She Died Young (14 page)

He retrieved the card. He was no further forward, but the California Club’s address was on the card anyway. He needed to pay a visit.

First, though, he decided on a return trip to the Premier Club. Instead of Johnnie Hay it was his sidekick in charge, one of those pale, thin and insubstantial individuals, of indeterminate age, whose lives seem dedicated to acting as the shadow of a more enterprising boss.

‘He’s in his office – wouldn’t want to be disturbed,’ muttered the man, who, Blackstone realised, was only about nineteen years of age.

‘He won’t mind seeing me.’ And Blackstone moved past him towards the cubby hole at the back that passed for an office.

Hay was seated at an empty desk. He was smoking a cheroot and gazing blankly into space.

‘Sorry to disturb you, Johnnie …’

The owner responded with his thin-lipped, yet engaging, melancholy smile. Always emollient. He was not a man to express any annoyance he might have felt at being thus interrupted.

‘Not at all, old chap – just waiting for a phone call. What can I do for you?’

‘Just wondered if you had any news. Anything interesting.’

‘About that girl you were sweet on? Or just generally?’

‘Either – both.’

Hay smiled and shook his head. ‘Why aren’t you down in Eastbourne, Blackie? That’s where you should be. John Bodkin Adams. That’s going to be a bigger story than some girl falling down the stairs will ever be.’

‘I’ve been down. Got an interview. It’ll be in the paper tomorrow. And I’ll be going back soon enough. I tell you, though – Bodkin Adams has friends in high places. And I’ve talked to some medical friends of mine. The British Medical Association is petrified. The NHS is virtually broke. The commission that reported on it said it’s massively underfunded. They’re desperate for cash. So the last thing they want is a gigantic scandal about a respected GP who turns out to be a mass murderer.’

Johnnie Hay whistled quietly. ‘You don’t say,’ he murmured and puffed at his cheroot.

Blackstone didn’t want to talk about Eastbourne. ‘Anyway,’ he said firmly, ‘in the meantime, I wondered if you’d heard anything …’

‘About the girl?’ Hay shook his head. ‘No.’ He was still smoking his eternal cheroot. It had gone out several times and each time he relit it with a series of little puffs like an expiring toy train. It was a form of punctuation, interrupting his words. It gave them more emphasis and yet somehow hedged the whole conversation about with uncertainties. ‘And tell you what, old cock. I’d leave well alone if I were you. It ain’t worth the trouble.’

chapter
17

Q
UINAULT’S HOUSE WAS SET
back from the road, brooding behind the shrubs of its neglected garden. Old man’s beard lolled over thrusting curtains of ivy. Rhododendrons and castor oil plants loomed on either side of the path. In the daylong twilight a fine sweat of drizzle veiled the Gothic hulk, so that it appeared to be actually dissolving in the liquid air.

Charles left his bike by the gate. The words ‘The Grange’ could just be seen incised into the mossy wood. Andras had invited him, but now he was here he looked up at the place uneasily. From the beginning Charles had been sure the looks he’d exchanged with the Hungarian were unambiguous, but now he wasn’t so certain. He could not fathom Andras. They’d met in a pub. Andras hadn’t said much, but then as they were about to part inconclusively he’d surprised Charles by issuing a definite invitation to Quinault’s house. At that point Charles was beginning to doubt if Andras was worth the effort, but he couldn’t pass up the invitation. Apart from the possibility of seduction, it was also, of course, a chance to perhaps gain more information about the Professor to pass on to Reggie, whose interest in Quinault he’d more or less forgotten, but now conveniently remembered.

The prospect of visiting Quinault’s house presented itself as vaguely illicit. It was in some unspecified way risky. It crossed a border. Charles embraced risk; while still at school he’d got away with many misdemeanours, had often sailed close to the wind then and since. He couldn’t possibly pass up this latest unexpected opportunity to play with fire by trespassing on Quinault territory. He’d probably find nothing interesting, but any little scrap of information would please Reggie and he was keen to keep in with her. Her hints about the don’s influence in places far beyond Oxford and the visit of the MP, Turbeville, had aroused Charles’ curiosity, not something easily achieved, so the prospect of exploring the hideous Gothic monstrosity of a house appealed to him.

Now he was here, however, he felt nervous and shivery. In fact he felt rather odd. He wondered if he might be getting flu. But he braced himself and walked up the drive to the massive pseudo-medieval door. When he pulled the large metal handle a bell clanged far too loudly. He waited for so long that he began to half hope Andras wasn’t there. He was about to turn away, but then the door did open.

‘So – you are here.’ Andras stared at him. They stood there awkwardly. Charles wondered if Andras was regretting the invitation.

It was almost as cold in the house as outside. The hall was panelled in dark wood, the wooden staircase turned halfway up and disappeared into the gloom.

‘It is good of you to come.’

Charles frowned. ‘Why good? I wanted to.’

Andras was taller than Charles and as he strode ahead his way of walking was thrilling, manly and yet at the same time there was something subtly feminine about his movement. Charles began to be interested again.

‘Gyorgy’s room is on first floor.’

They were going straight up to the bedroom, then. Not that that meant anything. North Oxford was bed-sitter land. Everyone entertained friends in the rooms with a divan and a gas ring.

There was a short corridor at the top of the stairs. Andras pushed open the first door and Charles followed him into a bleak room encumbered with dark furniture and a hospital-type metal-framed single bed. Andras bent down and switched on a single-bar electric fire. There was a smell of scorched dust as the element warmed up.

‘So. You came,’ repeated Andras.

‘Yes. I came.’ Now that Charles was here he definitely wasn’t sure he wanted to be. He was distracted by thoughts of Professor Quinault and frustrated not to be downstairs, poking around and discovering the old man’s secrets. He sat down on the bed, feeling tired. He was definitely sickening for something. He felt very peculiar.

Andras advanced and stood over him. Then he sat down too, close to Charles, and put an arm round him. It was a stiff, jerky movement and perversely Charles edged away, his coquettish glance a cover for his paralysing ambivalence.

The Hungarian stood up again and moved to the window, from where he looked moodily out over the back garden. After a moment he turned to Charles.

‘Is so cold …’

‘It’s bloody freezing in here,’ agreed Charles, but he was thinking that Andras must be used to the cold; it was surely much colder in Hungary than in England.

‘Madame Quinault does not like fire on too much.’

‘I thought you said she’s out all day.’ Charles was shivering, but it was a reaction to the situation more than the temperature. Although, perhaps, he was running a temperature; his tense mood was becoming stranger and stranger. ‘She won’t know if you turn on the fire. And – for Christ’s sake, it’s
cold
!’

‘She is out. She goes out always. This is good, that she is not there, because she does not like us. Well, she does not like that I am here. They had an argument. They do not think I understand so good English. It was not necessary, she thought, to offer a room to Hungarian.’

‘Lots of dons have.’

‘This is what Professor Quinault say. It looks bad not to do this. But his wife is thinking only of money.’

‘They’re not poor.’

‘They argue always about money.’

‘They must be incredibly mean if you’re not supposed to have the fire on in the middle of winter. He
is
out, isn’t he? The Professor.’

‘Of course. He always out also.’

Charles knew that would be the answer. Quinault spent ninety per cent of his time in college. Not that there was anything unusual about that: many of the dons, whether bachelors or husbands, seemed to prefer to live their lives in college. ‘Don’t they mind that you’re here instead of Gyorgy?’

Andras didn’t reply. He continued to stare out of the window. After a while he said, ‘Is too difficult. Everything is difficult.’

‘It must be bloody being a refugee.’ Charles took out his Balkan Sobranies and offered them to Andras.

‘These are like Russian cigarettes.’ Andras looked at Charles suspiciously, but he took one anyway.

‘Tell me about it – how you got away. What it was like.’

‘You have seen pictures.’

Charles had certainly seen photos of the streets of Budapest strewn with glass and buildings reduced to rubble and smoke, but it had seemed unreal. ‘Were you actually fighting?’ He watched the Hungarian, who was now seated on an upright chair smoking, his shoulders slumped, his legs apart, his hands resting on his thighs, his gaze on the linoleum floor.

‘I was at the university for a time. Some soldiers, they change sides. Joined us. From them we had guns. The worst thing was – Russians withdrew. In the first days we hoped – all seemed possible – but then they returned. With tanks. And deep down we knew would happen like this.’

‘It must have been pretty awful.’ Charles felt his words to be insultingly inadequate, but he was distracted by the ambiguity of the situation and why he was here. He felt he was in a false position. It seemed vulgar and callous to be even considering making a pass at someone who’d barely escaped with his life. He also no longer felt sure whether his presence was on Andras’ account or to gain access to Quinault’s private life.

‘You are not truly interested.’

‘Of course I am. How can you say that?’ Charles touched the Hungarian’s arm, but his hand was shaken off.

‘For you British it is new drama. Big excitement. In hostel there is excitement too. Everyone talking, talking, sometimes hearing of people we know. From new refugees coming. Here at least I don’t think about that. There is no point thinking.’

‘You don’t want to talk about it, then?’

Andras continued to stare at the floor. ‘No.’ He brooded, but after a moment’s silence he continued. ‘What else is to think about? The fighting – is still going on, now. While we sit here. It say on the wireless there are pockets of resistance – that is the phrase? My friend was shot, others arrested. Secret police came to my parents. Arrests were happening every day. We were hiding. There were rumours – if we were captured we would be sent to Russian army and so we knew we had to try to get away. We had to get to a part near the frontier where there were swamps. Less Russians there. When we got close there was storm but we can’t stop, we have to wade through – mud and water. It was deeper than we thought – I cannot swim, I was scared, I was almost drowning. And there were Russians, they were near. They send up flares and we heard machine-gun fire. We are going on for many hours. One time there is a bit of drier land – we rested for an hour, then went on – two or three hours more, hoping we are now in land between the frontiers. We saw the Austrian flag – that was strange moment. Too exhausted to feel … even pleased.’

As if the outburst had relieved his feelings, Andras squared his shoulders and stood up. ‘Well, I am here now.’

It was so cold. Charles thought he was getting a sore throat. ‘Why don’t we go for a walk? We could go to a pub I know. It’s a walk to get there. Across Port Meadow.’

‘If you like. Yes. Perhaps is best.’

But as he followed Andras downstairs, Charles remembered his promise to Reggie. ‘Why don’t you show me his library first? Isn’t that where he has his collection?’ It seemed wrong and forbidden. ‘Have you seen it?’

Andras shook his head.

‘He’s very proud of his collection. It’s famous, you know.’

‘If you want. Is down here I think.’ He led the way along another panelled corridor.

‘I’m not really supposed to be here.’ It felt exciting and dangerous to be prowling round the Professor’s house. It was all part of his weird mood.

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know. I’m his student … I suppose I should only be here if he’d invited me.’ He had no idea how he’d explain his presence if Quinault found him. There was nothing wrong in befriending one of the refugees – apart from his real motivation.

‘But I invite you here,’ said Andras.

Dusty tapestry curtains were half drawn across a French window so that the library was in semi-darkness. Its walls were lined with books from floor to ceiling on three sides. Along the fourth, glass cabinets enclosed The Collection: the Greek and Roman figurines, pots and metal pieces that Quinault cherished.

Charles peered at the objects behind glass. He wondered if he dared open one of the cabinet doors in order to actually touch the objects. He pulled at one of the little metal handles, but the cabinet was locked.

‘What are these things?’ Andras stood behind him, close to him, also staring at the statuettes.

‘They are very rare and valuable,’ said Charles, wondering exactly how much they were worth.

‘I do not like these things. In museum with light is okay, but in this room with many books and it is all so … there is so much, you know, on the table, the books – I don’t know the word …’

‘Dust?’

‘I don’t know, anyway, it is dark, the house is all dark.’

‘It’s pretty creepy. Yet you’d rather be here than at the hostel?’ Charles still didn’t understand about the substitution and his words were intended as a question, but Andras didn’t reply.

Charles turned away from the cabinets. The whole idea of collecting things repelled him. He edged his way round the table and as he did so he glanced at the papers and books with which it was littered. The papers seemed to consist of pages and pages of notes in Quinault’s minute, neat, yet illegible handwriting. This was his opportunity.

‘There are many rooms in this house. It is empty so much, and strange. So many rooms and no-one in them.’

But Charles was no longer listening. He switched on the table lamp and leant forward, peering at the papers piled and strewn over the table. They were not after all only Quinault’s notes. There was a pale blue envelope, the address handwritten. There were several cuttings from newspapers. One from the local paper was headed: ‘Road proposal for Christ Church Meadow philistine, says Warden’. He looked more closely. As he did so he noticed a letter on cream-coloured paper, headed with a portcullis. From an MP by the look of it. He picked it up. It was handwritten in jagged script. ‘Dear Professor Quinault, I shall be passing through Oxford next week and if convenient I should very much appreciate an opportunity to review our arrangement …’ It was signed Rodney Turbeville.

A pile in the centre of the table consisted of what were apparently notes on Quinault’s academic work. Quinault had used a very soft pencil and the tiny characters were blurred to the point of illegibility. Some were written in classical Greek.

The third pile, on the left, consisted of material relating to Hungary and the uprising: cuttings, especially from letters columns, relating to the various funds set up for the arriving students. There was a list of Hungarian names and Quinault had scribbled notes alongside them. So he was interested in the Hungarians, which Charles found odd – even suspicious – in itself. What reason had Quinault to be so interested in them? Charles was about to draw his new friend’s attention to the list, but thought better of it. Andras was still staring at the figurines.

All this interested Charles, but he was frustrated since he did not know what he was looking for – although the letter would interest Reggie. ‘Review our arrangement’. That might mean anything.