A Thief in the Night (8 page)

Perch scowled and grumbled to himself, but he raised a glass.

As they enjoyed their drinks, the Canter brothers were sitting in a police cell, cursing Lord George and his ‘dirty lot of stuffy Lord Mucks!’

Richmond Street, St John’s Wood, was ideally placed for a patron of the arts to live, and on an October day in 1891 the mistress of number 5 had had her servants and cook busy since dawn. Her expected guests included a lord, a noted poet and a number of respected actors, the latter being hard to find, as most of that profession were considered to be beneath consideration for social events of a high tone. The house was ideal for the kinds of artistic events that tended to be held there, having a multitude of small corners and alcoves, sitting rooms and garden rooms; there was even an inner atrium, copying the Roman ideal of strolling and mentally relaxing among little groves of shrubs and flowers, with the city left far away and out of mind.

In the large sitting room, Maria de Bellezza’s
conversazione
was going very well. The afternoon tea had been served and the drinks were being given out by her manservant. She took advantage of a lull in the conversation, while drinks were taken and sipped, to look around. The young poet was suitably voluble and self-concerned; the Dowager Fenlon was busy with stories of Paris scandals in her youth, and the classical pianist was patting the shoulder of the
bel canto
tenor. But poor Lord Lenham-Cawde looked rather melancholy. There he was, legs stretched out as usual, too long for any decent mode of relaxation, she thought. He would have to be cheered up.

Everyone was standing and the newcomers – mostly actors and writers – were nodding and smiling, playing the responsive rather than the active parts in the cut and thrust of chat. This meant that she could walk through and look down on the one solitary seated guest.

‘Why George, why so down and dismal? Has there been a death in the family?’ Lord George Lenham-Cawde was simply George here, in a place he loved, surrounded by talk of ideas and beliefs, revolutions and celebrations, but on this day he was down in the mouth. ‘I do beg your pardon, Maria, but yes, I am troubled. Someone from the past has returned … ’

Maria was a woman with a past; she had lived and she had suffered. But she chose to laugh whenever she could, and on this occasion she tried to cheer up her friend. She was one of those women who are always radiant, always the cause of smiles and good cheer wherever she found herself. She was beautiful, not pretty. She had what many thought to be classic Italian beauty: a full figure, and a face like a courtesan from a Fragonard painting. Her smile, many thought, would melt a heart of stone. Maria had known just one husband but many lovers, and had been a society hostess in several European capitals; her husband had been the Margrave of Karnesheim, and she had learned grace, manners and discretion from the best courtiers in France and in Austria.

‘This person, George – is it a woman?’

‘Of course.’

‘But you are a man of the world … surely this is nothing too serious?’

‘Maria, the truth is that I loved her, and she loved me. I have never forgotten her, but I had assumed that fate had stepped in and that she would have a husband by now … probably in St Petersburg.’

‘Oh Heaven – she’s Russian?’ Maria winced dramatically.

‘Yes. She’s Irina Danova, the singer.’

‘Irina Danova! Why, she’s celebrated from Madrid to Moscow and from Paris to Prague. Her voice is a divine gift, George. In fact, I once met her at a soirée given by the Duchesse de Madancourt. All eyes were fixed on her the entire evening!’

Before George could speak, a voice cut through all the small talk and made heads turn. It was the young poet, an aesthete, holding a lily. He asked everyone to sit down and gave them notice that he was to read a poem. ‘Now, let’s talk of love, my friends, the one blessing in a world of sorrows. Why, I hold that poetry tells beautiful lies in an ugly world and ugly truths in a beautiful world, and therefore, as we live amongst the ugliness of the great horror of London, I speak of beauty.’ He flicked a lock of auburn hair from one eye and began to recite. The assembled crowd were silent and attentive, and as his last line – ‘And so a woman’s beauty saves us all from our failures’ – was spoken, George stood up and walked briskly from the room, whispering an apology to Maria.

He loitered outside for some time, unable to decide what to do next. His instinct was to find a dark hole and hide there, like a wounded animal. George knew that, as had happened to him at other times in life, notably out East in the hill country, the feeling was of a black shadow over him, the arrival of the past, which never really stays where it should be.

Later, at the Septimus Club, Lord George was dozing on his usual sofa, a book on his knee, when Harry walked in and woke his friend with a hearty hullo. He dropped a letter on George’s knee. ‘Picked it up as I came in … Smythe said it had just arrived.’

‘Oh, it’s what I expected!’

‘Why aren’t you playing billiards in there George? Young Tabby Culhorn’s taking on all-comers at a fiver a go and you could beat him surely?’ Harry asked, as his friend opened the letter, read it, and then put it away in an inside pocket.

‘Something wrong, you great skulking aristocrat?’

George took a cigarette from its case and waited until it was lit before replying. ‘Sit down, Harry, if you have a while to listen.’

‘Of course. Whatever’s the matter?’

When Harry was settled and attentive, George gave a deep sigh and said, ‘An affair of the heart, Harry.’

‘Well, that’s nothing new for you old boy … only last January you were pursuing that horse-riding woman back in Lincolnshire.’

‘Oh Harry, that was a
jeu d’esprit
… a trifle. This is the real thing. You have brought me a note from Irina Danova. Need I say more? Your copious memory will recall I have spoken of her before.’ His friend’s face was blank. ‘Very well, you have forgotten. Well, I met Irina when I was in Persia back in ’85. God, Harry, she took my soul away! Now here she is in London, five years later, inviting me to a recital. She’s singing classical
lieder
at the Steinway Hall tomorrow evening.’

‘Well George, that’s a fine thing, surely? I can hum along with Arthur’s tunes at The Savoy every day of the week, but
lieder
… that’s another thing!’

‘Really Harry, enough about the damned
lieder
! Oh, I’m sorry. Keep to your sonnets and your odes, Harry. Love is not in your vocabulary is it? Have you ever felt the pain of the kind of love that eats at you? I’ve tried to forget her and failed miserably. My mind is constantly of her … I feel her close to me, sense her perfume, merely talking of her to you now. Now here she is, on my doorstep, as it were.’

‘You couldn’t be more wrong old man. I may be the ageing bachelor today, but I was once engaged to be wed … some years ago now. I never told you.’

George suddenly sat forward, stubbed out his cigarette and gave Harry a little punch on the shoulder. ‘Well, you old critic, you – you’re a dark horse. What happened … she got bored of your lectures on Sir Philip Sidney?’

‘She died. Pneumonia.’

George was shocked and struggled for words, such was the shame rising in him. ‘I’m so sorry, Harry, I had no idea.’

‘Well how could you? Enough said. Tell me about this Irina will you.’

‘Even better … read this while I go and challenge our Tabby Culhorn, the brazen little beggar. Look at the pages for June 1885. No one else has ever seen this, Harry. But I know that you will understand, that you will respond with feeling and integrity.’ He tossed the book onto Harry’s knee. It was a leather-bound travel journal, with
Lord Lenham-Cawde: Journal 1883-6
written in longhand on the cover panel. ‘I was young and foolish then, Harry, but my emotions were sure, and they never took the world lightly.’

The book had clearly been on its travels: it was stained with unspeakable colours of revolting origin; the corners were dog-eared, and there were ink-blots evident everywhere, but he found the right page and read:

June 2 1885, Tehran

Being still suffering from the knife wound to my thigh on the last Sudan assignment, I have to spend some time here, and God is smiling on me in that delay. Irina is here, having three weeks’ stay with M. Couron, the French ambassador. She has agreed to sing in a series of concerts for the Pasha, but has ample time for recreation. We have renewed our acquaintance, as I met her in Paris last year.

My heart leapt to see her. Memories of our time in Paris came flooding back, filling my imagination with scenes of sheer joy. To think that Carstairs and the other officers are all up in Afghanistan while I linger here, enjoying what some would call the dalliance of the young lover.

Irina Danova is the sweetest creature, born to delight, distract, seduce – everything a woman should do who knows and values her own exceptional charms. Many women are attractive but few have the true beauty of ideal form. She is of middle height, with auburn hair curled down to her shoulders; her eyes are brown and her form that of a young woman newly emerged from gauche girlhood to true feminine perfection.

Every man of wealth and standing here fancies that she could be either his wife or his mistress. Many adore her and flock to her concerts to worship her. I’m told that locks of her hair encased in silver sell at a high price in Paris. But this jewel of perfection, with a smile to melt an icy heart and a laugh to soften the most crusty old general, is responding to my rather clumsy attempts to woo her. We have been out dining twice and we have walked out. She holds my hand and she laughs at my jests and stories of adventures in deserts and mountains. In truth, she seems like a girl with me, and myself – well, I am like a brother in some ways but not in most because today we kissed.

June 3

Today was my second hour of joy as a concert-goer, watching her and humming along with a feeling of joy for the rest of the day. She ate with me and we talked for hours about plays and songs and poetry. Irina is teaching me about Shakespeare and I tell her about the tribesmen of the Khyber and the wild horsemen of the Tibetan high plains.

All was happiness and childish play until the late evening when her face changed and a frown put a darkness on her face. She had received a letter from someone, and she was suddenly fearful. I held her and tried to say comforting words, but she would not answer my questions. Nothing I could say could make her reveal the contents of that awful missive.

‘All I may tell you, dearest George, is that my family have enemies back in Mother Russia and their evil words and menacing images plant weeds in a bright garden.’

June 4

I am still not able to ride nor even walk freely and so here I am in Tehran, which is in truth a place in Paradise, because Irina is here and she still likes my company. We were at the ambassador’s ball tonight and I had to watch her jealously as her dance-card filled up in seconds, as the crowd of male admirers flocked to her. But she smiled at my grumpiness and patted my head like a big sister.

I went late to bed, and was not alone.

June 5

The medical man called today and tutted over my stiff and aching limbs, drawing particular attention to the accursed thigh. There appears to be a possibility that riding may be deuced uncomfortable for some time. He has ordered some more treatment and I have more pills. But of course, she is still here, so joy, say I. After last night I realise that in truth, this is an entirely new sensation with regard to women.

June 6

Damnation be on Fate, the goddess of us all! Irina came this morning, most distracted and perturbed. Her whole manner was one tormented by some gadfly of fear. Even as I held her, those beautiful dark brown eyes flashed, her glance darting to right and left, as if she looked for something threatening her very being. She said that she had to leave for Paris today, with her manager, Glazin, and that she could not confide in me the reason why she was so afraid. She said, ‘It is a Russian matter, you need not have any anxiety, George – I will be fine once back in France.’

I determined not to press her further, but made her promise to write to me, and asked that we meet in London as soon as we were able. I gave her a kiss, and on sudden impulse, I gave her my golden brooch, the little owl. ‘This is Glaucus, the owl of Minerva,’ I said. ‘If ever you need me to come to you … at any time … send this to me.’ I asked her to vow to do so, and she did. ‘But I have Rudolph Glazin to take care of me. He is my cousin, and he is with me everywhere. He will shield me from what happens back home, I’m sure.’

By four in the afternoon she was gone, with Glazin, on board a ship bound for France. No doubt she will be seen and adored on her journey north, across the continent. But I am left alone here with only card-games and dull old history books for amusement.