The Second-last Woman in England (33 page)

He sat back.

‘Well, I wouldn’t be at all surprised,’ said Peter Rocastle, pausing to smoke. ‘He grew up there—we both did. First place I’d look for him. Told Scotland Yard so about six months ago.’

There was a long pause during which Cecil nodded again and re-hitched his trousers.

‘I see. Well, nevertheless, I think it prudent that I pass on this information to Scotland Yard so that they may continue their investigations anew.’

Peter nodded. ‘Good idea, old boy. Very good idea.’

Jenny Rocastle had finished her cigarette and she now crushed it out on the ashtray on the coffee table. She didn’t reach for another, but instead sat and regarded Cecil in a way that seemed to imply the interview had ended. And it was at this point that it occurred to Cecil that Mrs Rocastle was not wearing any nylons, nor indeed, a brassiere and that Mr Rocastle was wearing no socks beneath his shoes. That his shoe-laces were untied. That they both, in fact, appeared to have dressed in something of a hurry.

He stood up.

‘Good. Well, I ought to leave; must get back to the office. It’s a busy time of year, of course.’

They both stood up.

‘Yes. I remember Jeremy saying how April was a busy time of year,’ said Mrs Rocastle. ‘Thank you so much for taking the trouble to come over in person, Mr Wallis.’

‘Oh, it’s no trouble, let me assure you.’

‘Goodbye, then. Lovely to meet you,’ said Peter Rocastle from the settee with a cheery wave of the hand.

‘Thank you again, Mr Wallis, you’ve been so kind,’ said Mrs Rocastle holding the front door open.

‘Oh, it’s no trouble,’ Cecil repeated, stepping out onto the third floor landing. Jenny Rocastle smiled vaguely and closed the door.

Cecil stood for a moment in some confusion. You’ve
been
so kind. It was what you said to someone when you did not expect to meet them again.

He turned away and a moment later heard smothered guffaws of laughter from the other side of the front door. He walked quickly towards the stairs and went rapidly down them.

‘Told you she weren’t there,’ said the charwoman, who was now on the second floor landing. Cecil passed her in cold silence. ‘Gorn away for the weekend, she ’as!’ she called after him.

Outside a light spring shower had just begun. Cecil stood beneath the porch of Leinster Mansions, trying to decide whether it was worth opening his umbrella or not. A young man in a dirty beige macintosh, his head sunk low in his shoulders, his collar turned up and a cigarette dangling from his lower lip turned into the porchway. He gave Cecil a sideways but otherwise expressionless look and disappeared inside. Cecil regarded him warily. He looked a decidedly shady sort of character. Indeed, this whole building was shady; he had always thought so; indeed, he had often wondered why Mrs Rocastle lived here.

Now, however, it seemed entirely appropriate that she lived here.

He stepped out into the street and made a dash for the tube station. He would go to the office. No point in going home; they weren’t expecting him. He had said he would go to the office, and to the office he would go. There was work to be done, important work. One could get a great deal done on a Saturday morning, no interruptions, the place quiet for once. He would go to the office and get a great deal done.

The office was indeed quiet. Pickering the caretaker was nominally on duty at the door and he tipped his hat and offered a surprised ‘Morning, Mr Wallis, sir,’ as Cecil entered the building and signed in. Upstairs, each of the typewriters was covered and silent, all the pens and pencils arranged neatly in jars, papers sorted into discrete piles, teacups washed and stowed away.

He unlocked his office door and went in. There was a great deal on at the moment. The West Indies route was under review. It had been losing money for years and there was talk of pulling out altogether. (How, when there were clearly West Indians pouring into England on every tide, could the route be losing money?) India was proving difficult, too—there were intense negotiations underway with the Bombay authorities to extend docking privileges in the face of increasing competition from other lines. And plans to commence building of the
Canute
—the line’s biggest, fastest, most up-to-date and modern liner, a liner to put all others to shame, to smash the London to New York record once and for all—had been shelved, indefinitely. There was no money for it, apparently. The unions were up in arms, of course: hundreds of men likely to lose their positions. And the prestige to the firm that such a flagship would bring—lost. Just like that. And no indication as to when the ship would be built—or indeed if it ever would. Passenger numbers were dropping. Plummeting, Sir Maurice had said. One simply couldn’t compete with the new aeroplanes.

It was nonsense! Could an aircraft offer the sort of luxury, the sheer
thrill
of crossing an ocean in a vast ocean-going liner?

With a sigh Cecil picked up the first unanswered letter in his in-tray and began to compose a reply.

An hour passed and then a another. It was nearing lunchtime, and five letters, two memoranda and three telegrams had been composed and left on Miss James’s desk. Three other letters, already typed, had been signed and were in the ‘To Post’ tray. Cecil sat at his desk and did nothing for a while. Eventually he stood up, left his office, closed and locked his door behind him and went down to the ground floor. Mr Pickering looked up from his racing guide and said ‘Afternoon, Mr Wallis, sir,’ and tipped his hat and Cecil went out into the street.

The day had become overcast again, though the rain was holding off for the time being. Cecil stood on the corner and thought about going home. He could go home now. He had gone to the office. It had been quiet. He had not been interrupted. He had got a great deal done.

Instead he turned southwards down Chancery Lane, then attempted to cross Fleet Street, scowling at the driver of a black cab that bore down on him. The cab driver tooted loudly and Cecil jumped back on to the kerb.

He had got a great deal done and Miss James would no doubt comment on this fact on Monday morning. Perhaps she would do so when Sir Maurice was passing, or Mr Standforth, though not Mr McIntosh who was in the Kingston office attempting to patch up things in the West Indies. But it certainly wouldn’t hurt if Sir Maurice or Mr Standforth learnt he had been here over the weekend. He had not, in truth, achieved all that he ought this week. Too much time spent tracking down Rocastle—all in the firm’s best interests, naturally, but not perhaps as pressing as other matters.

He made a second attempt to cross Fleet Street, this time without mishap.

Yesterday he had rung Felicity. He had suggested, quite matter-of-factly, that they meet up, hinted that perhaps she might wish to discuss certain matters, and she had coldly informed him she had a production meeting all day and it would have to wait. Really, one attempted to do a good turn and it was simply thrown back in one’s face. And this morning he had gone to the trouble of visiting Mrs Rocastle at her flat in Hammersmith to pass on helpful information, to ascertain her situation—and he had been treated indifferently, almost to the point of impertinence. To top it all, he had agreed to assist Freddie—purely for Harriet’s sake and against his better judgement. He had agreed to talk to Nobby, and what happened? Next thing he knew, Harriet was telling him that Caruthers had gone and offered Freddie a position anyway, with or without Cecil’s recommendation.

‘It would seem that we didn’t need your assistance after all,’ Harriet had announced over dinner a few nights earlier. ‘So now there’s no question of you having to compromise your moral standards, is there?’

She had spoken these words pleasantly enough, yet when he had glanced up there had been a look on her face that had rooted him to his seat, unable to move, his spoon hovering somewhere above his soup bowl. She had left the room then, and he had silently resumed eating.

There was a public house on the corner of Mitre Court, the Printer’s Apprentice, a dimly lit and ramshackle den, all uneven floorboards and low-hanging beams, into which about half a dozen customers could comfortably squeeze. Cecil went in and breathed in the fug of stale ale and cigarettes that hung in the air.

‘A half pint of your own brew, my good man,’ he requested of the young barman. The barman, sporting slippery Brylcreemed hair and an open-necked shirt, sighed patiently.

‘Ain’t got our own brew, ’ave we? We ’ave what the brewery gives us, see?’

‘I see. In that case I shall have some of that.’ Cecil pointed randomly to a tap and turned away to fish out some coins from his pocket, and so that he wouldn’t have to engage the barman in further fruitless discussion.

‘Wallis? My dear chap, how are you?’

And there was Nobby Caruthers coming at him out of the fug and brandishing a small glass just as though it was all pre-arranged. Cecil experienced that moment of disorientation one always felt when one ran into someone one had just been thinking about.

‘Didn’t know you drank here,’ Nobby added with a beaming smile.

Cecil smiled back and shook Nobby’s hand. He was glad to see the old boy, naturally, though he felt a trifle uncomfortable at Nobby’s assumption that he drank regularly—here or anywhere.

‘I don’t as a rule,’ he assured him. ‘Just popped in on my way home. Been putting in a few extra hours at the office.’

‘Good God, Wallis, you don’t want to be doing that sort of thing. Not at your age. Let the young ’uns waste their Saturdays trying to impress the bosses, eh? Men like you and I have already climbed the greasy pole. We can afford to settle back and make up our own hours. Here, have a cigarette. Moroccan Turkish blend. Curzons of Jermyn Street make them up for me.’

‘Fourpence, mate,’ said the barman.

‘Oh, let me, Wallis,’ said Nobby reaching over and paying the man. ‘What are you drinking this rot for? You know it’s made in some ghastly factory in Essex or somewhere, don’t you?’

Cecil took his beer and declined the cigarette.

‘I haven’t the faintest idea where it’s made. But thank you. Your good health.’

‘Bottoms up! Never touch the stuff myself. A good malt whisky is the only tipple passes these lips. That and a damn fine vintage port. Let’s sit down—I’ve a table over there.’

They made their way around the corner of the bar and into a dimly lit alcove. A copy of
The Sporting Life
lay open on the table. Nobby was fond of horses. Owned a couple, too, rumour had it.

‘Oh, reminds me: your brother-in-law started working for me this week. Did you know?’

Cecil placed his glass on the table and removed his raincoat and neatly folded it. He squeezed into a long wooden bench, hitched up his trousers and placed his folded raincoat on his lap.

‘Oh. Yes. Yes, indeed, I had heard something to that effect.’

Nobby seemed to regard him closely. ‘Seems like a good fellow. Been overseas, I understand. Canada.’

‘Yes, so I believe.’ Cecil took a sip of the beer. It was watery and chilled. He suppressed a shudder.

‘Used to work at Moderate Assurance and Equity in the City before the war. Knew a chap worked there, before they crashed. Fine war record, too, by all accounts.’

Cecil took another sip. Was Nobby referring to Freddie or the chap he knew before the war?

‘North Africa. Royal Tank Regiment.’ Nobby took a large gulp of his whisky. ‘Pretty tough they had it, those desert rats. Pretty damned tough.’

‘Yes,’ said Cecil not looking up. How did Nobby know about Freddie’s war record? If he knew about it from some official source, then surely he would know the truth? Freddie must have told him—or told him this part of it. Dear God, he was shameless.

He took a second gulp of the beer and closed his eyes for a moment.

Harriet had said: ‘So now there’s no question of you having to compromise your moral standards, is there?’

But he
had
compromised his moral standards. Last August he had confronted Rocastle in his office. He had said: ‘Rocastle, I have given this incident a great deal of thought, and I feel it incumbent upon me to advise you that I have resolved to report it to Standforth … There can be no question of fraud. Everything must be out in the open.’