A Question of Identity

by Anthea Fraser

  ‘Andrew Daultrey.’

  Max Googled it, and a list of options appeared. He clicked one at random, and they found themselves looking at the photograph of a good-looking man, probably in his late thirties.

  ‘He seems quite a bit older than Susie,’ Rona commented. ‘I wonder how she met him.’

  ‘Do you know how old she was?’ Max asked.

  ‘Come to think of it, no, I don’t, and I never saw a photo of her. I’d assumed she was the same age as Trish, but of course she mightn’t have been. Trish was twenty-two, Glenda said, so Springfield must have her first school, but Susie was already there. Bridget remembered her, and she left before Trish came.’

  ‘So she could have been knocking thirty herself.’

  ‘I suppose she could.’

  Max scrolled down, and together they read the potted biography of Andrew James Daultrey, including date and place of birth (14th May 1913 in Shaftesbury, Dorset), parents’ names (Sir Edward and Lady Daultrey, née Elizabeth Pennington), and education (Winchester College and Trinity College Cambridge).

  They also learned that he joined the communist party while at Cambridge and was recruited into Soviet intelligence by Anthony Blunt. His position at the Foreign Office gave him access to information very useful to the Soviets, but having come under suspicion of spying, he fled to Moscow in October 1951. He married Svetlana Bagnova in February 1952 (‘while Susie was still alive,’ Rona noted), and they’d had two sons and a daughter. He died in Leningrad in January 1982.

  ‘No mention of Susie,’ Rona commented, sitting back in her chair.

  ‘All to the good,’ Max replied. ‘So – what’s your next move?’

  ‘To tell Lindsey and the Stirlings, I suppose, but not this evening. For now, I’ve had more than enough of Russia and all things Russian.’

  ‘Too bad it’s beef Stroganoff for supper!’ Max said with a grin.

  ‘You’ve solved it?’ Lindsey sounded excited. ‘Go on, then – spill the beans!’

  ‘It’s a long story, Linz, and I’d rather not go through it twice. Would you like to phone the Stirlings – you know them better than I do – and perhaps arrange a time we can meet?’

  ‘Yes, yes, but at least give me a hint!’

  ‘Sorry – you’ll have to wait!’

  ‘You really can be most aggravating,’ Lindsey complained. ‘OK, I’ll phone William and come back to you.’

  ‘William’, Rona noted, not Glenda, who was far more involved.

  She rang back ten minutes later. ‘Monday evening at eight, and I’ve invited them to the flat. Come early for supper, and why not stay the night? Max won’t be home anyway.’

  ‘He won’t even be at Farthings,’ Rona said. ‘He’s flying up to Tynecastle for a few days, to see his father.’

  ‘How is the old boy? Still painting?’

  Roland Allerdyce was a member of the Royal Academy and known to his irreverent grandsons as R.A., R.A., or Rahrah.

  ‘Yes, Max says he’s working on some huge canvas at the moment.’

  ‘Must be well in his eighties,’ Lindsey marvelled. ‘An example to us all!’

  ‘Well, we’ve a way to go yet, and in the meantime, thanks, I’d love to stay over.’

  ‘Fine. Bring Gus’s basket and he can sleep in the kitchen. I’ll try to leave work early, so come any time after six thirty. And this story had better be good!’

  ‘Oh, it is,’ Rona said drily.

  On Monday morning, having seen Max off to the airport, Rona settled at her desk to go through Trish’s diary one last time, concentrating on the summer term. She’d be handing it back to Glenda that evening, and wanted to check for any mention of the Burgess and Maclean affair. On her first reading, she’d been searching only for items relating to Susie and the school.

  She found just one brief reference: ‘The papers are full of a story about two British spies who have fled to Moscow. It seems they’ve been passing secret information to the Russians for years.’

  This was, of course, before her friendship with Susie began to cool, and though the arguments had started later that term, it had been only in the autumn that Susie became more extreme in her politics. At the time of the Burgess and Maclean defection, neither she nor Trish could have had any idea of the personal parallel that lay ahead.

  Resignedly, Rona closed the diary and put it and the recorder in her bag, ready to take with her that evening. After which, perhaps, she could give her undivided attention to Elspeth Wilding.

  Lindsey had, as usual, prepared a lovely meal, and as they ate she tried to pump Rona about the forthcoming revelations. Rona, however, remained adamant.

  ‘You’ll hear soon enough,’ she said.

  The Stirlings arrived within minutes of eight o’clock, Glenda full of enthusiasm for Lindsey’s new colour scheme – coffee-coloured upholstery, duck-egg blue walls, and floor-to-ceiling curtains an amalgam of both colours against a white background.

  ‘It makes our sitting room seem really drab!’ she said. ‘We must think of redecorating, my love!’ She turned to Rona. ‘When we spoke on the phone, you were going to see the headmaster’s daughter. Did she hold the answer?’

  ‘She did indeed,’ Rona replied, ‘and I recorded our conversation. I think the best thing would be for me to play it straight through, so that you hear it exactly as I did. It starts where I’ve just handed Miss Lytton the photograph.’

  There were murmurs of anticipation as they settled themselves on the sofa and Lindsey came in with a tray of coffee. Once everyone had a cup, she nodded to Rona, who leant forward and switched on the recorder.

  The first sound they heard was a gasp, followed by Esther Lytton’s voice: ‘My goodness! Where did you find this?’

  The tape wound slowly on, and Rona couldn’t have wished for a more attentive audience. They sat in enthralled silence, broken only by a general murmur of incredulity at the first mention of the spies. As Esther went on to describe Trish’s distress, Glenda reached for her husband’s hand and held it tightly until the tape came to an end.

  There was a moment’s complete silence, then she turned to Rona, her eyes full of tears. ‘I can’t thank you enough for this. It explains all kinds of things I didn’t understand about Mum; not only why she’d never come to Marsborough, but how she sometimes reacted – things she wouldn’t talk about, books she refused to read, like the le Carré novels. I could never fathom out why.’

  She glanced at Rona’s photocopy, somewhat creased now from all its handling. ‘She must have scrawled Susie out as soon as she left, full of rage for her betraying her country. But even then she couldn’t bring herself to throw it out, and when she heard of her suicide it must have been almost unbearable. Then I had to drag it up again, all those years later.’

  Her voice broke, and William said quickly, ‘Don’t blame yourself, sweetheart; there’s no way you could have known.’

  Glenda dried her eyes and turned back to Rona. ‘You talked of writing an article.’

  ‘Would you mind?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘I don’t think so. It’s no reflection on Mum, after all.’

  ‘I needn’t mention her, if you’d rather not.’

  ‘Oh, I think I’d like her to have her due; after all, she did her best to talk Susie out of it, at the expense of their friendship. She deserves some credit for that.’

  They continued to discuss the matter, going over and over it, probing and conjecturing, and when the Stirlings finally left, it was with renewed thanks.

  ‘In a week or two, when this has all mellowed a little, you must both come to dinner,’ Glenda said. ‘As an expression of our thanks.’

  ‘I didn’t do much,’ Lindsey protested.

  ‘You brought Rona in!’ Glenda pointed out. ‘If you’d not done that, we’d never have learned what happened.’

  When they had gone, Rona helped Lindsey carry things back to the kitchen and load the dishwasher. It was almost ten thirty, but their minds were still turning
over the events of the evening, and neither of them was tired.

  ‘Let’s change into our dressing gowns like we used to, and sit talking over some more coffee,’ Lindsey suggested.

  ‘OK. I’ll give Gus his biscuits and settle him for the night.’

  When she returned to the sitting room in her night clothes, Lindsey had turned off the main lights and the corners of the room had sunk into shadow. She was on the sofa with her feet tucked under her, holding her mug in both hands.

  Rona curled up in a capacious chair. ‘This is nice!’ she said. ‘When did we last do this?’

  ‘God knows,’ Lindsey replied. She took a sip of her coffee. ‘Who else do you have to tell about this business?’

  ‘Well, Mum will be all agog, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  Rona considered, sipping her own drink. ‘There’s really only Heather Grayson and Maureen – oh, and perhaps Mrs Temple at the hotel. They didn’t ask to be kept informed, but I’m sure they’d be interested. I can probably get round it by sending them each a copy of Chiltern Life containing the article.’

  Lindsey nodded. ‘What a mess that woman made of so many lives,’ she mused. ‘At least I only make a mess of my own!’

  ‘Oh, Linz!’

  ‘I have, though; you can’t deny it. One disastrous relationship after another.’

  ‘At least you haven’t counted a Russian spy among them!’ Rona said, hoping to lighten her mood. But Lindsey smiled only fleetingly.

  ‘Missing Dominic?’ Rona asked softly, and her sister nodded. ‘And too proud to make the first approach?’

  That stung her, and her head came up. ‘He was the one in the wrong, sleeping with bloody Carla.’

  Rona smiled. ‘You always call her that, and you’ve got me doing it! I think of her now as Bloody Carla! Didn’t you once say she claimed to be his comfort blanket?’

  ‘He’d no need of one when he was going out with me,’ Lindsey retorted sharply. ‘I saw him, Ro,’ she added more softly. ‘At the Clarendon, last week.’

  ‘Did you?’ Rona stared at her in surprise. ‘You never said.’

  ‘I was at a business dinner and so was he. He stopped at our table on his way out, but to speak to our host, not me. All I got was a cool nod. I fooled myself into thinking he might phone after seeing me, but he didn’t.’

  Rona eyed her consideringly. ‘Who were you with at this business dinner?’

  Lindsey flushed. ‘One of our clients, Mr Steinbeck.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Jonathan.’

  Rona leant back. ‘And you wonder why Dominic hasn’t contacted you? No doubt he thinks you’ve gone back to him.’ Her voice sharpened. ‘You haven’t, have you, Linz?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘And what does that mean?’

  ‘It means that we kissed after the dinner, and he wants us to start again.’

  ‘Oh Lindsey, will you never learn?’

  ‘It’s all very well for you, with your handsome, faithful husband always on hand! I’ve told you before, I need a man in my life; why won’t you believe me?’

  ‘What about Hugh?’ Rona asked, suddenly suspicious.

  Lindsey was silent.

  ‘Linz?’

  ‘He’s not interested,’ she said in a low voice.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I . . . persuaded him to take me out on Easter Sunday. It’s always worked before, but this time nothing came of it. This new girlfriend must really be something.’

  Rona looked at her twin in despair, but before she could think of anything to say, Lindsey leant forward and put her coffee mug on the table.

  ‘I’m getting maudlin,’ she announced. ‘It’s probably bedtime after all. Things will look brighter in the morning – they always do.’

  Rona, uncurling from her chair, could only hope she was right.

  FIFTEEN

  They were up early the next morning, Lindsey needing to get into the office and Rona to return to her own work. The Springfield distraction having been satisfactorily solved, she intended to postpone writing the article till she’d made considerably more progress on the biography.

  Neither of them had referred to their late-night discussion though it was still on both their minds, Lindsey half-regretting having shown her vulnerability, Rona wondering with helpless impatience why her sister couldn’t meet the right man and settle down once and for all.

  ‘Are you likely to be seeing Pops in the near future?’ Lindsey asked, as they stood at the breakfast bar, cereal bowls in hand.

  ‘I hadn’t particularly planned to. Why?’

  ‘Just that he lent me some jump leads a while ago when I was having problems with my car and I’ve still not returned them.’

  ‘I could drop them off on my way home, if you like?’ Rona offered.

  ‘Could you, Ro? I’d be very grateful. I keep worrying his car might play up, and he’d have nothing to fall back on.’

  ‘Consider it done.’

  ‘Give him my love,’ Lindsey said.

  Having extracted the admission that she’d had only a bowl of cereal that morning, Tom insisted, despite Rona’s protestations, on providing her with a mug of coffee and a slice of toast.

  ‘I really only meant to drop these off; Gus is asleep on the back seat.’

  ‘He’ll be fine, and you can’t start work on an empty stomach! So Max is away, you said?’

  ‘Just till tomorrow, and since we never see each other from breakfast on Monday till Wednesday evening, I’ve hardly missed him. He phoned before I left for Lindsey’s and says his father’s in great form, which is a considerable relief; we were quite worried about him a year or so ago. He’s tackling an enormous canvas at the moment – something allegorical, Max said.’

  ‘All power to his paintbrush! Any other family news?’

  ‘Well, we all went to Mum’s for lunch the Sunday before last. It was . . . odd, you not being there.’

  Tom smiled. ‘I reckon she’s better off with Guy. He seems a nice chap.’

  ‘Yes, he is; I like him more each time I meet him.’

  ‘No more on that murder his daughter stumbled on, I suppose? There’s been nothing in the papers since they had to let that chap go.’

  Magda’s startling declaration reverberated in Rona’s head, but she swiftly dismissed it. ‘Not that I’ve heard.’ A sudden thought struck her. ‘Oh, Pops – remember when we had lunch, I said Mum and Guy were going to sell Maple Drive?’

  ‘Um?’ He laid a second slice of toast on her plate, and she absent-mindedly buttered it.

  ‘Well, they’ve found somewhere they want to buy, so it’s going on the market straight away. Did she tell you?’

  ‘No, she didn’t, but there’s no reason why she should. Where are they moving to?’

  ‘Brindley Grove,’ Rona said expressionlessly.

  ‘Oh, sweetie! Will that present problems?’

  She shook her head. ‘As I said to Mum, from now on it’ll have pleasant associations.’

  ‘It’s a desirable address, certainly.’

  ‘Have you and Catherine thought where you’d like to live?’

  ‘Not really, but if something comes along no doubt we’ll also go for it. You have to move fast on the property front.’

  ‘And all’s well with Daniel and Jenny?’

  ‘Yes, thank God. They spent a weekend with Catherine and she and Jenny had a heart-to-heart. I don’t know exactly what was said, but Catherine told me she’d come to her senses and they were back to normal.’

  ‘That’s good news.’ Rona put down her mug. ‘Now, before you slip another slice of toast on my plate, I really must go. You must both come to supper soon. When Max gets back, we’ll consult our diaries and be in touch.’

  ‘That would be lovely. And thanks for the jump leads. To be honest, I’d forgotten all about them.’

  Rona had just settled at her desk when there was a prolonged ring on the doorbell, followe
d instantaneously by repeated knocking and Gus’s excited barking from the hall.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Rona muttered irritably. The postman had been – she’d picked up the letters on her return – and she could think of no one else who might be calling, certainly no one who’d be demanding such instant attention. Even as she pushed back her chair the bell rang again, almost continuously this time, as though a finger were holding it down.

  ‘All right!’ she shouted, starting down the stairs. ‘Be quiet, Gus! I know someone’s there!’

  ‘The house isn’t on fire, you know!’ she said crossly as she pulled the door open. And found herself staring at Magda’s white face.

  ‘Mags!’ she exclaimed. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’

  ‘I know where he is!’ Magda said.

  ‘What? Where who is?’

  ‘Kevin. I know where he is, Rona!’

  Rona caught her arm and pulled her inside, holding on to Gus’s collar with her other hand and pushing the door shut with her foot. ‘What are you talking about? How do you know?’

  ‘It just came to me suddenly, when I was about to set out for Stokely.’

  Rona searched her face for signs of hysteria, disorientation – anything – but she was preternaturally calm. She moistened her lips. ‘So where is he?’

  ‘In Cheshire.’

  Rona looked at her blankly. ‘Where in Cheshire?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly, but I could find my way there.’

  Rona led her into the sitting room. ‘I thought you weren’t having any more dreams,’ she said accusingly. This, she could do without!

  ‘I’m not, this was a memory flash. I told you I still have those. He’s staying in an ordinary-looking semi. The path to the front door is lined with pebbles.’

  Rona looked at her helplessly. ‘You’re quite sure?’

  ‘Positive. God, Rona, what should we do?’

  This was madness! Rona thought. How could she know? Yet there was something unnervingly convincing about Magda’s certainty. ‘You’ll have to . . . tell the police,’ she said uncertainly.

  Magda made an impatient movement. ‘Tell them what? That their murderer is somewhere in Cheshire, but I can’t be more specific? And that the reason I know is because we’re linked telepathically? They’d laugh me out of court.’