Closed Circle (2 page)

"Diana is not just Charnwood's daughter. She's his only child."

"Unmarried?"

"Notoriously so. There was an engagement about five years ago to the younger son of a marquess, but it ended at the graveside, not the altar."

"Suicide. I do remember. Lord Peter Gressingham. Shot himself after she'd jilted him."

That was never confirmed. The inquest jury preferred to believe it was an accident. Either way, his former fiancee must count as one of the most eligible heiresses a chap could wish to meet."

"And dangerous, if Lord Peter's example is anything to go by."

"The fellow obviously let his heart rule his head. We wouldn't make that mistake, would we? We never have and we never will."

I knew at once what Max was thinking of. Le Touquet, 1924. My brief but highly remunerative engagement to Caroline, only daughter of Sir Antony Toogood, sewing-machine magnate and doting father. It had been, in many respects, our finest coup. We had both set our caps at her, but even then I was Max's superior when it came to wooing. I had won poor Caroline's heart within a fortnight, and broken it within another, bought off by Sir Antony for a price I had not thought he would go to. There was a perfection to it, a simplicity which surpassed anything we had subsequently done. We had turned a handsome profit for nil outlay and nobody had lost what they could not easily replace Sir Antony by cutting his salesmen's commission for a month and Caroline by finding a husband who really could make her happy.

The man who wheedles his way into Diana Charnwood's affections wheedles his way into a fortune," said Max. "One way or another."

This isn't Le Touquet."

"No? In principle, I should have said it was."

"I mean it isn't the same situation. From what you tell me, Diana Charnwood is no blushing ingenue. In short, she isn't Caroline Toogood."

"We don't know what she is until we find out. And this party gives us the chance to do so. You're not suggesting we just let it slip away, are you?"

"Of course not." Strangely, Max's enthusiasm now eclipsed my own.

"Good man." He downed some more scotch with obvious relish. Unpredictability had revived him as I had hoped. In fact, my hopes had been altogether exceeded. "What say we play to the same rules as in Le Touquet?"

There's no need for that, surely? We weren't so trusting then."

He smiled mockingly. "And we are now?"

"Well, we've come a long way since on share and share alike. It's never had to be written down."

"You can't share a wife, Guy." Seeing my eyebrows shoot up, he added: "Or a fiancee. It worked for us then, didn't it?"

"Yes, but '

"So it could be just the good luck charm we need this time as well." He raised a finger to summon the steward, ordered two sheets of writing paper to the fellow's well-disguised surprise, then lounged back, beaming from ear to ear. "She'll be a tough nut to crack, I don't deny. Maybe too tough. Certainly her reputation's no encouragement. It suggests she has a heart about as yielding as a diamond. But even diamonds can be cut if you have the knack of it and the proper equipment. I'd say we have both, wouldn't you?"

"I'd say our record spoke for itself." We exchanged a smile of mutual remembrance, acknowledging all the things we had done that it was infinitely better not to speak of. When the steward returned with the paper, Max whipped out his fountain-pen and, leaning forward to reach the angular table beside us, began to write on one of the sheets, handing the other to me.

I hesitated for a moment, staring at the embossed letterhead, then letting my eye wander across the watermarked space below. Max had spoken of the promissory notes we were about to exchange as good luck charms, but in my mind they were already beginning to seem more like omens of ill fortune. Whether this was because following in our own footsteps of seven years before struck me as tempting providence or because I was in the grip of some more general foreboding I cannot say. Whatever the cause, I had still not written a word when Max tossed his sheet into my lap and announced: That covers it, I reckon."

I hereby undertake to share equally with my good friend Guy Randolph Horton all financial proceeds, however they may accrue, of any engagement to marry and/or actual marriage I contract with Miss Diana Charnwood if and whenever it may occur.

M. A. Wingate 19th July 1931

Such a document had no legal weight, of course. Neither of us could be bound by what we wrote. It amounted to something only if our friendship amounted to more than an alliance of financial convenience. And that, I suppose, is why I was so reluctant to commit the words to paper. These were hard times, as we and all the world knew. There was no telling what adversity might persuade us we needed to sacrifice in order to prosper. We had not scrupled to leave Dick to his fate. If it came to the point, would we be any more loyal to each other? It was a question I preferred not to answer, but, in his eagerness for written undertakings, perhaps Max had already delivered his verdict.

This may be a waste of effort," I protested in vain. "Miss Charnwood may be impervious to our charms."

"Then you can toss your copy over the side. And I'll do the same with mine assuming I ever lay hands on it." Our eyes met. "What's holding you up?"

"Nothing." And, so saying, I began to write.

Max and I dined at separate tables that evening, thus doubling our chances of striking up other promising acquaintances among our well-heeled fellow-passengers. Those whose company I was obliged to endure through so many gourmet courses that I lost count included a Newfoundland wood-pulp millionaire and his mountainous wife, an actress of the unrestrained school and her lugubrious husband, a Polish countess of enigmatic when, the ship's surgeon, who nearly had to spring into action when milady wood-pulp suffered a choking fit, and the reticent but watchful Mr. Faraday.

Faraday worried me more in retrospect than at the time, when, lulled by good wine and egregious service, I failed to notice that he was playing much the same game as me: listening to the revealing babble of others while disclosing virtually nothing of himself. He was about fifty years of age, short and slightly built, with close-cropped black hair and moustache, a mobile mouth that seemed to be savouring some delicacy even when it was empty, the faintest of quivers to his head as he concentrated on what was being said and, most disturbing of all, an unblinking gaze of moist and feline intensity. His manners were impeccable, his remarks unobjectionable and yet I did not like Mr. Faraday. More precisely, I did not understand him. Worse still, I had the disquieting impression that he might understand me all too well. I resolved to avoid him for the rest of the voyage.

Of Miss Charnwood, aunt or niece, I saw no sign. They either dined later than us or in their suite. Perhaps the diamond-hearted Diana had decided to make her social debut when she could be assured of being the centre of attention. Or perhaps she did not care for the seating lottery of the restaurant, a prejudice I was inclined to share even though I could not afford to indulge it.

Yet my hopes of seeing her before the party and so taking the measure of our task were not to be dashed. All next day, the Empress of Britain cruised serenely out across the Gulf of St. Lawrence, white-hulled and resplendent beneath a cloudless sky.

And out into the air came its passengers, to sit beneath plaid rugs and play at quoits, to walk off breakfast and squint at the horizon, or, in some cases, to observe without being observed.

For this purpose, Max and I spent much of the day wandering the ship, steamer-capped and muffle red apparently idle but actually intent upon our particular occupation. It was while nearing the stern end of the sports deck promenade shortly before noon that I noticed below us on the lounge deck, waddling out to sniff the ozone, none other than Miss Vita Charnwood, unmistakable in brogues and tweed. But, on this occasion, she was not alone. Beside her, walking with considerably more grace, was a slim young woman in fur-trimmed coat and cloche hat.

The Charnwoods," I whispered to Max. We stopped in the shadow of a lifeboat and peered down at them. "Do you recognize her?"

"From a few old magazine photographs?" exclaimed Max. "Not at this range. Why don't I step down and take a closer look while you stay here? It's the only chance I'll have of a dekko before we meet them tonight. And you've already met the aunt."

"Good idea."

So Max headed for the nearest companion-way while I remained where I was. The Charnwoods were halfway round a circuit of the stern rail when he appeared below me. By following the same route in the opposite direction, he was able to engineer a good view of them, especially since they paused at one point to speak to somebody. At length, they passed out of my sight back into the lounges, leaving Max leaning against the rail. Waiting only to be sure I would not encounter them on my way, I went down to join him.

He had lit a cigarette by the time I reached him and seemed to be lost in thought, eyes fixed on the blue ensign fluttering above us in the breeze. "Well?" I demanded, when it became obvious that he was about to volunteer nothing.

"Sorry," he murmured, smiling faintly and looking at me like a man waking from a dream. "It's her all right. The photographs don't do her justice."

"Quite a looker, then?"

"You could say so, yes."

"But what would you say? All I could see was the brim of her hat."

"Yes. I suppose it was." His gaze drifted past me once more. "As a matter of fact, old man, I'd say she was probably the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

The curse of a classical education is that mythological parallels occur unbidden to the mind when dealing with everyday realities. As soon as Max had praised Diana Charnwood's beauty, the fate of Actaeon when he spied on another Diana insinuated itself into my thoughts. Yet the goddess, I reminded myself, had been bathing, the heiress merely promenading. And Max had always understood that the pursuit of wealth is more rewarding than the pursuit of beauty. I felt sure I could rely upon him not to forget this simple truth.

There was no denying, however, that his tantalizing glimpse of what lay beneath the cloche hat had made him even more determined to exploit our opportunity. We had agreed to present ourselves at the Charnwood suite a quarter of an hour after the party was due to commence, in order to avert any suspicion of over-eagerness. But when I came to leave my cabin at ten past six, I found a note had been slipped beneath my door. It was from Max.

Decided to go on ahead. See you there.

M.

I could not help smiling at his cunning. The embarrassment of introducing himself was nothing compared with the disadvantage of arriving in my incontestably handsome shadow. But the night was scarcely born. I had no reason to expect I would continue to be out manoeuvred

The Charnwood suite was one of the largest on the ship and I found it already comfortably full, golden shafts of sunlight from the port-side windows lancing through a gabbling press of partygoers Running a gauntlet of champagne- and canape-wielding stewards, I came upon the elder Miss Charnwood, looking even vaster in low-cut pink satin than she had in straining tweed.

"Mr. Horton!" she proclaimed. "You were able to join us after all, then. I'm so glad."

"There was never any doubt of it, Miss Charnwood."

"But your friend, Mr. Wingate, implied you might be detained elsewhere."

"Really?"

"Perhaps I misunderstood. No matter. Diana will be so pleased to meet you. She's ... oh ... on the balcony at present, I think. Let me first introduce you to some of our guests." She flapped one hand towards a bearded man of about her own age and some timid creature I took to be his wife. "We first encountered Mr. and Mrs. Preece here at Niagara Falls. Then again at our hotel in Quebec. Mr. Preece is something of an expert on Esperanto. He's just been telling me all about it."

I had no intention of allowing Preece to tell me anything, let alone all, about Esperanto and I slipped away from him a matter of seconds after Miss Charnwood had done the same. The balcony was, needless to say, my destination.

It was there, where sea breezes offered relief from the noise and heat within, that Diana had taken up her station, surrounded by admirers both young and old. There they were, Max among them, shoulders squared to exclude newcomers, tense with the effort of capping each other's remarks, taut with ill-suppressed rivalry. The scene was not a new one. I had witnessed it before, at parties in New York graced by the presence of a Hollywood starlet. And I knew better than to join the ruck. To be late on such occasions is to be lost. Better to hover hopefully, perhaps even mysteriously. Which is what I endeavoured to do, retreating to the other end of the balcony, where I could sip my champagne and examine the object of so much attention.

She was beautiful. There was no pretending otherwise. Her dark brown hair was drawn back in a chignon, leaving her face clear and open. Normally, however pleasing a face may be, there is some flaw, some thinness of lip or fullness of jaw, to preclude the suggestion of perfection. But not in this case. The eyes as they sparkled in the sunlight, the mouth as it opened in an easy smile, the neck as it stretched in languid gesture: all conspired to stray beyond the limits of visual appeal into the realm of immediate fascination.

She wore an ultramarine dress of quiet elegance, a topaz pendant and a slim gold bracelet on her left wrist. But really these adornments were irrelevant, as her ease with herself suggested she realized. She was polite and amiable, yet also remote, glancing just often enough out to sea to imply that the company, however witty, however flattering, would always fall short of what she deserved. Whether Max was faring better than the others I could not tell, but there was no disputing that he was faring better than me.

I was just debating whether to make some effort to supplant him when the odious Faraday appeared on the balcony and instantly caught my eye.

"I hadn't realized you were acquainted with the Charnwoods, Mr. Horton," he remarked with a smile.