As if by Magic (7 page)

‘Why not?' asked Jack. ‘After all, I know it's your business and not mine but I must admit I'm curious.' He didn't miss the relief in George's face. ‘Come on. Let's go.'

‘Now, you mean?' asked George, startled.

Jack shrugged. ‘Why not? Now's as good a time as any.' He walked to the door, turning to smile encouragingly at his friend. ‘Let's get a taxi.'

‘What on earth do I say?' hissed George, as the bell jangled in the depths of 19 Eden Street.

‘We'll tell them who we are and see what happens,' said Jack. The door was opened by a portly and glacially respectable butler. George gave a small, depressed sigh.

‘Major Haldean and Mr Lassiter to see Mr George Lassiter,' said Jack with cheerful insouciance.

The glacier thawed and looked puzzled. ‘Excuse me, sir, did you say Mr Lassiter?'

‘That's right,' said George as firmly as he could manage.

The butler stood to one side to let them in. ‘If you would care to wait, gentlemen, I will ascertain if Mr Lassiter is at home.' They were ushered into a large square hall furnished with, amongst other things, an oak table and a Jacobean settle.

As soon as the butler had gone George collapsed on to the seat. ‘Jack, it's all wrong.' Jack put a hand on his shoulder and George glanced up, his face showing the strain he was under. ‘The size is all wrong. The table's too small. Everything's too small.' Jack tightened his grip on George's shoulder. The table was a very substantial table in a very substantial house. There was nothing wrong with it. ‘I feel like a clumsy giant in here,' muttered George. ‘It's all
wrong.
Can't you see it?' He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

‘Come on,' said Jack awkwardly. ‘The butler will be back soon.'

‘He's wrong too,' said George savagely. ‘Everything's wrong.' He looked round the hall. ‘I wish I hadn't come.' He sat in silence until the butler returned.

‘Mr Lassiter will see you now. Allow me to take your coats, gentlemen, then if you will come with me, please.'

They followed the butler's stately progress down the hall. He paused outside a door, coughed, then showed them into a big room made cosy by curtains and lamps. A fire burned in the grate at the further end of the room, surrounded by modern and inviting easy chairs. Above the fireplace hung an oil painting of an aeroplane in flight, which, from its graceful outline, Jack immediately recognized as an LE4c.

A white-haired old man, who, at a guess, was well into his seventies but still bright-eyed and vigorous, stood on the rug in front of the fire. There was something vaguely familiar about him and Jack wondered where he'd seen him before. A woman in her late twenties, with dark hair and intelligent eyes, attractively dressed in blue and green, stood beside him. Mrs Anne Lassiter? Probably, thought Jack. So this was the woman who had refused to let the police arrest George after the incident in the kitchen. He looked at her with concealed interest. She seemed a thoroughly dependable sort, who could take charge when necessary. Exactly, in fact, as she had done that evening when George needed her help so badly. He wasn't surprised she had made such a strong impression on George. As they were shown into the room her face was alive with interest.

‘Major Haldean and Mr Lassiter,' said the butler.

As the door shut behind the butler, the old man moved forward a pace. ‘I wondered if Corby had heard your names correctly,' he began, when George stepped into the lamplight. The man gasped and swayed. The woman beside him caught his arm. He stared at George, his mouth open and his eyes wide. ‘Charles?' he mumbled. ‘Charles? Charles, it can't be you!' He made a fluttering movement with his hand and groped his way into a chair. Quickly but without fuss, Mrs Lassiter took a bottle of brandy from the cabinet behind her, poured some into a glass and added soda water. She put it into his outstretched hand, standing by with a calm, reassuring stillness.

He gulped it down, then handed the glass back to her, colour returning to his cheeks. ‘Thank you, Anne.' So it was Mrs Lassiter. The old man looked at George in bewilderment. ‘Who the devil are you?'

George took a deep breath. ‘Lassiter. My name's George Lassiter,' he said. ‘I –'

‘Wait.' The old man held up his hand. ‘Please, before you say anything more, wait. Anne, there's a photograph on the cabinet. A photograph of Charles. Can you bring it to me, please?'

A collection of silver-framed photographs stood on the cabinet. After a short search she found the one he wanted and gave it to him. He motioned with his hand to Jack and George. ‘Come and look at this.'

It was a studio portrait of a young man dressed in the fashion of thirty-odd years ago. Jack looked at the stiffly posed figure, then at his friend. ‘But it's you, George,' he said in astonishment. ‘Hang on, it's not quite . . . Well, it's nearly you,' he finished.

George shook his head. ‘No, it's not. It's my father. We had that photo at home.' He looked from the old man to the photograph, his forehead creased in a frown. ‘I don't understand, sir. Who are you? Why have you got my father's picture?'

‘Charles is your father?' The old man looked George up and down and tentatively reached out to him with an expression of such tenderness it made Jack catch his breath. ‘And you're George. You were called after me. You don't know this, but I've thought about you a lot.' George took his outstretched hand. ‘You're my grandson.'

The next ten minutes or so were spent in a tumble of explanations, most of which were so fragmentary that, with the best will in the world, Jack didn't see how anyone could follow them. He watched George's earnest face as he leaned forward, listening to his grandfather. He should have seen the likeness immediately. It was no wonder old Mr Lassiter reminded him of someone. It was George, of course – those similarities in the shape of the nose and the line of the jaw. There were mannerisms too; how they sat, how both men would give a sharp tilt of the head before speaking and little unconscious gestures of the hands.

George had embarked on an account of his bewilderment at how oddly familiar the house and surrounding streets seemed, when his grandfather interrupted.

‘But of course it all seems familiar, George. You were born here, here in this house. You lived here until you were nearly three.'

George looked at him with a puzzled frown. ‘I was born in South Africa.'

His grandfather smiled. ‘No, you weren't. Not a bit of it. This is where you were born and this was your home when you were very young.'

George turned to Jack. ‘That must be it, Jack! I must have remembered without knowing I did.'

‘I bet that's why everything seemed the wrong size,' said Jack. ‘When you go back to somewhere you knew as a kid it all seems too small. I've had that experience.'

‘It explains the other night as well,' said George eagerly. ‘It explains why I felt so drawn to this particular house. That and the fire.' He gave a shy smile, braced himself and looked at Anne. ‘You don't seem to have recognized me, but I was the man in the kitchen. You know, with the police and so on.'

‘You?'
Anne sat up and stared at him sharply. ‘Of course you are! I thought I recognized you. Ever since you came in I've been trying to think where I've seen you before.' She turned to Mr Lassiter. ‘You remember I told you about it? A man broke into the kitchen. The police took him to hospital.'

Mr Lassiter drew back, shocked. ‘You broke in, George?'

‘He was desperate,' put in Jack, seeing his friend's face. Poor old George was brick-red with embarrassment and the atmosphere in the sitting room had suffered a sudden chill. ‘He was completely on his uppers – destitute, I mean – and had nowhere to go. He was coming down with malaria and flu and, from what I can make out, half-dead with cold.'

Old Mr Lassiter relaxed but still looked at George warily.

‘I told you I was attracted to the house,' said George. ‘I seemed to remember what it would be like inside. I . . . I so wanted to be inside.' He stood up. ‘Look, I'm sorry.' He hesitated. ‘It's as Jack said. I was desperate, but I still shouldn't have done it. I know that. All I can say is, I'm sorry.' He glanced at Jack. ‘I think we'd better go.'

His grandfather rose to his feet. ‘Go? For heaven's sake, boy, you've only just arrived.' He reached his hand out once more. ‘Please, George, sit down. You were ill, you say?'

George looked at Jack for support.

‘George was completely broke and very ill indeed,' said Jack, seeing his friend needed helping out. ‘I don't think it's any exaggeration to say that he would have died that night if it hadn't been for your help, Mrs Lassiter. As it was, he got taken to the Royal Free and very nearly didn't make it, even then. George and I are old friends,' he continued, seeing that further explanation was necessary. ‘I found out from a pal of mine in the police what had happened, recognized the name and, to cut a long story short, George is staying with me until he recovers completely.'

‘But, George, how did you come to be in such dire straits?' asked Mr Lassiter wonderingly. ‘Sit down.' He turned the command into a request. ‘Please?'

George hesitantly sat down again. ‘I think I'd better tell you the story of the legacy,' he said. He did so, as briefly as he could. ‘But who this Rosemary Belmont is, I don't know,' he finished.

His grandfather looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Rosemary?' he said quietly. ‘Rosemary. I knew she'd married again but I'd forgotten her husband's name. She must be the woman I knew as Rosemary Vernon. She . . .' He broke off, looking at George. ‘I'm sorry, my boy. I don't know quite how to break this to you. You see . . .' He hesitated once more then, gathering himself, spoke in a rush. ‘Rosemary was your mother.'

There was dead silence. George sat bolt upright, his hands clenched. ‘No,' he said at last. ‘No, she wasn't. My mother wasn't called Rosemary. She was Susan. Susan Harrison. You're wrong, sir. You must be wrong.'

‘I'm not,' said Mr Lassiter quietly. ‘I'm sorry if this is a shock to you, George, but Rosemary Vernon was your mother.'

George looked at him in bewilderment. ‘But how can she be, sir?' he protested. ‘I know who my mother was.'

Mr Lassiter put down his glass. ‘I'm sorry, George. Your father should have told you.' He shrugged. ‘It's obvious that he didn't. All I can say in mitigation is that he was hurt. Badly hurt.' He sighed. ‘Rosemary Vernon was your mother and the reason why you lived here.' His eyes became distant. ‘Your father was a stubborn boy. Mary – your grandmother – always said that he took after me.' He blinked rapidly. ‘Maybe he did. Poor Charles. I wish I could have seen him again. It's too late now.'

George gazed at him in complete disbelief. ‘Can you explain, sir?' he said at last.

There was a long pause, then Mr Lassiter shook himself. ‘Charles married Rosemary Vernon against my wishes. I don't wish to speak ill of your mother, George, particularly as she is dead, but I considered her to be flighty and spoiled and the very last person who Charles should have married.' He looked at George apologetically. ‘I have to tell you the truth as I see it, otherwise you'll never understand.'

George sat back in his chair. ‘I think you'd better.' He glanced at Jack. ‘I didn't know what to expect, but certainly nothing like this.'

Mr Lassiter turned to Anne. ‘Would you get drinks for us, my dear? I think we could all do with something.'

Both George and Jack accepted a whisky and soda gratefully. ‘As I say,' continued old Mr Lassiter, ‘I never thought Rosemary was the right wife for Charles.' He picked up his glass and grimaced. ‘It gave me no pleasure at all to be proved right. She was an actress and Charles was dazzled by her. They very quickly grew apart. Rosemary wasn't interested in making a home for Charles and it was in an attempt to bring them together that Mary and I suggested they live here until you were born, at least. The idea was to take the cares of running a household off her shoulders so she could concentrate on you, but Rosemary was never cut out to be a mother. She was fond of you, don't think she wasn't, but she couldn't cope with responsibility. She left Charles when you were a few months old and went abroad.' He looked away. ‘She went to Paris with Belmont. He was far more her type. He was an artist, a successful one, I believe.' He cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘She wasn't a conventional woman, George. Much to Charles's distress, she lived an openly scandalous life with Belmont until the divorce was granted. She married him after that.' He looked at his grandson with worried eyes. ‘I'm sorry I had to be the one to break such unpalatable news.'

‘It's not your fault, sir,' said George. ‘It's just – well, it's a bit of a shock, you know?' He paused, then shrugged helplessly. ‘I don't suppose there's much I can say.'

‘She obviously never forgot you, George,' said Anne, gently. ‘I don't suppose it's much consolation, but she left you all her money.'

He looked at her bleakly. ‘I don't think that's very important. Not now.' He heaved a sigh. ‘I wish I'd known. My father should have told me.'

‘He probably wanted to put it behind him,' said Anne. ‘We've never talked about it but I know David – David's my father-in-law – still finds it difficult. We were in the Tate a few months ago and some of Jerome Belmont's paintings were there. I knew something was wrong and asked what the matter was. David looked at the paintings and said, “I don't know much about art but I know about the devil who painted these. He's the swine who ran off with my brother's wife.” He wouldn't tell me much more. I gathered it was a painful subject still.' She glanced at Jack. ‘You've heard of Jerome Belmont, haven't you?'