She Died Young (22 page)

chapter
30

T
HE OPPORTUNITY TO CONFRONT
Quinault came sooner than expected. McGovern decided to treat himself to lunch at the Mitre, a traditional, old-fashioned inn on the High Street. There he could think in peace. Steak and kidney pudding, followed by apple tart and custard, were welcome. He ordered coffee in the lounge. This, with Persian carpets and deep sofas, was more like a club than a hotel.

It was only as he took a copy of
The Times
from its rack that he noticed Professor Quinault seated by the window with – he assumed – a fellow academic. A piece of luck.

Quinault saw him. He waved – it seemed like a kind of summons.

McGovern walked over. ‘How are you, sir?’ Quinault made no attempt to introduce his companion.

‘I’m glad to see you, McGovern. I was going to get in touch. There was a small matter … I don’t suppose you could come round to my rooms in College? This afternoon? That’s extremely kind. Around three o’clock? Very good. I’ll see you then.’

McGovern watched Quinault from behind his paper. The coffee arrived. It was elaborately served in a silver pot, but didn’t taste any better for it, being both weak and bitter.

The Professor and his companion left together. McGovern stared ahead and tried to decide what to do. He had time to go in search of Andras now, knowing that Quinault was not at home. It was only one-thirty – a quick taxi to the Woodstock Road and back would get him to Corpus Christi by three.

The boy might not be at home. Mrs Quinault might be.

Then there was Andras’ English friend. McGovern had forgotten about him, but it was the friend who had talked about the money in Quinault’s library.

Why had he mentioned the money? A mischief-maker? His behaviour, when you thought about it, had been outrageous – to riffle through the desk drawers of a distinguished academic who was also his tutor.

It might be worth following up. He was a student at Magdalen College, just down the road.

He paid for his meal, walked down the High Street and found the Magdalen College lodge. The porter was obliging.

‘Mr Hallam, sir? Oh no, he doesn’t live in college. He’s not an undergraduate. He has digs in Park Town. I can give you his address …’

‘Thank you.’

By now it was after two, which didn’t give him quite enough time either to search out Mr Hallam or to go looking for Andras Ferenczy, so McGovern loitered past the shop windows on the High Street. Most displayed men’s tailoring, college insignia and evening wear, outposts of Jermyn Street. He went to the bank, still killing time until it was reasonable to make for Quinault’s college rooms.

Again, he walked round the silent quad and up the worn steps. Again, he stepped into the dim, ancient study and was greeted by the crumpled figure.

‘A glass of sherry, I think.’

McGovern raised his hand in refusal.

‘I insist. I insist.’ The words were accompanied by a suppressed titter. In fact, thought McGovern, Quinault seemed to be sharing a private joke with himself a lot of the time, privy to some amusing knowledge unknown to others.

‘So how do your investigations progress?’

‘I’ve not encountered anything suspicious.’

‘Is that so? Is that so?’ Quinault bent forward and poked the fire. ‘My scout doesn’t know how to lay a fire properly. Would you believe it? Been doing it all his life and still gets it wrong.’ He flung some coal on the faltering flames. Smoke billowed forward.

McGovern coughed. ‘How is your particular student? The one you have staying with you.’

‘Oh …’ Quinault screwed up his face to a look of vague confusion. ‘I haven’t seen him for some time. He’s hardly ever there, it seems. And neither am I.’ Again, the sound that was not quite a suppressed giggle. Then his expression changed abruptly. He peered at McGovern. ‘Why? Have you any special interest in him? Any reason to suppose that … there’s some problem, anything amiss?’

‘I just wondered. Well – frankly, I did wonder why you specially asked to have Gyorgy Meszarov billeted on you.’

Quinault, having dealt with the fire, leaned back and looked at his visitor. The silence became uncomfortable, at least to McGovern.

‘Your question concerning the Hungarian student is rather impertinent. But I shall answer it. I knew his parents during the war. Did I not tell you already? They were communists, but we found them useful at the time.’

McGovern said: ‘Out of friendship to them you thought you should keep an eye on their son. To see what he might be up to. And yet you told me you have nothing to do with … all that any more. In which case it seems odd you asked him so many intrusive questions that he felt he had to get away and sent his friend to stay with you instead.’

Quinault silently stared at him. McGovern found it hard to read his expression in the dim light.

‘I invited you here,’ said Quinault finally, ‘because I was curious to know – I’m out of touch, you understand, I lead a quiet life here, cut off from the great world – my former colleagues don’t always keep me informed. Of what’s going on.’ He giggled again. ‘And why should they, you ask. Why indeed!’ His voice dropped to an expiring sigh. Another pause. ‘I was just interested to know on whose orders you followed me – you remember the occasion? Or whether that was just your own initiative.’

McGovern swallowed. Quinault spoke again.

‘You’re not going to deny it, I trust.’

McGovern decided he was. ‘You’re mistaken,’ he said. ‘Why would I follow you? When was this supposed to have happened?’

‘I was not particularly impressed by your skill – or lack of it. I saw you at once. At Paddington I deliberately sat upstairs in the bus, in order to make it easier for you.’

McGovern was angry and nettled, furious with himself for having been spotted by Quinault and with Quinault for taunting him with it. He tried to sound as much in control as he could, but he was seething with humiliation. No matter that targets often knew they were being followed. Quinault wouldn’t have been expecting it. ‘So your reason for asking me to come here today was to accuse me of following you to London,’ he said. ‘But what reason would I have to do that?’

Quinault spoke sharply. ‘You should be in a position to tell me that, I think. And why should my interest in Gyorgy mean that I still have any connections with the service?’

‘The kind of questions you asked Meszarov made him feel very suspicious and uncomfortable.’

Again came Quinault’s shrill chuckle. ‘Foolish boy. I knew his parents. Perfectly natural to ask after them. Old friends in the war. Only too glad to hear they’re flourishing under the new regime,’ he added, with what McGovern took to be malevolent irony. ‘If the boy didn’t like it … having offered hospitality to a student I could hardly refuse a substitute.’

‘Wasn’t it rather embarrassing?’ McGovern stood up. He wanted to get away. He’d lost face, but so had Quinault.

‘Not as embarrassing as your lamentable lack of skills as a shadow. And now, if you’ll excuse me I have rather a lot of work to do.’

chapter
31

B
ETTY’S, ON THE HIGH,
had until recently been an old-fashioned tea shop. The stick-back chairs and wooden tables remained, but the arrival of the Gaggia machine and Pyrex cups had converted it into a coffee bar. Charles had told Andras he’d be in the upstairs room, but he wondered if Andras would remember that. It might be a better idea to take a seat downstairs and then be sure of seeing the Hungarian when he entered, but he went upstairs anyway, in case Andras had arrived before him, although Charles was early.

At once he saw Penny at a table in the corner. Otherwise the upstairs room was empty.

‘Haven’t seen you for ages. Not since Julian’s party – before Christmas. I was going to get in touch …’

She smiled. ‘I’m very well.’ But she looked anxiously beyond him at the stairs.

‘I’m meeting a friend,’ he said, ‘but I’m early.’

‘I’m meeting Alistair. But I’m early too.’ She laughed the way the girl undergraduates laughed, eager and yet somehow apologetic, as if they didn’t quite have the right to be at this ancient university. ‘The waitress hasn’t been up,’ she said.

‘I’ll go down and get you a coffee,’ he offered.

‘Oh, thank you. Cappuccino, please.’

Charles returned with the coffees. ‘They’re not downstairs either,’ he said.

‘Did you have a nice Christmas?’ Penny enquired brightly.

‘No, actually. You know my mother died just before Christmas last year. We all tried desperately not to mention it. A ghastly veil was drawn over the subject.’

Penny put a hand to her mouth. He knew he’d embarrassed her and wished he hadn’t mentioned his mother.

‘Sorry – I’m being boring.’

‘No you’re not. Christmas can be awfully sad if people … anyway I think it’s a bit overrated, don’t you? Christmas, I mean. I was stuck with my family too. I missed Alistair. They kept on asking about him.’ She still kept her eye on the stairs.

Charles looked at his watch. By now Andras was late. He might not turn up.

From below came the sound of voices. Penny jumped up. ‘I think that might be them. It sounds as though they’ve decided to sit downstairs. I’ll go and see.’

‘I’ll wait here.’

He was glad Penny had left. He wanted to be on his own when Andras arrived – if he arrived.

On the first day after his return to Oxford Charles had waited outside the Quinault house, lurking on the other side of the road until Andras came out, and then had crossed over to intercept him. It was difficult to know if the Hungarian had been pleased to see him, but they’d started off along the road together and had ended up walking all the way into town. They’d parted by Balliol and Andras had promised to meet Charles here – now – this afternoon.

Charles was beginning to think Andras wouldn’t come, but then the Hungarian loomed into view at the top of the stairs. He surged clumsily across the empty café, noisily pushing aside the stick-back chairs in his way. His presence confused Charles. Perhaps he didn’t fancy him after all; he was drawn to the sharp planes of the melancholy face shaded by ragged black hair, while at the same time the clumsiness irritated him.

Having moved so roughly across the room, Andras sat down as carefully as a girl.

‘You see I am here.’

‘I didn’t think you wouldn’t be,’ Charles lied. ‘D’you want some coffee? You might have to go back downstairs. The waitress doesn’t come up here very often.’

Andras shook his head. ‘Not matter.’ He pulled out a packet of cigarettes.

‘What have you been up to?’

‘Up to?’

‘Doing – what have you been doing since I saw you?’

Andras smoked. He coughed. He rubbed his hand over his face. He looked round at the nearly empty room. Finally he said: ‘Something happen.’ He glanced sideways at Charles. His eyes were dark and pained.

‘What d’you mean? What sort of thing?’

‘Two men. They come to see me.’ Haltingly, he described the visitors. ‘They asked me questions – about my friends. About my family in Hungary. And about other Hungarian students here. Was very difficult.’

‘What sort of questions?’

‘Just – informations.’

‘Like the policeman who was in the house – at the Professor’s?’

‘Yes … no. They spoke very good English. Perfect English. But I am sure were Hungarian … I was more frightened. There are two of them. And they say if I not have these informations they will – I don’t know what they will do. Something.’

‘They threatened you?’

Andras nodded.

A rather unexpected wave of concern washed through Charles, a physical sensation that was a kind of dread, as though he himself were threatened.

Charles put a hand on the Hungarian’s arm. ‘I’m sorry. What are you going to do? Have you told the police?’

Andras shook his head. ‘No – no,’ he muttered.

‘But …’ Then Charles remembered that Andras had been living in a police state. ‘Is there someone at the hostel you could talk to?’

Andras huddled into his jacket.

‘Look – there must be someone. Gyorgy – your friend at the hostel.’

Andras lifted his hand as if to ward off a threat. He sighed deeply. ‘I think they think I
am
Gyorgy. Is Gyorgy was to stay there at the beginning. I not say who I really am.’

‘Then you shouldn’t be so scared, if it wasn’t you they really wanted. But you ought to tell him, oughtn’t you?’

Andras shook his head. ‘No. It is – the way they talk – they think I am Gyorgy and perhaps think Gyorgy is
on their side
… is hard to explain. I have say to Irén and Gyorgy about the men, but not – not the way it seemed they think Gyorgy – the way there is something not right, that … I can’t explain.’ Andras screwed out his cigarette barely smoked.

‘You don’t mean you’re suspicious of Gyorgy?’

‘Yes. No. I don’t know.’ Andras looked utterly miserable. ‘I don’t really think that. I trust him. And yet …’ His voice trailed away. He was holding back tears.

Charles squirmed with a mixture of embarrassment, worry and powerlessness. ‘God, I’m sorry.’ But how incredibly feeble that sounded. ‘You know, you really should tell the people at the hostel.’

Andras shook his head, but didn’t answer. After a silence that Charles forced himself not to break, the Hungarian said: ‘I can’t go back now.’

‘To
Budapest
?’

‘To Professor’s house.’

‘Ah.’ Charles felt slightly sick. ‘You could come back to my place,’ he said carelessly.

‘There was that other policeman who came. You remember? Who was he?’

‘Do you mean – you think he was connected with the two men?’

Andras shrugged.

‘Christ – I’d forgotten all about him. He asked for my address. You know, I’d
completely
forgotten. But I just gave him the name of my college.’ Charles put his hand on Andras’ shoulder. ‘You’re not worried, are you …?’

‘I should be worried I think.’

‘
He
wasn’t Hungarian, he was English – well, Scottish, actually. He was interested in the Professor, not you.’

‘But that is also … I don’t like that. Let us walk. I must think …’ He stood up, scraping his chair back roughly.

Charles followed Andras downstairs. The lower room, deserted earlier, had filled up and as he edged his way between tables he saw Penny and Alistair with Julian and two others at a corner table. Penny waved.

‘Wait a minute – Andras – some friends of mine …’

He worried he’d lose Andras if he loitered, but he couldn’t resist the glamour of being seen in the company of a Hungarian. And in fact Andras followed him meekly enough.

So chairs were moved to make room for them in the circle of four men with Penny and a second girl, whom Charles recognised immediately as Venetia Templeton, a current Oxford star: one of those girls who got written about in
Isis
and
Cherwell
, the student mags, especially after she’d starred in a student production of
The Tempest
. He introduced Andras and the interest level rose exponentially. Andras, too, seemed lifted out of his withdrawal by their interest. One of the men began to question him about the uprising. Alistair fetched more coffees.

Charles watched the girl who wasn’t Penny. Venetia Templeton was small and neat and precise. Unlike Penny, she had hair beautifully cut in a russet bob, an almost 1920s look. She wore jeans and a black cashmere sweater and no make-up. Very French. For her part she mostly listened to the men’s intense conversation, her head slightly on one side like a bird, her delicate eyebrows sometimes raised in amusement, her dusty pink lips on the verge of smiling, but from time to time she made a remark that they all found very witty, although really it was the way she spoke, her green eyes and sprightly manner. She was not flirtatious and yet something about the way she sat there compelled them to focus on her, in spite of the distraction of Andras, as if they were interested in her reactions to Andras more than in Andras himself. Alistair seemed particularly smitten. Penny was valiantly trying to keep her end up, smiling and laughing with the men, but she looked uncomfortable.

Charles wondered how he could ever have been attracted to Alistair, who was certainly good-looking in an ever so English way, clean-jawed with short curly hair and blue eyes, but Andras was so much more interesting.

‘Shall we go?’ he muttered. Andras nodded.

Outside in the dark Andras just stood there as though he did not know what to do next.

‘Have you got a bike?’

‘No.’

‘I’ll leave mine here then. The one I left at your place disappeared, but I’ve got another one now.’ Charles steered his companion across the road as purposefully as he could past the Camera and in the general direction of Park Town. There was bustle in the twilight of the late afternoon as students wheeled home from lectures and tutorials to prepare for whatever lay ahead in the evening.

The house in Park Town belonged to the widow of a Professor, but she didn’t behave like a widow. She was quite young – years younger than the Professor, he’d been told – and seemed to have several gentleman friends. She did tutoring for St Anne’s College, but seemed uninterested in either a career or children.

This was the first time in the four months he’d lived there that Charles had brought someone home. He didn’t think Mrs Hewitt was the sort of person who would mind and perhaps she wouldn’t draw any conclusions. She might not even notice. Nevertheless, he was relieved to find the house in darkness.

Charles’ bed-sitting room was icy cold. In the glare of the overhead light it looked forbidding, but once he’d lit the gas fire and turned on the floor lamp and the reading lamp on the desk it felt more welcoming. Charles set the kettle on the gas ring, which was in a cupboard by the chimneypiece. ‘Coffee?’

Andras stood by the door. He had the look of a man who has slept for twenty years and then woken to find himself in utterly unfamiliar surroundings.

‘Or would you like something stronger? I’ve some whisky somewhere.’

Andras moved trance-like towards the linen-covered divan and sank onto it.

‘I think whisky, don’t you?’ said Charles. ‘Give me your coat. The room’s warming up now.’

Andras did as he was told. Handed a glass of whisky, he drank. He stared up at Charles, who was standing in front of him. He looked angry, the mood seemed unpropitious, yet Charles knew this
was
the moment, and he was adept at seizing the moment. He knelt down between Andras’ legs, moved his hands hypnotically up the hard thighs and then upwards to his waist. He undid the button at the waist of Andras’ trousers, conscious of the rough, grey cloth. The tranced passivity of this stranger excited him. He would wake the sleeping animal, provoking it to violence.

It worked. The Hungarian’s hands on Charles’ head forced him roughly downwards.

Charles woke up. It was pitch dark. He was lying on the floor. The cold must have woken him. It must be the middle of the night. Andras snored on the bed. Charles ached all over. He hadn’t bargained for quite such clumsy desperation, it had come out of the blue, as if Andras was fighting against his own desire and was angry with Charles for arousing it. If that was totalitarian sex, no wonder Andras wanted to get away.