Past Caring (73 page)

aristocratic corruption of Suffragette values. Is that not so, my dear?” She’d spoken calmly, but I could see her arm trembling where it rested beside me.

Eve carefully avoided my eye as she spoke. “I happen to believe that interpretation. The Strafford case is a perfect—and a valid—example. He weakened your resolve, just as Lloyd George perverted Christabel Pankhurst’s motives to facilitate a sordid political manoeuvre.”

“It is also the kind of sensational theme likely to make your name,” Elizabeth said. “Pray do not pretend you have some other interest in it.”

“But you won’t do it,” I said to her.

Elizabeth put her hand over mine. “Not of my own volition, Martin. But Miss Randall has me at a disadvantage. She and Timothy have the ear of Mr. Sellick.”

“So what? Now the Postscript’s gone . . .”

“Tell him, Timothy,” Elizabeth said.

“All right, though involving him helps nobody. We’re all over a barrel, you see, Martin. Leo isn’t a vindictive man, but he doesn’t propose to go back to Madeira empty-handed. He’s sponsoring Eve’s research and its publication on the understanding that it’ll feature some setting straight of the record where my grandfather is concerned. You should be pleased. Strafford won’t come out of it badly.”

“And it’ll be the truth,” Eve put in. “The truth about how Sir Gerald Couchman exploited his marriage under a false name to serve Lloyd George in his deception of the Suffragettes and his destruction of Strafford: an exposure of the true nature of Edwardian political life with Lady Couchman as a first-hand witness.”

“In the process,” said Elizabeth, “Gerald and our marriage will be subjected to public ridicule, my family’s name will be dragged through the mud and what little pride and privacy I retain will be lost forever.”

“Then why not just tell them to go to hell?”

She looked sharply at Timothy. “For one thing, Martin, I think they’re already there. And Timothy will explain the other reason.”

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“It’s what I said, old man. We’re over a barrel. Unless we agree to Leo’s terms, he will give evidence at the inquest on Wednesday to the effect that he met my father in London a week ago and accused him of murdering Strafford in 1951 and that Papa was so racked by guilt and fear of exposure that he killed himself the following night—along with the other driver. In other words, the whole shooting match.”

“Is it true?”

“The meeting? Of course it is. Staff at the Carlton Club could confirm it took place. For the rest, I’m afraid Papa’s actions speak for themselves. If you were called, could you deny what he told you about his part in this other Strafford’s death?”

“No, but . . .”

“Exactly. But Leo is prepared to say nothing—and you’ll do the same. That way, Papa won’t be involved. The only member of the family affected will be Grandfather.”

“And you’re happy to let that happen?”

“No choice, old man. I’ve had to take charge of the company now. Its continuing prosperity must be my first consideration. Its share price has plummeted and there are ugly rumours circulating. There was a run on even before Papa died, prompted by Leo selling a substantial proxy holding. If we cooperate, he’ll buy them back and we’ll recover. If not, the scandal following the inquest will finish us.”

“Only I don’t believe that’s all there is to it,” said Elizabeth.

“I think Mr. Sellick has made this worth your while.”

Timothy looked impatient. “As I said, Grandmother, I have to salvage what I can for the family. I don’t expect you to like Leo’s terms. I don’t like them myself. But I do expect you to understand.”

I looked at Eve. “What has the historian to say?”

Her eyes had a distant, superior sparkle. Only good taste seemed to prevent her smiling. “Nothing. A family quarrel isn’t my affair. Setting history straight is. Lady Couchman has my personal guarantee that nothing she tells me will be distorted. The account will be scrupulously accurate.”

“But damning?”

“As I said: accurate.”

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“With all this concern for history, why did Sellick let the Postscript be burned?”

Timothy smiled. “Because he’s not an unreasonable man.

The Postscript isn’t essential to what he wants to achieve.”

“And it’s superfluous to an understanding of the period in question,” said Eve.

I turned to Elizabeth. “What will you do?”

“I don’t know. Mr. Sellick has generously allocated me time to think. He will call here at noon on Tuesday, the day before the inquest, for my decision.”

I looked at the other two. “How can you do this? You call this history? I call it prostitution.”

Eve’s eyes flashed. “You’re in no position to denounce anybody’s motives.”

“In fact,” said Timothy, “you were prepared to let Papa buy your silence, so . . .”

“It wasn’t . . .” I made to get up, but Elizabeth restrained me with her hand on my arm.

“Please, Martin,” she said. “Don’t give them the satisfaction of a scene. If you will, just show them out.”

Elizabeth stayed in her chair as they moved to the door. Eve looked back at her once, but without pity. Timothy hurried out with the air of a man pleased to be on his way.

I watched from the front door as they walked to the Porsche.

Eve waited on the near side of the car while Timothy went round to the driver’s seat.

“Does this please you?” I said to Eve. “Does this give you some satisfaction—to hound an old lady?”

“That’s not how I see it.”

Timothy opened the door from inside and she lowered herself in. He leant across her to close the door. “You’re outclassed, old man,” he said. “Why not accept that?” The door slammed and the car pulled away with a crunch of gravel.

I went back into the lounge. Elizabeth was still in the armchair, gazing into the fireplace. I couldn’t tell whether she was composed or simply stunned.

“Are you all right?” I said.

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“Perfectly. I suppose I should have anticipated this. It was absurd to believe that Mr. Sellick meant to leave me in peace.”

I sat down opposite her. “I’m afraid it was. And he’s found more willing associates than I ever was.”

She smiled. “That, my dear, is to your credit. Of my grandson, I shall not speak. As to Miss Randall, I can appreciate how bewitching men must find her. But there is a coldness about her that disturbs me. I do not understand her.”

“Neither do I.”

“No matter.” She sighed. “Mr. Sellick will call at noon on Tuesday and I must prepare a reply for him. Odd that he should choose that day.”

“It’s the day before the inquest.”

“I meant the date: June 21st. He will not, I believe, have overlooked its significance.”

“Which is?”

“That day in 1910, Gerald met Lloyd George and Christabel Pankhurst and sold them the marriage certificate in Edwin’s name. A fateful day indeed. It would seem Mr. Sellick expects another bargain to be struck on that date.”

A point occurred to me. “It’s also Sellick’s birthday.”

“Yes, of course. Mr. Sellick’s birthday.” She looked thoughtful. “Clearly he hopes to receive a fine present from me.”

“And will he?”

“Why, yes. I see no alternative.”

Nor was there any. I stayed with Elizabeth the rest of the afternoon and evening but our talk took us no further forward, rather backwards, over old ground we’d trodden before: Strafford and Couchman, cause and effect, past and present. Which was better? To cooperate and have her past scoured by the prurient and the curious or to resist and have her present laid waste? One or the other. She had to choose, but her responsibilities to the living—Letty, Helen, Laura, even Timothy—effectively settled the issue. The dead would have to suffer. I spent the night at Quarterleigh, sleeplessly reviewing ways out of the inescapable.

There weren’t any. Sellick had inherited his father’s ability to snare the unwary with deadly efficiency. Still, at the back of my mind, doubt niggled. Why had Sellick allowed the Postscript to

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be destroyed? Because, surely, there was something in it he feared.

But what? It was too late to find out—or was it?

I left Quarterleigh before Elizabeth was up the following morning. If I was to equip us to deal anything like adequately with Sellick when he called, I had to move fast. I caught the first bus into Chichester.

At the Dolphin & Anchor I was told that Alec and Leo had booked out on Saturday, saying they were going to London. The birds had flown.

I wandered disconsolately to the cathedral and sat on a bench on the green, staring up at its slender spire. From within, I could hear the stone-dampened harmony of choir practice. Outside, Monday morning shoppers bustled by me, oblivious of one slumped figure on a bench.

Then, emerging slowly from the angle of a buttress at the eastern end of the cathedral and walking slowly towards me, while gazing up at the decorated stonework, Eve reappeared in my life with an air almost of negligence, as if ours truly was a chance encounter. She tossed back her hair from the collar of a raincoat worn loosely across her shoulders over a thin summer dress and would have walked past without noticing me if I hadn’t called out—or so it seemed.

“Sellick’s cleared out,” I said, walking towards her. She turned and looked at me from behind impenetrable dark glasses.

She said nothing. I stopped about five yards from her. “He’s cleared out while you two do his dirty work.”

“What you’re saying means nothing to me, Martin.”

“It should. It’s an object lesson in how Sellick deals with his . . . employees. People like you and me. Pawns in his game.”

“I’m nobody’s pawn.” Still the level tone, the screen of dark glasses: barriers to keep me out.

“You must know you are. This book . . .”

“Will be a genuine work of historical scholarship.”

“It’s a complete reversal of what you originally intended. I remember you putting me down for suggesting that Christabel Pankhurst was Lloyd George’s dupe.”

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“I’ve changed my mind, Martin—about many things.”

“Including me?”

“No. That I can truly deny.”

I looked at her. An expression of calculated blankness, rebuking me for even seeking an explanation. I flailed for a different approach. “Doesn’t it worry you—as an historian—that Sellick agreed to burn the Postscript?”

“It’s really none of my business.”

“Doesn’t it worry you—as a woman—that Sellick is threatening and coercing Elizabeth?”

“By sending Timothy to put his case, he has specifically avoided doing so.”

“You must know that’s not true. She’s dreading his visit tomorrow.”

“Needlessly.”

“I don’t think so and nor do you. Why are you doing this?”

“To advance my career. It’s an honourable aspiration, though you called it prostitution.”

I moved closer. “What else could I call it when you sell your body to Couchman and your brains to Sellick?”

“That’s enough. I don’t wish to discuss it anymore.” She turned to walk on.

I grabbed her elbow. “You bitch—did what happened on that beach mean nothing to you?”

She froze and the stiffness of her elbow made me let go. Then she turned to face me and slowly removed the dark glasses. Her eyes bore into mine. “It meant something—but not what you thought.”

“When we met at Miston Church, you denied you’d simply been keeping me out of the way so Timothy could look for the Postscript.”

“I told you the truth. It wasn’t as simple as that.”

“Then what?”

“Let me ask you a question. You’ve appointed yourself Elizabeth’s protector. But what have you actually done to help her? What will you do to stop Sellick forcing her to comply?”

There was a long pause—a gulf for me to stare across at my

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own inadequacy—before I heard myself answer in a hollow murmur. “Nothing.”

“There’s your answer to what Timothy has to offer. He satisfies me, which you never could.”

“But when we went to Braunton, and afterwards in Topsham—you can’t pretend . . .”

“Oh, but I did. That’s just what I did. I pretended . . . everything.”

She slid back the dark glasses. I suppose I saw her walk away across the green, but I can’t remember. All she’d meant to me ended with that last admission. The point of her pretence escaped me, as it was meant to. But the blatancy of it remained long after she’d gone, staring and grinning at me, her superiority—her deliberate mystery—superimposed on the face of my private demon.

Darkness fell that evening on our thinking time, time ran out in our retreat from Sellick. At Quarterleigh, Elizabeth contemplated the bitter pass a hopeful invitation had brought her to. At Rackenfield, I drunkenly surveyed the road I’d led her down.

Those who’d trusted me—Ambrose and Elizabeth—had suffered. Those who’d deceived me—Eve, Timothy and Sellick—stood to triumph. It was too much to take.

But there was no escaping it—even in sleep. Indeed, dreams were fast and sure enough to find whatever furtive refuge my thoughts might flee to.

“Martin, Martin! Wake up!”

It was Dora, shaking me out of a troubled slumber at Rackenfield. “Wha . . . what’s the matter?”

“You’ve got to get up—I’m worried about the mistress.”

I sat up and blearily scanned her face, furrowed by concern.

“Okay. What the hell’s happened?”

“I think she’s planning something . . . drastic.”

I pulled on a dressing gown and followed her down to the kitchen. She poured me some tea while I struggled to confront a 458

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day I’d hoped would never come. “Tell me slowly, Dora. What’s happened?”

“Well, she weren’t right all yesterday, as you’d ’ave known if you ’adn’t bin drinking yourself silly at The Oak. She went to the safe an’ took something out. Then announced she was off to Cap’n Sayers for bridge. But Monday’s never bridge night. There were some other reason an’ I think I know what it was.” She paused.