Birdcage

by Victor Canning

  In the sitting room there was no sign of personal belongings or even temporary occupancy. But on the sideboard was a tray holding a bottle of whisky, glasses and—the man’s memory gave him no surprise—two bottles of Perrier water. They endeared you—there was no denying that—by their memory of your preferences, though they never drew attention to it.

  Bellmaster poured two whiskies and came and sat down across the low table from Geddy. He was a big, well-preserved man who had to be nearer seventy than sixty, dressed in a single-breasted dark suit, platinum watch chain and a shirt whose white front shone like a virgin snow slope over his great chest. His dark hair was silvered but still abundant; a big man, full of appetites and craft, and with a mind and intelligence all under control and all serving his ambition. Geddy had known once what it was. Now he could only guess.

  They drank and Bellmaster said, “Good of you to come. I had your message and I thought we ought to have a talk.” A small avalanche of a smile slid over his face. “For old time’s sake— not yours. But mine and that of other interested parties. Dear Lady Jean—she reaches out after death and sets us dancing. Now tell me about Sarah.”

  Geddy very precisely, allowing nothing of his imagination to intrude, told him all he knew. He knew well Sarah’s mother’s past connection with him personally and professionally, this latter particularly so, otherwise he would never have been called in to deal with the settlement to Colonel Branton on the marriage.

  When he had finished Bellmaster said, “Nobody knows where she is?”

  “No. Except, I imagine in Portugal still.”

  “This baby business. What do you think of that?”

  “Only that her letter said she was pregnant.”

  “In a nunnery? How did she manage that? Sounds a bit mediaeval. Still, she’s Lady Jean’s daughter so it could be true.”

  “Lord Bellmaster, that’s not what you’re concerned about.” Bellmaster smiled. “I always liked that about you. You never minded forcing things. No, it’s not what I’m concerned about. She’s got an aunt out there, hasn’t she? Didn’t she take over the Villa Lobita?”

  “Yes.”

  “God, I’ve got some memories of that place—good, bad and otherwise. I’ve forgotten the aunt’s name.”

  “She married an American—but she’s widowed now. Mrs Ringel Fanes. Plenty of money. Travels a lot. But I have nothing to do with her affairs. The villa was left to Sarah in her mother’s will. Sarah gave it up when she went into the convent. She dispossessed herself of everything.”

  Bellmaster smiled. “If she’s anything like Jean she’ll probably be asking for it back now. You think she might go to this villa?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Bellmaster frowned. “Not a question of knowing. What do you think was what I asked.”

  Geddy recognised the crack of the whip but shrugged his shoulders. “Someone’s looking after her. She made that clear. As for thinking—I think she will be like her mother. She’ll fall on her feet. Yes, I suppose, if nothing better turns up, she might go to her aunt.”

  Lord Bellmaster rubbed a hand slowly over his big jaw and smiled with an almost boyish pucker of delight. “Oh, Geddy. You’ve been out a long time—but it’s all there still. You’re waiting for it, aren’t you? But you won’t ask the direct question. You were there when the settlement was discussed and you heard what Lady Jean said.”

  “I remember clearly. She was rather distraught. She was carrying your child and she had naturally—or optimistically—thought you would marry her and make her Lady Bellmaster. Captain John Branton was a pretty cheap substitute.”

  “You’ve missed a few things out.”

  “I didn’t want to embarrass you.”

  Lord Bellmaster laughed, refilled his own glass and ignored Geddy’s, which was no surprise to Geddy because he would have refused anyway and His Lordship knew it so preferred not to waste his time on trivialities. “Go ahead. Let’s see how good your memory is. Or, rather, whether it is still as good as it used to be. The slightest approach to a false pretence was never among your crimes.”

  Geddy grinned at the modification of a quotation from his beloved Lewis Carroll. He said, knowing full well what Bellmaster wanted from him, “She threw one of her celebrated scenes. You won’t want me to go into the trivia, mostly springing from the Irish side of her bloodlines, my lord. But in essence she said that she would agree to the marriage and the settlement for Branton, that she would still . . . well, be available to you for personal and professional services——”

  “Her words were blunter. Thank you for your delicacy.”

  “——but that if you ever gave her cause she would destroy you and cause hell where . . .” he hesitated, old habit prevailing even in this room which he knew must be secure, “. . . it would be most unwelcome from an official point of view, and particularly as far as foreign relationships were concerned. But, I presume, my lord, that you didn’t send for me either to refresh your memory or to test mine.”

  Lord Bellmaster was silent for a while, dabbling a long brown forefinger in his glass to revive the Perrier bubbles. Then he slid from his inside coat pocket a slim gold cigarette case, tapped it on his chin thoughtfully for a moment and then took out a cigarette and lit it. Geddy waited with untroubled patience. Distantly outside the window, from the inner service well of the hotel, came the clatter of refuse cans and a faint, boisterous tangling of Cockney voices.

  Abruptly Lord Bellmaster said, “When she said a thing, she meant it. Frankly, too, I did give her cause. Oh, many, many years afterwards. But I won’t go into that. She died unexpectedly shortly after the final break was made between us. Naturally Birdcage took precautions. All her stuff was vetted. She was living in Portugal at the time—as much as she lived anywhere. You remember you kindly and confidentially made her will and all her papers lodged with you available.”

  “A breach of professional ethics—ah . . . justified would you say in the national interest?”

  “What else would I say.” Bellmaster’s voice was suddenly brutal and pugnacious, the bully surfacing, thought Geddy, or more truly a prick of concern for himself and his reputation and his still-pressing ambitions. “But she was a clever bitch. She’d have known we could and would have done all that at any time if we’d had the slightest reason. And she’d have known that we would do it immediately, anyway, after her death. Who do you think was most active in pushing—and that’s the word—Sarah into the life of a religious?”

  Geddy made a pretence of considering this, though he well knew the answer, while his mind reconnoitred all the nuances of this interview. Limited though his own career had been in Bellmaster’s arcane world he had never been able to deny to himself its fascination and he had quickly come to acquire the habit, and still had it, of looking beyond, above or behind a question to assess its true provenance in the mind of the asker, and knew that often a question was asked when the answer was already known; the questioner merely casting a piece of bread on the waters to see if a fish unexpectedly would rise to it. He said, “I think it came from both sides. Branton had no time for her, and when they broke up she was mostly with her mother or her aunt. In her fashion I suppose Lady Jean loved her, but she had little time for her either. Short holidays when she was all over her and an exciting companion. I think—quite without any ulterior motive—I mean one which would survive after her death, untimely or otherwise—Lady Jean influenced the girl. She was a romantic. Maybe she wanted the girl to have a life which—with deference to you, my lord—was quite different from her own.”

  “To hell with deference, Geddy. You know what I’m driving at. The girl’s out. I can hear Jean saying, ‘You don’t have to worry if you find you can’t stand it. Leave it. You’ll always be provided for. All you have to do is . . .’ What?”

  “I’ve no idea, my lord.”

  “Do you hold anything on Sarah’s behalf now? Bank safety box key? Any documents? Anything at all lodged with you by anyone since
Jean’s death?”

  “Nothing. And frankly I can’t see even Lady Jean being so devious or long-sighted enough to hide anything away, and then confiding in her daughter that whatever it was it would be there if she were ever in trouble and wanted to leave a convent which at that time she hadn’t even entered.”

  “Yes. I’m rather with you. At least, I want to be. What about Colonel Branton?”

  Geddy smiled. “If he had anything—would he be any problem to you?”

  “Not the slightest. Accidents happen.”

  “Of course, my lord. But as far as I am concerned you’ve never made the remark.”

  Lord Bellmaster stood up. “All right. We’ll do something about finding where the girl is from this side. But if you hear from her—let me know. Sorry to drag you up here from your rural haunts, but I’ve no doubt you’ll enjoy yourself in Cadogan Square before you catch your evening train.”

  Without a shadow of surprise, though he had not anticipated that they would still be monitoring him, Geddy said evenly, “I always find my visits there very pleasant, my lord.”

  When Geddy had gone, Lord Bellmaster of Conary sat thinking and unhurriedly finishing his whisky. For a while Geddy lingered in his thoughts. When he, himself, had been far more closely involved in an active life with them they had used the young Geddy. God knew who had spotted his limited but useful flair, but after a few months they had wrapped him up to total commitment with one of the oldest tricks. Laid him wide open as a target, a weak spot for probing so that the girl— even the name came back over the years—Francina Pavi was put on to him. A brief wartime romance, a weekend in Positano where on the second night he was to doctor her nightcap before bedding so that while she lay drugged he could go through her luggage, supposedly to make a list of all names and telephone numbers in her notebook, which they knew was of no importance for it had already been checked. They had already decided that she was not worth the use of any great finesse but was better out of the way because she was serving two sets of masters. If they did not do it most likely the others would quite soon. So, thanks to the unsuspecting Geddy, she died in her sleep, poisoned unknowingly by him and, fifteen minutes after the early morning telephone call, he was being picked up by car on the cliff road to Amalfi. Bellmaster was in London then and yet to meet Geddy. The personnel comment which came through about Geddy simply said—Reaction nine-tenths—which meant that whatever he felt only the smallest tip of the emotional iceberg showed above water. And the report ran on— material wasted in field work; suggest London duties and then rerouting. Which was turkey gabble for: put him to something more suited to his talents and intelligence. So he had come back to London and to their first meeting and later to more civilised work. It was natural then, knowing his man, that Bellmaster should use him privately years later in peace to draw up the Branton settlement. Jean had liked and trusted him on sight.

  Dear Jean, he smiled ruefully, who was quite capable of arranging to strike from beyond the veil. Only a fool would ignore that threat when in a few weeks the choice would be made and he did not care much which it would be, either a premier ambassadorship or a vice-presidency of the Commission of the European Community which meant eventually, by rotation, the Presidency in due time. He had never lacked for money. Power was the true ichor demanded by his vanity.

  He left the room after a brief telephone call to the porter’s desk. A taxi was waiting for him. He paid it off at the end of the Mall and walked across St James’s Park, loitering briefly on the lake bridge to watch a couple of cormorants fishing and a small flight of mallard take off and for a few seconds was back on the lochside at Conary as a sixteen-year-old. The only thing he had passionately wanted in those days was for his drink-sodden father to die so that he could take over title and estates and to bed eighteen-year-old Sheila, the daughter of Angus the ghillie. He had got the latter within three months and the former nine months later. The memory of both never failed to give him a sharp frisson of pleasure.

  He left the park and strolled up Birdcage Walk. Not far from Wellington Barracks he entered one of the houses overlooking the park.

  Late that afternoon Kerslake, sitting in a top-floor room of the same house, was reading a memorandum which had just been handed to him by his secretary, Joan.

  It read:

  Sarah Branton, daughter of Lady Jean Branton (nee Oriston) and Lieutenant-Colonel John Branton. 28. Past eight years, nun, Convent Sacred Heart, Calvira, Algarve, Portugal. Deserted convent, believed pregnant, April 4th last. Has communicated convent. Whereabouts unknown. Has aunt—Mrs. Ringel Fanes, widow—Villa Lobita, near Monchique. Have Lisbon trace and report. No direct contact Sarah Branton. No involvement Portuguese authorities.

  Kerslake read it twice. He was comparatively new in the service and none of the names meant anything to him. If there were office files on them and it was intended that he should know something of their background the references would have been given. He was a patient, intelligent young man, who knew his place and, given the chance (which must in the nature of things here eventually come), he meant to improve it considerably. He unlocked his desk drawer and pulled out the Lisbon codes and began to encypher the necessary message.

  At that moment Geddy, sitting in his first-class carriage on the Cheltenham train, having an itch on the tip of his nose rubbed it with his right forefinger and smiled at the faint ghost of perfume that still lingered on his skin. Lanvin’s Arphge. So, they and Bellmaster knew all about that. Well . . . let them. Bellmaster had not changed greatly—except that now his ambition showed too much. It would be ironical if Lady Jean should return from the Shades deviously (which had been her style) to haunt and destroy him.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THERE WAS AN oil painting of Lady Jean Branton in the wide, cool hallway. She stood at the top of a short flight of steps. At her side geraniums cascaded from a stone urn and among the cracks of the old steps pads of stonecrop grew, their golden blooms complementing the colour of her hair which the artist had painted lightly flowing back from her brow, lifted and streaming in a breeze. The breeze, too, took the soft nacreous stuff of her long flowing dress so that it flared backwards from her, billowing about her arms and sides and clinging boldly to her long slender body. Although only her hands and face were free of covering she seemed to stand poised in a moment of wantonness, more naked than true nakedness could ever be. About her waist was a wide gold belt or girdle, jewelled and intricately worked, with a great clasp formed of two cupids reaching out their chubby, baby-creased arms and fat hands to one another. It was good to look at, but—Farley felt—had something undeniably vulgar and meretricious about it. The likeness in the face to Sarah’s was there, but distant. This woman wore her beauty like a challenge. Her smile provoked, the coral lips offered themselves with seduction, while her pale blue eyes carried laughter without kindness and the pose of her body was glorious with arrogance—a beautiful witch, Farley thought, whom most men would have found hard to resist.

  He turned away from the painting and went out on to the terrace from which the hillside fell steeply and above the trees the great sweep of country rolled away to the far distant sea. Although it was not over-big the Villa Lobita had been built without thought of cost. There was an outside heated swimming pool, a terraced fall of ornamental gardens to the south, and a driveway which ran in from the west through a grove of carob and fig trees. At the top of the driveway was a small lodge occupied by a married couple who acted as housekeeper and gardener-chauffeur and who lived at the villa all the year round. The villa itself was Moorish in design with all the bedrooms and two bathrooms on the first floor. Each of the bedrooms had its own private terrace. On the ground floor was a long lounge facing south-east to take the morning and escape the afternoon sun, a library-study, a kitchen, and backquarters for Mrs Ringel Fanes’ private maid. At the moment these were unoccupied because Mrs Ringel Fanes—who had not used her title after marriage—had left the villa to go to America two days before Far
ley and Sarah arrived.

  Farley was thinking about this as he walked to the swimming pool. When they had driven down the drive to the villa—two days previously—he had sat in his car while Sarah went in to greet her aunt. Distantly through the partly open hall door he had heard her talking, he presumed then, to her aunt, but in fact it was to the housekeeper. A little later Sarah had come out to him with the housekeeper and, in English, had told him that her aunt had had to go off unexpectedly to America but that they were to make themselves at home for as long as they liked. He smiled to himself now at the recollection. He had been sure that Sarah was lying in some way and not even bothering to try to make the lie convincing as many people would have done by attributing the sudden American visit to a sick or dying relative or even unexpected business affairs. He was beginning to understand Sarah now. Once her mind seized on a notion it became real for her. He was sure that because she had wanted him to come to the villa with her, but knew the aunt would not be there, she had maintained the fiction of the aunt’s presence in order not to disturb him. Maybe it was some remnant of propriety surviving through her years in the convent which demanded that some element of chaperonage should be offered to him, to get him on the road, and then to be almost casually discarded on arrival. It made no difference to him because he meant to be a bird of passage. She had set him moving and he meant to keep going. This was a staging post which would not hold him long.

  When he reached the pool she was just climbing out. She stood on the edge, smiled and raised a hand to him, and then started to towel her hair, which was grown longer now into a boyish crop. She had used the pool twice a day since their arrival and he wondered whether this was to kill any lingering fear or memory of her hours in the water. Of the spare swim suits in the pool house she had chosen a modest one-piece blue one. Standing there he could see that she was built like her mother, large-breasted and slim-hipped, but her face lacked that mocking, laughter-touched awareness of her own beauty and sensuality which belonged to the mother. Modesty still moved strongly in Sarah. She, as she had done before, seeing his eyes on her, turned away and picking up a sleeved bathing wrap put it on.