Harriet did remember her. When alone in Athens and distracted by the news from Rumania, Harriet had approached this fellow Englishwoman and confided the fact she had left her husband in Bucharest. Mrs Brett had replied: ‘He’ll be put into a prison-camp. You’ll have him back after the war. My husband’s dead.’
This may have been meant as condolence, but it did not console Harriet who now wanted only to avoid the woman.
‘I’d like to meet your husband,’ Mrs Brett said. ‘Bring him to tea on Saturday. I live here in the hotel: room 3, first floor Come at four o’clock,’ and without waiting for acceptance or refusal, she was off.
Harriet hurried to tell Guy: ‘That God-awful woman’s invited us to tea.’
‘Why, how kind!’ said Guy, to whom any social contact was better than no contact at all.
‘But it’s the woman who said you’d be put in a prison-camp.’
‘I’m sure she meant no harm,’ Guy confidently replied.
The Pringles, on the top floor of the hotel, were in a slice of room overlooking a china-bricked well and containing two single beds, end to end, a wardrobe and a dressing-table. Mrs Brett’s room, at the front, was a bed-sitting room and was crowded with an armchair and table, as well as a large bed. Mrs Brett had hung up two paintings, one of anemones and one of lily-of-the-valley, and she had set out her china on the table beside a large chocolate cake.
Guy, delighted that someone had made them a gesture of friendship, met Mrs Brett with such warm enthusiasm, she became excited at once and dodged around them, shouting: ‘Sit down. Sit down.’ Another visitor was in the room. This was a square-built man who was growing heavy in middle age.
‘Really!’ Mrs Brett complained. ‘You two big men! What am I to do with you both? And,’ she turned to the middle-aged man with amused horror, ‘Alison Jay says she’ll be dropping in.’
‘Dear me!’ the man murmured.
‘We’ll manage. We’ve managed before. Mrs Pringle can take the little chair – she’s a lightweight; and I’ll give Miss Jay the armchair when she comes. Now, you two! Here.’ She placed the two men side by side on the edge of the bed. ‘Sit down,’ she ordered them. ‘I don’t need any help.’
A hotel waiter brought in a pot of tea and while Mrs Brett
was filling cups and asking each guest several times whether he took milk and sugar, the man beside Guy spoke below the commotion. ‘My name is Alan Frewen.’
‘Didn’t I introduce you?’ Mrs Brett shouted, pushing cups at her guests. ‘That’s me all over; I never introduce anyone.’
Alan Frewen, whose large head was set on massive shoulders, had a face that seemed to be made of brown rock, not carved but worn to its present shape by the action of water. His eyes, light in colour and seeming lighter in their dark setting, had a poignant expression; and as he sat on the bed edge stirring his cup of tea, his air was one of patient suffering. Having given his name, he had nothing to say but kept looking uneasily at Mrs Brett because she was on her feet while he was sitting down.
She said to Guy: ‘So you’re just out of Rumania? Tell us, are the Germans there or
not
?’
While Guy was answering her, Alan Frewen observed him and the large, dark face softened as though something in Guy’s appearance and manner was allaying his sorrows. He leant forward to speak but Mrs Brett did not give him a chance. She said to Guy:
‘You’re an Organization man, aren’t you? Yes, Prince Yakimov mentioned it. I could tell you a few things about the Organization. You knew my husband, of course? You knew what they did to him here?’
As Guy said, ‘No,’ Alan Frewen gave a slight moan, anticipating a story he had heard before and dreaded hearing again.
Ignoring Frewen, Mrs Brett stared at Guy: ‘I suppose you know my husband was Director of the School?’
‘Was he? I didn’t know.’
‘Aha!’ said Mrs Brett, preparing the Pringles for a grim tale. She kept them in anticipation while she handed round the cups. Alan Frewen watched her with an expression pained and fascinated. She sat down at last and began.
‘My husband was Director, but he was displaced. Very meanly displaced, what’s more. You must have heard of it?’
‘We know very few people here,’ Guy said.
‘It was a scandal, and there was a lot of talk. It got around much farther than Athens. My husband was a scholar, a very gifted man.’ She stopped and fixed Guy accusingly. ‘But you must have heard of him? He wrote a history of the Venetian Republic.’
Guy said soothingly: ‘Yes, of course,’ and she went on:
‘You know this fellow Gracey, I suppose?’
‘I …’
‘It was Gracey got him out. Gracey and that louse Cookson.’
Harriet said: ‘We’ve heard of Cookson. He seems to be important here.’
‘He’s rich, not important. Leastways, not what
I
call important. He calls himself “Major”. He may have been in the army at some time, but I have my doubts. He lives in style at Phaleron. He’s one of those people who don’t need to work but want to have a finger in every pie. He wants power; wants to influence people.’
‘And he’s a friend of Gracey?’
‘Yes, Gracey’s one of that set. When we first came here, Cookson asked us out to Phaleron but Percy wouldn’t go. He was doing his own work
and
running the School. No time for junketing, I can tell you.’
‘How long ago was this?’
‘Just when the war started. We knew the old Director: a fine man, a scholar, too. He retired when war broke out and offered the job to Percy. I told Percy he ought to take it. It was war work. He wasn’t a young man, of course, but he had to do his bit. I think I was right.’
Mrs Brett paused and Alan Frewen stirred at his tea as though again bringing himself to the point of speech, but again Mrs Brett thwarted him. ‘Well, Percy took over here and everything was going swimmingly when that Gracey turned up.’
‘Where did he come from?’
‘Italy. He’d been living near Naples tutoring some rich little Italian boy and doing a bit of writing and so on; having a grand time, I imagine, but he knew it couldn’t go on. He got
nervous. He decided to come here, worse luck; then, when he got here, he wanted a job and Percy took him on as Chief Instructor. Oh, what a foolish fellow! Percy, I mean.’ She shook her head and clicked her tongue against the back of her teeth.
‘He could scarcely have known,’ Alan Frewen said.
Mrs Brett agreed as though the thought had only just occurred to her. ‘No, that’s right, he couldn’t.’
‘Wasn’t Gracey qualified?’ Guy asked.
‘Too well qualified. That was the trouble. He wasn’t willing to work under Percy. No, he didn’t want to play second fiddle – he wanted Percy’s job. He went to see Cookson and buttered him up, and said: “You can see for yourself that Percy Brett isn’t fit to run the School,” and I can tell you there’s nothing Cookson likes better than to be in the middle of an intrigue. Those two began plotting and planning and telling everyone that Percy was too old and not trained for the work. And Gracey got Cookson to write to the London office …’
‘Do you really know all this?’ Alan Frewen mildly protested.
‘Oh, yes.’ Mrs Brett looked fiercely at him. ‘I’ve got my spies, too. And the next thing, the London office flew out an inspector to inquire into the running of the School. Just think of it! An inspector poking his nose into Percy’s affairs. … And
then
what do you think happened?’
Mrs Brett’s voice had become shrill in tragic inquiry, and as Alan Frewen caught Harriet’s eye, his pitying expression told her that Mrs Brett’s aggression covered nothing worse than unhappiness.
Sombre and weary, he dropped his gaze and Harriet, who had hoped to learn something about Gracey, began to wonder if they were listening to anything more than the fantasies of lunacy. Guy evidently thought so. His face pink with concern, he waited intently to know what happened next.
‘Percy fell ill,’ Mrs Brett said. ‘He fell ill just as the inspector arrived. Imagine what it was like for me with an inspector nosing around, and Gracey and Cookson telling him just
anything they liked, and my poor Percy too ill to defend himself.
‘He said to me: “Girlie” – he always called me Girlie – “I never thought they’d treat me like this!” He’d worked like a Trojan, you know. Unremitting, I called him. He improved the School. All Gracey did was take over a going concern and let it run down. And poor Percy! He was ill for weeks; nine, ten weeks. … He had typhoid.’ She was gasping with the effort and emotion of the story, and her voice began losing its strength. ‘And they got rid of him. Yes, they got rid of him. A report was sent in and then a cable came: Gracey was to take over here; Percy was to go to a temporary job at Beirut. But he never knew any of this. He died. Yes he died you know!’ She looked at Guy and said hoarsely: ‘I blame myself.’ She clenched one of her ungainly hands and pressed the knuckles against her mouth, her eyes on Guy as though he alone understood what she was talking about. After some moments she dropped her hands to her lap. ‘He never wanted to come here. I made him. I worked it … yes, I worked it, really. I wrote and suggested Percy for the job, and that’s why it was offered to him. We lived at Kotor, you know. I got so tired of it. Those narrow streets, that awful gulf. I felt shut in. I wanted to go to a big city. Yes, it was me. It was my fault. I brought him here, and he got typhoid.’
Guy put his hand over her hand and said: ‘He could have got typhoid anywhere – even in England. Certainly anywhere on the Mediterranean. You’ve read
Death in Venice
?’
Mrs Brett looked at him bleakly, puzzled by the question, and to distract her he began telling her the story of Mann’s novella. Approaching the crisis of the plot, he paused dramatically and Mrs Brett, thinking he had finished or ought to have finished, broke in to say: ‘When Gracey took over, Percy was still alive. They didn’t even wait for him to die.’
Harriet asked: ‘Is this why the two lecturers asked to be transferred?’
‘You’ve heard about that, have you?’ Mrs Brett jerked round to look at Harriet: ‘I wonder who told you?’
‘Dubedat and Lush mentioned it.’
‘
Them!
’ said Mrs Brett in disgust: ‘They’re a pretty pair!’
‘They are a pretty pair,’ Harriet said, and she would have said more, but was interrupted by a loud rat-tat on the door.
‘Here she is! Here she is!’ Mrs Brett cried and jumping up with the alacrity of a child, she threw open the door so it crashed against the bed: ‘Come in! Come in!’ she shouted uproariously and a very large woman came in.
The woman’s size was increased by her white silk draperies and a cape which, caught in a draught between door and window, billowed behind her like a spinnaker. Her legs were in Turkish trousers, her great breasts jutted against a jerkin from which hung a yard of fringe. As she stood filling the middle of the room, her fat swayed around her like a barrel slung from her shoulders.
‘Well,’ she demanded. ‘Where do you want me to sit, Bretty?’
‘The arm-chair, the arm-chair.’ Delighted by the arrival of this new guest, Mrs Brett told the Pringles: ‘Miss Jay rules the English Colony.’
‘Do I?’ Miss Jay complacently asked. She sank into the arm-chair and looked down at her big raffia shoes.
When she had introduced the Pringles, Mrs Brett said: ‘I was just telling them how Gracey treated Percy.’
‘Um,’ said Miss Jay. ‘I thought I’d let you get that over before I turned up.’
‘I haven’t finished yet.’ Mrs Brett swung round on Guy: ‘And what do you think they did
after
Percy died?’
In an attempt to distract her, Alan Frewen said: ‘Could I have some more of that delicious tea?’
‘When the water comes, not before,’ said Mrs Brett and she continued with determined crossness: ‘After Percy died, I decided to give a little party … a little evening of remembrance. …’
The waiter came to the door with hot water. Mrs Brett took the pot from him, slammed the door in his face and added firmly: ‘A little evening of remembrance.’
Miss Jay said: ‘How about giving me a cup before you start again?’
Mrs Brett attended to her guests in an exasperated way, then, the tea dispensed, faced Guy again: ‘You understand why I’m telling you this, don’t you? I felt you ought to know something about the people who infest this lovely place. There’s not only Cookson and Gracey; there’s that Archie Callard, too.’
Alan Frewen said: ‘Archie can be tiresome. He has the wrong sort of sense of humour.’
‘Do you think what they did to me was intended as humour?’
‘I don’t know.’ Alan Frewen looked confused. ‘It could have been – of a macabre kind.’
‘Macabre? Yes, indeed, “macabre” is the word! What do you think they did?’ Mrs Brett turned on Guy: ‘When Cookson heard that I was giving my little party at the King George, he arranged to give a party himself on the same evening. A very grand party. What do you think of that? Of course they all had a hand in it: the Major, Callard and Gracey …’
Miss Jay said: ‘I really doubt whether Gracey …’
‘Oh, I’m sure he had. Three clever fellows plotting against a poor old woman! Everyone was invited to Cookson’s party – except me, of course. It was the biggest party Cookson’s ever given.’
‘And your party was spoilt?’ Guy asked.
‘I had no party. No one turned up. Some of my best friends deserted me in order to go to Phaleron. I’ve never spoken to them since.’
‘It really was most unkind,’ Alan Frewen murmured.
‘You weren’t here; you’d gone to Delphi,’ Mrs Brett exonerated him. ‘And you …’ she nodded to Miss Jay. ‘You were on Corfu.’ She smiled at the two who had not been in Athens to take part in her betrayal, then suddenly remembered Harriet and turned on her, asking: ‘What do you think of all this, eh? What do you think of the sort of people we’ve got here?’
Harriet, glancing aside, saw Miss Jay watching her with a keen, critical eye and knew that whatever she said would be repeated, probably with disapproval. She said: ‘I do not know
them, and we’ve been living so differently. Our experiences didn’t give us much time to have social worries.’
‘You were lucky. I’d rather have experiences,’ said Mrs Brett. ‘We all envy you.’
Looking into her weathered old face, Harriet saw there a flicker of kindness, but Miss Jay said pettishly: ‘Experiences! Heaven keep us from experiences.’