A Question of Betrayal

by Anne Perry

  The clothes were gorgeous. Critical as she was, Margot was impressed and delighted beyond merely the styles; it was the confidence reflected in the women themselves, in their identity with the new Germany. Even possibly the alliance between Britain and Germany? It was more than coincidence that the bride was English. It was she who was now a member of the Beckendorff family, with its name, its heritage. She had promised to love, honor, and obey Hans, and he had promised to cherish and provide for her. But her worldly goods had become his.

  Margot pushed that out of her mind and disposed herself to be as charming as possible, to speak to everyone, perhaps just a little bit, to make sure that all her old friends continued to keep in touch with her, invite her to their social events, keep the connections alive.

  It was not difficult. Few people had forgotten her or failed to recognize her now. She kept the smile on her face wide and bright to fend off any attempts at sympathy. No one would inquire if she had married again.

  It was, of course, easier to avoid the subject with strangers, such as Hans’s friends and family. She was used to polite and relatively meaningless conversation. It was part of her family’s life, her father’s professional skill, to seem to be interested, well informed, impressed by other people’s lives and cultures. She could do it; her knowledge of German served her well, allowing her to pick up the undertones as she watched faces. The thought flickered through her mind that had she been male, she might have followed in her father’s footsteps professionally. The new freedoms since the war, would they eventually extend so far as to let women be ambassadors?

  She joined a conversation about current politics with Cecily’s new father-in-law. She offered no opinions, although there were questions she would like to have asked, questions to which the answers would have been very revealing, but they would have told her things she could not listen to without betraying her own beliefs.

  “Of course, there would have to be some,” one elderly man observed.

  The several moments Margot had been there, he had hardly moved position. It suddenly occurred to her that he was wearing a corset! Vanity? Or, far more likely, a serious back injury. She watched him as if she were listening to him intently, and saw the occasional wince of pain.

  “Of course,” Herr Beckendorff agreed. “The one at Dachau is only the beginning. It is all part of finding our identity again.”

  Margot opened her mouth to speak and changed her mind.

  Herr Beckendorff saw and raised his pale eyebrows. “You were going to say something, Frau Driscoll?” His expression was courteous, but there was an expectation of criticism in his eyes.

  Margot’s mind raced to find something to say that was not critical. She knew what the camp at Dachau was for. Cordell had mentioned it. What could she say that was not offensive to the three men around her, and yet not a betrayal of herself? “It is a task so vast, I cannot see the end of it,” she answered with a very slight smile. She bit her lip. “I hope Hans will not have to…spend time involved in that. I can see that it is socially necessary, but not the occupation for a brave soldier.” Had she said too much?

  Herr Beckendorff lifted his chin a little. “Of course. You are very perceptive, Frau Driscoll. Hans is an excellent soldier. The army knows that. I think he’s due for a promotion quite soon. I think being in charge of camps like Dachau is a good position for those who have no actual military ability, not the courage or the decisiveness for leadership. Don’t you agree, Gustav?”

  “Or someone retired from active service,” Gustav replied, easing his back a little by moving his weight from one foot to the other and wincing very slightly.

  It was on the edge of Margot’s tongue to suggest that they move to one of the tables surrounded by chairs, so he could sit, but she thought he might take it as an insult to his dignity, and she said nothing.

  The conversation moved to the possibilities of honor in active service, now that there was no serious fighting.

  Margot remained silent, listening to the pride in Herr Beckendorff’s voice, the stiffness as he stood a little straighter and spoke of his hopes for Hans. She pretended to be listening to him and discreetly studied the other guests standing around with wineglasses in their hands, many with plates of food. Everyone seemed to be engaged, animated, many of the men in uniform, the women in the height of fashion, quite international. There was nothing provincial about the lines or the colors of their clothes. London, Paris, and Rome were all represented.

  Cordell joined them, perhaps doing his duty as host. This was, after all, his daughter’s wedding. He was welcomed, thanked for the excellent hospitality, and complimented. As far as Margot could judge, it was all completely sincere.

  “The most beautiful bride I’ve seen,” Gustav said.

  “Indeed,” Herr Beckendorff agreed. “They make a perfect couple.”

  “Indeed,” another young man concurred quietly. His name was Stephan; he appeared to be a friend of both Cordell’s and Beckendorff’s.

  Cordell followed Stephan’s eyes, but Margot was looking at him and not the rest of the room. She saw perfectly controlled politeness, a gentleman caring for his guests on a happy occasion. She glanced down at his hand and recognized the clenching fingers too stiff to move. How far was he from breaking? Was it all because Cecily was marrying into this family, this culture, where he could no longer protect her from the day-to-day barbs and the unthinking cruelty of those who believed themselves superior? Or from the major tragedies that he feared—believed—might be ahead.

  She looked beyond them to where Winifred was talking to a small group of people. She looked lovely, gentle and happy, a mother who had succeeded in marrying her daughter into a proud and privileged position, to a young man who loved her and was already several rungs up the ladder of success.

  Cordell was speaking and Margot had missed what he was saying.

  “…to the cart,” he finished.

  She wanted to ask what they were talking about, but it would betray an interest she was not supposed to have. She stood there silently, being polite, decorative, and aching with fear of a future of which she could see only shadows. She was deeply afraid of what the darkest parts were hiding.

  “Of course, Dollfuss is useless,” Gustav said, shaking his head. “Poor little beggar, he’s bitten off more than he could ever swallow.”

  “That’ll be taken care of,” Herr Beckendorff said, dismissing the subject.

  Cordell put his hand on Margot’s arm, outwardly a gentle touch, as if to guide her, but actually his grasp was hard, a warning not to say anything.

  She was standing quite near to him, close enough to smell the faint bittersweet aroma of his aftershave and be aware of his warmth. She smiled and hoped he was aware of it. The last thing she intended was to make anything worse.

  “What do you think, Cordell?” Gustav said sharply.

  “Reluctantly, I agree with you,” Cordell answered. “A man overtaken by history. At another time, perhaps…”

  “I told you!” Herr Beckendorff said. “He’s perfectly sound, as the British would say!” He made as if to put his hand on Cordell’s shoulder, but Margot was in the way. “A good word, ‘sound,’ ” he repeated.

  Cordell winced.

  Margot put her hand over his on her arm. Only afterward did she realize what a possessive gesture it was.

  CHAPTER

  11

  When he had first retired, Lucas had been delighted to have time to use in whatever way he wished. Even waste it, if he wanted. There were rows of books in his study that he had never had time to read, and they still called to him. But now that there was no urgency, the thought held far less interest for him. Even the philosophers he had believed he wished so much to study seemed either so obvious as to be tedious, or so abstruse as to leave him uncertain that they meant anything at all.

  He sat down. His la
test book of choice was on the table, its place unmarked because he knew perfectly well he did not intend to go back to it.

  Beside his feet, Toby stood up and wagged his tail hopefully.

  “All right,” Lucas yielded without a fight. “We’ll go for a walk.”

  Lucas had said the magic word and Toby began to dance impatiently from one paw to the other.

  At that moment, the front doorbell rang. Josephine was in the back garden, so Lucas walked out of his study to answer it, Toby pattering behind him. He opened the door and faced a uniformed policeman.

  The man stepped forward a bit. “Good morning, sir. Are you Mr. Lucas Standish?” He looked very grave.

  Lucas felt the first twinge of alarm. Police were connected with crime and tragedy. “What has happened?” he asked automatically, his mind going to Charles and Katherine.

  “I’m very sorry to have to tell you, sir, that Mr. Gladstone Canning has passed away. It appears to have occurred sometime yesterday evening.” He looked profoundly uncomfortable. He was a young man—at least, compared to Lucas and Stoney—perhaps in his late thirties. “The postman found him this morning. He had no near relatives, but there was a reference to you in a note left on his desk, on top of everything else. I don’t know if you are related, sir, or just a good friend, but the message said we should contact you should anything happen to him.”

  “I see,” Lucas said slowly. “Thank you.” Stoney had been an old man, older than Lucas, and yet he had seemed so alive, so full of thoughts and feelings, ideas and knowledge amassed in a lifetime of observation. It was a violence to the mind to think that he had ceased to exist, just like that! Yesterday, he was; today, he was not.

  “Are you all right, sir?” the policeman said with concern. “Can I call someone for you?”

  “No, thank you,” Lucas answered, finding the words difficult to say. “I am perfectly all right and my wife is at home. Stoney was an old friend.”

  Of course he was all right. People did die, God knew, far too many of them before they’d ever really tasted life. He shook his head. He should be used to it. He hadn’t seen Stoney for several months, and then saw him just days ago. He hadn’t observed that Stoney was ill. Why hadn’t he said anything? He tried to recall if Stoney had seemed pale, lost weight, appeared to be in any kind of pain. Nothing came to him. He had looked older, but everybody looked older.

  The policeman raised an eyebrow awkwardly. “Stoney?”

  “Short for ‘Gladstone,’ ” Lucas said briefly.

  “You knew him a long time, sir?”

  “Fifty years, or about that.” It was an amazing thought: so long, and yet seeming now much too short.

  “I’m very sorry, sir. Do you think you will be well enough to come and identify him?”

  “For heaven’s sake,” Lucas exclaimed incredulously. “Aren’t you sure who he is?”

  “I think we’d prefer to do better than just the postman’s view, sir, despite the fact that he was found in Mr. Canning’s house. If you don’t mind. And we have to put his affairs into someone’s hands. If you are not—”

  “Of course I am able, damn it!” Lucas snapped. “I am not on my last legs, or anywhere near it.”

  “You looked a bit shocked, sir,” the policeman said apologetically.

  “I am shocked. I’ve known him a long time. Was it a heart attack?”

  “No, sir, he fell and hit his head.”

  Suddenly, Lucas’s attention was total, thoughts whirling in his mind. Hit his head? Violence, accidental or…“I’ll come. I must tell my wife.” He turned away, leaving the man on the step. Hospitality did not even enter his mind. He headed back into the kitchen. “Josephine, where are you?”

  She came in from the garden at the sound of his voice. She saw his face and her expression changed. “What is it? What has happened?”

  “The police. Stoney’s dead. They want me to go and identify him and…” He saw the surprise in her eyes turn immediately to grief. And then sympathy.

  “I’m so sorry, Lucas. I didn’t know he was ill. At least—”

  “I’m not sure that he was,” he cut across her. “He fell. The postman found him. They want me to identify him officially. And it seems he left a letter naming me as the person to be informed.”

  “Of course.” She undid her pinafore and hung it up on the nearest hook, revealing the blue and white dress she was wearing beneath it.

  “Do you mind coming with me?” he asked.

  “Really, Lucas.” She gave him a glance he was not sure how to read, but he was extraordinarily grateful. This news had shaken him more than he would have expected.

  The policeman was still waiting a little awkwardly on the step. It must be one of his most difficult duties, and at another time Lucas would have been sorry for him.

  “How do you do?” Josephine said politely. “We will take our own car.”

  “Ma’am, there is no—”

  She fixed him with a steady stare. It was not unkind, but it froze his remark, whatever it had been.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  It was not a long drive, about thirty-five minutes, but neither Lucas nor Josephine spoke, filled with memories, each concerned for the other. There would be enough to say later. They were on the edge of the city and they moved quickly in the opposite direction from most of the traffic. The trees in the small copses of wood were just beginning to turn color. The chestnuts like liquid amber deepening here and there; willows still trailed streamers of green. The wild roses in the hedges were long finished, and they showed bunches of orange hips where flowers had been.

  Lucas thought of blackberries; they would be ready, but he did not say so. “Why does loss make you notice the beautiful things so much more?” he said instead.

  “Because you don’t know if the dead still see them,” she replied. “I like to think they do.”

  “Do you believe that, Jo?”

  “I don’t know, but I don’t dare disbelieve,” she replied.

  He smiled and said no more. He knew what she meant. As he grew older, life became ever more precious. He took it for granted sometimes. He lifted his hand off the steering wheel for a moment and touched hers, where it lay in her lap.

  They reached Stoney’s house behind the police car. The policeman got out and led them in through the big oak front door and into the hall. It had not changed since Lucas had been there seven or eight years ago. There were the same familiar pictures on the wall; he remembered the carved newel post at the bottom of the stairs, and he recalled with a sudden clear ache how Stoney had loved its lines, and must have run his hand gently over the curves a thousand times.

  A man who appeared to be the local doctor came out of a side room and the policeman introduced him. “Dr. Hardesty, thank you for waiting for us. This is Lucas Standish and Mrs. Standish.”

  “How do you do?” the doctor said, nodding grimly. He was a lean, dark man with an intense face. “Sorry to have to inform you of Mr. Canning’s death. We presume it is Mr. Canning, but we need a formal identification by someone who knew him, if you would be so kind? I understand that there is no close relative to take care of his affairs.”

  “Not in England anyway,” Lucas replied. “He lost most of his family in the war; the surviving ones are pretty distant, both emotionally and literally. Australia, I believe.”

  “It happens,” Hardesty replied. “This way. However…” He looked at Josephine, as if to bar her way, his face showing a sudden pity.

  “I was in France during the war, Doctor. I have seen at least as many dead men as you have,” she replied with a sad shake of her head.

  His hand, which was stretched out to hold her back, fell to his side. “I doubt it, but of course you may, if you wish. Sometimes it helps…” He did not complete the idea.

  Lucas knew that she was going in to
help him, not Stoney and not herself. He said nothing, but he followed the doctor silently into the smaller room.

  Stoney was lying on his back on a stretcher laid alongside the dining-room table. Underneath the light, he looked smaller than he had standing up, and he was fully dressed, except for his shoes. His hair was ruffled. He looked as if he could have been asleep, apart from the large and bloody bruise on his temple.

  Lucas stared at him in silence, remembering the things they had endured together: a jumble of victories and losses, laughter and pain, sudden surprises. But most of all there had been a deep loyalty that had tied everything together. Perhaps that was what friendship was.

  “Is this Mr. Canning, sir?” the policeman asked quietly.

  “Oh, yes,” Lucas said as he turned to Hardesty. “What was it? A stroke? A heart attack? Or did he hit his head on the way down? That looks like a hell of a blow.” He frowned. “I presume you’ve looked at that pretty carefully.”

  “He was found at the foot of the stairs,” Hardesty explained. “If he had the attack somewhere near the top, he’d have fallen the rest of the way hard, but there aren’t any marks that we can see, apart from that one. The dead don’t bleed; I dare say you know.”

  “But he bled,” Josephine pointed out.

  “Not badly, really,” Hardesty replied. “We’ll see if there are any other bruises or injuries when we examine him more closely, but I don’t see that it makes any difference. The police say there’s no sign of anyone else having been here. There’s definitely no indication of a break-in or a struggle.” He turned back to Lucas. “I’m perfectly sure of that. Don’t distress yourself. It’s a shock to his friends and family, but it’s a very quick way to go.” He gave a rather stiff smile, not out of lack of sympathy, more probably because he had had to say much the same to many people, and he knew it was little enough comfort.

  Josephine said only what was necessary to be polite. But after the doctor and the police had gone, taking Stoney’s body with them, she and Lucas were left in the house to go through his papers and make any notifications that might be necessary. They also had to inform Stoney’s relatives, find his will, and perform all the other duties following a sudden death.