A Coat of Varnish

by C. P. Snow

  That was the tone, cheerful, interested, uninvolved, in which they began. They were sitting in the bar downstairs. There were only a few men around and they were comfortably private in a corner seat. Paul was satisfying his curiosity about Humphrey’s family. How many generations had been members of this club? Humphrey said, his father certainly, his grandfather certainly, his great-grandfather certainly – maybe one more, but that wasn’t sure. Humphrey expatiated, sounding sarcastic to conceal his secretive pride. They were really modest country gentlemen. They never did much. The grandfather did get a job in Gladstone’s last government. They never made much money. The curious thing was, they were Whigs. Their kind were almost always Tories, and if they had a London club went across the road. (He meant White’s.) Why the Leighs were Whigs no one ever knew. Just perversity. The real Whig grandees were immense landowners. They lost fortunes at the tables upstairs. The Leighs were very small beer. None of them would have ever been asked to Devonshire House, nothing like grand enough, or Holland House, nothing like clever enough. ‘It isn’t a very creditable record,’ said Humphrey. ‘Considering that they started with certain advantages. As you see with me.’

  Paul was entirely capable of playing this game. ‘I guess,’ he said, ‘that the poor old Masons might have been slightly superior servants in some of the poor old Leigh houses. They came from the Norfolk land. The first to emerge from outer darkness seems to have been my grandfather. Somehow, God knows how, he managed to make himself into a country lawyer. It may not have been so difficult, if you had a knack for passing examinations, which the Masons haven’t been so bad at. He built up a practice as a provincial attorney. In Norwich. He made a surprising amount of money. Then came my father. Process repeated on a more lavish scale. He made a much more surprising amount of money. The rest you know.’

  Being English, they took a pleasure in these exchanges which might have mystified others. They both liked hard liquor, and Humphrey fetched their third drink. There was nothing much in the news that day, said Paul, who by profession and by private preoccupation studied the European and American Press each morning. Things were going roughly according to expectations. It didn’t mean that they were going well, he added.

  Humphrey said: ‘A bit more criticism of the police, I noticed. About that murder of ours.’

  ‘Yes?’ Paul’s voice was uninflected.

  ‘I bet they’re being pretty thorough.’

  ‘I suppose you know.’

  ‘I fancy they’re getting some of the answers.’

  ‘Should you say so?’

  Paul’s voice had now gone brittle-hard, more so than Humphrey realised until some moments later.

  ‘Paul,’ Humphrey went on, ‘I wonder if you can tell me one or two things about Susan. You know Susan?’

  ‘Yes, I know Susan.’

  ‘You might be able to tell me one or two things.’

  ‘Why do you think I can?’

  ‘You said you knew her.’

  ‘Why in Christ’s name do you think I should?’ Paul said that in dead quiet, but with violence.

  ‘She’s produced some stories which contradict each other, and it’s bad for her if they’re not cleared up.’

  For minutes past, Humphrey had been mishandling the talk. He had been slow to detect the young man’s tone. Now that it was too late, he was suddenly attacked by a wave of bitter temper.

  ‘When I accepted your hospitality,’ Paul said with frigid formality, ‘I didn’t think I was being invited for the sake of evidence. I have none to give you. As I take it that exhausts my value, I can see that I have outstayed my welcome.’

  It was curiously elaborate, almost like bad theatre, for someone who was such an easy talker. Humphrey said: ‘I’m very sorry. I wouldn’t have had this happen…’ and went on, using any sort of speech to keep the young man from walking out. Humphrey was thinking of something silly, a relic from the days when he played games. It was a piece of games players’ folk-wisdom that men in crises divided into two classes, those who went red and those who went white. It was the latter you relied on when things were tight. In the last moments, Paul’s face, which never had much colour, had gone corpse-pale.

  It was a foolish thought; but also Humphrey was thinking that this was a strange kind of anger. It didn’t need saying, a trigger had been touched, but as to why, Humphrey was at a loss. Yet Paul, as a rule abnormally controlled, had thrown civility or even common good nature right away.

  Humphrey took him in to dinner. By a principle of natural injustice, it was Humphrey who didn’t feel like eating. While Paul, with all the signs of good appetite, ordered a standard club dinner, smoked salmon, steak, and began methodically to eat. Humphrey consoled himself by starting on the bottle of claret.

  Neutrally, without any introduction, Paul said: ‘What precisely are you interested in about Susan?’

  ‘No one knows where she was on the Saturday night. I mean, the night Lady Ashbrook was killed.’

  ‘I don’t know, either.’ Paul’s voice was distant, but civil enough. ‘I simply don’t know. You must have been told, I have been gone over two or three times myself, and I can’t prove a single thing. Actually I was in my own house. By myself. Doing nothing more remarkable than reading. Quite impossible to prove, for anyone under suspicion. But I have a faint idea that I’m not.’

  ‘No, I don’t believe you ever have been.’

  ‘No doubt you’d know.’ That was said distantly again but with a faint ironic edge. ‘The only thing I can remember about that whole damn night is that I rang Celia Hawthorne. That was after we split up, you know.’

  He mentioned Celia with complete equanimity. Whatever or whoever was a forbidden subject, she wasn’t.

  Plates cleared, Paul was gazing down at the table, brow furrowed. Then he stared across at Humphrey.

  ‘I am prepared to tell you one simple fact about Susan. I did see her the following day, the Sunday.’ He was talking with the care and accuracy of a high official. ‘I am prepared to tell you that, to the best of my judgment, she hadn’t any knowledge that Lady Ashbrook had been murdered. Again to the best of my judgment, she didn’t know anything of it, until I did, on the Monday morning.’

  ‘It is pretty well established that she met Lancelot Loseby that Monday afternoon.’

  ‘Perhaps that was when she would have heard of the murder.’

  ‘That was when she concocted one of her stories about the Saturday night. Entirely fabricated. Maybe you’ve noticed, but the young woman doesn’t suffer from certain bourgeois frailties, such as a slavish addiction to the truth.’

  That was a deliberate attempt to touch the trigger, but Paul gave merely the impersonation of a smile. Humphrey tried another flick: ‘Where did you see her on the Sunday?’

  ‘Nowhere particular. It’s not material.’

  Paul repeated that he had nothing more to say about Susan. Some while later, however, as he was eating some Stilton, he did remark, as though back to his normal gibing poise: ‘Since you’re so interested in the Thirkill family, you might like to know that I am working close to father Tom. Had you heard?’

  No, Humphrey couldn’t have heard. It was one of the quasi-secret financial manoeuvres of that autumn. A Treasury team, reporting to Tom Thirkill, was negotiating in Washington, and Paul had been seconded to it from his bank. ‘The deal will happen all right,’ he said, with his natural calm authority, transformed from the blinding rage of not so long before. ‘It’ll keep us afloat for a while. Reasonable, as far as it goes. But it won’t go very far.’

  Paul delivered some more comments on the national and Western situation, in his own style, realistic, not bland, but not apocalyptic. Then he said, as though nothing had for an instant disturbed his impeccable manners, that he really must go, he had a paper to write for the said Tom Thirkill. He thanked Humphrey for an admirable meal. As he thanked Humphrey again, on his way into St James’s Street, he added: ‘What a pleasant club this is. If you could bear it, pe
rhaps you would put me up for it sometime.’

  Passing on to Frank Briers those fragments of news about Susan, Humphrey remarked that they didn’t add up to much. Frank, restive, thought that that was overstating the case. They added up to nothing at all – unless they believed Paul’s assertion that, on the Sunday, Susan was still in ignorance about the murder. Was Paul trying to help her out? Even if he wasn’t, it was nothing but a subjective judgment, worth putting on the files, no more.

  31

  When Humphrey gave another report about his meeting with Paul Mason, this time to Kate in the bedroom, he evoked more interest. It had been a disastrous evening, he felt, like Briers dissatisfied with himself. Kate soothed him. For Paul’s behaviour there must be some explanation they didn’t know. He must be more complicated than either of them had guessed. It didn’t have any bearing on the practical problem, Humphrey said, telling her, self-mocking, how he had had his ‘head bitten off’ by Frank Briers. ‘To hell with the practical problem!’ said Kate. ‘To hell with Frank Briers. I want to know what was driving Paul mad.’

  ‘Easier said than done,’ he replied. She didn’t cross him any more. She wasn’t capable of splitting love into compartments. For her it was whole or nothing. So she wanted to help. She had to feel that what he thought worth doing was just that. She couldn’t help much, but she thought that she might be able to squeeze some fragments of the truth out of Susan. After all, she had had some experience of that girl. At the worst, it would do no harm. And Kate had some internal amusement at her own expense: she was also inquisitive.

  It happened that the governor of her hospital had given her two tickets for Covent Garden and an invitation to a party. Opera remained the most lavish entertainment in London. The fact that it was state-subsidised didn’t mean that it was a popular entertainment. The governor of Kate’s hospital also doubled as a trustee of the Opera, and had a private box there, in which he was running true to the form of other well-cushioned men. Kate knew that Susan was totally unmusical, but she suspected that an invitation wouldn’t be rejected. The Opera House was a suitable place to be seen. The suspicion proved to be justified.

  Susan arrived at Kate’s house in a limousine, provided, so Kate assumed, by her father. She arrived also brilliant with diamond necklace and earrings, provided, Kate further assumed, by her father. Kate, to whom music was the one aesthetic joy, was looking forward to a night at the opera. At this glittering sight, she felt more than a little dowdy. She was skilful at making do with her clothes, but she felt she had better keep out of sight if this was going to be the evening’s competition. Still, she thought, self-taunting, it served her right, she had brought it on herself.

  She might have brought it on herself, self-taunting she might be, but when they arrived at Covent Garden she couldn’t suppress a sharper lurch of envy. Their host was receiving them in the corridor outside his box. He greeted Susan with manifest enthusiasm, holding her hand as she stood calmly still, diamonds glittering under the chandeliers, dress elegant and quiet, expression at the same time self-possessed and demure. ‘How very good of you to come, Lady Loseby! How very good of you!’ Lady Loseby was being introduced to members of the party, who were, so far as such elevation still persisted, considerably more lofty than anything Aylestone Square could have risen to. Lady Loseby smiled unself-consciously, unassertively, as others made the rounds. She was looking like the model of a young married woman, or alternatively, Kate recalled with satisfaction an old phrase of her nurse, as though butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

  Another old phrase drifted through Kate’s mind as she listened to the singing. It was Tristan, and Wagner was too oppressively romantic – though it was tempting to think of the real thing, with Humphrey, not this noise whirling round her. The box was a large one, but the party was a dozen strong and they were jammed together. She was placed in the back row. Susan was beside their host.

  The wicked flourishing, the old phrase teased her, like a green bay-tree. Why a green bay-tree? Did green bay-trees flourish? Tom Thirkill was one of her least favourite men. He was certainly flourishing, more than anyone she knew. Certain to be a member of the Cabinet in the new year. Not an agreeable thought. She wasn’t fond of him. She couldn’t help being fond of his daughter, sitting a few feet away. Not that the girl deserved it. She was flourishing as much as her father. Kate liked her own sex. Liked her more perhaps, because she was no feminist, and saw women with no more illusion than she did men. Susan was flourishing. No one in their senses could think she was a more estimable character than most men. No justice in this world. What did Humphrey say? Anyone who expected justice in this world was a born fool. That night was being a triumph for Susan. Never mind. Kate had a job to do.

  She found her opportunity after supper. Leading out of the box was another room, considerably larger, tables set for a meal. The meal was as sumptuous as any cold supper Kate had seen. There was a slice of pâté de foie gras for each (someone didn’t like it, and Kate, comforting herself, got two), a spoonful of caviare, game pie, pheasant, champagne, burgundy. The host was being handsome. He was also flirting, not unskilfully, with Susan.

  Intermission over, the party filtered back to their box. Kate contrived to hold Susan back.

  ‘No reason to hurry. Let’s have another drink. You needn’t tell me, I know you’re bored out there.’

  With Kate, Susan didn’t pretend to musical tastes. She had a trait, which Kate found endearing, of being honest when there was no reason not to be.

  They had the supper room to themselves. It could have occurred to one of them, or each of them, that there would have been a certain mild luxury in sitting in the box with a lover, just the two of you, and knowing that there was this good safe place to enjoy yourself, just a few steps away.

  Susan, abstemious about alcohol, wouldn’t have another drink. Kate poured herself a whisky and said: ‘How’s Loseby?’

  ‘Oh, he’s all right. Mister’s usually all right, you know.’ Susan spoke with casual acceptance. Kate had ceased being surprised about her. When she had been desperate about that man – had Kate been wrong? Or could the girl throw it off like a jacket once she had won?

  Kate came straight to it. She had dealt with Susan before and knew that there was no merit in being delicate. She had to be taken head on.

  ‘I suppose you know he’s safe, about that murder? They do believe what he’s told them.’

  ‘Nice of them.’ Susan smiled.

  ‘Anyway, he’s safe enough. Unless someone did it for him. He can’t have been there himself.’

  Clearly, this was no news to Susan. ‘How did you know?’ she asked. She had a shrewd idea, and gazed at the older woman with sisterly interest. In fact, she had assumed that Kate and Humphrey were sleeping together long before they were. Susan went on. ‘I expect you know the whole story.’

  ‘Some of it, anyway.’

  ‘All boys together.’ Susan spoke without rancour. ‘Damn fools. Mister doesn’t really go for men. He hasn’t got the necessary taste.’ Suddenly Susan specified what the necessary taste was. She still looked like a demure young wife, but she had the vestige of a prurient grin. What she said was simple and brutish. Kate had not heard genuine homosexuals defined like that before. It might be right. Women such as Susan had a knack of taking the covers off.

  ‘He couldn’t get the real taste if he tried.’ It was Loseby’s wife speaking. ‘Of course he tried. He’s tried most things. He never knows what he wants. But with luck I ought to be able to put up with him.’

  ‘Anyway, he’s out of trouble.’ Kate hadn’t the time to listen to this curious prognosis of a marriage. ‘What about you?’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘They still want to find out what you were doing that night.’

  ‘I’ve told them, Kate dear, I really have.’ Susan’s expression had become simple, sincere and faintly injured.

  ‘You’ve told them too many things. You never have grasped that one excuse is b
etter than three. How many times have I tried to get that into your head?’

  Susan now looked repentant. ‘Oh, but you can understand, Can’t you? I was trying to protect Mister. You’d have done the same. Any girl would have done.’

  ‘You didn’t do it very well.’ Kate wasn’t moved by Susan transforming herself into a guilty child. ‘You never could make a lie stand up for long. What were you doing that night?’

  ‘Just hanging about. I was at a loose end, you see.’

  ‘Tell that to some nice old man.’ Kate was amused, contemptuous, cross. ‘What were you doing that night?’

  With a candid face, half-sullen with innocence, Susan gave several different accounts supported by realistic detail. It had been a very hot night. She had no one to take her out. There was no one in the apartment in Eaton Square. She had gone for a long walk. No, she had tried to see whether any of her acquaintances was at home. No, she was searching for someone to take her to a film. Or to one of the gambling clubs. Sometimes she did like a flutter, she said with confessional honesty.

  Kate said that she didn’t believe a word of it, the less so the more confessional it was. At last she forced out a version which might have been somewhere near the truth. Susan had been attempting to run Loseby down. ‘He’s several kinds of a rat, you know. I thought it was time to have a showdown.’ Just as Humphrey had done the following Monday, she telephoned his headquarters in Germany. Just as Humphrey was told, so was she. She heard that Loseby was in London on compassionate leave. Staying where? 72 Aylestone Square. If he was staying with his grandmother, and Susan hadn’t been told, he had another date for that night. He had left the house often enough, after his grandmother had gone to bed, to join Susan in one of their hideouts. Now she was going to catch him at it. Vigil. No sign of him.

  At last she decided that she had got it wrong. Next morning she rang Loseby’s friends in London. Where was he? She had previously had an eye on Douglas Gimson. Douglas said that she was not to worry. He admitted that he had found Loseby a bed for the last couple of nights.