No Angel (Spoils of Time 01) (56 page)

‘We have one to go yet. Which brings us down to nine hundred and ninety nine. A much more manageable figure. Now come along. Let’s go back to our palace on Hope Street, and I’ll try to engage your attention for a little longer at least.’

They dined in their room; it being Sunday there was little choice. They debated braving the dining-room, and rejected it. The risks outweighed the advantages, which seemed in any case extremely limited.

‘We are hardly tired of one another,’ said Sebastian, ‘not running out of things to say. There will be no awkward silences.’

‘Indeed not,’ said Celia, ‘and if there were, then we would have other diversions.’

‘Very true. Although I’m not sure I quite like the implication that I am purely a diversion. Any more than purely an author. Or indeed an addiction.’

‘Oh Sebastian,’ she said, ‘how adept you are at distorting what I say to you.’

He looked at her very solemnly then, without speaking.

‘Now what?’ she said, ‘I don’t like it when you’re quiet.’

‘I want to ask you a question,’ he said, ‘and then I will try my hand at distorting the answer.’

‘Very well.’

A long silence. Then, ‘Do you think we have any kind of a future together? Other than a continuation of the present?’

It was question so terrifying in its implications, so literally shocking in its unexpectedness, and yet so moving, so heart-shaking that she did not dare even hesitate.

‘No,’ she said quickly, ‘no of course not. We absolutely don’t. No kind of future in any way. Other than a continuation of the present that is.’

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘Yes, I thought that was what your answer would be.’

‘No room for distortion,’ she said, and discovered she was physically breathless with fear.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘You know what Mark Twain said.’

‘No Sebastian, I don’t,’ she said, half irritably.

‘Get your facts first,’ he said, ‘and then you can distort them as much as you please. Good advice. I follow it constantly myself. Now we won’t talk about it any more. For the time being at any rate.’

‘No we won’t,’ she said, ‘not at any time, being or otherwise.’

‘Stop looking so cross. I want to tell you something else.’

‘What?’

‘I love you.’

Later, lying awake while he slept deeply, while their second night together drifted towards an end and as the reality left so joyfully behind only forty-eight hours earlier began to close in on her once more, she found it impossible not to contemplate, momentarily at least, the shared future he had asked about. And even while knowing the futility, the danger, the stupidity of such contemplation, she found it absolutely irresistible.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Lytton,’ said Janet Gould, ‘but Mr Brooke is still not at home. Not back in London, I mean. What shall we do?’

‘I don’t know. We can run the edition without his letter, of course, but it’s a nice idea and he was very anxious to do it. I like to accommodate him whenever possible.’

‘Yes, of course. Shall I phone again later?’

‘Yes please, Mrs Gould. If you would. But if it gets to midday we shall have to go without it.’

‘Certainly, Mr Lytton.’

An hour later she went back into Oliver’s office.

‘Still no word from Mr Brooke, Mr Lytton.’

‘Oh dear. Well we’ll have to run this edition without his addendum. Pity though. She’s no idea where he is, the housekeeper?’

‘Well – no. I don’t think so.’

Oliver felt a flash of irritation. Secretaries were so limited. Even good ones like Janet Gould. They settled for so much less than they might conceivably get.

‘I’ll phone her myself,’ he said, ‘thank you, Mrs Gould.’

Mrs Conley, Sebastian’s housekeeper, said – just slightly wearily, having been asked the question four times now – that she really had no idea when he might be back.

‘But not today, that’s for sure.’

‘Really? How do you know that?’

‘I was dusting his room just now, and I found a letter on his chest of drawers. Just lying around,’ she said hastily, clearly anxious lest Oliver think she had been poking her nose into Sebastian’s affairs. ‘It was from the Great Northern Railways. Saying they were enclosing his tickets on the sleeper to and from Glasgow.’

‘Glasgow,’ said Oliver. ‘Yes. Yes, I see.’ His voice was rather loud suddenly. ‘And – did it mention the dates of the tickets? This letter.’

‘Yes. Up on Friday night, down Monday night. So he might go on somewhere else. But he won’t be back till tomorrow morning, whatever happens, will he?’

‘No,’ said Oliver, ‘no obviously he won’t. Thank you, Mrs Conley.’

He put the phone down very gently and sat staring at it. Not moving. Feeling – odd. Then he stood up and walked purposefully into Henry Smyth’s office and told him to go ahead with printing the eighth edition of
Meridian
immediately. ‘Without Mr Brooke’s addendum.’

‘Is that really all right, Mr Lytton? You don’t think he’ll be upset?’

‘I’m afraid we can’t hold up a printing just because Mr Brooke might be upset,’ said Oliver briskly. ‘There are more important considerations than that, I feel.’

‘Yes of course Mr Lytton.’

He stalked out, slamming the door.

Jack was on his way to see Henry Smyth himself; he heard the bang of the door, saw Oliver walking quickly down the corridor. He went in. He liked Henry: far more than he did Edgar Green. Henry didn’t seem to think he was nearly so important for a start, which was ridiculous, as he was Edgar’s boss. And he had been much more friendly towards him, had had lunch with him several times.

‘What was that about?’ said Jack.

‘Oh – the old man’s in a bit of a bait. He’s been trying to get hold of Sebastian Brooke and he’s gone missing.’

‘Doesn’t sound very serious.’

‘No. But Brooke wanted to write some sort of foreword to the new edition; they’ve been holding up the printing for days.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘And nobody seems to know where he is. Anyway, everything all right with the Mutiny?’

‘Oh – yes. Fine. Celia made some suggestions and I’ve asked the author – it seemed too odd to talk about Sandy as an author – to incorporate them.’

‘Good. She’s a clever lady. Only I was cursing her this morning, as well.’

‘Why?’

‘Oh – she’s got the Queen Anne proofs. Not her fault, I said she could take them, but it’s the master set and she won’t be back till tomorrow. I’d forgotten. She’s gone away as well, hasn’t she?’

‘Yes,’ said Jack, ‘yes that’s right. Yes, she’s gone to stay with her sister.’

He felt rather odd suddenly. No more than that, of course. Just – odd. It was Henry’s choice of words that did it, he thought, walking slowly back to his own office: ‘She’s gone away as well.’

Sebastian was away; Sebastian had gone missing. And then hearing Lily’s voice very clearly: ‘I reckon somebody’s been giving her one.’ Both of them missing: both of them out of London. Only of course that was absolutely unthinkable. Even more unthinkable than that Celia should be – well – doing anything wrong at all.

Janet Gould was worried about Oliver. He looked very shaky; more like he did when he first came back. He was working much too hard, she was sure of it. She wondered if he’d been looking after himself over the weekend while Lady Celia was away. She really shouldn’t have left him alone, not while he was still so frail. Like most secretaries, Mrs Gould held a proprietorial, an almost wifely attitude towards her boss. He did need to eat properly, with all the damage that had been done to his stomach. And he probably hadn’t bothered that weekend. She decided to make him a cup of coffee and to take him a few biscuits; that would help. When she went in, though, he was looking more like himself, working on a pile of proofs for the new
Dictionary of Music
he had commissioned a year earlier. He had personally contributed several of the entries and had insisted on checking the proofs himself. Yet more unnecessary work for him, that was what junior editors were for. But he was still clearly worried. She longed to be able to help. An idea came to her.

‘Should I – that is, would you like me to phone Lady Celia’s sister, see if she is there?’ she asked.

She was startled by his reaction; he looked up, glared at her, as if she had done something terribly wrong.

‘Why on earth should you do that?’ he said. His voice was harsh.

‘Well – I thought perhaps she might have spoken to Mr Brooke about the foreword. Have the copy for it, even. Also, I believe she has the proofs of the Queen Anne book, Mr Smyth was wanting them.’

‘Mrs Gould, as I have already said, we have a business to run and more important concerns than Mr Brooke’s feelings. The printing is to go ahead. As for the Queen Anne proofs, they can wait. I really don’t want you to waste your time and the company’s money, chasing my wife all over the country. Thank you, that will be all.’

‘Yes Mr Lytton.’

Poor man. He was obviously feeling terrible.

‘Do eat your biscuits,’ she said and withdrew, closing the door carefully behind her.

Caroline looked at the clock. Nearly two o’clock. She really wanted to go riding. She’d been awfully loyal, stayed in most of the weekend, fielded a couple of phone calls from Oliver, said Celia was out for a walk the first time, asleep the second, called Celia at once to tell her. She’d instructed her staff to fetch her at once if Mr Lytton phoned: not to attempt to answer any calls from him themselves. In any case they were infinitely discreet, like all good domestic staff, understood the code very well. She hadn’t even gone out hunting on the Saturday, Celia had sounded so wobbly. This was clearly very much her introduction to adultery. Amazing, after – what? Fifteen years of marriage.

Caroline thought of the several occasions on which she’d deceived her husband, and felt momentarily guilty. Then crushed it hastily. He’d never known, and indeed the last time he’d gone off to the war, he’d told her how lucky he was to have such a marvellous marriage. Had died, no doubt, thinking that. So what harm had she done him? Absolutely none. And she could hardly blame Celia: Oliver looking so drained and clearly not up to anything much. And Celia still so beautiful. He had been wonderful looking once, she’d envied Celia in those days, still did in a way, not for her huband any more, but for her career. And the new lover of course.

She could do with a lover herself just now; but men of her generation were in short supply. Oh, well. A horse was a pretty good subsitute for a man. She’d always thought so. Less demanding and certainly more rewarding. Yes, she’d go. Oliver would hardly be telephoning now, from the office. He had more important things to do than worry about his wife and where she might be.

Caroline’s butler, McKinnon, was dozing by the fire in his sitting-room when the phone rang; it took a few rings to wake him properly and a few rings more before he reached it. Everything took longer these days; old age put the brakes on life, not just on yourself.

‘Kersley House, good afternoon.’

‘Good afternoon. Is Lady Celia Lytton there?’

‘Just a moment, Sir. Who may I say is calling?’

‘This is Mr Lytton. Mr Jack Lytton speaking.’

‘Good afternoon, Sir.’

Now what should he do? The mistress had told him most precisely that any calls to Lady Celia should be directed to her: but she was out riding.

‘I’m sorry Sir. She is not available at the moment.’

‘Well – when might she be available?’

‘I really cannot say, Sir. I’m afraid.’

‘Well – has she left for London?’

‘I don’t believe so, Sir, no. I will ask Mrs Masterson to telephone you when she returns. She is out riding.’

‘Oh – no. Doesn’t matter. Only an enquiry about a book. Thanks anyway.’

‘Entirely my pleasure, Sir.’

It had hardly meant anything of course: if you hadn’t been looking for something, it couldn’t have meant anything at all. Of course the butler wouldn’t know every one of Celia’s movements; of course he would refer an enquiry to her sister. Just the same – oh this was wretched. Jack tried and failed to address his mind to editing the last few entries of the fourth Earl of Beckenham’s diaries of battle. They were gory enough to distract anyone from anything. Severed limbs littering the battlefield, horses dying in agony, men gagged as the surgeons operated on them in the field – only surely, surely the butler would have known whether or not a guest – his mistress’s sister for heaven’s sake – had departed from the house after the weekend. Surely. It was the sort of thing they were paid for, for heaven’s sake . . .

‘Jack? Hallo, it’s Celia. I was out for a walk. Is something wrong?’ She sounded anxious.

Jack felt terrible. Terribly guilty: at bothering her, worrying her.

‘No, no, of course not. I’m so sorry to have bothered you. It was just that I wanted to ask you about the Mutiny.’

‘But that can’t be urgent. I’m back tomorrow. You know that.’

‘Yes. Yes of course. I’m really sorry. Bit of over-keenness.’

‘Yes, I see.’ She was silent; then ‘Well, can it wait? Or is there an army of excited readers out in the street?’ She sounded amused; Jack felt better.