“My real mother, they said, had died giving birth to me. The doctor in attendance was my uncle, Frank Sellick, who, knowing his brother’s wife couldn’t have children of her own, and distressed at being unable to save the mother, persuaded them to adopt me as their own.
“My uncle was dead by the time they told me – the flu bug of 1918 got him, doctor or not – so I only had his story at second-hand. He’d told them that my mother, Caroline van der Merwe, was a Durban girl who’d married a British officer in the autumn of 1900. He’d almost immediately deserted her, only for her to discover that she was pregnant. It was a bad time to be carrying a British officer’s child in Natal. When Botha’s patriots invaded the province in February 1901, a raiding party butchered the van der Merwe household: they’d have regarded them as collaborators.”
“No doubt. They were hard times.”
Sellick glared at me. “You sit there so smug and fine, the English gentleman in retirement – with no conception of the suffering you caused.”
“I caused none, Mr Sellick. The people and the events you speak of are unknown to me.”
“Spare me your denials. Listen a little longer.”
“My mother, being pregnant, was spared in the massacre – a superstition among fighting men, as you would know, but an ironical one in this case, since it was her pregnancy by a British officer which marked out the family. Witnessing the slaughter of her parents and brothers drove her mad – God knows she’d suffered enough. She was placed in the asylum at Pietermaritzburg and, so far as I knew, died in childbirth in June of that year.
“The tragedy was remote from me and I forgot it easily, as young men do. The land was good to us on the Karroo and we were happy. My father – my adoptive father – died in 1938 and I inherited the place. It prospered and I’m in semi-retirement now, with a manager to run it for me. I didn’t expect many more surprises from life.
“Then, three months ago, I received a letter from my uncle’s solicitor in Pietermaritzburg. My uncle had placed the full facts in his hands but didn’t want them disclosed until my mother died.”
“But you just said she died when you were born.”
“Not so, Strafford. She wasn’t so soon off your conscience. After my birth, she remained in the asylum in Pietermaritzburg: a hopeless lunatic, mindless and forgotten. She died last December. Amongst her few possessions was that birth certificate – and, in an old tin trunk, this revolver, with its holster and belt, clearly stamped as British Army issue. It’s an officer’s weapon – your weapon.”
“No, Mr Sellick. Not mine. I’m not your father. I served in South Africa, it’s true, but I never met a Miss … van der Merwe of … Durban.” I had hesitated because, as I said it, the name was familiar, though not as somebody I had ever met. But Sellick misinterpreted my hesitation.
“Your very voice betrays you, Strafford. God knows why or how, but, in your haste to desert my mother, you left this gun behind, and she preserved it as the only reminder she had of her husband – other than a cheap wedding ring. But don’t worry. I had the revolver looked over by the finest gunsmith in Capetown. It’s in fully working order now.”
“I’m sure.”
“Let me tell you a little more. Let me tell you how it felt to hear that my mother had died in a lunatic asylum without ever knowing her son. Maybe my uncle would have told me of her whereabouts had he lived. But my ignorance of her wasn’t really his fault, nor her madness, nor her tragedy. No, that was the work of the dashing young British officer who married her and then abandoned her to the mercy of a Boer raiding party.”
“Quite possibly. But I am not that man.”
“I’ve spent long enough tracking you down to be certain of my facts, Strafford. My birth certificate wasn’t much to go on, of course, but my uncle had said the van der Merwes were a Durban family and so I went there. No sign in the Registrar’s records of a marriage in that name in the autumn of 1900.”
“I wasn’t even in South Africa in the autumn of 1900.”
“Then when did you leave?”
“Ah … the middle of September, I think.”
“At last, the truth. I congratulate you. My solicitor hunted the length and breadth of Natal looking for a record of the marriage. Eventually, he found it. It seems you eloped with my mother and got married in Port Edward, down in the south of Natal – obscurity suited your purpose, no doubt.”
“Mr Sellick, it is your purpose which is obscure to me.”
“I obtained a copy of the marriage entry from the Registrar in Port Edward. I have it here.” He threw another piece of paper at me, which I inspected. Like the first, it was alien to me, for all that my name and, so it seemed, my signature, appeared on it. I stared at it in disbelief.
“When married: 8th September 1900. Name and surname: Edwin George Strafford. Age: 24 years. Condition: Bachelor. Rank or profession: Second Lieutenant, British Army. Residence: Culemborg Barracks, Capetown.” The signature was uncannily like mine. I could see why, to others, it would seem the genuine article. But it was not. Even at a space of fifty years, I could tell it for the forgery it was. As I peered at the document, recollections and associations raced through my mind, amounting to far more than Sellick’s threats. I could understand his anger at his father, but I was not the man he sought. And already, I was guessing who might be, and trembling with excitement at the clue now, at long last, given me, the hope it held of unravelling the besetting mystery of my life. None of this, however, was about to detain Leo Sellick.
“Well might you shiver, Strafford. Perhaps somebody’s walked over your grave.” I could not hope to make him comprehend the deeper perfidy he had unwittingly uncovered. As soon as I saw the address recorded for Caroline van der Merwe – Ocean Prospect, Berea Drive, Durban – it struck a chord. That was the address I had been bound for, as part of my diplomatic work in the Dutch community, during the autumn of 1900, when news came of a general election at home, necessitating my precipitate departure for England. Who had taken my place in Durban? Who had successfully mimicked his friends’ handwriting at Cambridge? Who had the nerve to marry under an assumed name but not the nerve to charge in battle? The answer to all three questions was my old friend, Gerald Couchman.
Sellick was still talking to me. “I soon discovered which regiment had occupied Culemborg Barracks in September 1900: the Devonshires. The Regimental Archivist in Exeter supplied me with what information he had on you – your political and military career, your present address.” What better than proof that I was already married to destroy Elizabeth’s faith in me and make her think me no better than a scoundrel, a worthless seducer? Who gained more from our engagement being broken than the man who eventually married her? Who could be better placed than he to produce the bogus evidence of my infamy?
“I prepared myself for this encounter by a close study of your life, Strafford. You seem to have specialized in loss of nerve – running out on your wife, then politics, then your family in Devon. Now you’ve buried yourself here, what do you feel when you look back on it all – satisfaction? Or the disgust it causes me?”
“Neither, Mr Sellick.” How could I explain that we had both been deceived – both betrayed – by the same man? I hardly noticed Sellick’s expression as he eyed me across the verandah. In my mind, I saw only Sir Gerald Couchman, arms dealer, happily married man, proud father, gambler, coward, mountebank and bigamist, who had ruined me – and the woman I loved. “What I feel is … vindication.”
Sellick glared at me. “Vindication? Haven’t you been listening? You can’t outface me, Strafford. I hold the proof of your ruination of a good woman, your culpable neglect of your responsibilities, your casual disposal of any moral …”
I rose quickly from my chair. It seemed to take him aback. “Save your breath, Mr Sellick. You have my sympathy – but you have the wrong man.”
Sellick jumped up also and pointed the gun at me. “I ought to kill you now, Strafford. Haven’t you even the decency to be sorry?�
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I sat down again. I saw that Sellick was a real problem. I could hardly hope to convince him of the truth – it was, even to me, incredible – yet how could I satisfy him? I owed him nothing, but his father – whoever he was – did and, for that reason, I should perhaps have been more open with him. but I was an old man, suddenly in a hurry, anxious to have done with a tiresome interview and call a guilty man to book. Therefore, I had no choice but to dissemble. “Mr Sellick. Conceive it possible” – the phrase itself caused more echoes in my head – “that you may be mistaken.”
He shook his head. “Not possible. You are the man. Hand me back the certificates.”
“Very well” I did so. “What do you want of me?”
He smiled. It was a cruel, slavering smile, a smile suggestive of his lineage. “What I require of you, Strafford, is a public admission of your guilt, a full statement of your miserable conduct in respect of my mother.” Clearly, this was a more pleasing prospect to him than any mere execution.
“Do you think anybody will be interested?”
“Oh, I think so. A candid memoir to appear in a Fleet Street newspaper. A graphic portrayal of how a former Cabinet minister conducted himself in wartime. An exposure of the truth about their Consul’s past likely to interest the British community here on Madeira.”
“Assuredly. And I have no choice but to comply?”
“None. I will do it without you if necessary.”
“I see. Then how do you wish to proceed?”
“I have an appointment with a journalist in my hotel at seven o’clock this evening. Be there – ready to volunteer a confession – or I’ll ruin you slowly, first with your family, then your regiment, then …”
I held up a hand. “Pray do not continue. I will cooperate.”
“I thought you would. I reckoned you wouldn’t have the courage not to – and I was right. Hunting you down has been disappointing in a way. You’re not worthy of the kill.”
I shrugged my shoulders, endeavouring to look crestfallen for his benefit. I was busily thinking of ways to keep this aggressive South African quiet for a while – but I wanted him to think, for the moment, that he had me where he wanted me: at his mercy.
Sellick slipped the revolver into his jacket pocket. He looked at me as if I were a cornered, frightened animal. “I’ll leave you to compose your thoughts then … Father. I’m staying in Reid’s Hotel. I’ll expect you there, promptly at seven.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Be sure you are.” He walked smartly down the verandah steps and away round the side of the house.
After a few minutes, I walked after him. From the side of the house, I could see down the length of the drive to the gates. Sellick had just reached them and was climbing into a waiting car. The door slammed and it sped away, back up the valley road towards Funchal, raising dust behind it as it went.
Back on the verandah, Tomás was awaiting me anxiously. “Senhor Strafford,” he said. “I was concerned about your … visitor. He did not announce himself at the door … and left like he was not happy.”
“We can’t be happy all the time, Tomás, even in the Porto Novo valley. Will you get the car out for me, please? I have urgent business in Funchal.”
I regretted the necessity for the action I next took, yet I did not hesitate for a moment. Whatever awaited me in England – where now I knew I must return – was, in a sense, pre-ordained, determined and decided the moment Couch – for I did not doubt that it was he – put my name to that marriage certificate in South Africa fifty years before. I was not about to seek out the myriad of whys and wherefores in a spirit of vengeance. Too many years had passed for that. It was, rather, with a sense of detached curiosity that I embarked upon the crowning act of my life, to test how much I still cared, to determine if it were still possible to identify an unalloyed truth about what had happened to me, to confront that truth and see it for what it was.
The task of neutralizing Sellick was, in all this, no more than a preliminary trifle. Yet its accomplishment was distasteful, obliging me as it did to seek favours from old friends, to wield influence where, properly, I should have had none.
I drove straight to police headquarters in Funchal and was warmly received by the Chief of Police, Carlos Garrido. We had been firm friends since the 1931 Revolution, when I had been able to prevent the authorities in Lisbon making of him a scapegoat. Garrido was not a man to forget a kindness, which was as well, since I now had one to ask of him.
“Carlos, I’ll come straight to the point. I want you to arrest a man.”
“Edouin, when you were Consul, all you asked me was not to arrest people. Now … so, who is the man?”
“Leo Sellick, a South African staying at Reid’s.”
“What has senhor Sellick done?”
“Threatened me – with a gun.”
“I do not allow people to threaten my friends, Edouin. Senhor Sellick will be seeing me.”
“Wait. It’s not as simple as that. It’s true he threatened me and that he has a gun. But it’s only an antique. And I won’t testify against him. I just want him held for a while.”
“How long?”
“A few weeks. I have to go to England and I don’t want Sellick to follow me.”
“It can be done – passport irregularities, threatening behaviour – detained in custody. I give you” – he paused – “one month. More I would give no man. Then: we let him go – unless you give evidence.”
“I won’t. We British handle South Africa’s consular business – I’ll arrange for my successor to drag his feet if Sellick complains. To you, old friend, I’m grateful. I wish I hadn’t had to ask you such a thing.”
“Then do not ask again, Edouin. This one – it is for the old times.”
“One other point. The gun is the property of a … friend of mine … in England. I’d like to return it.”
Garrido spread his arms theatrically. “Ah, removing the evidence also – why not? Come here tomorrow and I will see what I can do for you.”
I thanked him again and left. My next call was on Brown, the British Consul, at his official residence – once mine – on the hillside above Funchal. Brown was an amenable fellow and agreed to play his part. Between them, he and Garrido could be relied upon to hold Sellick for the duration of that month’s grace which they had given me. I returned to Quinta do Porto Novo well satisfied – in the strictly personal sense – with my afternoon’s work but impatient to progress to what really occupied my thoughts.
My suspicions had not stopped at Couch and any hand he had had in my estrangement from Elizabeth. For I knew that there were other, even more sinister, connotations. I passed the night rehearsing in my mind the events of 1909 and 1910, considering who had stood to gain by my removal from the political arena: Lloyd George for one, the Suffragettes for others. The evidence of my apparent deceit of Elizabeth could have been used to condemn me in Asquith’s eyes as a dangerous and despicable philanderer of whom he was well rid. Could the opportunistic Couch have sold for a goodly price the means to cast me as a villain? For did I not know too much of Lloyd George’s real intentions for his peace of mind?
Still and all, Lloyd George was six years dead and beyond my reach. The man at the centre of all my suspicions – Gerald Couchman – lived still, married to Elizabeth, a knight of the realm. He was the man who deserved my immediate attention.
I had forgotten one of the penalties of old age: lack of stamina. The following day, the sun shone. It was April 20th, my seventy-fifth birthday. The Porto Novo valley was a pluperfect copy of England in spring, the apple blossom in the quinta seducing me to stay with its powdery promise. Tomás served breakfast on the verandah and brought my birthday cards on a silver tray, adding felicitations of his own. Who but a madman would have wanted to uproot himself from such serenity?
I suppose it was madness of a kind: an inchoate strand in an old life which commanded me to follow, an Anglo-Saxon restlessness which refuted the La
tin langour. And, overriding all else, there was the pathetic eagerness with which I checked through the cards, as I had every birthday and Christmas for thirty years, half-hoping, against all reason, that one card, one day, would be from Elizabeth. Yet it never was.
So I returned to Funchal and Garrido’s office, determined to follow the strand to its source.
“We have Senhor Sellick in custody.” Garrido announced. “He was with a … newspaperman … when we arrested him. Now … he complains loudly. Maybe the newspaperman will also. You have given me a problem, Edouin.”
“I know. I’m sorry – and grateful.”
“De nada. When I say do not mention it, I mean it. Here is what else you asked.”
He pulled open a drawer and took out the revolver in its holster, attached to a waist belt and shoulder strap. Their fraying leather still had a whiff of Aldershot stores about them. They could easily have been mine.
“Thanks, Carlos. I won’t forget this.”
“Nor will Senhor Sellick. Do you wish to see him? He has spoken of you – not kindly.”
“No. Just hold him as long as you can.”
“I told you Edouin – one month. You have until May 20th.”
“Then I must make haste.”
“Before you do, there is something else I think you should have. It was found in Senhor Sellick’s room … among his possessions.” He drew from his pocket a paper and I guessed at once what it was. “It seems to me that this belongs to you. It is a record of your marriage.” I took it from him. “I did not know you were married.”
“A long time ago, Carlos.” I smiled. “I was a different man then.” I thanked him again for his efforts, slipped the revolver and harness into a bag and made to leave. He stopped me at the door.
“Edouin … I know you well. This must be something … very special.”
“It is. You could say it’s … everything.”
“I thought it was so. For that reason, I do it for you. Good luck, my friend … with everything.”
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