‘I’ll get the train back to Berlin,’ said Tom. ‘Term starts soon.’
‘How is it? It still seems frightfully strange, your reading law over there and not at Oxford. Even Manchester University would seem less odd.’
‘I suppose it must but Germany is a wonderful country. Outside the city, one’s not seen views like it, bigger than anything you could imagine and so ordered somehow, neat lines of hedges.’
‘Hmm, Bryan would like that. I’d like to see the underground nightclubs of Berlin. Are they very bizarre? When we came to see you last year, we heard extraordinary things about tigers and half-naked dancers.’
Tom chortled at that. ‘Yes, they are probably. But most of the students around me are less concerned with the nightclubs than with the politics. There are the most terrific brawls all the time – they’re more of a draw than any cabaret.’
‘What are the fights about?’ Louisa could hear that Diana was genuinely interested, which wasn’t so surprising. Although Diana had not been old enough to vote in the general election last year, she had pressed upon Louisa that she was to abstain, as it was simply not possible to vote for the Conservatives and ‘that ghastly Stanley Baldwin’. ‘Those poor, poor miners,’ she had implored at the time, referring to the strike, ‘you must think of them.’
‘Fascism versus Communism mostly,’ said Tom. ‘The country is broke and they need a solution.’
‘Do you take sides?’ asked Diana.
‘Oh no, it’s their own affair. But if I were a German, I suppose I would be a Nazi.’
‘Nazi?’
‘That’s the Fascist party,’ said Tom. ‘Shall we go and meet the others now?’
So that was the first time that Louisa – and Diana – heard the term Nazi. It would not, of course, be the last.
At the café in la Piazza, everyone chose to sit outside; in spite of the fading sun and cold, they were nonetheless intoxicated by their surroundings. There were three or four of the Guinness’s friends that Louisa recognized and by now knew the names and gossip attached to them – there was the Vogue photographer Cecil Beaton for one, and the artist Dora Carrington, looking even more wraithlike than usual. It was hard to square her with the rumour that she lived as part of a ménage à trois. But just as they were settling into their chairs and squinting at the menu, wondering what an espresso was or a pizza marinara, there was a scream from Clara. Louisa, sitting at the far end of the three tables that they had occupied, saw that Clara had stood up and was frantically looking about herself. ‘My bag!’ she said, before repeating herself several times.
‘I take it your bag has gone missing,’ Kate remarked drily.
Nancy was sitting opposite Clara and had not removed either her hat or gloves, but she looked very at ease, as if she were a woman not easily stirred to drama. Something which Louisa knew to be quite untrue. She regarded Clara not coldly exactly but with a laconic eye.
‘Is your passport in your bag?’ she asked.
Clara sat down in her seat and put her hands in her lap. She looked completely defeated, thought Louisa, as if she had lost a war not a bag.
‘No. I left that in the room.’
‘All your money?’
‘Some, but no, not all.’
Nancy crossed her legs and picked up the menu again. She might have been a detective inspector interrogating a thief that had been caught red-handed and already knew the answers.
‘Then what could possibly have been in your bag that is making you so hysterical?’ She barely lowered the menu as she asked the question.
Clara started to speak but stuttered and stopped. ‘It had a favourite lipstick of mine, which I can’t easily replace,’ she said at last but not with any conviction.
Nancy raised an eyebrow at this but said nothing more.
‘I suppose you had better report it to the local police,’ Tom suggested. ‘We can ask the waiter here where the local station is.’
‘No!’ Clara had shouted and all heads turned in her direction. ‘I don’t want to report it.’ She felt the eyes upon her and continued, ‘There really wasn’t anything in there of importance. I wouldn’t want to waste their time.’ But she looked increasingly agitated as the various drinks were ordered – someone had inevitably suggested a bottle of champagne – and as the glasses were brought over she stood up and said, ‘I’m sorry, I’ll join you all later. I’ve simply got to go and look for it.’
Diana leaned over to Louisa. ‘Why don’t you go with her? So she’s not alone. Looks as if we’ll be here for an hour, and I’m perfectly fine. We’re sitting down, and I’ve got Nancy and Tom here.’
Louisa nodded her assent and walked quickly to join Clara, who was already halfway across the square.
‘Clara.’ Louisa touched her lightly on the arm but she jumped as if she’d been hit.
‘What is it?’ Her American accent seemed to have strengthened in her distress.
‘Mrs Guinness suggested I accompany you on your search,’ said Louisa as soothingly as she could. ‘To keep you company.’
‘Fine,’ she said but quickly thought better of it. ‘I mean, thank you.’
They walked beside each other in silence, turning into a side street on the west flank of the Basilica. It was getting dark now, and the streets were fairly empty of people. Nor were there any shops along here, only high walls overlooked by blocks of apartments, indicated by the strings of washing that hung outside some of them. Louisa wondered why on earth Clara had chosen to come this way earlier, when the rest of the party was admiring the religious icons inside. At last they stopped when they reached a dead end. There was nothing there but the detritus of others who had obviously loitered in the spot – cigarette butts and the leavings of a cat. At this wall Clara began to cry.
‘Miss Fischer,’ Louisa started, not knowing how to comfort her because this was all rather mysterious. ‘What has happened? What was in that bag?’ She had remembered that around the time of the murder of Adrian Curtis – or rather, in the weeks after it – Clara had shown Louisa and Miss Pamela a small knife in her bag. To defend herself, she had said, though against what exactly she had not elaborated. Guy had suggested that, as Clara was an actress, she was more dramatic about things than might have been strictly necessary. Louisa had to admit there was something in that. But Clara’s distress here seemed very real.
‘I might as well tell you,’ she said at last. ‘We know each other a little, after all. But please don’t tell anyone else. Nancy suspects, of course, and they’re none of them the saints they make themselves out to be.’ This last was practically spat out with bitterness. ‘But it had my opium supply in there. I came out earlier to have a discreet smoke, someone must have seen me and decided to steal it from me. I was … ’ She paused and looked embarrassed. ‘I was a little unaware for a moment or two. It wouldn’t have been hard for a bastard to do it. Sorry.’
Louisa tried to take the shock off her face. She couldn’t yet quite think what to say.
Clara started breathing too fast, shallow breaths, and crying again. ‘If I don’t get some more, I don’t know what will happen to me. I never wanted to come here in the first place but Nancy said it would do me good. And now! Louisa. It will make me ill, desperately ill if I can’t find any more.’
‘Miss Fischer, I’m so sorry. I don’t know how we can possibly find any more. And we had better get back to the others or we’ll miss the boat back.’
‘I don’t give a damn about the boat.’
‘Well, I do.’ Louisa decided she needed to take a firm hand here. ‘And you’re no better off wandering around here in the dark. It’s clear you’re not going to find your bag or the … the stuff. At least at the hotel you can rest and think more clearly.’
Clara looked at her. Louisa realized that her prettiness had been lost to the drugs and that seemed terribly sad. She felt sorry for her. It wasn’t Clara’s fault, it was the demon of addiction that held her in its clutches. Slowly, they walked back to the caf
é again, reaching it just as the bill had been paid. Louisa gave silent thanks for the dusk that meant no one could see the light that had gone out of Clara’s eyes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
On returning to the hotel, Diana said she would rest and asked Louisa to come later to dress her for the evening. This meant Louisa could take Clara back to her own room, where she could keep an eye on her. On the boat trip back it had become plain that Clara needed company, even nursing. Louisa only had a single bed but there was an armchair and she thought that, if necessary, she would sleep on that. Clara’s distress had taken a physical turn for the worse very quickly; it was most likely as much the knowledge that she had no more opium to hand as it was the withdrawal itself. Weak and practically leaning on Louisa like an old woman by the time they had reached the staircase that led to her room, Clara ran to the bathroom and sounds of her retching could be heard. Louisa felt both sorry and exasperated. What a ridiculous situation for this woman to be in! She was beautiful and ambitious – why did she have to go and ruin herself like this?
As Louisa was standing in her room at a loss as to what to do next, there was a soft knock at her bedroom door. Luke.
‘What’s going on? I noticed you walk up here with Clara.’
Louisa put her finger on her lips and whispered. ‘Yes, she’s in the bathroom now.’ Casting a glance at the bathroom door, still firmly shut, she heard Clara heave again. She decided to step outside the room, and pulled the door behind her. ‘She told me not to say anything,’ she said to Luke. ‘But I don’t know what to do.’
‘What is it?’ There was a gleam in his eye. That gleam always worried Louisa – was it genuine concern or the hope of a good story?
‘She’s an opium addict.’
‘Ah. The drug was in her bag, that’s why she was so upset at its being stolen.’
‘Yes.’
‘And why she won’t report it to the police.’
‘Yes,’ said Louisa. ‘She’s sick, Luke. She’s only going to get sicker. She can stay in my room but I’ve got to attend to Diana, and I don’t know if she’ll see a doctor. What happens? Can an addict die if they don’t get their drugs?’
Luke didn’t reply immediately but looked along the corridor that led to his room. There was a thick red carpet even here in the cheaper wing that softened any approaching footfall. ‘My aunt was a nurse in the war,’ he said at last. ‘She might know what to do. I’ll ask her to check in on Clara. Maybe get her some tea, that cures everything.’
Louisa nodded and went back inside.
Throughout the evening, while the party had dinner in the hotel restaurant and then moved into the drawing room, where further cocktails were drunk and Tom played the piano, Louisa tended to Clara. She slept fitfully and had been sick again, several times, until there was nothing left in her stomach but water. More disturbing were her shouts of delirium, most of which were difficult to make out though she spent a lot of time crying out for someone. Louisa couldn’t quite catch the name.
At around midnight, Clara was in a deep sleep so Louisa left her and went downstairs to the hotel reception. Fortunately, the man on the front desk spoke good English and he told her that the party of English people had finished their supper and were now in the large drawing room that overlooked the beach. ‘Thank you,’ said Louisa. ‘There is a guest in my room, Miss Fischer. She’s not well.’
‘Ah, we have no doctor here … ’ He looked alarmed.
‘That’s quite all right. She doesn’t need a doctor, I don’t think. She’s asleep now but if she happens to call down, will you ring for me in Mrs Guinness’s room? When I return to my room I’ll telephone and let you know I’m back with her. Perhaps someone could take up some tea, with a bowl of sugar? No milk.’
‘Absolutely, I’ll see to that right away.’
Louisa thanked him and went to the drawing room and scanned the various guests for Diana but couldn’t see her. They appeared to be in their usual various states of inebriation and enjoyment. She felt suddenly tired and exasperated that no matter what was going on in the world or even upstairs, they were always able to enjoy themselves. Luke saw her and raised his hand in a gesture of acknowledgement but she could do no more than smile lightly back. Nancy came over to her. ‘Are you looking for Mrs Guinness? She’s just gone upstairs, I thought she would call for you.’
‘She might have tried,’ said Louisa. ‘I came down here a few minutes ago.’
‘What’s wrong?’ said Nancy. ‘You look positively grey about the gills.’
‘I’m fine. It’s Miss Fischer, she’s not well. I took her to my room so that I could keep an eye on her—’
Nancy interrupted her with a tut of impatience. ‘Don’t tell me what it is, I have a feeling I already know. Stupid girl. She promised me she wouldn’t do that here. I’ll go up and see her with Mrs Mulloney. She knows what to do in these situations. Thank you, Lou-Lou. It’s kind of you to look after her but I’m sure she’ll be absolutely fine. She’s an actress, you know, prone to being rather theatrical about things.’
Louisa thought that if this was a performance, it was probably one of the best Clara had ever given. But she had better go and see to Diana quickly if she wanted to hold on to her job: the last thing she needed tonight was one of Diana’s hot-tempered outbursts. She thanked Nancy and went up to Diana’s room, crossing her fingers as she walked.
An hour later, when she returned, to Louisa’s relief Clara seemed unchanged. The tea had been delivered and it looked as if it had been drunk. Perhaps Luke’s idea had worked.
She felt responsible for Clara, as a friend of the Mitfords, and as the only one the American had confided in. Most of all, she felt a pang for the loss of that beautiful girl with the head full of golden curls and dreams of leading roles. Louisa changed into her nightclothes and as Clara seemed still to be sleeping quite well, with only the occasional movement when a limb would jerk, she decided to try and catch some rest. She made herself as comfortable as she could on the armchair with a cushion and a blanket, and though she intended to read she soon fell into a deep sleep. Some five hours later, Louisa woke with a start as if there had been a sudden loud noise but nothing had changed. It was dark in the room with only a soft light from a lamp in the corner, not strong enough to illuminate Clara in the bed. Louisa folded back the blanket and stood a little stiffly from her awkward position in the chair. As she walked across to the young girl she tried to see if she was sleeping or awake but on touching her cold arm she brutally realized she was neither.
Clara Fischer was dead.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Standing there, in the dark, alone with the lifeless Clara, Louisa’s veins turned to ice. Her mind raced: was it her fault? Had she not heard something she should have, a shout or cry that would have alerted her to help? Quickly, she turned the bedside lamp on and looked at Clara. Her skin was whiter than the sheets, her lips blue. There was no obvious sign of any last-minute struggle with death, other than that she had thrown the covers off. Louisa drew the sheet over Clara then dressed and went downstairs to the reception desk, where she told a young man there what had happened. There was some confusion owing to Louisa’s lack of Italian and the man’s lack of English but eventually she made herself understood and interpreted his gestures that a doctor would be called. She did not wish to return to her room with Clara’s stiff body, and sat on a sofa in the lobby until the dawn.
Although she did not feel particularly hungry, Louisa breakfasted and finally at nine o’clock she asked the desk to call up to Mr and Mrs Guinness’s rooms.
‘Louisa?’ Bryan had taken the call. ‘What’s this about?’
‘I’m so sorry to disturb you, Mr Guinness, but there has been—’ There was a catch in her throat and Louisa had to compose herself before going on. ‘There has been a terrible tragedy.’
‘Come up at once.’ The telephone rang off.
When Louisa entered their room, having knocked, Bryan was up and wearing a qui
lted-satin dressing gown with co-ordinating slippers of navy and green piping, while Diana sat up in bed, rather bleary-eyed, pulling on her bed-jacket. ‘What is this, Louisa?’ said Diana. As she was pregnant, she was not having such late nights as before but she had nonetheless not gone to bed until one o’clock.
‘It’s Miss Fischer,’ Louisa burst out. ‘She’s dead.’
‘Dead?’ said Bryan. ‘What do you mean? What happened?’
‘Oh God,’ said Diana, and immediately reached for the telephone. ‘I’m ringing Naunce.’
Louisa knew that none of this looked good for her but she had to tell the truth. ‘Miss Fischer admitted to me yesterday, when her bag was stolen, that she was an opium addict, and the bag had contained her supply. Without it she was quite desperate and quickly very sick, so I kept her in my room.’
‘You told us none of this!’ Her employer was angry.
‘No, sir, I’m so sorry.’ Louisa was trying very hard not to cry. ‘I told Mr Meyer, sir. Miss Nancy knew of it, and she said she would talk to Mrs Mulloney too.’
‘Why didn’t they say anything to us?’ Bryan asked.
Diana had hung up the telephone. ‘She’ll be here as soon as she can.’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ said Louisa. ‘Miss Fischer didn’t want anyone to know.’
‘Has a doctor seen her?’
‘Not yet, the hotel has telephoned for a doctor and he will be here shortly to see … ’ She couldn’t bring herself to say ‘the body’.
There was a brief knock at the door before it flew open and Nancy rushed in, hair askew, a silk dressing gown tied around her slim figure. ‘Louisa, darling,’ she said and much to Louisa’s surprise, Nancy put an arm around her, which made the tears come fast.
Bryan lit a cigarette and turned to face the view outside, another steel-grey day.
‘Go and wash your face,’ Nancy instructed Louisa, ‘then come back out.’
[Mitford Murders 03] - The Mitford Scandal Page 13
