Closed Circle

by Robert Goddard

  ‘You’ll join us for dinner?’

  ‘Er … Yes. Thanks. Actually, I did say I’d dine with Quincy in Dorking. He’s meeting a business associate at the Deepdene Hotel.’

  ‘Is he? Well, if you’d rather—’

  ‘No, no. I wonder if you could apologize to him for me. Say I won’t be able to make it, but he’s to proceed without me. Can you do that?’

  ‘Of course. But, Guy, you’re being very—’

  ‘I’m sorry. I must dash. I’ll see you tomorrow night. Cheerio till then.’

  I put the telephone down and walked slowly across to the window of my hotel room. The street was a blur of grey through the rain-smeared glass, the whole of London reduced in my mind to one drab rectangle of closed doors and falling leaves. Diana would probably be gazing into the garden at Amber Court now, wondering what my abrupt and distant manner portended. But she would never guess for one moment that I had seen to the murderous heart of the plot she and her father and her aunt had hatched. Where Charnwood was hiding I did not know. But Diana and Vita knew. Tomorrow night, when Quincy was safely out of the way, I would make them tell me. Tomorrow night, I would release the anger that had been simmering within me for the past eighteen hours. It would not be easy to wait. But it would be worth it. By then, I would be even angrier than I already was.

  I moved to the bedside cabinet, pulled the top drawer open and looked down at the copy of Lightfoot’s photograph Pragnell had given me. I had studied it till every line and contour of his features were imprinted on my memory. I had stared at his face till it was so clearly overlaid by Charnwood’s that they were almost one in my thoughts, interchangeable and indistinguishable. But not quite. Always, detaching himself from the likeness of his victim with a mocking half-smile, Fabian Charnwood emerged before me. I meant to see him soon in the flesh. And when I did, all his efforts at bribery and persuasion would be wasted. I no longer wanted his money. I no longer wanted anything he could give me. Except revenge. Not for Lightfoot or the millions of others I had never known. But for Max and Felix. For a dead friend and a lost brother. It was for them I had sworn to make him and his sister and his daughter pay. And very soon now they would pay. Dearly.

  I left London late the following afternoon. By seven o’clock, I was in the saloon bar of the Wotton Hatch, the pub on the Guildford road three miles west of Dorking where Max and I had gone that fateful night and where Hildebrand Lightfoot had whiled away a spare hour before giving the last performance of his life. I did not recognize the barmaid, so there seemed no point in showing her Lightfoot’s photograph. Instead, I sat quietly in my corner, drinking whisky with no discernible effect, until eight o’clock struck and it was time to go.

  There were fireworks streaking into the sky above Dorking as I drew the car to a halt in the driveway of Amber Court and climbed out into the cold gunpowder-scented air. I had forgotten till now that it was Guy Fawkes’ Night. Everywhere, stuffed and grinning effigies of my hapless namesake were being burnt to celebrate the defeat of a conspiracy which seemed quite trivial compared with the one I was determined to expose. Would some future generation, I wondered, commemorate the Concentric Alliance in fire and song? Or would they never have heard of it at all?

  I pressed the bell and waited, remembering how Diana had led me back from the woods that night, fooling me so completely with her orchestrated display of grief and shock that even now, when I knew the truth, it seemed as if she must have been in earnest. So much pretence, so much deception, then and later. But no longer.

  The maid opened the door and ushered me in with a smile. I was expected. I was welcome. She led me down the hall and into the drawing-room. ‘Mr Horton, miss,’ I heard her say as I lingered out of sight. ‘Thank you, Susan,’ Diana replied. I stepped forward, the maid retreating past me. And there they were, sipping their pre-prandial sherries by the fire: Vita huge and benevolent in mauve and pink, Diana dark and enigmatic in a blue and gold dress, with the topaz pendant glittering as ever at her throat. They turned in unison to greet me and Diana began to rise from her chair. ‘Guy, it’s so—’ But then they saw the expression on my face. And perhaps, in that instant, they both guessed what it meant.

  ‘What’s the matter, Guy?’ Diana asked, pulling up and staring at me. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I’d like to speak to you alone.’

  My tone forbade argument. After only a moment’s thought, she said: ‘Very well. Would you excuse us, Aunty? We’ll use the morning-room.’

  ‘No, no, my dear. You stay here. I want to have a word with Cook. Besides, I’m sure it’s nothing …’ But Vita’s confidence died as she looked at me. She rose with a graceful display of effort and walked slowly from the room, casting me a concerned glance – in which some stern hint of warning seemed also implicit – as I held the door open for her. Then she was gone.

  For a moment, I thought Diana might try to dispel her foreboding by laughing or trying to kiss me. But she could see I meant to remain aloof. She took a slow circular route back to her chair, retrieved her cigarette from its ashtray and gazed curiously at me as she drew on it. Then she said: ‘Well, Guy? What is it?’

  I walked towards her, slipping Lightfoot’s photograph from my pocket as I crossed the room and slapping it down in front of her on the coffee-table. For several seconds, she stared at it, a frown of false puzzlement creasing her brow. Awareness of her beauty – of the infinite desirability of her body beneath the caressing lines of her dress – prised its way into my thoughts. Then anger blotted it out. ‘Are you going to pretend you don’t know who he is?’

  She looked straight at me. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Alfred Hildebrand Lightfoot.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Doesn’t the name mean anything to you?’

  ‘Not a single thing.’

  ‘Well, perhaps you never bothered to find it out. A tedious detail you could leave dear Papa to deal with. But the face. You know the face, don’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Imagine it a few years older, with greyer hair, no moustache … and a great gaping wound where half of it ought to be.’

  She permitted herself a grimace of distaste. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘This is the poor bastard you identified that night. This is what’s rotting to dust in your father’s grave.’

  ‘Guy, for God’s—’

  ‘I’ll spell it out, shall I?’ I was shouting now. I could hear my voice cracking, see my hand trembling. But to remain calm was impossible. To speak of it at all was to rage against the trick they had played. ‘You and your wouldn’t-hurt-a-fly aunt helped your father fake his own death. I’m not sure yet why he needed to disappear so conclusively, but I expect money’s the answer. This way, he can welsh on his debts and spend his ill-gotten gains. You needed two unsuspecting souls to pull it off and you found them in Max Wingate and Hildebrand Lightfoot. Max to be your despairing suitor with a motive for murder. And Lightfoot to be his victim. Your father lured Lightfoot up into those woods on the basis of some spurious commission to impersonate him. Then he beat the man’s brains out, leaving you to claim the corpse as his own and Max to carry the can. It was clever, wasn’t it? Bloody clever, if you’ll pardon the pun. The police never thought to question his identity. Why should they when his sister and daughter were weeping so copiously over the body? The pathologist and the undertaker didn’t know him from Adam. And his valet had conveniently been dispensed with, so there was no danger of him quibbling about whether it was his master or not. You even coped with me turning up unexpectedly. Like everybody else, I never thought for a moment you’d be lying, so, naturally, I didn’t examine the body too closely. After all, it wasn’t a pretty sight. But, then, it wasn’t meant to be, was it?’

  Her eyes had been fixed on me throughout, as if the sheer intensity of her gaze could beat back my accusations. Her lips were compressed in a thin line, her hands held rigidly at her sides. She must have realized there was no point in denying it
. But she could at least refuse to admit it.

  ‘Even before you met us aboard the Empress of Britain, you were planning it, weren’t you? You and Vita were on the look-out for somebody with few friends or relatives to turn to if he found himself fleeing for his life from a murder charge. Who better than one of two expatriates returning to England after a lengthy absence? Hence Vita’s generous invitation for us to attend your party. I suppose I should be grateful Max arrived before I did. Otherwise, I might have been chosen. Or perhaps you’d have judged him to be more suitable anyway. Quicker to succumb to your advances. Readier to believe your lies. And they were lies, weren’t they? Right from the start. Every single honey-toned endearment. The engagement was a fraud. And the elopement was a trap. I sprang it, of course, by obligingly taking your father’s bribe. But Max was the one caught in its jaws. It would have worked perfectly if he’d been arrested soon afterwards. Or even if he’d never been seen again. But luck turned against you there, I’m afraid. It always does in the end.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said with icy stubbornness.

  ‘Then let me enlighten you. Lightfoot arrived early for his appointment. So did Max. And he took me with him. We all ended up waiting in the same pub on the Guildford road. The Wotton Hatch. And Lightfoot introduced himself to the barmaid, using his Christian name, which we happened to hear. Hildebrand. Unusual, you see. Easy to remember. As Max did, a few days later, when he passed through Bournemouth and saw it on a hoarding at the pier. He must have thought it an odd coincidence and gone along to the matinée out of curiosity. Or perhaps a darkened theatre struck him as a good place to hide. Either way, he soon had more than coincidence to contend with. Lightfoot’s performance was cancelled. Nobody knew why. He simply hadn’t shown up. But when Max contacted Lightfoot’s agent and saw this photograph, he knew. He knew, for the first time, what you’d done to him. And then he came after you. Did you realize? Did you sense he was on your trail? Is that why you started giving me the glad eye? In the hope he’d see us together and jump to the wrong conclusion?’ I stepped closer and, slowly reaching out, cupped her chin in my hand. ‘Well, was it, Diana? Was all that heat and passion just a diversionary tactic?’

  Her skin was cool and soft. I slid my fingers up over her jaw till they were touching her pursed lips. Then, goaded by her silence, I grasped her mouth and squeezed it open, till I could see the clenched white teeth within and feel the nervous breath fanning my knuckles.

  ‘You treacherous bitch! You let him find us together. You let him believe we’d both betrayed him. And then, when you were afraid he was about to tell me what had happened, you killed him. Not to save me. But to save yourself. You hit him exactly where he’d unwittingly told you to. Hard enough to be sure he’d never speak again. You murdered him, Diana. Just like your father murdered Lightfoot. But Lightfoot wasn’t my friend. Max was.’

  Her head was tilting back as my grip tightened, her eyes widening. Suddenly, with an oath, I whipped my hand away. She cried out and stumbled to the sofa, leaning against it for support, raising one arm as if to shield herself from me.

  ‘Aren’t you going to deny it? Aren’t you going to try to talk me round? Or persuade me in your own inimitable way? It wouldn’t work, of course. It’s too late for all of that. But I’d be disappointed if you didn’t even make the attempt. It would be uncharacteristic of you to admit defeat so easily. And unworthy of your father. Don’t you think?’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ she panted. ‘This is all … all madness.’

  ‘Yes. It is madness. But it’s what you did. Why, Diana? That’s what I can’t understand. Why do so much for such a man? For God’s sake! Look at your mother’s picture, there on the wall. Her blood’s on his hands. Hers and the blood of every one of those poor bastards we’ll be keeping a two-minute silence for next week. From an Austrian archduke through to a second-rate conjurer. All of them. Dead because of your father.’

  She turned to look at me. There was a difference now in her expression, a hint of something genuine. ‘What … what has my mother to do with …’

  ‘The Concentric Alliance! I know about that too, darling mine. Don’t think for an instant your sang froid when their letter was delivered to you in Venice is going to count for anything now. Just because you managed to carry it off better than your aunt, I’m not about to—’

  ‘That’s enough!’ declared Vita, bursting into the room red-faced and quivering with what could as easily have been fear as rage. ‘That’s quite enough!’ She halted in front of me and tried for a moment to stare me down. Then, seeing I was not to be cowed, she moved past me and threaded her arm protectively through Diana’s. ‘How dare you talk to my niece in such a fashion? What’s the meaning of it?’

  ‘Ears burning, were they, Vita? Or just one of them, from being pressed to the keyhole? I hope you found it easier than craning over the guard-rail on the Empress of Britain.’

  ‘Your … ranting … could be heard all over the house, young man. And I repeat: what’s the meaning of it?’

  ‘Crystal-clear, I should have thought. I’m accusing you and Diana of being accessories to murder. Of perjuring yourselves. Of lying through your teeth. Of weeping to order and grieving on cue. Of aiding and abetting Fabian Charnwood in his attempts to evade justice. And by association of complicity in all his damnable works.’

  Vita’s grip on Diana’s arm tightened. She swelled with what she no doubt believed would be an impressive show of outraged innocence. ‘Absurd! Preposterous! And deeply offensive!’

  ‘To anyone with a shred of decency, yes. But not to you two. I’ll tell you what hits you so hard. It’s truth. An unfamiliar commodity in your world. An unwelcome and inconvenient intruder. Well, it’s here now. Out in the open. And it’s not going away.’

  ‘I think that’s exactly what you should do after such a torrent of hurtful nonsense,’ Vita asserted. ‘Go away and let us try to forget what you’ve said.’

  ‘Oh no. You’re not going to be allowed to forget a single thing. When I leave here, I’ll be going to the police. They’ll listen to me. And they’ll believe me, Vita. I’ll make them. So, don’t think you can disregard my words. They’ll be ringing in your ears from now till the day your brother is dragged out of hiding. Till all three of you are forced to answer for what you’ve done.’

  ‘The police won’t listen to you. They have more sense. Besides, there’s not a shred of—’ Vita stopped abruptly and stared at me above clamped lips. Proof was the word she had been about to use. But to have done so would have represented an admission that there was something to prove after all, that my allegations were not as groundless as she had claimed.

  ‘We’ll see,’ I said slowly. ‘I think I can persuade Hornby to order an exhumation. What will it reveal, do you suppose? I’d say it was odds on there being something – some minor overlooked detail – to prove who the occupant of that grave really is. Your brother. Or somebody of similar build and appearance. Somebody like him but not quite the same. Which way would you lay your money? There’d be a great deal at stake, remember. You couldn’t afford to lose. If you did, you’d have more than the police to worry about. There’d be Faraday and all the merciless people he represents. The people you’ve helped your brother cheat. His accomplices in a seventeen-year-old conspiracy.’

  ‘What conspiracy?’ put in Diana, the urgency of her tone implying she really did not understand.

  ‘It’s too late to play the innocent,’ I replied. ‘Your father must have told you about the Concentric Alliance. Probably a long time ago. After all, the money for your education, your dresses, your whole pampered existence, came from the profits he made out of the war. A pity your mother had to die in the process. But perhaps you offset that against the advantages as easily as he did.’

  ‘Don’t pay any attention,’ hissed Vita. ‘Your mother has nothing to do with this.’ But in Diana’s eyes, as she looked round at her aunt, was a glimmer of doubt. And, for the first
time, I began to think she really might not know all of it.

  ‘Hold on, Vita,’ I said, stepping closer. ‘Have you and your brother been keeping something from Diana?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘That’s it, isn’t it? She doesn’t know about the Concentric Alliance. She really doesn’t.’

  ‘Neither of us does. We have no idea what you mean by—’

  ‘Their symbol struck a chill into your heart. But it didn’t affect Diana. I thought she was just a better actress. Now, I’m not so—’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re—’

  ‘The concentric circles, you lying old bitch! We all saw them. But only you reacted as if you’d also seen a ghost.’ I turned towards Diana and there, written clearly in her face, was confirmation. She had helped her father escape. But she had not understood what she was helping him escape from. ‘Listen to me carefully, Diana. What you’re about to hear is the gospel truth.’

  ‘I want you out of here now!’ shrieked Vita, breaking away and bustling to the door. ‘This very minute.’ She pulled the door open and stood imperiously beside it, but I did not react. I kept looking directly at Diana, holding her gaze with mine, commanding her to listen.

  ‘The Concentric Alliance is a secret international organization of which your father is or was the head. Seventeen years ago, they arranged the assassination in Sarajevo that sparked off the Great War. They made huge profits from subsequent sales of arms and munitions and from other investments they were able to time precisely thanks to knowing when the war would break out – because they brought it about. It was your father’s idea. It was his brain-child. A greedy infant, as it turned out. One that gobbled millions of lives. Including your mother’s. Your father killed her as surely as if he’d fired the torpedo himself. As surely as if he’d held her beneath the waves until he was certain she’d drowned.’

  ‘No,’ she murmured. ‘It can’t be so.’