To Love a Traitor (10 page)

And goodness me, talking of antiques—the bath chair they’ve got him in is dreadful. Unbelievably heavy—I thought for a moment I’d have to call a man to push it, and our dramatic break for freedom would be ruined. I’ve put in an order for a modern wheelchair that Pip will be able to move around himself, and shall be very pleased to present his parents with the bill when it arrives.

I spoke to Pip about you, as you asked, and he seemed glad to know you were doing well. You were quite right, you know. It was at Hugh’s request that he spoke up for you. It makes me feel quite—well, I’m not sure how, if I’m honest. A rather silly mix of happy and sad, I suppose. Happy, that Hugh finally came to value you as he ought, but sad that you never got to see each other again.

I think Hugh would be glad to see me taking an interest in Pip’s happiness, don’t you?

Anyway, I’ve rattled on long enough, and I want to catch the post. Do take care of yourself, and try not to be downcast.

Affectionately yours,

Mabel

George put down the letter feeling, like its writer, that he didn’t quite know how he felt about it. And not just because he was on the verge of weeping for Hugh all over again.

There seemed… Well, there seemed to be an awful lot of
Pip
in that letter.

Aware that any feelings he might have about that would do him little credit, however, George did his best not to feel anything about it at all. He merely added it to his list of subjects upon which he determined not to brood, and had some success in the endeavour.

It was just as well—Phillips, insidiously aided by Mitchell, continued in his efforts to “jolly” George up, and had already threatened to drag him along to his usual watering hole on a Friday night. George had grave fears that if he ever weakened and allowed it, Phillips would prove once more unable to contain his opinions and they’d both end up back in quod.

Chapter Twelve

As the month progressed, thoughts at number twenty-one Allen Street turned inevitably to Christmas. Picture frames sprouted wreaths of holly, brightly coloured cards bearing seasonal greetings appeared on the mantelpiece, and George walked into the sitting room one evening to find Miss Lewis attaching a sprig of mistletoe to the door frame with a decided air of mischief. Feeling discretion to be the better part of valour, he fled back upstairs and didn’t go down again until Matthew was with him.

“What are your plans for Christmas, George?” Matthew asked as they sat after supper sharing a copy of the
Daily Mirror
. “I’m off to my parents’ house in Hampshire on Christmas Eve. With Christmas Day falling on a Saturday this year, we’ll have a whole four days off.”

“I expect I’ll stay here.” George’s tone was tinged with bitterness. “I don’t suppose there would be much of a welcome for me back home.”

Matthew’s face grew solemn. “Dreadfully sorry to hear about that, old man. Is there really no chance they’ll come around?”

“Oh, if I were to go there they’d let me in the door all right, but I think we’ll all be happier if I simply stay away.”

“That’s rotten.” Unexpectedly, Matthew brightened. “I say, why don’t you come and stay with my family? I’m sure Mother will be delighted to have you—she always says the more the merrier.”

George froze. “I couldn’t possibly—”

“Nonsense! Look, I’ll wire her and ask—I won’t mention I’ve said anything to you, so she won’t feel under any pressure to say yes. But she will, anyway.”

The subject was dropped for a few days, allowing George leisure to explore what he really felt about the invitation. On the one hand, accepting it would be rather underhanded of him, given that he was still trying to worm out information about Matthew. Not to mention, it was his natural inclination to avoid meeting new people, with their inevitable curiosity about his past. On the other…

On the other hand, there was Matthew. George was desperately aware that he felt far more than he ought for the cheerful young man. Spending time at Matthew’s home, with the attendant increase in intimacy between them, might increase the danger of George succumbing to his feelings—but then wouldn’t it also increase the chance of finding out something about Hugh’s death?

George vacillated daily between determination to turn down the invitation flat, and a conviction that accepting it could be the very thing that would enable him to close his investigation. It was maddening, and he more than once found himself losing concentration at work.

“Mr. Cottingham? Ha, he’s away with the Christmas fairies again.”

George looked up hurriedly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Phillips, what did you say?”

“Mr. Mitchell and me, we was wondering if you’d be spending Christmas with the family.”

The inclusion of Mr. Mitchell seemed curious, particularly as he was presently out of the room. “I, ah, no. Will you be having a family get-together?”

Phillips nodded. “Always did when my old mum was alive, God rest her, and no reason to stop now she’s gone to her reward.” His atheism was slipping again, George noticed with amusement. “A right good time we have too, and the more the merrier. So we was wondering if, always provided you haven’t got other plans, of course, if, as I say, you’d like to join us?”

And Mr. Mitchell had what, precisely, to do with this? “Ah…”

Phillips seemed to notice his omission. “Mr. Mitchell’s already agreed to honour us with his presence. Getting to be quite a tradition, that is.”

Which presumably meant he’d done the same last year, as prior to that Phillips had been in quod and Mitchell up in the skies over France. Mitchell, George knew, had been widowed early in 1919, his wife another victim of that wretched flu. Phillips had told him all about it in private, after George’s polite enquiry as to whether Mitchell was a married man had been met with a curt, “No.” She’d been expecting their first child at the time, apparently. No wonder the poor man hadn’t wanted to spend his Christmases by himself.

“So what do you say?” Phillips insisted.

“It’s awfully kind of you to ask me.” George was deeply touched by this invitation to share their celebrations, even though in all likelihood it’d be the sort of loud, alcohol-fuelled bun-fight he’d pay good money to avoid. “But I’ve been invited elsewhere. A friend’s asked me down to Hampshire to stay with his people.”

“Ah! Say no more about it, then.” Phillips sat back with a smile, just as Mitchell limped back through the door.

He gave them both suspicious glances. “I begin to think I’m the only member of staff actually doing any work,” he said before sitting back at his desk.

Phillips took off his spectacles, gave them a polish and put them back on again to peer closely at Mr. Mitchell. “So that’s what you call going downstairs to make eyes at Miss Pargeter, is it?”

Mitchell opened his mouth—but whatever riposte he was about to make was lost as Mr. Whittaker put his head around the door, and they all did their best to look industrious.

The first to leave that night, George was almost certain he heard Mitchell demand, “Is he coming, then?” as he closed the door behind him.

At this evidence that both of them had hoped for his company, George felt almost regretful that Matthew had made his prior invitation.

George was, however, beginning to think the invitation would not, after all, be forthcoming—obviously, Matthew was merely being polite—when the man himself bounded into George’s room one evening brandishing a telegram. “Look at this, George: ‘Re friend, stop. Would be delighted, stop. Love, Mother, stop’.” So you see, you simply must come!”

Matthew waited, his expression so bright and hopeful, that George found himself giving his assent almost without conscious volition.

“Now, you needn’t worry if you don’t have any evening wear,” Matthew carried on. “Father’s always a bit of a stickler for the formalities at this time of year, but a dark suit will be perfectly acceptable.”

“I—actually, I do own a dinner jacket,” George admitted. He’d brought it from home against his better judgement, imagining he’d have little use for it in his new life but somehow not wanting to leave all thoughts of pleasure behind. It was gratifying to find he’d get some wear out of it after all.

“Splendid! I bet you look awfully dashing in evening wear,” Matthew said with a sly look at his friend.

George flushed. “No more so than anyone else.”

“Nonsense! I’m sure you must have the ladies throwing themselves at your feet. You’ve got just the colouring for it. Dark hair, pale skin, that air of mystery about you—”

“There’s absolutely nothing mysterious about me!” George broke in a little more abruptly than was perhaps polite. “And anyway,” he added in an attempt to deflect Matthew’s interest, “if you were in the room, nobody would even give me a second look.”

“What rot!” Matthew said, laughing. “Contrary to what you may think, I do look in the mirror from time to time. It’s rather hard to shave if one doesn’t.”

George wrote that night to Mabel.

Dear Mabel,

I’m sorry to say I shan’t see you at Christmas. I’d more or less made up my mind to stay in London in any case, but as it happens, Matthew has invited me to spend a few days at his father’s rectory in Hampshire. I’m quite certain Mother and Father won’t miss me—they’ll be able to have people to visit without the embarrassment of my presence.

Bother. He’d made a fearful blot of the full stop. George carefully applied blotting paper, and continued, taking care to have a lighter hand this time.

And it will help me get to know Matthew better, which is all to the good.

George paused. Should he mention Matthew’s knowledge of German? But if he did that, Mabel would more than likely think Matthew certain to have been a spy. It wasn’t fair to her, he decided. She’d only worry all the more about him, in that case.

As I’m sure you can guess from the invitation, he’s a very friendly, sociable chap, so with the amount of time we’ll be spending together, I’m sure I’ll be able to turn the conversation to that part of his history we’re interested in, hopefully without seeming like I’m prying.

Writing it so baldly left a bad taste in George’s mouth. Was it really gentlemanly to accept the man’s invitation with the sole intention of using it to get him to incriminate himself? But damn it, it would look terribly queer if he backed out now. And in any case, Matthew was almost certainly innocent of any wrongdoing, in which case they would simply enjoy each other’s company.

I hope you’ll have a merry time without me. Will you take much time off work? I suppose it’ll depend on whether you have company. Still, I suppose even a hospital can be a jolly place at Christmas.

I’ll write again when I come back from Hampshire.

Affectionately,

George

Mabel’s reply arrived just in time to reach him before he left, on Christmas Eve.

Dearest George

(Do you know, I’m getting quite used to calling you by your second name? I shall have dreadful trouble remembering what to call you, should you decide to become Roger once more.)

You needn’t worry about me. My sister Anna has brought her children down to stay, so we’re going to have a terribly jolly Christmas. The Whartons will be coming over Christmas Day evening, just for a light supper—Mother wanted to have them for Christmas lunch, but with all of us here, there just wouldn’t have been room. Pip, of course, has been joking that he can’t see what all the fuss is about as he, at least, would be guaranteed a seat! Isn’t it wonderful how he’s kept up his spirits in the face of all that’s happened to him? I do admire him for it.

I hope you’ll have a good time down in Hampshire. Is Matthew’s family very large? Clergy families often seem to be, don’t they, although I’m not entirely sure what that says about the Church!

I’ve cut down my hours at the hospital, by the way. It’s made Mother and Father happy, not to see me “working myself into an early grave”, and in any case, it’s not like during the war when all hands were needed.

I’ve been so sad the last two Christmases, because of course Christmas always makes me think of Hugh. I feel almost guilty that I’m looking forward to it this year. But I think he’d want me to be happy, don’t you?
I think he’d want us both to be happy. Your Matthew seems a good sort, from what (very!) little you’ve told me. Not at all what I’d imagined. Perhaps I really was reading too much into things. I suppose when terrible things happen, one always wants someone to blame, and sometimes one can look too hard for a scapegoat when there really isn’t one.

At any rate, I wish you both a very merry Christmas

Affectionately yours,

Mabel

George closed the letter, once again with mixed emotions.

Both of their offices taking a half day on Christmas Eve, George and Matthew set off for Hampshire soon after lunch, waiting only for Matthew to say an excessively fond farewell to an indifferent Marmaduke and extort a promise from Mrs. Mac to feed him a prime cut of goose for his Christmas dinner. They travelled to Matthew’s family home by train, a journey of a little under three hours, including changes. Fortunately for them, as they waited on draughty station platforms, the weather had, with a perversity all too familiar to residents of the British Isles, turned unseasonably mild. The snows of a fortnight ago seemed now a distant memory.

“It’s a bit of a shame Christmas wasn’t two weeks ago,” Matthew commented wistfully. He’d managed to bag the two window seats for them on the final leg of their journey, and they were now watching the countryside as it flashed past in dull shades of green and brown, rather than sparkling white.

“Yes, but on the other hand, at least the trains have been on time!” George countered. “I’ll take a swift, trouble-free journey over being stranded in the snow any day, be it ever so picturesque.”

“True enough!” Matthew laughed. “It would have been an awful bore being stuck in London for Christmas.” Obviously delighted at the prospect of seeing his family again, he chattered away excitedly, telling George all about his younger brothers and sister, his mother’s passion for Good Works and his father’s for obscure theological texts. “And, ah, George?” he said hesitantly, laying a hand on his friend’s knee that sent a warmth coursing throughout George’s body. “I’ve written to Mother and told her you don’t like to talk about the war, so you needn’t worry about anyone bringing all that up.”

George felt rather overcome by Matthew’s kindness—he’d in fact been worrying a good deal about awkward conversations to come. “That’s very decent of you,” he said inadequately.

“Not at all. I don’t suppose anyone will want to talk about that sort of thing in any case—Christmas is a time for being happy, not sad.” Matthew was silent a moment. “I’m so glad you’re coming down with me.”

“I—well, thank you for inviting me,” George said. He was painfully conscious of Matthew’s hand still resting on his knee, but simultaneously aware that his friend could mean nothing by it. They were in a carriage full of people, for Heaven’s sake. Still, he felt a wrenching sense of loss when, after a moment, Matthew withdrew.