouring, he could have been Dougal at the age of fifteen. He stood where he was, in his white fairisle sweater with the sleeves rolled up, and his dark blue and green kilt, and watched her shyly as she pushed the diamond and tortoiseshell combs into the back of her hair, teased up a few stray strands, and then looked across at his reflection in the mirror.

  ‘You’re home from school?’

  ‘I – yes, I am.’

  ‘They gave you a holiday?’

  ‘Well, not exactly.’ His voice was deep and croaky, just broken, and it made him strangely vulnerable and appealing, a boy on the very brink of manhood. Effie turned around on her dressing-table stool, her hands in her lap, the Spirit of Esctasy light shining behind her hair, and said, ‘What does “not exactly” mean? You gave yourself a holiday?’

  ‘I tried to enlist.’

  Effie looked at him for a moment, and then let her eyes drop away. ‘I see. I hope it was a decent regiment.’

  ‘The Royal Scots.’

  ‘They refused you, of course?’

  ‘One of the officers recognised me. His son goes to Gordonstoun, too.’

  Effie stood up. ‘Did you really think they’d let a fifteen-year-boy into the Army?’

  Alisdair shrugged. ‘I had to try. A lot of the other boys have.’

  Effie came up to him, and laid her hands on his shoulders. ‘You’re taller than me now. I used to hold you in my arms. It’s very good to see you. I’m glad you gave yourself a holiday, and I’m glad they wouldn’t let you enlist. You’d be marching up and down with a rifle by now, if they’d let you enlist.’

  ‘It’s what I wanted,’ said Alisdair.

  Effie held him close, and kissed his cheek, fuzzy with the first soft hairs of his adult beard. ‘If God has any sense at all, he’ll make sure this war is over before you’re old enough to fight,’ she told him.

  He hugged her, tightly, and warmly. There had always been something very close between them. Partly, the secret of Alisdair’s conception; and partly the feeling that Effie alone represented the urgent but long-lost love which had led Alisdair’s mother to bear him, to cherish him, and to bring him up to Scotland so that she could find the very best life for him. In the end, Prudence had given her life for Alisdair, and nobody understood that as thoroughly as Effie.

  I’m sorry,’ said Alisdair. ‘I didn’t mean to let you down. I thought you’d be proud of me.’

  Effie kissed him again. There is no pride to be had from this war, Alisdair. Thousands of young men like you are dying. God alone knows exactly how many, or in what particular hell. Their bravery can’t be faulted. Nor can their patriotism. But knowing you, and knowing another young man on the other side, the German side, who died last week –’

  She had thought that she could finish the sentence, but suddenly her throat seemed to constrict. Alisdair touched her shoulder, and then her cheek. ‘Auntie Effie …’

  She looked at him with a tight smile and tears. There’s no purpose in this war, Alisdair, that’s what I’m trying to say. There’s nothing to be gained from it. There are boys whose bodies are being reduced to rags, leaving nothing for their parents to bury. And it’s not worth it. By the end of the war, if there ever is any end to it, Britain will be bankrupt. We’re already dangerously low on assets at the bank. The future will be nothing but poverty, and discord, and unhappiness, and that’s not worth dying for.’

  Alisdair frowned at her. ‘I don’t understand. At school –’

  ‘What they say at school and what is really happening are two very different things. At school, they don’t have access to the financial figures, which show how deeply Britain is getting into debt. Each hour of the war costs well over five million pounds! Each hour! And there is something else they don’t know at school; something which they don’t even know a few miles back from the Front. Something I didn’t know until last week. The Front itself is a constant horror of death, and boredom, and dread. And the death is so terrible that I cannot even describe it to you.’

  Alisdair was silent. He nodded, and then at last he smiled. ‘I really came up to see if you were ready for dinner.’

  They sat in the dining-room, Alisdair at one end of the deeply polished table; Effie at the other. They were waited on by Rosie, one of the kitchen-maids, since both of their footmen had enlisted. Young Cameron (although they had no way of knowing it) had yesterday run between two trenches in the dark, carrying a cup of tea in each hand, and had abruptly impaled himself on a long sharp stake, right through his brand-new uniform, right through his belly, and out through his back. He had lain there weeping for six hours before he died. None of the old lags in his unit had been green enough to go out looking for him.

  They had vichysoisse, and roast lamb. Effie allowed Alisdair to be poured a little Burgundy, and after dinner to come with her to the library, where they sat by the fire and drank Drambuie, and smoked cigarettes. Alisdair coughed a lot, but tried to appear blasé and debonair. He said his best subject at school was algebra, closely followed by swimming.

  Towards eleven o’clock, he said, seriously, ‘You mentioned you knew a German chap who died. That wasn’t –?’

  Effie slowly nodded her head. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ said Alisdair.

  Effie smiled at him. ‘There’s no need for you to be sorry. I shouldn’t be feeling so unhappy about it myself. It was all a very long time ago.’

  ‘All the same …’

  ‘Don’t fash yourself,’ said Effie. ‘It’s nothing more than the very last passing of an old memory. Nothing more.’

  Alisdair said, ‘You’re crying.’

  ‘It’s the Drambuie, I expect,’ said Effie. ‘I’m not used to Drambuie.’

  They sat together watching the fire die down, and then Effie said, ‘It’s time for your bed now, Alisdair. If your father comes back and finds that you’re still up, he’ll give me an earful.’

  ‘I don’t suppose father will be back tonight. He isn’t often back.’

  ‘He’s only dining with the Morrisons. Why shouldn’t he be back?’

  Alisdair said, ‘He’s found a lady friend.’

  ‘Not that awful Duff girl.’

  ‘Och, no, not her. Her name’s Marion Hetherington, she’s an actress, or used to be. She lives over at Eyre Place. She’s quite pretty, if you like that sort of a girl. A lot of red on the lips, and heaps of ostrich feathers in her hat, and she wiggles her behind when she walks. She always calls father Gorcocks.’

  Effie took Alisdair’s hand, and drew him towards her. She kissed his forehead, still burning from sitting close to the fire, and then his cheeks ‘You’re a beautiful boy, Alisdair. I love you dearly. Now, get yourself to bed. If you’re away from school, we could go to Stirling tomorrow, and see some friends of mine.’

  Alisdair kis
sed her back, and then said, ‘Goodnight,’ and went upstairs. Effie sat by the dull, collapsed hearth until half past midnight, and then called Rosie to put out the lights.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  In the small hours of the morning, she dreamed of Karl. She dreamed of him kissing her, of making love to her, of riding with him across a windy saltmarsh that somehow they could never cross. He came close to her, and she knew that she could taste the schnapps on his breath, the cloudberry brandy and the oranges he had eaten after dinner. God, she could actually taste him! And yet all the while she was fearfully conscious that something was wrong. She said, ‘Karl,’ and her voice sounded blurred, as if she were trying to speak through thick layers of butter-muslin. He stared at her, and his lips moved, but she couldn’t hear him.

  Then, in the corner of the room in which they were standing, she saw a white washbasin. She realised with excruciating panic that this was Karl’s nemesis; that if he ever got close to it, he would be lost, and she would never see him again. She screamed, and did everything she could to leap across the room, in slow, glutinous bounds, but then Karl rushed towards the door, and slipped out of it, and escaped her.

  Terrified, she shrieked, ‘Don’t! Don’t leave me! Don’t! Don’t!’ and suddenly found that she was awake, and smothered in sweat, and tearing at her sheet.

  She sat up in bed, sobbing and panting. She had felt Karl so closely that she found it impossible to believe that he was no longer here. Not only gone, but dead. She began to cry, in deep heartfelt gasps that hurt her ribcage.

  A gentle voice said, ‘Effie? Aunt Effie?’

  She looked up through the wincing wet concertinas of her tears. There was someone in a white nightshirt standing by the door, silent and attentive and shy. It was Alisdair.

  She couldn’t speak, but she held out her arms for him, and he came over and sat on the edge of the bed and hugged her close. He smiled of soap and man; not boy any more, but man. She leaned her head forward on his thigh, and he stroked the hair at the nape of her neck, and soothed her with murmurs and soft songs.