Angela and I had latterly contrived to meet only rarely and to converse not at all beyond the making of strictly practical arrangements. There was comedy, I sometimes thought, in the tight-lipped indifference which we substituted for angry exchanges, but it was comedy that inspired no laughter.
On Sunday morning, departing from her recent habit of breakfasting in bed and thus avoiding me, Angela joined me downstairs. I knew at once that an announcement of some kind – a demand, a rebuke, perhaps even a request – was pending. She was in no hurry, however. Tea, dry toast and two cigarettes received her silent attention before she deigned to address me.
‘I’ve told Mummy we’ll be with them by tea-time tomorrow. I trust you won’t be delayed at the office.’
‘I shouldn’t think so. I’ll be back here by two at the latest.’
‘They’re assuming we’ll stay on for the New Year’s Eve party.’
‘What party?’
‘I did mention it to you.’
‘Well, I have to be back in London by the twenty-seventh. We’ll just have to make two trips of it.’
‘I could remain there while you return to London.’
‘As you please.’
‘And Geoffrey, while we are together, do you think you could make an effort at least to pretend that all is well between us? I know it will be an effort – for both of us – but we don’t really want to burden my parents with our problems, do we?’
‘I suppose not.’ I looked up from my paper for the first time since she had begun speaking. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, with a vein of sarcasm in my voice that I was later to regret. ‘I’ll behave.’
Sir Ashley Thornton, my esteemed and eminent father-in-law, knighted by Lloyd George’s government in recognition of I know not what, had commissioned for himself some years before we met a country residence of style and substance a few miles south of Guildford. The architect shall remain nameless, lest I be accused of traducing a fellow professional. Luckham Place was, in truth, as safe, sound and solid a piece of Neo-Georgian predictability as any student of the style could wish to encounter.
There, at dusk on Christmas Eve, Angela and I arrived laden with smartly wrapped presents and contrasting expectations. The Thorntons had, as usual, erected in their hall one of the tallest Christmas trees seen beyond the shores of Norway. It, along with every beam and lintel in the house, was strung with baubles, balloons, tinsel and tassels. Angela’s brother, Clive, had already arrived with his wife, Celia, and their three children; the drawing-room was ringing with their laughter as we entered. Instantly, Angela was embraced and kissed by her mother and sister-in-law. So, in turn, was I, but with an aloofness, an icy dutifulness, that reminded me how tenuous and barely tolerated my membership of their family had become. To see my father-in-law dandling his eldest surviving grandson on his knee was to be reminded of all the trust and support he would no doubt have conferred on me – if only Edward had lived.
Clive Thornton was rapidly being groomed as his father’s successor at the head of Thornton Hotels. Five years younger than Angela, he had done everything that could have been asked of him: distinguished war service, a reputable marriage and the regular production of grandchildren. Small wonder that in him Sir Ashley’s hopes for the future now resided. If, of course, Clive had died a hero’s death on the Somme, if Edward had not contracted influenza, if the Hotel Thornton had not been burned to the ground, my life would have taken a vastly different turn. But these were unworthy thoughts, I told myself, as the festivities at Luckham Place began to take their ritualistic course: midnight mass at the village church, of which Sir Ashley was a generous benefactor; then Christmas Day itself, with feasting and gaiety unbounded, concluding with parlour games that reduced the children to hysterics. I moved through the seamless succession of events more as a spectator than a participant, conscious of, but no longer discomforted by, my growing isolation. I was a stranger in their midst, but none of us was prepared to admit it.
On Boxing Day, Sir Ashley, Angela, Clive and Celia rode with the local foxhounds. After seeing them off, I drove slowly back to London, glad to be alone once more. I had said I would rejoin them on New Year’s Eve, but, in truth, I could hardly direct my thoughts so far ahead. My appointment with Malahide – and the procurement of Lizzie’s letter – had become an horizon beyond which I did not care to look.
Giles Newsom had volunteered to mind the office between Christmas and New Year. Accordingly, we had the place to ourselves. Always vaguely scornful of the rest of the staff, Giles seemed positively cheered by their absence, engaging me in lengthy conversations about architectural theory and practice. He was, and had always been in my eyes, Imry’s choice. For my taste, he was too glib, too cocksure, too clever by half. And he was something else as well: a fine architect in the making. Perhaps that was what I really resented.
During those days, Giles returned again and again to a topic I had already done my best to deflect him from: Clouds Frome. An apparently genuine enthusiasm for its design seemed in danger of becoming an obsession. There was no end to his questions. What had forged the idea in my mind? How had I put it into effect? Where were the original drafts and sketches? Could he borrow them, perhaps, the better to appreciate what I had achieved? My answers were uniformly unhelpful. I wanted no drooling, double-edged praise from a young man who believed he was my intellectual superior. Above all, I wanted no reminders of the way I had thought those many years ago.
I had, besides, a more pressing matter to consider: my bargain with Malahide. On Thursday, I withdrew a hundred pounds from my bank and lodged it in the office safe. On Friday, I gave Giles the afternoon off, then took a long walk round some of my favourite London buildings. Architecture at its best still held for me a healing quality, but the inspiration it once conveyed had drained away. Whether gaping in awe at a work of the master, or gazing in admiration at something by Shaw or Lutyens, I could no longer generate the desire to rival or outdo. I was inferior to them, of course, but what really hurt my pride was that I was also inferior to the architect I had once been.
I returned to Frederick’s Place a little before half past seven, intending to remove the money from the safe and walk to Southwark Bridge in ample time to rendezvous with Malahide. All I wanted now was for our association to be ended and our business concluded as quickly as possible: Lizzie’s letter in my hand, Malahide’s threats off my mind. That, for the moment, would be relief enough.
I did not realize there was anything wrong until I was halfway up the stairs. It was then that the light under my office door, visible across the dark expanse of the outer office, suddenly struck my eyes. The difference in height between one step and another became at once the difference between preoccupation and anxiety. I stopped where I was, scouring my memory of leaving the building that afternoon. I had left no lights burning. Of that I was certain. Somebody had been in since my departure. Then I heard a noise – a rustling of paper, a movement of some kind: they were still there.
The street door had been locked. No intruder could have come that way. Yet there was no other way, short of descending from the roof. There came a squeal of swollen wood as the second drawer on my desk – the one that always stuck – was pulled open. At that, I started up the stairs again. I reached the top, crossed the outer office and stopped by my door. Papers were being rustled, sifted, searched. By whom or why I could not guess. I rested my hand on the knob, hesitated for a moment, then flung the door open.
Giles Newsom was standing behind my desk, his hands resting on a pile of documents that lay before him. I could not see what they were, but, if they had come from the desk-drawers, he could certainly have had no business with them. Besides, the look on his face was an admission of guilt in itself. For once, his self-assurance had deserted him.
The door of the corner cupboard stood open, as did all the four drawers of the filing cabinet beside it and all ten of the map-chest. A glance sufficed to tell me that my senior assistant had been searching my offi
ce – thoroughly and in secret. I stepped into the room and closed the door behind me, then stared straight at him, waiting for him to explain himself. But he merely moved his hands to his sides and smiled nervously.
‘Well?’ I said after a moment.
‘I didn’t expect you back, Mr Staddon.’
‘Obviously not.’
‘I suppose this looks rather odd, doesn’t it?’
‘It looks damnably suspicious. Can you persuade me it isn’t?’
‘Probably not.’
‘How did you get in?’
‘I took Reg’s key with me this afternoon.’
‘And returned when you thought I’d be long gone?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, this was carefully planned. Is it why you volunteered to come in this week?’
‘In a sense. But if you’d not been so reticent about Clouds Frome, I wouldn’t have had to—’
‘Clouds Frome? You mean you’re looking for the plans of a house I once built? You’ve crept back here, at dead of night, just to satisfy your curiosity?’
‘It isn’t dead of night. And it’s rather more than curiosity.’
‘What, then?’
‘Necessity, I suppose you’d say.’
I moved closer. ‘Explain this necessity, Giles. Explain it to me now, please, while my temper’s still in check.’
‘My salary here doesn’t cover my expenditure, Mr Staddon. It’s as simple as that. It’s not that you under-pay me. You don’t. But I have expensive tastes. I like the best, the very best. The point is that I sometimes need to subsidize my tastes by earning money in unorthodox ways. This is one such way. I’ve been paid to obtain copies of the Clouds Frome floor-plans and elevations, complete with all measurements and dimensions. I tried to talk you into letting me see them, but you wouldn’t. So, this seemed the only—’
‘Who paid you?’
‘I’d really rather not say. He insisted on complete confidentiality. It’s not as if what he asked me to do was in any sense criminal.’
Suddenly, anger flared within me. ‘God damn it, you’ll tell me and you’ll tell me now! This is my office. I employ you. Legal niceties don’t enter into it. I can dismiss you on the spot – and make damn sure no other architect takes you on. I may count for little in this world – and less in this profession than you think you will one day – but just at the moment I hold the power to wreck your career before it’s even started. So, I’ll ask you again: who paid you?’
Shame – or a realization of the truth of my words – swept over Giles. His face crumpled. The vestiges of defiance fell away. ‘A Brazilian. Known to you, I believe.’
‘Rodrigo Manchaca de Pombalho?’
‘Yes. That’s the name.’
‘How did you come into contact with him?’
‘He was in the Three Crowns one night last week. He stood me a few drinks, introduced himself as a businessman from Portugal, said he didn’t know London and asked if I could tell him where an entertaining evening was to be had. Well, I quite took to him, especially the way he threw money around, so I offered to escort him. We went to the Alhambra, and on to a club I know afterwards. He seemed to enjoy himself – and he paid for everything. When he suggested another outing the following night, I jumped at it. That’s when he told me who he really was and offered me fifty pounds if I could lay hands on the plans of Clouds Frome.’
‘No doubt you jumped at that as well?’
‘There’s no point denying it, is there? The money would have got me out of a bit of a hole, actually. Besides, I could see no harm in it. He didn’t want to approach you himself. He wouldn’t say why. And I didn’t press him to. After all, I was confident I’d be able to talk you into giving me what he wanted. Why should I quibble? It seemed too good an opportunity to miss.’
‘Did you ask him why he wanted the plans?’
‘No. He made it plain he had no intention of explaining himself to me. And why should he? He was paying me well enough to stifle my curiosity.’
‘So, all your polite and respectful questions about my design of the house were just ploys. All your praise – all your wide-eyed admiration – was intended to lure me into letting you have what you’d been bribed to obtain.’
‘You could say that, yes.’
‘And when those methods failed, you resorted to burglary.’
‘It’s hardly burglary. What do a few plans matter? What harm can they do?’
‘I don’t know. But if it were all so very innocent, he wouldn’t have offered you as much as he did, would he?’
Giles seemed about to throw back some sharp retort, then thought better of it. ‘What happens now, Mr Staddon?’ he asked neutrally.
‘First of all, you tell me what arrangements you’ve made with Senhor Pombalho.’
‘I was to telephone him as soon as I had the plans. The terms we agreed were strictly C.O.D.’
‘Very well. This is what you’re going to do. Telephone him now. Arrange a meeting. Somewhere public. I want plenty of bystanders when I confront him.’
‘When you confront him?’
‘Yes, Giles. You make the appointment. I’ll keep it. Is he still staying at the Bonnington?’
‘I don’t know. He just gave the number. Museum 1010.’
‘It sounds like the Bonnington. Call it and see.’
‘But what do I say to him?’
‘Say you have the plans and you can meet him tonight. I’ll leave the choice of venue to you. Then you can go home and contemplate your future.’
‘What is my future – after this?’
‘Uncertain. It’s the breach of trust, you see, Giles. That’s what’s so unforgivable. I’ll have to discuss it with Mr Renshaw, of course. Perhaps your position isn’t completely irretrievable. For the moment, I just don’t know.’
‘If you’d lent me the plans, or not come back tonight—’
‘I don’t have the plans to lend.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They don’t exist. I destroyed them – all of them – a long time ago.’
He stared at me in amazement. ‘Why?’
‘That’s none of your concern. Now, make that telephone call, please, there’s a good fellow.’
With a resigned shrug of the shoulders, he walked into the outer office and switched on the light. Only Reg’s telephone, as we both knew, was connected to an outside line. As he picked up the receiver, I sat down at my desk and raised mine to my ear, listening as he spoke to the operator and was connected.
‘Bonnington Hotel. Good evening.’
‘Room 207, please.’
‘Hold on, please.’
The extension rang only once. Then came Rodrigo’s voice, muffled but familiar. ‘Estou?’
‘Senhor Pombalho? This is Newsom. I have what you want.’
‘That is good.’
‘Can we meet tonight?’
‘Tonight? Yes. You—’ He broke off. There was another voice in the background, a woman’s raised, it seemed, in protest, though I could not catch her words. ‘Fique quieto!’ snapped Rodrigo. ‘You will come here, Newsom?’
‘No, I can’t. I’ll meet you at the Lamb. It’s a pub not far from your hotel. They’ll give you directions.’
‘I will find it. When?’
Giles took out his watch and flipped it open. ‘An hour’s time, shall we say? Nine o’clock.’
‘Nine o’clock. Yes. I will be there.’ With that, he put the telephone down.
‘Well?’ said Giles, looking back towards me. ‘Is that what you wanted?’
But I did not answer. I had pulled out my own watch as Giles named the time and was staring now at its face, dumbstruck by my own forgetfulness. It was a minute past eight. And I was a long way from Southwark Bridge.
The bridge was dark and empty. The night was cold and damp enough to discourage loiterers. I was entirely alone, leaning against the parapet, the Thames running turbulently below me. It was twenty past eight and my frail hope th
at Malahide might also be late had vanished. He had waited for me only so long, then taken his merchandise elsewhere. Perhaps it was as well, in the circumstances, that I could not afford to linger, could not spare the time to brood upon what would happen now to Lizzie Thaxter’s last letter. With a sigh, I pushed myself upright and started walking hard towards Holborn.
The Lamb was, as I had hoped, crowded. A piano was being played somewhere deep in the throng to the tune of ‘If You Were The Only Girl In The World’. In the crush at the bar, I caught sight of Rodrigo straightaway, standing head and shoulders above the other customers. I began threading my way towards him. Amidst the jostling, the laughter, the shouting and the singing, he did not notice me as I approached.
He looked bowed and mournful, a dark cape slung about his shoulders, a shadow of stubble about his chin. His size and expression, his isolation from the merriment around him, had created an invisible circle in which he stood, silent and forbidding, staring down into his glass.
‘Newsom isn’t coming,’ I said, shouting to make myself heard.
Rodrigo swung round, colliding with a man behind him as he did so and spilling the poor fellow’s drink. But all protests were wasted on him. ‘Staddon!’ He stared at me, his eyes blazing. ‘Why are you here?’
‘I found Newsom searching my office. He admitted you’d put him up to it. He also told me what you were after. I was listening on another line when he telephoned you. I’d instructed him what to say.’
‘You instructed him?’
‘Yes. And now I’m here to demand an explanation. What do you want with the plans of Clouds Frome?’
‘I will tell you nothing. Nada em absoluto. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, but I don’t think you do. There are no plans to be had, Rodrigo. I burned them all before the war.’
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