‘No, you don’t. If you did, you wouldn’t have let me in for all the trouble this is going to cause.’
‘It’s not going to cause you any trouble, actually.’
‘Of course it is. Don’t make it worse by being obtuse.’ Guilt and anger were simmering within her. Somehow, we both felt betrayed. ‘My family will never allow me to forget what I’ve done. It’s all right for you. You can walk away from them. I can’t.’
‘Your family know nothing about it.’
‘They soon will. Uncle Francis will—’
‘Uncle Francis is dead.’
Her mouth opened and closed slowly in silent shock. Then she gasped and steadied herself against the parapet. ‘What?’
‘A heart attack. Two days ago.’
‘After you …’
‘After I told him about Strake, yes. And after he killed Strake.’
Silence again. Shock and bewilderment. Then: ‘He killed Strake?’
‘Tracked him to a hotel in Naples and shot him. I followed him. I saw the body. Strake’s dead. Francis got clean away with it. But the effort was too much for him.’
‘Oh God.’ The scale of the tragedy was dawning on her. She took off her sunglasses and stared at me. ‘This … This is awful.’
‘Yes. We set something terrible in motion, didn’t we, Vivien? We truly did.’
‘What does Luisa think happened?’
‘I’m not sure. She and Paolo and I are all keeping secrets from each other. But she won’t say anything that might lead the police to connect Francis with Strake’s death. Nor will Paolo. You can be sure of that. So, you’re in the clear.’
‘What did Strake have on Uncle Francis?’
I could have told her then. Maybe I should have told her then. But I couldn’t forgive her for running out on me and letting the loathsome Roger back into her life. I couldn’t forgive her for not being the person I so wanted her to be. ‘I don’t know what Strake had,’ I said. ‘But Francis killed him for it. He wasn’t willing to give in to blackmail.’
‘Does Mother know yet?’
‘Yes. I spoke to Greville. He’s travelling to Capri with your mother and your great-aunt. They might already have arrived, for all I know. You should join them as soon as you can.’
‘Will you come back with me?’
‘What do you think?’
She reached for my hand, but I snatched it away: an instinctive reaction I couldn’t deny and she couldn’t mistake. She wanted me to be her ally again. Her eyes were soft and imploring. She wanted my help. She needed my help. But finding her with Roger had forced me to confront the flaw in her character I’d happily ignored while we were lovers. She cared too much about her dead brother – and their dead father – ever to give enough of herself to me. I could never be central to her life. Neither could Roger, of course, or any other man alive. But that didn’t help. That didn’t solve anything.
‘I’m going home, Vivien. And you’re going to Capri. That’s how it is.’
‘It doesn’t have to be.’
‘Yes, it does. We’re going in opposite directions.’
‘You said you loved me.’
‘I do. But you’ve never said you love me. And if you said it now, I wouldn’t be able to believe you.’
‘I’m sorry … about Roger. I …’
‘This has nothing to do with Roger. It doesn’t have much to do with you and me, either. It’s all about your family. Which, as you pointed out, I can walk away from. So, that’s what I’m going to do. Goodbye, Vivien.’
I moved past her then, walked hurriedly down the steps and turned smartly right at the bottom, heading for the entrance to Spagna Metro station. I didn’t look back to see if Vivien was watching me. Part of me yearned still to be standing beside her. But somehow I knew I had to leave. There’d be too much to pretend if I didn’t, too much to forgive and far too much to forget. I had to go. I had to save myself.
Sitting in the cavernous waiting-room that evening at Termini station, with a seat-only ticket for the sleeper to Milan in my pocket, I suspected that if Vivien walked in and asked me to reconsider, I would. I’d go with her to Capri. I’d go with her anywhere. Why not, when she was beautiful and I was penniless and the drunk who’d fallen asleep just along the bench from me smelt of decay and despair? It wouldn’t have been a hard choice.
But she didn’t walk in. The much harder choice I’d already made was the one I was stuck with. The sleeper arrived. And I climbed aboard.
Self-pity and regret weren’t the only feelings I woke to when sallow dawn light seeped through the dirty train window next morning. My neck was stiff and my head was aching. And I knew another decision had to be taken before I left Italy. The letter Luisa had written to the SS in November 1943 was still in my bag. ‘Give it to Margherita,’ Francis had said. ‘She deserves to know.’ Yes. She did. I could send it to her anonymously and let the consequences take their course. She’d recognize her old friend’s handwriting. She’d know who ‘una patriota’ was. She’d know the truth at last. The only thing she wouldn’t know was who’d sent the letter to her. But if I waited to post it until I was back in England, there was a risk she’d guess it had come from me. I’d have preferred to delay – to wait until Francis’s funeral was over and his family had dispersed. But I couldn’t afford to. Maybe the notoriously slow Italian postal service would do the delaying for me.
I bought a stamp and an envelope from a tabaccheria at Milano Centrale, addressed the envelope carefully in block capitals, put the letter inside and sealed it, then tracked down the post box and stood staring at it for fully five minutes before I lost patience with my own faint-heartedness and thrust the envelope into the slot.
It was done. It was on its way. And so was I.
TWENTY-ONE
THE DRABNESS OF life in St Austell predictably plunged me into depression. My world was drained of colour and pleasure. I think Mum and Dad were worried I’d been taking mind-altering drugs. It was as useless as it would have been foolhardy to tell them the truth. News of Francis Wren’s death had trickled through to his old home town, but neither my parents nor anyone else – not even Pete Newlove, with his taste for conspiracies – thought anything sinister lay behind it.
I latched on to some old schoolfriends I hadn’t seen a lot of since we’d left the grammar, drank so much I finished a couple of evenings throwing up and behaved badly enough to get chucked out of a disco at the Lido Club. It wasn’t a pretty picture.
I pulled myself together to some degree when I started my summer job at Cornish China Clays. I’d sat up the previous night, sober for once, watching Apollo XI land on the Moon. The wonder of the event punctured my self-absorption. It thrilled me, just when I’d convinced myself I could never be thrilled again.
My first day at CCC was also Greville Lashley’s first day back from his trip to Capri. He tracked me down and invited me to lunch at the White Hart on Wednesday. ‘We have lots to talk about,’ he ominously remarked.
According to Pete, Lashley’s seat on the board of CCC and his job title of logistics director didn’t mean he had a long-term future in the organization. ‘They’ll ease him out sooner or later. Just you wait and see.’ I had no idea whether he was right or wrong and I didn’t much care. I couldn’t see how the internal politics of CCC concerned me in any way.
I didn’t tell Pete or anyone else on the payroll I’d been to Capri with Vivien. It would have raised a lot of questions I’d have found hard to answer. Most of the staff weren’t much interested in the problems of the Wren family anyway. Walter Wren & Co. were history now. But not the kind of history anyone wanted to study.
Pete claimed to know exactly how much CCC had paid for the company: £475,000. Why Lashley would want to go on working after grabbing the lion’s share of that he couldn’t understand. Neither could I. And I didn’t expect to find out over lunch at the White Hart. But then I wasn’t sure what to expect from the encounter at all. A simple thank you for tracking Vivi
en down in Rome was my best hope.
Lashley didn’t deal much in simplicity, of course, as I was reminded before my first sip of gin and tonic. ‘Francis’s funeral went off as well as such things can. All the better for your absence, Jonathan, I have to say. You showed admirable common sense in not returning to Capri. You have an old head on young shoulders. It’s a valuable asset. One I’m not about to ignore. Discretion and good judgement. They’re what I look for in people. They’re what I see in you.’
‘That’s very flattering of you, sir.’
‘Not at all. Flattery’s a waste of time. I don’t need to stroke your ego. You can do that for yourself. Cheers.’ He raised his glass and drank. I followed suit. ‘A week at the Villa Orchis would have left me with a good deal to ponder, even without the news that greeted me back here in St Austell.’ He smiled. ‘We’ll come to that in a moment.’ What news, I wondered, could he possibly be referring to? ‘I won’t intrude into your relationship with my stepdaughter. It’s none of my business. As I understand it, the Normington fellow left the scene, but has now re-entered it, much to your chagrin, no doubt.’
‘Well, I—’
‘You bear it well. Better than many a man would. Muriel approves of him. I mention that just so you know. There’s a touch of the snob in my wife. No point denying it. Titles impress her.’
‘Titles?’
‘Well, he’s the Honourable Roger Normington, isn’t he? Son and heir of Viscount Horncastle. One day he’ll own half of Lincolnshire. Or a quarter. Or whatever it is. Hell of a lot of acres, though, that’s certain. You have met him, I take it?’
‘Yes.’ I swallowed hard. ‘I have.’
‘Enough said, then. More than enough. Let’s get back to poor old Francis. Luisa’s Italian, of course. Tears and wailing are to be expected, though I gather he’d been under the doc on account of his heart for years, so it shouldn’t really have come as a surprise. Still, it was my impression there was a little more to it than met the eye. What was Francis doing in Naples that day? I asked, but no one could tell me. In fact, the question seemed to make them nervous. Verdelli, in particular.’
‘Who?’
‘Paolo Verdelli. The butler, chauffeur, general factotum, or whatever the hell he is.’ To my surprise, I realized this was the first time I’d heard Paolo’s surname. ‘About as forthcoming as a clam. I didn’t warm to him, to put it mildly, and the feeling was evidently mutual. What did you make of him?’
‘I … didn’t have a lot to do with him.’
‘Very wise. He’s a bit too close to Luisa for comfort, if you know what I mean. But that’s her affair, possibly literally.’ He paused to light a cigarette. He offered me one and I accepted. Then he went on: ‘So, can you shed any light on Francis’s trip to Naples, Jonathan?’
‘Er … no. No, I can’t.’
‘But you knew he’d gone?’
‘No. Not exactly. I …’ I did some swift thinking. ‘I went out early that day.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Very early. By the time I got back, he was in hospital and Luisa was on her way to see him.’
‘You don’t think Francis had a mistress tucked away in Naples, do you?’
‘I suppose he might have done. I couldn’t really say. I doubt it, though.’
‘Me too. And he definitely didn’t have an appointment with his cardiologist. Or his lawyer. Or even his dentist.’ Lashley smiled. ‘I checked all three.’
‘Really?’
‘It pays to check, I find. Check everything. That way you avoid unpleasant surprises. Well, most unpleasant surprises, at any rate. But not all. No, not quite all, I’m afraid. Which brings us to someone you and I have discussed before: Gordon Strake.’
‘Strake?’ It was vital I acted dumb now. I’d hoped Lashley wouldn’t have heard about Strake’s murder. No one else in St Austell had. (Well, Pete Newlove hadn’t, which I took as a good indicator.) ‘What about him?’
‘You don’t know?’ There was something almost teasing about the tilt of Lashley’s head and the breadth of his smile as he gazed at me through a veil of cigarette smoke. ‘Strake’s dead, Jonathan.’
‘He is?’
‘Dead as can be. Murdered, in point of fact. Shot dead in a hotel room in Naples. It happened the same day as Francis’s heart attack. Quite a coincidence, eh?’
I frowned, hoping to look baffled as well as shocked. ‘That’s … extraordinary.’
‘It is, isn’t it? The Naples police don’t seem to have made any connection between the two events. I suppose there’s no reason why they should. But naturally they informed the British consulate, who contacted Strake’s next of kin: a sister in Plymouth. He’d been living with her in recent months, apparently. There was a letter from her waiting for me when I got back. She felt I ought to know he was dead on account of the pension he’d have been due from Wren’s if he’d made it to sixty-five. Thoughtful of her. I had the impression she wasn’t altogether surprised someone had murdered her brother. I can’t say I was, either. He was a dodgy character, however you look at it. But where and when he was murdered did surprise me. As it does you, I imagine.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Or not.’
‘Sorry?’
‘It’s occurred to me, you see, that you may have been aware Strake was in Naples and that he had some dealings with Francis – his old CO, I believe – in the days leading up to their … coincidental deaths.’
‘Me? No, I—’
‘Please don’t say any more.’ Lashley’s smile broadened still further. ‘I don’t want you to confirm or deny anything, Jonathan. Whatever transpired has been satisfactorily resolved, I’m glad to say. There’s been no scandal of any kind. Most importantly, Vivien hasn’t been caught up in any police inquiries. And Francis can rest in peace. Now, how exactly all that was managed, I don’t know. But I’m impressed it was. Truly I am.’
‘I’m not sure I understand, sir.’
‘No? Well, it doesn’t matter. Incidentally, I haven’t told Vivien about Strake. There seems no need to trouble her with that. Have you heard from her since you left Rome?’
I shook my head. ‘No.’
‘She’s gone back there, in case you’re wondering. I’m not sure how long she’ll stay. But I doubt we’ll be seeing much of her down here this summer.’
‘That’s a pity.’
‘Yes. It is, isn’t it?’ Lashley’s contented expression rather suggested the reverse. Perhaps he found life at Nanstrassoe more harmonious without her. His point of view and mine were a long way apart, despite his implications to the contrary. ‘We must do our best to keep cheerful in her absence, Jonathan. A bottle of wine with our lunch should help. Where’s that waitress?’
I should have been able to enjoy the rest of the meal. The food was good and the wine the finest the White Hart had to offer. But I was weighed down by doubts, regrets and dilemmas, quite a few of which I’d brought on myself. I missed Vivien with a fierce ache. I couldn’t gauge how much of the truth Lashley had discovered or deduced or simply guessed. I was beset by the hopeless wish that Francis was still alive, Vivien and I were still lovers and the Mediterranean sun was still shining on all of us.
But it wasn’t. The Cornish sky was more often grey than blue. Francis was dead. Vivien was lost to me. And the only member of the Wren clan who wanted to have anything to do with me was Greville Lashley. He urged me to give serious consideration to a career in the china clay industry and offered to smooth my path. ‘CCC is just the start, Jonathan. I have plans. Big plans. You can be part of them. It’s a golden opportunity. You should take it. You really should.’
I barely listened at the time. Though, strangely, over the years, the sound of his voice that day has grown in my memory. I had no reason to think so much of my future was bound up in his words. But it was. Oh yes. It surely was.
I knew I wouldn’t find it quick or easy to recover from the rift with Vivien. As it turned out, it took me most of the rest of the
year. I had to start by accepting there was no way back for us. Thoughts of her with the Hon. Roger Normington didn’t help me do that, of course. Nor did my habit of comparing any girl I met with her (unfavourably). My housemates in Walworth soon tired of my lovelorn despondency and tried to snap me out of it with sarcasm. They achieved only fleeting success.
A disastrous trip to Cambridge one Saturday in late November finally broke the spell. I went with some cock-eyed notion of calling on Vivien at Girton and seeing surprise turn to joy on her face when she answered the door to me. A notion was all it remained, however. I decided to work up some Dutch courage in a city-centre pub, overdid it hopelessly and arrived at the college almost too drunk – but not quite – to know how badly any encounter with her was likely to go.
I never made it beyond the porters’ lodge. Whether Miss Foster really had gone away for the weekend, as I was told, wasn’t entirely clear. Maybe the story was designed to do her and me a favour.
On the way back to the station, I passed the Fitzwilliam Museum and saw a girl going in who I was momentarily convinced was Vivien. She wasn’t, of course, which was fortunate, given the state I was in. Vivien probably had gone away for the weekend. To Lincolnshire, it occurred to me. To the ancestral pile of Viscount Horncastle.
I took a wrong turning after leaving the Fitzwilliam and found myself blundering along a path beside the Cam, south of the centre. The light was failing and an icy wind was blowing. It began to rain, then to sleet. I couldn’t remember feeling colder or more wretched in my life.
I reached the station eventually, after a gigantic detour. Waiting there for the London train over two black coffees and several cigarettes, I came to the conclusion that enough was enough. Chasing something I’d previously turned my back on was as crazy as it was pitiful. It had to stop. And I had to start again.
Starting again didn’t involve forgetting, of course. And other issues were left unresolved besides my feelings for Vivien. It was as impossible not to wonder how Countess Covelli had reacted to the letter I’d sent her as it was not to ask myself who had really paid Strake to follow Oliver, or who, come to that, had been on my tail before I’d left for Capri that summer. They were mysteries I eventually reconciled myself to living with. They were questions I had no way of answering. And that, I came to accept, was how they were likely to stay.
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