A Matter of Loyalty

by Anselm Audley

  ‘Shall we look her up?’

  ‘I’m going to.’ He had already resolved to tackle her at the talk that evening.

  ‘In which case,’ Peter said, ‘you don’t think Rothesay is the source of the more recent material.’

  Hugo shook his head.

  ‘Who else could it be?’ Harriet asked. ‘I know you’re not keen on Rothesay the Communist, nor am I. But Rothesay full of sour grapes, that’s much more plausible.’

  It was Peter who supplied the answer. ‘Oldcastle’s the man Hugo has in mind. He’s wide open to blackmail, given Rothesay’s habit of grumbling to anyone who’d listen. We’ll need to do a full inquiry, temporary suspension and everything.’

  ‘I don’t know whether you gentlemen have noticed,’ Harriet said, ‘but Sir Bernard thinks Oldcastle is a Good Egg. We’ll have the devil of a time getting approval for this.’

  ‘The evidence is there,’ Hugo said. ‘That was my task for today.’

  ‘A task you now don’t have time for,’ Harriet said, ‘thanks to this ridiculous wild goose chase of Sir Bernard’s. Orders from London, my foot. He wants you out of the way.’

  Peter’s eyes narrowed. ‘Oho! Mischief afoot. A quiet phone call from Oldcastle, pouring his woes into our exalted chief’s shell-like?’

  ‘Sticky territory for Sir B if so,’ Harriet said, ‘but I wouldn’t put it past him. They seem to be getting on very well indeed.’

  Hugo had entertained the same suspicion. ‘Reconvene on Monday,’ he said. ‘First thing, let’s give ourselves a head start.’

  ‘If it’s enough,’ Harriet said. ‘The cat’s out of the bag now. If Oldcastle is desperate enough to pull Sir Bernard’s strings, who else has he talked to?’

  Who else indeed, Hugo wondered. Oldcastle was a better Soviet source than Rothesay in every respect – more senior, more influential, and most importantly more discreet. Hugo had handled sources like Rothesay himself, men with private grudges. Loose cannons, unreliable in the extreme. Dangerous to someone in Oldcastle’s position, dangerous to their controller.

  But who was that controller? Someone in London, where everything was anonymous? Or in Selchester, close by? Instinct said the latter. Whoever had dumped Rothesay’s body and stitched Saul up knew the area well.

  Scene 4

  The train pulled into the station in a hiss of steam. Hugo wished for a moment it had gone straight through, then caught himself. What on earth was he thinking?

  Valerie stepped down from one of the first-class carriages, chic and immaculate as ever. He winced as he caught sight of her shoes: high-heeled kid leather, utterly unsuitable for the country. Lady Sonia might wrap herself in mink, but she’d never be caught out like that.

  ‘There you are, darling.’ Valerie glanced around. ‘Pretty enough, but I shouldn’t like to be stuck here. I wonder if they talk about anything but dogs and horses.’ He rather thought one or two of the other passengers were off to the same thing, but Valerie didn’t seem to know them.

  Hugo handed Valerie into the car. ‘Where are we heading?’ he asked.

  ‘Wulfsy Manor. Straight up the high street, Serena said, and it’s on the right, a mile out of town.’

  It was indeed, a rambling and rather charming assortment of gables, Elizabethan windows, and Jacobean timbering. Yarnley’s church stood by the gate, well out of the town, one of those peculiar mediaeval survivals.

  ‘Rustic’ was Valerie’s verdict. ‘I suppose Serena married him for his house. She always wanted to live somewhere rural and have hordes of children. There’s no accounting for taste.’

  ‘Who’s her husband?’

  ‘His name’s Arthur. Good-natured, but a bit dim if you ask me.’

  Hugo couldn’t remember which of Valerie’s many acquaintances Serena was until she met them at the porch. Fair, round, with laughter lines around her eyes. She looked happy, he thought, not at all like a woman who’d married for the sake of the house. Her husband was equally fair, blond and cheerful. Hugo recognised him at once, they’d been at Oxford at the same time.

  ‘Hawksworth,’ said Arthur, giving him a firm handshake. ‘History at St John’s, am I correct?’

  ‘Indeed. You were at Christ Church.’

  ‘Forestry.’ He grinned. ‘Can’t say I paid much attention, but I haven’t had to sell the place yet, so I must be doing something right. Where are you now?’

  ‘Selchester.’

  ‘I had no idea. Shows you how much I get out and about. D’you know Archie Veryan? He’s coming today.’

  ‘I lodge at the Castle, his niece lives there.’

  ‘Freya Wryton. Rides a big ugly piebald with a foul temper.’

  Hugo would have to tell Freya how far Last Hurrah’s reputation had spread, although he suspected Arthur was the sort of man who knew horses better than people.

  Valerie shot Hugo a sidelong look at the mention of Freya’s name.

  ‘So you’ll know this new American earl. I must say I’d rather like to meet him. Fancy being plucked from New England and planted down here. Serena tells me he’s much too clever for the likes of me, though. Come in, come in, we’re assembling here before we go over. One or two still to arrive. Didn’t want all this mummery myself, but my mother insisted, likes to do things properly.’

  Wulfsy Manor was as oddly laid out as the Castle, although on a rather more friendly scale. They were led through into a beamed hall, barely the size of one of the Castle’s Drawing Rooms, with a minstrels’ gallery. A chorus of barks sounded from the other side of a door. Arthur was exactly the sort of man to have half a dozen dogs.

  Valerie extricated Hugo from Arthur’s company. ‘There’s someone you should meet. Over there, talking to the Veryans.’

  Lady Priscilla’s husband was large and florid, quite a presence in the House. Hugo had only met him once or twice, as he was away a great deal. He didn’t know the other man, although he had the look of a senior civil servant about him.

  ‘Hawksworth,’ said Sir Archibald. ‘Good to see you here, heard you’d be coming. This is Hammond Stainer, of the Board of Trade.’

  They shook hands, Hugo concealing his wariness. He had a good idea what was afoot. One didn’t work for the Service without learning the ways of British officialdom.

  ‘So this is Valerie,’ said Lady Priscilla, sizing her up. ‘Come, let’s leave them to the Official Secrets Act, best to get business out of the way first. I believe you know my niece, Lady Sonia . . .’

  Valerie had not the slightest objection to leaving Hugo the moment they came into the room. It was all very effectively managed. The Service could hardly have done better, although they might have maintained the pretence of a social occasion for a few moments longer.

  ‘We knew one another when I was on the Trade Committee,’ said Sir Archibald. ‘He was in your department for a while, although before your time. You joined the Service from the Army?’

  ‘Service first. I was seconded to the Army during the war.’

  ‘And now you’re on the bench, with this leg of yours. Heard about that, nasty business. How’s it healing?’

  ‘It’s on its way,’ Hugo said. There was a script to be followed, the only question was what they wanted to offer him. ‘The doctors tell me I’ll always limp, but nothing worse.’

  ‘How are you finding life at Sir Bernard’s outfit? Worked with him for a while. Good man, if perhaps a touch pedestrian. Not in the Chief’s league.’

  There wasn’t much Hugo could, or indeed should, say to that.

  ‘You know to keep your mouth shut,’ said Sir Archibald approvingly.

  Stainer took over. ‘I wanted to meet you, informally you understand,’ he said. ‘We’ve an opening at the Board, quite a step up from your present position. Needs a man with some experience in your line of work, untangling truth from falsehood, bit of a nose for what’s been hidden.’

  ‘I’m no economist,’ said Hugo.

  ‘We’ve plenty of economists, you’ll pick the numbers
up quickly enough, or what’s an Oxford education for? What I need is someone who’s used to thinking the way the Soviets do. Who’s up, who’s down, who’s in, who’s out. Keeping track of the politics of it all, so we know who we’re dealing with on the trade front, and who we might be dealing with in a year’s time. I’ve all sorts of bright young men who know their numbers, but none who knows the Soviets. London-based, of course, you’ll have access to all the information you need, and a hefty increase on your Service salary. Can’t have a man like you mouldering in the sticks, now can we?’

  ‘Don’t let Sir Bernard hear you say that,’ said Sir Archibald.

  ‘I’d have thought,’ said Hugo carefully, ‘there were men on the Russia desk who’d be better suited than I am.’

  He heard Valerie’s laugh across the room. She’d already gathered an admiring circle about her.

  ‘None I can get hold of,’ said Stainer. ‘Come, don’t beat about the bush. I’m told you’re a man who wants to serve your country, not jump ship to work in a bank. I admire that. But the Service can’t use a field officer with a gammy leg. The Board can. I dare say that girlfriend of yours would take it kindly, too. You’d be in line for one of our official flats, just off the edge of Mayfair, and school fees for your sister. I understand you’re her guardian.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Hugo. ‘How soon would you want me to start?’

  ‘Soon as possible. We’d treat it as an internal transfer, you’d be on your way in a few weeks.’

  ‘It’s quite an offer. May I give you my answer next week?’

  Stainer frowned. ‘I was rather hoping you’d jump at it. Won’t be able to hold it open for long.’

  ‘Mr Stainer, I’ve been with the Service for fourteen years. I owe it my loyalty, and I won’t simply leave it because I’ve had another offer, no matter how generous that offer may be.’

  ‘Good answer,’ said Sir Archibald unexpectedly. ‘Give him a day or two, Stainer, it’s only courteous. Man wants to serve his country, you should expect him to have a sense of duty to the branch he serves in.’

  ‘Of course.’ Stainer fished a card out of his pocket and scribbled a number on the back. ‘This is my private line. Give me a ring, Tuesday at the latest.’

  Hugo tucked the card into his pocket, and the talk turned to mutual acquaintances in the Service.

  Scene 5

  Valerie caught up with him as they made their way over to the church, square and archetypally English in the winter sunshine.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well, what?’

  She cast her eyes upwards.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I take it you know what he was offering.’

  ‘It’s a job at the Board of Trade, who’ll appreciate you considerably more than the Service, give you a good position with a decent salary, and not exile you to a decaying Victorian pile in the middle of the countryside to do the job of a glorified librarian. As to exactly what it is, no I don’t know, although I suppose it’s something in your general line. Do I have it right?’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘Then, for heaven’s sake, what did you say?’

  ‘I’ll give him an answer in the week.’

  ‘You leapt at the chance to come down here.’

  ‘I virtually handed in my resignation my first day on the job.’

  ‘Why on earth didn’t you?’

  ‘I owe the Service. And, as it turned out, I like the work.’

  He didn’t expect her to understand, and she didn’t. She was, however, wise enough not to say anything more. She gave his arm a squeeze, and they walked through the porch into the musty quiet of the little church. St Osmund’s, said the noticeboard.

  It was a still, hallowed place, full of box pews and pale sunlight. The walls were scattered with memorial stones to generations of Arthur’s family sleeping in the churchyard, the hassocks threadbare with use, the stone floor worn and uneven. There was a rood screen, old as the church, with a gaunt mediaeval crucifix above.

  The guests stood around the font, hushed by habit. The christening party came in, Serena radiant and Arthur solemn. That must be Arthur’s mother, she had his look. Not nearly so much a dragon as Lady Priscilla, though. There was the rector, tall and bony like a heron, with a voice which seemed much too resonant for him. There was the baby, Hugo hadn’t caught its name. He felt like an imposter. What was he doing here, at the christening of a child of two people he hardly knew? There couldn’t be twenty people in the church.

  Stainer was one of the godfathers, Sir Archibald another. The Hampton-Bishops clearly believed in an abundance of godparents, there were seven around the font.

  Hugo’s eyes wandered over the church, the words of the service washing over him. Dust danced in the sunbeams, bell ropes hung looped beneath the west tower. He wondered whether Freya had rung here. Change-ringers were a convivial lot, always popping around to one another’s churches to try out the bells.

  He looked at Valerie, poised and attentive. Very much a hatch, match and dispatch Anglican, although with the number of weddings she went to, that was no inconsiderable level of churchgoing. He’d hardly made it to the christenings of friends’ children, always abroad. He did remember Georgia’s, in a blacked-out London church at the beginning of the Blitz, his father granted a single night at home by a sympathetic admiral. A next-door neighbour and Aunt Charlotte for godmothers, his father’s first officer as godfather, smart in his naval uniform. His parents, worn by war and worry, had for one night looked as radiant as the Hampton-Bishops now. Georgia had been a gift to them, quite unexpected and greatly treasured.

  In a grim symmetry, the neighbour had died in the doodlebug strike which killed Hugo’s mother, while Lieutenant-Commander Melmerby, a reservist like Hugo’s father, had gone down with the Alcyone.

  A memorial stone just beyond the font caught Hugo’s eye, pale grey stone with RAF wings at the top. Flight-Lieutenant Charles Hampton-Bishop, only son and heir to another Arthur. Killed on the Marne aged twenty-three, 1st November 1918. Arthur had never even known his father.

  ‘I demand, therefore,’ said the rector, his voice louder of a sudden, ‘dost thou, in the name of this child, renounce the devil and all his works, the vain pomp and glory of the world, with all covetous desires of the same, and the carnal desires of the flesh, so that thou wilt not follow, nor be led by them?’

  A confused mumble from the phalanx of godparents, no individual words discernible.

  Stainer had just offered Hugo the vain pomp and glory of the world, and not a few covetous desires of the same, so he clearly wasn’t forswearing them. But then, he wasn’t required to do so for himself. He was forswearing them for the Hampton-Bishops’ child, a tiny Arthur or Serena to grow to adulthood in this quiet corner of England, to skip down the stone path to the church and fidget in the pews, no doubt to complain loudly about having to go at all.

  The child was held out over the font, the water poured. It broke out in an indignant wail.

  ‘Charles Augustus Osmund, I baptise thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.’

  A boy, then. Another Charles, like Arthur’s father and Hugo’s. New life, to keep the Hampton-Bishop name alive. To make a life of his own, perhaps into a ripe old age, if there was hope for any of them in a world full of A-bombs and H-bombs.

  Hugo was in the oddest frame of mind today. It was a social event, full of strangers and distant acquaintances, in a place he’d never been before and would probably never visit again. Why were his thoughts wandering like this?

  Valerie had noticed. ‘Wool-gathering again?’ she said as they came back out into the sunshine, back between the graves towards the house and a spread for lunch. ‘The countryside must be getting to you. Bright as a button, you were, in London.’

  They walked on. A gust of wind rustled the yews, wafting snatches of conversation towards them. Valerie fell silent, alert for gossip.

  ‘. . . second reading o
f the Housing Bill . . .’

  ‘. . . due back on leave next weekend . . .’

  ‘. . . always said he was wrong for her, but it’s hard on the children . . .’

  ‘I suppose they’ve put him down for Eton?’ Stainer said, close behind.

  Sir Archibald’s voice, in reply. ‘No, they haven’t. Some odd ideas about education, both of them. Tried to reason with them, but they’re not having any of it. Say they’ll send him somewhere close. Bryanston perhaps, or Millfield.’

  ‘Peculiar places, the both of them. Felicity and Walter are sending my grandchildren to a day school. Don’t know where these notions get into their heads. Won’t do any good.’

  Stainer and Sir Archibald strolled past them with courteous nods. Hugo’s limp was slowing them down, only the grandmothers were left to pass them.

  ‘. . . Yes, after his grandfathers. The Osmund is a family tradition . . .’

  ‘This will all be done by two or three,’ said Valerie. ‘You can show me Selchester afterwards. I’ve a ticket on the evening express.’

  ‘I thought it was fearfully dull.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s perfectly charming, as provincial towns go. Wouldn’t want to live there myself, but you’ll have been six months or so here. I should like to see it.’

  Scene 6

  The Castle had come to life.

  Freya was glad of it. There hadn’t been this many people there since the war, and then it had all been camouflage trucks and the like. The courtyard was a cheerful bedlam of cars and vans, far too many for the usual spaces. Ben had to direct some to park on the grass in the inner court, the great circuit within the ruined walls.

  The ballroom, cleaned and lit for the first time in almost fifteen years, was alive with voices. Gone were the dust sheets, the dim gloom, even the chill. Ben had fixed the radiators, with some uncomplimentary words about the Army plumbers. Gus, always ready for some electrical tinkering, had tested the chandeliers before handing them over to Mrs Partridge for a good polish. Naturally, they gleamed.