After the Cabaret (32 page)

He walked along, then turned towards Merricombe. When he came to the village pub, he stopped outside it, as he had planned. From the call-box there, he telephoned Bruno Lowenthal.

When the old man answered, Greg said, ‘I hope I'm not too early for you. Merry Christmas anyway.'

‘Greg?' came the harsh voice. ‘So good to hear from you. Merry Christmas – at least, I hope it's being a merry one.'

‘It isn't,' Greg told him.

‘I'm not surprised. Listen – I'm finishing the story on tape! What a surprise for you, eh? Will that be your best Christmas present? I think so.'

‘God, Bruno, that's good of you.'

‘We've no time to waste so I have purchased this little machine, just like yours, and you will be surprised to learn it obeys me completely.'

Greg said, ‘I would always believe you could do anything you wanted to do, Bruno. But I have a problem. I've discovered I'm staying in the house Briggs gave to his lover Simon Ledbetter, who happens to be my girlfriend's uncle.'

‘It's a nice house, eh?'

‘Very nice. And he has some nice paintings – and several drawings by Eugene Hamilton he didn't mention to me.'

‘I heard of the house, dear boy, many years ago. And I have to tell you, Greg, I got a call from someone in Sir
Peveril Jones's employ. They told me where you were. They want to meet me – to shut me up, I suppose.'

Greg was shocked. ‘Bruno, I'm sorry. Do you think I'm responsible for all this – stirring things up?'

‘Don't worry. I've suspected for many years that one day there'd be a problem. The bomb and the fuse have been in place for many years. All you did was strike the match.'

‘They've been up all night here on the phone.'

‘Romantic for you.'

‘You can say that again.'

‘It doesn't go well?'

‘It goes horribly. They're worried about the book, I think. And Pym's return.'

‘And your girlfriend has turned against you?'

‘I'm beginning to wonder if she was ever for me. She must have known for some time about her uncle's connection with all this but she never said a word.'

‘Do you think Ledbetter was working for Briggs – also for the Soviets?'

‘Oh, Christ!' said Greg. ‘I don't know. I don't think so. He said his career had been in medical research at Cambridge.'

‘It depends what kind of medical research it was,' Bruno said. ‘But in a world of secrets one suspects everything. Never mind. Tell me, when are you coming back?'

‘Tomorrow. The atmosphere's terrible here. I'd leave now but to walk out on Christmas Day would be too much. There's no transport and I've got the car. I'd be stranding Katherine.'

‘Come back as soon as you can,' said Bruno. ‘You'll like what I have for you. I'm sure of it. Merry Christmas again.'

‘Merry Christmas to you too,' Greg said glumly.

He put down the phone and walked resolutely back to the house. At least he had Bruno's new material to look forward to – if he nourished that thought he could get through Christmas Day without disgrace. Mercifully, by the time he got back to the house it would be time to set out for the drinks party with Simon's friends. Then there'd be Christmas dinner with other people and all that socialising would cut down the amount of time the three of them would be obliged to spend together. With luck, Greg thought, he could keep Christmas Day civilised and get away early next morning.

It was in this more philosophical mood that he entered the house and ran upstairs to change into his suit. As he did so he thought that they were supposed now to open their presents. Well, if no one else mentioned it, he certainly wasn't going to.

Their hosts, the Hope-Rudstons, lived in a long Jacobean house, set in an old garden. Behind it were water meadows and a lake. Greg suppressed impatience as they entered the house and met their hostess, a smiling, needle-thin woman in pale cashmere. He was becoming tired of these nice houses in nice settings in the country, tired of feeling like a stranger in what was beginning to feel like a strange land, tired of watching Simon's back as he whizzed off into the centre of a crowd of friends.

Katherine hailed him from the middle of the room, and
when he joined her she introduced him to a beautiful girl with long blonde hair, Amelia. ‘Thank goodness,' she told Amelia. ‘I don't know a soul here.'

‘Here's Rupert – Rupert Hennessy,' Amelia said. A tall young man in black joined them. ‘Jon Hope-Rudston,' said Amelia. As Greg turned his head to say hello his glance struck a large mirror hanging over the fireplace. Reflected in it was a group of five men near the opposite wall talking. One of them, full face to the room, was Sir Peveril Jones and he thought he saw Sir Peveril's eyes flick towards him, then away.

Interrupting Jon Hope-Rudston, who was saying something about a party, Greg said, directly to Katherine, ‘Why, there's Sir Peveril Jones over there by the wall. Who'd have thought it?' A promising chess player at high school until he'd got tired of being called a nerd and started concentrating on football, Greg decided that the situation merited a random opening gambit and, turning abruptly, marched straight over to Sir Peveril. They said that if you went up to a hundred people and hissed in the ear of each, ‘I know everything,' ninety-eight would go pale.

Apologising, as he pushed past the men with Sir Peveril, he went up close to him and said, in a low voice, ‘I know everything.' Then he turned and walked out.

And that, he thought, starts and finishes the game.

He would not go back to the party. He would not have what he believed was an arranged interview – set up by Simon and Katherine – with Sir Peveril Jones.
On the other hand, he couldn't bring himself to drive off, leaving Katherine and her crippled uncle stranded.

He went to where the cars were parked, opened the door of his own, got in and sat down to wait until the party ended.

Half an hour later a face appeared at the car window, that of the lean black-clad young man to whom Greg had been introduced.

‘Jon Hope-Rudston – we met,' he said, apologetically. ‘They sent me off to find out where you were.'

‘Well, I guess you know now,' Greg said.

‘Had enough of the party? I don't blame you,' he said. ‘Mind if I join you?' He opened the door on the other side of the car and climbed in. Then he produced a packet of cigarettes and took one out. ‘Do you object?' he asked.

‘No.'

Jon lit up, and from the smell Greg deduced that this was no ordinary cigarette. Jon took a drag then offered it to Greg. ‘Do you inhale at all?' he asked.

‘Thanks,' Greg said, taking the joint and breathing in deeply. He handed it back.

‘Sorry about the intrusion,' Jon said. ‘Any particular reason why you're sitting in the car?'

‘I found out I don't like my host, Mr Ledbetter, he doesn't like me and neither does my girlfriend. It's Christmas Day, I'm six thousand miles from home and I think I'm being conned,' Greg replied.

‘I see,' Jon said. He smoked the joint pensively for a few moments, then passed it back to Greg. ‘I hope you
don't mind me sitting here,' he said. ‘You know what Christmas is like, a bit of a strain.'

‘Do you live here all the time?'

‘No, in London. I'm a solicitor, very junior.'

He lit another joint, took a drag and handed it over. ‘I don't want to use up all your supply,' said Greg.

‘It's all right. I've got loads. Anyway, if I run out I can get some more from the gardener.'

‘He grows it?'

‘No, he buys it in Dorchester.' He stretched. ‘I'd better go in and say I found you, I suppose.'

‘Tell them I'm asleep.'

‘OK. Nice meeting you.'

‘Thanks for the smoke.'

‘A pleasure,' said Jon, and went off. Greg shut his eyes, relaxed.

Not long afterwards, Katherine came to the car. Greg got out. ‘Jon said you were asleep,' Katherine said.

‘I did drop off,' Greg told her. ‘Sorry.'

‘We're about to leave. Do come back inside and say goodbye.'

‘Sure,' said Greg amiably. He realised there was no way out of the interview with Sir Peveril, but the difference was that now he didn't care much.

‘Sir Peveril was a bit put out by something you said to him before you went out,' Katherine said lightly, as they walked towards the front steps. ‘Apparently you went up to him and said, “I know everything.”'

‘It was a joke,' Greg told her. ‘I never called him an asshole – or a traitor – and I guess he's both.'

She stood still in front of the house. ‘Greg, you're being very peculiar.'

‘Jon Hope-Rudston offered me a strange-tasting cigarette,' Greg said.

‘He didn't – Oh, God, you haven't?' Katherine said disgustedly. ‘Can you drive?'

‘I can drive. I just can't connive,' said Greg, and smiling widely, he bounded into the house.

Sir Peveril dropped any pretence that this was a casual meeting. He was waiting in the hall when Greg walked in and came up to him immediately. Grasping Greg's arm he said, ‘I wonder if we could have a word in private.'

‘Sure,' Greg agreed, moving to regain possession of his arm.

‘This way, then,' Sir Peveril said, and led the way to a study off the hall. They sat down in an atmosphere of furniture polish and unread books.

Greg leaned back in his chair, still a little irritated that the determination of the Ledbetters and Sir Peveril had forced him into a conversation he did not want. He said, ‘I don't really want to be here. Is this about Adrian Pym?'

Sir Peveril, evidently deciding it would not serve him well to take offence, replied, ‘It concerns Pym indirectly, more particularly perhaps it concerns your book. You've been talking to Bruno Lowenthal, of course, about Sally Bowles.'

Greg said the first thing that came to him: ‘Is she dead?'

Annoyed at being deflected, Sir Peveril replied brusquely, ‘Dead? No, she's not.'

Greg was very startled by this answer, which he had not really expected. ‘She's not? So where is she?' he demanded eagerly.

‘You'd better ask your friend Mr Lowenthal. I'm surprised he hasn't told you,' Sir Peveril replied. ‘Now, concerning Pym, obviously he has the capacity to do immense damage to this country's reputation …'

But Greg was hardly listening. He knew more or less what Sir Peveril was about to say. What shook him was that Sir Peveril had no doubt Sally was alive or that Bruno – Bruno! – knew where she was. The old bastard. The evil old bastard. Sir Peveril leaned forward and tapped Greg's knee as if to attract his attention. Greg hated that tap. He was caught by another mention of Bruno's name.

‘No doubt Lowenthal's inaccurate anecdotes involve Pym during the war. If you publish these damaging statements, Pym may be tempted to retaliate. The developments could be dangerous.'

‘It was a long time ago, sir,' Greg told him. ‘Fifty years. Most of the people in the world weren't born then.'

‘That's not relevant to what I'm saying. The times we're talking about are on the borderline between present time and history, close enough to have a bearing on the future. In particular, on our relationships with other countries, including your own.'

‘Once upon a time,' said Greg, still thinking about the extant Sally Bowles, ‘there was heavy Communist infiltration of the British secret service. The traitors worked undetected for many years, were exposed and
fled in the nineteen fifties. The damage they did is accounted for. From what I understand there's nothing dangerous in what I have to say.'

‘Let's say I might know a little more about that than you,' Sir Peveril told him.

The room was suddenly too hot and too small. Greg wanted to get out. He forced himself to reply. ‘I'd be grateful for any comments you might like to make when my book is complete.'

‘There is a likelihood that publication of the book will be stopped,' Sir Peveril said.

Greg had half expected this. ‘I'll be sorry if that happens in the UK.'

He knew Sir Peveril must understand that an embargo in Britain would make little difference to him. His contract was with an American publisher. News of British censorship might even help sales.

‘I think the State Department might easily come to the same view as the British Government,' Sir Peveril replied.

Greg, half stoned, child of freedom marchers, stood up and said, ‘I don't, I have to tell you. Any British cover-up would be more to protect the reputations of a small group here than to serve any public interest. I think my government would feel the same. There's nothing you can say that will stop me from writing the book, Sir Peveril.'

Sir Peveril sighed and looked at him coldly. ‘If that's the case, I have to tell you your presence is no longer welcome in this country. Mr Phillips, you are under a deportation
order, effective as of eight o'clock tomorrow morning, the twenty-sixth. A BA flight to New York is leaving at ten a.m. tomorrow and your name has been placed on the passenger list. If you do not avail yourself of your seat, you render your status that of an illegal immigrant. You may be arrested by the police and imprisoned until deportation.'

Greg laughed. ‘If you want to attract the attention of the world to Pym's return, you're certainly going the right way about it.' He left the room.

Katherine was in the hall, waiting for him.

‘It looks like I have to leave the country,' he said to her.

‘My God,' said Katherine. ‘Why?'

As if on cue, Simon came up in his wheelchair. ‘We must go,' Katherine told him. They all said goodbye to their hostess and silently got into the car, Simon in front as usual, Katherine in the back. Driving along, Greg said, ‘I'm getting deported, but I guess you knew, so it'd be nice if nobody started saying, “What a shock, Greg. I'm so sorry.” I'll leave right away.'