The Twilight Hour (29 page)

‘Gwendolen's little girl had gone away to the country – evacuated out of London to stay with Titus's family. But somehow or other Gwendolen still had her ration book, don't ask me how, I expect she said she'd lost it and got a replacement, people got up to all sorts of dodges like that during the war, didn't they. She was still the mother of a child under five years old, so she was exempt from the call-up. Not that it did her any good. She was sinking into drink, hanging out with a few scruffy types around Chelsea and Soho.

‘Hilda promised to help her. But then, just when they were going to start a new life together, Gwendolen was killed in an air raid. Direct hit on her lodgings. So Hilda took over her sister's identity.'

Pauline glanced at me. I think she wanted to gauge the dramatic effect of her tale.

‘Seems pretty cold-blooded,' I said. Actually I could hardly take it all in.

Pauline grimaced. ‘You have to understand; she'd led this terrible life. And it wasn't as difficult as you might think. People went missing in the war all the time, didn't they, unidentified bodies, all sorts of things. You could hardly blame her. Because you see, now Hilda was not only Gwendolen, but she was officially a mother. She didn't have to work as an orderly any more. She had a way into a different world, the artistic types Gwendolen had known. She hung around Soho, made a few contacts, eventually managed to get a job as a film extra … She always said she couldn't act, but she must have been a good actress to pull the wool over so many people's eyes, being such a different sort of person, so different from the real Gwendolen, who was a pathetic little thing.

‘You'd have thought she'd want to get rid of me, as well, wouldn't you. I was all part of that past life she'd hated. But I hung on; and actually she needed me. I was the only real thing in her life. I was the link to the past, the one person with whom she could still be herself, could still be Hilda. We knew too much about each other too. You could call it parity of terror, I suppose,' Pauline sneered. ‘She knew I did abortions. I knew about her past. I knew what she'd done – but then, it wasn't so terrible. It wasn't as if … I mean, Gwendolen, the real Gwendolen was dead anyway. What did it matter?

‘It was only when Titus Mavor appeared on the scene that things got awkward. He wasn't so far gone he didn't guess the truth. He saw her at a party, and of course she didn't recognise him, had no idea who he was. He knew about the twin, though. He must have done. You can see from the painting that Dalí knew, otherwise why paint her in the mirror.'

‘Yes,' I said, ‘Mirrors – doubles – twins. The Surrealists loved that sort of thing.'

‘Titus started to blackmail her. She got Stanley to pay him off. She was terrified Radu would get to know, but what terrified her most of all was that it would come out she had a child, an illegitimate baby. Kiss of death, a scandal like that for an actress. And the funny thing was, it wasn't even her child. Ironic, in a way.

‘It began to prey on her mind more and more. She became obsessed with the idea that Titus would in the end tell Radu. There was the plan of them working together; Titus was always so drunk – look how he spilled the beans about Colin. Gwendolen knew it would be bound to come out. And she knew Titus had the proof, or almost proof. He had the painting, and in the painting Gwendolen has an appendicitis scar. That scar was Gwendolen's. Hilda didn't have one. But Hilda knew about the painting. The real Gwendolen had told her, when they first met. She was so upset because Titus just took it, when rightfully it belonged to her. Dalí had given it to her.'

‘Hang on,' I interrupted. ‘A painting can't really prove anything. She could have said he just put it there, artistic licence.'

‘Gwendolen – Hilda that was – wasn't bright enough to think of anything like that. Anyway she
felt
it revealed what she'd done. She was more and more obsessed with the painting. More and more frightened of Titus. She went round to Mecklenburgh Square to get the painting from him. She was determined to make him give it to her, you see. There was a quarrel and … well …'

‘The chloroform – it must have been premeditated.'

Pauline's sallow cheeks reddened. She even looked slightly uncomfortable.

I was incredulous – so incredulous I could hardly feel angry. ‘You can actually sit here and tell me Gwendolen did
that
, and you and she just
kept quiet
all through the trial. That's incredible.'

‘It wasn't as if Titus suffered. I had chloroform from the hospital, you see. I used it sometimes myself, when girls were in a lot of pain. And once Gwen got the painting back she felt safe.'

‘But you'd let Colin
hang
!'

Her gaze did falter then. ‘I didn't care,' she muttered at last. ‘I really didn't care. So many people had died in the war. What did one more matter? The only thing that mattered to me was that Gwendolen should be safe. I thought she had to be looked after. I didn't give a fig what happened to your friend. I couldn't have cared less. What mattered was Hilda – Gwendolen. And her, well, I don't think she quite realised what she'd done. She had such a capacity for cutting off from things. She sort of forgot she'd done it. She put it away, out of sight.'

I clenched my hands under the table. ‘Why are you telling me this now? You'll have to give a statement. You have to go to the solicitors tomorrow.'

Pauline just smiled. ‘I don't have to do anything.'

‘You do. You do! Otherwise why tell us now?' But I knew why. She was
enjoying
it.

‘I was jealous, you know. Gwendolen liked
you
. Always giving you things. That day you went down to the country with Stan – it was she who insisted on taking you along. Not me! I wanted to go, but she had to take you. She didn't really care about Radu. A woman has to have a man, but–'

‘But when he left she tried to kill herself!'

‘Oh, that was all an act,' said Pauline. ‘To make sure Stanley came up to the mark.'

I was desperate; and angry. ‘Pauline – I'll see you get the painting, but only if you give a proper statement to the lawyers. You have to tell them. Before it's too late.'

Her face was distorted with spite. ‘You're changing the rules. You said you'd get me the portrait if I told you the truth. Now you're saying I have to tell some sodding lawyer.'

‘Well, that's how it is, Pauline. You make a statement and I'll get you the portrait. Do it tomorrow. Go to London. Go to Abrahams. I'll tell them to expect you.'

I couldn't bear to be near her any longer. I rushed from the tearoom, forgetting I hadn't paid, and coming out into the street I didn't know which way to go to get back to the station. In a few moments I was on the Front. I stopped by the pier, shaking, and gazed out to sea, trying to calm down. The tide was out. The foam licked the shore with a faint hush and sigh as the waves expired along the beach.

Had I done the right thing? Would she make a statement? The whole story was so unbelievable – something that could only have happened during the war. Did I even believe any of it? Had Pauline herself killed Titus, perhaps? There were things that didn't make sense. How had ‘Hilda' known, for example, that her twin would be killed in an air raid? How had she got hold of her documents, from a house that had been blown to smithereens? And who had killed Gwen? The chloroform – suffocation – the same method: Gwendolen couldn't have suffocated herself.

It was cold. I shivered. I had to get back to London. I hurried back into the town and found the right road and as I almost ran up the street to the station, I had an unmistakable feeling of being in danger, that danger was very close at hand.

twenty-eight

ALAN WENT STRAIGHT ROUND
to Julius Abrahams the next day. We assumed Pauline would go there. I'd given her the address. We didn't think it through. There was an awful possibility we managed to block out. We just believed that in the end she couldn't let an innocent man be hanged for a crime he hadn't committed when she knew the truth and could name the guilty person.

Noel was out of London and Kay was off sick with flu, so I had to be at the gallery. Again, we didn't think. The sense of danger I'd had the evening before had faded. I was anxious only about Colin now.

It was hard to concentrate on my work, but I did my best and one or two visitors turned up at the gallery, which took my mind off things. I was on tenterhooks all the time in the hope of Alan telephoning with good news. The phone did ring, but it was never him.

I became more and more tense. The silence of the office became oppressive. I sat downstairs at Kay's desk and tried to read a book, but I was restless and fidgety. I thought of locking up for the day and going home, but I stayed, because by now Pauline must have seen Julius. Alan would soon ring me, or perhaps even come to the gallery.

.........

But it was Pauline who came. She stood in the middle of the room and glanced round at the white walls with their two modern paintings. ‘Where's the portrait?'

‘Upstairs,' I said, automatically, ‘but what happened at the lawyers?'

She gazed at me blankly as if she didn't know what I was talking about.

‘Have you been to the lawyers, Pauline?'

She shook her head. ‘I need to have the portrait.'

‘You must go, Pauline. There's so little time. Please. The appeal's next week. I'll go with you. We'll take a taxi.'

‘I've come for the portrait. I have to have it back. You shouldn't have stolen it.'

‘I didn't
steal
it. And it's quite safe here. It's more important to–'

‘I made a mistake. I shouldn't have told you anything. You shouldn't have come to see me.'

‘You did the right thing. It was the right thing to do.'

I was pinned behind the desk. She stood between me and the door. I could telephone Alan, but I didn't know where he was. I could telephone Julius. But Pauline was talking.

‘Why don't you understand? I don't care about that Communist, Colin Harris. I don't give a fig. I didn't want to see you. I was in two minds about that. But then when I did see you, I decided I wanted
someone
to know the truth about Gwen. I wanted you to know how I stood by her, I held her hand, I kept all her secrets. I kept her going. She wouldn't have survived without me. But was she grateful? It turned out in the end she didn't give a damn about me. Once she got Stanley, she thought she could get rid of me like a worn-out garment. She didn't lift a finger when Stan kicked me out. She could have stopped him, but she didn't. She thought she was safe once Colin was convicted. So I went back to see her. We had a row. She laughed at me.'

I stood up. I spoke as calmly as I could. ‘If you tell the lawyers she murdered Titus, you'll have your revenge, won't you. Everyone will know her for what she was.'

‘I just want the portrait.'

I said: ‘If you have it, will you make a statement to the lawyers then?'

Pauline stared at me. I thought she was wavering. She was looking round frantically, her hands squeezing her bag. ‘Where is it? You haven't got it. You're lying aren't you?' She was agitated now.

‘It's in Noel's office. I'll bring it down for you.' I started up the stairs. But how stupid not to think she'd follow me. I looked back and there she was. ‘Wait downstairs.' I was really frightened now. She kept on coming up behind me. I climbed faster. I stopped on the landing. Noel's door was shut. ‘It's in here. Wait here while I fetch it.' I opened the door. For some reason she did as I said, stood twitching and fidgeting at the turn of the stairs.

The canvas was no longer where I'd last seen it, spread out on Noel's desk. I would be surprised if he'd rolled it up again, thus damaging it further, so where could he have put it? He
must
have rolled it up. I looked in the filing cabinet, the cupboard. It wasn't there. It wasn't anywhere.

She was in the doorway. ‘It's not here, is it? You've lied to me.'

‘It must be here somewhere.' My voice sounded trembly. She must know I was frightened. That wouldn't do.

I heard the door open downstairs. ‘Dinah!' It was Alan. Thank God.

‘I'm up here,' I shouted, ‘with Pauline.' As I spoke I was wrenching open the door of a second cupboard, and there the canvas was. I brought it out. ‘Here,' I said, ‘take it.'

Alan's footsteps on the stairs; she looked round and at that point she must have panicked, for instead of trying to get past him, down to the gallery and out of the door, she started up the stairs to the second floor.

‘There's no way out up there,' I cried. I heard her running on up. Alan rushed past me to follow her and I followed him.

She went right to the top of the house and out onto the roof. She made for the fire escape.

‘It's not safe,' I shouted, but she was going too fast to see how it ended in nothingness, threw up her arms, releasing the painting. There was an astonished scream as she plunged downwards. The canvas twisted after her. She hit the stagnant black lagoon at the bottom of the bomb-site. We stared down.

.........

Alan phoned for the police. They took a long time to come, and when they came they questioned us for hours. They left at last and Alan put his arm round me. ‘I'm proud of you. You were really brave.'

He told me he'd waited at Abrahams's office. Julius, he said, had been certain Pauline wouldn't turn up. He'd been in communication with the Brighton police again, who'd suspected her for a while and were about to charge her with Gwendolen's murder. ‘We were afraid that if Pauline came to London at all, she'd go to the gallery. We should have called you – come round sooner – but he had a lot to tell me. And then Radu phoned him as well.'

‘Radu?'

‘I'm meeting him. You might as well come too. He wants to explain things. That's why he telephoned Julius. He wanted to make it quite clear he had nothing to do with the murder – either of the murders.'

Radu's hotel was not far from the gallery, a quiet, small, grand hotel in Mayfair. We sat in the hush of the lounge and once Radu started talking, I thought he would never stop. He told us about his country with its beautiful lakes and mountains. He described the pre-war sophistication of Bucharest, and how that had been destroyed first by its fascist factions, then by the arrival of the Red Army. He didn't remember ever seeing Colin in the capital, but he'd heard that the British secret services began to try to re-establish a foothold there after Romania was out of the war. For his part he was quite simply afraid of the Russians, he just wanted to get away.

‘I want you to know – please believe me – I knew nothing of what was between Gwendolen and Titus.'

He had realised Gwendolen didn't want Titus involved in the film. But he needed Titus. ‘It was not just for his contribution. I soon realised he was too far gone for that. But I heard he had these valuable works of art,' said Radu. ‘My friend Mercier in Paris, he begged me to persuade Titus to part with them. He said if that happened, he'd part-finance the film, he'd give me some backing. So I more or less bullied Titus into parting with the Ernst and the Miró. He insisted he didn't have the Dalí any more, although he did. I suppose he dimly realised it wasn't a good idea to let me see it – as it was Gwendolen's portrait. But I got the others. Just in time – he was murdered soon after, but I was still able of course to make the deal with Mercier. So the film went on – I worked on it all those months, and all the time Gwendolen behaved stranger and stranger. After it was finished, I knew I had to get away.'

I watched him. Yes, he was vivacious and charming, but his lips were too full and his hair too wavy and his eyes too large. His animal magnetism no longer worked on me. He was just another continental Romeo. How could I have fallen for it! I liked him well enough, but … that was all.

‘I am sad Gwendolen has died in this horrible way. But they were
mad
, the two of them, those two women. And it almost drove me mad to be living with them all that time.'

He smiled, laughed, opened his arms. ‘Now – is it bad to say this? – I am free. I have so much opportunity in Hollywood – perhaps you join me. What about it, Alan? You know I have said California is such a terrible place. But it is also beautiful, in its own way. Such a strangely unreal landscape, it's a kind of sweet surrealist nightmare, and yet it fascinates me in a way. Besides, it is the land of the future. Europe is finished, you know. And it is the land of film.'

I thought of our whole life changing. No more dark winters, only the land of sunshine; no more scruffy socialist bohemians, only the blank-faced hedonists of the Pacific coast; it was a mad, seductive dream.

I smiled foolishly and looked at Alan. He shook his head. ‘The land of dreams,' he said, ‘sounds wonderful, but I think we'll stick to reality.'