by William Boyd
‘The White Palace Hotel on the line, sir.’
‘I don’t stay there any more.’
‘They say your wife has been taken ill.’
‘I’m not married, Tremlett – it’s obviously a mistake.’
‘They’re very insistent. She had a fainting fit, it seems.’
‘All right, put them on.’
He waited, hearing the clicks and buzzes as the connection was made. Then the manager came on the line.
‘Mrs Rief is in a very, ah, agitated state.’
‘There is no “Mrs Rief”, as it happens,’ Lysander said. Then he realized. ‘I’ll speak to her.’
He heard the receiver being held away and footsteps approaching.
‘Hello, Hettie,’ he said.
‘You’ve moved,’ she said accusingly, angrily. ‘I couldn’t think how else to find you.’
‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’
He took a taxi to Pimlico and found her in the resident’s lounge of The White Palace with a cup of tea and a medicinal brandy. He locked the door so they wouldn’t be interrupted but Hettie took this as an invitation to intimacy and tried to kiss him. He pushed her away gently and she sulkily sat down again on the sofa.
‘I‘ve got three whole days,’ she said. ‘Jago thinks I’m on a sketching holiday on the Isle of Wight. I thought being on an island would convince him more.’
‘I can’t see you, Hettie,’ he said. ‘There’s a flap on – I’m working day and night. That’s why I sent you the telegram.’
She frowned and tucked her knees up underneath her. She pouted and tapped her forefinger on her jawbone – one, two, three – as if counting down, mentally. Then she pointed the finger at him.
‘There’s someone else,’ she said, finally. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’
‘No . . . Yes.’
‘You’re a swine, Lysander. A bloody fucking swine.’
‘Hettie. You went and got married. We have a child but you didn’t even bother to tell me.’
‘That’s different.’
‘Please explain how.’
‘What have you done to me, Lysander?’
‘Hang on a second. Can I remind you of events in Vienna in 1913? You had me in prison with your damned lies. How dare you?’
‘I was helping you. Well, maybe not at first, but I was later.’
‘What’re you talking about?’
‘Those men persuaded me to drop the rape charge so you could be set bail. Udo was furious, practically threw me out –’
‘What men?’
‘Those two at the embassy. The attachés – I forget their names.’
‘Munro and Fyfe-Miller.’
‘If you say so.’
Lysander began to think fast.
‘You saw Munro and Fyfe-Miller?’ he asked. ‘While I was under arrest?’
‘We had a few meetings. They told me what to do – to change the charge. And they gave me money when I asked for some. After you escaped they were very helpful – offered to take me to Switzerland. But I decided to stay – because of Lothar.’ She looked at him aggressively, as if he were somehow to blame for all the mess. ‘They asked me lots of questions about you. Very curious. And I was very helpful, I can tell you that. Told them all sorts of interesting titbits about Mr Lysander Rief.’
Was she lying again, Lysander wondered. Was this pure bravura? He felt confusion beginning to overwhelm him once more. He reached over and finished off her brandy. First Munro turned out to have been Bensimon’s patient and now there seemed to be some form of collusion between Munro, Fyfe-Miller and Hettie. He tried to see what the connections and consequences might have been but it was all too perplexing. What had really happened in Vienna in 1914? It made him very uneasy.
Hettie leapt up from the sofa and came over to him, sliding on to his lap, putting her arms round his neck and kissing him – little dabbing kisses on his face, pressing her breasts into his arm.
‘I know what you like, Lysander. Think what fun we can have – three whole days. Let’s buy lots to eat and drink and just stay in. We can take all our clothes off . . .’ She reached for his groin.
‘No, Hettie. Please.’ He stood up, slipping easily out from under her – she was so small, so light. ‘I’m engaged to be married. It’s over. You should never have come. I explicitly told you not to come. You’ve only yourself to blame.’
‘You’re a bastard,’ she said, tears in her eyes. ‘A fucking mean bastard man.’ She carried on swearing at him, the volume increasing, as he put on his greatcoat and picked up his cap. He left the room without looking round. He didn’t mind the abuse but the last thing she screamed at him was, ‘– And you’ll never see Lothar in your life!’
The New London Theatre of Varieties, just off Cambridge Circus, was indeed new to Lysander. He would never have acted there as it was mainly a variety and vaudeville hall, although one that specialized in ‘ballets, French Plays and Society Pieces’. In the theatre guide he’d consulted – he wasn’t interested in the programme but the facilities – he had read that ‘the tourist will find that the audience forms part of the entertainment’. This was a code, he knew, for ‘prostitutes frequent the lobby bars’. The New London was an obsolescent type of Victorian theatre where the public could drink at the theatre bars without having to pay for the show. It was originally a way of supplementing the night’s takings but the system inevitably brought other trade with it. Lysander remembered some old actors of his acquaintance reminiscing fondly about the prices and the quality of the streetwalkers available – the higher up you went in the theatre – from the stalls to the bars at the dress circle, upper circle, amphitheatre – the cheaper the girls. A better class of gentlemen also came to these public theatre bars because it provided perfect camouflage – there was plenty of time to scrutinize and select while ostensibly doing something entirely innocent: going to the theatre – how very cultural and educative.
The show had begun by the time Lysander slipped into his seat. A ‘ballet’ of French maids and a hairdresser as far as he could tell.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said to Vandenbrook and turned slightly to gain a better angle on him. He was in a suit, his hair was oiled flat with a middle parting and he had combed down the uptilted ends of his moustache. He already looked entirely different from the usual person he presented to the world – weaker-looking and much less attractive.
‘Got the spectacles?’
Vandenbrook fished in his pocket and put them on.
‘Ideal. Keep wearing them.’
They were clear-lensed, plain glass with wire rims, borrowed from a theatrical props agency in Drury Lane. As the ballet continued Lysander ran through the plan once more, making sure Vandenbrook understood exactly what to do. There was no need to whisper or even lower his voice as the auditorium was loud with a sustained growl of conversation and the to-ing and fro-ing of people leaving their seats and going to the bars and drinks counters that ringed the stalls. Many of them, Lysander noticed, were uniformed soldiers and sailors. Almost everyone seemed to be smoking so he offered Vandenbrook a cigarette and they both lit up as the ballet ended and the comedy sketch began.
When the curtain came down the Master of Ceremonies reminded them that the top of the bill in the second half of the evening’s entertainment was the ‘celebrated West End actor’ Mr Trelawny Melhuish, who would be reciting the soliloquies of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. Lysander and Vandenbrook filed out into the aisles and headed for the stalls’ lobby bar. To be or not to be, Lysander thought.
‘We’ll split up here,’ he said, as they reached the curtained doorway that led to the lobby.
The stalls’ lobby was a wide, curving, low-ceilinged corridor, dimly lit with flickering gas sconces and very crowded with people who had come in off the street and those who were now pouring out of the auditorium. Lysander edged his way towards the central bar opposite the stairs leading up from the entrance. Standing some way back, a silent trio, in civilian clothes as he’
d specified in the telegrams he’d sent to them, were Munro, Fyfe-Miller and Massinger. He glanced back to make sure that Vandenbrook was nowhere near him but couldn’t spot him in the throng. Good.
He approached the three men, circling round behind them. They all looked ill at ease, uncomfortable in this bibulous, flushed, shouting crowd. Even better, Lysander thought.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, suddenly appearing in front of them. ‘Thanks for coming.’
‘What’re we doing here, Rief? What kind of tomfoolery is this?’ Massinger snarled at him.
‘I had to make sure I wasn’t followed,’ he said. ‘I don’t trust anyone at the Directorate.’
‘What’s going on?’ Munro said, his eyes flicking around the faces of the crowd. ‘What’s your game, Rief? What was so damn urgent to bring us all here?’
‘I’ve found Andromeda,’ Lysander said, immediately gaining their full attention.
‘Oh, yes?’ Fyfe-Miller said with undue scepticism, Lysander thought. Over Fyfe-Miller’s left shoulder Lysander could see Vandenbrook circling closer. The disguise was excellent, Lysander thought – Vandenbrook looked like a timid accounts clerk out on the town looking for sin.
‘Yes,’ Lysander said. He had to draw this out a little, give Vandenbrook as much time as possible. ‘It’s someone quite high up.’
‘It’s not Osborne-Way – don’t waste our time.’
‘It’s his number two,’ Lysander said. ‘Mansfield Keogh.’
The three looked at each other. They clearly knew who Keogh was.
‘Mansfield Keogh,’ Massinger said. ‘Good god almighty.’
‘Yes, Keogh,’ Lysander said, half aware of Vandenbrook moving around their group. ‘Everything fits. The trips to France tally. Only he had all the information in the Glockner letters.’
‘But why would he do it?’ Munro said, sounding unconvinced.
‘Why does anyone?’ Lysander said, looking at all three of them pointedly. ‘There are three reasons why someone betrays their country – revenge, money,’ he paused. ‘And blackmail.’
‘Nonsense,’ Massinger said. Munro and Fyfe-Miller kept quiet.
‘Think about it,’ Lysander said.
‘How do any of those categories fit Keogh?’ Fyfe-Miller said, frowning.
‘His wife died recently, very young – maybe it’s driven him a bit insane,’ Lysander said. ‘But I don’t know, in the end. I was just gathering evidence, not looking for motives.’
‘Well, we can ask him when we arrest him,’ Munro said with a thin smile. ‘Tomorrow – or maybe tonight.’
Everyone fell silent contemplating the reality of the situation.
‘So – Keogh is Andromeda,’ Massinger said, almost to himself.
‘Well done, Rief,’ Munro said. ‘You took your time but you got there in the end. I’ll be in touch. Keep going to work in the Annexe as usual.’
‘Yes, good hunting, Rief,’ Fyfe-Miller added, allowing himself a wide smile. ‘We thought you’d be the man to winkle him out. Bravo.’
A bell began to clang, announcing the second portion of the evening’s entertainment. The crowd began to drift back into the auditorium and for the first time Lysander became aware of the painted women standing around.
‘I’ll leave you chaps here,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’m going to watch the rest of the show. Best to go out one by one.’ He turned and walked away, glad to see no sign of Vandenbrook.
‘Evening, my lord,’ one of the doxies said to him, smiling. ‘Doin’ anything after?’
He glanced back to see Massinger leaving. Fyfe-Miller and Munro were talking urgently, their heads close together. I’ll give it twenty-four hours, Lysander thought, pleased with the way everything had run – something would happen.
Vandenbrook was in his seat already, smoking, waiting for the curtain to go up.
Lysander joined him and handed him a pint of lager beer. He had one for himself.
‘Well done,’ he said. ‘Do you like this stuff? I developed quite a taste for it in Vienna.’
‘Thanks.’ He seemed a bit subdued and sipped at the froth at the top of the glass.
‘Well?’
‘I didn’t recognize any of them. Except that fellow with the step-collar. He looked familiar somehow.’
‘Massinger?’
‘I think I may have seen him before. In my War Office days. Is he an army man?’
‘Yes. So – conceivably he might know who you were.’
‘Possibly – he seemed familiar.’
Lysander thought – it was hardly evidence. The orchestra in the pit began to play a military march and the curtain rose to reveal a chorus of girls in khaki corsets and bloomers carrying wooden rifles. Cheers, whoops and whistles went up from the audience. This was what they wanted to see – not Mr Trelawny Melhuish reciting soliloquies.
‘So Massinger could be Andromeda,’ Lysander said.
‘Andromeda? What’s that?’
‘That’s the codename we gave you. When the search began.’
‘Oh, right.’ Vandenbrook looked a little uncomfortable at the thought he had been identified by a code word, Lysander supposed. ‘Why Andromeda?’
‘It was my choice, actually. Taken from a German opera. Andromeda und Perseus by Gottlieb Toller.’
‘Oh, yes. It’s a bit saucy that one, isn’t it?’
‘Never saw it,’ Lysander said, his eye suddenly caught by a tall, leggy dancer who reminded him of Blanche. He put a sixpence in the slot that freed the catch on the opera glasses fixed to the back of the seat in front of him and raised them to his eyes for a closer look. Might as well enjoy the show, he thought.
18. No Eureka Moment
Lysander couldn’t sleep so sometime between three and four in the morning he went through to his kitchen and made himself a draught of chloral hydrate. Bensimon’s somnifacient didn’t work at all and he was beginning to suspect it was a placebo. He put half a teaspoon of the crystalline powder in a glass of water, stirred it vigorously and drank it down. Not much left in the packet he saw – he was rather racing through it. Bad sign.
As he waited for the familiar effects of the drug to start, he ran over the events of his elaborately planned encounter at the New London Theatre of Varieties. In a way he was disappointed – there had been no Eureka moment, no detonation of understanding and clarity – but something had been said this night, something inadvertently given away that he hadn’t quite grasped. Yet. Perhaps it would come to him. More and more he was convinced that Vienna held the key – those last months before the war began . . . He felt the chloral begin to work – the room swayed, he sensed his balance going. Time for bed and sleep at last. He walked carefully back through to his bedroom, a hand on the wall to steady himself. God, this stuff was strong – he flung himself on the bed feeling consciousness blissfully slipping away. Vienna. That was it. So it must be . . .
‘You all right, sir?’ Tremlett said. ‘Look a bit under the weather.’
‘I’m perfectly fine, thank you, Tremlett. Got a lot on my mind.’
‘Going to have a bit more on your mind, I’m afraid, sir. Colonel wants to see you.’
Lysander smoked a quick cigarette, checked his uniform thoroughly so that Osborne-Way wouldn’t have the satisfaction of claiming he was ‘improperly dressed’, and walked briskly down the passageway to the Director of Movements’ office.
Osborne-Way’s secretary could not meet his eyes as she showed him in. Lysander saluted and removed his cap, stood at ease. Osborne-Way sat behind his desk looking at him and did not offer a chair.
‘Captain Keogh was arrested at his house this morning at six o’clock. He’s being held at New Scotland Yard.’
Lysander said nothing.
‘No answer, Rief?’
‘You didn’t ask me a question, sir. You made a statement. I assumed a question would be following.’
‘People like you make me wonder why we’re fighting this war, Rief. You make me sick to my stomach.
’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir.’
‘How some actor-popinjay like you wound up as an officer is a disgrace to the British Army.’
‘I’m just trying to do my bit, sir. Like you.’ He pointed to his wounded-in-action bar on his sleeve. ‘I’ve done my time in the front line and have the scars to prove it.’ He enjoyed the fleeting look of discomfort that crossed Osborne-Way’s face – the lifelong staff officer in his cushy billet with his all-expenses-paid weekends in Paris.
‘Mansfield Keogh is one of the finest men I know. You’re not fit to tie his bootlaces.’
‘If you say so, sir.’
‘What evidence have you got against him? What’s your grubby little enquiry dug up?’
‘I’m not at liberty to tell you, sir.’
‘Well, I’m damned well ordering you to tell me! You filth! You scum of the earth!’
Lysander waited a second or two before replying – accentuating the drawl in his voice, ever so slightly.
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to talk to the Chief of the Imperial General Staff about that, Colonel.’
‘Get out of here!’
Lysander put his cap back on, saluted and left.
Back in Room 205 he found a telegram waiting.
ANDROMEDA. SPANIARDS INN. 7 AM TOMORROW.
Not even twenty-four hours, Lysander thought, impressed. So, something had happened last night after all. He had just enough time to make sure everything was prepared.
19. Waiting for Sunrise
Lysander had the taxi drop him at the top of Heath Street, in Hampstead, by the pond and the flagstaff, deciding he’d rather approach the Spaniards Inn on foot. It was 5.30 in the morning and still dark night, as the French would say. He was wearing a black overcoat and scarf with a black Trilby. It was cold and his breath was condensing thickly in front of him as he began the half-mile walk from the flagstaff to the inn along Spaniards Road, along the top of the heath. He could see very little – the streetlamps were very widely spaced on Spaniards Road – but he knew that all London lay to his south and he could hear the noise of the wind in the great oaks of Caen Wood on his right hand side – the creak and rub of huge branches like the masts and cross trees of a sailing ship at sea – timber under strain. The wind was growing, fierce and gusty, and he jammed his hat more firmly on his head, telling himself as he marched along that the key element at the moment was calmness – stay calm at all costs, whatever happened. Everything was planned, everything was in place.