Читать книгу Pantheon - Sam Bourne - Страница 8

It sounded like a fusillade of gunfire, distant rather than deadly. The sun was high and James’s shirt was sticking to his back. He squinted against the brightness of a Spanish noon but he could not see where the noise was coming from. He was in the bombed-out ruin of what, he guessed, had once been a farmworker’s cottage. The walls still stood, though they were pocked by bullet-holes. Whole chunks of plaster were missing, exposing the brick underneath, like snatched glimpses of flesh. The windows had no glass, the doorways were empty arches. And when he looked down at his feet, he saw that the ground itself seemed to be sinking slowly. He was in a house that was crumbling before his eyes. And now the gunfire started again …

He woke with a start, his heart thumping. He looked around, confused. When he realized he was slumped in an armchair, he sat bolt upright, knocking over the bottle of whisky lodged at his side. Damn. It had soaked the top of his trousers, drenching his left thigh. And then came that rat-tat-tat again; not gunfire, but someone at the door.

James remembered after a moment of delay what had happened, the recollection landing like a deadweight on his chest. Harry and Florence were gone.

The knocking again. He stood up, aware of a chill draught in the house. Of course: the hole in the kitchen window, shattered by the candlestick.

‘Dr Zennor?’

Oh no. The voice, unmistakable, belonged to Virginia Grey. James encountered her most often as one half of the couple that together ran his college: her husband was Master. But that accounted for only a small part of their influence. Bernard and Virginia Grey were luminaries of the British intellectual Left. You couldn’t open a copy of the New Statesman without coming across an article by or about them, the latter usually reviewing a pamphlet or book they had produced either singly or together. They were a dominant force in the Fabian Society and, through that, the Labour party, their ideas and proposals constantly debated in the national press or taken up as policy. They hosted a high table that was regularly graced by Westminster politicians and the country’s most eminent theorists.

The Greys had taken Florence and James under their wing almost as soon as they had returned from Madrid, insisting that Florence transfer her doctoral work to the college, demanding they have their Spanish marriage blessed in the college chapel – where they had acted as if they were the parents of the bride. His own parents had sat polite, quiet and thoroughly overwhelmed through the whole event.

Now in their late sixties, the Greys had their doubts about James’s field, regarding psychology as new-fangled and experimental. They urged him to switch to political science instead – though, to his irritation, they always appeared riveted by Florence’s work on evolutionary biology. James suspected they rather fancied the Zennors might become the future Greys of the 1970s, seeing themselves in this ‘handsome young couple’; seeing too, perhaps, an opportunity to extend their influence beyond the grave. They had no children of their own.

Brushing crumbs of a half-eaten sandwich off himself and onto the wooden floor, he opened the door. ‘Good mor—’ He stopped, suddenly aware that he had no idea what time it was.

‘Thank heavens. I was beginning to wonder if you were dead! I’ve been knocking on your door for seven minutes.’

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Grey. I wonder if I could call on you later. Now is not—’

‘Are you unwell, James dear? You do sound a little off-colour.’ Her tone was bossily familiar, a mother talking to a recalcitrant child.

‘I am feeling a little under the weather, as it—’

‘I think I ought to come in.’

‘I really would rather—’

‘Chop, chop, James.’

That was how the Greys were: they would not take no for an answer, so no one ever gave it to them. He opened the door.

‘Oh Lord. You look absolutely dreadful!’ Her eyes darted past him, no doubt taking in the devastation; then she wrinkled her nose in distaste: she had smelled the whisky.

‘What has been going on here?’ She marched into the room uninvited.

‘Would you like a drink, Mrs Grey?’ He took an almost malign pleasure in the appalled expression on her face.

‘I rather think you’ve had enough of that already, don’t you?’

‘I was actually offering one to you, Mrs Grey. But if you won’t, I will.’

She ignored this remark, instead finding a chair and making herself comfortable. Then in a voice that was kindly, and nearly free of the usual imperiousness, she said, ‘Can I suggest you tell me what happened?’

James sat down too, realizing that he was grateful for the chance to speak to another person. ‘It would appear that Florence has left me.’

Grey stifled a gasp. ‘Good God, no. When?’

‘This morning. I came back from sculling and the house was empty.’

‘And Harry?’

‘She’s taken him with her.’

James watched a thought flicker across Grey’s face, stern beneath its bun of silver hair. Her initial shock seemed now to give way to urgency, the practical desire to act and to act immediately. ‘Have you spoken to her? Has she telephoned?’

‘She left a note.’

‘A note? What did it say?’

‘Nothing.’ He paused, weighing up the temptation to tell her everything. But something held him back. Was it loyalty to Florence? Was it embarrassment? ‘Nothing that explains anything anyway.’

‘Had she ever talked about leaving before?’

‘No. Never.’

‘So why do you presume she left?’

‘She must have met someone else. She is the most beautiful woman in Oxford, after all. Your husband called her that, as I recall, at our wedding celebration.’

A picture instantly sprang into his head. That Indian summer’s day, late September 1937, in the college garden: Florence, heavily pregnant and glowing with good health. Next to her, on crutches, James himself, his smile for the photographer more of a wince. Though the Greys had insisted on the location, the idea of the celebration had come from Florence’s parents: ‘Darling, you’ve denied us the delight of seeing our daughter married; you will not deprive us of our right to throw an enormous party.’ So nine months after they had exchanged their Spanish vows, they had listened as Sir George Walsingham made a toast extolling the qualities of his wonderful daughter while Bernard Grey made jokes at James’s expense and, like a man who could not help himself, offered repeated paeans to the beauty of the bride.

‘Her attractiveness has no bearing on her willingness or otherwise to pair with other men, nor to leave you. Unless you have any evidence to the contrary, James?’ Virginia Grey asked tartly.

James closed his eyes. ‘No, I don’t suppose I do.’

‘You have made a telephone call to Florence’s parents of course.’

He sighed. ‘No, as a matter of fact, I haven’t.’

‘Well, why ever not? She’s probably on her way there now. It’s the first place any young girl goes when there’s trouble at home.’

‘She’s not gone there. Believe me.’

‘Well, it’s the obvious place to start and I insist that you check. Now where’s the number? I’ll—’

‘Please! Mrs Grey. Florence hasn’t spoken to her mother in … for a while.’

Virginia Grey frowned.

James looked away, guilty to be breaking one of his wife’s secrets. ‘They’re not speaking to each other at present.’

Silence hung in the air until eventually Mrs Grey spoke again. ‘I imagine it will be awkward, but I fear you will have to do it all the same. She has almost certainly gone there and no proper search can begin until you have at least eliminated that possibility.’

James could hardly fault her logic; but the thought of making such a call filled him with dread. What would he say? If he announced that Florence had gone missing, he would be admitting that she had left him. If Mrs Grey was right, that would make no odds: the Walsinghams would know already. But if she was wrong, well, then he would be making an entirely needless confession. And before he knew it, Sir George Bloody Walsingham would be taking charge, alerting his contacts in the Oxford constabulary until they had tracked down his daughter and grandson, while Lady Walsingham would be giving him that withering look of hers, a woman’s look that said ‘No wonder she’s left you: you’re not a proper man any more.’

They already blamed him anyway. He was the reason why Florence had stormed out of that dinner in London with her parents, back in April (or was it February?). He could scarcely remember what the row had been about, probably something trivial about the menu or the taxi home. But the underlying cause was obvious. The Walsinghams believed their daughter had married beneath herself: she, whose pedigree breeding would have secured the richest, most desirable man in the kingdom, married to this son of provincial schoolteachers who was crippled to boot. To announce that he could not find Florence or Harry, that he had been discarded, would be to confirm their verdict on him: he was not good enough.

A voice called out from the hallway. ‘They live in Norfolk, don’t they?’ As good as her word, Virginia Grey was standing by the telephone table, about to make the call.

James ran out and grabbed the phone from her. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said quietly. This was how the Greys operated, bending everyone to their will.

Virginia hovered as he heard his own breathing through the heavy, Bakelite receiver and then a click as the operator came on the line. ‘The name is Walsingham, please,’ he said. ‘In Langham in Norfolk. Thank you.’ He waited, listening to the clicks and switching sounds, picturing the exchanges as they plugged in the series of cables that would send his voice eastward across England.

Eventually there was the ringing sound, followed after four rings by a female voice: middle-aged and aristocratic. ‘Wells 452.’

‘Lady Walsingham? It’s James. Florence’s husband.’

‘Good afternoon, James. I’m afraid Sir George is out.’ Ite. ‘Is there something wrong?’

‘No, there’s nothing wrong.’ The echo on the line was confusing him, making him trip over his words as they bounced back to him two seconds later. ‘I just wondered if I might speak to Florence.’

‘Florence? I don’t understand.’

‘Florence and Harry. They’re not with you?’

‘No. Why ever would they be with us? You always come in August.’

He listened closely to the voice, trying to detect a lie. They were polished, people of her class, he had learned that much after more than a decade in Oxford, whether as undergraduate or fellow. She and Sir George – a powerful figure in the City and a decorated officer in the Great War – were as elegant in their manner as in their looks. They were a handsome couple: Florence’s mother, once a society beauty, had her daughter’s piercing eyes and perfect bone structure. Was Florence standing nearby, mouthing answers to her? If she were, he would never know it. And yet, he had to confess it did not sound like that at all.

‘James? Are you still there? Has something happened?’

‘No, no. Not at all.’ Hearing his own voice played back to him, even he did not believe it. ‘Just some confusion on my part.’

‘Is Florence unwell? Is Harry all right?’ The concern was genuine, he was certain of it.

‘Yes, yes. Everyone’s well. I just thought they might have … perhaps …’ He mumbled a farewell and hung up.

Virginia Grey did not say anything. She bit her lip and headed towards the kitchen. ‘Time for a pot of tea, I think.’

While she was fussing over cups and spoons, she asked, her tone as casual as if she were inquiring where she might find the sugar, ‘How have things been between you? Recently I mean.’

He hesitated, reluctant to confide in her. But it was clear she was keen to help and it was somehow comforting not to be conducting this search entirely alone. ‘We’re not newlyweds any more, Mrs Grey. But I believe our marriage is strong.’

She stopped her tea preparations and gazed at him.

‘You’re not convinced,’ he said.

‘It does not matter a jot whether I am convinced, my dear. That is not at issue here.’

‘Did she say something to you?’

Grey stared out into the garden and her hair caught the sunlight, turning the silver to bright white.

‘I don’t think it was anything specif—’

‘So she did say something! What the hell was it?’ Now he stood up, looming over her. He could feel his veins engorging, the rage stirred and beginning to surge.

Grey’s expression looked more pitying than alarmed, which only fuelled James’s ire. ‘Come on,’ he said loudly, ‘answer me!’

In a voice that was studiedly calmer and quieter than before, she said, ‘This.’ She gestured towards him. ‘She told me about this. Your aggression. She told me about your fights, James.’

‘We have had disagreements. Every couple has dis—’

‘She was not referring to disagreements, James. She was referring to violent displays of temper. I can see for myself the broken crockery here today.’

‘Today is hardly typical.’

‘She told me that there was a constant tension in the house.’

‘Nonsense.’

‘Her exact words were, “I feel as if the ground is covered with eggshells. And I’m tiptoeing my way through them.”’

‘Eggshells? I know what that’s about. That’s my punishment for demanding quiet when I work. Any scholar would be the same. It’s impossible to do serious reading with an infernal racket going on.’

‘What infernal racket?’

‘Harry shouting and shrieking when he’s playing. I lost my temper a few times.’ He could picture the tears trickling down his son’s cheeks, the little boy standing in the garden crying after James had exploded again, Florence holding Harry tight, explaining that it was not his fault, not his fault at all, James standing apart from them, too ashamed to step forward and hug Harry himself – a shame whose sting he felt again now. But what he said stiffly was, ‘I’m sure the Master would have been the same in my position.’

The silver-haired author of half a dozen books and a couple of hundred learned articles eyed him coolly. ‘Yes. Even I might struggle to do my needlepoint with that distraction.’

James realized his mistake. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Grey. I didn’t mean—’

‘Don’t worry, Dr Zennor. I’ve been condescended to by far greater men than yourself.’ She now placed the teapot at the centre of the table and took a seat. ‘Florence was worried about you. She said you were drinking heavily.’

‘For heaven’s sake, can a man not drink a glass of Scotch in his own home?’

‘At high table the other night, you had Perkins return to the cellar at least twice.’

‘So you think my wife left me because I’m some kind of dipsomaniac?’

‘No one is saying your wife has left you.’

‘She’s not here, is she?’

‘No, she is not. But there is no evidence that she has left you, in the rather melodramatic sense of that word. You don’t know where she is. And you don’t know why she’s gone.’

‘Precisely.’

‘Well, I think you need to begin by putting yourself in her shoes.’

James straightened his back, as if to signal that the discussion was over. ‘Well, thank you, Mrs Grey. I appreciate your efforts. But nothing you have told me will help me get my wife back.’

‘Is that what you want? To get her back?’

‘Of course, that’s what I bloody want!’ His voice cracked at that and, ashamed by the show of weakness, he dipped his head.

‘Well, perhaps I can help you.’

He looked up, the rims of his eyes a bloodshot red.

‘Florence came to see me yesterday.’

James gave a small nod, determined to do nothing that might stop Grey from going on.

‘She seemed agitated. She told me something of the … strains at home.’

‘Yes.’ His mind was whirring, processing what he was hearing at top speed, already working through the possible implications.

‘She said nothing concrete, she made no mention of any plans.’

‘But …’

‘She was clearly in a hurry. She broke off our conversation, saying there was something she had to look up urgently at the Bodleian.’ Grey focused on her fingers, as if she needed to concentrate and choose her words carefully. ‘I thought nothing of it at the time. After all, your wife is a dedicated scholar. But given her departure first thing this morning, I wonder if the two are connected. If there was something she had to check, something she had to find out, before she could leave. It might perhaps give you a—’

But Virginia Grey did not get the chance to complete her sentence. She looked up to see James had simply turned around, grabbed a jacket from the hall and marched out of the front door.