The Diplomat's Wife

by Michael Ridpath

  ‘Yes, I do,’ I said.

  ‘Good. Now smile. Or laugh. Or something. What I am going to tell you is serious, but you shouldn’t make it appear as such.’

  I understood. ‘Kurt, that’s ridiculous!’ I said, with a look of mock horror.

  Kurt smiled. ‘Very good. Here goes. It’s about your favourite third secretary, Cyril Ashcott.’

  Chapter 19

  I TELEPHONED HEATON-SMITH at the embassy the following morning, half an hour after Roland had set off for work. He agreed to meet me immediately at a café on the Rue Saint-Dominique near our apartment. Apparently, Colonel Vivian had left Paris for Rome, where someone had pinched the ambassador’s wife’s necklace, leaving Heaton-Smith in charge in Paris.

  I told him that I had overheard Herr Abetz and Herr Lohmüller discussing Cyril, and I had also overheard the word ‘Erpressung’, which is German for ‘blackmail’. I decided to let the secret-service man join the dots. If Dick could tell that Cyril was a fairy, then Heaton-Smith could too. And Heaton-Smith could work out that it was Cyril who was passing secrets to the Germans. Codebooks, according to Kurt.

  Heaton-Smith seemed pleased with my story. ‘Thank you, Mrs Meeke. I will certainly follow this up. Have you told your husband?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  Heaton-Smith raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Colonel Vivian told me not to.’

  ‘So he did. And he was absolutely right; the fewer people who know, the better, especially within the embassy.’

  ‘I say. If it turns out that Cyril is completely innocent, you will let me know, won’t you? It’s just that I like him, and I don’t want to be suspicious of him with no cause.’

  ‘Yes, I will,’ said Heaton-Smith. He smiled, displaying a disconcerting gap between his two front teeth. He shook my hand. ‘Your husband was absolutely right to urge us to talk to you. You did well.’

  As I walked back to my apartment, I wondered if I had done the right thing. With everything else that had been going on, I hadn’t questioned what Kurt had asked me to do, I had just done it. It seemed like the ‘right thing’. But what did it say about my loyalty? About whom I trusted?

  I liked Cyril, but if he was betraying his country, even his right-wing capitalist country, he should be caught and punished. Maybe not punished if he was a victim of blackmail. But he should be stopped.

  He probably would be punished severely. I didn’t understand homosexuality, nor did I understand society’s reaction to it. Everyone, apart from me, seemed to know when people like Freddie or Cyril were homosexuals, which they all seemed to tolerate or even find amusing, until the poor men were caught by an official, whereupon they somehow deserved severe criminal punishment and social ostracism. It didn’t make sense. And more concretely, it meant the likes of Cyril Ashcott could be blackmailed.

  My brother had betrayed his country. Would I have sold him out as I had just sold out Cyril?

  Then there was the way I had trusted Kurt. Not just that the information about Cyril was correct, but, more importantly, that I should hide from the British authorities that Kurt had given me that information intentionally. Why hadn’t I told Heaton-Smith that Kurt was willing to betray his country to the British? It was an opportunity for Heaton-Smith to recruit Kurt as a spy for us.

  Because Kurt had asked me not to. Because he had put himself in great danger by telling me what he knew, and he trusted me more than the British secret service to keep his name out of it.

  But why was Kurt betraying his country?

  I knew the answer. Despite his protestations, he, like me, was a communist. It takes one to know one. As a communist, he hated Fascism. He hated Hitler. And he recognized that in me. By exposing Cyril, he and I together were doing a little bit to restrain a loathsome dictator.

  I liked that.

  Maybe I had done the right thing after all.

  When I returned to the flat, the telephone was ringing. I picked it up.

  ‘Emma? It’s Dick.’

  ‘Oh, hello, Dick.’ I was actually glad to hear his voice. We hadn’t spoken since the Café de Flore.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry I mishandled things the other night. Can I take you to the cinema tonight to make amends? Or partial amends?’

  Suddenly, that idea seemed very attractive to me. I would like to see Dick, and a film would stop me stewing and help stave off awkward conversation between us.

  ‘That would be lovely. What’s on?’

  ‘There’s rather a good western that has just got to France. Blue Steel. Have you seen it?’

  ‘I don’t think I have ever seen a western in my life,’ I said, somewhat coolly.

  ‘Well, it’s jolly well time that you did,’ said Dick. ‘The cinema is on the Champs Élysées.’ He gave me the address. ‘Seven o’clock.’

  I hesitated, trying to think what Roland was doing that evening. Then I realized I didn’t care.

  ‘I will see you then.’

  I was looking forward to the cinema. But I had to deal with luncheon with my mother first.

  Mama varied venues for our meals in Paris between Larue’s and the Ritz, but I suspected the Ritz was her favourite. She liked the mixture of grandeur and high-society wickedness that the place exuded at that time. I hoped if I could get her chattering I might avoid any searching questions about why I was looking down in the dumps. But if she did ask, what would I say?

  Perhaps I would tell her the truth?

  If anyone might have good advice on how to deal with this situation, then it would be my mother. She must have oodles of friends in the same boat as me. The thing was, if I was humiliated by the idea of admitting Roland’s infidelity to my sister, the idea of telling my mother was mortifying.

  And then there was the fact that she was about to become a grandmother. While many mothers would be overjoyed at the news, I knew my mother wouldn’t like the idea that she was on the cusp of grannyhood at all. I couldn’t tell her, at least not yet.

  I decided to walk to the Place Vendôme. As I crossed the Seine, I came up with a stratagem.

  My mother seemed in fine fettle, as she ordered a gin and It before lunch. To her surprise, I ordered one too. The Ritz’s opulent dining room was full of Paris’s beautiful people, some of whom even I recognized: the Italian ambassador lunching with one of the legions of former French cabinet ministers, and a famous French actress toying with a millionaire motor manufacturer.

  I had slightly lost touch with my mother’s whereabouts, but it turned out she had spent a couple of days in the Loire Valley at the chateau of an old school friend, Googoo. I had heard about Googoo on and off for all of my life, but it sounded a ridiculous name for an adult woman when uttered in the dining room of the Ritz. I think her real name was Gertrude. She was a Scotswoman who had married a French aristocrat.

  ‘Do you think Googoo’s husband is faithful to her?’ I asked.

  ‘What an extraordinary question!’

  I realized that, as usual, I had been a little too direct. Still, my mother should be used to that. ‘Is it?’

  My mother smiled. She was wearing a new cloche hat, a pale blue dress I also hadn’t seen before and her favourite everyday pearls. She had perfected the art of lipstick – her lips traced a perfect bow. She looked the equal of any of the other women in the room, except perhaps the actress, which wasn’t bad for an Englishwoman.

  ‘No, I suppose it’s not so extraordinary.’ She glanced at me, deciding whether to confide. ‘I don’t think Jean-Pierre has been faithful, no.’

  ‘And how does Googoo take that?’

  My mother sighed. ‘She puts up with it. It’s almost inevitable in this country.’

  ‘Does she speak to you about it?’

  ‘She has done, sometimes. Over the years. Why do you ask?’

  I paused while the waiter took our orders.

  Time for part two of the stratagem. ‘I have a friend at the American Embassy. Her name is Frances. She’s married to a diplomat, like me. And she h
as just learned that he has been unfaithful. She’s frightfully upset and I am the only one she has confided in. I don’t know what to advise her. Should she confront him? Should she throw him out? Should she leave him? Should she divorce him? Or should she just ignore it and pretend it didn’t happen?’

  My mother’s small nose was twitching. ‘Is she sure her husband has been unfaithful?’

  ‘Yes.’ I swallowed. Somehow that one question had undermined my confidence, which until that point had been going strong.

  ‘Oh, my poor darling!’ My mother reached out for my hand. I gave it to her and she squeezed it. ‘My poor, poor darling.’

  ‘It’s not me,’ I said, fighting to control the tears. ‘It’s my friend. Frances.’

  ‘Of course it’s you, darling. If someone asks for “a friend” it’s always them. Don’t you even know that?’

  The ‘even’ emphasized my naivety. But I was naive. I was only twenty-two for God’s sake! I wasn’t supposed to know about all this stuff.

  ‘Do you know who it is?’ she asked.

  I gave up any pretence that I was talking about anyone other than myself. My mother’s sympathy seemed genuine, and now at least I could get the advice of someone more experienced in life than me.

  ‘I’m not sure. I think it might be Sophie de Villegly. Do you know her?’

  ‘I do slightly. She’s very pretty. She is his age. And she does have a bit of a reputation.’

  I withdrew my hand. This was not what I wanted to hear.

  ‘I’m sorry, darling, but it’s much the best if you know whom you are dealing with. How long has it been going on for?’

  ‘I have no idea. I only became suspicious in the last couple of days. But you know how I sometimes miss things. It could have been carrying on for months. Years, maybe.’

  For some reason, I hadn’t considered this before. Perhaps the affair had started before we were married.

  ‘I thought Roland loved me,’ I said, despising the self-pity in my voice.

  ‘He probably does love you,’ my mother said. ‘I’m sure he’s very fond of you; I can see that.’

  ‘Then why does he take a . . .’ I searched for the word. ‘A mistress?’

  ‘Who knows why men do that? The thrill of the chase? The danger? The excitement? I sometimes wonder whether humans were meant to be monogamous at all.’

  ‘So you think it’s possible for Roland to love me and love Sophie de Villegly as well?’

  ‘Having seen this many times, I would say it is perfectly possible. And he may not even love Sophie de Villegly.’

  That hadn’t occurred to me.

  ‘You said she had a reputation. Does Roland?’

  ‘He did, a bit, before you were married. There were a couple of married women he was rumoured to have seduced. NSIT.’

  I remembered that from my deb days. Not Safe In Taxis.

  ‘So what do I do, Mama? Do I divorce him?’

  ‘God no. It will cost heaps of money, there will be a scandal and then you will get married to another man who will just do exactly the same thing.’

  ‘But that’s a dreadful idea! It’s too horrid.’

  ‘It’s the truth. So don’t do it.’

  ‘So I don’t do anything?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. You need to lay down the rules of the game and enforce them. What those rules are is up to you, but I would suggest at a minimum nothing in public. You don’t want him to make you look a fool. If possible try and let him know you know without actually telling him. Roland is clever; he’ll catch on.’

  ‘So I let him carry on?’

  ‘He will carry on. This way you let him carry on, but on your terms. That’s what Googoo does, and it works.’

  ‘For him, you mean.’

  ‘And for her.’

  ‘Does she sleep with other people too?’

  My mother didn’t answer.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘It all seems so sordid. I’m not sure I could ever just “carry on”.’

  ‘My poor darling! You are upset and angry, of course you are. Don’t do anything rash. Let it settle. And then you will see I am right.’

  Our soup came, consommé, and I mulled over what my mother had said as I sipped it. I wasn’t sure that I could ever follow her advice. But it was meant well. And I had a horrible feeling that she might be right.

  Chapter 20

  I FELT DREADFUL when I left the Ritz. I still didn’t know what to do. Or, part of me knew what I should do – take the pragmatic option my mother was suggesting – and part of me rejected that. It was tearing me apart.

  I resolved to treat myself to some books.

  I walked across the river to Shakespeare and Company. The books all around me calmed me down, as did the familiar faces of the browsers. I went to the philosophy section, but that wasn’t where the answer to my dilemma lay. Fiction?

  Perhaps I needed escape rather than answers.

  ‘Emma?’

  I recognized the voice. It was Kay.

  ‘Hello,’ I said. We were in an out-of-the-way corner of the bookshop, alone apart from an old lady reading a detective novel by the window.

  ‘I’m glad I bumped into you,’ the American said. ‘I’m sorry I left when you had so many questions for me last night.’

  She was very tall. Her expression was earnest, sympathetic even, as she looked down on me.

  ‘It was rather a bombshell,’ I said.

  ‘If you want me to answer your questions now, I can.’

  We went to the same café we had visited the night before, and ordered the same carafe of red wine. I didn’t usually drink in the middle of the afternoon, but I needed one.

  ‘OK. Shoot,’ she said.

  ‘All right.’ I scrambled to get my thoughts in order. ‘I suppose I was relieved to learn that Hugh was still a communist when he died. But I am surprised that he spied for the Soviet Union against England. He always seemed in favour of international socialism, rather than Stalin’s socialism in one country.’

  ‘He liked what he saw in Russia,’ said Kay. ‘I was with him.’

  ‘That’s true. But to betray his own country?’

  ‘I guess he didn’t see it that way,’ said Kay. ‘You’re right, he believed in freedom for the workers of the world, and not just Russia. He was also worried about Fascism. Mussolini, the Nazis. The Cagoulards here in France. But most of all he wanted to actually do something, rather than just talk about it. Also, he wasn’t actually spying for Russia; he was spying for the Comintern.’

  ‘Is there any difference?’

  ‘Hugh thought there was.’

  ‘But isn’t the Comintern based in Moscow?’

  ‘Of course it is! Where else could it be based? The Soviet Union is the only communist country in Europe. In the world. But it’s a truly international organization. It’s devoted to spreading Marxism throughout the entire world. There are delegates from all over Europe and from America and China and India. If there is to be a world revolution, then it has to be nurtured in Russia.’

  ‘I remember Hugh saying that.’

  ‘The whole point about Marxism is that it aims to encourage the workers to rise up everywhere. That’s what the Comintern is doing. Class consciousness is something that transcends national borders, just like monopoly capitalism does. The British worker has more in common with his German or French or Russian comrade than he does with an English capitalist. That’s what Hugh believed, anyway.’

  It was true. That was what Hugh believed.

  ‘So that’s why he applied for the Foreign Office?’ I asked. ‘To be able to spy for the Comintern?’

  ‘Sure. And to get in he had to demonstrate that his communism was no more than a student phase. He had to deny it.’

  ‘I just wish he had told me what he was really up to.’

  ‘He wanted to. He used to speak about you plenty. He said you talked more sense than most of the socialists he knew at Cambridge. But they wouldn’t let him.’<
br />
  ‘“They”? Who are they?’

  ‘I don’t know. The people from the Comintern he was speaking to, I guess.’

  Kay was watching me closely under her thick black eyebrows.

  ‘What about you?’ I said. ‘“They” let him speak to you?’

  ‘That’s true,’ she admitted.

  ‘Why? Are you one of “them”?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Kay. ‘But I did put Hugh in touch with them.’

  ‘You did.’

  Kay nodded.

  Who was this woman? ‘How long have you been a communist? I didn’t know there are communists in America.’

  Kay smiled. ‘Oh, there are. Plenty. There are communists all over the world. That’s why we need the Comintern to bring us all together. You, me, Hugh, Freddie, Rosa Luxemburg, Maurice Thorez here in France and, yes, Comrade Stalin.’

  She hesitated. ‘I’ve been a communist all my life. As has my father. My grandfather emigrated to America from Lithuania in the 1880s. The entire family ended up working in factories in Chicago. I went out to work at the age of twelve.’

  ‘But you escaped?’

  ‘I sure did. My father was self-taught and he taught me.’ She smiled. ‘A bit like Hugh teaching you. I got myself involved in labour organizations and I ended up in Europe.’

  ‘Is Kay your real name?’

  ‘It is at the moment.’

  I had more questions. ‘So how did Hugh die? Do you believe it was an accident? Was Freddie right? Did the British secret service kill him?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Kay, for the first time looking troubled herself. ‘They may have done. It was very convenient for them, after all. And you said yourself you didn’t think Hugh’s death was an accident.’ She took a deep breath. ‘If they did kill him, I cannot forgive them.’

  I was reminded that this woman loved my brother too.

  ‘Nor can I,’ I said.

  We sat in silence for a moment.

  Kay spoke. ‘You know I said I put Hugh in touch with people?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I could do that for you. You could continue Hugh’s work.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous! Anyway, what possible use would I be?’