Chapter Ten

IRONY WEARS MANY faces. One of them, that drear month of December, was the extent to which I followed Imry’s advice almost in spite of myself. Angela and I were not reconciled, but a grudging truce nonetheless arose between us. I heard nothing from or of Rodrigo, and Consuela’s trial, looming ever closer, constituted an event I could neither prevent nor influence. If I was, as my conscience suggested, in some way responsible for what had happened, fate, it appeared, had decreed I should atone for it by a creeping awareness of my utter helplessness.

The weather was grey, chill and persistently wet, the days smog-choked and depressingly short. As if this and my knowledge of what the New Year held were not enough, there was also the hollow good cheer of Christmas to add its leaden weight to my spirits. We were to spend the holiday with Angela’s family in Surrey, an event I looked forward to with dread. Meanwhile, the shop-windows of London were bright with tinsel and fairy-lights, Doris had festooned the office with paper-chains and the eager anticipation of festivity seemed to occupy everybody’s thoughts.

The last Friday before Christmas was also the shortest day of the year. Sleet had fallen from a louring sky all afternoon. Every light in the office had burned since mid-morning. All had seemed bleak and wearisome. And then had come one small portent of the events that were to break inertia’s hold upon me.

‘’Ere, Mr Staddon,’ Kevin said, pausing in my office during his delivery of the second post, ‘you seen that advert in the Sketch?’

‘You know full well I don’t take the Sketch, Kevin.’

‘You should do, though. Then you’d not miss things like this, would you?’ He plucked the folded newspaper from beneath his arm and dropped it onto my desk. It was open at the classified advertisements page and all I could see, as I cast my eyes across it, was an undistinguished mass of domestic vacancies and inducements to purchase seasonal gifts by post.

‘I haven’t time for guessing games.’

‘No need to take on like that, Mr Staddon. Look, there.’ He prodded at the paper with a nicotine-stained forefinger.

‘I really don’t—’ Then I saw it, in larger print than most entries, headed in bold capitals CASWELL. Any persons having information bearing on the forthcoming trial of Mrs Consuela Caswell of Clouds Frome, Mordiford, Herefordshire, are invited to make themselves known by replying to Box 361 as soon as possible. Valuable information will attract a substantial cash reward. All replies will be dealt with in strictest confidence. The box-holder is a private citizen.

‘What d’you make o’ that, then?’

‘What should I make of it?’

‘Funny, ain’t it? Who’s the party who placed it, d’you reckon?’

‘I’ve really no idea. The lady’s solicitor, perhaps.’

‘No. It says so. “A private citizen.” Sets you thinkin’, dunnit?’

‘Frankly, no. Now, would you mind returning to work?’

Kevin was right, of course. The advertisement did set me thinking, but to no significant purpose. Windrush could not have placed it, for the simple reason that he had no need to: all the witnesses in the case were known to him. Yet so they were to anyone who cared to enquire. Who the anonymous box-holder hoped to attract was therefore a mystery, one I was still puzzling over when I left the office, an hour or so after the rest of the staff had gone.

The sleet had ceased to fall, but the slush left on the pavements was hardening fast as a cold, windless night closed in. I walked fast, but only to keep warm. I was in no hurry to arrive home.

There was a news-stand at the corner of Old Jewry and Poultry. I seldom used it. But, on this occasion, I stopped and bought both the Evening News and the Standard. I crossed the road and stood by one of Mappin and Webb’s brightly lit windows to read them. The advertisement appeared in both. CASWELL. Any persons having information … It was baffling.

I was still staring at the advertisement a few seconds later, trying and failing to deduce its purpose, when I felt a hand on my elbow.

‘Mr Staddon?’ The voice was hoarse and low-pitched. Its owner was standing so close to me that I was surprised I had not noticed him approach. He was nearly a foot shorter than me, but powerfully built – a squat little pocket-battleship of a man, with a head seemingly too large for his body. He wore mud-caked boots, overalls, jacket and muffler, with a woollen hat jammed on a mass of curly hair. Cement dust – or some similar substance – had imparted a uniform greyness to his clothes and skin and I took him at once for a labourer, though I did not recognize him from any of the sites I had recently visited.

‘What can I do for you?’ I said cautiously.

‘You are Mr Geoffrey Staddon, the architect, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you don’t know who I am?’

‘No. I don’t.’

‘Well, it’s been a long time. And life’s not been easy. So, you don’t surprise me.’ He looked up and down the street, then back at me, with a crumpled, less than reassuring smile fixed to his face. ‘Could we talk somewhere a bit warmer?’

‘Talk about what?’

‘Old times. Present times. The one and the other.’

‘I really don’t know what you mean.’

‘You will, soon enough.’

‘What did you say your name was?’

‘I didn’t. But I expect you’ll remember it better than my face. Malahide. Tom Malahide.’

Then I recognized him. He was the carpenter from Clouds Frome who had been implicated in the robbery at Peto’s Paper Mill. Insofar as I had known him at all, it had been as a cheery and reliable worker. Twelve years and a prison sentence on, he looked old and weary, all the confidence – and much of the pretence – sucked out of him along the way.

‘Surprised to see me, Mr Staddon?’

‘Yes. I suppose I am.’

‘And probably wondering what I want. Well, I’ll not beat about the bush. It concerns this trial coming up. The trial of Victor Caswell’s wife. Interested? Yes, I can see you are. So, what about that chat?’

The noise and smoke of one of Cannon Street’s least salubrious alehouses seemed to supply all the privacy Malahide required. He let me buy him a stout and whisky chaser, then settled himself at a table near the fire, rolled and lit a cigarette, cocked his head and grinned at me.

‘I’ve had to make do with whatever work I’ve been offered since leaving the nick, Mr Staddon. None of that carpentry a man could be proud of, like you put my way at Clouds Frome.’

‘How long have you been out?’

‘Nearly three years. Three hard years, breaking my back for a pittance or else … Well, you don’t want to know my troubles, do you?’

‘I’m not sure I want to know anything about you, Malahide. Have you any idea the difficulties your little escapade caused me?’

‘Some.’ He looked straight at me, quite unabashed. ‘But I couldn’t turn up a chance like that. Life doesn’t drop many riper plums in a man’s lap than the little scheme we had going.’

‘Your little scheme landed you in prison, though, didn’t it?’

‘True enough. But that was all greed and bad luck – or maybe something worse.’

‘What could be worse?’

‘Snitching on your mates, for one thing. And for another …’ He stared into his stout for a moment. ‘I’m the only one left, you know, the only one of the three still drawing his ration of London smog.’

‘What happened to the others?’

‘Don’t you know? They hanged Pete Thaxter for killing a warder. Didn’t that warrant a line in your morning paper, Mr Staddon? I should’ve thought it would. The nobs like reading about a good hanging, I’m told. It makes them think the rabble are being held in check.’

Another hanging. Peter Thaxter, like his sister, like—‘When was he hanged?’ I snapped, suddenly desperate to restrain my thoughts.

‘When? Twelve years ago, that’s when. His sister – lady’s maid at Clouds Frome – topped herself while Pete was in Gloucester Gaol with me, waiting on the Assize. Nobody knew why she did it, seemingly, and that turned Pete’s mind, cooped up with nothing else to think about – that and something we’ll come to by and by. He took it out on a warder, just with his fists, but he killed him for all that. A strong lad, our Pete. So, they hanged him. And maybe it was best they did. He wasn’t the kind to do his stir quietly. I liked him. And he trusted me. I suppose you could say I led him astray. That’s how a lot of people would see it, anyway.’

‘Is it how you see it?’

‘Reckon it is. But guilt slides off me like rain from a roof, so I lose no sleep about it. I’ve always preferred a dishonest cake to an honest crust and I’ll not pretend otherwise.’

‘Was the robbery your idea in the first place?’

‘No, no, Mr Staddon, you’ve read me wrong there. Too much brain-work for a fellow like me. It was Joe Burridge’s scheme, from top to toe.’

‘Burridge was the engraver from Birmingham?’

‘He was. As fine a scratcher as you could wish to find. He’d spied out Peto’s Mill and realized a ready supply of Bank of England bill paper could be his if he set about it right. Well, he knew me from way back as the man to handle it. Once I saw what was at stake, I don’t mind admitting I fair drooled at the thought of it. Perfect forgeries, Mr Staddon, undetectable even to the expert. That was the beauty of it. Burridge could mimic the ink and the design of bank-notes better than any forger alive. What he needed was the paper to mimic them on, complete with the genuine water-mark. My job was to go down to the area, find a good reason to stay there, then get to know the workers at the mill – drink with them, listen to their gripes – till I’d spotted one right for our little enterprise.’

‘So working at Clouds Frome was just … camouflage?’

‘’Fraid so.’

‘And Peter Thaxter was the one you … spotted?’

‘He was. He worked on the plate-making machines, which suited our purpose just fine, and he had ideas above his station, which suited them even better. He and a pal had a dream of opening a roller-skating rink in Hereford. What they didn’t have was two pennies to rub together. Well, it didn’t take young Pete long to realize our scheme was his only chance of raising the capital. And he had some grudges against Grenville Peto to work off. So I didn’t have to strain myself to persuade him.’ He sighed, as if the recollection saddened him. ‘It all went so well to start with. Pete took out finished sheets as often as he could. Nobody noticed because it was only ever a few at a time. He handed them over to me and I took them up to Brum. Joe could print twelve notes from every one. If he made them fifty quid notes, that was six hundred a sheet. Even if he made them just tens, that was still more than a hundred. And Pete was taking up to twenty sheets a week. In six months, we had enough stock to split a fortune between us.’

‘What went wrong?’

‘Peto’s brought forward their stock-taking by three months. Whether they were suspicious or not I don’t know, but, if they’d stuck to their usual date, we’d have been in the clear. As it was, as soon as they realized there was something wrong, they kept a careful watch and rumbled young Pete. The police followed him to me, then they followed me to Joe. And then they picked the three of us up, red-handed.’

‘Was all the paper recovered?’

He smiled and tapped his nose. ‘I’ve told you enough, Mr Staddon, quite enough for you to understand how I came by the … merchandise, shall we call it?’

‘What merchandise?’

‘Well, fill my glass and I’ll tell you. Reminiscing’s thirsty work.’

‘Malahide—’

He held up his hand. ‘If you don’t listen to me now, you’ll wish you had later.’

Reluctantly, I went to the bar. When I returned, his grin had broadened. Clearly, he was enjoying himself. He took a deep draught of the stout and wiped his mouth with his sleeve, then rolled and lit another cigarette, staring and smirking at me as he did so.

‘They gave Joe Burridge a twenty-five stretch, Mr Staddon. Too long for an old ’un like him. He croaked the year before I came out. I went down for twelve, reduced for good behaviour. They never had any trouble with me. Not like Pete Thaxter. But who could blame him? His sister stringing herself up while he fretted and fumed in prison. More than flesh and blood could stand, I’d say. Wouldn’t you?’

‘I really don’t know.’

‘I was with Pete in Gloucester Nick when they told him his sister was dead. It fair broke him up, I can tell you. What really got to him was the thought that if he’d not been behind bars, he could’ve stopped her. But, then, if he’d not been behind bars, she’d not have wanted to do it in the first place, would she?’

‘You’re suggesting Lizzie Thaxter killed herself because her brother was in prison?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Then exactly what are you suggesting?’

He leaned closer and lowered his voice. ‘She wrote him a letter, Mr Staddon, just before she did it. It reached him a few hours before the news of her death. It told him what had driven her to the edge of doing away with herself. It told him everything about the tormented life she was leading at Clouds Frome.’

‘Tormented? By what?’

‘By who’d be a better question. Pete kept the letter till he’d been sentenced to hang. He didn’t show it to his family because Lizzie had asked him not to. She wanted him to explain it all to them when he came out. But, after clouting that warder, he wasn’t coming out, was he? So, what d’you suppose he did?’

An inkling of the answer had been creeping over me as Malahide spoke, but I held it at bay with a shrug of the shoulders and a petulant ‘How should I know?’

‘He gave the letter to me, Mr Staddon, to be passed on to his family when I got out.’

‘And did you pass it on?’

‘’Fraid not.’ He grinned. ‘Solemn promises aren’t really my line. To tell you the truth, I forgot all about it. If I’d ever been down that way, I might’ve done something about it. Otherwise, I’d probably never have thought of it, but for Clouds Frome and the Caswells popping up in the papers two months back.’

‘So you still have the letter?’

He took a gulp from his stout. ‘I have it, yes.’

‘What do you propose to do with it?’

‘I’ve been wondering about that. The fact is, you see, I thought I’d better read it – after all this time – and, when I did, I was surprised to find some familiar names cropping up in it.’

‘Such as?’

‘Such as yours, Mr Staddon.’

‘Mine?’

He leaned still closer, till his face was barely a foot from mine, till the glee in his bloodshot eyes could not be mistaken. ‘The letter names you as Mrs Caswell’s lover. It says you and her were planning to run away together. Till you ditched her, that is.’

‘What nonsense! It can’t possibly—’

‘How would I know unless the letter had told me? Be sensible, Mr Staddon. You know what I’m saying’s the truth. You had an affair with Mrs Consuela Caswell. I don’t blame you. Matter of fact, I envy you. The few glimpses I had of her … Well, enough said, eh? You had your way with her, then you ran out on her. It’s the old—’

‘It’s nothing of the kind! And I happen to object – very strongly – to these suggestions.’

‘Object all you like, but take it from me that my version is the one anybody reading Lizzie’s letter would come away with. Now, the point is, do you want people to read it? Do you want them to know what you did to her mistress?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I think the papers would bite my hand off for it, don’t you? They’re down on Mrs Caswell. You know that. They want her neck. A letter proving she’s not the lily-white faithful wife she claims – and never has been – would be just what they want. Dragging in the architect her husband employed to build a house for her would be the cherry on their cake – don’t you reckon?’

‘You called this letter a suicide note. Are you trying to blame me for Lizzie’s death?’

‘Oh no, Mr Staddon. Some would blame you. But not me.’ Another grin. ‘If you want to know exactly what’s in the letter, you can find out easily enough. It’s for sale, you see. To the highest bidder.’

‘This is blackmail.’

‘No. It’s an auction. Sotheby’s hold them all the time.’

‘Now listen to me—’

‘No! You listen to me, Mr Staddon. I’m a reasonable man. I only want a fair price. If you’re willing to pay, the auction needn’t take place.’

‘How much do you want?’

‘A hundred.’

‘Good God! You must be—’

‘Joking? I never joke. I’ve looked at this from all angles and I reckon that’s what it’s worth. Six months ago, no. Six months ahead, no again. But, just now, yes. I think you’ll see your way clear to coughing up. You’ve your practice to consider, after all. This letter will get splashed all over the front pages. What will your fancy clients think when they read how you helped yourself to one of their wives? Well, I’ll tell you what they’ll think—’

‘Don’t bother! I understand what you’re saying. Spare me the elaboration.’

‘You’ll pay, then?’

I said nothing. The defiance I wanted to express I could not afford to – for Consuela’s sake as well as mine. Would I have resisted if my reputation alone had been at stake? I do not know. All I knew then was that I had to have Lizzie Thaxter’s last letter, whatever price I had to pay for it.

‘We’re agreed, are we, Mr Staddon?’

‘Apparently.’

‘Good. Well, you won’t have the cash about you, any more than I have the letter about me, so what I suggest is this. We meet a week today, I bring the letter, you bring the money. How does that seem? This side of Southwark Bridge, eight o’clock, next Friday night.’

‘Very well.’

Suddenly, he had finished his stout and was on his feet, grinning down at me. ‘It’s a pleasure doing business with a gentleman like yourself, Mr Staddon, a real pleasure. Till next week, then. Don’t be late.’

He was gone almost before I knew it, gone with but an empty glass to prove he had ever been there. His grubby, callused fingers had left their smeared prints around it, as his words had around my life. What had Lizzie written to her brother all those years ago? What had driven her to suicide? What had I done – or not done – to condemn her to a lonely grave beyond the churchyard wall? Dark of face and swift of tread, the truth would surely soon be plucking at my sleeve.

Angela and I had latterly contrived to meet only rarely and to converse not at all beyond the making of strictly practical arrangements. There was comedy, I sometimes thought, in the tight-lipped indifference which we substituted for angry exchanges, but it was comedy that inspired no laughter.

On Sunday morning, departing from her recent habit of breakfasting in bed and thus avoiding me, Angela joined me downstairs. I knew at once that an announcement of some kind – a demand, a rebuke, perhaps even a request – was pending. She was in no hurry, however. Tea, dry toast and two cigarettes received her silent attention before she deigned to address me.

‘I’ve told Mummy we’ll be with them by tea-time tomorrow. I trust you won’t be delayed at the office.’

‘I shouldn’t think so. I’ll be back here by two at the latest.’

‘They’re assuming we’ll stay on for the New Year’s Eve party.’

‘What party?’

‘I did mention it to you.’

‘Well, I have to be back in London by the twenty-seventh. We’ll just have to make two trips of it.’

‘I could remain there while you return to London.’

‘As you please.’

‘And Geoffrey, while we are together, do you think you could make an effort at least to pretend that all is well between us? I know it will be an effort – for both of us – but we don’t really want to burden my parents with our problems, do we?’

‘I suppose not.’ I looked up from my paper for the first time since she had begun speaking. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, with a vein of sarcasm in my voice that I was later to regret. ‘I’ll behave.’

Sir Ashley Thornton, my esteemed and eminent father-in-law, knighted by Lloyd George’s government in recognition of I know not what, had commissioned for himself some years before we met a country residence of style and substance a few miles south of Guildford. The architect shall remain nameless, lest I be accused of traducing a fellow professional. Luckham Place was, in truth, as safe, sound and solid a piece of Neo-Georgian predictability as any student of the style could wish to encounter.

There, at dusk on Christmas Eve, Angela and I arrived laden with smartly wrapped presents and contrasting expectations. The Thorntons had, as usual, erected in their hall one of the tallest Christmas trees seen beyond the shores of Norway. It, along with every beam and lintel in the house, was strung with baubles, balloons, tinsel and tassels. Angela’s brother, Clive, had already arrived with his wife, Celia, and their three children; the drawing-room was ringing with their laughter as we entered. Instantly, Angela was embraced and kissed by her mother and sister-in-law. So, in turn, was I, but with an aloofness, an icy dutifulness, that reminded me how tenuous and barely tolerated my membership of their family had become. To see my father-in-law dandling his eldest surviving grandson on his knee was to be reminded of all the trust and support he would no doubt have conferred on me – if only Edward had lived.

Clive Thornton was rapidly being groomed as his father’s successor at the head of Thornton Hotels. Five years younger than Angela, he had done everything that could have been asked of him: distinguished war service, a reputable marriage and the regular production of grandchildren. Small wonder that in him Sir Ashley’s hopes for the future now resided. If, of course, Clive had died a hero’s death on the Somme, if Edward had not contracted influenza, if the Hotel Thornton had not been burned to the ground, my life would have taken a vastly different turn. But these were unworthy thoughts, I told myself, as the festivities at Luckham Place began to take their ritualistic course: midnight mass at the village church, of which Sir Ashley was a generous benefactor; then Christmas Day itself, with feasting and gaiety unbounded, concluding with parlour games that reduced the children to hysterics. I moved through the seamless succession of events more as a spectator than a participant, conscious of, but no longer discomforted by, my growing isolation. I was a stranger in their midst, but none of us was prepared to admit it.

On Boxing Day, Sir Ashley, Angela, Clive and Celia rode with the local foxhounds. After seeing them off, I drove slowly back to London, glad to be alone once more. I had said I would rejoin them on New Year’s Eve, but, in truth, I could hardly direct my thoughts so far ahead. My appointment with Malahide – and the procurement of Lizzie’s letter – had become an horizon beyond which I did not care to look.

Giles Newsom had volunteered to mind the office between Christmas and New Year. Accordingly, we had the place to ourselves. Always vaguely scornful of the rest of the staff, Giles seemed positively cheered by their absence, engaging me in lengthy conversations about architectural theory and practice. He was, and had always been in my eyes, Imry’s choice. For my taste, he was too glib, too cocksure, too clever by half. And he was something else as well: a fine architect in the making. Perhaps that was what I really resented.

During those days, Giles returned again and again to a topic I had already done my best to deflect him from: Clouds Frome. An apparently genuine enthusiasm for its design seemed in danger of becoming an obsession. There was no end to his questions. What had forged the idea in my mind? How had I put it into effect? Where were the original drafts and sketches? Could he borrow them, perhaps, the better to appreciate what I had achieved? My answers were uniformly unhelpful. I wanted no drooling, double-edged praise from a young man who believed he was my intellectual superior. Above all, I wanted no reminders of the way I had thought those many years ago.

I had, besides, a more pressing matter to consider: my bargain with Malahide. On Thursday, I withdrew a hundred pounds from my bank and lodged it in the office safe. On Friday, I gave Giles the afternoon off, then took a long walk round some of my favourite London buildings. Architecture at its best still held for me a healing quality, but the inspiration it once conveyed had drained away. Whether gaping in awe at a work of the master, or gazing in admiration at something by Shaw or Lutyens, I could no longer generate the desire to rival or outdo. I was inferior to them, of course, but what really hurt my pride was that I was also inferior to the architect I had once been.

I returned to Frederick’s Place a little before half past seven, intending to remove the money from the safe and walk to Southwark Bridge in ample time to rendezvous with Malahide. All I wanted now was for our association to be ended and our business concluded as quickly as possible: Lizzie’s letter in my hand, Malahide’s threats off my mind. That, for the moment, would be relief enough.

I did not realize there was anything wrong until I was halfway up the stairs. It was then that the light under my office door, visible across the dark expanse of the outer office, suddenly struck my eyes. The difference in height between one step and another became at once the difference between preoccupation and anxiety. I stopped where I was, scouring my memory of leaving the building that afternoon. I had left no lights burning. Of that I was certain. Somebody had been in since my departure. Then I heard a noise – a rustling of paper, a movement of some kind: they were still there.

The street door had been locked. No intruder could have come that way. Yet there was no other way, short of descending from the roof. There came a squeal of swollen wood as the second drawer on my desk – the one that always stuck – was pulled open. At that, I started up the stairs again. I reached the top, crossed the outer office and stopped by my door. Papers were being rustled, sifted, searched. By whom or why I could not guess. I rested my hand on the knob, hesitated for a moment, then flung the door open.

Giles Newsom was standing behind my desk, his hands resting on a pile of documents that lay before him. I could not see what they were, but, if they had come from the desk-drawers, he could certainly have had no business with them. Besides, the look on his face was an admission of guilt in itself. For once, his self-assurance had deserted him.

The door of the corner cupboard stood open, as did all the four drawers of the filing cabinet beside it and all ten of the map-chest. A glance sufficed to tell me that my senior assistant had been searching my office – thoroughly and in secret. I stepped into the room and closed the door behind me, then stared straight at him, waiting for him to explain himself. But he merely moved his hands to his sides and smiled nervously.

‘Well?’ I said after a moment.

‘I didn’t expect you back, Mr Staddon.’

‘Obviously not.’

‘I suppose this looks rather odd, doesn’t it?’

‘It looks damnably suspicious. Can you persuade me it isn’t?’

‘Probably not.’

‘How did you get in?’

‘I took Reg’s key with me this afternoon.’

‘And returned when you thought I’d be long gone?’

‘Yes.’

‘So, this was carefully planned. Is it why you volunteered to come in this week?’

‘In a sense. But if you’d not been so reticent about Clouds Frome, I wouldn’t have had to—’

‘Clouds Frome? You mean you’re looking for the plans of a house I once built? You’ve crept back here, at dead of night, just to satisfy your curiosity?’

‘It isn’t dead of night. And it’s rather more than curiosity.’

‘What, then?’

‘Necessity, I suppose you’d say.’

I moved closer. ‘Explain this necessity, Giles. Explain it to me now, please, while my temper’s still in check.’

‘My salary here doesn’t cover my expenditure, Mr Staddon. It’s as simple as that. It’s not that you under-pay me. You don’t. But I have expensive tastes. I like the best, the very best. The point is that I sometimes need to subsidize my tastes by earning money in unorthodox ways. This is one such way. I’ve been paid to obtain copies of the Clouds Frome floor-plans and elevations, complete with all measurements and dimensions. I tried to talk you into letting me see them, but you wouldn’t. So, this seemed the only—’

‘Who paid you?’

‘I’d really rather not say. He insisted on complete confidentiality. It’s not as if what he asked me to do was in any sense criminal.’

Suddenly, anger flared within me. ‘God damn it, you’ll tell me and you’ll tell me now! This is my office. I employ you. Legal niceties don’t enter into it. I can dismiss you on the spot – and make damn sure no other architect takes you on. I may count for little in this world – and less in this profession than you think you will one day – but just at the moment I hold the power to wreck your career before it’s even started. So, I’ll ask you again: who paid you?’

Shame – or a realization of the truth of my words – swept over Giles. His face crumpled. The vestiges of defiance fell away. ‘A Brazilian. Known to you, I believe.’

‘Rodrigo Manchaca de Pombalho?’

‘Yes. That’s the name.’

‘How did you come into contact with him?’

‘He was in the Three Crowns one night last week. He stood me a few drinks, introduced himself as a businessman from Portugal, said he didn’t know London and asked if I could tell him where an entertaining evening was to be had. Well, I quite took to him, especially the way he threw money around, so I offered to escort him. We went to the Alhambra, and on to a club I know afterwards. He seemed to enjoy himself – and he paid for everything. When he suggested another outing the following night, I jumped at it. That’s when he told me who he really was and offered me fifty pounds if I could lay hands on the plans of Clouds Frome.’

‘No doubt you jumped at that as well?’

‘There’s no point denying it, is there? The money would have got me out of a bit of a hole, actually. Besides, I could see no harm in it. He didn’t want to approach you himself. He wouldn’t say why. And I didn’t press him to. After all, I was confident I’d be able to talk you into giving me what he wanted. Why should I quibble? It seemed too good an opportunity to miss.’

‘Did you ask him why he wanted the plans?’

‘No. He made it plain he had no intention of explaining himself to me. And why should he? He was paying me well enough to stifle my curiosity.’

‘So, all your polite and respectful questions about my design of the house were just ploys. All your praise – all your wide-eyed admiration – was intended to lure me into letting you have what you’d been bribed to obtain.’

‘You could say that, yes.’

‘And when those methods failed, you resorted to burglary.’

‘It’s hardly burglary. What do a few plans matter? What harm can they do?’

‘I don’t know. But if it were all so very innocent, he wouldn’t have offered you as much as he did, would he?’

Giles seemed about to throw back some sharp retort, then thought better of it. ‘What happens now, Mr Staddon?’ he asked neutrally.

‘First of all, you tell me what arrangements you’ve made with Senhor Pombalho.’

‘I was to telephone him as soon as I had the plans. The terms we agreed were strictly C.O.D.’

‘Very well. This is what you’re going to do. Telephone him now. Arrange a meeting. Somewhere public. I want plenty of bystanders when I confront him.’

‘When you confront him?’

‘Yes, Giles. You make the appointment. I’ll keep it. Is he still staying at the Bonnington?’

‘I don’t know. He just gave the number. Museum 1010.’

‘It sounds like the Bonnington. Call it and see.’

‘But what do I say to him?’

‘Say you have the plans and you can meet him tonight. I’ll leave the choice of venue to you. Then you can go home and contemplate your future.’

‘What is my future – after this?’

‘Uncertain. It’s the breach of trust, you see, Giles. That’s what’s so unforgivable. I’ll have to discuss it with Mr Renshaw, of course. Perhaps your position isn’t completely irretrievable. For the moment, I just don’t know.’

‘If you’d lent me the plans, or not come back tonight—’

‘I don’t have the plans to lend.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They don’t exist. I destroyed them – all of them – a long time ago.’

He stared at me in amazement. ‘Why?’

‘That’s none of your concern. Now, make that telephone call, please, there’s a good fellow.’

With a resigned shrug of the shoulders, he walked into the outer office and switched on the light. Only Reg’s telephone, as we both knew, was connected to an outside line. As he picked up the receiver, I sat down at my desk and raised mine to my ear, listening as he spoke to the operator and was connected.

‘Bonnington Hotel. Good evening.’

‘Room 207, please.’

‘Hold on, please.’

The extension rang only once. Then came Rodrigo’s voice, muffled but familiar. ‘Estou?’

‘Senhor Pombalho? This is Newsom. I have what you want.’

‘That is good.’

‘Can we meet tonight?’

‘Tonight? Yes. You—’ He broke off. There was another voice in the background, a woman’s raised, it seemed, in protest, though I could not catch her words. ‘Fique quieto!’ snapped Rodrigo. ‘You will come here, Newsom?’

‘No, I can’t. I’ll meet you at the Lamb. It’s a pub not far from your hotel. They’ll give you directions.’

‘I will find it. When?’

Giles took out his watch and flipped it open. ‘An hour’s time, shall we say? Nine o’clock.’

‘Nine o’clock. Yes. I will be there.’ With that, he put the telephone down.

‘Well?’ said Giles, looking back towards me. ‘Is that what you wanted?’

But I did not answer. I had pulled out my own watch as Giles named the time and was staring now at its face, dumbstruck by my own forgetfulness. It was a minute past eight. And I was a long way from Southwark Bridge.

The bridge was dark and empty. The night was cold and damp enough to discourage loiterers. I was entirely alone, leaning against the parapet, the Thames running turbulently below me. It was twenty past eight and my frail hope that Malahide might also be late had vanished. He had waited for me only so long, then taken his merchandise elsewhere. Perhaps it was as well, in the circumstances, that I could not afford to linger, could not spare the time to brood upon what would happen now to Lizzie Thaxter’s last letter. With a sigh, I pushed myself upright and started walking hard towards Holborn.

The Lamb was, as I had hoped, crowded. A piano was being played somewhere deep in the throng to the tune of ‘If You Were The Only Girl In The World’. In the crush at the bar, I caught sight of Rodrigo straightaway, standing head and shoulders above the other customers. I began threading my way towards him. Amidst the jostling, the laughter, the shouting and the singing, he did not notice me as I approached.

He looked bowed and mournful, a dark cape slung about his shoulders, a shadow of stubble about his chin. His size and expression, his isolation from the merriment around him, had created an invisible circle in which he stood, silent and forbidding, staring down into his glass.

‘Newsom isn’t coming,’ I said, shouting to make myself heard.

Rodrigo swung round, colliding with a man behind him as he did so and spilling the poor fellow’s drink. But all protests were wasted on him. ‘Staddon!’ He stared at me, his eyes blazing. ‘Why are you here?’

‘I found Newsom searching my office. He admitted you’d put him up to it. He also told me what you were after. I was listening on another line when he telephoned you. I’d instructed him what to say.’

‘You instructed him?’

‘Yes. And now I’m here to demand an explanation. What do you want with the plans of Clouds Frome?’

‘I will tell you nothing. Nada em absoluto. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, but I don’t think you do. There are no plans to be had, Rodrigo. I burned them all before the war.’

‘You are lying!’

‘No. It’s the truth. They no longer exist. Except in my head. So, if you want to know anything about them, you’re going to have to persuade me you have a good reason.’

‘Why did you burn them?’

‘That needn’t concern you.’

‘But it does. I want to know why, Staddon. Why burn them? Was it so you could forget Clouds Frome and what you did there? Was it so you could forget Consuela?’

‘Leave Consuela out of this.’ I was suddenly aware of the silence that had fallen around us; people on all sides were listening and watching. The realization provoked me into a stupid attempt to humiliate Rodrigo. ‘I don’t know what you think gives you the right to deliver moral lectures. Remember, I heard every word of your telephone conversation with Newsom. You weren’t alone in your hotel room, were you? Who was she, Rodrigo? Some little tart, I suppose. How much were you paying—’

It was like a snake striking. His right arm flashed out from beneath the cape and his hand closed round my throat with choking force. I was pinned against the bar, the edge of it grinding into my spine as he pushed me further and further back. There was a commotion around us and a splintering noise as a glass fell to the floor. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the barmaid stepping away, her blouse wet with spilt beer. Then she screamed. Somebody else cheered. But I could neither speak nor cry out. I could not even breathe. The pain was intense, the panic of suffocation mounting. I prised desperately at his hand, but could not dislodge it. Behind my neck, his fingers and thumb nearly met. And in front of me was only his face, twisted with rage, eyes bulging, teeth clenched. ‘Eu matarei você!’ he bellowed. Then came a gurgling, spluttering sound that I suddenly realized was me, pleading for mercy. My mouth was open, straining for air, my vision was failing, my strength ebbing. He was going to kill me. Now, at last, I knew he meant it. He was going to squeeze the very life out of me and there was nothing I could do to stop him.

Then his grip slackened slightly and, with it, the pressure that had arched me back across the bar. A snatch of breath reached my lungs. I could see again more clearly. There were figures behind and around Rodrigo, pulling him off me, dragging at his right arm, shouting at him to desist. There must have been six of them, powerful, hard-drinking men who had just realized this was more than mere horse-play, but, for all their efforts, they could do no more than weaken his hold.

Yet that, in the event, was enough. In the precious interval they won me, I saw a change in Rodrigo’s expression. His anger with me faltered. Perhaps he remembered what had brought him to England and how poorly he would serve Consuela’s cause by killing me. Or perhaps he simply judged me unworthy of such a fate. Whatever the reason, he suddenly whipped his hand away from my throat.

My legs buckled beneath me. With the return of breath came wracking coughs and a mist of tears across my eyes. I heard Rodrigo shout something and sensed, rather than saw, a scattering of figures as he turned away and cleared a path to the door. As it crashed to behind him, I was helped onto a stool. A glass of water was pressed into my hand. My coughing fit began to subside and, as it did so, the soreness of my neck and the pain in my back intruded. I could not speak. For the moment, it was enough to breathe again and wait for coherence to return.

‘Gawd, mate,’ said somebody. ‘I thought ’e was gonna finish you for sure.’

‘Yeh,’ said another. ‘So did I. Whad’ya do to get ’im goin’ like that?’

I shook my head in the only answer I could summon. It was not true, of course. I knew full well what had provoked Rodrigo. But that did not matter now. What mattered was the sense of my own stupidity that was flooding into my brain. I had come there to discover why he wanted the plans of Clouds Frome. And the only thing I had learned was what I already knew. He despised me.

The taxi-ride home from the Lamb that night gave me ample time to contemplate my plight. Malahide might at any moment offer Lizzie Thaxter’s letter to the press, yet I had no way of reaching him in order to explain my failure to keep our appointment. Nor, out of a concern for my own safety, could I risk any further approaches to Rodrigo. For Consuela’s sake, I had to keep Lizzie’s letter out of the newspapers and I had to persuade Rodrigo to trust me. But my efforts on both counts had been abject failures. My position was hopeless and, for that, I had nobody to blame but myself.

By the following morning nothing had changed except my state of mind. From self-pity and despondency the resources of my nature had salvaged, if not hope, then at least a measure of confidence. For this Giles Newsom had good reason to be grateful. In any other circumstances, I would have persuaded Imry to let me dismiss him for what he had done. And to judge by the tousled, nerve-stricken condition in which I found him awaiting me at Frederick’s Place, dismissal was what a sleepless night had led him to expect. He was not to know, of course, that I had been visited by enough doubts and fears to eclipse his own, nor that his humiliation was about to make him my ally.

‘I’ve given a great deal of careful thought to your position,’ I announced, as he followed me into my office.

‘So have I, Mr Staddon, and I’d like to offer you my sincere apologies for what occurred. My behaviour was inexcusable.’

‘I’m inclined to agree with you.’

‘Does that mean … you’ll be dispensing with my services?’

‘No, Giles, it doesn’t.’

‘Then … what?’

I sat down and waved him into a chair. ‘I’ve no wish to ruin your career on account of one isolated instance of misconduct. For that reason, I’m prepared to overlook last night’s events – to forget about them altogether and to mention them to nobody – just so long—’

‘Mr Staddon!’ He jumped up, smiling broadly. ‘This really is extremely understanding of you. I can’t thank you enough.’

‘Sit down, Giles!’ I waited until he had done so, then resumed. ‘I shall expect something of you in return for my forbearance. You should hear what it is before showering me with thanks.’

‘Name it.’

‘My … discussions … with Senhor Pombalho were less than fruitful. I was unable to establish why he wanted the plans of Clouds Frome and we parted on a note of some acrimony. He simply wouldn’t listen to me. That’s where I believe you can be of assistance. I require the services of a mediator, you see, somebody who can speak to him on my behalf without arousing his hostility. I wish to make him an offer. If he will explain his reasons for wanting the plans, I will consider recreating them from memory.’

‘And you want me to put those terms to him?’

‘Precisely.’

‘May I ask … what this is all about? It would be helpful if I could—’

‘You may ask nothing. I’ve told you all you need to know.’

‘If I refuse, you’ll recommend to Mr Renshaw that I be dismissed?’

The position in which I had placed him was an unpleasant one. I knew so from my own recent experience. Yet I could afford to show him no mercy. ‘You’d leave me no choice in the matter, Giles. No choice whatever.’

He smiled wryly. ‘In that case, Mr Staddon, you’ve found a mediator.’

I set off for Surrey on New Year’s Eve leaving Giles with a great deal to occupy him. We had agreed to let Rodrigo brood for a few days before making contact with him, but I had left Giles in no doubt that I would expect progress to have been made by the time I returned. I had also instructed him to telephone every builder we knew in London – and they were legion – in search of one who had recently employed a carpenter named Malahide. I had concluded that Malahide would not approach a newspaper until nearer the trial, reasoning that he could thereby strengthen his bargaining position. If I was right, there was still time to track him down.

Preparations for one of Sir Ashley’s famous parties were well underway when I reached Luckham Place. Temporary staff were moving furniture and polishing case-loads of champagne glasses. Yet more streamers and balloons were being pinned to already burdened mantels and picture-rails. A jazz band was setting up its instruments. And a gathering of overnight guests – hardly any of whom I recognized – had occupied the drawing-room. In response to an enquiry about my wife’s whereabouts, I was told she had taken a visitor for a drive in the neighbourhood and was expected back shortly. Meanwhile, the grinning Clive announced, his father would appreciate a word with me in the privacy of his study.

‘Come in, Geoffrey, come in. A drink, perhaps?’

‘No thanks. A bit early for me.’

‘You’re probably right. A long night ahead, what?’

‘No doubt.’

Even in the time I had known him, Ashley Thornton had changed. The character of most men is settled by their middle twenties, but my father-in-law did not believe in fixed values of any kind. His origins were veiled in reticence. What little Angela had let slip suggested East Midlands roots at the upper end of the working class. What he had contrived since was an ever accelerating progression towards the aristocracy. He had once been proud of his hard-won success. Now it seemed he preferred people to think he had gained his wealth almost without effort and that what he had founded was less a business than a dynasty. It was a dynasty, moreover, in which an unfashionable architect with a blemished record had no obvious role.

‘Clive said you wanted to see me.’

‘Indeed. Now … Sure you won’t have that drink?’

‘Quite, thank you.’

We regarded each other across his empty desk for a few moments, then he said: ‘I’ve never entirely abandoned the idea of rebuilding the Thornton, you know. On a different site, that is.’

‘I’m delighted to hear it.’

‘It would have to be completely different, of course, in tune with the altered times. We all have to be that, don’t we?’

‘I suppose we do, yes.’

‘I was in California earlier this year. I stayed at the Biltmore Hotel in Los Angeles. It’s only just opened. Do you know it?’

‘I’ve seen photographs of it in the architectural press.’

‘What’s your opinion of it?’

‘Overwrought and overdone.’

He smiled. ‘I was impressed. It’s the future of hotel design, take it from me.’

‘Not in London, I think.’

‘As to that, I must disagree.’

‘Surely my opinion of the Biltmore isn’t what you wanted to talk to me about?’

‘No, it isn’t. But it’s indicative, don’t you see? Symptomatic of so much else.’

‘I don’t see, actually.’

He sighed. ‘Angela has told us of your recent disagreements.’

‘What disagreements?’

He leaned across the desk, treating me to a look he no doubt reserved for recalcitrant employees. ‘Any liaison you may have had with a married woman prior to meeting Angela is, of course, no concern of mine. We are both, I hope, men of the world. But such involvements must be forgotten, set aside, expunged … I cannot allow a son-in-law of mine to indulge in tasteless crusades on behalf of former mistresses who have taken to poisoning their husbands.’

Perhaps he expected me to be angry or ashamed. Perhaps he hoped to arouse my indignation or appeal to my sense of propriety. Whatever the case, the only reaction I felt was weary disappointment that Angela had whispered our secrets in his ear. ‘A tasteless crusade is what Angela called it. Did you intend to quote her exact words – or is it just habit?’

His face froze. I had treated him to something he seldom encountered in these days of his dubious pomp. ‘If one word of your involvement with the Caswell creature – then or now – reaches the papers,’ he hissed, ‘if one, just one, of my business associates mentions it to me over lunch; if I discover that you have sullied my family name by perpetuating this nonsense …’

‘Yes? What then?’

He sat back in his chair. ‘Don’t do it, my boy. Don’t do it, for your own sake.’

‘Are you threatening me?’

‘I don’t need to. You should be grateful to Victor Caswell, not working against him.’

‘I owe Victor Caswell nothing.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong. And let me remind you of some other sober facts. 27 Suffolk Terrace is Angela’s property, not yours. If she should leave you and sell it, you could have no complaint. As for your practice, well, you don’t need me to tell you how it’s slipped since the fire. Mud sticks, but, in the architectural profession, ash clings far longer.’

‘That’s suited you well enough, hasn’t it? There was no danger of Thornton Hotels being blamed once I’d been appointed whipping-boy.’

‘I had no hand in that, Geoffrey. You’re a fool if you think otherwise. And you’re a fool if you don’t take my advice. As an architect, you’re out of date and short of business. As a husband, you’re little better than a kept man. And your keeper is on the brink of giving you notice. I’ve made allowances for your … bereavement … long enough. Angela deserves better of you than this. So do we all. My advice to you is simple. Start behaving as we have a right to expect. Otherwise you may jeopardize your marriage – and much else besides. Do you understand?’

What answer I gave Sir Ashley – how I ended our interview, with what words I left him – I cannot now recall. Anger blots out memory as well as reason and perhaps that is for the best. Certainly I gave him none of the assurances he had sought, though that may not have surprised him. He may have calculated I would see the wisdom of compliance after a period of reflection and, for that matter, he may have been right. In the event, however, no such period was to be afforded me.

I walked straight out of the house after leaving the study, hardly trusting myself to encounter another member of the Thornton family till I had breathed some fresh air and walked off some of my resentment. Dusk was settling over Luckham Place as the sun sank, red and swollen, beyond the North Downs. I set off along the drive, walking as hard and fast as I could, rehearsing under my breath the wounding retorts I would have given Sir Ashley if only I had thought of them sooner. At first, I hardly noticed the motor-car that had turned in off the Guildford road and was heading up the drive towards me, visible in snatches between the well-spaced elms. More guests, I assumed, more vapid recruits to the Thorntons’ ever-widening circle of acquaintances. Then, as it rounded a bend fifty yards ahead, I recognized it. I stopped in my tracks and, as I did so, the driver sounded his horn in acknowledgement. It was Turnbull’s Lanchester.

‘Not deserting us, Staddon, surely?’ Turnbull grinned down at me from the driver’s seat as the car drew to a halt beside me. ‘I’m told Sir Ashley’s parties are memorable affairs.’ He was clad in a huge double-breasted overcoat, gauntlets and a deerstalker. On his other side sat Angela, remote and regal in an outfit I did not recognize – a grey swagger-coat trimmed with black fur and matching fur hat. She did no more than glance at me, then gazed straight ahead towards the house between half-closed lids, her face as pale and expressionless as Turnbull’s was flushed and jubilant.

‘What are you doing here, Major?’

‘Didn’t Angela tell you? It was all arranged before she left Nice. Sir Ashley kindly invited me to stay with him for the week.’

‘I knew nothing about it.’ I stared pointedly at Angela, but she did not respond. ‘It must have slipped her mind.’

‘Quite so.’ Turnbull’s grin broadened. ‘Well, we must get on. See you at the party.’

I watched the car roar away along the drive, then felt misery and a strange foreboding close upon me in the silence that followed.

Angela’s disclosures to her father had evidently not extended to our separate sleeping arrangements in Suffolk Terrace. At Luckham Place, we were still expected to occupy the same room. When, three hours and several stiff drinks later, I went up to change, I found that she was in the bath, door bolted, leaving a shot-silk ball-gown lying in readiness across the bed and a brooch I felt sure I had never seen before prominently displayed on the dressing-table. It was gold, fashioned in the likeness of a monkey, the clasp disguised as a pole to which he was clinging. Two tiny rubies served as his eyes and the expression on his face reminded me all too strongly of the grinning stone monkeys who stood sentinel over the garden gate at the Villa d’Abricot.

It was as I was staring at the brooch, admiration of its beauty blending with disgust at its significance, that there came a knock at the door. I opened it to find Bassett, one of the footmen, standing outside, looking distinctly uneasy.

‘What is it, Bassett?’

‘You have a visitor, Mr Geoffrey.’

‘A visitor? Surely the house is full of them.’

‘He’s asked specifically for you.’

‘Who is this gentleman?’

‘Not a gentleman at all, Mr Geoffrey, if you don’t mind my saying so. Not the kind of person we’re used to receiving at the front door. I’ll happily send him on his way if you give the word.’

‘But who is he?’

‘Gives his name as Malahide. Claims you know him. But I expect there’s been some mistake.’

Bassett had left Malahide in the billiards-room, about the only room in the house where he could neither offend the guests nor filch the silver. He was wearing the same clothes as when we had previously met, although there was no sign of cement-dust on this occasion. He was idly bouncing a ball around the cushions of the table as I entered.

‘What the devil do you mean by coming here?’ I demanded.

He let the ball roll to a halt, then leered across at me. ‘Fancied a breath of country air. Nice place your pa-in-law’s got here. Very nice.’

‘If you’d been a little more patient last Friday, our business would already have been concluded.’

‘Is that a fact? Well, I’m getting too old for stooging round river-bridges on cold nights. You were late, Mr Staddon, if you were there at all. In other words, you broke our agreement.’

‘I didn’t intend to. There was an emergency at my office.’

‘Well, there’ll be a bigger bloody emergency when your name’s spread all over the papers, won’t there?’

‘You don’t understand. I’ve been trying to contact you ever since we missed each other that night. I’m quite happy to buy the letter at the price we agreed.’

‘The price has altered.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve had to increase it on account of being messed around. It’s a hundred and fifty now.’

‘That’s outrageous.’

‘It’s the going rate.’

I took a deep breath. Argument was useless and we both knew it. ‘Very well. A hundred and fifty pounds. I’ll write you a cheque.’

Malahide sniggered mirthlessly. ‘I don’t deal in cheques. Cash only.’

‘As you please. But I don’t have that amount on me.’

‘When are you going back to London?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘I’ll give you two days, then. Wednesday night. Same time, same place. Don’t be late. Not so much as a minute. You’ll get no more chances. Take my meaning?’

‘We understand each other perfectly, Malahide. I’ll be there.’

He nodded. ‘Good. Well, now that’s settled, I’ll be pushing along.’ He moved round the table and paused alongside me. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll find me own way out.’

‘Do that.’

‘Happy New Year, Mr Staddon.’ He smirked and patted me on the shoulder. Then, before I could even recoil, he was gone.

I felt weary and defiled. I walked round the billiards table, letting my fingers trail along the rim, reached the spectators’ couch at the far end and sat down there, grateful for the silence and solitude in which Malahide had left me. Whatever the New Year held, it was unlikely to be happiness, for me far less Consuela. I lit a cigarette and watched the smoke rise above me into a darkness that could have been an emblem for my future.

Then the door opened. Major Turnbull entered, adorned in white tie and tails, puffing at a cigar. He stopped and regarded me from the far end of the table, smiling amiably.

‘Not dressed yet, Staddon?’

‘As you see, Major.’

‘Who was your visitor?’

‘What visitor?’

‘The ugly little fellow I just met in the hall. Face like a prize-fighter. Manners to match.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t help you there.’ As much to change the subject as anything else, I added: ‘Will you be spending any time at Clouds Frome while you’re in England?’

‘That rather depends how my negotiations with Sir Ashley proceed.’

‘Negotiations? About what?’

‘Hasn’t he told you? He’s considering buying a hotel on the Riviera. I’ve agreed to act as his consultant. My local knowledge is useful to him. I may even take a financial stake in the enterprise. Victor too, perhaps.’

‘I shouldn’t have thought hotels were Caswell’s line.’

‘But they always have been, Staddon. Surely you know that?’

‘I don’t understand you, Major.’

‘Come, come. You must be aware of Victor’s connection with Thornton Hotels.’

‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘He’s a substantial shareholder in the company.’

‘What?’

Turnbull frowned. ‘You really didn’t know?’

I ground out my cigarette. ‘No. I didn’t.’

‘You surprise me. I should have thought Sir Ashley would have mentioned it. I suppose these matters could be regarded as confidential, but, after all, you are a member of the family, aren’t you?’

But Turnbull was to be denied an answer. Already, I was striding from the room.

Sir Ashley was clearly put out when I interrupted him in the drawing-room, sipping a cocktail with some of his more important guests, but the tone of my voice must have suggested he should humour me until we were alone. He accompanied me, thunder-faced and silent, to the privacy of his study.

‘Your behaviour is becoming increasingly objectionable, Geoffrey. What is the meaning of it?’

‘Major Turnbull tells me that Victor Caswell is a substantial shareholder in Thornton Hotels. Is it true?’

‘Yes. What of it?’

‘What of it? Didn’t you think I had a right to know?’

‘The finances of Thornton Hotels are none of your business. And Caswell’s always wanted his shareholding kept confidential. It’s handled through a nominee.’

‘Why?’

‘That, similarly, is none of your business.’

‘How many shares does he own?’

Sir Ashley’s mouth set in a grim line. ‘I have no intention of being cross-questioned by you, Geoffrey. I suggest we drop the subject – here and now.’

But it was too late for me to be deflected. In the few minutes that had elapsed since Turnbull’s disclosure, a dreadful suspicion had formed in my mind. ‘Does Caswell’s holding give him much sway in the company?’

‘I refuse to discuss this any further. I must return to my guests.’

‘It does, doesn’t it? A hell of a lot, I’ll be bound. Now, tell me, was he a shareholder at the time you asked me to design the Hotel Thornton?’

‘As far as I remember, yes, but—’

‘He persuaded you to ask me, didn’t he? I wasn’t your choice. I was his choice.’

‘This is preposterous.’ But Sir Ashley’s flushed expression suggested otherwise.

‘That’s what you meant when you said I should be grateful to him. Was it just a question of keeping a shareholder sweet, I wonder? Or did he put up some of the capital as well? He did, didn’t he? I can see it in your face. He bought you. And I was part of the deal.’

‘He recommended your work. That’s all. There was no … deal, as you call it.’

‘I don’t believe you. As a matter of fact, I’m not sure I can believe anything you’ve ever told me.’

‘Take that back! Good God, I’ve a right to be addressed more respectfully by you. Have you any idea how much I’ve done to help you over the years?’

‘I’m just beginning to realize. I’ve been Angela’s poodle and your dupe. Well, not any more.’

‘This has gone far enough. I’ve a good mind to throw you out of this house for what you’ve just said.’

‘There’s no need. I’m leaving. And somehow I don’t think I’ll ever be coming back.’

The true significance of my discovery swept over me as I climbed the stairs. Victor had arranged the Hotel Thornton commission. And I knew why. Because he was sure I would accept it. And because, in accepting it, I was bound to desert Consuela. So, he had known of our plans all along. He had known we were lovers and that we were intending to run away together after the house-warming weekend at Clouds Frome. Hence, the timing of Thornton’s offer. And the worst of it, the very worst, swamping for the moment my desire to learn how he had come by the information, was the thought of how easily he had identified my weakness. The hotel was all it had taken. He had defeated me without lifting a finger.

Angela was standing by the cheval-glass in our room, admiring her own reflection. Her hair was swept back to show off the slenderness of her neck and the ball-gown blossomed about her in radiant hues of pink and mauve. I had not seen her looking so beautiful – nor so young – in years. And, as she turned towards me, my eye was taken by the monkey brooch glistening at her breast.

‘Why, Geoffrey, you’re just in time to lead me down.’ She broke off as the expression on my face told its story. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘The matter is that I’ve just learned – just understood for the first time – what you and your family really think of me.’

‘Has Daddy spoken to you?’

‘Yes. He’s spoken to me.’

‘Royston convinced me that he had a right to know how things stood between you and me.’

‘I’m sure he did.’

‘You only have yourself to blame, you know.’

‘Oh, yes. Only myself. You’re absolutely right.’

‘All I can hope is that you’ll see reason – even at this late stage.’

I stepped closer, within range of her perfume, within touching distance of her proud, upraised chin. She was breathing rapidly, the eyes of the monkey catching the light as her breasts rose and fell.

‘What’s wrong with you, Geoffrey? Are you quite well?’

‘The brooch was a gift from Turnbull, I suppose?’

‘Yes. As it happens.’

‘And the dress?’

‘I really don’t see why—’

‘Of course it was! I shouldn’t be surprised if he paid for every stitch you’re wearing – down to your Crêpe de Chine knickers.’

The flat of her hand caught me a stinging blow on the cheek. She glared at me, angrier than I could ever recall seeing her. ‘You disgust me!’ she rasped. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses?’

‘No.’ I felt my cheek reddening, but refused to nurse it, refused to give her the satisfaction of seeing she had hurt me. ‘As a matter of fact, Angela, I’ve just recovered my senses – in time to see you and your family for what you really are.’

‘How dare you!’ Her face had coloured now. Her lower lip was trembling. A strand of hair had escaped from its clip and was trailing around her ear. ‘My family – unlike you – has nothing to be ashamed of.’

‘You mean it has no sense of shame.’

‘Get out! Get out of this house if that’s what you think.’

‘It is. And don’t worry: I’m leaving.’ I moved hurriedly past her and grabbed my suitcase, unopened since my arrival. When I turned back towards the door, she was staring at me, fury and amazement competing for control of her expression.

‘You’re mad,’ she said, more calmly than before. ‘Do you realize what this means?’

‘I think so.’

‘Why are you doing it?’

‘Because I must.’

‘For the sake of a woman you deceived and discarded more than ten years ago?’

‘I’m not going to discuss Consuela with you, Angela. There’s no point.’

‘If you really loved her, you should have stood by her then – not now.’

‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ I made to leave, then, foolishly, paused to deliver one last broadside. ‘Victor Caswell bribed your father to offer me the Hotel Thornton commission. That’s what stopped me standing by Consuela. Did he ever tell you that?’

‘You’re talking nonsense. I know you, Geoffrey, all too well. You deserted her because you were bored with her. Why pretend otherwise?’

‘Because it doesn’t happen to be true.’

‘What was the problem? Wasn’t she as good in bed as you’d hoped? Wasn’t she quite as experienced as some of your other—’

I hit her then. Not because I wanted to hurt her. Not even because she had insulted Consuela. Rather, I think, I suddenly needed to make an end between us, to render all our differences irretrievable. Perhaps Angela wanted the same. Perhaps she hoped I would react as I did. There was a complicity in that act of violence, I feel sure, a mutual acceptance of what it meant, a celebration of the release it represented.

It was a hard blow, my half-clenched fist against her mouth. She screamed and clutched at a side-table as she fell. It toppled with her, sending a vase smashing to the floor. Then she was beneath me, hair across her face, one hand to her mouth, blood trickling down her chin. We stared at each other in a shocked, breathless silence.

There was a commotion outside, a hammering at the door. A second later it opened. Turnbull was in the room, with Clive and Sir Ashley behind him. The Major walked straight past me and crouched beside Angela, pressing a handkerchief to her bleeding lip.

‘What have you done?’ demanded Sir Ashley.

‘What I should have done years ago.’

‘Get out of here at once!’

‘I intend to.’ I blundered past them to the door. A moment later, I was hurrying down the stairs into a hall full of smiling, gaily dressed party-goers. Some of them must have known what had happened. They were staring at me and muttering. But I paid them no heed. The front door stood open and the cold blankness of the night beckoned. I rushed towards it gratefully, like an eager suicide towards the precipice.