by Stephen Wade
‘You couldn’t be more wrong old man. I may be the ageing bachelor today, but I was once engaged to be wed … some years ago now. I never told you.’
George suddenly sat forward, stubbed out his cigarette and gave Harry a little punch on the shoulder. ‘Well, you old critic, you – you’re a dark horse. What happened … she got bored of your lectures on Sir Philip Sidney?’
‘She died. Pneumonia.’
George was shocked and struggled for words, such was the shame rising in him. ‘I’m so sorry, Harry, I had no idea.’
‘Well how could you? Enough said. Tell me about this Irina will you.’
‘Even better … read this while I go and challenge our Tabby Culhorn, the brazen little beggar. Look at the pages for June 1885. No one else has ever seen this, Harry. But I know that you will understand, that you will respond with feeling and integrity.’ He tossed the book onto Harry’s knee. It was a leather-bound travel journal, with Lord Lenham-Cawde: Journal 1883-6 written in longhand on the cover panel. ‘I was young and foolish then, Harry, but my emotions were sure, and they never took the world lightly.’
The book had clearly been on its travels: it was stained with unspeakable colours of revolting origin; the corners were dog-eared, and there were ink-blots evident everywhere, but he found the right page and read:
June 2 1885, Tehran
Being still suffering from the knife wound to my thigh on the last Sudan assignment, I have to spend some time here, and God is smiling on me in that delay. Irina is here, having three weeks’ stay with M. Couron, the French ambassador. She has agreed to sing in a series of concerts for the Pasha, but has ample time for recreation. We have renewed our acquaintance, as I met her in Paris last year.
My heart leapt to see her. Memories of our time in Paris came flooding back, filling my imagination with scenes of sheer joy. To think that Carstairs and the other officers are all up in Afghanistan while I linger here, enjoying what some would call the dalliance of the young lover.
Irina Danova is the sweetest creature, born to delight, distract, seduce – everything a woman should do who knows and values her own exceptional charms. Many women are attractive but few have the true beauty of ideal form. She is of middle height, with auburn hair curled down to her shoulders; her eyes are brown and her form that of a young woman newly emerged from gauche girlhood to true feminine perfection.
Every man of wealth and standing here fancies that she could be either his wife or his mistress. Many adore her and flock to her concerts to worship her. I’m told that locks of her hair encased in silver sell at a high price in Paris. But this jewel of perfection, with a smile to melt an icy heart and a laugh to soften the most crusty old general, is responding to my rather clumsy attempts to woo her. We have been out dining twice and we have walked out. She holds my hand and she laughs at my jests and stories of adventures in deserts and mountains. In truth, she seems like a girl with me, and myself – well, I am like a brother in some ways but not in most because today we kissed.
June 3
Today was my second hour of joy as a concert-goer, watching her and humming along with a feeling of joy for the rest of the day. She ate with me and we talked for hours about plays and songs and poetry. Irina is teaching me about Shakespeare and I tell her about the tribesmen of the Khyber and the wild horsemen of the Tibetan high plains.
All was happiness and childish play until the late evening when her face changed and a frown put a darkness on her face. She had received a letter from someone, and she was suddenly fearful. I held her and tried to say comforting words, but she would not answer my questions. Nothing I could say could make her reveal the contents of that awful missive.
‘All I may tell you, dearest George, is that my family have enemies back in Mother Russia and their evil words and menacing images plant weeds in a bright garden.’
June 4
I am still not able to ride nor even walk freely and so here I am in Tehran, which is in truth a place in Paradise, because Irina is here and she still likes my company. We were at the ambassador’s ball tonight and I had to watch her jealously as her dance-card filled up in seconds, as the crowd of male admirers flocked to her. But she smiled at my grumpiness and patted my head like a big sister.
I went late to bed, and was not alone.
June 5
The medical man called today and tutted over my stiff and aching limbs, drawing particular attention to the accursed thigh. There appears to be a possibility that riding may be deuced uncomfortable for some time. He has ordered some more treatment and I have more pills. But of course, she is still here, so joy, say I. After last night I realise that in truth, this is an entirely new sensation with regard to women.
June 6
Damnation be on Fate, the goddess of us all! Irina came this morning, most distracted and perturbed. Her whole manner was one tormented by some gadfly of fear. Even as I held her, those beautiful dark brown eyes flashed, her glance darting to right and left, as if she looked for something threatening her very being. She said that she had to leave for Paris today, with her manager, Glazin, and that she could not confide in me the reason why she was so afraid. She said, ‘It is a Russian matter, you need not have any anxiety, George – I will be fine once back in France.’
I determined not to press her further, but made her promise to write to me, and asked that we meet in London as soon as we were able. I gave her a kiss, and on sudden impulse, I gave her my golden brooch, the little owl. ‘This is Glaucus, the owl of Minerva,’ I said. ‘If ever you need me to come to you … at any time … send this to me.’ I asked her to vow to do so, and she did. ‘But I have Rudolph Glazin to take care of me. He is my cousin, and he is with me everywhere. He will shield me from what happens back home, I’m sure.’
By four in the afternoon she was gone, with Glazin, on board a ship bound for France. No doubt she will be seen and adored on her journey north, across the continent. But I am left alone here with only card-games and dull old history books for amusement.
Harry put down the journal and read no more. He knew his friend as he had never known him before.
At Richmond Street, Maria de Bellezza had not failed to avail herself and friends of the company of the celebrities in town, and had invited Irina Danova and Paul Dalevy to her next salon. The world knew Irina, but Monsieur Dalevy, the tenor, was a rising star and little known outside France. At two, Mr Danilo Bruzov was admitted into the parlour, followed by his two singers. In minutes they were ushered into the broad, well-lit room and announced. The cluster of guests clapped politely and Maria began to introduce them to her friends.
‘Now everyone, as I promised, we have in the room with us now Mr Bruzov, who is the agent and manager of many famous performers in Europe, and in his care, Miss Irina Danova and Monsieur Dalevy. Mr Bruzov, I rashly promised my friends that we could allow a few questions to your good self and your singers. I hope that is agreeable?’
Both new arrivals were large men. Dalevy was barrel-chested and had a solid, square frame, running to fat even at his young age of thirty. He wore a dark topcoat and shoulder cape and a hat with a wide brim: everything else was a melancholy black and his moustache was waxed and pointed. He did not smile easily, and appeared to be preoccupied, although he was the perfect gentlemanly guest.
Bruzov was an immense man, so broad and solid that he had to make a special effort to turn and address people across the room. He was bald, squat, with a red, pockmarked face, and had to cope with an immense stomach which was held in check by a belt and a cummerbund. Somehow, a waistcoat had been found or made to stretch across his belly. As he spoke, his chin quivered, but his voice was commanding and firm.
‘Of course Madame Bellezza, we are here to entertain. Please ask.’ He waved an arm across the front of the dozen guests who were all standing in adoration. Most eyes were on Irina, who was stunningly attractive, a woman now of twenty-six, in the full flowering of her beauty, dressed in a skirt of creative lines and ruch
es, with a white blouse, puff-sleeved and laced on neck and cuffs. The first question was for her.
‘Miss Danova, is this your first time in England?’
‘Yes indeed, though I have heard much about London, and Mr Bruzov is a new manager. My former manager met with an illness in Paris last week and had to stay there.’
‘Do you have friends here?’
There was a short pause, as if she was about to answer but then changed her mind. ‘No …, no. But I soon will have!’
The assembled guests applauded. Maria, who was well aware that her female celebrity was the cause of George’s heartache, was by no means merely a hostess. Every party she arranged was also an occasion for gathering information for her contacts in Special Branch, and she had been asked to check on Bruzov. As the big man enjoyed his third brandy, Jemmy Smythe, who was acting as butler for the day, was searching the Russian’s greatcoat on the hook in the hall. Jemmy enjoyed playing the role of servant – being the Society’s eyes and ears, unobserved, when investigations were being made.
When the party dispersed for the day, and everyone had been invited to the Steinway Hall that night, Smythe reported.
‘Nothing definite, Maria, except that I heard the Frenchman say something very odd – that Irina would do as she was told. Bruzov has only two days ago taken over as her manager and already he – and apparently the French singer – control her. Why?’
‘I wish we knew. But go on.’
‘There was also a letter, possibly related to why he is really here.’
‘Really here?’ Maria asked.
‘He is possibly a known agent. My information is that a person travelling with Irina was for ten years an officer in the Russian army of the East.’
‘The letter merely asked for a meeting but refered to something, not in code but in a very personal phrase. It’s “In preparation for Mannheim” – and that’s very odd.’
‘Why? They’re going to the races!’
‘Dear me, Maria,’ cried the former jockey, ‘you need to know the turf a little … the Derby was last June!’
Maria arranged to meet Smythe with the others at the next Oriental dinner, and sat down to try to work out the Mannheim reference. One thing had to be done though: the other Society members needed to be informed of this letter. Of course, they all knew about Lord George’s service in the East, and so he was told. But, for the time being, it remained a puzzle.
In a small hotel room in Dieppe, Rudolph Glazin was raging, in a sweaty delirium, on the corner bed. He was trying to talk about the London tour. ‘We shall have to inform the manager at The Royal Court … that task remains undone, Irina my dear … it remains undone. We have to be … have to be professional!’
Two men sat by his side. One, with some medical knowledge, answered the nervous questions of the other, who was so agitated that he occasionally started with apprehension, looked closely at Glazin, and then to the other man for reassurance. ‘Why has he not gone yet, Piotr?’
‘He has a strong heart. Sometimes they fight far more than is natural.’
‘You … you gave him the right dose?’
‘Of course. Now if you can’t handle this, go and get me a coffee. Go!’
The man was only too pleased to go, and when the door closed the other took a pillow and made a gentle, soothing sound, cooing like a mother about to sing a lullaby. ‘Oh now, my dear man … now is the time for that eternal rest … your pain will soon leave you.’
He placed the pillow over Glazin’s sweat-covered face and forced the weight of his body on top, pressing down with all his force.
‘See, my old friend … the darkness comes and you sleep … no more struggling.’
He remained in position for some time, being sure that beneath him there was no struggling, no fighting for perhaps a last intake of precious air. When all was still, he released the pressure and sat back.
A few minutes later the other man came in, carrying a cup of hot coffee. He looked at the bed and then at his accomplice. ‘Piotr … he has gone then?’
‘Yes. He went quietly in the end.’
In the Septimus Club, Lord George was almost ready for the evening at the Steinway Hall. He had been careful to prepare himself so that he looked entirely different from the army officer Irina had first met in Persia. Harry was accompanying him, and the professor was asked more than once if his friend’s appearance was suitable.
‘Suitable? Why, you are utterly and hopelessly like an adolescent. Still in love with this woman, aren’t you?’
George, now on his third whisky and feeling almost bold enough to talk, said, ‘Harry, make I speak directly … I mean, from the heart?’
‘Well, if you must old boy, but, well, it’s most irregular.’
‘I don’t care one collop of pig’s meat if it’s irregular. Look, for five years I have tried to forget her. She went home, I went back to the frontier and my duty … the years ate away my feelings, or so I thought until yesterday and that note.’
Harry Lacey’s face was bright red. Emotions were something he stayed clear of, and here was a situation calling for the kind of tact he found to be a challenge. Pretending to fuss over his waistcoat buttons, to play for time, he eventually said, ‘The point is, if this is what all those romances are about well, then, speak to her … go to her after the concert tonight and express your feelings old man!’
‘Do you know, you’re talking sense, Harry. The truth is that you can talk about matters other than end-rhymes and couplets. You’re a scholar and a gentleman!’
At the Steinway Hall in Marylebone Lane, the assembled audience had filled every seat and there was a mood of excitement across the open space as people shuffled with bags and coats, and the crowd whispered their opinions and talked in high praise of Miss Danova. Some recalled that they had seen her in Paris; others marvelled at her Russian beauty. ‘She has such a divine Slavic face … what a dramatic profile!’ they cooed, and ‘I’m thrilled that she’s singing Schubert.’ Then all was silent as Bruzov walked onto the stage and bowed.
George and Harry were in some of the best seats at the end of the second row, and, from behind a pillar, Irina squinted to see if she could make out George in the audience. She could – his tall figure and his nobility stood out, at least for her. She smiled. Behind her the words, ‘Be ready now, Miss, please!’ were snapped out in the French accent she had come to hate.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, let us welcome, to first of all sing two songs from Schubert’s Die Winterreise, Miss Irina Danova!’ Bruzov flagged one chunky arm towards her and Irina came on to great applause. As Bruzov walked slowly away from view, she looked around and spoke.
‘I will begin with Gute Nacht, my personal favourite, which ends with a lover writing “good night” on the gate of his beloved – something I cannot recommend to you in this beautiful city, which should be left unblemished.’
Irina had not the slightest notion that Lord George Lenham-Cawde, who was surrounded by nobility and by the new aristocracy of wealth and so was perfectly aware that he was being constantly scrutinised, felt deep inside him the unsettling disturbances of the bitter-sweet emotions he had known before when in the company of this woman. She had not changed at all, and her allure was more appealing than ever.
George had first had to look at Bruzov, and he hated the sight of him. This fat cur was bullying the object of his affection. Then there was the Mannheim letter, which Lord George was certain now indicated some kind of espionage work in which Bruzov was engaged.
The Schubert songs were finished, and then on came Paul Dalevy to sing two duets with Irina. After loud and long applause, the audience stood and shouted ‘bravo’ as the singers bowed.
The crowd gradually dispersed into the chilly evening, calling for cabs or walking to parties in Manchester Square or to their hotels around George Street and Wigmore Street. Harry waited by the exit as Lord George walked to the side door, announcing his name to an usher. He was asked if he had been invit
ed backstage. His reply was that he was an old friend of Miss Danova’s from years ago. The man was not going to let him in, but Bruzov appeared from behind and when told that it was Lord Lenham-Cawde, he ordered the man to let George in.
Within minutes he was standing in a large sitting room full of armchairs and low tables, at which a gathering of admirers and enthusiasts sat. Irina was sitting in an ornate Georgian chair, with Bruzov to one side, seeming to guard her. The Frenchman was standing behind, not wanting to be a part of proceedings.
‘Lord George Lenham-Cawde,’ announced a voice from his side as George entered the room. Heads turned and all conversation stopped. Irina looked at him and maintained a professional posture. But Bruzov, always impressed by English status and tradition, rushed across, bowed, and then held out his hand. It was all George could do to prevent himself from striking the fat Russian, but dignity was intact as he shook his hand and found a false smile from somewhere. He walked across to where Irina sat, and bowed to kiss her lace-gloved hand. He had told her, five years earlier, how he adored her hands, which were the hands Goya painted. ‘No daintiness, my love, Goya liked the chunky, strong hands, of women who could work.’ He had said this with a laugh, and as he kissed them now, he whispered, ‘Like Goya’s!’ They both smiled, but as hers faded her eyes spoke to him, and they gave a silent appeal for help.
‘Miss Danova is very tired. I allowed only fifteen minutes for talk here. I must ask you to leave, ladies and gentlemen,’ Bruzov said firmly. As the small group left, George was about to try to speak more familiarly with Irina when Paul Dalevy put his considerable bulk in the way.
‘My dear Lord Lenham-Cawde, our prima donna is very tired.’
‘I will not tire her any further … I merely wish to speak for a minute.’ George raised a hand but two henchmen appeared at his side and Dalevy took Irina by the elbow and led her away into the recess behind.