The Steady Running of the Hour: A Novel (38 page)

Mireille is watching me across the chessboard. She smiles and taps her rook against one of the black spaces.

—I felt concerned, Prichard continues, that without any such figures, you might be—insufficiently moved—so to speak, in pursuing your claim. Frankly, it struck me as unfair that you should have no idea what it is you stand to gain. So I called a meeting of the trustees and we’ve agreed to release certain details of the assets. Pursuant, of course, to the confidentiality agreement you already signed. You understand that all this remains strictly confidential. I presume you still don’t have e-mail access where you are?

—Not at the house—

—No matter, I can give you the figures over the telephone. You’re alone now and no one else can hear me on the line?

I stand up and walk into the kitchen.

—Yes. I mean, no one can hear.

—Excellent. I should explain that for legal reasons it’s simpler not to divulge the value of the trust’s UK assets. But I thought it sufficient to release to you the contents of a certain ‘Offshore Portfolio C.’ This portfolio includes some former assets of Mr. Risley, who you recall was Mr. Walsingham’s great-uncle and the originator of the estate. The portfolio holds principally bonds and tangible assets, some of these rather exotic. Mr. Risley required that it be held in certain proportions of foreign ‘treasury stock,’ precious metals and the like. These assets were kept overseas for tax purposes. Are you ready for the list?

—Yes.

—First are holdings in various foreign bonds. The purchase of these bonds is generally renewed with the maturation of other bonds, though the denominations vary considerably. At present—Swiss government bonds, due to mature in 2011: 32,452,950 Swiss francs. Japanese government revenue bonds, due to mature in 2012: 874 million yen. German thirty-year bonds, to be cashed in 2016: 43 million deutsche marks—why ever do they still write it in marks? Ah, here it is: 22,356,390 euros.

Prichard clears his throat. —There follows certain tangible assets. Gold bullion, in one-kilogram bars, PAMP Suisse, Credit Suisse: 462 kilos. United Kingdom gold sovereigns, principally Edward VII mintings, 1903 to 1909: 2,358 coins. Platinum bullion, PAMP Suisse: 3,825 troy ounces. A set of uncut diamonds purchased from DeBeers in 1905, at present insured for 6.3 million Swiss francs. Do I still have you?

I sit on a chair beside the kitchen table, half listening to Prichard. One of the chair legs is short and the seat rocks from side to side.

—Yes.

—There’s a bit of real estate. A villa outside Porto-Vecchio in southern Corsica, appraised at five and a half million euros. An olive farm with attached houses in Sant Llorenç des Cardassar, on the eastern bit of Majorca. Valued at approximately eleven million euros. Incidentally, that place is medieval, I’ve heard, and quite grand. But I’ve never been. It’s being run as a hotel at present—

—Majorca?

—I suppose Mr. Risley was fond of the Mediterranean. There’s also a small estate in Nyanza province, Kenya, but the title is disputed and there’s been no end to the headaches. In any case, it’s been removed from the portfolio. Now comes the bottom line. The aggregate value of these assets fluctuates a great deal, naturally. At the last valuation in January, Portfolio C was at 122,046,468 Swiss francs, 32 centimes, to be precise. Shall I convert that into euros, pounds sterling, or U.S. dollars for you?

—No. That’s all right.

—Naturally, any value attached to this portfolio is approximate to say the least. Should a beneficiary emerge, there would be significant tax, legal and administrative expenses upon distribution of such assets. These would detract from its value to some extent, though of course there are other assets to the estate. Have you any questions?

—I don’t think so.

—You take everything in stride, don’t you? Not to bat an eyelash at a hundred million Swiss francs, it says something of your character. Where exactly are you in France?

—In Picardie. About forty miles northwest of Amiens, near the coast.

—Have you found anything substantive?

—Those letters I wrote you about. I think the child was what split them up—

—Mr. Campbell, Prichard interrupts, I read the extracts you sent from those letters, and while they may support your theory, it remains conjecture. What we need is direct evidence. It’s the tenth of September and you must keep your eye on the calendar. A month may seem to you
a good deal of time, but I don’t want you to panic when the deadline really looms. Have you a plan of investigation?

—I’ve just been following the evidence. I know everything up until 1916, when Imogen came here. But I can’t figure out what happened after that.

—Is that relevant? Finding more evidence of Miss Soames-Andersson won’t necessarily lead you to evidence of your grandmother’s maternity.

—It’s the best lead I’ve got.

—It may be, but you could be on the wrong trail entirely. Unless you find a new plan of attack, I’d advise you to return to London to resume your research from square one. Remember, all you need is one piece of paper. The right one. It need only prove Imogen Soames-Andersson is the mother of Charlotte Grafton. Everything else is immaterial.

We say good-bye. I give Mireille her phone back and sit down. She looks up from the chessboard at me.

—I’ve beaten you. I know every move you could make and I can beat them all. So we don’t need to play anymore.

—Let’s play anyway.

Mireille shrugs. —If you want. Why did your lawyer call you?

—He’s not my lawyer. He works for someone, but not for me.

—
Oui, je comprends
. But what did he say?

—If I don’t find something soon, I should go back to London.

Mireille frowns. —Is that all he said?

I pick up one of my pawns and move it forward two spaces. I look at Mireille across the chessboard.

—I’ll be rich if I get the estate.

—But you already knew that—

Mireille lifts her rook in her hand. The polished ebony glints in the firelight.

—
Échec et mat
.

19 December 1916

La Calotterie

Pas-de-Calais, France

The officers have the evening off. They sit huddled around a brazier in the disused barn that has served as company headquarters for the past week. In an hour they will take their dinner at an estaminet in the neighboring village. For now they wait.

Ashley is reading a book, a blanket snug around his shoulders. Jeffries plays a game of piquet with Bennett, each man dipping the cards toward the glowing brazier to read the suits and ranks in murky light.

A lieutenant named Ismay comes in, muddied and icy up to the waist of his greatcoat, his shift with the last working party completed. Ismay has recently been transferred from the Second Battalion. He is a tall man with dark hair and different-colored eyes—one brown and one light green—and the effect seems sinister to Ashley, as though Ismay is always gazing slightly beyond him. Ismay yawns and wraps a blanket around himself, dragging a chair up beside Ashley. Ismay begins shelling a sack of peanuts and props his boots on the brazier, the ice melting and sizzling on the iron.

—You’ll ruin your boots that way, Ashley says.

—Only going to warm them up a bit.

Ashley tries to keep reading. It is too noisy to concentrate, but it is too cold to sit any distance from the fire. He reads the sentence again.

Every night, do you understand, I see my comrades of the Matterhorn slipping on their backs, their arms outstretched, one after the other, in perfect order at equal distances – Croz the guide, first, then Hadow, then Hudson, and lastly Douglas.

Jeffries and Bennett finish their card game and the officers discuss rumors of the battalion’s next destination. Ashley shuts his book. He draws the blanket around his neck until only his eyes are visible, his knees tapping at each other in the cold. Bennett wonders whether the battalion has any chance of being transferred out of France.

—They say the adjutant mentioned Palestine—

—Rumor, Ashley interjects. Worthless rumor.

—You’re just not a man of faith. You never were.

Jeffries takes the last of the peanuts from Ismay and throws the sack in the brazier. He jerks his chin toward Ashley.

—The spymaster believes in the Kaiser’s pistol.

—That’s true, Ashley says. That’s no rumor.

—I’ve heard nothing of the Kaiser’s pistol, Bennett says.

—That’s because it isn’t a rumor, Ashley says. The truth hardly spreads.

Ashley leans back in his chair and smiles. He explains that the German emperor, like all men who make war, has always preferred the trappings of war to the risky endeavor itself. The Kaiser loves uniforms, Ashley says, and wore one in civil life long before the present conflict. Accompanying this uniform is a fine leather holster, and in this holster is a silver-plated Chamelot-Delvigne revolver that the emperor carries with him always. The pistol’s ivory handle is engraved with the letter
V
and a crown, for the weapon was a gift from the Kaiser’s grandmother and fellow sovereign.

—Victoria, Ismay murmurs. Rum story.

—It’s no story, Ashley says. It’s true.

—Why not get another revolver?

—Maybe he liked the old lady, Bennett offers.

—It’s more than that, Ashley says. He keeps it for a reason, even if he doesn’t know the reason.

Laughing, Jeffries shakes his head.

—What’s the reason?

—To remember who the enemy is, Ashley says.

—And who is that?

Ashley smiles again, but he does not answer. The officers get up and begin to dress for dinner. Bennett runs a comb through his hair, suddenly turning to Ashley.

—Do you think he’s fired the pistol at an Englishman?

—Only at English venison, I’d wager. He has other fellows for that business.

The night is windless but freezing. The estaminet stands in the center of a half-ruined village, across the street from a
boucherie
leveled nearly to its foundations. But the little estaminet, with its chipped marble tables, iron stove and tuneless piano, is yet untouched. The madame opens the door, her white hair gathered in an elaborate bun atop her head. Frantically she waves them in from the cold.

—
Bonsoir
, she calls sonorously.
Entrez, messieurs, entrez!

The dining room is empty, so the officers take their pick of a round table beside the stove. The madame takes their greatcoats as she barks instructions to a pair of serving girls. The English are to be given both claret and chardonnay, to choose from as they please. The madame regrets she is without champagne. One girl brings out the wine as the other puts a new log in the stove. Jeffries tells the madame they will take whatever she has in the kitchen, the best food she can offer.

—
On prend le Bordeaux, je crois
, Jeffries says.

A blond girl uncorks the wine and fills each glass. Jeffries raises his.

—To sweethearts and wives.

The others raise their glasses and reply in chorus.

—May they never meet.

The claret is very dry and at first Ashley drinks little. The madame brings out onion soup and the officers spoon it up with gusto. They talk of military decorations, of the paucity of medals awarded by certain regiments. Ismay calls for a second bottle of claret before the first is empty. Jeffries mentions the Victoria Cross and Ismay scoffs.

—No fairer than a penny arcade. A chap can go on slaying Huns and rescuing wounded all day, but if there isn’t an officer about to witness it, he’ll go home empty-handed. As if the word of fifty privates weren’t worth that of a single lieutenant.

The madame sets down a plate of lobster mayonnaise, each portion cupped in a lettuce leaf.

—If we took private soldiers’ evidence, Jefferies remarks, we’d be issuing VCs with the rum ration.

—It’s all bosh, Ismay retorts. Take the spymaster here.

The officers all look at Ashley. Ismay picks up a lettuce leaf and devours it in one bite, wiping his mouth.

—Heard about that business at the Empress, Ismay says. Very game. You might have got a VC for that, but you couldn’t hold the trench. Which wasn’t your fault, naturally, but it meant you were lucky to get decorated at all. You’d think the army would know by now that bravery hasn’t a damned thing in common with success. But they don’t.