twenty-three

‘WE’VE BEEN GIVEN LEAVE TO APPEAL.’

I stared numbly at Julius. A faint smile flickered across the lawyer’s narrow features. ‘It’s good news! But we haven’t got long.’

Not long – not long: how long? I burst into tears. I couldn’t help it. I sobbed and sobbed. After a while Julius passed me a big, white, clean handkerchief. ‘Sorry … sorry,’ I blubbed.

‘One of the few times tears haven’t been called for lately,’ he commented drily. He gave me time to recover and then said quietly, ‘There’s some other good news. Nothing official, but I’ve heard on the grapevine that they’re not going to charge you. Bannister’s been knocked back there. Looks as if your father may have had a word in high places.’

That made me feel tearful again. My father had been so angry – he’d certainly not even hinted to me that he was going to do anything to help. He disapproved of pulling strings to get what he wanted.

‘You don’t seem very pleased.’

‘It’s an enormous relief, of course it is,’ I said miserably, ‘but I didn’t want to be treated differently because of who my father is.’

‘There will have been other reasons,’ said Abrahams soothingly. ‘No one really believes you lied deliberately.’

The door opened violently. ‘Look at this.’ Naomi Abrahams was holding the Evening News. ‘The Party’s taken power in Prague.’ She passed the paper to her brother.

‘They’ve ousted the reactionaries,’ he read out. ‘“Pledged to defend republican democratic regime against the forces of international reaction.” That’s excellent news.’

From where I was seated I could see that the headlines announced it as a disaster – but as I’d discovered from knowing Colin, the Communists always saw things like a photographic negative: the opposite way from everyone else.

Naomi Abrahams looked at her brother. ‘It says there it’s a coup.’

‘Well, they’re bound to take that line.’

‘It hasn’t exactly happened the way we’d have wanted it, though.’

‘There was a democratic election. Now the so-called People’s Party has walked out of the government. That’s their affair. What did they represent, anyway, Naomi? They were the party of right-wing peasants, rural fascists.’

There was a silence, but the silence was still full of an unspoken argument they probably didn’t want to have in front of me. ‘Colin will be pleased at the news,’ I said.

Julius looked amused. ‘I should think the appeal will be uppermost in his mind, won’t it?’

Just then there was a knock and the door opened again. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ said Alan.

When he heard the good news about the appeal he seemed stunned rather than glad – just as I’d been. He sat looking at the floor for a bit. Then he looked up. ‘Couldn’t they have told us that before Christmas?’

Christmas had certainly been miserable, locked in hostile imprisonment in Hampshire with my parents and thinking all the time of Colin in the death cell.

Abrahams ignored this. ‘The appeal has been granted on the basis of new evidence,’ he said, ‘but it’s going to be tricky. Anyway, let me explain.’

The conference over, we walked towards Holborn.

‘Let’s just take a look at the house,’ said Alan suddenly.

I followed him reluctantly up the side street that led to Mecklenburgh Square. I’d walked through the darkness and the snow along this street as through a photographic negative, after I found the painter’s body. Now it was freezing again and there were fears of another winter like the last one. And I was back in that dark, arctic winter and the ghostly house in the Square. As we passed the boarded-up house I had a strange feeling, as if Titus Mavor must still be lying there in the moonlight.

There was a dim light in the house next door. We walked quickly, almost furtively, past and then retraced our steps to the Lamb and Flag, where we’d arranged to meet Noel Valentine.

This evening he wore an ancient Harris tweed coat over his crumpled suit. He’d always pass unnoticed in a crowd, but there was nothing anonymous or indecisive about him. Although, for example, Alan and I would have been glad to stay in the warmth of the saloon bar, no sooner had we arrived than Noel proposed a meal in Soho; and what Noel proposed happened.

‘I actually booked at L’Escargot – it’s not as noisy as somewhere like Fava’s.’

So he’d planned it in advance. I was glad I was wearing my new New Look suit. I was so sick of my old grey flannel that I’d splashed out in the sales at Marshall and Snelgrove, spending almost all my coupons on it. Dark red barathea with a full, pleated skirt; tight jacket with nipped-in waist, and curving lapels edged with black velvet to match the collar: it gave me a lovely figure. Out of doors in this cold weather my old coat concealed it. I’d had the coat altered with three bands of tweed from another, even older coat inserted in the skirt to lengthen it, but the effect was lumpy, and with its big shoulders and tie waist, it didn’t have that New Look look at all. But when I removed it, the suit was revealed in all its glory and I caught admiring looks from nearby tables.

Noel was a notorious gossip, which was partly why Alan put up with him, ever hopeful of some piece of information that might help with Colin’s trial – or now, with the appeal. Of course, with Noel it was two-way traffic; he expected juicy titbits in return for those he offered. He unfurled his napkin with a snap and wasted no time. ‘Any idea why Enescu shot off to Hollywood like that? I know it was before Christmas, but lately all these rumours have started flying around again. I thought your friend Hugh Palmer-Green might have given you the lowdown. He sailed off into the sunset too, didn’t he?’

‘What rumours?’ Alan was bristling at the implication that Hugh was somehow involved in whatever the rumours were.

I said: ‘We didn’t see so much of Hugh in the autumn – with the trial and everything.’

‘Any news on that front?’

‘He’s been given leave to appeal.’

‘Oh, that’s very good news.’ Noel’s eyes gleamed behind his glasses. ‘I wanted to talk to you about Titus Mavor as a matter of fact. I’ve made absolutely no headway in tracking down his collection of Surrealists. Possibly it doesn’t exist. But his ex-cronies think it does.’

I stared at the menu and thought about Stanley’s trip to Paris – it seemed such a long time ago now.

‘Enescu was cultivating Mavor like mad, wasn’t he, until he got bumped off. And now, well, people are putting two and two together. Admittedly it adds up to considerably more than five. They say that property dealer friend of yours was backing his film – but maybe the money came from somewhere else. Didn’t they go off to Paris together on several occasions?’

I remembered all Stan’s suspicions of Radu and his Paris friends. ‘Once,’ I said firmly. ‘I’m quite sure Stan wasn’t involved in whatever it is you’re suggesting. And I should know. I work for him after all.’ I wasn’t quite sure why I was defending him so valiantly.

‘I know that.’ Noel Valentine was looking me over. ‘That’s why I thought you might have picked up a few hints.’

‘But he wasn’t the only backer.’ I recalled the meeting at Ormiston Court, when Radu had been so pleased with himself. Something he’d said … ‘I can’t remember, exactly, but I’m sure there was money from somewhere else as well. Anyway, Stanley regretted financing the film,’ I said.

‘That’s nonsense, Di.’ Alan was frowning. ‘He’s a shrewd businessman. Even if he had mixed feelings about Enescu, he knew it was a winner commercially.’

‘And he’ll be laughing if it does well in America,’ added Noel. ‘But that’s something else I wanted to talk to you about, Dinah. Why are you working for a spiv like that? You’re too good for him, my dear. Men like him, making a fortune out of post-war misery, you don’t want anything to do with it. And as for marrying Enescu’s discarded mistress – well, really!’

I couldn’t see what was so terrible about that, except that it made Stan look slightly pathetic, Gwendolen’s adoring spaniel. ‘I don’t think she’s in love with him,’ I said, ‘so it’s rather sad for him.’

‘Di! That’s so sentimental,’ cried Alan, ‘it’s a business proposition, surely you can see that.’

‘Well, I’ve got another business proposition,’ said Noel briskly, ‘I want you to come and work for me, Dinah. My gallery will be opening soon. Come and see it next Wednesday. Lunchtime – you can get away then, can’t you, Wentworth?’

.........

The gallery was located in the hushed precincts of St James’s. The discreet wealth of the district offered an oasis from austerity and the menacing world situation. The people, mostly men, who passed along the pavement, had a well-dressed sleekness about them, wearing bowler hats and carrying umbrellas as narrow as sword sticks. I was glad I was wearing my dark red costume.

Noel Valentine met us outside Fortnum and Mason and led us down a side passage off Jermyn Street. The gallery stood between the bomb crater of a completely destroyed building and a boarded-up house. Unlike the galleries we’d passed, with their old-master displays of eighteenth-century paintings in elaborate gilt frames, it was modern.

A glamorous young woman in a black dress – more like a fashion model than a shop assistant – was seated behind a shiny black desk. She brought us coffee and we sat with Noel on a black sofa next to a tall plant with fleshy leaves sticking out from its single central stem. There was a white carpet on the black stained floor and an orange vase on the reception desk. It was all light years away from the Persian rugs and Louis Quinze gilt I’d expected. It was like something out of the ‘Britain Can Make It’ exhibition!

He showed us the little rooms upstairs, all offices, and even led us out onto the roof with its giddy-making fire escape. ‘So – why don’t you come and work for me? Art is more interesting than property. My gallery exists to encourage and market new art. I’m not interested in second-rate old masters – Salvator Rosa and all that rubbish, eighteenth-century genre scenes – Christ no. I’m here to promote the new stuff. Surrealism, for example. It’s not fashionable in the way it was before the war, but I’m going to change all that. If things go well, the secretarial job would expand – advertising, publicity, that sort of thing.’

‘It sounds interesting,’ I said. I still clung to my dream of acting, but – especially with Radu in Hollywood – I’d almost – almost – accepted that that was off the agenda now.

‘And Alan, I seriously want to interest you in a programme about the British Surrealist group.’ There was no end to Noel’s energy; he outlined his idea in impassioned tones. I couldn’t decide if it was pure love of the art, or an eye to the main chance of commercial opportunity.

‘I think you should take up his offer,’ said Alan as we walked together back towards Piccadilly. ‘He’s right about Stan Colman. And if he can dig up some stuff about Mavor’s paintings–’

‘That’s why you want me to take up the offer, isn’t it? Because it might help Colin.’

‘Not just that. It also helps you. You were keen on having a proper job. Now you’ve got one.’

He was right. ‘And what about the programme he wants you to do?’

Alan shrugged. ‘It’s another good idea. But the appeal’s the thing at present, isn’t it.’ He stomped along looking particularly thundery. ‘I can’t forgive myself, I simply can’t. So keen to get involved in that ghastly film, I didn’t see what was going on.’

‘You couldn’t have known.’

‘Of course I could have known. Stan’s trip to Paris – we knew all about it. We just shut our eyes to it, we were blind, we didn’t want to know.’

‘We did talk it over with Julius Abrahams. He didn’t want it brought up.’

‘He’s a lawyer, Di. They’re always too cautious by half.’

.........

I was sorry to say goodbye to Stan, and I think he was sorry to lose me too, but we both knew the time had come. He was talking of basing his operations in Brighton. He could see I needed to move on. A new phase in my life was about to begin.

I did indeed now have a real job, but it was very different from my work in the War Office, where we’d all been working together for victory. Evidently a good secretary was loyal not to a common purpose, but to her boss. With Stan it had all been relaxed and casual, but with Noel, in spite of our social relationship outside the office, I was expected to work hard. Sometimes I stayed late at the gallery. Sometimes, I accompanied Noel to private views and cocktail parties. Alan had taken to drinking in the BBC pubs with his new friends after work and didn’t mind, or even notice if I was late, because he was so often out in the evenings himself.

At first I’d thought Kay, the receptionist, might be Noel’s girlfriend, but I soon discovered she was just another decorative item in the gallery, sitting around looking glamorous, while I did the work. Then I began to wonder if he was – well, like Colin, but by the third week I’d decided he was simply what he’d always seemed, a self-sufficient, self-absorbed bachelor, blithely unaware of how other people felt and indifferent to the crises that raged outside in the world, exclusively dedicated to his great passion, modern art. I was learning a lot from him, and I began to think of doing an art history course myself, but what really brought us together was our common purpose (though for very different reasons) in unearthing the truth about Mecklenburgh Square. There wasn’t much time. The date for Colin’s appeal had been set.

Over coffee I said to Noel: ‘What are you doing about Mavor’s paintings?’

‘I’m going round to see the old girl.’

‘Joan Mainwaring?’

‘I thought you might come with me,’ he continued. ‘You’ve met her after all.’

‘I can’t do that, not with the appeal. It would look very bad if I went to see her while the appeal’s pending. Might make her suspicious – or as if I was nobbling a witness.’

‘I don’t see why,’ he said petulantly.

‘You can go, though. But it’s over a year since the murder. Won’t his family have sorted his stuff out by now?’

‘I somehow don’t think so. Gerry Blackstone says they live in the country, not interested, never come to London, loathed all Mavor’s arty friends. Got stuck with his bastard.’

‘Gwendolen never ever mentioned the child, you know. Not once. Not ever.’

‘Should I write to the old girl first? Or go round on the off chance?’

‘Go round,’ I said.

When he came back his glasses gleamed more than ever and a sly smile revealed his protruding teeth. ‘She was really quite accommodating – actually let me into Mavor’s place, you know, the house next door. It’s more or less derelict. I’m surprised it hasn’t been requisitioned and pulled down. I was petrified going up the stairs, thought the whole thing might collapse. But when we got to his room – his paintings are still there!’

The paintings: again I was back in that moonlit room, the frozen winter darkness, the canvases flung about. I remembered them roughly stacked or pushed over in the room while Titus lay greenish in the moonlight, his limbs flung out, abandoned in the childish peacefulness of death.

‘She said the family couldn’t care less – told her to chuck ’em out. So far as she’s concerned I can have them! Would you believe it! But –’ and he paused dramatically, ‘no sign of anything more important. I looked fairly carefully. The old scarecrow lay on the sofa smoking and watched me go through the canvases.’

‘He died on that sofa, you know!’

‘Did he? Well, she didn’t care. Then, when we went back next door, there was an André Masson hanging in her front room. Made me wonder if she’d taken the lot. I thought I’d try the direct approach, you know – I said I’d heard Titus owned some rather valuable paintings by other artists. She gave me a funny look. “Oh, really?” she said, “well I wouldn’t know about that, but the night before he died there was a bit of a commotion next door as if he was having a row with someone.”’

‘She said what?’

‘Someone came to see him the night before he died and they had a row. And I thought – if it was about his paintings, not his paintings, but the ones he owned, well, he owed an awful lot of people a lot of money and I just wondered …’

‘That’s not what she said.’

‘Yes! It is!’ He looked at me, baffled.

‘It’s not what she said at the trial. She said it was the same night. She said the row was the night Titus was killed.’

This took even Noel’s mind off his own obsessions. ‘Oh my goodness, that’s really important. Could she really have made a mistake like that?’ He thought about it. ‘But it’s only hearsay – I think. I don’t think me saying she said it – I don’t think that counts.’

‘I must get on to the lawyer. I must tell him about this.’

I rang immediately, but Julius was out. However, as Noel and I chewed over it, we began to develop a plan. Noel would try to get her round to the gallery and somehow lure her into saying it again. And this time it would be recorded on his Dictaphone.

‘Yes, that’s what we’ll do. I’ll offer to pay her for Mavor’s stuff. She didn’t seem to give a hoot, but I daresay she wouldn’t turn down the money if offered.’

‘It’ll have to be soon.’

‘Mavor knew Dalí, you know. He was his disciple.’ Noel was still brooding over the missing masterpieces. ‘He certainly gave the impression he owned one – some, and a Max Ernst, and God knows what. But nothing’s turned up in any auction rooms, so where are they?’

‘Are you sure they exist?’

He smiled. ‘Good point, Dinah. The famous Mavor boastfulness. What a disappointment that would be.’ He picked a minute piece of fluff off his sleeve. ‘Against that, Marius Smith certainly believed him; claimed to have seen them.’ He jumped up. ‘You know – we could go and see Marius! All three of us – Alan could interview him for the programme about the Surrealists; I could offer to represent him and pick his brains about the Dalí, etcetera, and you could buy yourself some pretty clothes! A week in Spain; how about it. Please say you’ll come. And you must persuade Alan.’

.........

What a trip! It was complicated to arrange, with passports and the tiny foreign exchange allowance, and we couldn’t have done it if Alan hadn’t got the BBC to pay his expenses, so for him it counted as a work trip. Alan, of course, didn’t approve of our going to Franco’s Spain, and nor did I, but he squared our common conscience because he hoped it might help Colin. Time was so short. That made the trip even more urgent, and we rushed frantically here and there to get it organised.

It was the first time I’d ever been abroad. The journey lasted almost two days: first, the boat train to Newhaven; then the boat to Dieppe (it was quite rough); then another train to Paris and a mad dash across Paris to the Gare de Lyon to catch the overnight train to Madrid. We sat up all night, for hours and hours, in a carriage crammed with travellers, none of them English. But it was a wonderful moment when dawn broke over the south of France and I looked out of the window and found myself in a different world: vineyards and cypress trees in the pearly dawn!

The visit only lasted three days and it was all a blur – or rather, the opposite of a blur. Everything was so bright and hard-edged. Although it wasn’t very warm, the sun shone, but what amazed me was that there was no austerity in Madrid. The moment we crossed the border we saw fruit and chocolate and biscuits on sale at every station and on our first day in the capital I could hardly believe my eyes. The women were gorgeously dressed, in furs and lovely clothes and jewellery. And the shoes! The shops were crammed with goods and the restaurants with food. We ate so much I was nearly sick. And then in the cafés afterwards, late at night, Madrid society preened itself, so sleek and glamorous.

Marius Smith was living just outside Madrid and as soon as we’d left the centre there was a completely different picture. The contrast was astonishing, the poverty unbelievable; crumbling tenements and then shacks and hovels alongside broken roads housed a population of beggars, children in rags, old women bent double, thin, knotty men carrying loads that would have befitted a donkey, women whose faces were blank with weariness and suspicion.

Marius Smith was sharing a two-room cottage with a sullen young woman who disappeared as soon as we arrived. I suppose I should have expected the squalor – but at least he’d been working; several finished canvases were stacked against the walls.

He plied us with olives and cheap wine. It was only midday, but he must have been drinking all morning. Still, he was reasonably coherent. He told us confidently that he knew Titus had owned three important paintings, one by Salvador Dalí, one by Max Ernst and a third by Miró. Titus, he said, had hinted that he had a buyer for two of them, but intended to keep the Dalí. Marius Smith was vague about the exact dates, but was sure it wasn’t long before the painter’s death.

Later, Alan interviewed him for the Third Programme. Afterwards, as we jolted back in a decrepit taxi Alan asked: ‘Was it worth coming all this way just for that?’

Noel was cheerful. ‘Yes.’ He was emphatic. ‘We’ve something definite to go on now. Not to mention the programme.’

Alan was angry with himself – with all of us. ‘We should have thought of all this long ago.’

But at least we’d had a taste of the Mediterranean. The promise of a sun-drenched culture had burst into view and I couldn’t wait to explore the sunny south.

Yet at the same time it made me more appreciative of austerity Britain. It put Churchill’s notorious remark about the socialist Gestapo in perspective. It made nonsense of the endless newspaper grumbles about rules and regulations. In Britain you didn’t see policemen armed to the teeth on every corner. Nor did you see beggars or children with legs like sticks. In the train going home I felt quite patriotic.