Nor did he think that he had ever seen Lewis with tears in his eyes before.
‘She’s left me, David. Trilby, she has only gone and left me!’
Micklethwaite leaned forward, the expression on his face one of amazement, but not, he realised much later, of surprise. He himself had never approved of Lewis’s marriage to someone so much younger, with so little experience of the world, and more particularly of men. Micklethwaite, during his boss’s long drawn-out bachelor days, had kept Lewis fixed up with many a pretty, sophisticated girl. Indeed he had often prided himself that he always knew Lewis’s type.
Lewis did not like prostitutes, preferring a more discriminating companion, but she had also, Micklethwaite knew, to be someone who would shrug off whatever he chose to do to her. He knew this so well that as soon as Lewis produced this new girl, at that first print party for her, or whatever it was meant to be – the party at the Savoy in her honour – Micklethwaite knew that she was going to prove to be different, but not at all what he himself would choose. He knew what was right for Lewis James, and Trilby Smythson was definitely not the tough little middle-class girl with her eye on the main chance that had always, until then, fitted the bill. This other type of girl would have taken her chance, taken her payment, taken her leave, and then gone on her way, putting out of her mind both Lewis and the experience, looking only to the fattening of her bank balance.
From the first Trilby Smythson had struck Micklethwaite as being too highly strung to stand the pressure of Lewis’s personality, of his meticulous attitudes, of his imperious ways. No-one knew Lewis better than David Micklethwaite. In many ways he was more married to Lewis James than any wife. He knew the pressures, the covert egoism, the sublimated sadism, and such had been his conviction that Lewis was taking a wrong turning with this girl that, now that it seemed he had been proved right, of a sudden there was very little he could think of to say.
However, he had to begin somewhere, and the dim and distant past was certainly not the place. ‘You have been having a little bit of trouble with her anyway, haven’t you, sir?’
Lewis turned away, nodding, avoiding Micklethwaite’s eyes and staring at nothing in particular. ‘Of course I was having trouble with her,’ he agreed. ‘About as much trouble as you can possibly imagine. It was all because she lost the baby we were expecting. It drove her to drink, you know. She became a different person. One minute she was fine, and the next – really quite, well, mad, really.’
‘Women do tend to take those things so seriously.’
‘You’re preaching to the converted, David. I had to hire a nurse to – well, you know. You know what it was like for me, I had to hire a nurse to look after her. She was mad after all! I tell you, she was, she was mad! And after all that, now she’s left me. Bloody gone and left me. She is mad, of course. We must accept that now – her madness is probably not just a passing pregnancy baby madness, it is probably insanity, true insanity.’
Lewis’s forehead was scarlet with fury. Micklethwaite thought that he had never seen it so vivid, not even when one of Lewis’s editors married one of his ex-mistresses and defected to another newspaper group.
‘It’s a bit awkward, isn’t it, sir? I mean, looking at it from an objective rather than a subjective point of view, it is a bit awkward, wouldn’t you say?’
‘A bit!’ Lewis savaged both words. ‘A bit! I’ll say! It is just about as awkward as it can be.’
If he was not so much the accomplished courtier, in view of the unending service that was required of him in every way, twenty-four hours a day sometimes, David Micklethwaite might have enjoyed this moment more, but as it was he could only enjoy his master’s vulnerability fleetingly, to his regret. Even so there was, as always, a frisson of enjoyment at the spectacle of such a powerful man as Lewis looking and sounding so discomforted.
‘We must keep quite calm, not be panicked into anything, not be wrong-footed. But it is awkward, especially after last time.’
Micklethwaite made sure to make his words sound soothing, but at the same time he was at pains not to suggest anything which could rebound at his feet. He wanted no part of his boss’s marital guilt.
‘Especially after last time.’ Lewis took up the cry. ‘But couple this with the fact that my enemies, of whom doubtless you are aware I have quite a few – my enemies will be sure to try to nose around this part of my personal life, and then who knows what might not happen? In fact, the more we think about it, David, the more we must realise that this must not get out, not at any cost, not for any reason. We will have to come up with some valid explanation for why she is not presently with me, and then we can make a plan. We must make a plan that will let us out of this potential scandal. I can’t afford a scandal, not at any price, you understand?’
‘We will make a plan now, sir.’ Micklethwaite’s voice was at its most soothing as his mind went back to the top-secret files at the office.
It had all happened a long time ago, but it was none the less a fact, if only at the office, filed away in a safe. The code numbers needed to open that safe had, as always with Lewis, not been written down. They were stored in a very safe place – David Micklethwaite’s head. It had all been covered up of course, the true story never coming to light, but both Micklethwaite and Dr Mellon knew what had happened, and the fact that they were the only people who did made the whole matter even more important – for them. That knowledge alone was the power that kept them where they were, and their lifestyles what Micklethwaite would call ‘very nicely thank you’.
She too, like Trilby Smythson, had been young, and innocent. Well, as innocent as any girls were nowadays. Hardly Queen Victoria but nevertheless Talia – what had been her surname – oh yes, Talia Fisherton. Nice little thing, not as pretty as the new one, but very, very sweet, and although not from the top drawer that had not mattered in the least, because if you marry someone as rich as Lewis that kind of thing, the class thing, really did not show up, not when you had the clothes, the lifestyle, above all the servants to cover for you.
Lewis had met her in Canada during the war, and they had married out there, and he had brought her back to England, given her everything, more than everything, more than any girl could dream of, and she had repaid him by committing suicide, taking her own life only weeks after marrying him.
What more terrible condemnation for a man could there be, Micklethwaite had often wondered, most particularly for a man who could give a woman anything she wanted. To be a multi-millionaire with access to everything that should make a woman happy, and then to find her dead from an overdose of sleeping tablets, must be not like a slap in the face, it must be like a karate blow to the throat. To go in to your young wife, a beautiful young girl whom you loved passionately, and to find her dead, surrounded by the trappings of extreme luxury – it was more than insulting, it was degrading.
It was as if Talia had been saying, ‘You can give me everything but not even that is enough when it comes to living with you.’
Lewis James had gone into the most terrible mourning. So Lewis’s father had singled out Micklethwaite, being more or less the same age as Lewis although only new to his staff at that moment, to deal with him. Then of course the father had only upped and died, just at that most awkward of moments, and Lewis, being in the state he was, had been quite unable to cope with his new responsibilities.
Day after day Micklethwaite had called round to his house to find him sitting crying and stroking all the clothes he had bought for her, all her trousseau. He had just sat about stroking every item of her wardrobe, wandering about her bedroom like a mad person. Of course Dr Mellon, the eponymous family doctor, the ever reliable spectre at the feast, had smoothed over what was always decorously referred to as ‘the arrangements’ and the poor girl was immediately taken away, whisked back to Canada, and buried in discreet circumstances, and no more to be said.
Finally, on Dr Mellon’s advice, Micklethwaite had sailed to South Africa with Lewis for an extended
holiday, and eventually, very eventually, they had come back to England, and Lewis had taken up his responsibilities and returned to a full social life. The matter was never referred to again, until now.
‘It’s a bit difficult to know how to go about tackling this problem, isn’t it, sir? You say she left a note? I wonder if I might read it? See if it had any, er, inclinations in it – any depressive signs – that sort of thing?’
This was the nearest that Micklethwaite dared to come to referring to the previous tragedy. Indeed, they were both well aware that he could not trust himself to say any more. Even Micklethwaite, who had never been famed for his sensitivity, understood only too clearly that if it had to be recorded that there had been two suicides in two marriages, Lewis would start to be looked upon as having achieved some sort of ghoulish marital record.
Apart from anything else, Micklethwaite shuddered to think of the implications as far as rival newspapers were concerned. And then there was the political side to it. Doors to ministers that had always remained permanently open to them might shut if a newspaper proprietor was made out to be some sort of monster. Doubtless they would put about rumours of sadism, or unacceptable sexual practices. All this ran through Micklethwaite’s mind as he waited for Lewis to tell him what he had done with Trilby’s letter.
‘I threw it on the fire. I threw Trilby’s letter on the fire.’
If he had not been talking to Lewis James David Micklethwaite would have said, ‘Not a very clever thing to do, was it?’ but as it was he merely nodded. He knew Lewis had many minor obsessions, one of them being that he insisted on the servants lighting the fires in every room, winter and summer, simply because he liked the smell of wood burning. Another was his preoccupation with covering his tracks, a natural consequence perhaps following the tragic failure of his first marriage.
‘If you can remember the wording, sir, it would help. I mean,’ he went on more boldly, ‘I mean there was no hint of – er – no sort of finality in the tone of the letter, was there? If you don’t mind me asking?’
Lewis shook his head. ‘Far from it, the tone was almost cheerful. Crisp, in fact. Yes, that is how I would describe it – crisp.’
‘Crisp.’
‘Yes, crisp. She merely stated that she was very unhappy with me, and she no longer wanted to live under the same roof as me, and that she was leaving without taking anything more than her toothbrush and an overnight case, and I could keep everything that I had ever given her, and she wished me happiness in the future.’
Lewis sat down very suddenly on a nearby bench. The reality hitting him once again had made him feel quite faint. It was true. He suddenly realised just how true it was.
Trilby was gone. She was his and yet she was gone. He felt as if someone had cut off both his arms. He felt more than bereft, he felt suicidal, and at the same time insane with fury, so much so that he felt like shredding himself into little pieces. No-one but no-one treated him like this.
Except – and again the realisation hit him in a strangely fresh way, as if it too had only just happened – except someone else had, and she had escaped from him for ever, to the grave.
He looked up at Micklethwaite. ‘In view of my past bad luck in this area you realise that we have to treat this situation with kid gloves, David? I can’t afford a second wife committing suicide, can I?’
David Micklethwaite shook his head slowly.
‘Well, then, David, you’ve got a double first from Cambridge—’
‘Not me, no, sir. That was Edmund Harrap, your other assistant, the one that left – I am afraid I am not the clever one, sir.’
But Lewis did not seem to hear. ‘We must view this whole matter in the coldest manner possible. First, we must not let her family know what has happened. They will not suspect at first, because they take very little interest in her, really. Though the father behaved very oddly last time they were here, seemed very drunk I thought.’
The mention of Trilby’s family made Micklethwaite colour. He was not a man with a very tender conscience, but seducing Agnes Smythson on a chilly British beach was one of the less proud moments of his life.
‘I agree, that seems a good idea, to keep it from them. For the time being at any rate.’
Lewis must have noticed Micklethwaite colouring because he said, ‘Of course, you seduced Agnes. You did seduce her on that ridiculous seaside holiday, didn’t you?’
Micklethwaite nodded slowly. ‘Yes, sir, yes, I did.’
‘In the circumstances, David, when we come to think of it, that could prove to be very useful.’
Lewis hardly ever called him ‘David’ but when he did, he did it so often that it became horribly noticeable, and for no reason that he could understand it always made Micklethwaite shiver inwardly. Lewis’s usage of his Christian name appealed to him as being a little like a torturer being kind to you before pulling out your toenails.
‘I don’t understand what you mean, sir?’
Of course Micklethwaite understood exactly what Lewis meant. He could see from the look in his eye exactly what he meant by its being ‘very useful’.
‘You could do it again, couldn’t you, David? You could seduce Agnes again, she’s a very good-looking woman, it won’t be much of a sacrifice, I wouldn’t have thought, and that would put us in the catbird seat, wouldn’t it? A terrifically strong position, that. You could hold it against her, promise not to tell her husband about you, thereby securing her loyalty about her stepdaughter. You could do that, couldn’t you?’
Lewis looked excited at the notion. It was as if he had found a new and original line on things and was feeling buoyantly creative as a result.
‘And then, then you could find out from her, she must know, you could find out from her, surely, where her stepdaughter is hiding? And then we could rescue Trilby from her fit of insanity, because obviously she has gone mad, must have gone mad, to up and leave just when she was getting so much better?’ Lewis was looking more and more cheerful. ‘And we could put her into Dr Mellon’s hands, make her realise she needs treatment. He has that new clinic near Ascot, we made a large donation to it – remember?’
‘Yes, of course. He’s pioneering something or other there, isn’t he?’
Lewis did not seem to hear. ‘We must make ourselves responsible, after all, for rescuing this poor girl’s mind, mustn’t we, David?’
‘Yes, sir.’
David Micklethwaite sighed inwardly. He disliked becoming too personally involved in Lewis’s affairs, and tried, as much as possible, to keep them at arm’s length, fixing him up with women when needed, but not more, not after the first marital fiasco. Business affairs were much more his field. Although, of course, it was because of the first marriage and the potential scandal, because of Micklethwaite’s discreet handling of it, that he had secured the confidence of Lewis James to such an extent that there was some information, some financial information in particular, that was stored only in David Micklethwaite’s head, and nowhere else. This information, more perhaps than any personal details, was so valuable to the conduct of Lewis’s business that Micklethwaite knew it would never be safe for it to be written down.
No accountant, no employee, could ever be entirely trusted, he and Lewis James had agreed that years ago. If anything happened to David, Lewis had often joked to Trilby, part of his empire would wither, because there were certain investment details that only Micklethwaite knew. In return for all this, Micklethwaite had been able to pursue a lifestyle which to someone less privileged might seem to be almost on a parallel to that of his boss. He had a town house, and a country house – not of the same value, of course, but very plush – and he had a bank account in Switzerland, tax free, that was building up annually, so the returns for his loyalty were 110 per cent. He just hoped that he would be able to remember all this when faced with seducing Mrs Smythson again. Not that she was not beautiful, but really – there were certain activities which he felt were now beneath him, and seducing women to keep his
boss in wives should, he felt, be one of them.
‘Good. Well, that is at least a start.’
As Micklethwaite’s heart sank at the prospect before him, Lewis’s own feelings of despair started to abate. He had made a plan. He always felt better for making a plan.
‘You will make sure to seduce Mrs Smythson, David, now won’t you?’
‘If necessary, sir.’
‘I think it is very necessary, David. It is far too long since you last seduced her, that moment will have lost its power, I should have thought. Ring her today, make a date with her, and let me know how you get on.’
‘And you, sir?’
‘I am going to go to my wife’s studio and search for clues as to where she could have gone, and then I am going to use my trusted friends the de Ribes to help me. They are the only friends that I know I can trust. The only ones that I know will stand by me and remain discreet.’
They both knew that Lewis paid both Henri and Lola de Ribes a small fortune to spy on the upper echelons of Society. There was not a duke, or a countess, not an impoverished honourable anywhere who could count on their privacy when the de Ribes were around.
The de Ribes knew everyone, and of course everyone knew them. But the de Ribes went one better than just knowing the aristocrats, the members of the European royal families, and the international set, they knew about everyone, every single aspect of their servant problems, their illnesses – access to Dr Mellon’s medical records was most useful in this respect – their love affairs, their problems with their children, drugs, drink: whatever happened the de Ribes were always the first to know.
Summertime Page 25
