Beautiful Lies (8 page)

‘Major Burke is the reason every baronet and beggar in London has heard of Buffalo Bill,’ Edward murmured to Maribel as they waited to shake Cody’s hand. ‘They say that in America he musters more press attention for Cody in a day than President Cleveland’s staff can manage in a month.’

The show had been a triumph. From the very first procession, with the full company on horseback galloping around the arena at breakneck speed, yelling and whooping, to the final defeat of the Indians by the newly established pioneers, the audience had sat transfixed. They had marvelled at the skill of the shooters, the pluck of the cowboys as they raced their horses and roped wild steers and held on for their lives as their wild ponies bucked and plunged about the arena. But it was the Indian attacks that kept them on the edge of their seats. As a train of covered wagons was attacked by hostile Indians on horseback in full warpaint, brandishing tomahawks and firing rifles into the air, the round-eyed spectators had gasped as one, and when, in the nick of time, Buffalo Bill on his white stallion dashed to their rescue, his company of scouts behind him, the entire grandstand had erupted in wild applause. Even Maribel had found herself clapping, caught up in the thrill of it. Beside her Edward had cheered like a schoolboy, his hair standing up from his forehead in eager tufts.

Cody greeted Edward like an old friend, grasping his hand and pumping it hard. When Edward was able to extract himself he drew Maribel forward so that he might introduce her. Cody took her hand, bringing her fingers to his lips, and bowed, his eyes sweeping appreciatively across her throat and chest.

‘You never told me your wife was so beautiful,’ Cody said to Edward, who smiled and gingerly flexed the fingers of his right hand.

‘My husband pays me not the least attention at the moment and you are entirely to blame,’ Maribel said, laughing. ‘He has eyes only for the Wild West.’

‘Ma’am, if that is even a little bit true then we are set for success beyond my wildest dreams.’

‘Is there any question of that? You are the toast of the town.’

Cody grinned.

‘This week maybe. Till the next new excitement comes along.’

‘Whoever that is will have their work cut out. Your show is perfectly thrilling.’

‘Well, ma’am, it’s the truth and that, I think, is the secret to it. No acting or sham, just an exact reproduction of life on the frontier as we have lived it.’

‘A romantic version, though, surely?’

‘There’s fewer chimneys in the West, that’s true, and not such a crowd of Englishmen either, but all else wise it’s the genuine article.’

Maribel smiled. To her surprise she had enjoyed herself enormously. She had not wanted to come, had complained several times to Edward when he collected her that she had not the faintest interest in cowboys. As they inched their way through the traffic to Earls Court her mood had worsened. From South Kensington railway station the crush of carriages had choked the Old Brompton Road, the press of pedestrians seething among them like boiling porridge. The shouts of drivers and the rattle of conveyances and harnesses and the smell of drains and unwashed bodies had thickened in the unrelenting glare of the afternoon. Never had London been less congenial. And then, as if by magic, the coal smoke and the choke of mean housing had cleared into a wide expanse and the city was gone. Beneath the blue sky the spacious prairie swept upwards in waves of undulating green. At the foot of the hill were pitched clusters of white tents with pathways winding between, and dotted about them, the shrouded figures of Indian braves, their shoulders swathed in blankets of scarlet and blue. Behind them masses of shrub-choked rock rose cliff-steep over thick copses of trees, and further still, in the distance, colossal mountain ranges shimmered purple and gold, like a heat haze. If one disregarded the distant shriek of railway engines and the smoke that rose from one hundred hidden chimneys to smudge the cerulean sky, one might imagine oneself in the New World.

Beside Cody Major Burke gave a discreet cough. He had with him a tall, well-built gentleman with thick dark hair and whiskers, who, despite the hour and the occasion, wore an old-fashioned tweed coat of the kind favoured by prosperous provincials on market day. In demeanour, however, he could not less have resembled a country tradesman. Though he did not speak, there was a vitality to him, a heat that quickened the air about him. Maribel had never seen him before, and yet there was something familiar about his appearance that she could not quite put her finger on. Perhaps he was simply the kind of man who expected to be recognised.

‘Colonel, if I may introduce Mr Alfred Webster?’ Burke said. ‘Mr Webster is the editor of the
City Chronicle
, one of London’s most prominent newspapers.’

Maribel blinked. Like everyone else in London she knew of Alfred Webster. She looked around for Edward but he had drifted with the tide of the party and was conversing some distance away with a cowboy of immense height whose ruddy good health made Edward look positively anaemic. Beside him a stand bore a wooden hoop, like an embroidery frame, from which hung a shock of human hair, stuck with feathers. Edward leaned close, examining it, and Maribel shuddered. She wondered what Charlotte’s boys would give for the chance to touch such a thing.

‘Delighted to meet you, sir,’ Cody said, pumping Webster’s hand. ‘I am so glad you could join us.’

‘The privilege is all mine. I thought your show marvellous.’

‘Then I shall hope that you make a habit of printing your views in large letters in your newspaper.’

‘Oh, I do. It is something of a weakness of mine.’

Cody laughed. His was a face made for laughter, Maribel thought. As soon as he smiled, the planes of it folded neatly into place, like Japanese origami.

‘Mr Webster, are you acquainted with Mrs Campbell Lowe?’ Burke asked him.

‘Regretfully I have not had that pleasure.’

The newspaper editor turned to Maribel, fixing his gaze upon her as he bowed. While his face was handsome in the ordinary way, his eyes were astonishing, a brilliant blue-white that was both piercing and milkily myopic, like the eyes of an old cat. They gave the unsettling impression of both seeing into the very heart of her and not seeing her at all. She was the first to look away.

‘I am, however, acquainted with your husband,’ Webster said, like Cody unable to keep his eyes from sweeping the curves of her figure. Unlike Cody’s, however, his study was of the utmost seriousness, devoid of the blandness of ordinary propriety. He did not smile. Maribel, who was accustomed to being looked at, was not accustomed to being looked at in that way. Despite herself she flushed.

‘Is that right?’ she said, pricklingly aware of her hand still clasped in Webster’s. Abruptly Webster let her go. He did not take his eyes from her face.

‘Did you enjoy the show?’ Maribel asked.

‘I thought it magnificent. Until two minutes ago, I had imagined it the most remarkable thing I’d see all year.’

From another man such a remark might have been impudent, even improper, but in Webster’s face there was no prurience, only wonder. He gazed at her, running his hands through his thick hair. It stood up on end as though electrified.

‘You are a flatterer,’ she said softly.

‘No, I am a newspaper editor. It is my job to tell the truth.’

A waiter brought a tray of champagne. Maribel took a glass. Webster did not. He watched her as she fumbled for her cigarette case, the glass held awkwardly in her fingers, and, though he hardly moved, the energy rose up from him like a race horse, charging the air. Awkwardly she snapped open the case and offered it to Webster. He shook his head.

‘Please tell me you are not entirely devoid of vices, Mr Webster?’ she asked, attempting gaiety.

‘Oh, I have plenty. I am flesh and blood, after all.’

Extracting a cigarette she put it between her lips and hunted for matches. Webster took a box from his own pocket.

‘May I?’ he said.

Leaning towards her he struck one. The flame was sudden and startling. When she bent down towards it he cupped it with both hands, his fingers brushing hers. The shock of it made her dizzy. She drew deeply on the cigarette, pulling the smoke down into the shiver of her stomach. Webster watched her, turning the spent match over and over in his fingers. His palms were square, his fingers blunt and capable. On the edge of his left cuff there was a smut.

‘I hope you do not disapprove of women smoking?’ she said.

‘Disapprove? No, why should I?’

‘Some men do.’

‘Some men are idiots.’

Maribel smiled.

‘I smoke myself,’ he said. ‘I can’t seem to keep a pipe alight but there is nothing to beat a fine cigar. Useful in interviews, too. A smoking man is more open, I find, he talks a great deal more freely.’

‘Oh.’

Webster considered her. She could think of nothing else to say. Then he smiled, the skin crinkling around his eyes.

‘Its effect upon the gentler sex, however, requires further study,’ he said and he gazed at her, his smile half forgotten, all the vigour in him trained upon her like sunlight through a magnifying glass. She could feel herself burning.

‘Why do you smoke?’ he asked and she hesitated, considering her answer. It startled her, how much she wanted him to understand.

‘It is not about talking,’ she said at last. ‘I think it is the opposite. When one talks one disperses a little, the words, the breath, it is as though one is making space inside oneself for whatever might be said in return. When I smoke, I become more – myself. The essence of myself. It is as though the smoking concentrates the me-ness, distils whatever I am thinking, whatever I am feeling, to something more powerful, something closer to poetry.’

She faltered, fearful that he might laugh. He did not laugh. He looked at her, his milky eyes bright and curiously still. Above his ears his hair was faintly streaked with grey.

‘So you smoke to feel more deeply yourself ?’ he said.

‘Yes, I think I do. Is that strange?’

‘No. I think it is – wonderful.’

Behind her a man in an evening cape staggered, knocking her elbow and upsetting her glass of champagne. Maribel gave a little cry of surprise.

‘For God’s sake, man, what do you think you are doing?’ Webster shouted, putting out a protective arm. Beside them several people stopped talking and looked round curiously. A balding man with a sweaty face nudged the gentleman next to him, jerking a thumb towards Webster. The man in the cape doffed his hat and performed a jerking little dance to his companion, who laughed uproariously and dragged him away through the crowd. There was a pause. Then the buzz of conversation resumed.

‘Are you hurt?’ Webster asked Maribel.

‘No, not at all.’

‘Shall I fetch you some more champagne?’

‘No, thank you. I have had plenty.’

‘Not so many vices, then.’

She smiled awkwardly. It had unsettled her to realise how many people there were in the room, how many pairs of eyes. She had barely remembered they were there.

‘I am monopolising you,’ she said.

‘I was hoping you would not notice.’

‘I should find my husband.’

There was a pause.

‘You know I interviewed him for the
Chronicle
, when he was first elected to Parliament,’ Webster said. ‘Your husband.’

‘I remember.’

She did remember, too. The notion of an interview, a contrivance which Webster had imported from America, was still a new one and Edward had accepted Webster’s invitation to converse as much from curiosity as inclination. Webster was then only just out of prison and something of a novelty himself. The two men had eaten a jovial lunch together at Webster’s club and afterwards smoked cigars. On perhaps two occasions Webster had jotted a brief note in a leather book. According to Edward he had talked at least as much as he had listened. The article that followed was largely favourable, though in Edward’s opinion it bore only a glancing relationship to the conversation that had actually taken place.

‘Honest portrait, my eye!’ he had declared. ‘It is no more than a frame in which to paint the innumerable virtues of Booth and the Salvation Army, an opinion I can hardly object to but on which I do not think I spoke a single sentence during the full length of our lunch. Not to mention the religious feeling with which he credits me. Still, one has to admire the dash of his prose. There is more life to his sketch of me than I could dream of mustering in reality.’

‘He impressed me a great deal,’ Webster said. ‘It is easy to be a radical when you have nothing. Quite aside from the ethics of the thing, it is a matter of simple self-interest. But a gentleman like your husband, with whom God has blessed all he could conceivably want for happiness on this earth, well . . .’

His smile was reluctant, a private smile for one. Maribel felt the prickle of it in the soles of her feet.

‘Alfred Webster, as I live and breathe.’

Webster turned. Behind him stood a wizened gentleman with shrewd eyes and grey hair and whiskers so unruly they might have been scribbled by a child. Webster clapped him on the shoulder. His smile was broad, public, bland with the amiability of the clubbable businessman. Dropping her cigarette Maribel arranged her face into politeness.

‘George Fording, what in the name of the Devil are you doing here? I thought you were dead.’

‘I knew you would be hiding out here somewhere. Now I know why.’

Fording grinned at Maribel and held out his hand. He had long yellow nails, scaly patches around his knuckles. She shook it reluctantly, leaning back a little so that she might not have to inhale his sour breath.

‘I have known Mr Fording since I was a lowly reporter on the
Northern Echo
several centuries ago,’ Webster explained.

‘Reporter? You were the errand boy!’

‘I can’t have been a day over fifteen. Fording of course was already ancient, even then. He taught me more in a year than my school had managed in twice the time. Every time I mark up a paper I give thanks to Mr Fording and his rules of thumb.’

‘What I remember is how this young man used to catch the office mice and serve them grilled on toast so that we might all understand how it felt to be besieged in Paris!’ Fording guffawed. ‘So you are not too grand to talk to me these days, now you are a famous editor?’