In the Mouth of the Tiger (111 page)

Up in the visitors' gallery Malcolm Bryant's heart sank like a stone. He could guess why the affidavit had not been forthcoming. The War Reparations Commission was a tool of MI6, and for some reason beyond comprehension MI6 didn't want the matter to proceed. And then he felt sudden bitter anger and tugged automatically at the stub of his mangled left ear. It was all so beastly unfair. He had worked his guts out to put together his original bill against Denis in Cameron Highlands, only to have Morton pat him on the back and tell him that there hadn't been enough evidence. Now all his hard work trawling through the accounts of Elesmere-Elliott & Co. was going to
be dismissed with equal disdain. Malcolm turned his head to look at John Morton further along the gallery, but Morton refused to return the glance. He merely sat there, staring expressionlessly into the body of the court. He had obviously known this was going to happen.

Down below, the legal parody – because that was what it had now become – was being played out with appropriate solemnity. Mark Morrison's QC was on his feet, waving a sheaf of papers with formalised passion. ‘It would be a travesty of justice, Your Honour, if my client were to be deprived of the means to live simply on the basis of the unsubstantiated allegations which have been made. There is also the issue, Your Honour, of my client's reputation as a businessman. Every day that this injunction persists, more damage is done to that reputation. I cannot emphasise too much . . .'

Mr Justice Truscott brought proceedings to an abrupt end with a bang of his gavel. ‘I am going to vacate the injunction, Mr Wall,' he said sharply. ‘You had your chance to bring evidence in support of the very broad and unspecified allegations that have been made. But you have not been able to do so.' He scratched some words on the papers before him, then looked up again. ‘I am very much aware that the respondent in these unhappy proceedings has been put to great inconvenience and to considerable expense by the orders sought by the Registrar of Companies. I will now invite counsel for the respondent to address me on the question of costs . . .'

After it was over, Malcolm Bryant buttonholed John Morton in the crowded confusion of the forecourt, his eyes dancing with anger. ‘He brought in the battleships again, didn't he?' he snarled. ‘You are a poor excuse for a man to give in so easily, Morton. Don't you see that Denis is laughing at us all?'

‘Steady on,' Morton said. He tried to sound angry but he couldn't quite manage it. It really was the devil, he thought, not being able to tell Bryant the truth of the situation. The man had done a superb job, both with his original bill and in penetrating the screen that had been put around the use of War Reparations Commission funds. He had every right to be upset that his work had been so easily dismissed.

He tried to say something placating but Malcolm got in ahead of him. ‘I suppose
I'm
the one who's going to have to carry the can for this foul-up,' he said angrily. ‘That's how the system works, isn't it? But let me tell you that I won't stand for a transfer, John. That's been done to me before. And Denis was responsible for that little piece of injustice as well. I
like
my job here in Singapore, and there is nothing I have done that would justify anyone moving me.'

John Morton patted Malcolm on the shoulder. ‘Of course you have done nothing wrong, Malcolm. On the contrary, I consider that your work has been exemplary.'

He didn't think it was an appropriate moment to mention that orders transferring Malcolm to head office in London had arrived in the colony only that morning.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

J
anuary in England that year was cold but crystal clear, with day after day of cloudless blue skies. It was delightful meandering around the countryside in the Wolseley, staying each night in a comfortable local inn, or trying out the newly fashionable institution of the ‘bed and breakfast'. Some of the B&Bs were quite ordinary, but most were wonderful: castles with four-poster beds in lavish bedrooms, thatched cottages with heavy oak beams and roaring log fires, huge old farmhouses where the breakfasts made a mockery of the Labour Government's strict rationing laws. The children loved the gypsy life, the constant change of scenery and the chance to explore new and different worlds every night. We would load up the Wolseley straight after breakfast and motor to our new destination in time for lunch. Once installed in our inn or B&B, we would inspect the house we had come to see, then relax and prowl around the district. At night there was always different and usually interesting company, and after dinner we would turn in early to read in bed and discuss the latest house we had seen.

The houses, however, were a disappointment. Rural property was extraordinarily cheap in those post-war days and there were plenty of places available, but high land taxes and the scarcity of building material had knocked the stuffing out of the stately homes of England. Time after time we would approach a fine-looking home at the end of an imposing driveway only to find the place half-abandoned, with damp running up the walls, dry rot in the timberwork, and gardens choked with weeds.

There was one place near Tunbridge Wells in Kent that nearly filled the bill. It was built in attractive mellow brick, it was surrounded by a well-kept Gertrude Jekyll garden, it had an emerald cricket ground, and a fairytale lodge nestled beside the wrought-iron entrance gates. But when we thought
about the upkeep of such a place we realised that it would need a small army of servants and artisans just to keep the status quo. ‘I don't want to be overrun with servants,' I said dispiritedly. ‘It would be like living in a fishbowl. All we want is a nice couple to help us cope, and perhaps a friendly old chap with a pipe to cut the grass.'

At the end of January we broke our wanderings to attend a dinner party in London organised in our honour by Ian Fleming. Denis had been reluctant to attend (‘I'd far prefer a quiet drink at the Trocadero') but Ian had been insistent and in the end we'd decided to do the gracious thing. The dinner was held in the River Room at the Dorchester, and I assumed it was a welcome home for Denis because most of the Millward Hall crowd were there plus other friends and colleagues. John Galvin greeted us at the door and presented Denis with a traditional Malay cap, the songkok, and me with some Siamese jewellery while people clapped.

It wasn't a bad night. The champagne was the finest French (Fleming's hand, of course), the company friendly, and the food beyond compare.

Late in the evening the subject of our house-hunting came up, and Ian gestured to an older man at the other end of the table. ‘Admiral Drax has a lovely place for sale,' he said. ‘He's being squeezed to death by these socialists in Whitehall so if you are keen to buy a country property you must take a look at his place.'

‘Drax?' I asked with a faint smile. ‘I'm not sure the Drax family and I would get on . . .' I was thinking of Violet Drax-Darnley, of course, the woman who had frightened me half to death and killed poor Chuckles all those years before.

Ian smiled. ‘Oh, there are an awful lot of Draxes down in Dorset,' he said. ‘Reggie's people have nothing to do with Violet's, I assure you.'

I talked to Reggie later, and liked him immensely. His full name was Reginald Aylmer Ranfurly Plunkett-Ernle-Erle-Drax, and he covered up his undoubted intelligence with a kind of gentle Bertie Wooster daffiness. ‘Oh, the Manor?' he said when I told him of Ian's remark. ‘It's for sale all right – or rather a ninety-nine-year lease on the place is for sale. It's part of the family estate, but we simply can't keep up with all these new taxes. Roof doesn't leak, the plumbing works – and it's close enough to my place for you to pop over for tea any day you like.' He gave a mock-lascivious wink. ‘Apart from my lovely daughters, we're a bit shy of charm down in Dorset so you would be very welcome.'

‘Flattery will get you everywhere,' I said, entering into the spirit of things. I caught Denis's eye. ‘Admiral Drax is telling me about a place he has for sale down in Dorset. It sounds lovely.' Denis smiled at the Admiral, but he was deep in conversation with Alan Hillgarth and Robbie Draper at the time and his attention was elsewhere. I think Almer Manor might well have dropped irredeemably out of sight had not Reggie Drax fished out his fountain pen and written something on a card. ‘This is the agent in Dorchester,' he said pushing it over to me. ‘If you are in the area, do give them a ring.'

Later in the evening a gentle-faced, dark-haired man named Roger Hollis sat down next to me. ‘I'm taking on a chap I believe you know,' he said casually. ‘Malcolm Bryant.'

‘I know Malcolm,' I said rather stiffly. ‘What do you mean by taking him on?'

‘He's coming into my section at MI5.' Roger gave a diffident cough. ‘I know the grief he caused you and Denis out in Malaya, and you probably hoped never to hear his name again. But I don't know the man from Adam, and I really would like to know a bit about him. I've asked Denis's opinion and he told me Malcolm was a first-rate chap. Fine as far as it goes but I suspect Denis would say that about anyone who wasn't a convicted axe murderer. What's your opinion?'

I thought for a moment. ‘Malcolm is intelligent and hard-working. I don't doubt he's honest. But my candid opinion is that he can be a bit too wrapped up in himself. A bit too intense. He can lose sight of the wood for the trees.'

Roger's eyes were on mine with surprising intensity. ‘Lacks balance, do you think?'

Again I paused before replying. ‘I think that puts it rather well. Malcolm lacks balance.'

Roger took a long breath. ‘Thank you for that. It confirms my own view, based on reading his reports. He has a little bit too much enthusiasm for his own good.'

‘I might be biased,' I said quickly. ‘As you say, Malcolm has caused me and Denis a fair bit of bother. I'm probably not the best person in the world to give you an objective opinion.'

Roger waved a hand dismissively. ‘You're not putting him out of a job or anything like that, Norma. It's just that I have to decide whether to give him a job involving other people, or to put him into a code-breaking exercise.
I think the code-breaking exercise will suit him down to the ground.'

It was still quite early when Denis touched my arm. ‘I hear that there are angels dancing at the Ritz,' he said. ‘What say we wander down that way?'

I took his arm. ‘I've got a better idea,' I said. ‘There are nightingales singing just up the street in Berkeley Square. It's a lovely night, so why don't we steal away and listen to them for a while?'

As we were saying our goodbyes, Stewart Menzies took me briefly aside. ‘We'll miss Denis tremendously,' he said seriously. ‘He's quite unique, you know. Quite unique. I know you have influence with him. If you can get the blighter to change his mind . . .'

So the evening was not a welcome home at all, but a goodbye.

We hadn't brought the car so we took a taxi to Marble Arch, and wandered homewards through a bland, warmish winter evening with a hint of rain in the air and the moon scurrying through tumbled clouds. There was a tiny park in Berkeley Square, which made the story of nightingales quite believable, and we tarried for a while looking at the racing shadows and pretending to listen out for birdsong.

‘So you are leaving the Intelligence world?' I asked. ‘It must be a bit of a wrench, because it's been your life for an awfully long time.'

‘It's no wrench at all,' Denis said shortly. ‘I'm sick and tired of having to compromise. From now on I'm only going to do and say things that I'm completely happy with.'

‘Do you have to compromise in Intelligence?' I asked. ‘Isn't it possible to be a secret agent and keep your honour intact?'

‘I used to think so,' he answered. ‘I used to think the secret service was an honourable profession. But what other profession requires you to lie on a daily basis? And to make promises you know you are going to break?'

I looked up at his face in the fitful moonlight and saw the pain. ‘I'm glad you're going to make a break,' I said fervently. ‘I'm very glad indeed.'

We recommenced our Odyssey the next day, swinging down through the South Downs to the coast and then west as far as Salcombe in Devon. Nothing we saw was worth a second look, and we were actually in Dorchester on our way home to London and the familiarity of the Regents Palace Hotel when I remembered my conversation with Reggie Drax and dug out his card. It was evening, just before we were due to go into dinner, but we gave the agent a call anyway. Mrs Wright was untroubled by the hour and arranged to meet us at nine o'clock. It was rather late for a house inspection
but we wanted to push off first thing in the morning.

And that is how we first came to Almer Manor, on a black, starless night with a hint of snow in the air. We crunched up a gravel driveway in Mrs Wright's car to park against walls that looked mellow gold and as old as time in the headlamps. The electricity was off but someone had turned on the central heating so that inside we were embraced by warmth and comfort, and a lovely smell that evokes the Manor for me even today. A smell of beeswax and well-worn, polished wood, of leather and well-kept books, of friendly mustiness and lavender.

We explored the place with torches, and at every turning it was sublime, like a home imagined in a daydream. There was a wide, stone-flagged hall with mullioned windows, a long lounge with French windows all down one side, a dining room with an inglenook fireplace and a wide bay window, and a twolevel, oak-beamed study. Upstairs broad corridors opened to seven spacious bedrooms, three spotless bathrooms, a sewing room with a fireplace, and a snug, self-contained guest suite.

I squeezed Denis's hand as we came down the stairs to tell him how I felt. ‘I thoroughly agree,' he breathed. I think the flickering torchlight had worked some kind of magic, turning us from tired adults into little children tiptoeing through a dream.