Curtain Call (40 page)

Nina, with a breathless giggle of fright, replied that it was, and stepped down from the porch in the direction of the voice. ‘Erm, would you mind putting a light on?'

He evidently didn't hear this, for no illumination came. Going back down the steps she saw a tradesman's door now ajar, though he had not bothered to wait and greet her. She had heard that film types were brusque, but really . . . ‘This way,' she heard him call, and passing through she saw he had entered the house by a side door. Less certain of herself, she followed his dim outline through a back parlour, wondering if this wasn't all a bit rum. He had been expecting her, but why arrange to meet in this gloomy old backwater? Ahead, another door had been opened, and here at last a weak amber flame glimmered through the dark. Entering, she found herself in a large drawing room whose windows seemed as black as the night outside. The light was coming from a tiny oil lamp on a table. Behind her the door shut softly and her host came up alongside her in an almost feline movement.

‘Miss Land, thank you for coming,' he said. His face was still in shadow as he went round the table. ‘I was going to say “pleased to meet you”, but in fact we've already met.'

Nina smiled blindly towards his voice. Had they? ‘I'm not sure I recall . . .' – and it was too dark to tell either way. For answer he turned up the lamp, revealing his face. She couldn't immediately place him, but yes, there was something familiar about the dark eyes, the long jaw.

‘We weren't actually introduced,' he said in a dry ironic tone, and in that instant she knew – heard herself cry out in fear. Oh God, God, what had she done? She took a step back, and another, before turning and bolting for the door. Which was now locked. He remained at the table, watching her. ‘So you do remember. Well, as I was saying, our last encounter at the Imperial was rather unsatisfactory. I fear I may have been uncivil – but you had intruded on me and . . . my companion.'

Nina felt her knees tremble as she stood there. Through short, shallow breaths she said faintly, ‘I've never seen you in my life.'

He sighed. ‘We both know that's not true, Miss Land. Though it was lucky that your description of me to the police was – inaccurate? Now, come away from that door.' His tone was quietly reasonable.

Nina, her whole body shaking, took a couple of steps forward. He was staring at her, his head as still as a cobra's, measuring, evaluating. ‘That's it, a little closer. I suppose you're anticipating some “extravagant” behaviour on my part, but you mustn't. You see, I just want some information – about the girl. Madeleine. I think you might be able to tell me.'

She shook her head, and felt tears blinding her eyes. How had this happened? Was her own imprudent behaviour to blame, or mere bad luck? He was talking again but she wasn't listening, she was just crying, silently, at the sudden prospect of her life being snuffed out – a life she had always imagined as so hard to let go of.
Oh, Stephen, what have I done?
She needed a handkerchief, it was difficult even to see, and she unclasped her handbag in search of it. As she looked inside she caught a glint of something unfamiliar. The letter knife. From Stephen. She must compose herself, order her thoughts. She had something he didn't know about, something to defend herself with.

He was standing by the table, behind him was a drinks trolley. Her mind raced ahead.

She took a deep breath, and said softly, ‘May I have a drink?'

He stared at her a moment, following her eyeline to the grouping of bottles. He seemed faintly amused by the request, but he took up a bottle and said, ‘Scotch all right?'

She nodded, and while he was half turned she soundlessly lifted the knife from her handbag and slipped it into her coat pocket. She kept her eyes on him, pouring the whisky, recapping the bottle, picking up the glass. He was coming round the table with it towards her. The handbag she had set down at her feet; the weapon she concealed against her sleeve, ready. He was five paces away from her now, four, three – he was holding out the glass in his right hand, leaving his left side unguarded. In one quicksilver move the knife was out and plunged into the hollow between his collarbone and neck. It went in deep, more than halfway down the blade, and in her fright – at that, and his savage bellow of pain – she left it there and made for the opposite door. This too was locked. She doubled back, and saw him staggering against the desk, blood spurting down his shirt front. He was trying to extract the knife, and she wished she had kept hold of it, another stab would have done for him. Too late.

There was the window, the one exit still left to her. She dashed to it and released the catch, pushing it open. She felt the cold on her face, and prepared to scream for help. But who in this black night would hear her? Her heart was drumming so fast she felt it might burst from her. Quick, quick. The windowsill was waist high, and she began to hoist herself onto it when she felt an arm strong as whipcord around her neck, dragging her down. But he had misjudged her agility, and pushing both feet against the sill she managed to topple them both onto the floor with a crash. Rolling off him she crawled across the floor towards the knife, its blade a dull gleam on the carpet. She had it in her hand, was raising herself to her knees when something heavy and square struck her hard on the head, and she fell, eyes blinking a starburst. She tried to raise herself again, but the next blow came harder still, and then there was only blackness.

Tom was on to his second gin and pep when Peter gave him a nudge. ‘Guess who's here.' An extraordinary-looking person, dressed in Wildean cape and knee-britches, was sashaying towards them. A huge fedora shadowed the face, a cigarette wafting in an ivory holder.

‘Hullo, boys!' a woman's voice drawled. It took him a moment to realise it was Edie Greenlaw.

‘Edie, what an amazing outfit,' Tom said. ‘May I touch the hem of your cape?'

Peter was gazing narrowly at her. ‘My dear, you look almost like a man.'

‘So do you – almost,' she fired back, and they guffawed. ‘I suppose Jimmy's somewhere about?'

Tom nodded. ‘You must have passed him – he's Lady Windermere to the life.'

‘Actually, with that cigar he looks more Churchill's ugly sister,' said Peter.

‘There's some queen really giving you the eye,' she said, looking over Tom's shoulder. It was one of the boatered Bosies they had encountered downstairs.

‘Hmm, we've met,' said Peter tartly. ‘He doesn't know that Tom's not TBH.'

Tom frowned. ‘Pardon me?'

‘To Be Had, darling,' Edie supplied. ‘I don't suppose I'll be getting much in that line myself, what with the place being
abloom
with pansies.'

‘Well, at least we have each other,' said Peter, and Edie, scrunching her face into a smile, rested her head on his shoulder.

‘Peter's agreed to marry me if I'm still single at fifty,' she explained to Tom. ‘Isn't he a dear?'

‘That would be quite some wedding,' said Tom, his tone so oddly sincere that it made them both snigger.

‘I'm not sure I'd wish it on him. Having to cope with Greenlaws
and
in-laws . . .' She looked at Tom. ‘Talking of marriage, how are you getting on with Jimmy these days?'

‘He's run off his feet,' Peter cut in. ‘Literally. He's now the chauffeur as well.'

‘Yes, I'd heard he'd got a car. Poor Tom! You do look a bit worn out. Is everything all right?'

Before he could reply an excited ripple of
ooh
s came from the French windows, where a lively cluster of guests had pressed onto the balcony. Sharing a puzzled look, the three of them wandered out to see what the fuss was. The view, offering a lofty perspective south over the city, was dominated by an incandescent ball of flame some miles away, as bright as a volcano on the boil. It seemed to leap and billow creamily against the dark horizon. Nobody could say for sure what it might be, though it was someone's opinion that a factory had been set on fire. Peter shook his head.

‘I don't think there's any factory that would go up like that.'

The opiner came back, ‘What about a munitions factory?'

‘We'd hear it if there were munitions.'

Tom, transfixed by the sight, thought of Madeleine describing her dream, the one about London drowning in flames and people's heads melting like candles. It was strange, the matter-of-fact way she had told them about it, almost as if she had seen this apocalypse rather than dreamed it. A few more were crowding onto the balcony, seeking a glimpse of the fiery orb in the distance.

Feeling queasy again, Tom slipped away in search of a lavatory. Downstairs the ball was in full swing, and he had to navigate his way through a crush of men in taffeta and bombazine, in huge curled wigs or wide-brimmed hats, all chatting and chaffing in voices that strove and lifted in an oppressive roar to the ceiling. Having gained the privacy of a poky old lav, he started back on seeing his reflection in the mirror. His dark forelock hung limp over his pale, pale brow, moist with tiny pinpricks of sweat. The whites of his eyes looked sickly, as if he hadn't slept in days. He really wasn't very well, but of course he couldn't go until Jimmy was ready to.

Returning to the fray, he asked one of the barmen for another gin. As he waited a hand felt his bum, and there stood his new admirer, the younger and blonder of the two Bosies. He sniggered (Tom had jumped) and tilted his head pertly.

‘You all right, girl?'

‘Yes, thank you,' replied Tom, not sure if this was a greeting or a question. He was trying to remember Peter's acronym for availability – HB something?

‘I've been wondering about you,' Bosie continued. ‘I said to her, vada di omi-oh bona omi. You know?'

‘Er, not really. What language is that?'

The youth studied him for a moment, as if trying to decide whether this profession of ignorance was sincere. Then he smiled in an indulgent way and said, ‘Don't mind me. I thought you were Jimmy Erskine's catamite.'

‘Just his secretary, as I think my friend told you.'

‘Wanted to make sure.' His voice had come down an octave to something less camp. ‘I see Jimmy around. He's got quite a taste for the Guards, hasn't he?'

Tom shrugged. ‘What he does in private is none of my business.'

But Bosie went on as though he hadn't heard. ‘We all know him as Barrack Room Bertha. Likes a bit of trouble, does Jimmy.' His expression had turned crafty. ‘Just between us girls, d'you know where he trades? I mean, the club?'

Trades?
thought Tom, wishing the fellow would leave him alone. ‘No, I'm afraid not. That's why it's called a private life.'

‘You see, I've some friends who also like a bit of rough. If you could give me a name, just on the sly, I could it make worth your while.'

It was clear that, despite Tom's stonewalling, the man would keep badgering him for information. His interest seemed to Tom more than social; in that odd change of voice and his veiled offer of money he detected something calculating – professional, almost.

He gave Bosie a tight smile of regret. ‘I'm sorry, would you excuse me? I did promise to get a drink for my friend.'

He sensed the man still watching him as he walked away. Upstairs they were roaring through a music-hall song he knew well. It was one Jimmy used to play over and over on the gramophone at Princess Louise Mansions.

By the sad sea waves, every night he took her strolling,

By the sea waves, he would swear his heart was gone;

She's the only girl he sings to, she's the girl he says nice things to,

Promised lovely diamond rings to, by the sad sea waves.

The party had now spilled out onto the sloping front lawn, it being the best vantage from which to gaze on the molten spectacle glowering from the south. People stood about mesmerised, their drinking and gossiping temporarily put on hold while their eyes absorbed this indecipherable bonfire. He overheard someone saying he had not seen anything like it ‘since Mafeking night'. Tom shivered as he stood among them, and remembered he had left his overcoat in the car. On his way across the lawn he heard Edie calling him.

‘Have you heard? Just announced it on the wireless – that thing up in blazes is the Crystal Palace!'

‘Good God,' said Tom, turning back to stare again. ‘Think of all that glass. Maybe that's why it looks so bright.'

‘Apparently they'd just had it renovated, too. Shame! Where are you off to?'

‘To get my coat. I'm shivering like a greyhound.'

He descended the garden steps to the road, all but deserted at this hour, and broke into a little scurrying run to get to the car. He climbed in and shut the door, squirming into his coat. Good, he'd brought his gloves too. Crikey, it was chilly – he could see his breath – but the solemn stillness was calming, and he thought he might linger for a while. He heard an owl's lonely hoot, and hunkered down against the clammy cold of the leather seat.

He jumped as a figure ghosted right by his window. Bosie, again. Had he followed him outside? No, he had walked right past the car without spotting him. Tom sank lower into the seat, spying through his rear-view mirror the young man's purposeful stride. What was he up to? A few yards further down the street he saw the dull lantern glimmer of a public telephone box: Bosie had stopped, looked around a moment, and entered. Tom could see him through the glass, the receiver against his ear, then (a nod, a movement of his mouth) that he was talking to someone. Thirty seconds later, his call done, he cradled the receiver and stepped out of the box. With a quick glance at his wristwatch, he strolled back up the pavement towards the house. Tom, nearly horizontal in the front seat, held his breath as the youth came alongside the car. Had he glanced to his left the jig was up, but he did not, and Tom's presence went unnoticed.