‘I do remember.’
‘…Went up to Bulawayo… Rhodesia… You, your friend… Nurse Sullivan?’
A stillness came over Annie. She caught his eye. He knew the look.
‘Typhoid,’ she whispered. Her head hung for a second.
‘Oh… I’m so sorry… Truly…’
Maude jumped in.
‘Listen, sounds like you have a lot to catch up on…’
She addressed Annie directly.
‘…If you’re in town, then we should arrange to get together, do this properly.’
Finch felt awkward. No matter how hard he’d wanted this scenario, dreamed about it… now all he desired was for it to go away.
‘I suspect Miss Jones… Mrs Pointer will be busy…’
‘Actually, you’re right,’ said Annie. ‘We’ve got to be in Liverpool by Saturday. Sailing to New York. The Carpathia… Plus we have dinners, lunches. Edward has meetings…’
‘I’m sure he does,’ said Finch, trying to rein in the sarcasm.
‘Then perhaps an address? For future reference,’ asked Maude, gleefully rooting through the drawers of Finch’s former life.
‘I’ve got a better idea,’ said Annie. ‘Come and join us…’
Finch scanned the restaurant again, still uneasy.
‘We’ve got a private room upstairs. Come and meet Edward. Have a nightcap…’
‘It’s okay, Annie. I really think we should be going,’ said Finch.
He turned to Maude.
‘I just need to settle the bill. Plus, we’ve got a train to catch.’
Maude contested the hint. She gave him a look that screamed it was an invitation not to be passed up.
‘Nonsense,’ said Annie. ‘I insist. Come on, please. It will be our pleasure.’
Maude raised her eyebrows at Finch, imploring him to comply.
‘Come on, Ingo. Don’t be such a killjoy. Anyway, the trains run till midnight.’
He looked around the restaurant again. The lavender man was nowhere to be seen. He supposed that a quick drink would be okay.
‘Yes, come on…’ urged Annie.
She looked him in the eye while she said it. He felt a frisson of something in her private mockery.
‘…Ingo.’
* * *
The small private room upstairs, atop a tight, winding, rickety staircase, was no more luxurious than the main restaurant. Its chief benefit seemed only in that it came with its own dedicated staff. Finch didn’t quite see the point. A key component of the Cathay was its atmosphere. Up here there was none.
Finch and Maude lingered while Annie went in ahead, presumably to explain why a cosy meal for two was now about to be gatecrashed.
Edward stood upon seeing them, a look of fake sincerity playing about his lips. He was a man of medium height with receding hair – not unpleasant of features, but with the chubbiness of good living and what Finch fancied was an air of smugness to go with it. He removed his cigar, a fat Bolivar.
‘Dr Finch?’
Edward shook his hand. The grip was firm but not a palm-to-palm one. More of a clasp of the fingers.
‘Annie tells me that you were in South Africa together.’
She’d never talked about him?… About what they did?… He had that, at least.
‘That’s correct, Mr Pointer, sir. In the thick of it.’
Finch introduced Maude. Edward kissed the back of her hand. It seemed gauche… nouveau riche.
‘Please… Edward,’ he insisted. ‘Any friend of Annie’s…’
He clicked his fingers, rather too aggressively. Two extra chairs appeared and a small man in black pyjamas came over and bowed.
‘Now look here, my little chap, we’d like some brandy. Courvoisier,’ instructed Edward. ‘That all right with everyone?’
There were nods of assent. Except from Finch.
‘Actually, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d prefer a drop of scotch.’
‘Of course.’
‘Talisker if you have it,’ Finch said to the waiter, ‘but any single malt will do.’
The waiter bowed.
‘Understand you, old boy,’ said Edward.
His Englishness seemed forced to Finch, a pointless thin veneer upon the Antipodean.
‘In which case it would be rude of me not to join you.’
He called after the waiter.
‘Same here. Make them doubles.’
He put the fat brown stogie back in his mouth and puffed a pungent, purple cloud. Finch took out a packet of Navy Cut and indicated that he would like to join him in a smoke. Edward produced a flint lighter and wafted the flame.
Annie noticed the programme poking out of Maude’s bag.
‘My God, you went to the Stieglitz exhibition…?’
‘The Dudley Gallery, Park Lane. Yes…’
‘I just love his work. He’s elevated photography to an art form…’
‘He absolutely has.’
‘Did they show any of his colour… the autochrome…?
* * *
It had not taken long for Finch to get the measure of Edward, the very same man whom Annie had once professed to despise… to be running away from… but was now brazenly calling ‘darling’, while fiddling with the oversized diamond on her left hand. Unless it was another extraordinary coincidence…
Edward’s shoddy treatment of the waiters as they cleared away the leftovers, together with what Finch considered a heinous crime – boasting of his avoidance of military service so that he might capitalise on its commercial dividends via his father’s shipping business – did not endear him. Though, Finch knew, the man could have been a saint made flesh and he’d still have hated him.
That the ‘girls’ seemed to be getting along like a house on fire – secretly giggling in some sort of sisterly conspiracy – only accentuated Finch’s sense of dislocation. Though the fact that Edward seemed demonstrably uninterested in Annie’s doings in South Africa, as if it were some errant chapter to be skipped over, at least gave Finch the comfort that there was something of Annie he still had to himself.
What nagged at Finch most, though, was the lavender-scented man. He replayed countless scenarios in his mind but failed to place him. Finch could not recall the man’s presence at the inquiry at the War Office or at any of the security hearings in which Finch had become embroiled, whether in Cape Town or on return. And the fact that he had mentioned Pickersgill…
Mindful of the warning he had been issued, he was right, he told himself, to spurn Annie’s extended invitation – to attend a soirée with the singer Michael Maybrick at the Café Royal – in favour of returning home. (‘A little indulgence for the lady,’ confided Edward, in candour. ‘Not one for music, nor any of these damned paintings or photographs she’s always dragging me off to see… A bit like yours…’)
As they bid their farewells, Finch supposed he might never see Annie again. And though the thought pained him greatly, parting’s sweet sorrow was lost amid the unusual circumstances of the evening and the fact that he would now have to mollify Maude.
Maude… Here was a woman – ostensibly perfect for him in every way – who had shown him nothing but affection and whose quest for adventure, for an experience beyond her lot, had once again been dashed… And by him… And on her birthday outing to boot.
* * *
The cab pulled up outside Finch’s house just before midnight. The suspension squeaked and the body tilted as he helped Maude down. The driver pocketed his tip, twitched his whip and the horse clip-clopped off.
‘You like her, don’t you?’ said Maude.
The gaslight on the corner hissed.
‘Annie?’ he dismissed.
She rolled her eyes.
‘Who else?’
‘Of course, we spent a lot of time together. We were in some pretty…’
He fumbled for the word.
‘…intense situations.’
‘Intense?’
It was the wrong one.
> He delved into his pocket for his keys. The lights were off inside. Pickersgill would be long gone.
‘It’s more than that, Ingo. I saw the way you looked at her. I mean, she called you “Finch”. You’d have to have been pretty familiar with a woman for her to address you like that.’
‘It’s not what you think, Maude. I promise.’
He found the right key.
‘Look, I can’t blame you if you don’t like her,’ he added. ‘It would only be natural.’
The smile she gave was for herself.
‘Like her, Ingo?… I think she’s wonderful…’
The pause had a vaudevillian’s timing.
‘…Too bad about that pig of a husband.’
He laughed. She did too, but only momentarily.
‘I’m serious, Ingo. She’s wonderful. Too wonderful.’
She laid her hand on his forearm.
‘I think I’ll say my goodnights now, if I may.’
She turned to go.
Damn!
‘Maude, please!’
‘Sorry, Ingo. Not tonight.’
He put the key in the lock and turned around. He motioned her towards him.
‘Just five minutes. Tea… we’ll talk… I’ll walk you home…’
He nudged the stiff oak door open with his shoulder and flipped on the electric light.
‘Shit!’
‘What?’
His alarm had her swivelling back. She joined him at the threshold and stared in. Books had been pulled off shelves, the furniture overturned, cushions slashed, picture and photograph frames smashed. Anything, any ornament or item, that had occupied a horizontal space, a shelf, a table, the mantelpiece, lay strewn across the floor. The place had been well and truly ransacked.
‘Like I said, Ingo. You’re a fool… On every level.’
Chapter Nine
When Finch awoke, the dagger was at its most sadistic, its blade so keen, so cruelly inserted, he half wished it would simply slide all the way into his brain and finish him off.
He found himself on the settee, still clothed, with Pickersgill’s wet blanket pulled over him. He could smell the man’s body odour on it, mingling now with the toxic aroma oozing from his own fetid pores. His mouth felt like it had been hibernated in by wild animals. He needed water and lots of it. He started to shake.
As Finch roused himself, gingerly, he kicked the empty whisky bottle, which rolled across the floor. He had barely time to take in the mess around him – the books, the papers, the smashed ornaments and pictures, the explosion of feather down from the ripped upholstery – when there came a loud staccato rap at the front door. Finch waited a few seconds – the curtains were drawn, he could conceivably be out – but it thundered again, harder, persistent.
Instinctively – though it pained him gravely – Finch got up and crept over in stockinged feet, still with the blanket round his shoulders, trying his best to avoid the shards of glass from the smashed picture frames. That someone should have chosen to shatter a photograph of his mother and father on their wedding day hurt him more than anything. They gazed up at him forlornly.
He reached up above the front door to the false panel, cut beneath a beam, where he kept his loaded Webley service revolver. He unwrapped it from its oily rag and flipped off the safety catch. Then he positioned himself on the hinge side of the door jamb – his right…
There was a loud pounding again. But this time it came with a voice.
‘Finch? Finch!’
He sighed with relief and undid the lock.
‘Jesus, Ingo. What the…?’
Despite his years in England, the rolling Edinburgh burr was unshakeable. It was as soothing as any balm.
‘I know we lawyers aren’t popular,’ the man quipped, noting Finch’s clumsy attempt to conceal the weapon. ‘But what the hell…?’
‘Jilkes.’
The man surveyed the damage.
‘Quite some bender you went on…’
Finch gave a pained smile.
‘…And look at you Ingo, you’re a mess.’
He entered with a sense of purpose. He wafted a hand in front of his face to alert Finch to the pungency of his breath.
‘Come on,’ he urged, and made his way to the kitchen. The rattling of implements stirred the dagger again.
‘Got any real tea or still on the South African stuff?’
Finch reached for the water jug he’d drunk from last night, still half full, and drained its contents, sloshing a fair amount of it down his shirt. He staggered back over and took to the settee. He pulled the blanket back round him and placed the gun on the floor. He could hear Jilkes at the stove. He fumbled for his Navy Cuts, lit a match and sat back.
Suddenly inspired, he reached forward again… the whisky bottle.
It was snatched away from him.
‘Come on, wee pal. This stuff’s caused you enough trouble.’
There was barely a drop left but Jilkes shook it ceremoniously onto the fire where it hissed on embers not quite dead. He then went to the curtains and yanked them back. Finch squinted against the light. He also opened a window. Finch pulled the blanket in tighter. There was a sharp stab in his left big toe. A shard of glass had got him.
‘Smells like a Tangiers brothel in here,’ Jilkes winced. ‘Hearsay, of course.’
‘Of course,’ Finch groaned.
He picked up his foot and saw the spot of red.
Jilkes was a man of medium height, well-dressed in his Sunday best of a fine charcoal suit. He had kindly blue eyes, a healthy outdoor hue to his complexion, was in reasonably good shape – even though he toiled in an office – and was clean-shaven. He was, supposed Finch, the nearest thing he could call to a friend… not that he ever really had a best one.
Jilkes smacked away some feathers with his leather gloves before perching himself on the chair opposite. A lawyer and a doctor – they were, in theory, twin pillars of the local community, thought Finch… very much in theory.
‘Ingo?’
‘What?’
He held his arms wide, indicating the mess surrounding them.
‘I’m not going to ask. I’ll wait for you to tell.’
Jilkes reminded him to a degree of his old army doctor pal Hawley Jenkins… Major Jenkins… another soft-spoken Celt – Welsh rather than Scottish – a man razor-sharp in intellect and who also, seemingly, had all the decent human attributes which Finch himself was so sorely lacking.
The kettle began whistling. Jilkes left and returned a minute later with a pot of rooibos, two cups, some milk and a teaspoon.
He pulled two saucers out of his jacket pockets, like a conjurer.
‘Just to make it decent,’ he said.
Finch had pegged Reginald Jilkes as an ex-military man the first time he set eyes on him. And when he found out that he’d also served in Africa – albeit West Africa, when the Royal Niger Company had mounted a counter-insurgency campaign against the Aro Confederacy – he felt him to be a brother of sorts, if not quite in arms (both of them had been non-combatants, officially at least).
‘Jilkes?’
‘What is it, Ingo?’
Jilkes didn’t talk about it much but Finch understood his legal skills had made him of great value in military circles. He knew that he’d been somewhere in the delegation that had brought an end to the slave trading that had been rampant along the Niger.
Finch picked at his foot. He teased out the thin glass sliver.
‘You think there’ll be war?’
Jilkes blew out a hiss. There was sarcasm in his voice.
‘Any war in particular? Germans, Russians, Austrians…? I still wouldn’t write off the French.’
‘The Russians. This North Sea business.’
Jilkes eyed Finch’s cigarettes.
‘Mind if I pinch one? Agatha’s with the bairns. Sunday school… While the cat’s away…’
‘What time is it?’
Jilkes flipped back the cuff covering his wrist
watch.
‘Almost noon.’
‘Christ!’
‘Now now,’ said Jilkes sarcastically. ‘The Lord’s name in vain on the Sabbath?’
Finch tossed his matches to Jilkes but missed. Jilkes scooped them from the floor.
‘You went too…? To church?’ asked Finch.
‘You think I dressed like this just for you? Don’t flatter yourself, laddie!’
Finch almost grinned.
‘Do you believe in God?’
Jilkes smiled, an ironic one.
‘My, my… I wasn’t expecting that one, Dr Finch… Questions don’t come much bigger than that.’
Jilkes looked around the mess of the room.
‘…Why, you think He did this?’
‘I couldn’t blame him.’
‘If you must… I believe in Church, Ingo…’
He lampooned his own accent.
‘…Aye, the good auld Kirk… I believe in Church. I believe in community. And if doffing my hat to the Big Man on a Sunday is what it takes for me to keep my affairs in order and put food on the table, then…’
He puffed cautiously in the manner of the casual smoker.
‘…You know, maybe once in a while you should…’
‘No sermons, please.’
‘Sorry… And as for those Russians? I don’t know…’
He coughed.
‘…I mean it’s a good opportunity though, I must admit… while they’re engaged in the Far East. Back door’s wide open. But name me a military campaign that ever went to plan… and especially one against Russia.’
Finch drew hard on his cigarette.
‘There’s nothing to gain from it either,’ Finch said.
‘Since when has that ever mattered? I don’t know, Ingo. By the terms of international law, if there is such a thing, we do have every entitlement to exact our pound of flesh.’
Finch smiled to himself.
‘“We”?… You said we have every entitlement. Not the kind of thing a lawyer—’
Jilkes laughed. He fished the strainer from his breast pocket and began pouring the tea.
‘For a man with a hangover, you’re still quite the pedant.’
‘And the pound of flesh?’
‘Legally, Britain has every right to seek recompense. Whether that be financial, territorial… Honour must be upheld in certain eyes. Maybe it won’t come to armed conflict. I mean, what would be the objectives? Bombard St Petersburg? March on Moscow?… In winter?… I don’t think so. That said, what the Russian navy did was a crime. Don’t lose sight… Russia conducted an illegal military act against British citizens… civilians… in British territorial waters… And you can bet your last drop of single malt there will be old duffers in Whitehall pushing hard for punitive action.’
The Cold North Sea Page 6