Glancing in the direction of the prison gates, she said, ‘They’re bringing Mrs Montague in later.’
‘Who’s she?’
‘Peverell Montague’s wife.’
‘The MP who founded the Right Club?’
Diana nodded. ‘He’s kept his distance since Mosley was arrested - it’s been mainly her. But he’ll be arrested, too.’
‘Do you know her?’
Diana nodded. ‘I know most of them. The worst thing, you know, is not being able to talk about it. I know what you’re thinking - women can’t keep secrets or resist gossip - but I don’t mean that. I mean talking about how . . . well, about what it feels like, when you’re scared and you don’t know what to do, or whether what you’re doing is right.’
Disconcerted by this unexpected intimacy, Stratton looked away and, glancing down the road, was relieved to see the Bentley approaching. Stumpy (he must ask her to remind him what her name actually was) pulled up, then leapt out to open the back door. ‘I’ve been given instructions to take you back to Dolphin Square,’ she said in a bright, isn’t-this-jolly sort of voice, ‘then I’m off to Brixton prison for F-J.’
‘Have you seen Apse today?’ Diana asked her.
She shook her head. ‘I’m to be solely at F-J’s disposal. Margot passed the message on.’ She closed the rear door and settled herself in the driver’s seat. ‘I mean,’ she gave a little moue in the rear-view mirror, ‘Miss Mentmore.’
On their return to Dolphin Square, Margot-I-mean-Miss-Mentmore provided sandwiches and a bottle of very nice wine (Stratton had a quick squint at the label and made out the word Claret against a background of fancy scrollwork). While they ate, Diana, acting on written instructions left by Forbes-James, filled him in about the other members of the Right Club. ‘There may be more,’ she finished. ‘F-J said you’d found a list in Wymark’s flat.’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but I didn’t see it.’ Christ knows who’s on that, he wondered. The people Diana was telling him about were bad enough. He stopped eating about halfway through his sandwiches, too shocked and astonished to continue. He supposed his reaction was naïve - after all, what little he’d seen in the police force had shown him that plenty of skulduggery went on in high places, but now they were at war, for God’s sake. Of course, no-one in his right mind would actually want a war, but circumstances had changed. He shook his head, baffled. Such people must know more than he did - why couldn’t they see what was under their noses, especially after two months of air-raids? Perhaps they were simply too stupid, or too self-centred, to comprehend that the world had changed. The idea made him angry, and he sought relief from his feelings by focussing his attention on a small painting of some blotchy flowers on the wall behind Forbes-James’s desk.
‘It’s an Odilon Redon,’ said Diana. ‘Do you like it?’
‘I’m not sure,’ he replied cautiously. He supposed he was meant to be impressed by the name, but it meant nothing. ‘I don’t know much about pictures.’
He’d thought that would get him a superior smile, but Diana said ‘Neither do I,’ and then gesturing, pointed out a larger painting beside the door, which was half hidden behind a stack of papers on top of a filing cabinet added, ‘But I do know that that one is by a painter called Henry Scott Tuke.’
Stratton, who hadn’t noticed it before, was surprised to see a nude boy - or, to be strictly accurate - half a nude boy, rear view, standing in front of a pool in a forest clearing. He liked the way the kid had his head bent, and one hand on his hip, as if he was considering how cold the water might be before jumping in. It reminded him of swimming in rivers with other farmers’ sons when he was young, although there certainly hadn’t been any pederasts with easels lurking on the banks. Come to think of it, there was something a bit queer about the whole thing. ‘It’s quite . . .’ Stratton had been going to say, ‘daring’ but, seeing that Diana was blushing he said ‘interesting’, instead. He wondered why she’d drawn his attention to the painting if it embarrassed her.
‘I asked him about it once,’ she said. ‘It was a present from Apse.’
‘Oh,’ said Stratton. That explained the choice of subject, although not why Forbes-James had chosen to display the thing, or why Sir Neville had given it to him in the first place.
He stared at the painting while Diana busied herself replacing the cork in the wine bottle and removing the plates. At least the boy looked like someone real, not like all those Renaissance women he’d seen in the National Gallery, who looked as if they’d had their tits whacked on with a ladle . . . ‘It’s good,’ said Stratton, when Diana returned from the kitchen with coffee. ‘I like things that look like what they’re meant to be.’
‘So do I.’ Diana set down the tray. ‘Life’s quite confusing enough as it is. Coffee?’
‘Thank you.’
‘What will happen to Helen, Inspector?’
Flattered that she thought he might know the answer to this, Stratton said he wasn’t sure, but he didn’t think it would be too serious.
‘I think she was telling the truth this morning when she said she didn’t know about the documents.’
Stratton nodded.
‘So she hasn’t really done anything, has she? Apart from being silly.’ Diana appeared to be blushing again. Perhaps, thought Stratton, the idea of Helen in bed with Wymark shocked her. If so, it was prudishness of a type that didn’t seem to fit with what he knew of her character, especially what he’d seen of her conduct towards the man who’d taken her out to lunch when he’d first met her, but he couldn’t think of another explanation. He was about to agree that Helen Pender had been pretty silly, but not actually bad, when Forbes-James appeared.
‘Successful morning?’
Diana took a step back, leaving the floor to Stratton. ‘Miss Pender seems to be infatuated with Mr Wymark,’ he said, ‘but she says she had no idea he was stealing copies of documents. We questioned her all morning, sir, and she denies any knowledge.’
‘Diana?’
‘I agree, sir.’
‘Good.’
‘Have you had lunch?’ asked Diana.
Forbes-James waved a hand. ‘Later. Get me a drink, would you? Scotch will do.’ He stuck a cigarette in his mouth and started shuffling papers on his overloaded desk. Stratton, recognising the beginnings of a fruitless search for a light, stepped forward with a match. Forbes-James inhaled deeply and when Diana placed his drink in front of him, sat back, contented. ‘Sit down, sit down.’ Obediently, they sat side by side on the sofa, and, as Diana smiled at him, Stratton found himself smiling in return.
‘I’ve interviewed Wymark. He confirms what we thought - his interests are in keeping America out of the war. Came out with it straight away. Loyal servant of his country, acting in her best interests and so forth. Defiant. And he’s refusing to say how he planned to get the documents across the Atlantic. Ritter, the chap from their embassy, says he doesn’t have access to diplomatic channels, which may well be true. Unfortunately, we’re not in a position to investigate - the Embassy is pretty browned off with us as well as with Wymark, and the last thing we need at the moment is an incident.’ Forbes-James sighed. ‘It seems likely, assuming it’s true that Wymark doesn’t have access via the American Embassy, that he was going to send the stuff through a neutral country. It’s how these things have been done in the past. So, either he has a contact at another embassy, or . . .’ He stopped and raised an eyebrow at Diana.
‘Or it’s Apse, sir.’
‘Quite.’ He looked at Stratton ‘I think it’s time that you and I had a chat with Sir Neville. A chat,’ he repeated, pointedly. ‘We’re not going to arrest him unless he confesses.’
‘But sir—’
Forbes-James held up a hand. ‘We need more evidence. And allow me to do the talking. You’re not to ask him anything unless I say so.’
Stratton opened his mouth to object, then closed it again.
‘You stay here,’ Forbes-James told Diana. ‘Hold the fort.’
‘Yes, sir.’ She sounded, to Stratton, extremely relieved.
Forbes-James didn’t speak as they went downstairs, but on the way across the garden to Frobisher House, he asked, ‘How did Miss Pender react when she saw Mrs Calthrop?’
‘She was extremely upset, sir, and angry. Called her a lot of names.’
‘Genuine, would you say?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And how did Mrs Calthrop behave?’
‘There wasn’t much she could say because Miss Pender was shouting a great deal, and it took quite a while to calm her down. We had to send for the doctor. Mrs Calthrop was clearly shaken, but she didn’t allow it to affect her - not outwardly, sir. Kept her cool.’
‘I see. And how do you find her yourself?’
Stratton, surprised by the question, found he couldn’t think of any reply that didn’t contain words like gorgeous or knock-out.
‘Apart from her looks, that is,’ added Forbes-James, sounding amused. ‘We’ll take those as read.’
‘She’s very dedicated,’ said Stratton, feeling foolish. ‘Good at her job, I imagine.’
‘Yes, she is, but she’s vulnerable. Beautiful women always are.’ They reached the front door of Frobisher House and Forbes-James paused. ‘Before we go up, there’s something I didn’t mention. When Mrs Calthrop was copying the coded document she found in Apse’s flat, he came back. Unexpectedly, of course. My fault, I’m afraid. He’d told me he was going to the country to visit his family, so I gave her permission to go to his flat in the evening. He arrived with a boy prostitute. Mrs Calthrop managed to hide and then make her escape, but - not to put too fine a point on it - she heard them in flagrante.’
‘Blimey!’ exclaimed Stratton. So, in pointing out the painting and telling him who the giver was, Diana had been trying to convey that she knew about Apse. No wonder she hadn’t come straight out with it.
‘Most unfortunate. I’m afraid it might have had rather a bad effect on her. One knows these things go on, but . . .’ He shrugged. ‘If only they’d be discreet.’
‘I suppose he thought he was being discreet, sir.’
‘Not by fouling his own doorstep. Makes the situation very difficult for all of us.’ Forbes-James opened the door. ‘Come on.’
Following Forbes-James down the hall, Stratton found that he didn’t feel entirely sure whether ‘all of us’ referred to the Secret Services, or to homosexuals in general. Obviously, Forbes-James had meant the former, but, remembering the painting of the naked boy, Stratton thought, surely he can’t be one as well? And why ask him about Diana? He was only a copper, for God’s sake - why should his opinion matter? Maybe he suspected her of something, too . . . Fucked if I know, he thought. I should stop getting carried away, it’s just the way they all talk - makes you think everything has a double meaning. If I’d spent my life stabbing my old chums in the back for the greater good then I’d probably talk in riddles as well.
Suddenly, he wished himself back in his cluttered office at Great Marlborough Street. At least with the likes of Abie Marks you knew where you were. And they didn’t make you feel stupid for not knowing about pictures and claret, either.
FORTY-NINE
By mutual agreement, Forbes-James and Stratton walked back to Nelson House without talking. The interview had been a waste of time. Apse had denied everything and claimed that Diana had secreted the coded message in his flat and then pretended to discover it. When they got back, Forbes-James dismissed both Diana and Margot, and they sat nursing large Scotches until the two women had left. Stratton had expected Forbes-James to launch into a review of their interview with Sir Neville, but instead, he put his elbows on his desk and leant forward. ‘Well?’
‘He’s lying, sir. He’s either pro-fascist, or he’s being blackmailed by someone in the Right Club because he’s a homosexual.’
‘Very possibly. But we only have Mrs Calthrop’s word for it that she found the document in his kitchen, and that she heard him with the boy.’
Stratton nearly choked on his drink - which was, as he’d suspected, far superior to the blended stuff he had at home - and said ‘She couldn’t have made that up, sir.’
‘She wouldn’t have made it up on her own, no.’
‘You mean . . .’
‘Her name was on Wymark’s list of Right Club members,’ said Forbes-James.
‘But it would be, wouldn’t it? You instructed her to infiltrate it.’
‘Apse’s name wasn’t there. And that list, as far as we can tell, is comprehensive.’
‘You didn’t tell me that, sir,’ said Stratton.
‘No, I didn’t. Perhaps I should have.’
Yes, thought Stratton, you fucking well should, if you want me to be any use. It might be the Secret Service way of working, but this whole business of telling people things at the last minute, or not telling them at all, was bloody unsettling.
‘Apse said she made a number of pro-fascist comments while she was working for him.’
‘But if she was trying to find out whether he . . .’
‘Yes. But it is also possible that she might have planted that document. In fact, she didn’t even need to do that - or to visit Apse’s flat at all on that particular evening. As I said, we only have her word for it.’