The Twilight Hour (22 page)

Gwendolen frowned. ‘Keep your voice down,
please
, Stanley.'

There was barely time to scan the menu before Stan was telling us his latest plan – and the reason for our summons. He was negotiating to buy up the Brighton film studios! His old dream of becoming a producer had taken on a new lease of life. It was all for Gwendolen, of course. Perhaps she wanted, after all, to continue her film career, and Stan had come up with the goods. ‘I know you're working for radio now,' said Stan, ‘but with all your expertise … we thought you might be interested in my little venture.'

Alan said bluntly: ‘Impossible I'm afraid – I'm only just getting into my stride.'

‘It's frightfully kind of you to think of Alan,' I put in hastily, to take the edge off his rudeness. It was sickening really – a year ago, he'd have jumped at the chance.

Stan wouldn't take no for an answer. He talked up the venture, told Alan to think about it. And all the while he watched Gwendolen. Adoration glowed out of him. Poor Stan, I thought – for Gwendolen merely accepted his attentions. She was like a cat, not the friendly sort that rubs itself against your legs, but the taciturn, walking-by-itself kind of cat, that lets itself be stroked while remaining aloof in a feline universe all of its own.

Stan was obviously also in love with Brighton; or perhaps with the development opportunities he described to us as we ate our smoked salmon (not much sign of rationing here, although they kept within the rules). Great plans, he told us. Pull down the old terraces. ‘Those stucco monsters! The whole of the Front needs redevelopment – some of these stuck-up architecture geezers don't like Embassy Court, think it's a monstrosity. Why can't they see that's the future! All that fuss about the Pavilion – the Regency Society's a pain in the neck – backward-looking, stuck in the mud – they want to get off their backsides, if you'll excuse the expression.'

Alan smiled. ‘I thought they
had
! They
saved
the Pavilion, didn't they?'

‘God knows why! It's hideous!'

I couldn't square Stan's futuristic vision with his Palladian mansion, that architectural sleeping beauty in its becalmed Suffolk park. ‘But your house in the country. That's period, that's eighteenth century.'

Stan was unabashed by his contradictions. ‘Brighton's different,' he said, ‘Brighton's modern. Brighton's gotta be part of the new Britain.'

‘You're beginning to sound like the Labour Party, Stan.'

‘I've always supported a lot of what they're trying to do. “Work or Want” – that's a damn good slogan. All these spivs and layabouts – the country's bankrupt – they need to get their ideas in order. What I can't stand is all these planning restrictions.'

Gwen looked utterly uninterested.

After the meal Stan insisted on taking Alan to see the studios. ‘The girls can take in a flick,' he said.

For the first time Gwendolen showed some animation. ‘You know what's on?
House of Shadows
. What about it, for old times' sake.'

We climbed up a steep side street to a shabby cinema that showed second-run films. We sat in the half-empty auditorium with its balding red seats and giggling pockets of an audience that had probably come in just to get out of the wind, not to see a cinematic masterpiece.

At last the lights went down, the curtain scrolled back and the Pathé news came on, followed by amateurish advertisements for local shops and restaurants. Then at last
House of Shadows
.

The title drifted in a smoky trail across the static backdrop: an inky lake, a house in shadow. The sombre music turned on a discord, modulating to the dominant, an eerie minor key. Credits scrolled across in flowing script, culminating in: directed by Radu Enescu.

I glanced sideways at Gwendolen, but she was staring straight ahead. The first scene: I remembered it so well; the camera moving with sinister swiftness along a street through desolate suburbs towards a Victorian gothic mansion looming up, a driveway between gloomy shrubs, trees clustered at the edge of a lake like mourners at a funeral, with clouds gathering behind.

The camera passed magically into the house, pulling us along a corridor and into a panelled room. The rhythm changed, became static. And there, suddenly, was Gwendolen, seated on a sofa in an embrasured window. She was gazing up at an imposing older man, played by Eric Portman, who greeted her, the heiress, on her arrival at the family home. The manners and language were stately and almost Victorian, but the man and the woman were in formal modern dress.

In the next scene Gwendolen accidentally encountered the man who was to become her lover, the handsome, cadaverous Guy Rolfe. As they met, he smiled at her and his smile was both wrenchingly melancholic and sinister, almost vampiric. I felt the throbbing pull of romantic pessimism; doomed lovers, he poor, she an heiress, the one fatal step that led them to crime and catastrophe, the heartbreaking closeups, the rainy vistas – this was the beauty of the movie, and I remembered something Hugh had said:
House of Shadows
had a tart's beauty, the beauty of the hackneyed, of stale, familiar, false emotions.

I thought of Radu and how we'd been locked together so briefly in the betrayal of a forbidden passion that could never be. It brought a lump to my throat. Yet as the film wound on, I became restless, and aware that actually I was slightly bored. A blasphemous thought; could it possibly be that this film, to which we'd all been addicted, all thought was wonderful, was not quite the brilliant work everyone believed? Alan always maintained you had to see any film, read any book at least twice before you could judge it, and films seen a second time did tend to disappoint, but I suppressed the thought, and soon the achingly mournful ending stifled my scepticism.

Gwendolen stood up. ‘We don't want to stay for the second feature, do we?' I certainly didn't, after Guy Rolfe had killed himself and Gwendolen was walking away forever down the endless road. As we came out into the chilly light of Brighton, she said: ‘That was very Radu, wasn't it.'

And I knew exactly what she meant.

twenty-two

SEASON OF MISTS AND MELLOW FRUITFULNESS!
Lines from Keats' ‘Ode to Autumn' were running through my head as I hurried along High Holborn, but today the poem I used to love seemed smug and sentimental. ‘Close bosom friend of the maturing sun …' The dusk tasted acrid; no maturing sun in London's damp streets. A drab civilian army of office workers marched, heads down, feet moving mechanically towards the jammed buses and packed trains. ‘Conspiring with him how to load and bless/With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run …' What rot it all was; a cheap, picture postcard vision of a non-existent England. It began to rain. I was tired. And somehow I felt that all this was because I'd enjoyed that last year of the war and the first year of my marriage too much. I hadn't suffered as so many had. I was having my war now. The trial was to begin the following Monday.

Julius Abrahams had called us to an urgent meeting. At least his office was warm. Alan was already there.

‘I was just explaining to your husband' – Abrahams looked at me over his spectacles – ‘as you know, we were hoping Colin's friend on the
Daily Worker
, Charlie Porter, would give him an alibi for at least the early part of the evening. It didn't cover the whole evening by any means, but the time of death is so vague and at least it covers Colin up to about seven pm. He had a drink with Porter before he met Johnny. You know all this – but now there's a problem.'

‘It's outrageous, Dinah. The Party doesn't want Porter to testify.' Alan looked at Abrahams. ‘Can't he be subpoenaed?'

Abrahams shook his head. ‘They're worried about the so-called spy angle. The prosecution case will dwell on that. Their case will be that Colin murdered Mavor because Mavor knew too much about his wartime activities.'

‘But that's all lies!' I cried hotly.

Abrahams frowned. He seemed to be searching for words. Finally he said: ‘Yes … but how will it look if there are even hints he worked for the Russians rather than the British.'

‘For God's sake, we were all together in the war!' Alan was almost shouting.

‘We're not any more though.'

‘Why can't you
make
him give evidence? Is it because it won't help Colin, or because it might upset the Party?'

‘It won't help much,' said Abrahams patiently, ‘it was always pretty marginal to the case. And frankly, the Party simply can't afford to be mixed up in this.'

‘They are mixed up! Colin's a Communist!'

‘All the more reason to steer clear of anything that underlines that.' Abrahams looked at me: ‘This makes your evidence even more important, Dinah. You do realise that? Colin's alibi for the afternoon isn't really in question.'

.........

On the second day of the trial Stanley and I looked at the headlines in the
Daily Telegraph
and
The Times
. ‘A bit lurid,' murmured Stanley, and chewed his nails. ‘We should buy the
Graphic
and the
Mirror
as well, see what they're saying.'

‘It'll all be the same only more so.' In the end we bought the lot. The reports didn't stint on Mavor's lifestyle, his background or his work, which was treated in true philistine fashion as little more than a bad joke. One of the papers reproduced a grimy little photo of one of his paintings,
A Muse in Arcadia
. When you looked closely, you could see it was a portrait of Gwendolen; Gwendolen seated in an empty courtyard filled with exaggerated light and shadow, more like de Chirico than Dalí.

‘She won't like that,' muttered Stanley.

‘Don't show her then.'

‘I won't,' he said grimly. ‘But Pauline will.'

Alan couldn't take time off to be at the trial, but every evening we read the papers and listened to the wireless. ‘How d'you think it's going?' We looked at each other.

‘I'm not sure.' Alan spoke slowly, puzzled. ‘Nothing about his politics yet. Perhaps Abrahams was too worried about that. Being a CP member himself, he may have exaggerated its importance. Perhaps they won't bring it up.' And we began to feel hopeful.

At the beginning of the second week, Alan did manage to get an afternoon off. I went to the Old Bailey to meet him. Abrahams had warned me that, as a defence witness, I couldn't watch the trial from the visitors' gallery, so I waited in the gloomy entrance hall. I paced up and down, worried in case I wasn't even meant to be in the building, keeping an eye on everyone who passed through.

A woman came out of the courtroom. I was standing inconspicuously in an embrasure and shrank even further back, so that she didn't see me as she left. I recognised her. It was Joan Mainwaring. What was she doing at the trial? I tried to calm down and told myself not to be stupid. She was his aunt, after all. It wasn't surprising she should come to the trial. And probably I'd got it all wrong – she hadn't come out of the court at all. She must have been in the gallery.

There was movement. People were leaving the court. I joined the trickle of men and women and waited by the visitors' gallery entrance for Alan.

His face was stony.

‘How did it go?'

‘Wait – I must have a fag.' When it was lit, he gripped my arm and propelled us along towards Holborn.

‘Well, tell me – how did it go?' I was frightened now.

‘Disaster.' Through gritted teeth. We were almost running. He was dragging me along, as if he couldn't get away from the Old Bailey fast enough.

‘I saw his aunt. She must have been watching the trial.'

He stopped abruptly, then, still holding my arm, walked on more slowly. ‘Watching! She was giving evidence. She made him sound like Stalin's right-hand man. It all started to unravel when the waiter from the Café Royal took the stand. He gave all this evidence about the row between Titus and Colin – the evening when Titus accused Colin of being a spy. He made it sound as though Colin really did threaten Titus. He didn't say how drunk Titus was. And he got it all wrong. He said it was Colin who talked about liquidating Titus. But it was Titus who said that, wasn't it? I can't remember any more. Oh God, the whole thing's so ridiculous, no one took it seriously at the time. Abrahams should call someone – Stan, anyone – to say it wasn't like that. But then this old scarecrow appeared and it got worse. She said she saw Colin. That evening. She said Colin was round at the house and she heard noises from next door. She saw him leave. She was rock solid. Couldn't be shifted. I thought our man's cross-examination was quite weak, anyway. And then somehow she smuggled in all these hints about what he did in the war.'

‘But I thought Mavor didn't do anything in the war.'

‘Colin! What
Colin
did in the war.' He shouted above the traffic noise. ‘The judge stopped it, of course, but it was too late by then. All kind of implying that Colin was a pretty shady character and had a strong motive for shutting Titus up. It was a disaster.'

Alan was in a rotten mood all evening, sunk in an angry gloom, a kind of impotent rage. I tried to cheer him up, but I felt as bad as he did.

‘You know this makes your evidence even more important. Absolutely vital. It's all up to you now, Dinah.'

.........

The prosecution case came to an end, and the defence case began. It would soon be my turn in the witness box. If there really was a doubt about the time of death, the prosecution would be out to destroy me. I had to be strong.

I wore my grey flannel suit. Now that the New Look had caught on in a big way, I felt it looked terribly dowdy. The papers that day were full of Princess Elizabeth's New Look trousseau for her impending marriage (she'd saved enough clothing coupons!). I couldn't decide whether I should try to look young and innocent, or confident and sophisticated. In the end I fell between the two stools and, I felt, looked too bohemian, messy, in spite of my suit, and even a bit tarty with too much dark red lipstick to keep my spirits up.

I was called after lunch. I had a horrible hollow feeling inside. A faint fog hung over the panelled courtroom. There was a continual scraping of papers and small sounds, like mice behind the wainscot. The proceedings were slow and tedious. There were unnerving pauses and silences. It was difficult to believe a man was on trial for his life. I looked at Colin, hoping he'd look back at me, but he didn't, just stared ahead, looking quite pale and calm.

It was all right at first. Colin's barrister took me through my statement. He did ask me about the Café Royal quarrel, and obviously my account was different from the waiter's. I thought I did quite well on that. Then we came on to the evening Titus died.

I said I had gone round to see the artist because I was thinking of buying a painting. The front door was ajar, so that although there was no response to my knock, I was able to enter the premises. I found Titus upstairs. I thought he was asleep and I left. However, afterwards I became uneasy. He'd looked odd. Had he been breathing? I was so anxious that at Notting Hill underground station I'd phoned 999. The next day I returned to Mecklenburgh Square with my husband and we found that Mavor was indeed dead. We immediately reported this to the police. Some time later I was still worried, and came to realise that Mavor had been dead when I first found him.

The prosecuting barrister rose to cross-examine me. He was tall, large, exquisitely polite. He even smiled in a friendly fashion.

‘You say you telephoned the emergency services, yet there seems to be no record of this call.'

I swallowed. ‘I don't understand why, because I did phone them,' I said firmly – and of course it was true. What I couldn't explain was why the call hadn't been logged – because I'd hung up in a panic. My palms were sweating. I felt slightly sick.

‘The next day you and your husband found the victim dead. Yet when you reported this fact to the police, you said nothing about your visit the previous evening. Why was that?'

‘It – it didn't seem relevant.'

‘It didn't seem relevant.' He smiled. ‘Perhaps you can tell the court when you sought a further interview with the police and gave them this additional information.'

I swallowed and told him the date.

‘By that time it seemed relevant after all?'

‘Yes. I'd thought about it a lot. I became increasingly worried.'

‘Let me refresh your memory. You gave a further statement to Inspector Bannister on the day after the defendant was charged with murder. I put it to you, Mrs Wentworth, that this alleged earlier visit of yours only came to seem relevant when you were anxious to get your friend off the hook.'

I stared at him, genuinely indignant. ‘That's not true.'

‘I suggest that you never went round to see Mr Mavor that evening at all. The whole story is a complete fabrication in order to suggest that the victim was already dead before the time at which the defendant was seen at the house.'

‘No.'

‘You seriously expect the court to believe that although you thought you had found a dead body you did nothing about it until the following day?'

‘I wasn't sure.' My voice sounded unconvincing, but I stuck my chin up. I just had to endure, I had to stick to my guns. ‘I know it sounds odd, but the whole situation was – strange and the house was so dark and creepy. At first I thought – I assumed he was alive. Afterwards I began to wonder – and then I thought I was probably being silly, that I was being morbid, not thinking straight.'

‘You weren't thinking straight! And perhaps your thinking became a little more twisted still when your friend was arrested. And you suddenly remembered that on the very evening when the crime was committed of which your friend stands accused, you had been to the scene of that crime and had found a dead body, which you failed to report to the police! I suggest that your story is a complete fabrication, Mrs Wentworth.'

‘No!'

It went on and on. The more I stuck to my story the less plausible it sounded. By the time the ordeal was over, I even doubted it myself. I hung on doggedly but the KC annihilated me. That evening I sat at the kitchen table and cried and cried. Alan tried to be optimistic, but I knew he was worried – desperately worried.

Now that I'd given evidence, I could have attended the trial alongside Alan, but I never wanted to go near Number One Court at the Old Bailey again. I preferred to go to the office, where Stanley and I went over the trial reports obsessively, discussing it from every angle.

Subtly my relationship with him had changed. At one point he had half-heartedly offered to take the stand, to back up my story; but that was when we still thought we had an alibi witness. By the time that fell through, he'd changed his mind. He'd discussed it with Julius Abrahams – all Abrahams said to us afterwards was that he didn't think Stan would be a very strong witness. ‘Just open another can of worms.'