Stanbrook was the major to whom the general surrendered his
weapon in 1945.’
‘And who else will be there?’
‘Lady Francesca, the Viscount Wexford and his wife, and Sir
Thomas and Lady Sylvia Banks. I believe you know Sir Thomas and
Lady Sylvia?’
Wright looked at Roy as if significance attached to the question.
Roy kept his eyes on the road and accelerated into the corner, just enough to slide the rear wheel out under control.
‘Yes,’ said Wright. ‘We’ve come across each other on government
business.’
‘That reminds me. His Lordship asked me to emphasize that this
is an informal weekend. Relaxed. Emphatically not a duty weekend.
He wants everyone to feel completely at ease. No discussion of pol-
itics or other matters of government. No, um, standing on
ceremony.’
‘Got it,’ said Wright.
Roy fancied that he might have smiled for the first time during
this journey.
4
Sylvia looked across the table at him with what she judged to be
suitably disguised desire. Her judgement on discretion and subter-
fuge, born of experience, was infallible.
He was beautiful, simply beautiful. It was the only way she could
describe him. Tall, effortless, languid, yet muscular and athletic, with foppish blond locks that periodically he swept away contemptuously from his brow. And those eyes: blue yet with depth and
apparent scornful omniscience, and frightening. From his looks he
might have been an Oxford blue, captain of the England rugby
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fifteen, or a captain in the Commandos. But he would never be con-
fused with one of her class: apart from his slightly unplaceable
accent, he possessed a greater steeliness. He excited her and scared her in equal measure.
The beard. It was not a sobriquet she sought but one that vile
Gertrude had flung at her. It was a word, in this sense, that Ger-
trude had evidently picked up on her recent trip to New York. To
Sylvia’s knowledge the vulgar term had not yet reached British society. This had not prevented Gertrude from using it during one of
their private teas.
Sylvia’s marriage had not so much been arranged as arrived at.
The delicate problem had been the subject of much discussion, in
hushed tones and in opaque terms, between the parents before her
mother commented that Tommy Banks would be a good catch. Syl-
via had acquiesced in the fashion expected of her and from there it had fallen into place on a predictably smooth path, seemingly without her involvement. But Sylvia had known precisely the kind of
marriage into which she was entering.
Roy glanced discreetly at Lady Sylvia. She seemed to be staring at
him, but possibly this was his own self- consciousness at work. This was a tacit agreement that suited all parties moderately well. And
moderately well was the English way. He doubted whether the
supercilious German count would be remotely aware of the deli-
cate balances in play.
She was indeed strikingly attractive, with the poise of her breed-
ing and upbringing, her thin oval face, large eyes and pert nose
framed by a fashionable chignon that exposed to best advantage
that delicious neck, whose surfaces he would shower with kisses.
She was full- bosomed and slim, almost thin.
Sylvia had confided of her fantasy of remaining married while
shaping a future life with him, maintaining a filigree approximation of respectability. He knew it was nonsense: she would in the end
adhere to her social norms and anyway he could see in her the scle-
rotic old crow she would later become. For as long as it lasted they would restrict themselves to their furtive liaisons at weekends such 125
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as this, during the week at the town house she shared with Sir
Thomas, and on various snatched occasions at discreet hotels in the Home Counties. This suited him rather better than the complications of what he might call a relationship.
After dinner the men took their port and cigars in the library. The count droned on about his estates in Sachsen- Anhalt in the eastern part of Germany.
‘Germany is so uncivilized,’ he announced. ‘The rabble has taken
over. In the east they have created their socialist state. Their state! It is the Bolsheviks who run it in reality. It is an experiment that will fail. It is even worse in the west, with their economic miracle. Completely unsuitable people are becoming prosperous at the expense
of the old values. In their own way these people are as unacceptable as those who came before.’
‘Do you have difficulty getting to your land in the east?’ asked Wright.
‘Not at present, no,’ said von Hessenthal. ‘I have a reasonable
relationship with the authorities there, despite their dogma. I have to ensure that I make appropriate contributions and cultivate agree-able relations with the local Party men, but it works. I cannot
guarantee it forever, however. The border is continually developed
and I hear rumours every so often that the authorities are seeking to regularize the position of my properties. Regularize is the expression they use. Steal would be mine. Fortunately, I have sufficient
funds and land away from their grasp.’
‘You live mainly in London?’ asked Wright pleasantly.
‘That’s right. I have land also in Bavaria. But Germany today is so cheap. Unpleasant. East or west, it makes little difference.’ He shuddered for dramatic effect, then said, ‘I do not wish to be impolite, Charles, but may I ask a question?’
‘Of course,’ said Stanbrook.
‘It seems that you have invited one of your staff to dinner.’
‘Courtnay? Well . . .’
‘I have to say it makes me rather uncomfortable to be discussing
my affairs in such circumstances,’ he said, looking directly at Roy with a distaste that he did not attempt to hide.
It’s not me you should be worrying about, thought Roy. It’s the
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likes of Oliver Wright, itching to get their claws into you. But he smiled back benignly.
‘Well,’ said Stanbrook, ‘Courtnay is in a different position from
most of my people. I –’
‘No, sir,’ interrupted Roy. ‘Please. I was about to turn in anyway.
Goodnight, gentlemen.’
He stood from the leather armchair, stubbed out his cigar and,
still smiling broadly, left the room. In his peripheral vision, he noted the count’s eyes following his leisurely progress with undisguised
animus.
In truth he was unaffected by von Hessenthal’s comments. He
was better off out of these conversations stilted by politesse and the utter tedium of the inevitable game of billiards. He went to his
room and prepared himself for Sylvia.
She was waiting for him. He was rough with her, as was her pref-
erence, pinning her weak arms as he pounded relentlessly into her
softness with little regard for her well- being. There would be time for tender embraces later in the night, though no place for love. She shrieked exultantly and soon it was over.
Sir Thomas and Oliver Wright would be in the next bedroom
shortly. At four Roy would be turfed out to return to his own bed
and the same
would happen to Wright. The doors to the intercon-
necting bathroom would be unlocked and by the time the breakfast
trays were brought up marital bliss would have been reinstated. No
one in the house would be fooled, save perhaps the obnoxious Ger-
man and his man, but it would satisfy the niceties.
As she whispered to him, lying in his arms, he did not listen, looking with blind eyes to the ceiling. I despise these people, he was
thinking. I despise you.
5
The next morning he thought better of mingling with the party and
took his breakfast in the kitchen with von Hessenthal’s bespectacled manservant. He discovered that Ernst Maier had only recently been
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appointed to the count’s staff. Breakfast dragged as Roy had to listen to the boring little man in his badly cut suit while he told his life story in good English spoken in an appalling accent.
Hoping to shake Maier off, Roy announced he was going to take
a walk in the gardens. Maier said he would accompany him.
‘Things are changing in Germany,’ said the little man, ‘as they
will all over the world. The West has capitalism today but in the
future we’ll all be together under a socialist government.’
‘Quite the speech for the servant of a count,’ said Roy.
‘I wouldn’t describe myself as a servant. And I doubt the count
would either. I’m more an executive assistant. The count knows the
necessary compromises. At home he never refers to himself as the
count. He’s plain Hessenthal, Comrade Hessenthal on occasions.
He refers here to his “estates” as if they still exist. In fact they’re being developed into cooperative farms as we speak. He’s desperately trying to secure some kind of compensation. My job is to
awaken him to the realities. And to keep him from the grasp of such as your clever Mr Wright. I’m trying to do this gently. I’m not heartless. Some of my comrades call me soft.’
Maier stopped and turned to Roy.
‘We all have to predict the future and make the necessary provi-
sions,’ said Maier. ‘Arrive at accommodations. I’m sure you’ve had
to do that.’
A most peculiar little man. Roy began walking again. He said,
‘No doubt this moment in history creates the need for some odd
arrangements. Strange bedfellows. I can understand that the count –
or Comrade Hessenthal – has needed to make adjustments.’
‘Indeed. And he must make more. We all must.’
For a while they walked in silence through the rose garden, Maier
paying no attention to Lady Dorothy’s treasured collection. They
found themselves some distance from the house, strolling through
the small copse close to the boundary of the estate.
‘As, no doubt, must you.’
It took Roy a moment to understand that Maier was continuing
the conversation where he had discontinued it.
‘Well, as you all say, we must all cope with changing circum-
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stances. I’m a pretty adaptable chap. I get on all right.’ He smiled modestly.
‘Yes. I can see that,’ said Maier, as if in doubt. ‘But you may need to be able to adapt again in the future.’
‘To a new socialist state? I hardly think so. I doubt many in Eng-
land would share your world view.’
‘I’m sure not. We could debate that at some other time. But there
could be more pressing reasons for you to consider your position.’
Roy continued to humour him. ‘Like what? I don’t understand.’
‘Perhaps I can explain.’
Coming out into a meadow as they circled back to the house,
they sat on the trunk of a felled tree. Maier took out a packet of
Russian cigarettes and offered Roy one. He declined. Shrugging his
shoulders, Maier lit his own noxious- smelling tube and wiped his
brow with the grubby sleeve of his jacket. The sun bore down on
them relentlessly but neither man removed his jacket.
‘After the war you were something of a fearless pursuer of con-
centration camp employees.’
‘Where did you hear that?’ said Roy, alert but disguising the fact
with a long and lazy stretch of the arms.
‘Isn’t it true, then? I was informed that this is what you did.’
‘I did get involved in some of the clear- up work after the war. It was completely routine. In fact very trivial.’
‘You’re too modest. Heady days, weren’t they? Confusion,
destruction and chaos, yet we were constructing something from
the horror. I can testify to that. I was conscripted to the German
army in 1940 but captured in the retreat from Stalingrad in ’42. It was the finest thing that happened to me. I was able to prove my
loyalty to socialism. I volunteered to help destroy the Nazis.’
‘Very noble,’ said Roy.
‘Not particularly. It was survival. To survive, we do what we have
to do. Don’t we?’
No answer was required or expected.
Maier continued. ‘Things happened in all the chaos. Things we didn’t want to happen. But somehow we coped with them. Though you
weren’t involved in the conflict, I believe you know a little of this.’
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‘How so?’
‘In your endeavours to track down Nazis. I believe that there was
a tragic incident where one of your comrades lost his life.’
Roy was silent.
‘A sad event,’ said Maier. ‘But one through which you came. And
I’m glad to see you’re settled now.’
‘How do you know this?’ Roy regretted the question as it left his
lips.
‘Our authorities maintain archives, of course. I have some con-
tacts in the right places. They took the trouble to search out the
particular records, which give a vivid account of the incident. It was prepared by our Russian comrades. I was fortunate to gain access to it. But this sun, it’s fierce. Shall we go to the house and have a drink of water? Perhaps we’ll talk further later.’
He stood and waved his hand in front of his face in a futile attempt to move the still, dank air.
Back at the house, Maier seemed somehow to vanish without
Roy registering it. He must speak again to the wiry little man but he must not chase him. He could not afford to be the supplicant.
After lunch Lady Dorothy sent for him at Sylvia’s prompting. He
was required to play tennis, whatever the count’s feelings. First,
there was a singles competition for the men. Von Hessenthal sat
out, claiming a leg wound he had sustained during the war, and
watched with an acerbic expression while sipping lemonade. Roy
dealt with Sir Thomas, probably twenty years his senior, in short
fashion before Oliver Wright somehow contrived to lose to short,
stout Lord Stanbrook, who beamed as he wiped sweat from his
bright red forehead.
The ladies declined to play their own singles, so the men moved
immediately to the final. Becoming bored and with the thought of
Maier nagging at him, Roy dispatched his employer in even more
abrupt fashion than was normal. After the six– love pasting, Lord
Stanbrook was gracious if sl
ightly bemused. When they played,
Roy normally gave no quarter – nor did Stanbrook expect him to –
but this had been brutal. Roy’s mind was elsewhere and he excused
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himself, leaving the remaining men and the ladies to organize their mixed- doubles pairs. Sylvia looked disappointed.
Maier was sitting at a table on the terrace in his shirtsleeves, reading a book. Roy sat next to him. Good Lord, it was hot, and it was
good now to sit in the shade.
Maier said, ‘Did you win?’
‘Yes. What you were saying earlier.’
‘Yes?’
‘What are you driving at?’
Maier closed his book and placed it carefully on the table.
‘I’m glad we may talk frankly. I mentioned that we all have to
secure our futures. There may be a way in which you can help your-
self in this regard.’
‘How?’
‘By performing a service for our country.’
‘Our country? What do you mean, our country?’
‘I meant my country and Hessenthal’s, of course. What else?
What I’m suggesting is in all of our interests. I presume I can skip the preamble about understanding between nations. You have
access to information that would be of value to my comrades and
me. To assist us would assure your future position in the scheme of things. And we will pay you. Very well. Even a socialist state can pay well. From each according to his ability, to each according to his
need. And I can see your need may be very great indeed.’ He
smirked.
‘Absolutely not. I’m going to report this to Lord Stanbrook.’
‘Feel free. But I believe you won’t. You’ll think first. You’ll consider the consequences, and the benefits you’d be forgoing. This is good. There’s time for you to do this.’
I don’t need time,’ said Roy quietly. ‘I’m a loyal British citizen. I want nothing to do with this, or with you.’
‘Of course. A good speech. That’s your right. It’s a natural imme-
diate response. But give it some thought. We’ll see each other again no doubt.’ Smiling, Maier stood and bowed almost imperceptibly, in
an oddly military manner. ‘Until then.’
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6
It was the following Tuesday, sooner than he had imagined, that
Roy’s path again crossed that of Ernst Maier.
The Good Liar Page 16
