Innocence To Die For

by Eidinow, John

  After some inner debate, he took the ten-shilling note and The Informer and went to Whitechapel, intending to ask if a letter was waiting for him, but the shop was shut, an iron grill over the door and the windows shuttered. Inquiries met with a shrug.

  Feeling at a low ebb, he dropped into the Risen Phoenix and drank mint tea. Rozalia did not allow coffee. ‘Quite the wrong smell for a serious gallery.’

  Hadn’t he and Rozalia met in earlier lives? He asked himself half-seriously, prompted by the ease of her friendship and his feeling at their first encounter of her already knowing him. Hadn’t they had some past connection? But why bother with the unknowable when he took such pleasure in her company?

  Her elegance of mind as well as taste, her warmth and sweetness were captivating. Equally fascinating was her combining a vigorously practical approach to art and the business of art, hard-nosed he would say, and the mystical insights she would suddenly reveal. And while she ordinarily carried a measured air, she had a quick sense of fun, leaping into the absurd.

  Language was a bond. Her English was excellent, delivered with a Slavonic colouring in that throaty voice. When he heard her speaking French just as fluently, he spoke it to her and they began to drop into it, just as he would with Ella. Rozalia demanded the explanation of how he’d become so at home in the language, so confident – his mother’s pinching him and his twin, their regular holidays with his mother’s close friend and their godparent, the marquis. The marquis interested Rozalia: she had a feeling her father might have come across him when working as an art dealer in Paris. Had she learned French there? No, she and her late mother had lodged in Honfleur, an artists’ centre in Normandy.

  Hearing her speak Russian, such melodious Russian, on the phone to her father and friends was a musical joy. His expression made her laugh. She stood and declaimed:

  “Iz shatra / vykhodit Pyotr. Yevo glaza / siyayut. Lik evo uzhasen. / Dvizhen’ya bystry. On prekracen …”

  “Out of the tent stepped Peter. His eyes flashed. His countenance was terrible. His movements quick. He was splendid.”’

  She paused for effect. ‘Pushkin. Perhaps I will teach you my language, one day – when the war is over.’

  Later, he asked her if she also spoke Yiddish. Her response was mock astonishment, extravagantly raising her eyebrows.

  When she suggested that he might sit in for her while she went shopping or to talk to a client, he jumped at the opportunity, though he admitted to having no more than the average educated person’s knowledge of painting and had never thought of himself as any sort of salesman. He relished the muted atmosphere, the chance to explore her library of reference books, the contact with clients—and the burgeoning relationship. The gallery specialised in early 20th-century work, paintings, wood- and linocuts, lithographs, graphics. It also had an ad hoc, newly expanding, area of 18th- and 19th-century oils and watercolours. Her father was criss-crossing the country, looking for paintings that might be for sale or collectors he could bring together with works they might cherish. He sought owners whose stately homes were being requisitioned or who needed to raise some cash. Some were quite desperate, but he always offered a fair price. ‘Honesty is the key to a long-term relationship.’ Didn’t he agree with her—and her father?

  ****

  Nothing of this could stop him thinking constantly of his mother. The embassy was keeping up the pressure, said Anselm. They’d expressed surprise that the Roumanians were proving so “dilatory”: pigheaded. The authorities would be “bound to give way”, he was sure. But Peter noted that he was saying no more about the Home Office trawl for her papers. The papers she needed to escape that hotel room, the scruffy, lounging guards, the constant apprehension.

  Chapter Eight

  Lady Veronica had taken both his hands in hers before delivering the news. ‘Your mother is definitely in Soviet keeping. I’m afraid that’s confirmed. Bucharest’s delaying tactics have been unforgivable.’

  With the French armistice, the Soviet Union had issued an ultimatum to Roumania. Two days later the Red Army had marched into northern Bukovina, where his mother was held, making it part of western Ukraine.

  Madame Duverger collapsed in tears. Peter had never seen her cry before, hadn’t thought her capable of tears. Anselm was determined not to see a setback. ‘We weren’t getting anywhere with Bucharest. Our embassy in Moscow and our consul in Kiev will get on to the Soviet authorities at once. If anything, as the Soviet police didn’t have anything to do with her being held, they’ll probably want to wash their hands of her chop-chop.’

  ‘But Moscow and Berlin are allies. If the NKVD thinks she’s Polish, they’ll hand her over to the Germans in Poland.’

  ‘They don’t trust the Germans. That’s why they’ve marched into Bukovina. They’ll want to show willing to London. Particularly over the wife of a senior British officer. Well, where he’s personally concerned, let’s say. The embassy is confident.’

  ****

  ‘How can this not be bad?’ His head in his hands, he was sitting on the couch at the back of the gallery. Rozalia agreed: the news was not good. The whole Roumanian attitude had been mystifying. Her father had been in touch with his Bucharest contact, but when the contact made inquiries, he had met a wall of silence. Roumania was reasonably civilised. To be in Soviet hands? … Well, they were so unpredictable.

  The bell rang and Rozalia went to the front door. The customer had not come to look at pictures but stood, tall and impeccably tailored, discussing something with her. From the couch, Peter could see them in the mirror, placed high to give a view of the gallery. The man turned slightly and belatedly took off his hat. It was Nick’s colleague “Bill”, last seen grimacing over a perfectly decent cup of tea. Peter slid down and along the couch to watch at an angle. The door opened again and another man came in. Dark good looks, verging on the voluptuous, but rumpled and bloated. He put his hand on Bill’s shoulder. Bill stepped away. The man kissed Rozalia’s hand and gestured expansively at Bill in the direction of the street. With a patrician nod, Bill said goodbye to Rozalia and they left, the bloated man taking Bill’s arm and making an expansive gesture with his other hand. Rozalia looked after them for a moment. When she came back to the office, she was smiling to herself.

  ‘Good business?’

  ‘He’s after a French landscape my father’s seen, 18th century with allegorical figures, quite small but lush colouring and fine draughtsmanship. We suspect he thinks he can authenticate it. My father wants his own man to get there first. So I have to explain that it’s the owner’s delaying, not ours.’

  ‘He’s an authority?’

  ‘Not as much as he thinks—yet. At the moment he’s some sort of civil servant.’

  ‘I thought I’d met him somewhere … and that other man.’

  ‘Oh, they’re great friends. That one, he’s very clever and very amusing, and very drunk and very homosexual. He’s in Secret Intelligence, so he tells everyone. A terrible gossip.’

  ‘His friend. Bill?’

  ‘No, no.’ She gave him the names; he knew them from Cambridge. The bloated man was an Apostle too.

  ****

  A foreign gentleman had left a number for Peter to urgently call please Mr Burenko. Madame Duverger had given him the message. ‘Perhaps it is hopeful for Madame your mother.’

  The Soviet Trade Mission had answered. Nikolai Burenko, Trade Counsellor, had come on the line. He would like to meet for discussion of matters of common interest. He suggested a pub off Soho Square, the Old Mother Redcap.

  ‘I can’t imagine what matters of common interest we have, Mr Burenko. However, I’m a serving soldier and I think I should have my commanding officer’s agreement to meet a foreign diplomat.’

  ‘Do what you must. It will be your interest for us to meet. Please be sure to call me back.’

  ‘You gave the right answer,’ Anselm said. ‘His calls are bound to be overheard, if you take my meaning. He must know that of course. I’ll con
sult and come back to you. Hang on there, can you?’

  Waiting by the phone, Peter tried the day’s crossword but couldn’t concentrate. After what seemed an age but was only a few minutes, Anselm was back on the line. ‘You’re in the clear for this meeting. Keep it short and agree to nothing. Tell him nothing about your service. Just find out what he wants. If necessary, arrange to meet him again. A pound to a penny it’s to do with your mother.’

  ****

  The Old Mother Redcap proved to be in a basement, dark and smelling of frying sausages. Mr Burenko was bald, small and fat, reading Tribune, as promised, through pince-nez, a half-pint of mild untouched in front of him. Peter declined a drink. Mr Burenko removed his pince-nez, took a sip from his glass, and suggested they talk in the fresh air, a stroll around the square. He left Tribune on his seat.

  ‘Your mother, Mr Hill. Your mother. We want you to know how we sympathise, very, over situation your mother unfortunately is finding herself.’ He patted Peter’s shoulder. ‘After all, what greater worry can a man have than to feel his beloved mother may be in danger? I can speak from personal experience over loss of my dearest mother. We also view with sympathy her own situation. What greater worry can mother have than to know her son and daughter in faraway land are desperate over her fate?’

  ‘Will she be released and allowed to come home?’

  ‘I am happy to reassure you that your mother is in safekeeping and is well. We would very much like to see her returned to her family. Unfortunately, for her, and for us, her legal situation is unclear. You say home. We all want to go home. If we are not freely and with pride serving our fatherland of course. However, there appear administrative problems, among them deciding on where your mother’s home precisely should be.’

  ‘Mr Burenko, forgive me for saying that we find that difficult to understand. Quite clearly my mother’s home is here.’

  ‘Mr Hill, if that clear, she would be here and sadly for me I would not have pleasure of meeting you. As I say, administrative problems present themselves. They must necessarily be solved before we talk of clarity. We sincerely hope they can be solved in way you and your family will agree is right direction. At this moment, I fear this process could take time and suffer from bureaucratic complications. As your proverb says, might be slip between cup and lip.’

  ‘My mother wishes the Soviet Union and its great people no harm. She is in your hands by chance. She is no longer young. Why not show the generosity of spirit for which the Soviet people are justly famous and let her return to her family?’

  ‘You correctly refer to Soviet people’s generosity of spirit. And is also correct: success of appeal to such generosity is not objectively to be ruled out.’ The Russian stopped and turned to face Peter, his pince-nez dangling on a length of black ribbon. ‘I feel your mother’s case could be settled in very short time and to all our satisfactions if Soviet people see their generosity is not without recognition.’

  He stepped closer and spoke more quietly. ‘Mr Hill, I most strongly suggest you ask yourself if there are any steps you might take that would help this process. Help Moscow to feel Soviet generosity towards mother can be justified.’

  Peter spoke equally quietly. ‘Mr Burenko. As a member of His Majesty’s armed forces, I am not aware that I can take any step. I myself am actually in the dark. In the dark as to anything that might help. I give you my word on that.’

  ‘Mr Hill. You are young man. Might be that your experience of world is not so great yet. I urge you to think hard over your mother’s situation and how you might help her.’

  ‘Mr Burenko. I appreciate your sympathy and the trouble you are taking. Precisely because I am talking of my mother, you must believe me when I say I cannot think of help I can give you.’

  They were back at the entrance to the pub. ‘Mr Hill, it has been pleasure meeting you. As I say, at moment your mother is in safekeeping and is well. It is to be regretted that her position lacks clarity. You have my number. Please think over.’

  ****

  ‘NKVD, of course.’ The Special Branch man who’d joined Anselm and Peter seemed satisfied with Peter’s account of the meeting and his insistence he could give no help. ‘We might ask you to get in touch with him. Would you be prepared to do that for us?’

  Anselm stepped in before Peter could reply. ‘I’m sure you would in principle, wouldn’t you, Peter? But while your mother’s problem is unresolved, it’s probably wiser not to muddy the waters.’ He lowered his voice. ‘As Mr Hill will be involved in high-level staff planning and conferences, the necessary consents are unlikely to be forthcoming.’

  Peter found the Special Branch man’s trench coat and showed him out. Anselm had waited. ‘Very genial, your club. I imagine some members find these nooks and crannies useful.’ He surprised Peter by shaking his hand. ‘Well done, my boy. It can’t have been easy turning the Russki down flat.’

  ‘There seemed no other course. He made my skin creep, though. Poor mother.’

  ‘She wouldn’t want you to have gone along with him. Don’t think he’d have stopped at one concession. Interesting that the Russkis think you might have something to sell. Anyway, good that they know where we stand.’

  He stood up. ‘I must be getting back to the office.’

  ‘Before you go, may I ask what you meant by my being involved in high-level staff planning?’

  ‘You haven’t heard? That Special Duties racket of yours is being absorbed? While everything’s worked out, your attachment to the general’s staff is continuing. Wouldn’t be surprised if it didn’t become permanent.’

  Chapter Nine

  Amelia rang. ‘We’re stuck over a clue. “Aspire to loosen this knot”.’

  ‘How about “intrinsicate”?’

  ‘A friend of yours was asking after you. Could you give him a call?’ She had a number. ‘He says he hopes you’ve enjoyed the book.’

  He rang from a callbox. A familiar voice answered with the number.

  ‘Is Mr Harry there?’

  ‘Page 135. “I have found my Lord!” Next line?’

  ‘“Miss Baker, darling. We have found our Lord.”’ He had something to pass on, he told Nick. Something new and disturbing.

  ****

  As arranged, he was walking towards Pat Patrick’s dining room when Nick brushed past him with a muttered ‘watch me’. Two streets further on, Nick took a side turning and almost immediately darted down an alley, sidestepping into a doorway: “Michelle Experienced French model 2nd floor”. Agog, Peter followed him up the narrow stairs of what once had been a fine, wood-panelled Georgian merchant’s house, past a theatrical shoemaker and a costume jeweller, to the second floor.

  ‘Hello again. Nice to see you.’ The well-built strawberry blonde in the tight white blouse, tight black skirt, fishnet stockings and red high-heeled shoes greeted Nick like an old acquaintance and gave Peter a casual up-and-down glance. ‘On the dot, I see.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ He nodded at Peter. ‘This is a friend. This is Michelle, who very kindly lends me her premises from time to time. Always discreet.’

  Her all-pink room reeked of cheap, heavy scent. Californian Poppy? ‘Part of the service, dear. I’ve a friend coming at four. Is that still all right?’ Michelle had a Lancashire accent.

  ‘Yes, please. Four it is. Here’s a little something extra for your trouble.’ He gave her a package of Coty perfume and toiletries. ‘Sandwiches and ale, if you would, please.’

  Peter waited until she’d gone. ‘No Pat’s?’

  ‘No treacle tart this run, old son.’ He smiled. ‘Make yourself comfortable and tell me all. Begin at the beginning. Ponsonby’s orders for France.’

  ‘Can I start with something else, that’s just happened? I need to get it off my chest. It involves a Nikolai Burenko at the Soviet Trade Commission.’

  Nick took out the stubby pipe, then put it away. ‘Michelle doesn’t like pipe-smoke. Says it doesn’t mix with the perfume.’

  So cloying. Wou
ld his suit smell of Californian Poppy? Rozalia turn him out of the gallery? ‘Peter, your extravagant fragrance doesn’t go with the paintings.’ He began with the Burenko’s phone message.

  ****

  ‘Don’t think you’ve heard the last of that Russian.’ Nick shook his head. ‘They don’t give up that easily – not if they don’t want a one-way ticket to Moscow. What does he want, I wonder?’ He gave Peter a sideways look. ‘Steel yourself. It could be hard going.’

  ‘I have to be firm. If I’m in the general’s office, how likely am I to get the go-ahead to deal with Burenko, even under Special Branch control?’

  A tap on the door signalled the arrival of the strawberry blonde and a tray of sandwiches, cheese and biscuits and two pints of beer. She put it on the bed. ‘I’m sorry there’s no table.’

  ‘Not much call for one, I suppose,’ said Nick.

  ‘Never been asked yet. But it takes all sorts. Tea? Coffee?’

  ‘Coffee. In about 20 minutes, please.’ He closed the door behind her. ‘Let’s put that Russian on one side for the moment, Peter. Reserve judgement on whether there’s a link to Dinah or just an attempt at blackmail. Help yourself, and go back to Ponsonby and his orders.’

  Over ham and ox-tongue sandwiches and hard, whitish cheese, Peter took him from Ponsonby’s orders to the Dingo Club rendezvous. Not quite everything: he kept to himself, for the moment, that Elisabeth Gerstina/Marie Lagrange was Dinah’s cousin and his finding the postcards. Nick was silent, nodding occasionally. He broke in at the mention of the Dingo Club – ‘Dingo Club?’ – and snorted at the Emu. Then, ‘You found her impressive, Madame Lagrange.’

  ‘Whatever she’d done—’

  A tap at the door halted him. Michelle with coffee, real, and a plate of petits fours. ‘From Chez Albert,’ she explained. ‘Bert gives leftover cakes to the girls when he closes.’

  Peter used the break to collect his thoughts. ‘Nick, she had elegance, poise, intelligence and depth. She had such magnetism. I’ll certainly not forget her.’