She Died Young (21 page)

chapter
28

T
HE DROWNES’ PARTY ON
New Year’s Day was an institution. Regine dressed carefully – as if she did not always dress carefully – or rather, she dressed lovingly, for she cared more about clothes than about most things. Today she chose the deep blue grosgrain William had bought her for Christmas.

The rooms through which she moved to greet her guests were as beautifully arranged as she was. Even the canapés were artistically planned, and the hired waitress who presented them wore a parlourmaid’s uniform.

Regine slipped among her guests and not for the first time wondered if New Year’s Day really was the best time for a party. For one thing, hangovers, of which there were clearly many, due to the celebrations of the night before, did not discourage her more determined guests from starting again. Some people – writers in particular – never knew when to stop. There, for example, was Norbert Price, the well-known novelist, slavering over Edith Fanshawe, the poetess. She was now, of course, and had been for some time, also Lady Pearson, the banker’s wife, as in a game of Happy Families, but in whichever role, she now recoiled from Norbert with a look of fastidious horror. Regine, who had many reasons for disliking Edith, knew she must rescue her.

‘Norbert, darling, you’re looking a little tired. Why don’t you sit down? Edith and I have so much to talk about. We need to catch up, don’t we, darling?’

Norbert Price subsided onto a nearby sofa, but pulled at the hand of his hostess. ‘Reggie … lovelier than ever … what have you been doooo-ing with your ravishing self?’ He pulled so hard that she almost fell, ending up in a sitting position beside him. He leaned forward, pretending to straighten the front of her dress, but in fact to fumble at her breast. She moved to put herself beyond reach, but it wouldn’t do to rebuff him too obviously. He was a Drownes’ author, after all.

‘How is your new novel coming along? We’re all so looking forward to it.’ This was a coded way of saying that it was very late.

‘Isz … going to be my … masterpiece, Reggie my angel.’ He spoke with the exaggerated precision of the drunk. ‘Masterpiece,’ he repeated. It was unclear whether he meant it or was engaged in self-mockery, which in turn might be a sort of double bluff; or whether he was too drunk to know what he was saying.

‘That’s marvellous, Norbert. William’s very excited …’ Out of the corner of her eye she noticed that Edith the poetess was now in conversation with the other Edith, Edith Blake, Regine’s enemy, the sidelined doyenne of Drownes’. She snatched up Norbert’s glass. ‘Let me get you a refill,’ and she slipped away, left the glass on a bookshelf and changed direction, closing in on the two women.

‘Happy New Year!’

‘And to you too, Regine.’ Edith Blake never called her Reggie. Never ever. For the first two or three years it had even been ‘Mrs Drownes’. ‘I was just complimenting Lady Pearson on her recent
slim volume
,’ she said archly. ‘I was saying I feel her work has deepened so much in recent years.’

‘Since my marriage,’ began the second Edith.

‘Since your marriage?’ Regine wanted to say something filthy, because Sir Avery Pearson was so extremely rich and, reputedly, impotent, freeing his wife to take up with various literary types whose circles she continued to frequent. In addition, she was under no obligation to produce a child, since Sir Avery had sons by his previous marriage, before old age had curtailed his activities in that direction. Regine almost envied Edith. She had done so well for herself and was such a cold bitch. ‘Yes, your recent poems have been really beautiful,’ she said. ‘I see what Edith means – something so
spiritual
about them.’

This seemed to be accepted at face value. Actually, Reggie had thought them little more than a pastiche of T.S. Eliot. William hadn’t been too happy either, although they had sold quite well – for poetry.

Reggie continued sweetly: ‘Sadly, poetry seems to be going a little out of fashion. William is quite worried – the reading public is changing, standards dropping, he thinks. All down to this awful commercial TV. People just want to watch quiz programmes and tired old music-hall routines repackaged for the box. People perhaps don’t appreciate any more the – the
quiet quality
of your work, they want something … I won’t say cruder … more … they want their culture in primary colours. If you know what I mean.’ As she dropped her words of poison her plaintive expression conveyed a sensitive appreciation of the beauty and importance of Edith’s work, but also the tragic possibility that it might soon no longer sell, at which point Drownes’ would be regretfully obliged to cease its publication.

‘Oh I don’t think there’s
any danger
of Lady Pearson’s gems going
out of fashion
,’ said Edith Blake repressively.

Regine stifled the irritation she felt at this evidence of Edith Blake’s craven devotion to the poetess. It was a veritable schoolgirl ‘pash’. Edith Blake was one of those women who seemed never to have quite grown up emotionally. She usually dressed in spare tweed suits, but sometimes veered off into girlish dirndl skirts and childish cardigans. Her round, pink face was unlined, so that she seemed altogether younger than her fifty years, and she walked, not awkwardly, but in the way a little girl might walk, occasionally even breaking into a kind of skip. She seemed more hoydenish than lesbian, but Regine had dark suspicions about her relationship with her secretary, although that was more likely an intense schoolgirl friendship than an erotic liaison. It was very hard to couple the word ‘erotic’ with Edith Blake.

‘Oh, there’s Rodney Turbeville.’ Lady Pearson had looked away for a moment. ‘I must have a word with him. My husband is very keen to talk to him about the Oxford road programme. His old college …’ She moved off.

Regine managed not to turn round. Rodney had spent Christmas with his wife’s family in the north of England. She hadn’t expected him back so soon, had hoped but hadn’t expected he’d be at the party. His sudden appearance brought on all the feverish symptoms of forbidden love, a surge of optimism and a kind of surrender in anticipation. He must care, then. He’d had to come. He’d had to see her.

‘I’m sure you know Drownes’ is hoping that Sir Avery is going to invest some of his money in the firm.’ Edith Blake smiled killingly at Regine.

Actually, Regine didn’t know. She hoped she concealed her shock. ‘Of course.’

‘So we need to be very tactful …’

Regine managed to say calmly, ‘Drownes’ has always supported her.’ But she seethed inwardly. How could William not have told her? ‘I must say hello to Turbeville in a minute.’

‘I’m sure you must.’ Was there an innuendo in Edith’s words, her smile?

‘William’s hoping he’ll finish his biography of Disraeli soon.’

Regine couldn’t wait to get away from Edith Blake, but instead of approaching her lover she passed into the second drawing room and the drinks table, feeling she needed a drink herself. There she encountered Norbert Price again. He seemed to have recovered a little and was talking to a man she had never seen before.

‘Hope you don’t mind. I cleared it with your hubby – brought a mate of mine along. Gerry Blackstone.’

The stranger was dressed in the untidy manner favoured by journalists and he was not bad-looking, in the pale, unhealthy way that seemed the fate of many writers. ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ and his smile was rather charming. ‘At least I didn’t gatecrash. Not quite, anyway.’

‘Of course not. I’m delighted.’

‘Gerry’s the chief crime reporter for the
Chronicle
,’ said Norbert.

‘Oh! That is exciting.’

A crime reporter! Not part of the usual literary crowd then. An exotic. Possibly an interesting addition to her coterie. Regine was delighted. ‘You must see life in the raw. I suppose you’re covering the Bodkin Adams case.’

He was, indeed, and his stories about that and other investigations were amusing and outrageous, but she didn’t forget about Turbeville. He mustn’t leave before she’d had an opportunity to speak to him. It was Blackstone who created the opportunity.

‘I don’t suppose you’d introduce me to – isn’t that Professor Quinault – talking to the MP – Rodney Turbeville, I think?’ he said. ‘I understand the Professor is quite involved with the Hungarian refugees in Oxford and I just wanted …’

‘Of course.’

Edith Fanshawe had moved on and Turbeville and the Professor stood by the French window. They seemed to be talking about something rather serious, judging from Rodney’s expression. Impossible to read the older man. His face was all gnarled and knobbly, like the joint of a tree.

‘I think we’ve met.’ Turbeville nodded at Blackstone. ‘The Royal Commission on Newspapers?’

‘Yes – I apologise if I’m interrupting you, but I believe you’re very involved with the Hungarians, Professor, and I wanted …’

‘Would you mind if we went outside for a moment?’ Turbeville smiled at Regine. ‘It’s rather hot in here. And I’m dying to see your garden.’

‘And it’s so mild suddenly.’ Regine smiled coolly and led him through the back room and down the steps outside.

‘Good Christmas?’ He smiled in that heartbreakingly tender way of his as he lit a cigarette. ‘I’m dying to kiss you.’

‘Darling – we can’t – not here.’

‘You’re driving me wild, though. You do know that, don’t you.’

‘I missed you. Did you miss me?’

‘Of course I did, darling.’

‘Did you? Really?’

‘We must meet soon. Next week’s a bit difficult, but after that …’

A date was fixed and Regine asked: ‘What were you talking to Quinault about? You looked terribly serious.’

‘Oh, he was quizzing me about the bloody Oxford road scheme. And before that, the fat lady writer was giving me the third degree about it too.’

Fat lady writer! The description delighted Regine. ‘Don’t be cruel. She has become a little plump since she married her rich banker, but she’s a well-known poetess, you know.’

‘Lady poetesses give me the pip.’ He stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette. ‘Look – we’d better get back inside.’ And as they parted he murmured: ‘Dinner then, on the tenth. Our usual place – in Duke Street Mews.’

It was a small club with a restaurant near St James’ Square. Regine was not hungry and toyed with the chicken and mushroom vol-au-vent, but the wine was good and she drank more than usual.

‘’Fraid I have to get back to the House quite soon, old girl, but why don’t we go and sit in the car for a bit. Eh?’

There was always the car when they didn’t have time to go to the flat. It was parked at the far end of the Mews. Regine thought it was terribly risky. Rodney said no policeman ever came down to the end – but imagine the scandal if one did.

They were in the back seat and Rodney was pressing as ever. ‘God, all these clothes you women wear. This skirt … and God, Reggie, you’re so …’

His weight pushed her sideways, her shoulder and neck against the window. But she had her ways, and made it easy for him, although she was too tense herself, imagining the policeman’s face in the window, to fully enjoy the forceful need that drove him into her.

His breathing ebbed back to normal. ‘God, Reggie, you’re a wicked little thing. Drive a man wild … you little devil …’

The risky situation excited him as much as it inhibited her. He loved risk. His gambling years and war exploits proved that. By comparison with guerrilla warfare alongside the Partisans in the Balkans, betraying your wife was quite a minor sort of risk. But there could perhaps be other risks, more unusual, more thrilling, like making love almost in public with the ever-present possibility of discovery.

‘You enjoy doing it like this, darling, don’t you?’ she murmured.

He raised his head from her bosom. ‘You mean you don’t – it wasn’t …’

‘Of course not, darling, that’s not what I meant at all. I just thought – I just wondered what other exciting places you might have … and what exciting ladies …’

He didn’t rise to the bait. ‘Sweetie.’ He tightened his arms round her, ‘It’s you, not the places, lovely one. And you’re the exciting lady … as if you didn’t know.’

chapter
29

‘H
APPY NEW YEAR!
Very mild for January – such a relief after last month. I thought we’d never see the sun again.’

Before McGovern had time to reply, the phone rang and Sally Mabledon’s smile faded into a harassed frown. ‘Yes – yes. No – but we sent the papers well before Christmas … yes, but … I know. I know …’ As the conversation continued she seemed to become visibly more untidy, her perm frizzed up, her cheeks hot and shiny. She banged the handset down with a big breath. ‘This Canadian scheme! There are so many problems. Badly organised.’

‘You got my request, did you? Gyorgy Meszarov?’

‘Yes, indeed, Inspector. He promised he’d be waiting for you in the day room.’

In the bleak day room Irén was holding court again on the sofa, surrounded by – McGovern thought – the same three boys he’d found her with before.

‘Gyorgy Meszarov?’

The boy who jumped to his feet was a rosy-cheeked picture of health. Brown curly hair sprang over his forehead and his brown eyes danced with vitality. He held out his hand. ‘Happy to meet you, sir.’

‘Can we talk? In my office?’

McGovern had expected Meszarov to show suspicion similar to that of Andras, but he seated himself in the little office with complete composure. ‘Why you want to see me?’ he asked at once, but the question came with no sense of fear.

‘You were supposed to be billeted with Professor Quinault. But you’re here and it’s Andras Ferenczy living at the Professor’s house. I talked with your friend Irén before Christmas. She said the Professor asked you too many questions.’

How fresh-faced and open Gyorgy Meszarov was! He seemed untouched – though he surely couldn’t be – by what he’d been through.

‘Did she tell you my parents are enthusiastic communists?’ He spoke with a wry smile. ‘I am fond of them. It was very difficult – that I decide to leave. They believe in it all, but I could not. I don’t like when Professor asks all these questions about them. I am very awkward with this. I ask why he want to know all this and he say it is just they were friends in the war, but I don’t believe him. He knows much about them. They came here to escape the Horthy regime in my country. You know about this? The pre-war Hungarian government, fascist. Horthy support the Germans in the war. The Professor says he worked with them then. Undercover work, he calls this. I do not know. They have never talked about this. I think it is trap to make me talk about them. But why he want to do this?’

‘I can understand you must have felt uneasy. But why did your friend Andras have to take your place?’

‘He want to. He is unhappy. Hates being here – noise, talk – I don’t know why, but he thinks he will be better there. So …’ Gyorgy completed the sentence with a shrug and a smile.

‘The Professor didn’t object?’

‘What can he say?’

McGovern held out his cigarette case and Gyorgy accepted a cigarette gracefully. When it was lit he leant back in his chair and inhaled with evident enjoyment. ‘I have no money for cigarettes here. That is also difficult.’ He laughed. ‘Now I am – what – angry – because no cigarettes. Before was being shot at and have to leave country.’

There was a knock at the door. Before McGovern could answer, it opened. ‘You remember me?’ The young woman with the black eyes and dark curls stood with her hand on the doorknob.

‘Irén. Of course I remember you. How are you? What can I do for you?’

‘I am fine. I am soon going to London.’

She’d found some lipstick and the red gash against her white skin made her look more than ever the bohemian student, today wearing a big black sweater and jeans. ‘You like my jeans? They gave me here. In Hungary so hard to get. Impossible. Apparatchiks say jeans are capitalist plot to draw youth away from socialism. Like sunglasses.’ She laughed.

‘You’re looking very well.’

‘Thank you. But I am here about Andras. Has Gyorgy told you about Andras?’

Gyorgy spoke to her in Hungarian. He turned to McGovern. ‘I was—’

Irén cut across him. ‘Gyorgy and I, we are worried. Andras is frightened. He had visitors. Two men came and threatened him.’

‘What sort of men?’

‘They were men like you.’ Irén looked at him, as if he ought to know what kind of men.

‘I’m not sure what you mean. You mean they were British?’

‘I think you are not welfare officer.’ Her black eyes challenged him.

McGovern ignored this. ‘The men were like – what?’

Gyorgy looked for somewhere to stub out his cigarette. ‘Hungarians. Perhaps they think Andras is me. Andras say nothing, but—’

‘What kind of threats?’

‘They say he will be in trouble if he does not do what they say.’

‘What did they want him to do?’

‘I think spy on us. Inform.’

‘You’re sure they were Hungarian?’ As soon as he’d spoken, McGovern realised how stupid that sounded.

‘There are some here who support the government. We all know that. But these men – it was different, I think.’

‘Why are you telling me about this?’

‘You say you are here to help, that you have to know everything is in order.’

‘Andras should speak to Mr Holt or Mrs Mabledon.’

‘He is scared. He is even afraid of being sent back to Hungary.’

‘They’ll not send him back.’

‘Perhaps, but he is scared.’

McGovern silently considered the possibilities: Hungarians from the Embassy, Hungarian communists, British freelancers up to something – or nothing: just a frightened refugee, a misunderstanding.

Finally he said: ‘He can come and talk to me here if he thinks that would help.’

‘I think he is too frightened. He does not like to come here. And now he does not like the house, either.’

‘No-one can help him if he doesn’t talk to anyone.’ Gyorgy nodded. ‘I will say he must talk to you. And to people here.’

‘I will speak to them, too. But, Gyorgy, what about you? Do you feel safe? If these men discover they spoke to Andras, not you – are you frightened they’ll come after you?’

Gyorgy stood up. ‘Thank you. But is okay. I know when I come here that there is this risk. In Cambridge will be better, but they know I am here, in England. More likely my parents will be in trouble. That is bad too. But that is the way it is. And they have influence. Perhaps they will not be too much blame.’ He spoke with resigned dignity, which contained its own kind of optimism. ‘And will be all right for me here. Thank you, anyway.’

He left the room, but Irén did not follow him. ‘You have not yet invited me to have coffee.’ She smiled at him.

‘Another time.’

‘Oh, you are
mean
!’

McGovern wondered why she bothered to flirt with him, but flirtation was probably simply her way of relating to the men who crossed her path.

‘I will see you soon again, I hope. And you will try to help Andras.’

‘I will.’ McGovern stood by the door and watched her prance away down the passage, her confidence seeming undented by his rebuff. He glanced at his watch. Twelve. He could plausibly go and get something to eat, but first he looked in on Sally Mabledon. She was at her desk, typing. Holt was standing by the window. It was the first time McGovern had seen him since before Christmas. Poor Sally Mabledon seemed to do all the work.

‘I see you were busy this morning,’ commented Holt.

‘The girl Irén wanted to talk to me. She’s worried about her friend, Andras Ferenczy. He exchanged places with the other boy I saw, Meszarov. Meszarov didn’t like staying at Professor Quinault’s.’

‘Gyorgy is off to Cambridge very soon. As for Irén,’ Holt exchanged a look with Sally Mabledon, ‘rather attention-seeking, I’m afraid. Got an eye for the men.’

‘I see.’

‘Andras isn’t happy,’ conceded Sally Mabledon. ‘We know that. But he can always come back to the hostel. And we’re sorting out his situation as fast as we can. He has an uncle in Winnipeg, a priest. He’ll be living with him. It’s a good university there.’

McGovern hesitated. He was on the point of telling them about Andras’ anonymous visitors, but changed his mind. They would not be able to deal with it. He would have to ring London and talk to someone. So he restricted himself to: ‘I’m sure you’re doing your best.’

The telephone rang. Holt stayed put. Sally Mabledon answered it.

McGovern went in search of lunch. On second thoughts, he wondered if perhaps he should have told them about Andras’ visitors, but it would have served little purpose. He needed at least to speak to Andras Ferenczy first. What did the boy do with himself all day? He wasn’t at the hostel. Perhaps he just moped about at Quinault’s. McGovern knew he’d have to visit Quinault’s house again. Or perhaps – whatever the Hungarians believed – the strangers had more to do with Quinault than with either of them.