After lunch Sir Arthur went back to the Octagon, where he had set up his headquarters. Walden and Thomson put on their hats and took their cigars out onto the terrace. The park looked lovely in the sunshine, as always. From the distant drawing room came the crashing opening chords of the Tchaikovsky piano concerto: Lydia was playing. Walden felt sad. Then the music was drowned by the roar of a motorcycle as another messenger came to report the progress of the search to Sir Arthur. So far there had been no news.
A footman served coffee, then left them alone. Thomson said: "I didn't want to say this in front of Lady Walden, but I think we may have a clue to the identity of the traitor."
Walden went cold.
Thomson said: "Last night I interviewed Bridget Callahan, the Cork Street landlady. I'm afraid I got nothing out of her. However, I left my men to search her house. This morning they showed me what they had found." He took from his pocket an envelope which had been torn in half, and handed the two pieces to Walden.
Walden saw with a shock that the envelope bore the Walden Hall crest.
Thomson said: "Do you recognize the handwriting?"
Walden turned the pieces over. The envelope was addressed:
Mr. F. Kschessinsky c/o 19 Cork Street London, N.
Walden said: "Oh, dear God, not Charlotte." He wanted to cry.
Thomson was silent.
"She led him here," Walden said. "My own daughter." He stared at the envelope, willing it to disappear. The handwriting was quite unmistakable, like a juvenile version of his own script.
"Look at the postmark," Thomson said. "She wrote it as soon as she arrived here. It was mailed from the village."
"How could this happen?" Walden said.
Thomson made no reply.
"Feliks was the man in the tweed cap," Walden said. "It all fits." He felt hopelessly sad, almost bereaved, as if someone dear to him had died. He looked out over his park, at trees planted fifty years ago by his father, at a lawn that had been cared for by his family for a hundred years, and it all seemed worthless, worthless. He said quietly: "You fight for your country, and you are betrayed from within by socialists and revolutionists; you fight for your class, and you're betrayed by Liberals; you fight for your family, and even they betray you. Charlotte! Why, Charlotte, why?" He felt a choking sensation. "What a damnable life this is, Thomson. What a damnable life."
"I'll have to interview her," Thomson said.
"So will I." Walden stood up. He looked at his cigar. It had gone out. He threw it away. "Let's go in."
They went in.
In the hall Walden stopped a maid. "Do you know where Lady Charlotte is?"
"I believe she's in her room, my lord. Shall I go and see?"
"Yes. Tell her I wish to speak to her in her room immediately."
"Very good, m'lord."
Thomson and Walden waited in the hall. Walden looked around. The marble floor, the carved staircase, the stucco ceiling, the perfect proportions--worthless. A footman drifted by silently, eyes lowered. A motorcycle messenger came in and headed for the Octagon. Pritchard crossed the hall and picked up the letters for posting from the hall table, just as he must have the day Charlotte's treacherous letter to Feliks was written. The maid came down the stairs.
"Lady Charlotte is ready to see you, my lord."
Walden and Thomson went up.
Charlotte's room was on the second floor at the front of the house, looking over the park. It was sunny and light, with pretty fabrics and modern furniture. It's a long time since I've been in here, Walden thought vaguely.
"You look rather fierce, Papa," Charlotte said.
"I've reason to be," Walden replied. "Mr. Thomson has just given me the most dreadful piece of news of my whole life."
Charlotte frowned.
Thomson said: "Lady Charlotte, where is Feliks?"
Charlotte turned white. "I've no idea, of course."
Walden said: "Don't be so damned cool!"
"How dare you swear at me!"
"I beg your pardon."
Thomson said: "Perhaps if you'd leave it to me, my lord . . ."
"Very well." Walden sat down in the window seat, thinking: How did I find myself apologizing?
Thomson addressed Charlotte. "Lady Charlotte, I'm a policeman, and I can prove that you have committed conspiracy to murder. Now my concern, and your father's, is to let this go no further; and, in particular, to ensure that you will not have to go to jail for a period of many years."
Walden stared at Thomson. Jail! Surely he's merely frightening her. But no, he realized with a sense of overwhelming dread; he's right: she's a criminal . . .
Thomson went on: "As long as we can prevent the murder, we feel we can cover up your participation. But if the assassin succeeds, I will have no option but to bring you to trial--and then the charge will not be conspiracy to murder, but accessory to murder. In theory you could be hanged."
"No!" Walden shouted involuntarily.
"Yes," Thomson said quietly.
Walden buried his face in his hands.
Thomson said: "You must save yourself that agony--and not only yourself, but your mama and papa. You must do everything in your power to help us find Feliks and save Prince Orlov."
It could not be, Walden thought desperately. He felt as if he were going insane. My daughter could not be hanged. But if Aleks is killed, Charlotte will have been one of the murderers. But it would never come to trial. Who was Home Secretary? McKenna. Walden did not know him. But Asquith would intervene to prevent a prosecution . . . wouldn't he?
Thomson said: "Tell me when you last saw Feliks."
Walden watched Charlotte, waiting for her response. She stood behind a chair, gripping its back with both hands. Her knuckles showed white, but her face appeared calm. Finally she spoke. "I have nothing to tell you."
Walden groaned aloud. How could she continue to be like this now that she was found out? What was going on in her mind? She seemed a stranger. He thought: When did I lose her?
"Do you know where Feliks is now?" Thomson asked her.
She said nothing.
"Have you warned him of our security precautions here?"
She looked blank.
"How is he armed?"
Nothing.
"Each time you refuse to answer a question, you become a little more guilty. Do you realize that?"
Walden noticed a change of tone in Thomson's voice, and looked at him. He seemed genuinely angry now.
"Let me explain something to you," Thomson said. "You may think that your papa can save you from justice. He is perhaps thinking the same thing. But if Orlov dies, I swear to you that I will bring you to trial for murder. Now think about that!"
Thomson left the room.
Charlotte was dismayed to see him go. With a stranger in the room she had just about managed to keep her composure. Alone with Papa she was afraid she would break down.
"I'll save you if I can," Papa said sadly.
Charlotte swallowed thickly and looked away. I wish he'd be angry, she thought; I could cope with that.
He looked out of the window. "I'm responsible, you see," he said painfully. "I chose your mother, I fathered you, and I brought you up. You're nothing but what I've made you. I can't understand how this has happened. I really can't." He looked back at her. "Can you explain it to me, please?"
"Yes, I can," she said. She was eager to make him understand, and she was sure he would, if she could tell it right. "I don't want you to succeed in making Russia go to war, because if you do, millions of innocent Russians will be killed or wounded to no purpose."
He looked surprised. "Is that it?" he said. "Is that why you've done these awful things? Is that what Feliks is trying to achieve?"
Perhaps he will understand, she thought joyfully. "Yes," she said. She went on enthusiastically: "Feliks also wants a revolution in Russia--even you might think that could be a good thing--and he believes it will begin when the people there find out that Aleks has been
trying to drag them into war."
"Do you think I want a war?" he said incredulously. "Do you think I would like it? Do you think it would do me any good?"
"Of course not--but you'd let it happen, under certain circumstances."
"Everyone would--even Feliks, who wants a revolution, you tell me. And if there's to be a war, we must win it. Is that an evil thing to say?" His tone was almost pleading.
She was desperate for him to understand. "I don't know whether it's evil, but I do know it's wrong. The Russian peasants know nothing of European politics, and they care less. But they will be shot to pieces, and have their legs blown off, and all awful things like that because you made an agreement with Aleks!" She fought back tears. "Papa, can't you see that's wrong?"
"But think of it from the British point of view--from your own personal point of view. Imagine that Freddie Chalfont and Peter and Jonathan go to war as officers, and their men are Daniel the groom, and Peter the stable lad, and Jimmy the bootboy, and Charles the footman, and Peter Dawkins from the Home Farm--wouldn't you want them to get some help? Wouldn't you be glad that the whole of the Russian nation was on their side?"
"Of course--especially if the Russian nation had chosen to help them. But they won't choose, will they, Papa? You and Aleks will choose. You should be working to prevent war, not to win it."
"If Germany attacks France, we have to help our friends. And it would be a disaster for Britain if Germany conquered Europe."
"How could there be a bigger disaster than a war?"
"Should we never fight, then?"
"Only if we're invaded."
"If we don't fight the Germans in France, we'll have to fight them here."
"Are you sure?"
"It's likely."
"When it happens, then we should fight."
"Listen. This country hasn't been invaded for eight hundred and fifty years. Why? Because we've fought other people on their territory, not ours. That is why you, Lady Charlotte Walden, grew up in a peaceful and prosperous country."
"How many wars were fought to prevent war? If we had not fought on other people's territory, would they have fought at all?"
"Who knows?" he said wearily. "I wish you had studied more history. I wish you and I had talked more about this sort of thing. With a son, I would have--but Lord! I never dreamed my daughter would be interested in foreign policy! And now I'm paying the price for that mistake. What a price. Charlotte, I promise you that the arithmetic of human suffering is not as straightforward as this Feliks has led you to believe. Could you not believe me when I tell you that? Could you not trust me?"
"No," she said stubbornly.
"Feliks wants to kill your cousin. Does that make no difference?"
"He's going to kidnap Aleks, not kill him."
Papa shook his head. "Charlotte, he's tried twice to kill Aleks and once to kill me. He has killed many people in Russia. He's not a kidnapper, Charlotte, he's a murderer."
"I don't believe you."
"But why?" he said plaintively.
"Did you tell me the truth about suffragism? Did you tell me the truth about Annie? Did you tell me that in democratic Britain most people still can't vote? Did you tell me the truth about sexual intercourse?"
"No, I didn't." To her horror, Charlotte saw that his cheeks were wet with tears. "It may be that everything I ever did, as a father, was mistaken. I didn't know the world would change the way it has. I had no idea of what a woman's role would be in the world of 1914. It begins to look as if I have been a terrible failure. But I did what I thought best for you, because I loved you, and I still do. It's not your politics that are making me cry. It's the betrayal, you see. I mean, I shall fight tooth and nail to keep you out of the courts, even if you do succeed in killing poor Aleks, because you're my daughter, the most important person in the world to me. For you I will let justice and reputation and England go to Hell. I would do wrong for you, without a moment's hesitation. For me, you come above all principles, all politics, everything. That's how it is in families. What hurts me so much is that you will not do the same for me. Will you?"
She wanted desperately to say yes.
"Will you be loyal to me, for all that I may be in the wrong, just because I am your father?"
But you're not, she thought. She bowed her head; she could not look at him.
They sat in silence for a minute. Then Papa blew his nose. He got up and went to the door. He took the key out of the lock, and went outside. He closed the door behind him. Charlotte heard him turn the key, locking her in.
She burst into tears.
It was the second appalling dinner party Lydia had given in two days. She was the only woman at the table. Sir Arthur was glum because his vast search operation had utterly failed to turn up Feliks. Charlotte and Aleks were locked in their rooms. Basil Thomson and Stephen were being icily polite to each other, for Thomson had found out about Charlotte and Feliks, and had threatened to send Charlotte to jail. Winston Churchill was there. He had brought the treaty with him and he and Aleks had signed it, but there was no rejoicing on that account, for everyone knew that if Aleks were to be assassinated, then the Czar would refuse to ratify the deal. Churchill said that the sooner Aleks was off English soil the better. Thomson said he would devise a secure route and arrange a formidable bodyguard, and Aleks could leave tomorrow. Everyone went to bed early, for there was nothing else to do.
Lydia knew she would not sleep. Everything was unresolved. She had spent the afternoon in an indecisive haze, drugged with laudanum, trying to forget that Feliks was there in her house. Aleks would leave tomorrow: if only he could be kept safe for a few more hours . . . She wondered whether there might be some way she could make Feliks lie low for another day. Could she go to him and tell him a lie, say that he would have his opportunity of killing Aleks tomorrow night? He would never believe her. The scheme was hopeless. But once she had conceived the idea of going to see Feliks she could not get it out of her mind. She thought: Out of this door, along the passage, up the stairs, along another passage, through the nursery, through the closet, and there . . .
She closed her eyes tightly and pulled the sheet up over her head. Everything was dangerous. It was best to do nothing at all, to be motionless, paralyzed. Leave Charlotte alone, leave Feliks alone, forget Aleks, forget Churchill.
But she did not know what was going to happen. Charlotte might go to Stephen and say: "You're not my father." Stephen might kill Feliks. Feliks might kill Aleks. Charlotte might be accused of murder. Feliks might come here, to my room, and kiss me.
Her nerves were bad again and she felt another headache coming on. It was a very warm night. The laudanum had worn off, but she had drunk a lot of wine at dinner and she still felt woozy. For some reason her skin was tender tonight, and every time she moved, the silk of her nightdress seemed to scrape her breasts. She was irritable, both mentally and physically. She half-wished Stephen would come to her; then she thought: No, I couldn't bear it.
Feliks's presence in the nursery was like a bright light shining in her eyes, keeping her awake. She threw off the sheet, got up and went to the window. She opened it wider. The breeze was hardly cooler than the air in the room. Leaning out and looking down, she could see the twin lamps burning at the portico, and the policeman walking along the front of the house, his boots crunching distantly on the gravel drive.
What was Feliks doing up there? Was he making a bomb? Loading a gun? Sharpening a knife? Or was he sleeping, content to wait for the right moment? Or wandering around the house, trying to find a way to get past Aleks's bodyguards?
There's nothing I can do, she thought, nothing.
She picked up her book. It was Hardy's Wessex Poems. Why did I choose this? she thought. It opened at the page she had looked at that morning. She turned up the night-light, sat down and read the whole poem. It was called "Her Dilemma."
The two were silent in a sunless church,
Whose mildewed walls, uneven paving-stones, r />
And wasted carvings passed antique research,
And nothing broke the clock's full monotones.
Leaning against a wormy poppy-head,
So wan and worn that he could scarcely stand,
--For he was soon to die,--he softly said,
"Tell me you love me!"--holding hard her hand.
She would have given a world to breathe "yes" truly,
So much his life seemed hanging on her mind,
And hence she lied, her heart persuaded throughly
'Twas worth her soul to be a moment kind.
But the sad need thereof, his nearing death,
So mocked humanity that she shamed to prize
A world conditioned thus, or care for breath
Where Nature such dilemmas could devise.
That's right, she thought; when life is like this, who can do right?
Her headache was so bad she thought her skull would split. She went to the drawer and took a gulp from the bottle of laudanum. Then she took another gulp.
Then she went to the nursery.
FIFTEEN
Something had gone wrong. Feliks had not seen Charlotte since midday, when she had brought him a basin, a jug of water, a towel and a cake of soap. There must have been some kind of trouble to keep her away--perhaps she had been forced to leave the house, or perhaps she felt she might be under observation. But she had not given him away, evidently, for here he was.
Anyway, he did not need her anymore.
He knew where Orlov was and he knew where the guns were. He was not able to get into Orlov's room, for the security seemed too good; so he would have to make Orlov come out. He knew how to do that.
He had not used the soap and water, because the little hideaway was too cramped to allow him to stand up straight and wash himself, and anyway he did not care much about cleanliness; but now he was very hot and sticky, and he wanted to feel fresh before going about his work, so he took the water out into the nursery.
It felt very strange, to be standing in the place where Charlotte had spent so many hours of her childhood. He put the thought out of his mind: this was no time for sentiment. He took off all his clothes and washed himself by the light of a single candle. A familiar, pleasant feeling of anticipation and excitement filled him, and he felt as if his skin were glowing. I shall win tonight, he thought savagely, no matter how many I have to kill. He rubbed himself all over roughly with the towel. His movements were jerky, and there was a tight sensation in the back of his throat which made him want to shout. This must be why warriors yell war cries, he thought. He looked down at his body and saw that he had the beginnings of an erection.