Flight From Honour

by Gavin Lyall

  “Or, of course, believe too much of it,” Dagner said thoughtfully.

  5

  “How very nice to see you back in town, Mrs Finn,” said one of the sub-managers or floor-walkers or whatever Debenham’s called the people it dressed as diplomatists. Corinna flashed him a dazzling smile while privately thinking it extraordinary presumption to assume that just because she hadn’t been in his damned shop for a few weeks she couldn’t have been in London. But that was English shopkeepers for you; maybe Gordon Selfridge with his Chicago background would shake them up a bit.

  But not go so far as banishing such places as Debenham’s Ladies’ Club Room. This was just what it sounded like except without the deliberateness of a men’s club. You just drifted in when you got exhausted with choosing new curtains for the ball room, sipped a coffee, skimmed a magazine – and picked up any mail addressed to you there. Corinna guessed that this last was what appealed to Adelina, Lady Hovedene; at any rate, she was already seated at a delicate little writing-table scribbling a reply to a letter that (Corinna assumed) she wouldn’t have liked her husband to see.

  She waved her pen at Corinna, who dropped into the most comfortable chair she could find, asked the maid for coffee and picked up a newspaper, turning to the finance and shipping page and becoming instantly engrosed. Stuck for a word, Adelina glanced back at her and thought Really . . . There was quite a lot to be Really about with Corinna. She couldn’t help being young – thirty or so, which was young for a widow – nor her height, but did she have to sprawl like that? English girls at least had the self-respect to carry themselves as if they already had rheumatic necks, but Americans seemed to be all education and no deportment. And that wraparound skirt in royal blue might suit a Paris boulevard, but it wasn’t due to be fashionable in London for another year at least. And reading the finance page, probably even understanding it . . . Really.

  She finished her letter and sealed it in an unaddressed envelope. Then, of normal height and slightly cottage-loaf of figure, hobbled – because she was wearing a proper hobble skirt in acceptable pastels – across to sit by Corinna.

  “Oh Lord, how can one sound passionate in a draper’s shop at twelve o’clock in the morning? And do put that paper away, you’ve got far too much money already.”

  “It’s not money, it’s finance. Two quite different things.” But Corinna put the newspaper aside, then noticed and picked up a Tauschnitz edition of a novel that had been banned in Britain. Adelina had obviously had it sent from Germany by post. “Have you read this yet?”

  “No. Will I learn anything?”

  “I very much doubt it.”

  “Oh, bother. And it doesn’t even have any pictures.”

  “Pictures? – in a Tauschnitz edition? They’re supposed to be literature.”

  “It was supposed to be unspeakably corrupting,” Adelina said wistfully.

  Corinna laughed. “If it’s pictures you want, I’m sure they have such things in Paris. I’ll send you some.”

  “Would you really? Not for myself, you understand, but some of my . . . friends seem to need a little inspiration. And don’t actually send them. People can be so dreadfully helpful at undoing parcels.”

  “And you don’t want to corrupt the servants’ morals.”

  “Their morals be damned, it’s their time I’m concerned about. If they get the idea that there’s more to life than a quick wham-bang in the airing cupboard then I’ll never get any work out of them.”

  In truth, Corinna suspected it wasn’t really bedroom athletics that drew Adelina into affaires. She might enjoy believing she was falling in love – Lord Ronnie was a pillar of society and indeed a pillar in his own right, but hardly romantic – but Corinna guessed that what she really sought was friendship and involvement. But while English society accepted clandestine adultery, it was suspicious of overt friendship between men and women, so Adelina had little choice.

  However, at least she had found involvement. The list of Adelina’s lovers (as far as Corinna had been able to compile one) suggested that she believed a woman’s place was in the know. Her hospitality was precisely aimed to give her an unmatched insight into Cabinet, Court and diplomatic circles. If Adelina told you something was going to happen – if, because she didn’t retain her position by being a blabber – then you could bet money on it. Corinna had.

  But, of course, you were expected to pay your way by gossip of your own.

  “And how,” Adelina went on, “is your gadabout life?”

  Correctly interpreting the question, Corinna said carefully: “He’s an officer in your Army.”

  “My dear, I would certainly assume he’s an officer, but what regiment?”

  Corinna hesitated; she wasn’t going to mention Ranklin’s name, but this much could hardly hurt. “He’s in the Artillery. Do they have regiments?”

  “They’re one big regiment, almost as bad as a Corps. And I do think Guardees or the Cavalry are safer: less chance of their being fortune hunters.”

  Corinna just gave an unladylike grunt, since she didn’t think any man’s regiment would stop him hunting her prospective fortune. Moreover, she didn’t care whether Ranklin were in the Guns (as he called them) or the Loyal Snowballers since he wasn’t really in either but – though he stubbornly never admitted it aloud – in the Secret Service.

  “But perhaps he’s got money of his own?” Adelina suggested.

  “Not by my standards.” In fact, she believed that Ranklin was, technically if not legally, bankrupt.

  “Your standards, in that regard if no other, are commendably high. But Gunners sound terribly mechanical – is he? Mind you, there’s nothing like a Guardee for doing things by numbers. One ends up feeling trooped like a colour.”

  “He’s well travelled and I don’t think he’s always kept his pants on.”

  “Corinna, you really are the most dreadful trollop, and if you want to keep on being one, you’re going to have to get another husband.”

  “So useful about the house and to take for walks? Isn’t being a widow enough?”

  “It wears off. A husband will define your place in society.”

  Corinna’s eyebrows went up. “I think people know who I am.”

  “Reynard Sherring’s daughter. Quite. But it isn’t the same thing. A single lady can suddenly be dropped by society – women never quite trust her, anyway – but it’s a much more difficult thing to drop a man who’s got a proper position. And a husband can be the most useful protection for . . . for behaviour quite as interesting as anything you want to get up to.”

  This time, Corinna’s smile was a wry one. “It seems a pity to marry some poor guy just to cuckold him.”

  “My dear, he certainly won’t be poor once you marry him, and if it disturbs your conscience, you can rest assured he’ll certainly be doing the same to you.”

  “I’m not so certain I’d be reassured. I might even get mad and shoot the bastard.”

  “Oh, you Americans are such romantics.” Adelina frowned thoughtfully. “I know some American influences have been welcomed in society, but I’m not sure that shooting husbands is one.” She thought a moment longer, then changed tack. “Now, dear, what I really wanted to ask you about is your brother. Andrew, isn’t it? I hear he’s in town.”

  “More or less.”

  “And single? Now, do I invite him? – single men aren’t thick on the ground at this time of year.”

  “You could invite him, but I couldn’t promise he’ll remember to come.”

  “Oh dear.”

  Corinna laughed outright. “And if you want to say ‘What a family’, go right ahead. The thing about Andrew is, he’s an engineer – an inventor. And right now he’s crazy about airplanes.”

  “Flying machines?”

  “I think he’d regard that as a little passé, but sure, flying machines.”

  “What is it about aeroplanes? – if that’s what I must call them. Men can break their necks far more respectably falling
off horses.”

  Corinna smiled politely. “According to Andrew, Britain’s the place for airplanes this year, where the real progress is. That’s the only reason he’s here.”

  “I thought it was an American invention.”

  “Sure it was – though I think the French dispute that; they would. But it seems you’ve taken to it like a duck to . . . well, flying, I guess. And unless you can promise him he’ll meet some famous aviator at your house, I don’t think you’ll get him to wash the oil off his hands.”

  “I will say it: what a family. Not even if I asked you to bring him yourself?”

  “Oh no, you don’t make me my brother’s keeper.” It suddenly occurred to Corinna that, by the rules of English society, Adelina shouldn’t be in London at all, but settling into her country home to enjoy its draughts at their winter best. “Anyhow, invite him to what?”

  “The Wedding, my dear girl. Where have you been?”

  “Off-hand, I’d say New York, Paris, Budapest, Kiel—”

  “Well, in a month’s time, Prince Arthur’s marrying the Duchess of Fife. But if you didn’t know, you can’t have accepted any invitations for that time. So I can count on you.”

  “Oh sure – provided I’m still in London. But you know how Pop is . . .” The half-truth that her father, long divorced, had called her to act as hostess in some far city had saved Corinna from many dull dinner parties.

  “And I’ll be sure and invite some suitable husbands for you.”

  “Suppose I want to marry my Gunner?” Corinna said provocatively.

  “Not marry, dear; keep him for afterwards. No, with your looks and money you should get quite a tolerable house.”

  “House? I thought I’d be marrying a man.”

  “Go for the house, you’ll see far more of it. The town house can usually be changed, but hardly the family seat . . . And don’t get tempted by a castle. They’re all on the edge of nowhere and the plumbing . . .”

  Corinna only half-listened. She had her own views on marriage, the main one being that it was a lousy alternative to life as Reynard Sherring’s daughter. When she had said that money and finance were different things, she had meant it. She had always had money and, like good health, valued it but seldom thought of it. But she was fascinated by finance – money you could neither touch nor see yet which could build and bring down empires.

  It had begun when her father had tried to explain his world to her brother Andrew, who was expected to take up the rich man’s burden. But when Andrew had gone back to pulling Sherring’s new automobile to pieces (he was a practical, if spoiled, child) Corinna had kept asking questions, for the skittish dragons and dark forests of international finance enchanted her as no fairy story ever had. Sherring philosophically accepted that it was all his wife’s fault, told the chauffeur to put the automobile back together again, and began training his daughter instead of his son. After all, he figured, it would outrage his friends on Wall Street.

  It did far more. Now, when people spoke to her, they knew they spoke to the House of Sherring and its power to move millions – a power which she had come to share. And knowing – or better still, deducing – where the dragons were heading next was something Corinna loved, really loved. As a woman, it was the best she could achieve, whereas marriage would be about the worst. It would define her. Legally, socially, in every way she would just be A Wife, living happily ever after. As a child she had watched, not understanding then, as her mother turned sour trying to do that, and no thank you.

  Perhaps if Adelina had spent more time studying her own sex, she would have understood most of this, because they were both doing much the same thing. Men might have a near-monopoly of action, but nobody could stop women knowing.

  All this, however, brought Corinna a problem with her private life. She had been still a girl at a Swiss finishing-school when she realised that, in Europe, misbehaviour was reserved for married women and widows. And since it would be a pity to reach death without trying out the fates worse than it, she sat down to some careful thinking.

  She neither flouted nor tried to change society. She vaguely admired the women who tried, and paid the penalty, but for her life seemed too short. So she just made the minimum changes to herself to get what she wanted. The first was to marry Mr Finn, the second to have him die in the San Francisco fire of ’06 that also destroyed the public records of such things as marriages. This hurt nobody, not even Mr Finn, who was pure fiction, and actually benefited the Chicago forger who had done a near-perfect marriage certificate for her.

  Hardly anybody knew her secret except her father, brother Andrew and now Matt Ranklin. She wasn’t quite sure why she’d told him, but not others before him. But if you can’t trust the Secret Service to keep a secret . . .

  6

  The Bureau’s rooms were right up under the eaves of the building, with sloping walls and odd little turret windows in comers, and even in September a sunny afternoon gave them the atmosphere of an Egyptian tomb. To make it worse, the Commander had forbidden the opening of windows. At first Ranklin had assumed this was an ineradicable naval fear of the sea getting in; he had been crisply informed that, here on the eighth floor, it was a more sensible fear of secret documents blowing out. Not that they were encouraged to put much in writing.

  But with the Commander away, it was a treat to clarify his thoughts by getting them on paper, and the only alternative was hovering near the inner door for O’Gilroy to finish his interview with Dagner. But he put down his pen the moment O’Gilroy rambled out. And rambled was the word for his loose, long-legged movement that gave no hint of his Army years. Now he began rambling around the low-ceilinged room, glancing out of the window, picking up a newspaper and dropping it . . .

  “For the Lord’s sake, sit down,” Ranklin said. He pushed his cigarette case across the table; he himself hadn’t felt settled enough to light a pipe. “How did it go?”

  O’Gilroy collapsed onto an upright chair and reached for a cigarette. “Well enough.”

  Ranklin waited. With his lean face and dark untidy hair, O’Gilroy was a schoolgirls vision of the thinking pirate, and whose thoughts were now rather sombre. “He was terrible polite, but I wouldn’t say he’d hire me if he hadn’t got me. Asked how I felt, working for you English.” He lit the cigarette.

  “And you said?”

  “’Twas a job, though I hadn’t heard of any pension to it.”

  Ranklin winced. You might say O’Gilroy had fought for the Empire in South Africa, but O’Gilroy himself wouldn’t say it. He more likely saw it as fighting for his pals alongside him and because fighting was his chosen trade. Wisely, the Army skipped quickly over King and Country to preach loyalty to the regiment – your pals. It knew what it was doing; surely Dagner must remember that.

  “What else did you talk about with Major Dag— X?”

  “Falcone.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The Italian feller from Brussels.”

  “Ah. Did you gather what he’s up to, and why someone wants to kill him?”

  O’Gilroy took a long drag on his cigarette and said, as if he were working it out: “He says he’s looking at armaments – and aeroplanes – for the Italian Army. The fellers wanting him dead . . . there was a note from some Serbian secret society—”

  “The Ujedinjenje ili Smrt?”

  “Sounds like. But Falcone wasn’t believing that so much. And me being just a bodyguard . . .”

  Ranklin took the point: O’Gilroy had done right to play the part of a simple ‘bravo’. “Have you any idea how someone contrived to make the aeroplane crash?”

  “We was talking about that on the boat. Falcone reckoned they’d got at it in the night – ’twas only in a wooden shed – and loosened the bolts holding the engine on. Ye could do that and pack the gaps with something, scraps of wood or metal, so it’d hold firm a while but gradual-like the scraps’d fall out. Then, when ye give the engine a jolt, like sudden switching on again, t
he turning weight of it’d tear it right off. Anyhow, the bolts did give way,” he added sombrely. ”I saw it.”

  “It certainly sounds a bit technical for that Serbian gang. They’re usually simple bomb-and-bullet people.”

  O’Gilroy nodded. “What Falcone said. Puzzled, he was. But he asked something else: did I have any idea how he’d get in touch with our Secret Service.” O’Gilroy had a sly smile waiting for Ranklin’s astonishment.

  “He—? So what did you say?”

  “Said l’d ask around.”

  “You told the Major that, of course?”

  “Surely. He said he’d talk to yourself about it. And Falcone wants to go to Brooklands aerodrome this weekend so I thought mebbe I’d go down with him. The Major said Fine to that, stay in touch with him.”

  Ranklin found himself nodding absently. It was lucky that O’Gilroy had become a recent convert to aeronautics – although entirely predictable. Anything new and mechanical seemed to O’Gilroy a sunbeam from some bright future; perhaps Irish back streets left you with little longing for the past. In the last few weeks he had wallowed in technical magazines about flying and even, Ranklin suspected, made surreptitious enquiries about learning to fly.

  Ranklin took out his watch. “Then if you’ve nothing else to do, take a couple of our new boys out and teach ’em how to shadow each other. Try not to lose them permanently.”

  O’Gilroy stubbed out his cigarette, glanced at his own watch – he had, of course, one of the new and unreliable (Ranklin thought) wristwatches – then collected his legs and arms and rambled out. Ranklin stared down at the paper on which he had written Most important to . . . and tried to recall what had been so important ten minutes ago.