Past Caring (66 page)

“And do you believe Edwin?”

“Yes, Martin. I do now. At first, I resisted. Who could not resist the demolition of everything they’d ever taken for granted about their family and their past? What Edwin discovered about Gerald and Henry, about some of his colleagues and some of my friends, seemed too awful to contemplate. I didn’t want to believe it. But, the more I read, the less deniable it became. If what the Postscript told me was incredible, then every other explanation

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was even less credible. In the end, I couldn’t pretend even to myself that it wasn’t the truth. The pity of it is that I didn’t realize that a long time ago. Or, perhaps, as Edwin perceived, that was a mercy.”

“In what way?”

“In the way that Edwin was right to withhold the truth 26

years ago. Whatever the lie that was behind our life, Gerald and I were happy together and nothing—absolutely nothing—can change that now. I’m glad Gerald died before I had to face the truth about him. He deceived me, yes, but he was a good husband, if I may use the word. But not to his real wife. That’s the worst of it: the hideous unknown of a discarded wife confined in a lunatic asylum, dying without her husband giving the event a second thought, without even husband giving the event a second thought, without even knowing that he had a son by her.”

“That at least he couldn’t be blamed for.” I struggled to find some remission of Couch’s guilt for Elizabeth’s sake. “It was Strafford who decided to keep that from him.”

“And so we’ll never know what Gerald would have done for him had he realized he existed.”

“Never. It’ll remain a mystery. Perhaps that’s for the best.”

“Perhaps. But Gerald’s son isn’t a mystery anymore, is he? I presume he is the same Leo Sellick as hired you?”

“Of course.”

“Then he is clearly a wronged man: an innocent party in all this if anyone is. We owe him something. You’ve met him, you know him. What is it that he wants?”

“I don’t know. The simplest way to find out would be to ask him. But I’m not sure I’m ready to do that yet. To say the least, Sellick’s been less than frank with me, but, technically, I remain in his employment. It’s an invidious position.”

Elizabeth leant forward in her deckchair and put her hand on my arm. “My dear, I quite understand that. But you must see that I have to know—and that I have to rely on your good offices for the purpose.”

I remembered my secret pledge. “I’ll do whatever I can to help. I suppose it sounds absurd to say that I feel bound by Strafford’s last words, but I do.”

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Elizabeth’s look was full of meaning. “It doesn’t sound absurd. In fact, it’s the kind of support I can’t do without at the moment.”

“So—what can I do?” I didn’t pause to consider how little my pledge had once signified.

Elizabeth seemed rejuvenated by the thought of action. “Two things, Martin. Two things that should have been done a long time ago. I want to know the truth—the whole truth, without prevarication—from my son. And I want to offer Gerald’s other son whatever form of restitution I can. It’s the least that Edwin deserves of me.”

“How do you propose to go about it?”

“I suggest I invite Mr. Sellick here—to meet his father’s family.”

It was reasoned, caring, human reaction to the problem, but its appeal bore little examination. “Will he accept?”

“I asked myself that. I wondered why an elderly, wealthy South African should be interested in reconciliation with those who were treated a great deal better by his father than he was himself. But consider the frustration he must have felt after Edwin disappeared from Madeira and the mystification the Memoir must have caused him. We don’t know what he made of it, or why he commissioned your research, unless it was an understandable desire to establish whether Edwin really was his father.

I think Mr. Sellick deserves the benefit of the doubt as far as his motives are concerned.”

“It’ll be intriguing to see if he accepts your invitation.”

“Well, if he does, I want to know Henry’s side of it before he arrives. What I propose is that we should despatch a letter to Mr.

Sellick and, meanwhile, establish with Henry exactly what did happen in 1951.”

I was carried along by the buoyant optimism of Elizabeth’s intentions. That evening, we composed a letter to Sellick: a brief, unvarnished statement by me of Ambrose’s death and the discovery of a Postscript revealing Sellick’s own connexion with Strafford, accompanied by an invitation from Elizabeth to visit her at Quarterleigh and heal the breach.

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Once the letter was sealed, we agreed to deposit all the evidence in Elizabeth’s safe: a substantial, four-square combination version stored in what had been Couch’s study, little used since his day. The Memoir and the Postscript joined lesser family papers inside. Before we closed it, Elizabeth pointed to a velvet bag on a low shelf and said that it contained the revolver and harness which—she now knew—Strafford had returned on Sellick’s behalf in 1951. Such things were best shut away and, when Elizabeth locked it and spun the combination, I felt a little less insecure than I had.

Then, over laced cocoa, we planned the next move. Because of the Silver Jubilee holiday, we couldn’t post the letter to Sellick until Wednesday. What better time to tackle Henry than the present?

“I’d get nothing out of him, my dear,” Elizabeth said. “He doesn’t think I know where my own interests lie, let alone his. I think it must be you—if you’ll agree.”

“I’m not sure. You know how little time he has for me, what with Helen and everything.”

“Exactly. That’s why it must be you. Edwin was right in his judgement of Henry. He needs to learn a little humility. We’re none of us too old for that.”

“Very well. I’ll try. But don’t blame me if it doesn’t work.”

“I shan’t. I’m grateful, believe me. At the moment, I don’t think I could talk to my son, not after all that I’ve found out about him.”

“When and where should I see him?”

“As soon as possible. Why not tomorrow? I know from Letty that they’ll be in London. Henry has to be there for Tuesday’s ceremonies and receptions, you see.”

“But what do I say to him?”

“Tell him all that we know. Tell him that I have invited Mr.

Sellick to visit me and that I need to know Henry’s part in all this before Mr. Sellick arrives. Point out that you are my agent in this matter—I’ll give you a letter to that effect. Warn him that if he doesn’t tell me what, as his mother, I’m entitled to know, I can do nothing to protect him from Mr. Sellick’s anger.”

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“I think he’ll deny everything and say nothing.”

“That may be so. But he must be given a chance to redeem himself.”

I slept unexpectedly well that night and set off early the following morning, driving north through the soft commuter land of Surrey towards London. Strafford’s spirit was still with me, urging the vehicle of his uncertain retribution towards its destination, and Eve’s memory was waiting to taunt me as soon as I left the refuge of Quarterleigh. Why had she done nothing about my taking her car? What were she and Timothy up to now?

It was a cool day in London, but the city was crowded from the suburbs in: brightly dressed crowds, bunting in the streets, signs of preparation everywhere for the Jubilee. The carnival mood depressed me. It seemed the worst of times to be there, somehow vaguely indecent to hound Henry on such a day, somehow too much like collecting debts on a Sunday.

Since his children had left home and his political star had risen during the Heath era, Henry had moved into a prestigious Regency residence in Oakment Square, off Cheyne Walk, behind Chelsea Embankment: a place of cooing doves and windowboxes, a fountain playing beneath a statue of the elder Pitt on a small green in the centre of the square, nothing stirring behind the tall windows and broad, brass-knockered doors.

Letty, my former mother-in-law, answered the door. Poor Letty: the precocious young girl with a dimpled grin, who I recalled from glimpses of her wedding photographs, had become a stout, grey-haired lady with a perpetually worried expression.

I tried the impossible, putting her at her ease. “Hello, Letty.

How are you?”

“What do you want?” Her tone was neutral but apprehensive.

“I’d like to see Henry, if he’s in.”

“What on earth do you want with him?” She became more panicky.

“There are things we have to discuss. Has he told you that we’ve met once or twice recently?”

“Of course.” She replied too quickly for me to be sure it was true. “You’d better come in. He’s upstairs working.”

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“On a bank holiday?” I tried to make small talk as I followed her into the hall.

“Yes. He’s very busy at present.” She hesitated at the foot of the stairs. “Martin, will you come in here for a moment?” She led the way into a front room; the initiative was unlike her.

It was a palely decorated reception room with a rarely used air. The curtains hung stiffly at the windows, the leather-padded furniture shone as in a showroom. Letty closed the door behind us with an excess of furtiveness.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Martin, I’m worried—as you can see. Henry didn’t tell me you’d met recently. I learned that from his mother. So I’ve no idea what’s going on between you. But recently Henry’s been deeply unhappy. He’s overworking and—which I shouldn’t tell you—drinking too much. The firm’s having some difficulty—which he refuses to explain—and Timothy’s no help at all. The party’s making great demands on him: too many late night debates, too many councils of war at Flood Street. I’m not sure where it’ll end.”

“All meat and drink to Henry, surely?”

“Not anymore. He’s been moody for a couple of months now.

In the past fortnight, it’s got much worse. I can hardly talk to him.” She was wringing her hands as she spoke.

“What can I . . .”

“It’s something to do with whatever’s brought you into contact with him, Martin. I know it is. Don’t tell me what it is—I don’t want to know. All I’m asking you is to leave my husband alone.”

“I can’t do that, Letty.” I felt sorry to have to say it.

“Don’t you think you’ve hurt my family enough already?”

She sounded genuinely pained.

I couldn’t respond. “Can I see him now?”

“Why not?” Her voice sank with despair. “His study’s on the top floor . . . Oh, but you know that.”

“Yes.” I felt guilty to admit it. “One thing, Letty. You say Henry’s been unhappy lately, but it’s been worse in the past fortnight?”

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“Much worse.”

“Did that seem to follow any specific event?”

“No. He came back from a trade conference in Torquay in a black depression—and he hasn’t shaken it off. I’m sure you know why.”

“I don’t know, believe me. How long was he in Torquay?”

“Just a couple of nights. He came back a fortnight ago today.”

Torquay, a fortnight before: May 23rd, the day after Ambrose Strafford drowned in Dewford, only ten miles from where Henry was conferring on trade. The coincidence impelled me up the stairs.

Henry had set himself up as a target for me right from the first.

Never a step wrong, never short of friends in the right places, never for a moment perturbed by his own hypocrisy. I thought, as I climbed the stairs, of all the reasons why I hated him. A public proponent of probity and economy whose business thrived on bribes and favours. A man of inherited wealth who lectured others on the value of hard work. An outraged father happy to overlook his own notorious peccadilloes. A politician prepared to toe the party line on anything and everything in the belief that office was the reward for all good sycophants—and who’d been proved correct. And now I had evidence that he was also ready to bribe, lie and perhaps even murder his way out of an hereditary embarrassment. For those and all the other ways he embodied the false morality I’d supposedly offended, I hated Henry Couchman.

He was by the window, nursing a whisky glass in his palm, the air thick with stale cigar smoke, the desk scattered with papers, his stare fixed on the outside world.

“I’d like to have a word with you, Henry,” I said.

I thought he’d fling the glass at me or try to throw me out, but even his glare lacked fire. He slumped down in an armchair by the window. “I’ve been expecting you,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Why’s that?”

He looked at me wearily, with bloodshot eyes. “Call it intuition . . . or just experience. Your kind are all the same.”

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“Can I sit down?”

“Why not?” From his slur I judged he’d been drinking all morning. “Obviously my wife didn’t think to turn away the bloody little lecher who disgraced my daughter.”

I sat in a chair on the other side of the desk from him and tried to ignore the insult. “Your mother sent me.”

He laughed—a forced guffaw with a surly, intoxicated edge to it. “So she’s on your side too: the stupid old bitch.”

Suddenly, I felt angry. “I don’t think you’ve the right to talk like that about her.”

“Oh you don’t?” He smiled unpleasantly. “Radford, why don’t you tell me what your game is? I’m sick of the sight and sound of you.”

“I’ll tell you—if you’ll listen.”

“I’ll listen. But, God, I need a drink to stomach it.” He pulled down a bottle from a trolley beside the chair and poured some whisky into his glass. “Make it bloody good, or, I warn you, you’ll regret the day you tried to threaten me.”

“Threaten you with what?”

“Stuff your word games, Radford. That’s all you ever were, mouth—well, except where schoolgirls were concerned. Get on with it before my patience runs out.”