Dead End (7 page)

‘But of course I needed some kind of employment to keep me until I made my fortune,’ Keaton went on with a little self-deprecatory smile, ‘and when I saw the advertisement for a couple for Sir Stefan’s house, it seemed like the answer to a prayer. Accommodation was such a problem after the war, you see, with so much of the housing stock destroyed by the Blitz and no money left in the kitty to replace it. Doreen and I looked at some rooms, but the ones we could have afforded would have given me acute spiritual pain to live in.’

Slider nodded sympathetically. ‘And the advertisement related to this house, did it?’

‘Yes. The Radeks had just moved in here. His wife, Lady Susan, inherited it from her father.’ He smiled faintly. ‘When I took the job on, I looked on it as a part-time job. I thought I’d have plenty of time to myself to write. But it was impossible to live under the same roof as Sir Stefan and stay aloof, especially after his wife died. Little by little I was drawn in, and eventually – when Doreen died as well – he became my whole life.’ His eyes were distant again, and shining. ‘Serving him so that he
could serve Music. It was a great cause. I have been part of something noble and valuable. My life has not been wasted.’

The old-fashioned ideal of service, Slider thought, half amused, half admiring. Nowadays no-one would publicly espouse it for fear of being thought a prat, though it was still what drew most of the recruits into the police service. But the fashion was to claim to be cynical and self-serving. It was quite refreshing talking to old Buster, he thought.

‘Tell me about Sir Stefan,’ he asked now. ‘He wasn’t English, was he?’

Keaton gave Slider a sharp look. ‘He was a British citizen, and proud of it,’ he said almost crossly. ‘He was knighted for his services to music, and they don’t give knighthoods to foreigners, you know.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to suggest – but his name doesn’t sound English. I thought I read somewhere that he was of Czech origin.’

‘Polish,’ Keaton corrected shortly. ‘But he took nationality in 1950. He came to England with his mother after the fall of Poland, when his father was killed. Stefan joined the infantry in 1940 and fought right through the war. He finished as a major and won the MC. He had a very good war.’ Keaton was obviously immensely proud of Radek’s record. Slider had the feeling he’d get shown the medals if he wasn’t careful. ‘He didn’t have to fight, you know. They wouldn’t have called him up. And he risked more than most people to do it, because he was already a brilliant musician. Imagine if he’d been blinded, or deafened, or lost a hand? For him, it was a great personal sacrifice to put his career to one side for five years.’

‘And why did he?’

‘Duty,’ said Keaton simply. ‘He felt that music couldn’t exist in the same world with the Nazis. To give himself to music would be pointless if they were not destroyed.’

A truly noble, selfless man, Slider thought. Can this be the same Radek I’ve been hearing about, or is it just a case of power corrupting absolutely?

‘Did he have any family? His wife is dead, I think you said?’

‘Lady Susan died in 1959. It was tragic – they were devoted, you know. He never married again. There was just one child, Fenella – but she’s always called Fay. She was born in 1950.
She married Alec Coleraine, the solicitor, and they’ve just the one son, Marcus.’

‘How did Sir Stefan get on with them? Were they close?’

Keaton pursed his lips. ‘Stefan adored Fay, but she was always a headstrong girl, and they often quarrelled. He didn’t want her to marry Alec Coleraine – didn’t think he was good enough for her – which he wasn’t in my opinion. But she waited until she was twenty-one and then told her father he couldn’t stop her any more. Well, Stefan put a brave face on it, and they were always very loving when they met without Alec, but if Alec was around there was friction.’ He paused as though hearing himself, and added, ‘It was nothing serious, though, just family bickerings.’

‘It happens in the best of families,’ Slider said reassuringly.

Keaton went on confidentially. ‘Stefan didn’t like the way they were bringing up Marcus. Between them they spoiled him, gave him everything he wanted, and when Sir Stefan tried to instil a bit of discipline in the boy, they’d take his side. So of course, he always knew he could appeal to his mother and father against his grandfather, and there’s nothing spoils a child quicker. Sir Stefan did his best; he wanted Marcus to come and stay with us much more often, but Alec wouldn’t let him. I’m afraid,’ he added, as though forced to reveal a deeply unpalatable truth, ‘that Alec Coleraine doesn’t regard music as a proper thing to spend one’s life on. Marcus could have been a talented soloist, but his father thought it was prissy to play the violin. He wanted him to go into a profession and make lots of money – as if that was the test of manhood, how many zeros you have in your bank balance. Well, he’s only got himself to blame if the boy’s turning out wild.’ He sighed. ‘But it all added to the strain on Stefan. It all helped wear him out.’

‘Has there been any specific cause of quarrel between them recently?’ Slider asked.

Keaton opened his eyes wide. ‘Good lord no! This is just ordinary family tensions I’m talking about. I hope you aren’t suggesting that Alec Coleraine would ever dream of—?’ The tears came again quite suddenly. ‘Oh dear, I’m sorry. Just for a minute I’d forgotten. I just can’t believe he’s – the thought of
anyone
doing such a thing is so very—’

He disappeared into his handkerchief.

‘This is all so distressing for you,’ Slider said kindly after a
moment. ‘Can I make you a cup of tea or something? If you just tell me where the kitchen is—?’

‘Oh, no, no thank you,’ Keaton said through the muffling folds. In a moment he re-emerged, blew his nose and straightened his shoulders and his tie, with his generation’s desire always to keep up appearance. ‘No, I’ll do it. I should have offered you something, I’m sorry. Will you have some tea now? Or would you like something stronger?’

Slider thought it would give the old man time and privacy to compose himself, so he said, ‘Thank you, tea would be very nice. Are you sure I can’t make it for you?’

‘No, no, that would never do. Besides, I know where everything is. I shan’t be long.’

He went out, and Slider stood up and walked across to look out of the window. Here at the back of the house was a handsome, high-walled garden with several magnificent trees, and a stretch of lawn which curved back and forth round borders and archipelagos of herbaceous plants and shrubs. From ground level, he thought, it would present an artfully simple appearance of intriguing vistas and inviting walks. He could see that the planting had been done to present blocks of sympathetic colour in the way that was fashionable nowadays: no cottage-garden riot of oranges, purples and yellows, no eye-bashing cheerfulness of vermilion muddled up with magenta. Just below him, for instance, was a long bed planted with nothing but blue flowers set amongst silvery foliage: at the back tall spires of delphinium, rocket and Mexican lupins were having their second flowering; in front of them pale flax, deep-blue cornflowers and feathery love-in-a-mist; and to the front of the bed the lower-growing blue salvia, cherry pie, cranesbill, and an edging of clumps of campanula. It was exquisite and restful, the outdoor equivalent of the cool, elegant drawing-room he was standing in.

That was the kind of gardening that he’d always wanted the time and space to do, and never had. It was the frustrated architect in him, he supposed. When he was younger, when he’d had time to spare, he’d enjoyed going to visit great houses and walking round their gardens, gathering ideas. It had bored the children rigid, though Irene had liked looking round the houses, as long as they were fully furnished and no older than eighteenth century. But she had no interest in gardening – or anything to do
with the outdoors, really. She, having been born there, saw no romance in the countryside: she regarded it with suspicion and dislike as a source of mud, creepy-crawlies and rude animals. To her the modern world was the apogee of civilisation, for there was no need for a person ever to step out of doors (except from building to car and car to building again) or to encounter the inconveniently dirty habits of old mother Gaia. A centrally-heated, double-glazed conservatory was as near to God in a garden as she wanted to get.

Well, he thought, now she’d gone and the garden was his to do again. Perhaps a resuscitation of his interest in gardening would help to fill all the lonely hours ahead of him. It looked as though it would have to do it for Buster, who seemed to have nothing else.

A sound made Slider turn. He saw Keaton coming in with a large tray, and hastened over in case he needed a table cleared. But Keaton anticipated the move and said, ‘I can manage quite well, thank you. I’m used to this.’

He had tidied away the evidence of his tears, but he looked frightfully old and worn – pale in cheek and blue-shadowed around the eyes. I wouldn’t be surprised, Slider thought, if the old boy didn’t last much longer. It was often the way when people lived closely together for a long time, that one could not outlive the other.

‘I’m sorry to have to put you through this,’ Slider said. ‘Just a few more questions, and then I’ll leave you in peace.’

‘You must do your job,’ Keaton said, sorting out the tray. ‘We all have to do our duty. How do you like your tea?’

When they were both settled with their cups, Slider said, ‘I’d like you to tell me, if you would, about Sir Stefan’s friends. Who was there who was close to him?’

Keaton shook his head almost reprovingly. ‘You’ve got the wrong idea. I told you he was dedicated to his work; it took up all his time and his spiritual energy. There was nothing left over for anything else. Friends, socialising and such, would have been a useless drain on him. He didn’t have time to go to
parties,
you know.’ He spoke the word witheringly. ‘It was all he could do to keep up with his daughter and her family.’

‘But he couldn’t spend every moment of every day working?’

‘Indeed he could,’ Keaton said. ‘You have no idea the amount
of preparation that has to go into giving a concert. Studying the music, reading, learning the score, communing with his spirit, preparing himself to give
of
himself so that the great work of a man long dead might come to life again. Even the time he was forced to spend giving interviews, having his photograph taken, making speeches, attending banquets – all that sort of thing – he deeply begrudged.’ He looked at Slider sternly. ‘It’s not just a matter of standing up and wiggling a stick, you know. That’s the trouble with the world today – everything is slipshod, everything is geared to what will just do. It’s not “how good can I make it”, it’s “how little can I get away with” – even amongst professional musicians. There’s no dedication to excellence any more.’

He was getting annoyed. Slider hastened to placate him. ‘I know he must have been a dedicated man. But surely he must sometimes have had to relax and – recharge the batteries, so to speak.’

Keaton shrugged. ‘To stay quietly here at home was enough. A simple meal, civilised conversation, a walk in the garden – they were his pleasures. He didn’t hanker after the noise and racket of the modern world.’

Slider swallowed that with his tea. ‘The garden is magnificent,’ he said.

‘Sir Stefan loved it. It was my pleasure to create a beautiful place for him to rest in.’

‘Are you the gardener? I’m impressed.’

Keaton gave a modest smile. ‘Gardening has always been my great love, and my relaxation. Sir Stefan generously gave me a free hand.’

‘He couldn’t have regretted it. It’s beautiful,’ Slider said, and Keaton warmed in the obvious sincerity.

‘I have help,’ he confessed. ‘A man comes in to mow the lawn and do the heavy work. But what you see is my creation. I still plant and prune and propagate. And I do a little research work now and then, just to keep my mind active. Stefan built me a large greenhouse and shed down at the bottom. I’m trying to develop a new iris.’ His mouth trembled. ‘If it was accepted, I was going to name it after him. Oh dear!’

‘I’m astonished you’ve had time to keep the garden looking so lovely, as well as looking after Sir Stefan.’

‘Oh, I didn’t go everywhere with him. To concerts, yes, but
not always to rehearsals and recording sessions. So I have a little time for my other tasks. I do the cooking; you know, when we’re at home, take care of his clothes, keep his personal correspondence – not that there’s much of that. It’s enough to keep me busy.’ He had slipped back into the present tense. Adjustment was not going to come easily to him, Slider thought with compassion.

‘Did you always go with him on tour?’

‘Always. He couldn’t have done without me for more than a few hours. And it was doubly important that someone who understood his delicate state of health was on hand.’

On the spur of the moment Slider decided to slip one in. ‘What is the Ootsy Tootsy Club?’ he asked casually.

Keaton’s eyes snapped to attention. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘It’s in Hong Kong. You went to Hong Kong recently, didn’t you?’

‘Last October. A triumphant tour – but exhausting. The heat and humidity never suited him.’

‘And the Ootsy Tootsy Club?’

‘I don’t know any such club,’ Keaton said coldly. ‘Why should you think I do? It sounds ridiculous. What has it to do with anything?’

Slider said soothingly, ‘It’s impossible in these cases to tell what might be helpful. We often have to ask what seem like pointless questions.’